Log in

Previous Entry | Next Entry

Holiday special; a love fest of fic. :)

This was an unoffical challenge I did over Valentines Day, inspired by and using quotes from 'love philosophy, according to the very young' as posted here. I also tried to use all my otps (though admittedly the criminal minds one is gen; can you have a gen otp?).
Some of this will end up being cross-posted and used for other stuff, there are also a few quotes not yet written for; but for now here's the set as it stands.

♥. "Love is that first feeling you feel before all the bad stuff gets in the way."
Blue had no idea how he was going to get this goofy grin off his face. He tried, really; but then the smallest thing would remind him of her, and it would set all the effort back to square one.
This kind of thing didn’t happen to him, not for a lack of trying or considering it. But he was a pragmatic man, a realist, mathematical genius and a spy of sorts. Love at first sight didn’t register on his radar.
Then he’d taken this job, their worlds overlapped, and he was done for.
Paul had noticed, of course he had. The others too probably, though they were gracious about not mentioning it. Which was for the best because he really wouldn’t make a good early impression falling apart like a teenage girl.
It was just, oh she was perfect; tall, fair, gorgeous, funny, smart, a voice like honey. It made him sigh, he didn’t sigh over a woman.
Scarlet looked at him over the paper, compelling him to explain.
“I think I’m in love.”
Where had that come from?
Still, on reflection, that didn’t sound like a terrible crazy thing to happen to him. Yes, actually he quite liked the idea.
Oh God, please let her feel the same way.

♥. "When my grandmother got arthritis, she couldn't bend over and paint her toenails anymore. So my grandfather does it for her all the time, even when his hands got arthritis too. That's love."
They’ve mentioned once or twice what will happen when they’re old, not kidding around the way Morgan and Garcia do about how they’ll keep learing at people young enough to be their grandkids, in between races in their mobility scooters. For them it’s more sedate and casual; they have been such a big part of each other’s lives for the last few years that its seamless to imagine that state will remain.
J.J settles herself into the chair at Reid’s desk; he’d hopped up as a reflex. Not just because it was J.J, but that she looked so close to dropping he would probably have been sat on. Not that he would have said anything, she might have got upset. Pregnant women got really insecure about their weight and looks, he’d read that in article. Not that he could see why J.J would have reason to; her belly is high and round as a ripe mellon, her hair a rich flaxen waterfall, and she completely has that glow they tell you about.
“Y’know what I miss the most,” she begins. “Being able to paint my toes.”
“I, I’m sorry.”
She sighs, continues as if talking to someone else, someone say who had the first idea about nailpolish. “Ever since I was a kid I’d paint my toenails every summer, every shade you can imagine. I was such a good girl, it was like my one form of rebellion. My mom thought it was slutty for some reason. But I loved it so much, looking down at the shine and colour. I had to be careful about always wearing closed in shoes around her, but it was worth it … and this is the first summer since that I haven’t, and it’s really weird, like I’m not quite me.”
Spencer nods, he knows as well as anyone how it feels being a stranger in your own skin, so the words are out before he considers it.
“I could do them for you, if you like.”
J.J looks up, surprised and smiling; “Would you really, Spence.”
“Sure, I dabbled in some model making as a kid, how hard can it be.”

“Garcia, I need some nail polish.”
Morgan is there in the lab too, they were laughing before and are still sat very close together, you couldn’t have got one of the open manila files on the table between them. Reid doesn’t really care though, he’s not a gossip.
“Ooh, pretty boy, getting in touch with your feminine side.”
Reid attempts to give the calibre of withering look Hotch makes effortless, the kid which if depicted in comic would involve lasers shooting out of your eyes and leaving charred mounds. He needs some practise.
“It’s for J.J.” He stops, unsure whether it would be right to share the explanation.
“Hmm OK, something not so wild.” Garcia rumages in her huge hibicus printed shopper, then pops up with a small glass bottle in each hand. “Scarlet o hara, or ‘purple people eater’.”
“Umm the purple, I think.”
“Good choice.” Garcia hands it over with a smile, the kind you’d give a puppy. Then finishes telling Morgan a really funny story about Hotch trying to flirt with some girl in the next building.

