NOTES
Written as part of the Great Shack Challenge of 2001. If you
haven't checked out the main page for this yet (101
Ways to Wind Up in a Canadian Shack), do! It has 30 authors in
62 fandoms, and I guarantee there are fandoms you never dreamed of there,
as well as some of your favorites. They're short (500-600 words), and
they're good. These eight were my contribution.
written December 2001; posted December 31, 2001
"We're here." Shawn stopped the car in front of a small cabin that had been hidden by the trees.
"Thank God. Where's here?" Cory shivered as he got out, rubbing his hands together before moving to join Shawn by the trunk.
"My uncle Tony stayed here for a while a few years back," Shawn said. He started hauling out bags, handing Cory's to him. "It's not much, but it's free, and it's about as far away from the city as I could get us in a car."
Thoughts of the city brought memories crashing back. Before he knew what was happening, his bags were taken out of his hands and put on the ground, and Shawn was holding him tight.
"It's gonna be okay, Cory," Shawn said, mouth right next to Cory's ear. "I promise you. Everything's gonna be all right."
Cory clutched at him, burying his face in Shawn's neck for a minute. He sniffed hard and lifted his head, resting his forehead against Shawn's. "Thanks," he said quietly.
Shawn smiled. "Any time. C'mon, let's go in. It's cold out here."
"Okay, I admit it, this was a good idea," Cory said the next morning, after waking up to bright sunshine and the sight of Shawn making pancakes. "I could get used to this."
Shawn lost the wary look he'd had a second earlier, and beamed as he carried plates of pancakes over. "I'm glad. Now shove over -- we're having breakfast in bed."
"Great!" Cory held the blanket up for Shawn to slide in next to him.
Breakfast was warm and cozy and happily sticky, and Cory felt knots he hadn't realized were there start to unravel deep inside. He put his plate on the floor and leaned back against the wall, staring at Shawn. "Shawnie?"
"Yeah?" Shawn turned to look at him, swallowing his last bite of pancake. "Cory, what is it?"
"Why'd you do this, Shawn?" Cory asked softly.
Shawn smiled sadly. "Because I figured you needed some time away."
"You were right. But why did you do this?"
"Cory..."
"Shawn." Cory's entire life kept clicking into place, and he couldn't stop looking at Shawn.
"Cor, don't," Shawn whispered. "Just... just enjoy the pancakes, okay?" He started to slide out of the bed.
For an instant, Cory was tempted to let him go, tempted to forget what he'd just figured out. His life was all mapped out, and this wasn't the right road.
Except -- it was. Or at least, he was starting to think it should have been. He reached out and touched Shawn's arm.
Shawn froze, lowering his head to stare at the blanket. "Cory, please. Don't."
"Topanga's really gone this time, Shawn. She really left me, and she's really not coming back."
"I know."
Carefully, Cory slid his hand down Shawn's arm until he could twine their fingers together. The last shred of uncertainty vanished when Shawn's fingers tightened on his. "And that hurts. A lot."
Shawn tried to pull his hand free, but gave up when Cory just held on tighter.
Cory took a deep breath. "But it doesn't hurt as much I keep telling myself it does. You know why?"
Shawn shook his head.
"Because you're here. You're always here."
"That's what best friends are for," Shawn said, slanting a glance at him before looking down again.
Cory rubbed a thumb across Shawn's hand. Shawn shivered. "Is that what we are, Shawn? Best friends?"
"Cory..."
"Because I'm thinking maybe there's more to it than that." Cory held his breath.
Then Shawn was holding it for him.
(593 words)
"Well?" Nick asked, looking around. "Is this great, or what?"
"Nicholas."
He turned, beaming, then swallowed hard as he saw Lacroix's forbidding expression. "You said you wanted to get away, just the two of us!"
"Yes, but I meant to a five-star hotel, with silk sheets and large baths and staff that are discreet enough not to notice, much less mention, the occasional bloodstain. Not... this." Lacroix grimaced as he gestured at the room.
Nick looked around again, trying to see the charming cabin through Lacroix's eyes. Rough walls, coarse bedding, a distinct lack of a bathtub. And an even more distinct lack of a staff. "Oh." He shot a stealthy look at his watch, confirming what the twitch at the back of his neck was telling him--dawn was less than an hour away. "Well. We've stayed in worse places," he said gamely.
Lacroix, the epitome of frozen dignity, settled onto a chair and stared at him. "Yes, we have," he said, every syllable precisely clipped. "Usually while being chased by a horde of angry peasants waving torches and pointy wooden sticks."
Nick winced and went to look out the window, clasping his hands behind his back.
"So. See any peasant hordes out there?"
Nick lowered his head to the cold glass and shut his eyes.
"No? I confess, I thought I saw something earlier. Didn't quite look like peasants, though. More like... bunnies."
