1

"Goddamn weather," said Jim for the twentieth time. Blair thought it funny he was complaining about the cold. Stoic Jim, with his big manly biceps and a permafrost thermometer up his ass to measure all that cool.

"It's not that cold," Blair said, flipping the flapjacks. Flat, they were. Flatjacks. Flapcakes.

"You're too drunk to notice," Jim said broodingly, arms folded, staring at the snow outside the window.

"Hey, man." Blair paused, because he had a big important sentence to follow that ejaculation. Ejaculation. Heh. "I'm an...arctic fox." Whatever the fuck that meant. He chuckled, sort of. It was a heh-heh sound, the one Jim hated. Especially after three weeks. He could tell.

Jim turned. Surveyed him. Manly biceps. Plaid. Shadow on the jawline, the jawline of taciturn tension. The shore of sorrow. Blair flirted his gaze back. Jim hated chipperness and wilderness minimalism and the deep, terrible silence of snow. Blair tried to distract him with the first on the list, so that he'd never go deeper.

They'd headed to Canada, to the shack, because Sands had escaped prison. Killed a few guards. Vowed revenge. Yadda. Simon said: get out of Dodge. "What is this," Jim had growled, "Miami Vice?" Whatever that meant.

But then came the notes, calls, dead cat, break-in, warnings in blood on the walls, bad poetry smeared in shit, and finally their neighbor, raped and sobbing.

They were the magnets for this lunatic. So they headed north, because Sands would stay behind, keep searching, get caught. Such was the theory.

"I need to get the hell out of here," Jim said. He moved abruptly, toward the door, next to which his coat hung, and Blair shoved the pan banging across the burner, off the flame, and flung himself after Jim, because that's what he did. It was the thing he did.

He grabbed Jim's arm and didn't let go, and Jim's arm pulled itself away, it might well have had a will of its own because the rest of Jim was far gone. And Blair was a fisherman holding tight to his line. The water was deep here, but he'd go down with the struggle if he had to. And it was a struggle--Jim shaking him off now, angry and absent as only he could be, and then the two of them dancing by the door, shoving and furious and grabby and desperate. And then Blair leapt into Jim chest to chest and held his shoulders and shoved him, pinned him to the door, thumped him against the planks. Hated him, drunkenly loved him, exasperated. Exasperated, kissed him. Kissed him, driven by fear.

There was a silence, where Blair tucked his head against Jim's shoulder and Jim's arms curled up, willed or unwilled. Blair could always count on him to be protective, and to succumb.

And Jim's arms came around him and he sniffed Blair's hair. His hands soothed.

"Dinner's ready," said Blair.

"Good," Jim said at last. "Sounds good."

Said at last.

--by AnnaS  (502 words)

2

Ray wished the hippie kid would give a little fuckin' ground on the armrest.  Christ, his legs ached, his back hurt, and the hippie kid stunk like the Body Shop had exploded all over him.  He ventured a jerky little shove with his elbow, and the kid whipped down his headphones and shrank back.  "Sorry."

Now he felt like a prick.  "S'okay, yeah," Ray mumbled, fumbling in the seat pocket for something to read.  What to do when you crashed--well, that wasn't gonna happen, being as Fraser was 1500 miles due North.

Beside him, the kid reached into his knapsack and pulled out--hell, you had to be kidding.  "Were you there?" Ray blurted, before he realized he was going to say anything.

The hippie kid glanced down at his program--24th Annual Conference of Local Law Enforcement, embossed in gold yet--and then back up at him.  "Yeah."

"You're a cop?" The kid sighed and reached into his pocket.  Not just a cop but a detective, gold badge and everything, in a carefully worked leather case that looked Native American.

"Me too," Ray explained, squinting at the case--definitely Native, how weird was that?  The beads looked just like the ones on his dreamcatcher.

"Blair Sandburg."  Sandburg awkwardly offered a hand. "Cascade P.D."

Ray took his hand, shook it;  Sandburg had a firm grip.  "Ray Kowalski."  It took him a second to figure out what to say.  "Former Chicago P.D., now I work with the Mounties."

"Oh yeah?" Sandburg seemed interested, but Sandburg struck him as one of those guys who, like Fraser, could be interested in sand.  Sand?What kind? Tell me more... "Where?"

Ray waved that away.  "Little town, you wouldn't know it."

"Try me."

"Inuvik," Ray said, rubbing at his dry eyes.  "It's--"

"--in the Northwest Territories, really far north."  Sandburg was grinning at him now, and there was a bit of 'fuck-you' there which Ray figured he deserved.

"Yeah, that's it.  Thrill a minute," Ray muttered, "but my partner got transferred, so..."  He shrugged.  "Whatever, it was a partner thing, I don't mind so much."

Sandburg was nodding slowly, like he understood that, which no way could he understand that.  "Is your partner Canadian?"

"Yeah," Ray muttered; the guy was starting to give him the creeps, and he wished he'd never started this conversation.  "Plus he don't like cities.  Plus he's kind of a freak, so, whatever, we work in Canada now."

"Freak how?" Sandburg looked curious.

"Well, he's polite and he's got ears like a bat and he tends to lick stuff," Ray said, hoping that this would maybe creep the kid out and he'd put his headphones back on.

But Sandburg didn't look creeped out;  Sandburg looked fascinated.  "Really.  What kind of stuff?"

Great, maybe the guy had a licking thing.  "You know--electrical sockets, dogshit, mud..."

Sandburg went perfectly still, then murmured something that sounded a lot like, "Bang, Wholly Girltime,"-- and something about the way he said it made Ray shiver.

--by Speranza (504 words)

3

"Are we there yet?" Chris demanded.

The skinny, freaky guy turned around.  "Shut your fucking trap or I'll gag it again."

Justin squirmed against his bound arms.  "We've been flying for hours.  Without TV."

"Or cute flight attendants," Joey added.

"I agree," Lance said scornfully.  "Getting kidnapped should be a lot more exciting than this."

"Are we there yet?" Chris demanded.

Eventually the plane landed, and the door opened to reveal... snow.  Lots of it.  Mountains of it.

"Are we there yet?"

"Not just yet, no," the Mountie said.

"I think," Lance told him, "that you were acting out of your jurisdiction."

"Nope," the skinny, freaky guy said, waving them along with his gun.  "Chicago PD.  This is an American diplomatic mission."   They climbed into a snowmobile.

"Are we there yet?"

"Actually, Ray," the Mountie said to the skinny freaky guy, "my reservations about this exercise have lessened significantly.

"Told ya," Ray said, grinning madly, chewing on a toothpick.

"Are we there yet?"

They had pulled up at a cabin.  Well, not so much a cabin as a ... shack.  A small shack.  They were frogmarched toward it, Ray behind them shouting "left-right-left-right!" until the Mountie reached the front door and asked them to please do come in.

"Now," Ray said.  "Food drops on Saturdays, don't eat all of it at once.  This is your carrier pigeon, Barney.  You only get one, so make sure you feed him.  You could try to escape, but you'll die in the snow.  Any questions?"

"Whatever the ransom is," JC said tiredly, "we'll pay it.  There's a party in LA tomorrow, and I have to be there."

The Mountie rubbed his eyebrow.  "Bathroom over here, you'll find sufficient clean towels and linen in this cupboard, and do take care to mop up water from the floor, or the wood will warp."

"Firewood out the back, first aid kit under the sink, all the water you need outside, just thaw it on the stove when you need it."

Justin stomped his foot.  "Somebody had better fucking explain what this is about!"

Ray was shoving logs of wood into the stove.  "I love good music, that's what this is about."

They froze, suddenly aware that they were dealing with a madman.  "You want us to write you a song?" JC said carefully.  "Sure, we can do that, can't we?"

They all nodded sincerely.

Ray looked at him and shook his head sadly.  "You're a bright boy, you'll figure it out."  The Mountie nodded politely, and he and Ray left, followed soon after by the sound of the snowmobile roaring off.

"Oh my god," Chris shrieked suddenly.  "Can you see a TV?  I don't see a TV!"

"There's--what? No!"  A frantic search failed to produce a television.  Or a laptop.  Or any magazines.  Or a cappucino maker.  Or even a half-tin of frozen instant coffee.  Lance sat on the floor and wiped his eyes.

"I still don't get it," JC said, turning away from the bare shelves.  He held up their three albums, and a book called No Exit.

"Oh, I can explain everything," a voice boomed, and they turned around to see another Mountie standing by the kitchen table.  "When Buck Frobisher and I were chasing Monty McGrafton down the Aldernall Pass..."

--by Julad (550 words)

4

"Fraser. It's dark."

"Well, yes, Ray. It's after sunset, and the cabin, as I mentioned, has no source of artificial light."

"All right. One. It's two-thirty in the afternoon. Humans were never meant to live in places where it's dark at two-thirty in the afternoon. Being dark at two-thirty in the afternoon is an abomination in the face of --"

"Close the woodstove, if you would, Ray; the fire burns too hot with the door open. And I believe I did warn you about the psychological effects of --"

"And second, why in the hell would you build a cabin in a place that gets dark at two-thirty in the afternoon and not put in any ... oh, god."

"What?"

"Oh, god. There's no lights because there's no nothing, right? Am I right? No phone, no lights, no motorcar -- Fraser, why are we even here?"

"I believe your exact words were, 'If you don't get me off the fucking snow right this minute, Fraser, I'm gonna cut you in sixty pieces and feed you to the --' "

"Did you just say 'fucking'?"

"You're not afraid of the dark, are you, Ray?"

"No, I am not afraid of the dark, I am bored in the dark. You can't do anything in the dark. I mean, you can sleep or you can just sit there and be in the dark -- what?"

"What what?"

"You're giving me a look."

"How would you know? It's dark, as you've pointed out at length."

"I don't have to see you to know you're giving me a look."

"I am not giving you a look. But I confess that I'm ... surprised at your lack of imagination."

"Well, forgive me if I don't meet your high Canadian standards. Maybe you people do Pitch-Dark Chess or Midnight Monopoly or something, but where I come from there's only two things to do in the dark, and one of 'em you sure as hell don't wanna be doing with me."

"No, it's true, you do snore rather loudly."

...

"Ray?"

"Yeah?"

"Now I'm giving you a look."

"You're giving me a heart attack, is what you're giving me -- Fraser, I know you don't mean what it sounds like you mean, so maybe we should -- "

"Ray."

" -- start over, here, with you telling me all about Canadian Cave Charades or whatever --"

"Ray."

"-- because I know you don't want my brain going where it's going, and --"

"Ray."

"-- so you gotta give it someplace else to go or -- oh."

"Yes."

"Oh."

"Mm."

"Oh, Fraser."

"Yes."

"Lemme -- sorry, hands are cold --"

"Here."

"What -- oh. Oh god. Fraser."

"Mm?"