He gets about halfway through by the time Reid realises how badly his hands are cramping. Every time he grips the brush, the concentration and intricacy required is remarkable, sends a spasm down his thumb and index finger. He should have known better than to draft a report in long hand, but his computer was being fixed and if he’d waited he would have forgotten the pertinent points.
Besides Reid doesn’t even care if his whole arm falls off. J.J’s foot is resting lightly in his cupped left palm, and each nail is taking on the hue of a sun ripened aubergine. And all the while J.J is still smiling, talking, reminising, cradling her son through the soft skin of her belly.
It’s not a physical attraction, he knows that, not the way those other idiots in their office tease or talk about him. But Reid is sure he hasn’t seen snything so exquisite in a long time.

♥. "When someone loves you, the way she says your name is different. You know that your name is safe in her mouth."
He always hated being called Timothy; it sounded so stuffy and pretentious. His mean spirited great aunt used to call him that all the time, and he wasn’t exactly her biggest fan. Even so it wasn’t quite as bad as being called Timmy.
Timmy was a childish name, a dog’s name, a name you couldn’t say to a peer without it sounding like a cruel teasing. McGee was far too well versed in the ways of teasing.
So when Abby had called him that, just casually without prompting or planning, he tried not to flinch. Things were going great, he didn’t want to ruin it over something silly like that. She noticed though, her face crumpling with anguish at hurting his feelings.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she’d said. “Do you not like that?”
“It’s uh.” He floundered, because she was looking at him with such an encouraging smile, trying to understand and not make that mistake again. “I kinda have some bad associations with that name.”
After five minutes of what sounds an awful lot like inane babbling he quit spewing his life story all over the canteen table. Abby nodded, resting her hand on his; “Tim, just Tim then. It’s OK, I understand.”
He couldn’t have said any more if he’d wanted to.
Abby tried, really hard, even correcting other people which really made his heart sing. Then eventually one day she slipped up, perhaps she had before but this was the first time she was really aware of it.
It was just like before, the first time coming back to him as she apologised and her face crumpled. In that moment he decided, and closed the gap between them, cupping her face in his hands.
“It’s OK, I understand … see before, from anyone else, getting called Timmy never sat right. But from you, Abby I know how much you care, how much I care about you. So when you say my name, it could never make me feel bad. It feels safe with you.”
She smiled at him, relieved. And next thing he knew Dr Mallard had slipped him a cotton handkerchief and was gesturing at various parts of his face.

♥. "Love is when a girl puts on perfume and a boy puts on shaving cologne and they go out and smell each other."
The door slam reberated throughout the house, long after BJ had shaken his head and retreated down the stairs.
“She has a point y’know.”
BJ sat down with a huff, studiously avoiding looking his partner in the eye; “she’s fifteen, and more to the point he’s fifteen. God, she’s even wearing that perfume her mom sent her, for special occasions ...”
“Ah, Beej, this is special. Don’t you remember being that age?”
“Which is exactly my point!”
Hawkeye looked for all the world like his was plotting something. As if he’d had a vital plan that had just been thwarted. BJ was about to ask about it; but was interrupted when Erin came stomping back into the kitchen, pulled a tub of ice cream from the ice box, and sighed dramatically.
“I hope you’re happy Dad, now that Valentines is ruined for everyone.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” but before BJ could get an answer the door to the den slammed, and the Ed Sullivan show theme tune started up.
He turned to Hawkeye, who for the last sixteen years had made sense of most things life threw at them when he found himself floundering.
“I gotta level with you, Erin’s date was kinda a ruse,” Hawkeye began.
“A ruse?”
“While I don’t doubt they probably will see each other at some point, this being an international day of romance and all, I … well I’d slipped her twenty bucks to go to the movies.”
“So now you’re encouraging my underage daughter to go all around town with a boy. Well that’s just great, you just wait til Peg hears about this. She is going to …”
“Calm down already. Erin’s a smart sensible girl, not that I know where she gets it from.” There was a twinkle in Hawkeye’s eye. “And this is Crabapple Cove; no teenager can go anywhere on a date without being in sight of parents, law enforcement officials and nuns. Believe me, it’s suitably non-fun. Which leads me back to my point; while she’s out in safe hands, the young at heart can finally have a little fun.” Hawkeye stood up, offering his hand with a flourish. “If you would like to step into the dining room, there is a dinner reservation for two, in the name of Hunnicut.”
It wasn’t the most elaborate dinner setting he’d ever seen; the red carnations were wonky in the glass tumblers, and the food was no doubt winging it’s way over in the van of the Delucci’s ‘high class pizza and seafood resturant’. But it was about the most romantic thing BJ had ever seen.
“Hey, where are you going?” Hawkeye chases him down the hall.
BJ closes the gap between them, kisses him fimly on the mouth, and plucks his car keys from the dresser drawer.
He puts his head around the door of the den, senses still reeling from Hawkeye’s touch and cologne;
“Erin, honey, get your shoes and coat,” he says. “If we’re quick you’ll still make that showing.”

