Eliot was standing over the body when Nate rushed in. Eliot's eyes told Nate that there was no use checking for a pulse.

Nate's look of comprehension told Eliot, 'It's okay. I know you didn't have a choice.'

Eliot's abrupt turn and tense shoulders told Nate that he wasn't interested in talking more about it.

Nate's hand on Eliot's shoulder when they got back to the van told Eliot that Nate would do his best to be supportive.

But Eliot's brief look, before he turned his back on Nate, was full of need and regret and, Nate thought, accusation. His pained eyes said, 'I'm not supposed to have to kill any more, Nate. You're supposed to plan it well enough that I don't have to.'

There was mostly silence that night. When Eliot headed to bed, Nathan started to get up to go with him, but Eliot gave the tiniest of gestures that said, 'Stay put, Nate. I can't stand the sight of you right now.'

Nathan sat there replaying the day in his head, wondering what he was going to say to Eliot the next day.

+++++

Eliot went to bed alone and waited. He half expected Nate to come after him. Usually when Eliot acted like he wanted to be alone, Nate just ignored him.

Eliot almost laughed at himself, for being the kind of guy that pushes away when he wants to be held closer. But after today, he really didn't feel like laughing.

He didn't have a choice at the moment. But maybe if he had played it a little differently in the lead-up, he could have scared the guy enough to prevent it. When Nate burst in to see Eliot standing there over the body, Eliot had tried to convey an apology with his eyes. He wasn't able to say it, but he tried to show it.

Nate just gave a look that spoke of disappointment. Later, in the van, Nate had put a hand on his shoulder. 'I feel sorry for you,' it told Eliot, 'you just can't help yourself.'

Eliot had turned away. He couldn't say anything but he looked at Nathan and tried to be honest in that moment of eye-to-eye. He allowed Nate to see that he was hurting, that he needed him. But Nate was silent after that, so Eliot realized that Nate was having trouble dealing with what happened. He probably regretted letting someone like Eliot into his life.

When Eliot had enough silence, he went upstairs. He knew Nate felt bad for him, that Nate wanted to act like everything was fine. But Eliot wasn't about to let anyone be with him out of pity.

So he lay alone in his room, replaying the events of the day in his head, wondering if Nate would ever again be able to stand the sight of him.

Animal Magnetism

Andromeda/SGA, Tyr Anasazi/Ronon Dex, physical

-----

It’s a tangible thing, like touching, the tension that runs at times between them.

Someone has to come out on top. It’s what this is, at the heart, all about. Maybe. Or maybe they are fooling themselves in thinking that’s all of what it was. It’s none the less what they’re telling themselves as they go about a deadly dance of predator meeting killer instincts.

It seems to Tyr now that it could be no other way, it was inconceivable, inevitable, and when they first laid eyes on each other, Harper had sort of smirked –all wicked and teasing, those blue eyes said ‘I know what’s going to happen now!’, and then he’d started laying bets with Atlantis’s more foolish men and women. John himself had worked to keep Ronon occupied, to delay this clash, and maybe if he had succeeded Ronon would have killed him, just to get him out of the way. Dylan had tried to interest Tyr in other things, for fleeting peace, in how well built Atlantis was, in its defense and offense, but ultimately, even Dylan had seemed to give up and give in.

So, for no other reason then Tyr snarled at the other male, this other stranger who was so like and unlike his own people, but surely an Alpha for all of that. Ronon had grinned, all teeth and curling lips. They circled a invisible ring, around and around, eyes only for each other, knowing one of them had to step down because this was a physical show of the talking that Dylan was doing with Atlantis and it’s Earth, both sides fancied themselves protector of the people. This was about that, and more.

When they clashed, it was a physical movement, a grind against skin and bone, arm blades and skivs, Ronon was tamed but had lived wilder, without the comforts Tyr once had known, but both could sympathize with each other and survive. Yet they had to find common ground, had to settle the obvious power differences. Ronon didn’t give in, but he was used to giving his back to go in for the kill at a side strike, and Tyr was used to taking every advantage offered, so Tyr straddled Ronon’s back and rode him to the ground, and when their hair was tangled together, tightly managed braids and dreadlocks, Tyr didn’t go for the kill – his arm bone spikes didn’t cut into the sensitive neck and blood didn’t stain them, and Ronon didn’t roll and kick him off to put a shiv in the once merc’s belly. They strained to stay very very still. Something different and alien surged through him, stilled him, and Tyr had to know what it was before he let himself move. He feared making a terrible mistake.