"Yes. I mean, no, don't stop, I -- Oh. Fuck, that's -- Fraser. Can I do that to you?"

"Yes, of course -- oh, my."

"Mm, yeah, nice and warm now -- get this off, yeah? You won't be too cold?"

"It's -- oh, yes -- it feels quite warm to me -- Ray. Can I?"

"Fuck yeah. Wait, easier if I get the buttons --"

"Ahh."

"Oh god yeah. Mm. Yeah."

"Perhaps -- can I --"

"Oh -- oh -- Fraser! Good so good so -- "

"Mm?"

"Oh jesus Fraser gonna -- god!"

"Mm."

"Oh, god, Fraser. I want -- "

"Anything. Yes."

"This?"

"Yes."

"Mm?"

"Yes yes yes yes -- Ray!"

...

...
 

"When did you say the sun comes up?"

"May."

"Good."

--by resonant (539 words)

5

"Yeah, hi, Donna. You said you got us a room."

"I did get you a room."

"A room implies certain...I mean, solid walls. That didn't grow out of the ground. Certain luxuries, Donna, which are not present in this ...lean-to...thing..."

"I'd actually call it a hovel," Sam supplied helpfully.

Josh gripped the cell phone so hard the plastic creaked. "Sam says it's a hovel. I think he's, he's just being generous."

"The proprietress called it a charmingly rustic cabin with views of mountains and lakes, with five-minute access to the thriving heart of Inuvik."

"Yeah, well, turns out that's five minutes by dogsled, and the thriving heart of Inuvik consists of a post office, an RCMP station, and a bait shop. But I do appreciate you taking a whole ten seconds for research before sticking us out here with the, the wolves, and the abominable snow thing, and--"

"Hey, is Toby there? I need to ask him about the--"

"Sam wants to know --"

"Is this about the speech for the Daughters of the American Revolution? Toby says he can't deal with--"

"She wants to know is it about --"

Sam leaned in. "Tell him it's about Keith Richardson, the DMCA, and a threat to our most basic freedoms."

"He can't deal with that either."

"Did you say 'a threat to our most basic'--"

"I said the whole thing, Sam!"

"Donna, I want you to call me when you've arranged transportation out of here powered by something doesn't bark. Then I want you to clean out your desk."

"That's your hyperbole voice, Joshua, you don't--"

"Just the first part, okay?" He snapped the phone closed and slumped against the door. "How do I not fire her?"

"You really should try looking on the bright side."

"It's January. There's not gonna be a bright side in this part of the world until...I dunno, July? We're going to miss our meeting with Trenton, which will probably mean war with Canada. We have no electricity, we have only a wood stove neither of us knows how to use to provide warmth and prepare sustenance..."

"Josh?"

"Yeah?"

"We have four days of absolute safety from electronic surveillance of any kind," Sam said, and waited.

Josh blinked. He blinked again, then tilted his head. "Oh."

"Yeah," Sam said softly.

Something business-like shut itself off in Josh's brain. Something else shifted, and changed color. "I should've known something was up when they broke out the snowsuits and asked for our medical histories."

"I really think you should stand over here now, Josh."

It got him a pair of warm hands on his hips and a look from Sam that made the wood stove redundant. Josh ran a finger down one side of Sam's face; it burned. "Think this place has room service?"

Sam smiled. "Possibly an air-drop, later in the week."

"Do you think it's okay? That we do this? Now?"

"I believe that if we do this now, and something bad happens, a reasonable case could be made that it was Donna's fault."

"Oh." Josh grinned and moved his finger to Sam's mouth. "'Kay."

"Josh? I know how to use a wood stove."

"Shhh."

"And I'll protect you from the abominable snowman, also known in some regions as the Yeti, or--"

"Now you're just posturing."

"Sasquatch, I think, but that's possibly only in--"

"Sam?"

"Yes? I--oh." Sam shuddered pleasantly under Josh's hands. "Oh."

Hours later, in the warm, quiet dark, Josh's cell phone rang.

No one answered.

--by Merry Lynne (594 words)

6

Clark looked away from the shifting glaciers and listened. Yes, there it was again. An engine. He got up and flew down from the roof.

A snowmobile was pulling up outside the Fortress gates. Clark sighed. Apparently putting the place in the middle of a snow field in Canada wasn't enough to ensure privacy. At least where some people were concerned.

Lex climbed off. "Nice little place you have here."

"What do you want?"

"Do I have to have a reason to visit?"

Clark went inside and locked the door. Lex would find a way in eventually, but maybe he'd get bored first and leave. He really wasn't in the mood.

Five minutes later, there was a gaping hole in the side of the building, Lex was inside, and he was in an even worse mood.

"You're grouchy today," Lex said. "Put me down." He poked Clark in the stomach with a funny-looking gun that faintly radiated kryptonite energy.

Clark ground his teeth but let him go. "You blew up my wall!"

Lex shrugged. "You shouldn't have locked me out."

"You weren't invited."

"But I knew that was just an oversight." Lex looked around. "Nice. The spartan look. Hey, is that Kandor?"

"Tell me what you want or get out. Or I'll take you in for trespassing."

"You can't." Lex handed him a piece of paper.

Clark read it and frowned. Apparently, Lex now owned the land the Fortress of Solitude was on.

"I'll move it," Clark said coldly, handing back the property deed.

"Not unless you want to be arrested."

"What?"

"You're a squatter," Lex said. "I get to inspect anything you want to remove from the property to determine whether it might be mine."

"There was nothing here but ice and permafrost!"

"That's the law for you."

Clark stared at him with a sinking feeling. There were hundreds of dangerous artifacts lying around the Fortress. Lex had even made some of them. If he got so much as a glimpse at some of the more powerful ones--

"On the other hand," Lex said, "if you wanted to stay, we could come to an arrangement."

"Like what?" Clark said warily.

Lex smiled. "Rent."

"You want me to pay you rent?" Clark couldn't figure out what Lex was up to. "Fine. How much?"

Lex's smile widened. "I don't want money."

"I'm not going to do errands for you--"

Lex just kept smiling as he slowly peeled off his gloves.

Clark paused. "Oh."

"Well?"

Clark didn't say anything, stunned.

"I'll take that as a yes."

Clark blinked at him. "What--"

Lex kissed him. Very seriously.

"Oh," Clark said again, when Lex had stopped.

Lex smirked. "So--"

Clark interrupted.

Lex wobbled back after a couple of minutes. "Oh," he said, his face surprised. It was a good look for him, Clark decided.

Some time later, with Lex asleep on the bed Clark hadn't used much before, he stretched and put his arms behind his head, grinning. This could work.

--by shalott (500 words)

7

"You know what we should do?" Chris said.

"Shut up," Joey said. Lance looked miserable--blue-lipped, wind-burnt and wincing whenever the makeup girl tried to pat more foundation on him. Joey fingered his pendant and wished suddenly and stupidly that he could fly Lance somewhere tropical, superman-style.

"We should fly a thousand miles to the middle of buttfuck nowhere--"

"I swear to god, Chris," Joey said evenly. "I will bury you up to your neck and leave you for the wolves to eat your head if you don't shut up."

"--to get our fucking pictures taken in the snow."

"I said I was sorry," Lance said. Which was totally unfair. It had been a stupid idea, but they'd all signed off on it, even Chris. And Joey opened his mouth to fucking say so. But then the ice was dipping under his feet. Beside him, Chris went sprawling.

"The hell?" Justin said. He helped Chris up, and glared at Bob the cameraman, like it was his fault.

Bob rolled his eyes like he'd never seen such a bunch of pussies. "Look, this is a fjord, and the surface shifts occasionally." He pointed at JC. "You, the skinny one! Smile! You're in a winter wonderland here."

"Um. Are we in danger?" Joey asked.

"Of course not. It's just--"

The ice moved again, and this time they all fell.

"Because it kind of seems like--" Joey said, and then he stopped. Lance was staring wide-eyed at something just beyond Joey's shoulder.

Oh God. Joey thought. It's a polar bear. He fingered his pendant again. Please God, please don't let it be a polar bear. Please. I'll go to church. Just please don't let it be a polar bear.

He turned around. Slowly.

It was a submarine, rising out of the ice.

"We're not going to actually shoot them, are we?" said JC. "I mean, just because we found the guns, doesn't mean we actually have to--"

"They have a nuclear submarine, Jayce," Lance explained, patiently. "That guy down there just said he was gonna hold the world hostage."

"Yeah, but we're not going to shoot them, are we?"

"What about ammunition?" Justin said, ignoring them both.

Chris shrugged. "We'll run out, of course. But you can throw, I can throw. And we have plenty of hair product on the sled."

They were hunkered down behind one of the submarine's turrets. Below them, the white-bearded crazy-man gestured wildly, looking like a demented Santa Claus. "Let's kill some Mounties!"

"What's he talking about?"

"I dunno, but we're definitely going to need reinforcements," Lance said.

Bob the cameraman glared at them. "All of you, just shut the fuck up. And someone pass me an uzi."
 

"I think we just saved the world," Justin said. He sounded a little awed.

Joey ripped the Superman chain off his neck, and let it fall onto the snow. "Whatever," he said. There was a cabin in his future. A warm one.

--by Mia (498 words)

8

It's true, when Poison Ivy suggested Canada, Harley had been quietly doubtful-- okay, loudly doubtful-- okay, loudly whiny and argumentative. But then. Lightbulb!

Canada. No Batman. No Joker, which was usually no good but lately he was being so unreasonable, what with the contract assassins and all... He'd come around, Puddin' always did, but maybe he'd come around to find out she'd moved on. Ha! He'd plotz. What a laugh. Probably somebody's last laugh, but hey. Can't egg a window without breaking eggs.

Now Harley's nose is cold but her ears are warm, and she's jingling merrily as she prances through the snow, fuzzy hood pulled tightly around her face. Usually her bells are just decorative; can't be stealthy and jingle. But last night she sewed actual bells on and they're great. Everywhere she goes, there she is. Badabing.

Ivy didn't notice, tapping away at her solar-powered laptop, and she said no when Harley asked her to come build snowpeople. This was a working trip, not a vacation, Ivy said.

Whatever.

Harley got up at dawn. Put on the fur-lined costume and built two curvy snowpeople leaning against each other. Standing victoriously over a third, fallen-over snowman with a cowl and pointy ears. And a belt made out of pebbles.

The tableau is sort of blocking the pile of dead sticks they use for firewood. Ivy won't burn it unless it's already fallen off the tree, and chainsaws are definitely not kosher. Anyway, she'll kinda have to squeeze by the snowpeople every time she wants firewood.

Oops.

But come on. Harley wears a skin-tight costume and tags along with a mass-murdering clown, and when you're standing next to the Joker you gotta scramble for some spotlight.

Not even Harley's asylum-bound friends accuse her of subtlety.