Nick started banging his head gently, unclasping his hands to brace himself against the wall for better leverage.
"Is that it, then? Hordes of peasant bunnies chased us in here?"
Bright pain in his palm distracted him from the dull ache in his skull. "Ow." He lifted his head long enough to look at his hand: blood was welling up from where a splinter had speared him. "Great," he sighed.
Lacroix was at his side in an instant, elegant fingers cupping his wounded hand and drawing it up to narrow lips. He pulled the splinter out with his teeth, glancing up into Nick's eyes as he spat it delicately aside, then lowered his mouth to lick up the drops of blood.
Nick shivered, pressing his palm into Lacroix's mouth. Lacroix took the hint and sucked, and Nick bit back a moan.
Gold flecks fading from his eyes, Lacroix raised his head and licked his lips, never letting go of Nick's hand. "Not much of a dinner," he said, voice nearly a purr.
Nick took a deep breath, striving for normalcy. "Want me to go catch you a bunny?"
Lacroix grinned, clearly delighted. "That's my Nicholas." He released Nick's hand and turned away, trailing a finger across Nick's lips in blatant tease. "But I don't think it will be necessary. Always assuming you plan on getting us back to civilization soon?"
"We'll be in a hotel by tomorrow morning," Nick agreed. "But --"
"Yes, yes, we're stuck here for now. We may as well make the best of it." Lacroix rubbed his hands together and looked around. "The window will be a problem," he said, frowning. "We'll have to put one of the blankets over it."
Nick nodded. "That's only going to leave one," he pointed out carefully.
"Then we shall simply have to share, won't we?" Lacroix asked, quirking an eyebrow at him.
Nick's palm throbbed once, hard, and deep inside something twisted. He shut his eyes for a moment to savor it. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, we can do that." He opened his eyes and met Lacroix's faint, knowing smile. "We can do that."
(590 words)
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.
(572 words)
Albert shut the door carefully, wary of the ramshackle construction, then put the bags down. There were, perhaps, more bags than strictly necessary for such a short trip, but his not to question why. He surreptitiously rubbed his shoulder as he peered around the dimly lit... cabin, he supposed.
The bearlike shape near the fireplace moved, claiming his instant attention. How could it not? Such power, such authority, emanated from it, that Albert couldn't help a quiet sigh of admiration.
"Eberts!"
He started. "Yes, sir?"
"Fire, Eberts."
Albert blinked. "There's no fire, sir," he said gently. Perhaps the cold had been too much, although considering his many layers of warm clothes and the fact that he'd also been wrapped in Albert's sleeping bag for the trip, it didn't really seem likely that the he was suffering from hypothermically induced hallucinations --
"I know there's no fire, Eberts. That's the problem. It's cold in here, or hadn't you noticed?"
"Oh, I am so sorry, sir, here, let me get a fire started, it will only take a moment -- "
"Shut up, Eberts," the Official said, sounding weary. "Just get the damn thing lit."
"Of course, sir," Albert murmured, ducking his head. The Official should never have had to tell him to do something so obvious. It was Albert's job to anticipate, to smooth over all those little worries so the Official could concentrate on the thing he was so good at: power, in all its forms.
Within a few minutes a fire was crackling merrily away, with a pot of water heating on a clever hook contraption over it. Albert dragged the sturdiest of the chairs over to it. "Sir?"
"Ah, Eberts, good."
Albert thrilled to the absentminded pat on the shoulder the Official gave him as he walked past. What greater joy could there be, than to bring peace and contentment to this man?
"God, almost two whole days of this before the damned Canadians get here. I don't know if I can take it."
"Well, sir, there was a small hotel in the last town we passed through. If we started back now, I'm sure we could make it --"
"Hotel! No, no, no. This is fine. And it's free. No sense wasting money on a hotel when there's a perfectly good..." the Official looked around and grimaced, "building, that we can stay in."
"Of course, sir," Albert agreed. "I'm sure we'll be completely comfortable. It was very kind of our esteemed colleagues to offer us these accomodations before the meeting."
"Eberts, you don't have to suck up to them when they're not here."
"No, sir." Albert dragged a second chair over to the fire and sat, allowing himself to relax for a moment.
The Official shifted in his chair to get comfortable, leaning his head against the back and shutting his eyes. "Wake me up when the coffee's ready."
"Of course, sir," Albert murmured, waiting for the first soft snore before stealthily leaning forward to swing the pot a few inches toward the room, to slow the boiling process. The Official needed his rest after such a long journey. And this way, Albert could just sit and watch the firelight flickering across the Official's noble face, limning it in golden-orange--lion colors, to match his lion's heart.
Slowly, Albert let the warm glow in his heart suffuse him. Nearly two days, just the pair of them. Could life be any better?
(571 words)
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."