Tyr panted for breath, the heat of it cooling the sweat on Ronon’s neck, and when Ronon flexed experimentally beneath him –testing limits and boundaries as Ronon always felt he must - he closed his eyes tightly and felt the smooth expanse of skin and hot muscle, he groaned, letting out a shaky sigh. A different sort of need crawled up his spine, desire and twisting lust. Ronon smirked up at him, black pupils swallowing the brown ring.

“Want me?” That look asked, invited - and – oh yes – Tyr wanted him. Tyr took him, and Ronon was eager to be his, there was nothing frail in the taking and giving, no asking, only taking and wanting and the always consuming burning need for more and faster and harder, it was heeding him, and only him, but Tyr was no fool – Ronon had wanted to be taken, and Tyr knew that meant that he’d want to take Tyr, one day soon – and Tyr couldn’t wait. He wanted that day, was impatient at the very thought of it.

Ronon was more then his opposite-sided, or similar-minded, he was the familiar stranger – a friend. A life partner and Tyr could not explain it, because a Neitzschean didn’t have words for such things.

That was okay, Ronon just looked at him, and Tyr didn’t have to bother with words. He knew this – whatever you called it, however it was named, this was his and this was Ronon’s claim on him - for the promise it was, and Tyr’s skin shivered in answer, while Ronon only smirked more knowingly then Tyr was comfortable with, for it brought to mind the question of Ronon – maybe – planning this. Yet Tyr never asked that, and Ronon – if he knew, if he had – never told. This was theirs.

"This is all you're fault, Vala."

"How is it my fault? I had know idea they would take insult over such a simple misunderstanding."

"Oh, so weren't trying to steal a sacred fertility idol."

"Well I thought it was a warrior idol."

"Oh, so you thought we were going to be tied up and sacrificed to their Warrior God. That is so much better."

"Well at least this way they put us in the same room."

"They put us in the same room, NAKED."

"Well, that's hardly the point. It will be much easier for the rest of SG-1 to rescue us if we're in the same room."

"I give up, you just don't get it."

"What's to get, it was a simple misunderstanding."

"Which lead to us being held prisoner and sacrificed to their Fertility God."

"Well at least this way, we get to have a fun time before we die."

*groan*

"What? Daniel are you ignoring me? Daniel! Daniel, Daniel, Daniel, Daniel, *sigh*... party pooper."

Oh man, my dork moment is so much worse. I've had Prufrock stuck in my head all day. Normal people get SONGS stuck in their head. I get poetry. Last week it was Keats' Ode to a Nightingale. D:

Beneath the music from a further room/So I should I presume?

Aren't nerds supposed to be tiny and light? Casey thought to himself as he huffed and gasped. He was carrying two nerds, one on each shoulder. This interagency crap wasn't working out all that well. Especially ever since they kept bringing in 'private contractors' to help out.

Of course, Hardison and Bartowski would have been harmless in most situations. But they shouldn't have been left in a room together, especially one with a computer, Casey knew. But Casey had only been gone a little bit.

He didn't think they would be able to access the NSA's Fulcrum file.

To be honest, he didn't even think that they would decide on the best 'vintage' video game before Casey got back.

Stupid geniuses.

But still, something didn't add up. Even if Fulcrum had immediately sent over a bomb, how did they get it there in time? Casey wondered.

As an out-of-breath Casey set them down on the ground at a a safe distance right before the 'safehouse' exploded, a confused Alec said, "Okay, that was fun, but, uh... why in the heck did you carry me? I can walk. I don't need to go with you everywhere. Or did you just confuse me with that bulgy-looking vein on your forehead?"

Chuck answered, "That's Casey's job, dude. He gets extra pay every time he carries a nerd."

"That is _not_ how it works Chuck!" Casey growled.

Just then a small blonde woman jumped into Casey's arms. "That looks like fun! My turn now. Giddyup!"

"Who the hell is this?" Casey asked an amused-looking Hardison.

"That's Parker."

"And who's Parker?"

The woman rolled her eyes. "I'm the one who stopped Fulcrum from getting you. I blew up the building and now they think you're dead. Yay us!"

"I like her," Chuck said as he nodded approvingly and Hardison grinned. Casey dropped her and rubbed his temples. 'Do not shoot the nerds or weirdos,' he repeated to himself, 'it is your duty to your country to not shoot the nerds and weirdos.'

Plenty of people think Gippal's an idiot. Those same people probably look at Baralai and think that he's a weak girly man, or something like that, which just goes to show who exactly are the idiots in this situation. Anybody who really knows Baralai knows that beneath the smile, beneath the desire to work things out, there's a will of steel; beneath the smile and the quiet eyes, there's a lightning quick fiend in battle.

