Demon's Lexicon - Home is Where
Sep. 5th, 2010 12:21 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
charybdisWritten for round 2 of the Demon's Lexicon Ship Wars over at ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
goblinmarket_sw.
Title: Home is Where
Pairing: Alan/Nick
Summary: Domesticity. Five conversations. One moment of silence. PG, 1,360 words
I. The Haircut
"I'll do it myself!"
"You won't be able to reach around the back. It'll be messy."
"Then I'll go get it done somewhere."
"Now you're asking me to believe that you'll let a stranger within a meter of your face with a sharp pair of scissors. Please stop insulting my intelligence."
"I don't even need a haircut!"
"Really. Then I'll just pick up some hairbands the next time I'm at the market, shall I? I'll tell the clerk they're for my little sister."
"'Little' and 'sister' are probably the most inaccurate words you could use to describe me. I hope you know that."
"Just. Sit down and let me save you from a future of gender-confusion, Nick."
"Fine."
II. The Oven
"I see you've decided that my desire for cake will be my ultimate downfall."
"It's only for an hour at most, Nick. And it's more economical than purchasing one."
"Right. Of course. Heating the apartment to a fatal temperature is a fair trade for cheap cakes."
"It's more than fair for a homemade cake, don't you think?"
"Why are you even making cake? No, let me guess. You killed a magician today and want to celebrate. Alan, if I have to dump a body, I want a cake of my own."
"Nothing like that. You said something about wanting cake yesterday."
"If I'd known it would result in an apartment-sauna, I might have stayed quiet."
"And I just thought it would be nice to have cake; I wanted some too. That's all."
"Well. I'm not going to say no."
III. The Laundry
"What have I said about keeping unsheathed knives under your pillow?"
"What are you doing poking around my bed?"
"I-. I'm doing the laundry. There are holes in your sheet and pillowcase. Knife holes."
"Maybe this place has really aggressive bedbugs."
"Nick."
"It's a matter of safety. I don't want to be messing with a sheath if someone attacks us while I'm sleeping."
"Safety? This is not safe -- the kinds of knives you use, you'll stab yourself in the ear one day. Stop sleeping with your knives."
"You sleep with a loaded gun."
"I do not."
"Oh right. You only keep love letters under your pillow. Love letters that smell of solvent and oil. Just like guns."
"I don't-. It's-. That's actually kind of creepy."
"I do the laundry too, Alan."
"And you smell my sheets, apparently."
"Shut up."
IV. The Sofa
"Would you care to explain how my spare Beretta mag disappeared between the sofa cushions?"
"Gnomes, probably. Magazine-stealing gnomes. If you used your knives all the time, this wouldn't be a problem. Guns don't even work, sometimes."
"I think maybe my little brother dropped it -- purely by accident, because he is such a clumsy kid -- in the process of cleaning my weapons last night. Which he does obsessively."
"I don't think so. Unless you've got a clumsy kid brother that I don't know about."
"Hiding my mags isn't going to stop me carrying the guns, Nick."
"That is one hundred percent acceptable. As long as you don't use them as your primary weapon."
"It makes sense to reach for the gun first; it's a distance weapon, you know that. Knives are for hand-to-hand work."
"If you say so. You've aimed point-blank at me dozens of times, but I can't even remember the last time you drew a knife on me. What kind of distance is that, Alan?
"Alan?"
V. The Breadwinner
"What're you doing home? Don't you have a job?"
"Where's Olivia?"
"How the hell should I know? Have you lost her? Better put a bell on that collar of hers."
"Is. She. Here."
"No."
"What? Where'd she go?"
"I don't know. Said she was going to work."
"You just let her walk out? She doesn't have a job, Nick!"
"I didn't know that, did I. Anyway, how'd I stop her? Anything I said, she'd just leave faster. You know she hates me."
"I came home because there was a magician hanging about the shop. We've got to find her and get out of here. Hurry up and go pack."
"Fine."
"I'll find Olivia."
"Whatever."
"Nick?"
"What?"
"Take your sword with you."
1. Home
Alan is dead tired when he gets home, nearly falls down the steps twice just trying to get to the door of the flat.
That'll teach me to take three shifts, he thinks, fumbling his way through brushing his teeth and washing his face. He decides pyjamas are an unnecessary hassle, and heads straight to bed.
Nick is there. Which is not really a surprise, because the flat is tiny and they're sharing a room, so yes, Nick should be there.
Nick should not be standing in the middle of the room with every single weapon he owns -- even the gun that he hasn't used in over a year -- laid out on the floor in neat, regimental rows.
Alan stands in the doorway, too exhausted to muster anything stronger than mild bemusement, and notes that Nick has categorized the weapons, not by type, but by probable effectiveness against magical attack.
