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st_aurafinaTitle: The Pride of St George
Fandom: Sanctuary
Rating: G
Words: 630
Characters/Pairings: Declan MacRae, James Watson
Summary: Declan is still settling in at the Sanctuary, and he doesn't want to upset the old guard.
Notes: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
fandom_stocking
"Do you mind if I take this Saturday off to go to Pride? I promised a mate I'd help keep an eye on his twins." Declan made a face. "His husband's going to be marching with a group of bankers."
Watson's face had the circumspect expression that Declan was still learning to decipher. For a moment, he felt doubt. He'd been very clear about his sexuality when he accepted the job: with an employer from the Victorian age, it seemed only sensible to be frank about it. He loved this job, but he wasn't going back in the closet to keep it.
Then Watson merely nodded and pencilled the date into the complicated roster he insisted on keeping longhand.
Late on Saturday night, Declan staggered back into through the front doors, shirtless and barely able to raise his arm to punch in his security code. Watson padded softly down the stairs, drawn no doubt by the number of errors Declan had typed into the number pad.
"I'm not drunk," said Declan, hurriedly. He moved stiffly towards the stairs. "I'm just really bloody sunburned." He turned around, showed Watson the Union Jack painted across his back. "I don't think this paint is much use as sunscreen."
Watson reached out and poked experimentally at the centre of the painted flag. "That's oil-based. You'll need something more than soap to remove it. And you should remove it, because the skin is beginning to blister."
Declan leaned against the bannister, miserable, dehydrated and angry. "That bastard. After I wrangled his kids all day."
Watson reached out a hand to pat his shoulder, then thought the better of it. "Come down to the infirmary, I can help clean it off and we can get some ORS into you."
In the infirmary, Declan sat on a bed and hissed every time Watson swiped an tender patch of skin.
"Drink your rehydration solution, and stop wriggling," said Watson, but he moved the swab more gently. "Tell me about your friend."
"Why? You've already run a background check." said Declan, with a surlier tone than he had intended. But the ORS was really disgusting: who the hell flavours anything with blackcurrant?
Watson didn't deny it. "A background check doesn't tell me everything," he said, mildly. "Why does he take his children to a protest march?"
Declan frowned and sipped the hideous purple fluid. "Pride's a more of a party than a protest, these days, anyway. People want to bring their families, and have a good time, and just be there. Visibility is a kind of protest, too."
Watson made a huffing noise. Declan risked the pain to look over his shoulder, and saw that Watson was chuckling softly to himself. He caught Declan looking and gave a wry smile. "Sometimes time catches up with me in unexpected ways. I'm glad you and your friend had fun. Visibility is a good thing. "
He held up a mirror, so that Declan could see his back. "Except in this case. Unlike the blue and white, the red pigment was not UV opaque: you've burned the Crosses of St George and St Patrick onto your back."
He took off his gloves and disposed of them and the swabs in the biohazard bin, then leaned on the bed opposite and looked pointedly at the cup of ORS in Declan's hand. Declan hurriedly took another mouthful.
"I am very glad to have you here," said Watson. "I don't want you to think I disapprove in any way of your lifestyle or choices. I need to remember that the old knights must pass the lance along, if we're going to keep fighting dragons in the future."
Declan sipped his ORS and nodded. Hopefully this was a metaphor, but in the Sanctuary, you could never be completely certain.
Fandom: Sanctuary
Rating: G
Words: 630
Characters/Pairings: Declan MacRae, James Watson
Summary: Declan is still settling in at the Sanctuary, and he doesn't want to upset the old guard.
Notes: Written for
fandom_stocking"Do you mind if I take this Saturday off to go to Pride? I promised a mate I'd help keep an eye on his twins." Declan made a face. "His husband's going to be marching with a group of bankers."
Watson's face had the circumspect expression that Declan was still learning to decipher. For a moment, he felt doubt. He'd been very clear about his sexuality when he accepted the job: with an employer from the Victorian age, it seemed only sensible to be frank about it. He loved this job, but he wasn't going back in the closet to keep it.
Then Watson merely nodded and pencilled the date into the complicated roster he insisted on keeping longhand.
Late on Saturday night, Declan staggered back into through the front doors, shirtless and barely able to raise his arm to punch in his security code. Watson padded softly down the stairs, drawn no doubt by the number of errors Declan had typed into the number pad.
"I'm not drunk," said Declan, hurriedly. He moved stiffly towards the stairs. "I'm just really bloody sunburned." He turned around, showed Watson the Union Jack painted across his back. "I don't think this paint is much use as sunscreen."
Watson reached out and poked experimentally at the centre of the painted flag. "That's oil-based. You'll need something more than soap to remove it. And you should remove it, because the skin is beginning to blister."
Declan leaned against the bannister, miserable, dehydrated and angry. "That bastard. After I wrangled his kids all day."
Watson reached out a hand to pat his shoulder, then thought the better of it. "Come down to the infirmary, I can help clean it off and we can get some ORS into you."
In the infirmary, Declan sat on a bed and hissed every time Watson swiped an tender patch of skin.
"Drink your rehydration solution, and stop wriggling," said Watson, but he moved the swab more gently. "Tell me about your friend."
"Why? You've already run a background check." said Declan, with a surlier tone than he had intended. But the ORS was really disgusting: who the hell flavours anything with blackcurrant?
Watson didn't deny it. "A background check doesn't tell me everything," he said, mildly. "Why does he take his children to a protest march?"
Declan frowned and sipped the hideous purple fluid. "Pride's a more of a party than a protest, these days, anyway. People want to bring their families, and have a good time, and just be there. Visibility is a kind of protest, too."
Watson made a huffing noise. Declan risked the pain to look over his shoulder, and saw that Watson was chuckling softly to himself. He caught Declan looking and gave a wry smile. "Sometimes time catches up with me in unexpected ways. I'm glad you and your friend had fun. Visibility is a good thing. "
He held up a mirror, so that Declan could see his back. "Except in this case. Unlike the blue and white, the red pigment was not UV opaque: you've burned the Crosses of St George and St Patrick onto your back."
He took off his gloves and disposed of them and the swabs in the biohazard bin, then leaned on the bed opposite and looked pointedly at the cup of ORS in Declan's hand. Declan hurriedly took another mouthful.
"I am very glad to have you here," said Watson. "I don't want you to think I disapprove in any way of your lifestyle or choices. I need to remember that the old knights must pass the lance along, if we're going to keep fighting dragons in the future."
Declan sipped his ORS and nodded. Hopefully this was a metaphor, but in the Sanctuary, you could never be completely certain.
no subject
Date: 2012-01-09 11:18 am (UTC)Definitely more dragons. Especially where we've already got the mythological kind, like the UK.