But Ivy remains clueless, with her books and test tubes and cold-resistant seedlings sprouting in the greenhouse, bigger every day. She coos at them. Pets them. Glances up at Harley blankly and says things like "Didn't we eat a few hours ago?"

Harley leans against a pine tree and sighs.

It's like Ivy thinks she's stupid or something. Okay, she's pulled some wacky stunts in her life, but hello! Harley is not dumb enough to spend three months in a shack in Canada just for the ambiance.

There's a creak from the shack and Harley whips her jingling head around. Ivy trudges out in lab coat and boots, observing the snow people for just so long as it takes to figure out a path around them.

Okay.

"Mornin', Red!" Harley yells as Ivy comes back with a bundle of sticks. "And green-- and dorky all over--"

She trails off as Ivy glances up absently. Twitches a hand, then turns to the doorway.

She moves before she thinks. It just feels right. Story of her life. Double handful, densely packed. A lovely piff! and there's snow in Ivy's hair and down the back of that stupid white coat.

Ivy turns around, arms still full. She glances up expressionlessly at the sky over Harley's head, and Harley's heart sinks.

Then Ivy smiles. And the pine tree, branches laden with snow, twitches-- shakes-- oh dammit she left the tiny umbrella in the other suit, that would have been hilarious-- "Mother?"

Thump.

It's heavier than it is cold, which is a slight surprise. Can't laugh, her ribs hurt. Her left foot is maybe sticking out of the snow and also part of her head.

Harley cranes her neck experimentally, cheek scraping against the icy surface of the snow, as footsteps approach. A bell rattles sadly.

Ivy laughs.

--by Livia (598 words)
 

9

"C'mon, where's your sense of adventure?" Blair'd said this enough times that Jim now had answers.

It's eloped to Mexico with my sense of humor.

It's on my sofa, watching my television and drinking my beer.

It's up your ass, keeping your head company.

He didn't say any of these things.  He just stared at the fog of snow ahead of them and kept his hands on the wheel.  "You said Vancouver."

Blair shook his head so vigorously that Jim could feel cold waves of displaced air.  "No, you heard Vancouver.  I said Canada. I said--"

Jim chirped his hand in Sandburg's face.

"Hey--lighten up!  Mountain cabin.  Fresh air.  We can ski, snowmobile--"

"--break our legs, die."

Blair threw up his hands.  "Whatever, yeah.  You know everything."  He leaned forward, turned up the heat, and switched on the radio.  Jim listened to the faint static-y music and kept his eyes trained for Sasketoon Pass.

When he finally saw it, he was so relieved that he forgot to be angry.  "It's up ahead.  Maybe a mile."

Blair's face was barely visible inside of his large, fur hat.  "Take the left."

The turnoff was uphill, and poorly plowed.  This brought their speed down to 10 m.p.h., and honestly, there was nothing like sitting in a frozen truck with an irritated Sandburg while you drove in slow motion.  "So, Jim said, as they approached a snow covered bush, approached, passed, passed the bush, goodbye bush, "how 'bout them Jags?"

Sandburg said nothing.  Tree, Jim thought, watching it loom into view.  Hello tree.  Here we come, tree.  Almost there....There were ice crystals on its low hanging branches, fluffy clouds of snow on top.

When they finally passed the tree, Jim got his first look at the cabin.

It was at the top of the hill, dark against the snow, and behind it ranged the mountains, impossibly majestic, impossibly beautiful shades of white and blue and pink.

Jim suddenly realized that Sandburg couldn't see this, that his partner's slightly damaged vision wouldn't allow him to see ten feet in front of them, let alone across the vista.  They churned a few more yards before Jim shifted into park, switched off, and grabbed Sandburg's mittened hand.

"What?"  Blair seemed to have been jolted out of his mood.  "Something wrong?'"  He held his fur hat to his head as Jim yanked him out of the cab.

"Just come on," Jim said, dragging Sandburg uphill through the snow.

Sandburg held his free hand in front of his face, like he was worried they'd slam through the fog into a brick wall.  "What are--? Where--Jim, the cabin's over--not this way, it's--"

At the top of the hill the fog suddenly cleared and Jim stopped and shoved Sandburg forward so that he could see.

"I--wow.  Wow.  That's just...that's..."

And there was something about seeing Sandburg awed that made Jim's heart thump in his chest.  Something about those blue, blue eyes going wide.

When Sandburg turned back to him, his mouth was hanging open slightly and he looked beauty-dazed.  Jim felt beauty-dazed too.  "See I told you," Sandburg said vaguely, "that it was going to be--"

Jim leaned forward and kissed him--a sloppy cold kiss that landed mostly on Sandburg's slightly-open mouth.  Sandburg's mouth opened further, and Jim took advantage and went deeper.

Sandburg was gasping when they finally broke apart.  "I--but you never--"

"Where's your sense of adventure, Sandburg?" Jim said, and began to drag Blair back toward the cabin.

--by Francesca (595 words)

10

Harry spat out the mouthful of silver hair and shoved Malfoy off. "You bastard, I'm going to--" He stopped abruptly and looked around.

Getting up, Malfoy scrambled for his wand, then stopped also. After a moment, he said, "You absolute idiot."

Harry turned and glared at him. "Me? I'm not the one who--"

"Oh? And I suppose you didn't--"

"That wasn't--"

"Don't even try to get out of--"

"Oh, forget it!" Harry snapped. "This isn't going to help us get back."

Malfoy scowled. "Where are we, anyway?"

Harry went to the door and pushed it open. Snow whirled in unpleasantly.

Malfoy came and stood by his side. "Lovely."

They watched the snow fall.

"Well. We're someplace where it snows."

"Really," Malfoy said.

"Oh, shut up." Harry closed the door.

Malfoy sniffed and went to the fireplace, tapped it with his wand.  "Ignatius."

Harry reluctantly sat down next to Malfoy in front of the fire. "At least we're in a cabin."

Malfoy looked around the room disdainfully. "A shack."

"It's better than being out in the snow."

"Not by much."

"Do you want to complain, or do you want to get out of here?"

"I'm staying here until someone comes to get us. But by all means, go out and freeze to death."

"I wasn't suggesting we walk," Harry snapped.

"Then by all means, apparate yourself somewhere else. Into a brick wall, for instance. Without me, this time."

"How do you expect them to find us?"

"You're Dumbledore's pet, he'll find a way."

Harry rolled his eyes, but though he hated to admit Malfoy was right about anything, Dumbledore probably would find them. He couldn't actually think of a way to get back, anyway.

There were a few tins in the cupboard, mostly soup and vegetables, and some crackers. Pretending complete disinterest, Malfoy nevertheless watched him open a soup tin as though he was performing surgery, and Harry felt a bit of mean satisfaction that Malfoy couldn't take care of himself.  He'd probably never done for himself in his life.

Malfoy had made the fire, though. "Want some?" Harry offered grudgingly.

Malfoy looked surprised. "I suppose," he said stiffly.

They shared the soup and crackers in front of the fire. It was still cold.  Harry noticed Malfoy looking at the woodpile, and realized that it wasn't all that high.

"We'd better lower the fire for the night." Malfoy said.

There was a single large cot, and piles of blankets. They dragged it up to the fireplace and got in without discussion, lying side by side. Malfoy was thin, all edges, elbow poking Harry uncomfortably every time he shivered. Harry finally nudged him onto his side and curled up around him.

Outside, the wind was blowing.

--by shalott (459 words)

11

I first returned to Inuvik on the trail of the killers of my partner.  Naturally, they were quickly apprehended with no further casualties, and their drug pipeline from Russia soon dismantled with the invaluable assistance of the local authorities.  I was several months chasing down loose ends--suppliers, distributors, waystations--ensuring that justice was served and the lucrative Northern Heroin Trail would remain forever closed.

By the time the matter was resolved to my satisfaction, I had of necessity made repairs to my Father's cabin, and through shared purpose made valuable friends among the local population.  It seemed only natural, then, to end my leave of absence from the RCMP by requesting a permanent transfer to Inuvik.

Life here is... satisfying.  To wake up cold, to step outdoors to fill the kettle with snow and gaze over the white horizon, feels appropriate.  To start a day in hollow silence is easier than fighting a city's clamourous sounds and smells.  Composure comes easily here, as does kindness.  To nod at familiar faces in the small street, to exchange pleasantries in the supply store, to discuss the weather at a hockey game, to receive orders and information from the Yellowknife office -- there are many small pleasures to be found here.  It is a relief, one finds, to go about life amid people as isolated as oneself is, and be regarded as such without judgement.  One gets on with life, here in Inuvik, although American visitors sometimes comment loudly that we have escaped from it.

There is no escape, I know this.  Nights are long, here, sometimes days long, and sometimes lit so brightly that sleep is an unattainable dream.  Ghosts have a habit, in this place, of lingering, but I am immeasurably fond of the ghost who visits me.  He lacks the tenacity of my father, or perhaps his meddlesome purpose, because my ghost never speaks.  He leans against the wall, or slouches on the sofa, watching me.  Sometimes I look up from my dinner and see him sitting in the chair across the table.  I smile, of course, and he always smiles back as he fades.

To leave here is unthinkable.  I grow unsettled at the very thought.  My ghost is too precious to risk losing amid too much noise, too much colour, too much distraction.  His body rests too near by, at the end of an aborted adventure.  Duty, it seems, must always cut pleasure off at the knees, but if duty calls me to another region, it will go unanswered.  Duty took Ray from me, and I am done with Duty the minute it would take me from Ray.

My audience, it seems, grows impatient with my tale.  He only asked how I found Inuvik; he is new in town and this is, perhaps, more information than he desired from our interaction.  I hand over the money, and accept my package and the change.

Thank you kindly, I say, and take the paper-wrapped bottle home to my ghost.

--by Julad (500 words)

12

He rolled to his feet as the door opened, out of sleep and into wakefulness. His skin prickled with awareness of the waxing moon. "They told me no one else would be here," he said, and then he took a deep breath and every hair on the back of his neck stood up.

The young man who had walked in through the door stood very still. He was slightly built, under the layers of bulky Muggle winter clothing, and his eyes were watchful. "Janey said that?" He pulled off a glove. There was purple polish on his short nails. "Figures. Oz."

"What?"

"My name. Oz."

"Oh." He moved forward, instinct at war with courtesy. "I'm Remus. Are you with the wolfwatch program?"

"In a way."

Oz stretched out his hand, Remus took it, and they both snarled. Their eyes met and locked together, and the stare lasted for long, hot moments. Remus hissed and made his fingers loosen their grip, one at a time. They each took a step back, eyeing each other warily.

Very slowly, Oz tipped his head back and to one side. Remus let his breath out and closed his eyes. "You don't have to do that," he said.

"Well." Oz pulled off the other glove. "You're older. And bigger."

"This is your territory."

"Not really." Oz unzipped his coat, and Remus took it, hanging it with his own. "I'm just passing through."

