postcards from the road [the dvd commentary track]
an Andromeda RPF/Stargate SG-1 RPF crossover
by dirty diana
I'd like to begin by placing blame. Because there's more than enough to go around. I blame Van, for the con photos. And sf fan , for trying to convince me that if they're actually married in real life then it can't possibly be wrong to write about them. No wrongness here. I also blame Gale for making the encouraging noises, against which I am completely helpless, and kelly_girl for being an all-around Bad Influence.
I'd also like to blame the Academy. And Michael Shanks. I blame Michael Shanks a lot.
[I stole a lot of little lines, and the basic scenario, from the first Michael/Lexa bit I ever wrote, unfinished and unposted. That scenario sprung from a conversation with sf fan about whether, when Michael comes home from being groped by the fangirls, he's feeling "happy". Scroll to the bottom if you just want to see that.]
Sometimes she catches him when he's still, which isn't often. Michael is the most restless person that she has ever known. But sometimes she catches him, in between moments, his fingers brushing his face as he thinks about something. She'll capture him then, with a soft click, and he looks up and smiles at her. Then he slips back into shape, the way that he slips into costume, without even thinking about it. Her fingers stretch out and touch his waist to pull him back again, into her orbit.
[My Michael characterisation is a bit odd in this story, I think, and if I wrote it again now it would probably be different. See, I think of him as a pretty shameless and self-absorbed attention whore. And I mean that in the nicest way possible. (Just listen to the "Double Jeopardy" commentary. Hear him talk about how pretty his eyes are.) But the rumour somehow got around fandom that he's shy and reserved (yeah, right), and after a day spend trawling around Michael sites, I had that view in my head and tried to incorporate both sides. I think they're probably both kinda valid, because I think being a complete attention whore must be exhausting.
And what's funny - before SG-1, I was never really into actor RPF. Musicians, yes, actors, not so much. But as a potential character, Michael Shanks amuses and fascinates me. He's such a brat. And a geek. Also, he's married to this really hot lady.]
If he reaches for her then, she pulls away and snaps another photo, with the cheap disposable camera that she bought in the hotel lobby. She loves these old European hotels, that smell so certain and real, like time drifting through spaces. She loves being here with him, and she takes another picture.
These photographs will come out printed in sharp flat colour, blue eyes and tanned skin, the rough palms of Michael's hands turned towards her as he tries to shield himself from the intruding lens. His face is framed by the hotel window, left open as the spring air floats in.
"Put it down," he says. She can hear where he's tired, his voice deep and ragged in the back of his throat. He wishes they were at home.
She shakes her head, with a smile, her hair sweeping the nape of her neck. Click again, while he's making faces at her, with the dark, clumsy lines of his mouth.
He reaches forward and tries to capture her one more time, and she feints neatly to the right. Michael follows, but he has always been better on defense than he is on offense, and she slips by on the tips of his fingers. [Hockey reference! Can't write a Michael/Lexa story without a hockey reference.]
He doesn't give up, but tries again. She laughs as she escapes, twisting and ducking to the left. This photograph will come out blurry, Michael just a sweet dash of movement as he creeps up behind her.
She kicks him lightly in the shin, but he doesn't seem to notice. He simply scoops her up inside his arms, and drops her easily onto the soft king-size bed. With large hands, he takes the camera away from her.
"Offside," he murmurs gently in her hair. She giggles, as his fingers rotate the film in the camera, ready to snap another picture. She knows how these pictures will come out, a pale sweep of colour, and her face pink and blushing, creased with lines from laughing. Her skin is flushed all over, where the sleeves of her blouse slip down, and Michael's fingers trace the outline of her collarbone. His body is heavy on top of her, strong and yielding no sliver of escape.
"I warned you," he whispers, and only because she knows him so well can she tell that he's smiling.
She makes a face at him, squinting dark eyes, and he takes a picture of that too, as his mouth curls rudely in response. The he tosses the camera into the pillows.
She is breathless, her heart beating too fast and too loud, blood rushing like a fountain underneath her skin. "Foul," she protests, between giggles, as she struggles to push him away.
"Uh huh," he agrees, as his fingers slide underneath the hem of her shirt, tickling lightly. "I'm expecting some time in the penalty box." [Original line was just "time in the box", but I decided that was silly and dirty even for Michael.]
"Michael," she scolds him, too late before he kisses her.
He kisses her slowly, warm and languid, as his hands pull at the buttons of her jeans. "Lots of time," he adds.
