TITLE: Under protest

AUTHOR: Demon Faith

FANDOMS: Stargate: Atlantis and Bridget Jones’ Diary

PAIRING: Carson Beckett/Mark Darcy

RATING: PG-13

WARNINGS: Sexual implications

SPOILERS: Nothing specific for either, not a single reference to BJD2

NOTES: So, it’s December 23rd and I’m finally sitting down to write this. Hence, it’s rather short and lacking, but I felt obliged to write something.

 

 

It was just one of those things. Rallies always presented opportunity, which unfortunately did more harm to the movement than the actual rally did good. It wasn’t why he’d come, not at all. He was settling into his new job, making his mark in the firm and he really shouldn’t be there.

 

It could ruin his career forever, but then the stigma ruled his life more than he’d like, and that’s what drew him to the gaily coloured banners and chanting men and women, demanding equality, tolerance, justice.

 

They collided by accident, the rally as always producing close quarters and the inevitable crush of bodies. The man had just smiled, bright blue eyes flashing and a smile reminding why he didn’t deny himself anymore. It was hard to make introductions in the middle of the wave of protest, but he didn’t really leave the man’s side, ears tracing the Scot’s accent through the crowd as they moved.

 

It was that same voice that called to him across the club, the traditional celebration that bitterly reminded them that the only obvious victory was that most of them had escaped unscathed. He didn’t want to be a cynical lawyer but the world seemed determined to make him so. The pleasantly rounded face had smiled, offered a drink and they had settled into a secluded corner, barely talking, just watching.

 

The first touch was a jolting reminder of where he was, what this man could give, but the hand retreated, a deep breath drawn.

 

“Talk to me,” the voice murmured, and he felt compelled to oblige.

 

He talked of his work, his family, inane details that meant nothing but made the man smile again, and he clutched at that beautiful sight for all he was worth.

 

The favour was returned in kind – Carson, a doctor, a small town near Glasgow he could call home. Down for the protest, leaving tomorrow: the signal for no strings, no fear of consequences. He was almost disappointed.

 

They left together, the ritual complete. You needed rules, borders, or else it could overtake your life. No nameless, faceless gropes in the dark – a name, a personality, a beautiful smile.

 

He had a hotel room, of course, and there was polite comment before the voodoo and bewitchment began. A slow dance under soft sheets, the growl of that voice murmuring his name, imploring, begging, worshipping. Gentle physician’s hand turned rough and demanding, beautiful smiling mouth put to sinful uses, driving mad with the ecstasy.

 

Carson stayed with the dawn, that was a surprise. They said their goodbyes like gentlemen, civil and formal in the lobby as if their business meeting had gone well and they hoped to conduct further trade in the future. At the last minute, the charade was broken, Carson drawing him into his arms like a friend, a lover, and telling him thank you.

 

Telling himself if was just ‘one of those things’ was a lie really, but he liked it. It made the memory ache less, let it smoulder instead, and then he was content to hide for another season in the law and await the next rally, and perhaps a glimpse of a beautiful smile.