(594 words)
Hawkeye compulsively stirred the contents of the pot again, then paced along his chosen path: stove to door to table to bed to stove again. He started to rub his arms against the cold and caught himself, shoving his hands into his pockets instead.
It had been a bad idea, getting here first. There was too much time to think.
Stir, pace.
He stopped at the table and stared at the bottle of scotch sitting in the middle of it, painfully tempted. The ice in his stomach would melt away with the liquor's heat -- just one glass, and he'd be calm, ready to face this.
This. God. How could he be so scared? It was just --
"Hawkeye?" Cold blast of air, uncertain voice, heavily-clad figure in the doorway.
"Trapper." He managed a smile that he hoped was welcoming, forcing himself to move forward and take Trapper's bag.
After a few minutes of bustling around getting rid of coats and boots and luggage, they were standing a few feet away from each other, staring.
"You as nervous as I am?" Trapper asked.
Hawkeye started to laugh. "I damn near reached for some liquid courage just to be able to say hi to you," he admitted. "Hi, Trap."
"Hi, Hawk."
A heartbeat later they met in the middle in a tangle of arms and the pressure of solid torsos, and before he knew it Hawkeye was crying into Trapper's neck. He could hear ribs creaking, but couldn't tell through the pressure inside his chest if they were his or Trapper's. He held on tighter, feeling his own neck getting wet before they finally managed to pull away a few inches.
"How did things get so weird?"
"I don't know, but God, I'm glad to see you." He hugged Trapper quickly again and let go. "I can't believe we had to come to another foreign country just to say hello in person." His eyes started to prickle again at the sight of the quick, bright grin he remembered so well.
"That stew I smell?" Trapper asked suddenly, looking toward the stove.
"Yeah. My dad's specialty -- he sent a ton of it along. I think he doubts our cooking ability."
"Great. I'm starving." Trapper dropped into a chair and waved a hand imperiously. "Garcon!"
Hawkeye moved to the stove and lifted a spoonful of the stew. "You really want this in your lap?"
"Well, if you're gonna be like that..." Trapper laughed and got up to help himself.
"It's just like old times," Hawkeye said later, eyes half-shut as he listened to the wind battering the cabin.
"Yeah. Except for the good food."
"Well, yeah. And no tent."
"And no still."
Hawkeye sat up straighter. "To the still -- a noble soldier who served with honor under trying circumstances."
Trapper raised his brandy in salute. "To the still."
They both settled back into their chairs again. "But other than that --"
"And no one bleeding on us," Trapper added.
"-- and no one bleeding, it's just like old times."
"Yeah."
Hawkeye wriggled his toes, gazing contentedly at them in all their black-socked glory. Not an inch to the side, Trapper's feet in their brown socks were propped up on the same ugly plaid footstool. He uncrossed his ankles and leaned his left foot into Trapper's right. Trapper promptly returned the pressure.
Hawkeye sighed and let his eyes close. Too few people appreciated the joys of holding feet in front of a fire.
(578 words)
"Could be worse," Bodie said.
"Yeah? How's that?" Doyle flung himself into the only standing chair, gritting his teeth as it wobbled dangerously under him.
"You could've been partnered with Anson for this obbo, 'stead of me."
"Reckon that's worse, do you?"
Bodie shot him a wounded look. "C'mon, Ray, it's not so bad."
"We are stuck in the middle of nowhere, in a bleedin' blizzard with a car that won't start. We've a packet of biscuits and a roll of mints between us. Probably get attacked by Indians next."
"Indians!" Bodie stared at him. "You're a complete nutter."
"Bears, then!" Doyle glared. "Point is, everything that could go wrong, has gone wrong. Brilliant idea of yours, this."
"It's not my fault!"
Doyle bared his teeth. "'Deliver the duke, lads, that's all I want you to do. Hand him over, get a night's rest, and head home.' Remember that, Bodie? Eh? But no, you had to drag me off to the fucking wilderness. We coulda been snug in a hotel somewhere now, not hunkering down in a hovel with walls that are more holes than wood. Good thing it's snowing, really, we can plug up the holes with snowballs, keep out the drafts. Like Eskimos."
Bodie winced, then rallied. "You were keen enough on it until it started snowing. And you were the one listened to the weather, said it was going to be clear and sunny!"
"Oh, right, blame this on me! Who was the one hired the car, eh, Bodie?"
"Well, you're the bloody genius mechanic!" Bodie took a deep breath and shut his eyes. "It's too soon to start fighting."
"Oh, right, wouldn't want to spoil tomorrow's entertainment." Doyle looked around the barren room. Christ, they'd need something, that was certain. "So now what?"
"Get more wood, for one." Bodie glanced at the window. "Now, before it gets any darker. And if you spot anything that looks remotely edible, bring it in. Should still be something around. It's early yet."