♥. "Love is when you go out to eat and give somebody most of your french fries without making them give you any of theirs."
He didn’t know why Rick did it, any more than he could articulate why it bothered him to such an extent.
It was every meal, pretty much. Only a little bit, barely a mouthful; a fry, the cherry on the top, a pinch of still crisp cereals from the edge of the bowl. You wouldn’t go hungry with his snagging that. It was the principle of it, every single meal, it was starting to get annoying.
And yet Pat couldn’t compell himself to just tell Ochre to quit it.
It had been a long day, a hard mission, they’d lost more than they cared to admit. Everyone who had been on the mission wandering the base in a contemplative troubled haze.
Magenta headed to the officers mess, loaded his tray with food, then huddles into a corner table.
Next time he looks up Ochre is there too, sat in the chair beside him, they say nothing as they pick at their food. Which is OK, he can deal with that, needs it to deal with everything else.
Ochre’s palate has defaulted to its childhood settings; mac & cheese, corn, a side of chocolate cake. And french fries smeared with ketchup; Pat is finding those oddly entrancing. Before he knows he’s reached out a hand and put one into his mouth. No worse than Rick would. Only the taste is exploding on his tongue, and it’s the only thing that tastes good.
He realises the crater now left on the plate, apologising once the last blissful mouthful is down, looking round and expecting some snarky retort.
Rick just gives a sleep smile, scooping some corn onto his fork. And Pat considers that may have been the idea all along.

♥. "Love is when someone hurts you. And you get so mad but you don't yell at him because you know it would hurt his feelings."
He wanted to hit something, crash his fist into something, feel something other than his bilous anger building up inside. No, he knew he was going to hit something. Or yell long and hard. That might be better, less damaging.
There must be some real upside to automatic doors, hence them being fitted all over the base, but in that instant all he could think was how frustrating it was being deprived of that tiny emotional salve of flinging a door open and slamming it behind you.
He’s yelling for him, people are staring, and only then does he realise that he’s saying too much. Code name cast aside in indignation, instead cutting straight to familiar nickname.
Fawn sees him in the lobby of the sickbay, hustles him into a side room. Grey wants to fight him off, to keep on fighting, but at some point when Ned’s skin contacts with his own the fight just evaporates out of him.
“Brad,” Fawn’s being gentle, in voice and tone. That doctor instinct kicking in and checking him over. “What do you need?”
That seemed an odd thing to say, in light of the probable answer. What Grey needed to do was to just do the whole day over, knowing what they do now. How the mysterons would strike, that there was a secondary device, that Lieutenant Lime shouldn’t have been anywhere near that place, it was Grey’s job.
He shudders at that, can’t stop shivering, as Fawn wraps a blanket around him. By the time they had got back in the bodies were so damaged you could barely even tell who it was, but Grey had known. And he knew the others knew, because that was the only thing that kept Scarlet from screaming in his face to hold it together. Brad didn’t blame him, not really, not while Adam was lying on the gurney; he couldn’t imagine what he would do if Ned …
He looks up at Fawn then, catches sight of the clock over his shoulder. It’s been ten hours since they got back, nine since they started surgery, seven since they had let Lime go, six since Grey had started to get so angry. At the injustice, incompetence, that they should have done more.
Ten hours of Fawn never waving in doing everything he could, on the tail end of a days work. He looks utterly slammed.
“I needed, to see you.” And Grey almost hates himself for how weak he sounds.
“Well Christ, you didn’t need to make a scene. You know how people talk around here.”
Fawn reaches for him and Grey slumps forward, feeling the starched white cotton against his cheek, rests a palm in the small of Ned’s back.
It’s not enough, not by a long shot, but around here you take what you can.