Gippal's pretty much hyper-aware of that right now, with Baralai beneath him, even with Baralai tipping his head back in an almost submissive way, even with the little noises he's making. Gippal bites, and he almost whimpers. You could almost forgive someone not understanding how strong he is, hearing that -- but then there's his body, wound tight as a spring, muscled and lithe and ready, at any moment, for a fight.

Gippal grins. Kisses again. Bites again, harder. "Weak girly man, huh?"

"Stop teasing," Baralai says, in an entirely reasonable voice.

Gippal grins all the more, slipping down lower, trailing kisses over Baralai's chest, licking sweat from his skin. "Or?"

"Or I'll do something intensely painful to sensitive parts of your body," Baralai says, and he still sounds entirely reasonable, even slightly cheerful.

Gippal would say, see what I mean? -- but there's no one there to say it to, and besides, he's no idiot. He does as he's told: best thing for everyone.

Galahad always had a sure image of home. Home meant his father and his mother and his brothers and sisters. Home was Samartia with its horses and endless plains. Home was going wherever he wanted to go, no patrols, no Romans and no Woads.
The other knights liked to mock them for it but it was their problem if they had forgotten what home was like, not his. Galahad counted every day of his fifteen years until he would be a free man again and could return home.

Fifteen years later, after they had lost Dagonet and Tristan and Lancelot when they should have been free and on their way home.
Galahad looked at Gawain and understood suddenly that his friend would stay. Bors, he knew, but now he understood that all of them had given up the thought of Samartia long ago and carved them a new home here, in this country or in another person. Bors with Vanora and their children, Lancelot would have never left Arthur and Tristan had long since belonged to no one but himself and the country around them. Dagonet, Dagonet would have never left either. Too attached to Bors and Tristan and to the boy he had found, Lucian.

'Are you thinking about Samartia again?' Gawain teased him.
'A bit. When will you leave?' Galahad asked if only to hear the answer he already knew from Gawain.
'I'm not sure if I will.' Gawain looked apologetic at him:
'I know that we talked about this but I think my place is here now.'
'Everyone's place is here, it seems.' Galahad replied, gesturing to Arthur and Bors.
'And yours?' Was he mistaken or did Gawain look afraid? Afraid that Galahad would leave him, perhaps?
'I can't return without you.' Galahad looked Gawain in the eyes when he said those words:
'I cannot imagine my life without you, here or in Samartia. I suppose that makes you my home.'
Gawain stared at him for a few seconds until the realization began to come trough and a smile broke out on his face. Galahad thought that it looked like a sunrise over Samartia: beautiful and familiar.

Castiel has never feared Falling because he knew he would never falter from his Father's will. There were no temptations for him; Heaven was pure and clean, all he could ever imagine wanting with the scant imagination given to angels.

Castiel has never feared Man because men were so blinded by their own desires and thoughts. Men were children, barely more than dust, though beautiful as are all Father's creations.

Touching Dean Winchester's soul, Castiel does not fear. Pouring Father's grace into Alistair's pet, Castiel does not wonder about Falling, about temptation, or about how what little of Dean remained curled up in his embrace as he hurried from Hell's flames.

Castiel does not feel his slow slide down. He never fears Falling.

When he plunges, after Zachariah’s machinations and Lucifer’s awakening, he still has not felt fear of Fall.

Edited at 2009-07-24 10:29 pm (UTC)

Hiya. I love your prompt, I'm surprised no one has done it yet. So, well, I did it for you. It's my first time writing Ryan/Esposito so I hope it's at least a little good. It's angst-y, though. Hope you'll like it anyway xD
--------------------------------
They hadn't really planned for this. It had just happened.
After their last case (well, in the five minutes between the solving of the old one and getting a new one), they both had needed comfort. And who else could they turn to? Castle had Beckett, and Beckett didn't seem to need anyone. Ryan was pretty sure she was a cyborg. Esposito teased him with that, said he watched too much sci-fi.
Either way, they had to go to each other to feel alive. And after having seen so many dead bodies – who wouldn't want to feel alive?
Which is probably why they had ended up in the bathroom, kissing feverishly. Though, even being drunk would've been a better excuse, but it didn't matter. After having a quickie in the bathroom, and ignoring the phone as it rang right in the middle of it, they were satisfied and could go back to what they did. Solving murder cases.
But this would be the last time. And this time, they would stick to that promise.