"Christ, I forgot all about it!"
"What?"
Doyle held his hand out. "Keys."
"The car doesn't start, Doyle," Bodie said patiently. "And we already got the bags out."
"No, really?" Doyle marvelled. "Give me the fucking keys!"
Bodie handed them over with a glare, and Doyle went outside, bending his head into the wind and swearing as he stumbled over to the car. He found the boot and opened it, grabbing the basket sitting there in lonely splendour.
"Don't think you get out of hauling wood!" Bodie shouted over the wind as he heaved an armload up and headed back indoors.
Doyle grinned and closed the boot.
"I don't know what you thought you were doing." Bodie kept stacking wood carefully as Doyle walked in. "It's not like a hire car is gonna have blankets in the boot."
"No, but it might have food," Doyle said, grinning at the speed with which Bodie whipped round. He put the basket on the table. "Surprise!"
"Where the hell did that come from?"
"Was gonna take us on a picnic," Doyle admitted. He rubbed his nose and squinted at the fire, then glanced sidelong at Bodie.
Bodie beamed. "What's in it?"
"Oh, this and that. And a bottle of wine." He looked at the traces of snow still on the basket. "Nicely chilled."
"You're my hero, Doyle, have I ever told you that?"
"A jug of wine, a loaf of bread, and thou," Bodie said, slipping an arm around Doyle's shoulders as they sat staring into the fire.
Doyle sniffed and leaned into him. "Sentimental sod."
(597 words)
"You told me you like fishing."
"Yes, I did," Daniel said, eyes on his notes.
"And yet, I ask you to join me for a long weekend of fishing at this perfect little place I found -- with great effort, may I add -- and you look at me like I have six heads."
"Jack." Daniel leaned back in his chair. "I will be happy to go fishing with you -- between May and October. Fishing in February, in Canada, is not my idea of a good time."
"What if I gave you an archaeological reason?"
Daniel blinked. "To go fishing?"
"Yep."
"What?"
"Come with me, and you can see for yourself."
Daniel looked at Jack, standing there with hope blazing out of him. He sighed. "Okay, I'm in. But I'm warning you, if I'm bored, or if I fall into a lake and freeze to death, you are never hearing the end of this."
Jack beamed at him. "You're gonna love this," he promised, rubbing his hands together as he turned to leave.
Daniel shook his head and went back to work.
"Okay, give," Daniel said, closing the cabinet as he put the last of the supplies away. "We're here, we're unpacked, and there's at least an hour of daylight left. What's the great archaeological reason to go fishing?" He crossed his arms and stared at Jack.
Jack winked. "C'mon, I'll show you."
About a hundred yards from the lakeshore, Jack stopped near some tumbled rocks. "Here," he said.
Daniel moved to his side and looked where Jack was pointing, then dropped to a crouch to peer more closely. "Petroglyphs!" He twisted to stare up at Jack, who beamed.
"Cool, huh?"
"Very cool," Daniel admitted, smiling. He stood up. "It's getting too dark now, though. Let's go back."
Jack nodded, and they walked back and into the welcome warmth of the tiny cabin.
A couple of hours later, replete and sleepy, Daniel lay in his sleeping bag in front of the fire, staring into the flames. Jack dropped his bag on the floor next to him, settling cross-legged near Daniel's head.
The silence was comfortable and familiar, part of the pattern that made up their lives, and Daniel's eyes started to drift shut. A hand brushed his face as Jack removed his glasses, then he felt the faintest pressure on his head when Jack stroked his hair once. Daniel relaxed more, not questioning the warmth that flooded him.
Then he heard Jack's quiet sigh as he slid into his own sleeping bag.
Daniel's eyes opened. He stared into the fire as he listened to Jack rustling into a comfortable position, and thought. About familiarity, and comfort, and patterns. About how connected he felt to Jack by one simple, barely felt touch. About Jack beaming as he showed off petroglyphs half-buried in snow.
Daniel turned his head, watching the firelight playing across Jack's face. Slowly, he reached across the few inches that separated them, and rested his hand lightly on Jack's cheek.
Jack opened his eyes and looked at him, gaze steady and quiet. "Daniel?"
"Just..." Daniel shook his head, letting his eyes trace the lines of Jack's face, letting his fingers follow. Jack stayed still under the exploration, eyes still quiet but starting to brighten.
"Daniel?" he repeated, gently.
"Sometimes," Daniel said, ruefully, "I'm an idiot."
Jack smiled, and lightly kissed Daniel's fingers as they ghosted across his lips. "That's okay. Just leave the thinking to me."
Daniel laughed. "Deal," he agreed, and leaned closer.
Jack met him halfway, like Daniel knew he would.
(594 words)
~ fin ~
Feedback of any sort, from one line to detailed crit, is always welcome, at arduinna at trickster dot org.
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