♥. "Love is what makes you smile when you're tired."
Leroy Jethro Gibbs wasn’t a romantic man.
Sure he could do romantic things here and there, as a means to an end. But he saw how other people carried on, all that sighing and pineing, nah that just wasn’t for him.
So why was he so easily able to pin point his most favourite moment of the day, two actually, which sure sounded a lot like true love however you sliced it.
When he got back from working really late; to find Ducky sat waiting up in bed, but had fallen asleep at his post. The kicker though was when Gibbs would gently kiss his neck, lower him to horizontal, and Ducky would sigh in his sleep. A sigh that seemed to say, ‘thank goodness you’re here, everything is alright now’.
And it would be, Gibbs figured. Because sure enough next morning Ducky would wake up beside him, smiling softly, his world still in soft focus without his glasses on, and say ‘good morning, my dear’ in that warm seductive accent of his.
Gibbs would never admit it on pain of death (or worse, looking like a teenager); but when it came to Ducky Mallard, it didn’t take a lot to make him weak at the knees.

♥. "Love is when my mommy makes coffee for my daddy and she takes a sip before giving it to him, to make sure the taste is OK."
Sydney hadn’t remembered it, the way she didn’t recall most things about her parents’ relationship, until she found herself going through the same motions. Of her father noticing and for a split second until the current reality caught up with him, smiling at her. It was the sort of smile of anyone that would look wistful, charmed, nostalgic. Traits Jack Bristow was not inclined to express, so it mostly looked like the face babies make when they’re gassy. Either way it weirded Syd out, until she could place it.
When she was young her father took his coffee black, the same way her mother did. With hindsight this way have been conditioning in case neither had access to cream or sugar in the field; but back then Sydney was five and thought ‘black coffee’ sounded glamorous, and sweet that her parents were the same. They never let her have any coffee, said it would be far too strong for her. But she loved to inhale the scent as they sipped it over the morning papers.
Her mother was the one who usually made it, putting the kettle on to boil while her father was in the shower. Sydney would be sat there with the funnies or a half done drawing; captivated by how glamorous her mother was, even while going about such a mundane routine. The coffee was always far more exotic than the kind her friends’ parents drink, a mid-brown powder from clear glass jars. These were sophisticated, she loved that word, and sometimes she would run her fingers over her globe finding where these places where and tracing the route from Colombia or Kenya to her house.
The coffee had to be black, as the darkest fathomless ocean depth, and piping hot. Steam rolling off it like a Scottish mist. Sydney’s mother was quite exacting about it. As an adult Sydney wondering if that was a supersition of her mother, that if she could get this right then Jack would still love her, and the whole delicate shell of lies could remain undisturbed for another day.
With the drink mixed right on schedule, the final step was for her mother to press the cup to her lips and suck the tiniest amount into her mouth. Testing it as if she was the taster at a royal banquet, and it was always perfect. So she would hand it over, and Jack would place his lips over where here’s had been. As if a kiss could be carried by a coffee cup.
So perhaps it wasn’t really a surprise, the first morning after Vaughn had stayed the night, that Sydney found herself taking a sip from both cups before she took them upstairs.

♥. "Love is when you kiss all the time. Then when you get tired of kissing, you still want to be together and you talk more. My mommy and daddy are like that. They look gross when they kiss but they look happy and sometimes they dance in the kitchen while kissing."
Lola Sciuto thought kissing was gross; smushing your face up to somebody like that, getting all spittle on you, not to mention cooties. And she should know, not because she’s ever kissed anyone because that’d be icky, but she’d seen a lot of kissing. Her Grandpa Gibbs and Grandpa Ducky kissed sometimes when they thought she wasnt looking, and other times to say ‘hi’ or ‘bye’. Her mom and dad didn’t care about that so much, so they just kissed each other all the time for no good reason. They all kissed her and her little brothers too, just regular kisses though, nothing mushy.
Far as Lola could tell her mommy and daddy did the most kissing was was when they were making dinner. Mommy would put on her jazz albums and they’d totally forget the time, just talking about their day. So Lola would look in on them sometimes, to see what the hold up was; only to find them dancing together to the music and kissing in between. Once they saw her they would stop, but still be smiling at each other as they got back to the important stuff like chopping vegetables.
Yuck as the whole kissing thing was Lola could tell that they always looked really happy when they had been kissing. So she was starting to think that maybe, when you’re a grown up, kissing isn’t so bad.