"So am I."

"I guessed. The Britishness is kind of a giveaway." Stepping out of his boots, Oz walked towards the iron stove. Remus had spread his bedroll in the warmest place he could find. "I woke you."

"I wasn't sleeping very well." His dreams had been a confused jumble of rats and dogs chasing each other through a dark forest. "I'm not used to the," he almost said 'Muggle clothing,' "sound of the wind."

"You can't sleep in jeans." Oz began to unbutton his own. "Only drunk people sleep in jeans."

Remus nodded. All clothes felt wrong and confining when his skin tingled like this, and he saw the same feeling in the way Oz moved. He stripped down until the chill began to numb the sensation. "Was it recent?" he asked, not sure why except that Oz smelled new.

"A few years. You?"

"I was a child."

Thirty years of bones pulled out of alignment and thoughts skewed out of true. He turned and barely kept himself from another growl as Oz got into his bedroll, putting his scent on the blankets.

Oz reached up. "Come here."

The heat of skin against skin was alien enough to be terrifying, and the scent went straight to the darkest part of his brain. Remus felt a craving that seemed to belong equally in his human self and his wolf self, and he shook his head. "I'm not sure this is such a good idea."

"It's all right." Oz tipped his head back again, sweet pale throat, and his eyes grew narrow and languid. "We can't hurt each other."

And it was true.

--by torch (509 words)

13

You couldn't call this a shack, really. Not with insulated cedar walls and thermopane windows and Scrabble and thick rugs on the floor you could sink an inch into. And a breadmaker.

It was decadent and wrong and Blair must have been getting old, because all of it fired a small, secret fondness in him, a fondness for comfort and warmth. He felt guilt, but he was no longer a grad student, damn it, and he'd left his twenties behind. These days he didn't eat toast and cheese at three a.m. while grading papers, didn't steal toilet paper from the Hargrove Hall men's room or cadge sugar packets whenever he bought over-the-counter coffee, didn't have to decide between paying his loans and buying avocados.

Was being a grown-up really so wrong?

Blair flexed his toes and dislodged sections of the week-old newspaper from the end of the couch. From his chair, Jim glanced up, glanced down, gave him a brief look that said absolutely nothing, not pick up the paper, not I haven't read that yet, not were you raised in a zoo. Jim was positively mellow. Jim was on vacation. Jim was getting laid.

I'm a shallow, shallow man, thought Blair, taking in an eyeful of Jim while pretending to read the Canadian Outback Freezing Cold Living section, which had a front-page feature on cookstoves and another one on squirrel. Jim shifted in his chair, prickling at the scrutiny, moving as if his blue sweater itched him, or maybe the tee-shirt underneath the vee-neck, the fit of his cords.... Oh yeah, itchy Jim.

I am a shallow man.

Blair gave up his pretense of reading, tossed the newspaper over the back of the couch, and stretched out. I am a man wearing striped pajama bottoms and wire-rim glasses and I'm terribly attractive with my tangled bed head, Blair assured himself with lazy sexiness and satisfaction.

Jim looked up as if reading his thoughts and peered at him over the top of the sports section. He had a critical and abstractedly suspicious look now, the look he wore when sniffing out week-old coffee grounds from somewhere in the loft, but Blair remained breezily confident in his allure. He drew up one leg, leered cheerfully. Jim dipped his gaze once, then returned to his paper, which rattled in a businesslike way.

How could someone who'd been so grateful earlier that morning for a genuinely professional blowjob be so cool and unhusbandlike an hour later, wondered Blair, fingering the knee of his pajama trousers. Where has all the romance gone? he asked himself, and played a tiny violin for himself in his own imagination.

Then he said to hell with it, and rolled off the couch and kneed his way over to Jim, who put down the paper and seemed in the space of thirty seconds surprised, uninterested, interested, annoyed, and mischievous. Mischievous. Jim. It was decadent and wrong, but their Canadian shack seemed to have a powerful mojo.

Abracadabra.

--by AnnaS  (508 words)

14

Darien zipped up, fast but careful, and turned to retrace his steps to the cabin. The door opened before he got anywhere near it. He stopped, holding his breath.

"Give it up, Fawkes, I can see your footprints, you're right there," Hobbes called, pointing straight at him.

Busted. He started walking again. Damn, but it was cold. The Official was gonna pay for sending them here. 'You'll be fine, boys. Piece of cake. Just meet the contact and come back home, nice and quiet.' In Canada, yet! Like they even had jurisdiction here!

Hobbes closed the door behind him to keep any more heat -- such as it was -- from escaping. "You know you're not supposed to-- Dammit." He crouched to tie his right boot, glancing up at Darien sternly. "You're not supposed to be going invisible for the hell of it." Hobbes' voice trailed off toward the end, and a grin spread across his face. He pushed up off the ground with both hands and rose back to his feet.

"Yeah, well, quicksilver makes for good waterproofing. It's still snowing like hell, if you hadn't noticed. And what's so funny, anyway?" Suddenly suspicious, Darien moved a hand to his fly, then was exceedingly grateful that Hobbes would never know he'd been that idiotic.

"Relax, pal, it's not like I'd know if your fly was open," Hobbes said, smirking slightly.

Man, they really had to stop spending so much time together. "Yeah, right, Hobbes, like I really thought that. What, then?"

Hobbes leaned carefully back against the door. "You remember the sasquatch thing? Bigfoot?"

Darien stopped again, glaring. "Yes. And thank you so much for reminding me."

"Now, Fawkes -- you know you can't choose your family."

Darien took a deep breath. "So is there a reason you brought that up, or are you just bored and torturing me?"

"Appealing though that sounds... no. It's just, now I know why it's also known as the Abominable Snowman." With that, Hobbes whipped a snowball from behind his back and straight at Darien, laughing his head off.

Darien looked down at his snow-outlined self and started to grin. He raised both arms and howled, rushing at Hobbes, who whooped and dove at him.

Within a few seconds Darien had shed the quicksilver; no sense pushing himself closer to madness, and Hobbes could see him anyway. Too late, he realized he'd made a tactical mistake. Hobbes was wily and quick and only too willing to drop snow down Darien's now-visible back, grinning like a demon as he danced back out of Darien's longer reach.

"You want me, partner? Come get me," Hobbes taunted, arms spread wide.

He always had loved a challenge.

The wrestling match got him warm for the first time since they'd gotten stuck in this godforsaken shack, and fifteen minutes later, sitting naked in front of the fire ("Jeez, Fawkes, don't get the blankets wet! We'll freeze later."), he reveled in it.

"This is nice," he said, glancing over at an equally naked Hobbes.

Hobbes wasn't exactly meeting his eyes. "Yeah. Yeah, it is."

He looked at Hobbes looking at him for a few seconds and smiled slowly. Maybe nice was gonna get nicer. "You want me, partner?" He stretched, feeling his smile turn feral as Hobbes' eyes followed the movement.

Hobbes licked his lips and raised gleaming eyes to meet Darien's.

"Come get me."

Hobbes always had loved a challenge.

--by Arduinna (572 words)

15

He propped himself up on one elbow, and a chill ran, almost like water, over his shoulder and the back of his neck. Dorian felt the goosebumps rise, and closed his eyes for a moment, focusing on that feeling, the cold air, the way it bit into his skin. He listened to the wind outside. It was a constant background noise, and half the time he forgot about it, and half the time it made him want to scream. At the moment, it felt distant and inconsequential.

The floor was hard. The expensive sleeping bag was warm, but not particularly soft. His joints would be stiff come morning, and he would feel old. Dorian smiled, eyes still closed. Years of this. Years of ending up in strange and uncomfortable places, of being too hot, or too cold, or too wet. Shouted at. Punched. Shot at, from time to time, and not a civilized shop or restaurant in sight. He wondered if it was snowing outside.

Dorian wiggled his toes. The back of his neck was cold, and his shoulder was cold, but the rest of him was warm. Very warm. Slick with sweat in some places. He breathed in, and the air smelled of cold dust and oil and grease, but then he bent his head a little and found human warmth.

He opened his eyes. He wanted to look secretly and privately, wanted this moment to himself, but Klaus was awake and looking back up at him with a neutral expression. Dorian sighed. "I want you to be asleep," he said.

"I'm not. You woke me up." Klaus shifted, and Dorian held his breath, but it was only a small straightening of arms and legs, and the fingers resting over the curve of his hip flexed once.

"I wanted to look at you." It sounded silly when he said it.

"You're looking at me now." Klaus' eyebrows drew together ever so slightly. He looked away from Dorian. "Is it snowing outside?"

"I don't know." He couldn't tell the whispers of wind around the corners of the house from whispers of snow, and at the moment, he didn't care. He wanted to say several things. "You look different when you sleep."

"I'm not going to sleep just so you can look at me." Klaus' mouth tightened, too, and Dorian felt tense, and the cold air on the back of his neck bit deep.

"Klaus," he said, "are you... regretting this?" There was no word for it other than 'this'--this first memory of bodies moving together, and the awareness of Klaus pressed against him, close, as close as breath, as close as touch, smelling of sweat and gun oil. Something so miraculous and strange needed its own language.

Klaus looked at him again. "No," he said. And then, "I don't know. I don't know what this is."

"Perhaps--"

"No." Turning, Klaus worked his hand free and put it on Dorian's cold shoulder, and pulled him back down into the warmth and the closeness. "No regrets. Go to sleep."

--by torch (508 words)

16

"He's not coming back." Dan paced to the window to stare mournfully into the driving snow.  Again.

Casey turned a page in the dictionary.  Murder. 1: to kill a human being unlawfully and with premeditated malice.  "He's coming back," he said.  Again.

"He isn't," Dan insisted.

"He said he'd be back in four hours; it hasn't even been two."

"We're going to die," Dan moaned softly, pressing his forehead to the glass.  Again.

"We're not going to die," Casey repeated.   2: to slaughter wantonly: SLAY.

"There's no food."

"He's bringing the food."

"There's no water."

"There's snow."

"There's no toilet."

"There's snow."

"We're going to die."

"We're not going to die."  3: a: to put an end to. b: TORMENT. c: MUTILATE, MANGLE d: to defeat badly ~ vi : to commit murder.

"This plan sucked, Casey," Dan observed.  Again.

syn: see KILL.  "There was a plan?"  He flipped to the K's.

"Like you couldn't snowmobile in Vermont, or New Hampshire, or Maine."

"Or upstate," Casey intoned. Again.

"Or upstate. No. No, we had to have some sort of exotic, micro-brew, double-Y snowmobiling experience in the middle of the goddamn Canadian outback--"

"Wilderness."  Kill: 1: to deprive of life.

"What?"

"Wilderness. Canadian wilderness. Canada has no outback."  2: to cause extreme pain to.

"Do I look like I care what Canada has?"  Dan turned away from the window to stare at him with wild, dangerous eyes.