His mouth brushes her shoulder blade, and the hollow of her neck where she smells like Chanel No. 5. She smiles gently, as his lips stroke her skin, and her mouth opens for him, in a wordless invitation.
[Confession time - I stopped watching Andromeda ages ago. So when I first discovered the thrall of Michael and Lexa - and what is it with me and the RL het couples anyway? - I knew nothing about Lexa except that she was really pretty. So I spent time on lexaonline.com, and they had this interview she did with The Globe and Mail's style department. She's just as shallow as Michael, apparently. Mmmn. (What is it with me and the shallow people? I don't know. Kindred spirits?) So that's where the Chanel No. 5 reference comes from, and that's how I know what kind of underwear she'd be wearing.]
She lets out a low moan, as warm hands slip like ghosts over her body. She rises up to meet his touch, pressing urgently against him. His arms lift up as she pulls off his shirt, and runs her hands roughly against his chest. When he kisses her again the heat is building, straining on them both.
They are tangled and defenseless, skin too-hot everywhere that they touch. His hands strip down denim and lace, his knees roughly pushing her own apart.
She arches up, with a moan escaping helplessly through parted lips. She gasps when he pushes inside her, his hands holding hers, holding on.
Then his arms move around her, sweeping her with the scent of want and salt clean sweat. His hands press tightly in the small of her back as he rolls, taking her with him as he moves onto his back.
She laughs, exhaling a gentle hiss of air. Her hips move gently against his, as with the pressure of his hands he forces her to slow down. Her fingers press into his chest, nails scratching his skin, as they breathe and move together. He absorbs every thrust, as they rock together and then become still.
[I read this now, and I'm like, huh. This was porny. Not as porny as it could have been, and I really struggled with making it not too explicit, but still pornier than I meant it to be. I think the reason I never finished the first one was there was no place for it to go but porn, and I wasn't comfortable. Porn and I have a complicated relationship.]
Release washes over her first, as she closes her eyes, head thrown back with a low moan. He follows quickly, his fingers pressing deep into her hips, and she can feel the vibrations that carry him down.
She takes a picture of him afterwards, Michael mostly undressed and curled into a heap on top of the sheets. He is too relaxed to protest, smiling at her through sleepy eyes.
She sits kneeling on the bed, as his hand strokes her bare knee. "I love you," he murmurs, so softly that she can barely hear him.
Her response is a smile, sweet and real, as she takes his photograph.
[See, it went it in circles. She took his photograph, they had sex, she took his photograph. I love doing that. I think I may use that technique too often, actually.]
[This is the one I never finished:
"How was your day?" he asks her.
She laughs at him, as he crawls into bed with her, with dark eyes and a sleepy smile. He is flushed from drinking too much, his skin very warm against hers. "Not as good as yours, I don't think," she says. "We went to the British Museum."
"Oh. I wish I could have come with you," he says slowly, and she laughs at him again.
"No, you don't."
"No," he agrees. "I don't."
She reaches for him, and drifts into him where she fits into his empty spaces. "So it was good?"
"How many of them asked you about slash stories?"
He smiles, mouth buried in her soft dark hair. "Just one."
"And how many asked to see your scar?" Her hand slips mindlessly underneath his shirt, touching the long dark cicatrix. His mouth creases at the tickling sensation.
He laughs, from deep inside his centre. "Not that many. I told them I was taken." His breath strokes her skin as he whispers to her, sweet slurred phrases. "Definitely taken."
"When did you get done?"
"Fourish," he says.
"And you and Chris have been in the bar since then?"
"Well." Michael is silent for a moment, as if thinking about it. "Maybe."
"Mmmn. Maybe." He rolls over onto his back, strong arms pulling her on top of him.
She laughs and presses her mouth to his skin, breathing in the scent of Dutch beer and French cigarettes that envelops her.
"I love you," he murmurs.
"Michael." The giggles overwhelm her this time, and she is breathless now, helpless with laughter. He laughs with her, eyes crinkling at the side despite not understanding the joke. He likes to see her laugh. "You are so drunk," she says.
"I am not."
"You really are." She bites her lip, as his hand travels up her leg, along the inside of her bare thigh. "Way too drunk for what you're thinking about right now."
He licks his lips, and looks offended. "I am never too drunk for that."
"Except for right now," she says, and then lets out a squeal of amusement as abruptly his hands part her thighs, bringing her astride him.
"I'm not," he whispers, his breath hot where it touches her neck. "And I'll prove it."]
[I still blame Michael Shanks.]