When Nick looks up, his face is more inscrutable than usual. Then he holds out his hands, empty palms and splayed fingers, the universal sign for 'look, I'm not attempting to shove something sharp into your flesh in a potentially fatal manner'. Then he nods toward the array of weapons on the floor, and Alan catches on.
Two knives and a stilletto join the collection of weaponry, and Alan catches Nick's questioning eyebrow-quirk at that last, but he just shrugs as he puts down his gun. And then he's unarmed and he holds up his hands, mirroring Nick. He manages to keep his hands steady as waits to see what comes next, waits to see what it is that Nick thinks will have him going for his gun out of sheer reflex
The bed close to the door is Alan's bed; the bed under the window is Nick's. Nick sits on the edge of Alan's bed and waves his hands in an unfamiliar gesture that Alan's tired brain can't quite decipher.
The sound of Nick's impatience is low and harsh in the back of his throat, and before Alan can protest, I'm a bit too tired to perform mind reading tricks, he leans forward and closes his hand around Alan's wrist, pulling him suddenly, awkwardly close.
Alan isn't tired any more. He can feel his heartbeat jump and stutter at the foreign, cautious expression on Nick's face, at the heat of Nick's hand around his wrist, drawing him inexorably down. His free hand reaches for his gun and comes up empty.
Nick. Alan wants to protest, wants to ask, what is this, wants to go back to standing in the doorway, unsuspecting and ready for bed.
Except then Nick is kissing him, close-mouthed and soft, breath warm and head up-tilted and all wrong. So close that Alan can feel heat radiating off of Nick's body, and he's too surprised to shut his eyes or do more than freeze, bent over his brother, every thought in chaos.
The hand on his wrist is firm but not crushing, and Alan's certain he can twist out of it, if he really wants to.
Out of the corner of his eye, Alan sees Nick's other hand twitch against the bedspread, like he's barely keeping himself from wrapping it around the back of Alan's neck and drawing him in closer, and somehow that's what decides it. He closes his eyes and leans into the kiss, cups Nick's jaw in his free hand and stays and stays until his lungs burn.
When he pulls away for breath, Alan lets Nick keep hold of his wrist while his pulse eases down. He sits on the bed next to his brother, barely notices the awkwardness of Nick refusing to let go of his wrist. Around them, the floor is littered with knives and guns, and Alan is too tall for Nick to tuck him closer against his shoulder, and somehow, Alan thinks, this is home.
goblinmarket_sw.Title: Home is Where
Pairing: Alan/Nick
Summary: Domesticity. Five conversations. One moment of silence. PG, 1,360 words
I. The Haircut
"I'll do it myself!"
"You won't be able to reach around the back. It'll be messy."
"Then I'll go get it done somewhere."
"Now you're asking me to believe that you'll let a stranger within a meter of your face with a sharp pair of scissors. Please stop insulting my intelligence."
"I don't even need a haircut!"
"Really. Then I'll just pick up some hairbands the next time I'm at the market, shall I? I'll tell the clerk they're for my little sister."
"'Little' and 'sister' are probably the most inaccurate words you could use to describe me. I hope you know that."
"Just. Sit down and let me save you from a future of gender-confusion, Nick."
"Fine."
II. The Oven
"I see you've decided that my desire for cake will be my ultimate downfall."
"It's only for an hour at most, Nick. And it's more economical than purchasing one."
"Right. Of course. Heating the apartment to a fatal temperature is a fair trade for cheap cakes."
"It's more than fair for a homemade cake, don't you think?"
"Why are you even making cake? No, let me guess. You killed a magician today and want to celebrate. Alan, if I have to dump a body, I want a cake of my own."
"Nothing like that. You said something about wanting cake yesterday."
"If I'd known it would result in an apartment-sauna, I might have stayed quiet."
"And I just thought it would be nice to have cake; I wanted some too. That's all."
"Well. I'm not going to say no."
III. The Laundry
"What have I said about keeping unsheathed knives under your pillow?"
"What are you doing poking around my bed?"
"I-. I'm doing the laundry. There are holes in your sheet and pillowcase. Knife holes."
"Maybe this place has really aggressive bedbugs."
"Nick."
"It's a matter of safety. I don't want to be messing with a sheath if someone attacks us while I'm sleeping."
"Safety? This is not safe -- the kinds of knives you use, you'll stab yourself in the ear one day. Stop sleeping with your knives."
"You sleep with a loaded gun."
"I do not."
"Oh right. You only keep love letters under your pillow. Love letters that smell of solvent and oil. Just like guns."
"I don't-. It's-. That's actually kind of creepy."
"I do the laundry too, Alan."
"And you smell my sheets, apparently."
"Shut up."