♥. "When you tell someone something bad about yourself and you're scared she won't love you anymore. But then you get surprised because not only does she still love you, she loves you even more."
It’s not like Pat can’t say he didn’t see this coming. He knows this, really it’s not like Rick hasn’t been saying it for a long time. But then Rick spent a long time saying things like ‘you’re still a lying scheming no-good mobster/I’m going to catch you at it one day/we will never be friends’, so excuse him for not having devout faith in the gospel of Saint Ochre.
“I mean, if you love someone and want to spend the rest of your life with them, and you’re gonna do that anyway, then why do you even need a piece of paper saying so. If it aint broke don’t fix.”
Rick’s floundering, he’s clearly given this a lot of thought, but there’s always that risk it won’t stand up well to someone else’s scrutiny. He’s dangling on the edge, has brought their relationship that that point. Things had been going so well; they’d been making quips about Karen’s obsession with the trim on her ‘save the date’ cards, and weighing up the merits of elopment on a beach vs. officiated by an Elvis impersonator. Then he’d just, said it. Now he can’t take it back … why isn’t Pat saying anything?
Smarting as he may now be at the technicality Rick isn’t willing to make that commitment to him. Or, frankly, of never seeing his great aunt’s face when she finds out he married another man to an off key rendition of ‘love me tender’. Pat feels another emotion bubbling up inside him. It takes a moment to place it, but he realises it’s something akin to respect.
For all he gets so infuriated the guy Rick is unwaveringly honest and direct at the slightest provocation. He likes that, knows it keeps them on an even keel. The cards have been laid out; stay or go.
Being completely honest Pat’s not really crazy about being pressed into this bind. It’s not really something you can make your mind up about in a minute. There are lots of issues to consider …
Actually, no there aren’t.
Spend the rest of his life with the only person he can imagine could get through the next forty years without at least seriously considering smothering him in his sleep (or vice versa), sans wedding. Or he can take his chances finding someone who would agree to, if not The King, then a modest Catholic wedding.
And never again feel Rick kiss his neck, or have to fake surprise over having grilled cheese and soup from a can again because that’s all Rick can fix for dinner.
The devil is in the details, and so is love.
There isn’t really a choice is there; Pat not sure if he loves or hates Rick for doing that to him.
“Well, even if we wanted to then we couldn’t have until we left Spectrum anyway,” Pat notes. “So we might as well keep winging it for now, we’re still good, right.”
Rick eyes him suspiciously; “you’re not mad?”
“I, no.” At least that’s not the word he could have used.
He feels the relief spilling out into the air. As Rick nestles back against him with a sigh, and Pat feels much better himself.
Ring or not they’re still them.

♥. "Love is when you tell a guy you like his shirt, then he wears it everyday."
He was going to have to intervene.
It had been a week now, at least, if his estimation was correct, which was long enough. All the children had noticed, even Jimmy had commented on the matter and he was not one for noticing the apparel of anyone male or still alive.
Ducky knew he shouldn’t care what other people thought, and with regards himself he honestly didn’t. But he would never want for anyone to think badly of Jethro. Which it seemed they might start to; saying he only had one shirt, the implication he was a stop out or a hobo. Intrusive speculation as to his private life. That eventually he would end up smelling rather like a tramp if this continued.
So Ducky hatched a plan; that night, while Jethro was sleeping soundly, Ducky crept out of bed, plucked the discarded shirt from the hallway floor and tucked it into his medical bag so he could take it home and wash it the next day. Problem solved, or so he thought.
Then next day Gibbs came into work wearing an identical shirt. Prompting Tony to asked; “Your washer broken, Boss?” and was rewarded with a head slap for his trouble.
It was then Ducky’s words of previous weekend back to him with perfect clarity;
“You look very handsome my dear, the colour really enhances your eyes.”
Doing his best to conceal a smile Ducky decided it would be prudent to compliment a wider range of his lover’s apparel.