Casey started flipping to the C's. "Now that you mention it? No, not particularly."

"There's a very good reason for that, Casey. Do you want to know what it is?"

"No."  Cabin fever: 1: uneasiness or distress resulting from a lack of environmental stimulation as when living in a remote, sparsely populated region or a small enclosed space.

"Because we got lost, Casey."

"So he tells me anyway."

"Because you got us lost. Because you dragged me to Cariboufuck, Canada and got us lost and caught in a blizzard and we had to be rescued by Dudley Do-Right and Deuteronomy the Wonder Dog."

A low growl emanated from the rug beside the wood stove.

"Ix-nay og-day," Casey said, clearing his throat. "Olf-way."

"Ask me if I care about his fucking species," Dan hissed, gesticulating wildly.  "Go on, ask me!"

Casey leaned back on the cot, eyeing his friend warily. "I'll pass."

"You have driven us to desperate times and desperate measures, my friend. For our noble Dudley is no doubt a Mountie-cicle by now. There will be no moose burgers and beaver buns tonight, no-sirree-bob. We must either eat or be eaten."

"So eat me," muttered Casey, paging energetically toward the P's.

"I have therefore come to the inevitable conclusion that Deuteronomy must make the ultimate sacrifice."

The wolf displayed its prominent incisors with considerable enthusiasm.

"Relax, Dief."  Psychosis: fundamental mental derangement characterized by defective or lost contact with reality.  Casey sighed and closed the dictionary, then rose from the cot to stand beside Dan.

"And stop talking to that dog like he understands you," Dan snapped.

"He does understand me," Casey murmured, rubbing Dan's shoulders, making contact, stimulating. "Don't you?"

Dief cast him a pitying look.

Dan cleared his throat. "That cuts no ice with me, my man. I am cold. I am ruthless. I am hard--"

"Show me." Casey yanked Dan close and seized his mouth hungrily, then threw himself against him, sending both of them toppling to the cot.

Dief heaved a sigh and rolled over to face in the opposite direction, every hair and whisker radiating long-suffering exasperation.

--by Lanning Cook (595 words)

17

The tires spun uselessly in the snow. Jim shifted gears and tried again.  Even worse.  It was getting dark, and he had a hundred miles to go.  A thousand miles.  His shoulders ached, and his eyes kept slipping out of focus.

He choked back a sigh, even though there was nobody here to see it.  A million miles to go, and every direction away from Cascade would just take him back again.  He couldn't get off the road; he couldn't stop driving.  Away, away, every cell in his body screamed, not knowing that the world was round, that he was fated, in the end, to stand in some doorway and look at him again, perhaps short hair now, perhaps some gray in it; look at him and see the thing he'd never stopped running from until he'd run back to it once more.

He pulled leather gloves over his wool ones, braced himself, and opened the truck door.  The wind was ice, razor-edged, laden with cold wet grit which stung his eyes.  The rubber around the rear door was frozen together, and he had to haul with frozen muscles, gritting his teeth against the cold-hot-cold pain, until it opened.  The snow chains rattled loudly as he hauled them out, momentum leaving them sprawled, like splattered bloodstains in the dying light, on fresh British Columbia snow.  There was a scarf tucked carelessly in the corner of the tray, a promising warm red peeking out from behind canvas bags; Jim lunged for it gratefully as snow began to melt into his neck.  He unwound it and then froze, catching a faint scent of chamomile, catnip--a zone-flashback-zone of his hands relaxing as Blair tugged it from them, whining, and then the familiar irritation-adoration-lust as he discarded it again a minute later.  That smile, that smile, that 'I know what you're thinking' smile, and Blair had handed it back to him, and Jim had thrown it in there and then clapped Blair's shoulder and said, "let's go".

On a road so far north that the sun spent hours in a tenacious dusk, Jim hurled the scarf into a snowdrift and clenched his relaxed hands and set to work hauling chains for the tires.  He'd do this, and then he'd drive.  Away, away, away from here, away from there, away from every scent and sight and sound that had led to... where it went, and every trigger which brought the memories of what he'd done, dark and raw and gut-wrenchingly good, cascading back.  Drive, and then stop somewhere, and sleep, and get up and keep driving, until the only direction left to him was down.

And then, Jim supposed, he'd go back.  He'd swallow his pride.  He'd face his fears.  He'd embrace his future.

The chains were on; his cheeks were numb, eyes held stiffly open by frozen tears.  He couldn't feel his hands.  He climbed into the driver's seat and slammed the door shut after him.  The empty passenger seat seemed to stare at him reproachfully, like it expected better of him than this.  Jim ignored it, put the truck into gear, and drove on.

--by Julad (530 words)

18

One good, hard kick of the boot and the door splintered open.  Joe Dick looked at the dusty bar, the overturned tables, the crushed beer cans and broken bottles, the slant drift of snow from the two broken windows.

Behind him, a low wheeze of a laugh, and then Billy pushed past him, set his guitar case on end, and propped his elbow on it.  The ends of his scarf swung in the draft.  "Great venue."

"Shut up," Joe growled.  He turned around and looked at Pipe.  "Get back in the van."

"No, really, I love it.  Fuckin' love it," Billy insisted, waving his arm around.  "You want a non-commercial scene--well, this is fuckin' it, isn't it?  This is the least fuckin' commercial scene I've ever--"

"Wait, but--"  Pipe was wandering off through the snow with a frown on his face.

"I said get back in the fuckin' van, you idiot!" Joe yelled after him, but Pipe didn't stop.  "Hey!"  The outrage was building.  "Numbnuts!  I'm gonna fuckin'--"

"--middle of nowhere with no fuckin' people even.  We're talkin' deeply authentic, true fans only, the gig to end all gigs, here, man.  So tell me where to set up, because I am just rarin' to--

Pipe skidded to a stop and turned around.  "Fuckin' Ox wandered off!" he called back.  "He's fuckin..."  He trailed off and gestured frantically to the north.

"What the--?"  Joe quickly strode around the front of the van, and fuck, hell, yeah, the moron was off in the distance, a lone, dark shadow lurching away toward the mountains. For a moment, watching Ox grow smaller and smaller, Joe felt a sort of clenching despair.  He took a deep breath and muttered to Pipe, "Go get him.  Before he fuckin' breaks his head open..."

Pipe nodded and began stumbling after Oxenberger.  Joe sighed and turned back to the shack, where Radio Free Billy was still goin' strong, without commercial interruption.  "--this place is you, man.  Fuckin' on its last legs in every possible way."

Joe walked into the shack and slammed the battered door.  The sound was satisfying.  "I said shut up."

Billy stared at him with narrowed, black-rimmed eyes.  He was pale with cold.  "Who the fuck's here to hear me?"

"I am," Joe snarled.

Billy smiled a slow, sweet smile that made Joe want to bash his face in.  "Like I said.  Who the fuck's here to--?"

Joe kept his voice deliberately light, deliberately casual, as he righted a chair.   "I could kill you right here and now and nobody'd know.  Nobody for miles and miles--"

"My point exactly," Billy said softly, almost seductively.  "End of the line, ends of the earth, middle of--"

Joe couldn't listen to this;  he made a fist and stepped forward.  "Quit yer bitchin'.  Now."

Billy straightened up and raised his chin defiantly.  "I don't think you're gonna make me."

Joe stared at him for a long time.  Around them, the endless nothing.  They were very, very alone.

"You're wrong," Joe said finally.

--by Speranza (505 words) (492 words that aren't "fuck")

19

"Come out with me."

Louis's eyes flicked up and met mine over the top of his book.  "That depends on where you're going."

I examined the room with distaste.  This one, at least, had walls.  Walls, and very little else.  "Toronto isn't far.  Someplace with music.  Lights.  People..."

"Who will sing your praises and wonder in voices only you can hear, is that him?  Is that Monsieur Lestat de Lioncourt, the Vampire Lestat?  Could it be?"

"And I will tell them the lovely raven-haired vampire at my side is the fabulous, beautiful, brilliantly melancholy Louis de Pointe du Lac, who has consented for once to roust himself from amidst his dusty tomes to grace them with his silently disapproving presence."

"I've mostly got over the melancholy."

"By whose standards, exactly?"

Louis removed a pillow from the sagging sofa and lobbed it at my head.

"Please," I said softly.  "Come with me tonight."

Capitulation was already in his eyes, a warmth I'd come to expect, a warmth I'd longed to see again.  He would fight, my Louis, he would deny me, and sigh at me for my vanity.  He would do these things, but while he did them he would begin to smile, a slow, gentle smile that would break my heart.

"Lestat," he said quietly.

"You will come, then?"

"I should simply say yes, and send you off to get dressed.  I give you five minutes in front of a wardrobe before you forget you ever asked me."

I ventured the most injured look I could summon, but I was secretly pleased.  It was irrational, it was insanity, but the more I could irritate Louis, the more I loved him.  "You insult me," I said huffily.

He examined me.  Was it my imagination?  Could his eyes have lingered on my golden hair, the narrow span of my hips?  Could those eyes have warmed as they returned to mine, green and liquid?  Oh, how I loved the way he looked at me now.

"I suppose," he said critically, "you'll do."

Immediately I looked down at myself.  Black leather, white silk -- I was a vision.  An absolute visitation.

Indignant, I frowned at Louis.  "What's wrong with what I'm wearing?"

"You dress like a vampire," he scoffed.

"I am a vampire," I pointed out gently.  "I'm sorry; I thought you knew."

"You're a walking cliche; still, I suppose there are advantages.  Beside you, I'll be practically invisible."

"This will be splendid." I gazed at him fiercely, as if I could possess him utterly by committing him to memory.  "We will own the night completely. It's ours for the taking, Louis--"  And I held my hand out to him.

He took it, frowning slightly -- he thought me silly and impetuous, and of course these things were absolutely true.  But he took my hand, and I closed my fingers around his.  They were cool and strong and curiously fragile. It made me careful, gentle, and when I met his eyes, he was smiling again.

"Are you sure you're willing to be seen with me?"  He sounded dubious, and for the first time I could remember he looked down at his clothing in appraisal.

"You'd be beautiful in a gunny sack," I said impatiently.  "You'd be beautiful lying in a gutter covered in filth, begging for your supper.  You're clean and your clothes appear to be less than five years old; you dazzle me."

"You want me to change," he said, smiling.

"No," I said fiercely, and surprisingly, I meant it.  "That's the very last thing I ever want you to do."

--by Merry Lynne (597 words)

20

A distant buzzing added itself to the symphony in Peter's head, alien noise fitting in seamlessly, percussion to the wood and brass of wind and birdsong. Gradually it shifted from snare drum to bass, heavy beat filling the air.

It stopped abruptly, and Peter smiled at the silence that rushed to fill the space before the smaller noises could be heard again.

Percussion again; Peter blinked and unfolded from lotus to answer the door.