IV. The Sofa
"Would you care to explain how my spare Beretta mag disappeared between the sofa cushions?"
"Gnomes, probably. Magazine-stealing gnomes. If you used your knives all the time, this wouldn't be a problem. Guns don't even work, sometimes."
"I think maybe my little brother dropped it -- purely by accident, because he is such a clumsy kid -- in the process of cleaning my weapons last night. Which he does obsessively."
"I don't think so. Unless you've got a clumsy kid brother that I don't know about."
"Hiding my mags isn't going to stop me carrying the guns, Nick."
"That is one hundred percent acceptable. As long as you don't use them as your primary weapon."
"It makes sense to reach for the gun first; it's a distance weapon, you know that. Knives are for hand-to-hand work."
"If you say so. You've aimed point-blank at me dozens of times, but I can't even remember the last time you drew a knife on me. What kind of distance is that, Alan?
"Alan?"
V. The Breadwinner
"What're you doing home? Don't you have a job?"
"Where's Olivia?"
"How the hell should I know? Have you lost her? Better put a bell on that collar of hers."
"Is. She. Here."
"No."
"What? Where'd she go?"
"I don't know. Said she was going to work."
"You just let her walk out? She doesn't have a job, Nick!"
"I didn't know that, did I. Anyway, how'd I stop her? Anything I said, she'd just leave faster. You know she hates me."
"I came home because there was a magician hanging about the shop. We've got to find her and get out of here. Hurry up and go pack."
"Fine."
"I'll find Olivia."
"Whatever."
"Nick?"
"What?"
"Take your sword with you."
1. Home
Alan is dead tired when he gets home, nearly falls down the steps twice just trying to get to the door of the flat.
That'll teach me to take three shifts, he thinks, fumbling his way through brushing his teeth and washing his face. He decides pyjamas are an unnecessary hassle, and heads straight to bed.
Nick is there. Which is not really a surprise, because the flat is tiny and they're sharing a room, so yes, Nick should be there.
Nick should not be standing in the middle of the room with every single weapon he owns -- even the gun that he hasn't used in over a year -- laid out on the floor in neat, regimental rows.
Alan stands in the doorway, too exhausted to muster anything stronger than mild bemusement, and notes that Nick has categorized the weapons, not by type, but by probable effectiveness against magical attack.
When Nick looks up, his face is more inscrutable than usual. Then he holds out his hands, empty palms and splayed fingers, the universal sign for 'look, I'm not attempting to shove something sharp into your flesh in a potentially fatal manner'. Then he nods toward the array of weapons on the floor, and Alan catches on.
Two knives and a stilletto join the collection of weaponry, and Alan catches Nick's questioning eyebrow-quirk at that last, but he just shrugs as he puts down his gun. And then he's unarmed and he holds up his hands, mirroring Nick. He manages to keep his hands steady as waits to see what comes next, waits to see what it is that Nick thinks will have him going for his gun out of sheer reflex
The bed close to the door is Alan's bed; the bed under the window is Nick's. Nick sits on the edge of Alan's bed and waves his hands in an unfamiliar gesture that Alan's tired brain can't quite decipher.
The sound of Nick's impatience is low and harsh in the back of his throat, and before Alan can protest, I'm a bit too tired to perform mind reading tricks, he leans forward and closes his hand around Alan's wrist, pulling him suddenly, awkwardly close.
Alan isn't tired any more. He can feel his heartbeat jump and stutter at the foreign, cautious expression on Nick's face, at the heat of Nick's hand around his wrist, drawing him inexorably down. His free hand reaches for his gun and comes up empty.
Nick. Alan wants to protest, wants to ask, what is this, wants to go back to standing in the doorway, unsuspecting and ready for bed.
Except then Nick is kissing him, close-mouthed and soft, breath warm and head up-tilted and all wrong. So close that Alan can feel heat radiating off of Nick's body, and he's too surprised to shut his eyes or do more than freeze, bent over his brother, every thought in chaos.
The hand on his wrist is firm but not crushing, and Alan's certain he can twist out of it, if he really wants to.
Out of the corner of his eye, Alan sees Nick's other hand twitch against the bedspread, like he's barely keeping himself from wrapping it around the back of Alan's neck and drawing him in closer, and somehow that's what decides it. He closes his eyes and leans into the kiss, cups Nick's jaw in his free hand and stays and stays until his lungs burn.
When he pulls away for breath, Alan lets Nick keep hold of his wrist while his pulse eases down. He sits on the bed next to his brother, barely notices the awkwardness of Nick refusing to let go of his wrist. Around them, the floor is littered with knives and guns, and Alan is too tall for Nick to tuck him closer against his shoulder, and somehow, Alan thinks, this is home.