Green sunglasses stared at him from within mounds of coat and hat and hood and scarf. "Kermit."

A gloved hand reached up and tugged the scarf down a few inches. "I was in the neighborhood," Kermit said.

Peter looked around at acres of snow unbroken by anything but stands of trees, and one lone snowmobile trail running off to the east, and looked back at Kermit. "Oh?"

"Gonna let me in? It's freezing out here."

"How can you tell?" Peter asked, grinning. "C'mon in -- here, give me that." He grabbed the bag swinging from Kermit's hand and got out of the way as the other man walked in. "I'm impressed that you can even move in all that."

"Yeah, well, not all of us have internal Shaolin temperature controls, you know." Kermit started shedding layers near the stove. He sighed in pure pleasure as the last of the outerwear hit the floor and he held his hands over the heat. It was odd seeing him in jeans and flannel, but somehow it suited him.

Peter grabbed the snowy clothes and hung them on nails in the wall to dry, waiting for Kermit to finish thawing out.

"Nice place you have here," Kermit said, glancing around. It didn't take long; there was a bed, a stove, and a cabinet for dishes and food, plus assorted clothes and buckets along the walls. "So give me the tour."

"Okay. Here we have... the cabin."

Kermit grinned, turning to warm his backside. "This is really it, huh? No palatial master bedroom hidden in a dimensional pocket somewhere?"

"Heh. No. This is it. Been in the family for years."

"I didn't think Shaolin went in for owning property."

"I wouldn't say 'owned'. But my great-grandfather built it, a hundred years ago, on one of his journeys. He didn't get north much, but he loved it here -- the space, the snow, the smell of the air. He left the cabin for anyone who needed shelter. Lots of people have stayed here over the years. When I read about it, in his journal.... I had to come here."

Kermit nodded, glancing around again. "So, you're up here meditating?"

"Meditating. Listening. Just... being." Peter shrugged, then smiled as Kermit nodded again. Kermit always had understood, somehow. "You want coffee?"

"God, yeah."

"It's only instant," Peter warned. "I never learned how to make real coffee without a coffeemaker."

"At this point, I'd drink mud if you told me it had a coffee bean in it once."

Peter laughed and went for mugs and spoons.

Within minutes, they were settled at opposite ends of the bed, mugs in hand. Peter shut his eyes, testing the feel of the cabin with two people. It sounded right; it felt good. "So, really," he said, taking a sip and opening his eyes. "What brings you here?"

Kermit held the mug in one hand, head tilted down to look into it. Slowly, he reached up and took off his sunglasses, then leaned back against the wall and raised his head to look straight back at Peter. "I told you. I was in the neighborhood."

--by Arduinna (594 words)

21

"Skatchoon?" Justin repeated.  "Where the hell is Skatchoon?"

Lance rolled his eyes.  "Canada, fuckwit.  It's only the size of Texas."

"Oh," Joey said.  He turned to Justin.  "Sas-katch-ew-an."

"Oh," Justin said.  "Saskatchewan."

Chris hit Lance over the back of the head.  "Pronounce it like an American, you fool."

Lance hit Chris back.  "After you pronounced it Horses Doovers on French MTV?"

Chris hit Lance back, harder.  "After you got into fucking Time Magazine with the immortal faux pas--"

Lance shot out of his chair.  "Shut up! Shut up! Don't say it!"

"--Ellie Wizzle!"  Chris put his feet on the table and crowed loudly.

"Fuck," Lance said, and collapsed down.  "Fuck."

JC looked confused.  "So, we're going to Skatchoon?"

"No," Justin said, "we're going to Saskatchewan."

Chris' cellphone rang. He looked at the caller ID and turned it off.

"Hey!" JC said.  "I lived with Canadians.  When I say Skatchoon, it means--"

Joey leaned forward and clamped a hand over JC's mouth.  "Okay, there's no way in hell we're going to record in-- in--"

"Skatchoon," JC and Lance said.

"Sas-katch-ew-an," Justin and Chris said, louder.

"In this shack in the wilderness.  Because--"

Lance's cellphone rang.  He looked down and turned it off.

Chris looked at JC and nodded.  "Bad idea. Very bad idea."

Justin's cellphone rang.  He turned it off.

JC mmmmphed until Joey took his hand away.  "I'm not going to say it anymore, I promise.  Can we go to the cabin?"  His unspoken 'eh' lingered heavily in the air.

"Absolutely not," Justin said.  "I don't want you within 200 miles of a Canadian accent."

There was a rap on the window.  They turned and smiled into the camera flash.

"Um."  Lance cleared his throat.  "I didn't say we'd be recording there."

Four sets of eyes finally settled on him.

"I said," Lance repeated carefully, "that this guy I met in Chicago had a shack in--" he paused delicately, "Canada.  And he said we could go there."

Chris narrowed his eyes.  "And do what?"

Lance shrugged.  "Don't know.  All's I know is, it doesn't have electricity."

JC's cellphone rang.  He handed it to Lance, who studied it for a minute and then found the off button.

"Does it have a phone line?" Joey asked.

Lance shook his head no.

"Internet?"

Lance shook his head again.

"Satellite cell coverage."

"Nope."

Justin's cell rang.  He leaned back and shoved it under the couch cushions.

JC scratched his head.  "Well, how do our publicists contact us?  And our managers?  And our lawyers?  And our assistants?  And our stylists?  And our dieticians?  And the press? And the fans?"

"There's a road," Lance said.  "Well, kind of.  A track, Fraser said.  Well, not so much a track as a pass between thousand-feet-high mountains and thousand-feet-deep crevasses.  You can get there with a snowmobile and a very good map, apparently."  He waved a piece of paper with precise, hand-drawn lines on it, and small terse instructions like Avoid the southern slope--frequent avalanches.

"Oh," Chris said, eyes lighting up.  "Skatchoon."

"It only has one bedroom," Lance added.

Justin looked around their tourbus and nodded.  "No problem."

"And if it snows, the pass will close, and they'll have to do food drops."

"Well," JC said brightly, "they can always drop down a fax if it's really urgent."

Chris stroked his chin thoughtfully.  "All that white paper might get lost in the snow."

"Exactly.  It's really very convenient," Lance concluded.

"So!" JC clapped his hands, delighted.  "We're going to Canada, eh?"

--by Julad  (588 words)

22

He was chopping wood when he felt it, the supply having nearly run out during the unexpected blizzard that'd only lifted the day before. His sword was in the shack, but he could do some damage with the axe, if necessary.

Muffled curses preceded the walking snowman that waded through the chest-high drifts, a large pack on his shoulders. Chest tight, Duncan had to fight equal urges to sigh and smile. "It's a bit easier getting here on a snowmobile, I'm told."

Methos looked at him narrowly. "I'm sure it is, but the road took a sharp left a ways back, and I didn't."

The smile won. "Are you okay?"

"I died in tremendous pain, but I got better." That elicited a wince and a grin, which earned Duncan a black look. "Hell of a place you picked for a vacation."

Duncan shrugged. "I wasn't planning on much company." He turned back to his chopping.

"Optimistic of you, really." Methos shrugged off his pack and stood looking him over while brushing snow off.

Duncan paused. "Something you want?"

Methos shrugged. "Nothing, really. I just had a whim."

"I'd think those could be dangerous to a man of your advanced years." He was very aware that Methos was still looking, and he was glad he was down to his thermal shirt.

"They keep me young. I try and indulge them once every few centuries or so, keep myself limber."

Duncan swept up part of the log he'd just split and tossed it at him. "So, now that you're here, make yourself useful."

Methos watched the wood fall at his feet, then looked back up. "I hike here through miles of chest-high snow, and you want me to work? I'm freezing!"

"And you'll stay freezing until I get some more of this wood chopped."

"We could burn the shack." Methos eyed it unfavorably. "How is that still standing, anyway?"

"Sheer will power." Duncan bent to gather some wood. "Are you going to help?"

Methos gave a long-suffering sigh and started to help, picking up a few sticks in one arm and grabbing his pack with the other.

Duncan walked behind him to the porch, dropped his wood in the bin, then took what Methos had carried. Methos headed towards the door, but Duncan put a hand on his shoulder.

"What now, MacLeod? Need me to dig out the privy?"

Duncan smiled, pushed him up against the wall, and kissed him. He swallowed the small sound Methos made, then pulled him in tight and just held him a moment, burying his face against Methos' throat, feeling the chilled skin. "Let's get you inside."

Methos nodded wearily and let Duncan take his pack, following him inside. Duncan pushed him into a chair, grabbed a blanket, and wrapped it around him before bringing in some wood and building up the fire. Then he poured Methos a cup of coffee. Methos took it and sighed as Duncan pulled off Methos' snow-encrusted shoes and socks.

Duncan chafed his feet firmly, trying to get the circulation going again. "I didn't expect you so soon."

"Yeah, well, I thought maybe I'd beat the storm."

Duncan looked at him. "You should have stayed in town. I had enough to last a few more days."

"I'm Immortal. What could have happened?"

"If you'd gotten buried in an avalanche, you might not have gotten out until spring. What would I have done for entertainment?"

Methos smiled.

Duncan lifted his feet, one by one, and kissed them.

"Next year, I get to pick where we vacation," Methos said.

--by elynross (599 words)

23

"Isn't Minnesota cold enough for you?" Daniel asked. Jack loved it when Daniel got snippy. The word Daniel would use was dour, if it wasn't him being the snippy one.

"Right now it's too American for me," Jack said. "You know they've bugged my place up there. After the deal with Carter and her alien boyfriend I don't trust anybody."

Daniel sighed; he took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "So we just sneak out of the country?"

"They'll notice if we get on a plane, they'll notice if we use the 'gate, I fucking hate Mexico, and I..."  This look-but-don't-touch thing was worse than nothing at all. "It's like we're flying out there," he said finally, whooshing his hand around to illustrate, "and nobody's clearing us to land."

"I get that, Jack." Daniel's voice was quiet, and it hurt a little to look at him, because the guy was just starved -- he was starved for touch. Jack wanted to feed him--with his hands, his mouth, his whole body, with its shitty knees and scraggly-old-man body hair. And Daniel was on the bus--Daniel Jackson, inexplicably, wanted to give it all right back.

"Get your stuff," Jack told him. "Friend of a friend of mine has a place way up north. Not much on the amenities, but it's warm enough if you're friendly."

"I can be friendly," Daniel said, piling up his books. "I can be very friendly."  It was almost a threat.

Jack felt a pleasant shiver down the back of his neck. "Well, good."

They took separate flights, Daniel to Arizona and Jack to Chicago, and then to Seattle, where they drove north through BC, which was, okay, gorgeous, and which Daniel said reminded him a little of Tollana in spots.

They parked a lot, on back roads with no number and no name. They fogged up the windows and ran the heater and ran out of Kleenex.  And then there were only snowmobiles, and no roads at all, and that was okay too, Jack reflected, feeling Daniel snug up against his ass.

The 'gate wasn't the only way to travel.  Sometimes it paid to go the long way, to see Daniel get sulky and five-o-clock shadowy without there being some kind of extraterrestrial menace on their tail. Just the terrestrial kind--and the thing was you couldn't just vaporize those sons of bitches. There were rules, and you were supposed to follow them, even when the other guy didn't.

Bugs in their apartments.  Unbelievable.  Simmons was gonna get a bug shoved up his ass. Sideways. By a pissed-off Jaffa, and Jack would cheer Teal'c on.

But meanwhile, they were four days up to the cabin, and eight days there, eating canned soup and beef jerky and a hundred other gross things that weren't, at least, MREs.  And they pretty much didn't get out of bed except for the screaming fight about P3X-888, which probably needed to happen anyway, and which led to fucking Daniel's unholy mouth up against the cabin wall, so that was okay.

Daniel drove the snowmobile back, which Jack felt showed a little faith on his part, and also allowed him to grip Daniel's leather-clad ass and thighs the whole way, which in turn showed the benefits of delegation. They flew back together, so somebody might raise an eyebrow...but, as Daniel put it, it was always better to ask forgiveness than to beg permission.

And for once--just once--Jack agreed with him.

--by Justine (589 words)

24

Mulder came back to consciousness in a small, cold, rustic-looking room.  Tied to a chair, his head ringing, with no idea where he was, he wondered when his life had so derailed that waking up like this was normal, even a bit blasé to him. When he heard footsteps behind him, he stayed limp and tried to keep his breathing slow and steady.

"Mulder."

He jumped a little.  He couldn't help himself.  Seeing no more point in trying to pretend unconsciousness any longer, Mulder opened his eyes and said, "You're dead.  I saw you die." Once again, his weird life made this moment a little less dramatic than it would be for most people.

Krycek sat across from him and smiled.  The smile barely touched his mouth, let alone the dark green chips of ice he had for eyes.  "And you didn't shed a tear."

Mulder remembered Skinner delivering the final shot to Krycek's forehead like a perfectly cold-blooded executioner.  It still chilled him, even though-- "You were going to kill me."

Krycek could take another shot at it now and no one would even know to look for them.  Mulder had already left Scully to keep her and the baby safe after telling her that it would be better for her if she didn't know where he was....

Krycek radiated a stillness so total that he might as well have been dead, yet it didn't detract from his old dark allure, just changed it. How was that possible?  "That was a mistake.  The clones can turn out feeble-minded sometimes.  They seem perfect at first, but the neurons wear down too quickly, affecting their reflexes and thinking processes. You don't ever want to put too much trust in alien technology."

"You're saying it wasn't you."

"Of course not.  I'm here right now, aren't I?"

"No hard feelings then."

"I didn't say that." Krycek leaned forward.  "Though it is useful having so many people think I'm dead."

That really didn't bode well for Mulder coming out of this alive.  He surreptitiously tried to work his numb hands and wrists loose of his restraints, but he couldn't even feel them well enough to know if he had any hope.  "Then why show yourself to me?"

This time Krycek's smile showed teeth.  "I never could leave you alone."

--by Viridian (388 words)

25

"What was his crime?"

"He was a killer," I said, and damn him, there was a note of defensiveness in my voice. "He planned tonight to take a woman, a young woman, from this very street."

Louis smiled, a fey tilt to his head.  It made me furious--furious that he'd watched me, that he'd judge me for this now, when everything had been so perfect just moments before."Truly, then, his death was just."

"I don't kill the innocent. And I didn't play with him--I just ate him, okay? And now it's done."

"It was an extraordinarily clean kill, Lestat," he said mockingly. "I do notice."

"A service to the community.  An execution."

"For my crime," Louis said softly.  "My crime, and yours."

I turned from him, from his quiet and his beauty and his shining, pitiless morality.

"Was his death truly just?" He whispered. Louis was my tormentor as much as he ever had been; it was idiocy to think it could be otherwise. He shrugged indifferently.  "Shall we go?"

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather stay and fight among the rats?"

"I haven't fed," Louis said simply. He smiled at me, showing me his fangs. "And I believe that somewhere in this city there is une jeune femme awaiting an appointment with Death." He looked down at the body I'd dropped amid the trash and grey snow. "Someone should keep it."

I didn't believe for an instant that he would do it.

The image had been clear in the young villain's mind; defiantly, I led him to the ramshackle prayer of walls in an ugly district of downtown Montreal. She looked up as we pressed toward her through the crowd. Her eyes met mine and skated off, and then she found Louis.

It was as if a path had opened between them. He moved through it serenely; I was as entranced as she, this beautiful creature, this doomed child. Louis walked in the footsteps of the killer I'd diverted, and took her in his arms.

Their bodies moved inevitably to the throbbing beat. He held her tenderly, like a lover, and before he took her he looked up at me for just an instant, his bright eyes afire with bloodlust, and something else. Something colder.

His mouth was at her throat, his teeth bared, glittering. Shaken to my very foundations, I left him.

I no longer wondered why Louis preferred to hunt alone. Leaning against the plank wall outside the shack's entrance, eyes turned up to the silent northern stars, I merely hoped my attendance would not be requested in the future.

A sound drew my attention to the doorway, and Louis staggered out, muttering in French and smiling at someone still inside. A wanton, pretty sight he made: disheveled, sleek, flushed with heat. My skin crawled, and yet--

He came to me, eyes hot, and pressed his body against mine. My hands found his shoulders and tightened, pulling him closer.

"Lestat."

"You murdered that girl," I hissed. "You!"

"Yes." His voice was pleasant, but distracted. His eyes wandered over my face, heavy-lidded. "It's a thing I do when I get hungry. As do we all."

He tasted of her. Dizzied, I opened my mouth to him and sank into his embrace. There was no decision in it, no choice, just the heat and the blood -- and where was my Merciful Death now? My Louis? I shoved myself away and leaned, panting for breath, against the wall.

The night lay in ruins around me, the night that could have been ours.

--Merry Lynne (596 words)

26

Jim stopped to catch his breath. They'd just cleared the high point of the hike, and the view rivaled anything he'd seen on any other planet. No matter how far he went, this would always be home, this planet, this sky.

He looked back at Spock, who was bent over, examining some of the local flora. Jim smiled; he'd long since given up on insisting Spock conform to his methods of relaxation, and there was something endearing -- and reassuringly familiar, not to say human -- about the Vulcan's insatiable curiosity.

"Find something unusual?" He was glad that this shore leave hadn't happened in a colder season. Spock could deal with the thinner atmosphere up here, but the cold would have made such a trip impossible, and Jim really wanted to share this with him. He hadn't been up here in decades, but Chekov had confirmed that there was still some sort of building at the site, and they'd have thermal tents, if necessary.

Spock looked up at him. "Yes, Captain. It is rare to see this variant so far south."

Jim laughed and stretched, the sun warm on his face. "Just Jim, Spock. I want to forget all about the ship and being Captain for a week." He sat down on a nearby rock, untying his boot to find the rock that had slipped in on the hike up.

Spock raised an eyebrow. "I find that hard to believe."

Jim imitated the raised eyebrow. "You don't think I can let go for a week?"

Spock regarded him quietly for a moment, as if considering his words. "I believe...that you will find it difficult to restrain yourself."

Jim looked up and grinned devilishly, letting his eyes drift over Spock in his jeans and flannel shirt. On him, such common human garments looked exotic, and damn sexy. "Oh, I didn't say I was going to try." He wasn't close enough to see Spock's face flush, but he did see the minimal shift in body language, which for Spock was tantamount to a convulsion.

"I didn't--"

Jim laughed again. "We should be able to see the cabin just over the rise." He finished tying his boot and looked back at Spock, who stood there looking both awkward and faintly pleased. "I'm glad you came with me."

Spock moved to stand in front of him. "I look forward to seeing a place that holds such good memories for you."

"You don't think I'm being foolishly nostalgic?" Jim looked off over the valleys and mountains, thinking back to his last trip here. "It was a great summer."

"I don't see anything foolish in honoring your grandfather this way."

Jim smiled. "He was a cantankerous old coot, but I learned a lot from him. He was fascinated by people who went off into the wilderness, the miners, the farmers, the trappers. We spent the whole summer looking for remnants of old camps and mine shafts, digging through trash piles and privy dumps." He stood and picked up his pack. "I'm not sure any of it was entirely legal, but I don't think he cared." He checked for Spock's reaction. His spine may have gotten a bit more rigid, but it was hard to tell.

"He didn't have permission to excavate?"

"I'm not sure we even had permission to be in the park. Grandpa wasn't much for formalities and regulations." Spock didn't say anything, but his eyebrow went up again, and this time, Jim was the one who blushed.

"C'mon. We're almost there."

--by elynross (586 words)

27

"Cold.  Tired.  Miserable."

"Ice hockey.  Sled racing.  Curling."  Casey throws his suitcase on the bed next to Danny's and flips it open.  "What's a little frostbite in the service of sport? Toughen up, this is why we make the big money."

Danny goes to fiddle with the thermostat.  "It's not the weather, it's the two freaking AM!"

"Um, no. New York time, it's 6:19 AM. If you wanna get technical."

"Yeah, and my point is, I got up at four freaking AM yesterday morning."

Casey finishes with his own clothing and starts hanging Danny's.  "I know. I was there, remember?"

"That's different. You're younger!"

"Again, you lose on technical point. I am four years older, and you are just wrong, wrong and wrong."

Danny rolls his eyes.  "For certain values of 30, I am older."

Casey laughs.  "Oh, yeah, great, we're in a fucking shack in the fucking Yukon, doing experimental mathematics.  That's wonderful..."

"It's not a shack, it's a three-star cabin, and I am older in base twelve!"

"Again, alas no. It has wooden walls and dirty windows--it's definitely a shack, and in base twelve, you are 36, and I am 37."

"No, no. See, you read ahead."

"I know math better than you know math, so don't fuck with me."

"My age, in base twelve, is more than your age in base ten.  So there."

Casey thinks about this. "True. Yes."

"Thank you."

"You are admittedly older in base twelve than I am in base ten."

"And I feel every year of it.  Your problem, Casey, is that you don't listen to me."

"Not when you're making inaccurate comparisons in base mathematics, no."

"I hadn't even made the comparison before you deemed it inaccurate."

"I didn't need the comparison. I knew, from the fact that I am always right and you are always wrong, that I was right and you were wrong."

"My point exactly."

"What point, exactly?"

Danny finishes with the suitcases and puts them in the closet.  "The point that I am right and you are wrong about."  A pair of hands creep around his waist, and Casey's chin digs into his shoulder.

"Hey, Danny?"

"Mhmm?" Danny says, eyeing the bed.

"All your base are belong to me."

Danny thinks for a minute.  "Can't argue with that, no."

Casey puts aside Danny's drafted rendering of the bus trip from Yellowknife.

"Well?"

"Every word drips malice, pettiness and spite.  If I didn't know you better, I'd think you had plans to be a travel writer in your dotage."

"You know me too well, my friend; I do have plans."

"You?  Who pukes on planes?  Who pukes on trains?  Who pukes on--"

Danny held up his hands.  "So I get a little queasy in rough weather, who--"

"Who complains about the beds in the Bangkok Hilton?  Who speaks not two, not one, but zero foreign languages?"

"Casey,"

"You, who does nothing but complain once I start packing your suitcases for you?"

"Casey."

"You have plans to be a travel writer?"

Dan rolls Casey over and presses his face in the pillow.  "Your problem, Casey, is that you don't listen to me."

Casey mffff's his disagreement.

"I have plans," Dan announces happily, "for us to be travel writers."

Released, Casey flops onto his back, and studies his surroundings.  "Well. Can't argue with that."

"You will, though."

Casey looks over and grins.  "Need to pass time between beds somehow."

"And yet here we are, in bed, arg--"

--by Julad (574 words)

28

There are times in a man's life when he has to speak the truth and speak it frankly. This was such a moment. I spoke frankly.

"Well, really, Jeeves."

"Yes, sir."

"I mean, well, really, Jeeves!"

"Yes, sir. May I suggest that it would be advisable to move indoors? The wind chill factor is considerable."

He was perfectly correct, as Jeeves so often is. The wind howled around us like a roaring lion, seeking whom it might devour; it had already devoured my best hat, and it appeared as though the next thing it intended to remove from my head would be my ears. Still, one has certain standards. If you ask around at the Drones, they'll tell you that Bertram Wooster is a pleasant, easy-going sort of fellow, not too high in the instep, always ready to enjoy the charms of the simple life, but there are limits. "Not even a cousin of Pongo's could possibly live in this benighted rest home for elderly caribou. We must have taken a wrong turn."

"Sir, your ears are turning blue."

I thought with regret of my hat, which I rather suspected would live out its days as a silk-lined bird's nest, instilling an appreciation of the finer things in life into the next generation of Canadian tundra warblers. "Very well, Jeeves." I opened the door, and we went inside. "Jeeves?"

"Sir?"

"Pongo's cousin doesn't appear to have much in the way of furniture."

"No, sir. But there is a fireplace." Jeeves put the bags down and began to build a fire. I took a turn about the room, wiggling my toes, as there seemed to be some question regarding whether all of them were still attached to my feet.

"Still, one must look on the bright side. I don't imagine Aunt Agatha will ever find me here."

"No, sir."

Said aunt is something of a hellhound in human shape even at the best of times, and after the affair with Claude, Eustace, and the game-keeper's trousers, she had taken an even more radical anti-Bertram stance  than usual, bringing to mind a tropical storm working up to flattening a peaceful south sea island. It had seemed wise to put a safe distance between self and aunt for some time, and Pongo's offer to look after his cousin's rustic cabin had seemed just the thing.

"Jeeves?"

"Yes, sir?"

"This cabin doesn't appear to have a bathroom."

"No, sir."

I went to the fireplace, where, thanks to Jeeves' diligent efforts, several logs were now burning merrily. "Nor a kitchen."

"No, sir."

"Nor a bedroom."

"No, sir. I will put the mattress next to the fire."

"Right-ho." I lent a hand with the heaving and dragging, since mattress-moving is not, strictly speaking, a part of Jeeves' usual duties. "But where are you going to sleep?"

"Here, sir."

"Oh." I pondered that for a moment. It seemed to me that he was leaping to conclusions. "But dash it, Jeeves, that isn't--I haven't--it doesn't seem--"

"With all due respect, sir, I believe Mr. Claude, Mr. Eustace, and the game-keeper would disagree."

"Oh. Ah. Yes." Honesty compelled me to admit that he had a point.  He usually does. "Well. Carry on, then, Jeeves."

--by torch (544 words)

29

"I thought you said he was expecting us or something."

"Kowalski, cut me some slack, huh? You're lucky I could even find the place."

"At least you've been here before. Where's the...uh. Facilities."

Laughter. "Remember that even smaller shack we passed on the way here? Near where we parked the snowmobile?"

A pause. "You're kidding, right?"

"I wish. Benny and me were gonna come up here, fix the place up. Always my plan, get some indoor plumbing up here. But you know, one thing and another..."

"Hey, cut that out. I gotta --"

"Go, already. I'll see if I can figure out how to heat the place up without you."

Ray shut the door behind him. Ray shucked his gloves, rubbed his hands together, and began dragging wood into the stove. Matches, matches, where would Benny keep matches? Probably in his pockets, so that no passing ruffians could accidentally set fire to anything.

He wandered into what passed for a kitchen -- Benny'd obviously had time to add it on since the last time Ray had been here. Boy, that was a long time ago. Ray smiled in spite of himself. What the hell he thought he was doing, dragging his butt outta bed and over a thousand miles of snowy wastes...but Benny was worth it. Always had been.

Ah, matches. Right on the window sill. Next to it, a framed photo of the three of them, taken the last time Benny was in Chicago. Sweet. That was a nice shot of Ray, great smile.

The door banged. "Jesus Christ it's cold out there...hey, where --"

"Hey, c'mere and look at this."

Ray wandered in, hands under his folded arms. His cheeks, nose, and lips were pink with cold. He moved closer, looking over Ray's shoulder.

"Yeah, I remember that. Franny took that." A cold nose invaded Ray's neck.

"Hey!" Ray squirmed. "You're freezing!"

Cold hands crept under his sweater and t-shirt. "So where's that fire already?"

Ray turned and met his lips, cold and a little chapped from the weather. "Stanley," he said, against the stubbled cheek. "If you don't knock it off, Fraser's gonna find us frozen into a solid lump in his kitchen."

"You call me Stanley again, Vecchio, and I will--"

"Kick me in the head?" Ray picked up the matches and headed out toward the stove. "Yeah, yeah, I've heard it before," he tossed over his shoulder.

"So, seriously, Fraser knew we were coming?"

"Swear to God. He's probably out catching some poor schmuck who went duck hunting in rabbit season. You know Fraser." Light, you stupid stove.

Ray gave a little laugh. "Hey, I love that cartoon."

"What cartoon?" Flames licked the newspaper, releasing a welcome, toasty smell.

"Geez, Vecchio, could you even pretend to catch a pop culture reference once in a while? It's not like you grew up without a TV like --"

Just as the kindling began to catch, they heard footsteps. Then Fraser's voice,

"I'm not saying that at all. I just find it very unlikely that they would bother to bring you deep-dish pizza all the way from Chicago."

Ray turned to Ray. Both men were already smiling.

--by Laura Shapiro (530 words)

30

Billy dreamed he was back in Canada, in one of those horrible fucking band houses they used to stay in, back before there was a record company to take care of everything, to do things the right fuckin' way for a change.  Now the record company blew into town, did the promos, got the song in rotation, roused the fan base, and booked them into the very best five star hotels, usually the penthouse suite.  Back then there were band houses, these fuckin' shacks in the middle of nowhere--coffee-stained mugs in the cabinets, bleach-stained towels in the bathrooms, cum-stained mattresses on the floor, the marks of a thousand other wankers who'd been there before them.

What was weird about this particular band house was that there was nobody running the joint, plus no Pipe and no John.  Just Joe, sprawled across from him on the mattress, shoulders back against the wall.  Just watching him, smoking a cigarette, sort of half-smiling.

He had a hole in his head.

As Billy watched, Joe took a final drag and dropped the butt down the neck of an empty Jack Daniels bottle.  It went out with an audible hiss.  Joe smiled again, peeled his shoulders away from the wall, and started crawling toward him up the blood-stained mattress.

Billy figured it was maybe time to move, haul ass up and off this mattress and maybe get out of here.  He moved, and pain shot through him--bad pain, like knives.  Bad, fuckin' excruciating, from his--

He looked down at himself, at his boot, at his leg, which was bent at a really weird-ass angle--

Joe was crouched at his feet now, staring up the filthy denim at him.  Gasping, Billy mentally ordered himself not to move, not for anything, no fuckin' way.  Joe put a palm on either side of his legs, careful not to nudge the broken bones, and crawled upward, over his body, head lowered like some faithful, rabid dog.  Billy gritted his teeth and looked at Joe's blood-matted hair and the piece of his ear that was missing.  And then Joe lowered his head even further, put his face into Billy's dirty denim crotch, and took a deep sniff.

Billy flinched helplessly, and his muscles tightened, and the shattered bones ground against each other.  Holy fuck that hurt, that hurt so fuckin' bad, that was--

Joe was mouthing him now, and this was so much pleasure-pain he could hardly stand it, couldn't stand it, could not fucking stand it.  His hands tightened helplessly into fists and that's when he realized he was still holding the gun.

With a start, Billy woke up, heart jackhammering, and his pants--fuck, his belly was sticky, his sweatpants were soaked with it.   Billy rolled on his expensive sheets, flicked on the beside light, and looked over the current penthouse suite.  Lovely.  Perfect.  Typical.

"God," Billy mumbled, fumbling for his water glass, "I'm so glad that fucker's dead."

--by Speranza (500 words)

31

His parents hadn't been thrilled, but they let him go ("But it's a birthday present"). If Clark's response about their destination ("Up north") was deliberately vague, it was for their own good.

It was a trip of firsts: first trip in a private jet, first flight in a helicopter, first trip to Canada. First... Well. His first. He hoped.

The luxury was nice, but it made Clark uncomfortable to see Lex's behavior change, to see how others treated him, as if he was something hard and distant and apart. It was a relief when they got to the canoe rental place and it was just the two of them.

It was two days to the shack, and to Clark's frustration, Lex slept in his own bag on the other side of the fire. He'd catch Lex watching him, but he didn't know if it meant anything more than suspicion. He knew how to make lifting and carrying not look too easy -- he'd canoed enough, fishing with his dad, not to betray himself there -- but Lex's company was too relaxing. He'd forget and throw a rock just too far, pick up just too much at the portages, and every time, Lex would just smile that smile, the one he'd had after showing Clark the car. After Clark had lied, also smiling. Clark wondered if that was what kept the distance between them. He didn't want to lie to Lex, but he also didn't want Lex to stop looking at him like he wanted to take him apart with his bare hands -- and maybe his mouth -- to see what made him tick.

It was near dark the second day when he steered them too close to a submerged rock. He'd been trying to keep an X-Ray eye out, but he was too busy admiring Lex's shoulders moving under his shirt, and the warning came too late; he not only managed to topple Lex out of the canoe, but also to overturn it, spilling all their gear. Clark learned words he never dreamed existed. He wondered if they even had words like that where he came from.

Lex, grinning, caught Clark as he surfaced.