Disclaimer: Do I resemble Arthur C. Clarke? Do I look like I own Space Odyssey? No? That's what I through.

Claim: Bowman/Poole. In that order.

Warnings: Obvious slash is obvious. Smut. OOC-ness, though that's quite hard to evade, given the situations. Unbeta-ed, so that means several Grammar/Spelling mistakes.

Musical Recommendation: I belong to you – Muse.

Author's Babblings: [Insert the why to this abomination here.] No, actually, it's at the end.

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Mon Cœur S'ouvre à Ta Voix

Vanilla in Wonderland's Productions

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[[ I can't find the words to say
They're overdue
I've traveled half the world to say
I belong to you. ]]

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Now that he has the time to think carefully about it -and oh god, he does has time- David Bowman can admit to himself that he is positively going insane.

(He can also think of a thousand and one factors to blame this particular fact on.)

Because if it is not because of the isolation in such a relatively small place or the paranoid feeling of being watched and studied by a computer 24/7 or having the hopes of the whole human race on his shoulders or the fact that he has little to no human contact or the distance that separates him from the earth or all the free time he's not used to or the work or the routine or the planets aligned or the stars or gravity or destiny or karma-

He can always blame it on the one and only Frank Poole.

(And that particular way he has of talking.)

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"I miss you so, so, so much, honey-pie. My bed feels so empty without you here. I need you right now…"

The high-pitched voice at the other side of the line barely rings through his ears and the smooth, metal dispositive that pretends to be a cell phone is carelessly fixed across his cheek, the small piece around his ear that keeps it from falling almost coming undone.

David Bowman is thrown across his very small and very single bed –sleeping cocoon, he reminds himself–, shirtless and wet from the attempt at a shower, making calls for as long as he can, before he is too far away from earth and talking in real time with anyone there will be impossible.

(He couldn't care less, through.)

He couldn't care less that this is probably the last time in two years that he is going to hear his girlfriend's voice or that the call had long gone too intimate or the fact that half a hundred people at the Communications Station are probably blushing and very embarrassed at the flirtatious and rather erotic exchange of words or that he is deliberately heading the conversation that way for the sole purpose of bothering HAL with words and intentions the computer cannot fully understand but mostly just to see Poole's reaction.

And there Poole is, in the same reduced room, his back turned to Bowman as he unbuttons the white shirt he was wearing and a pair of earphones on his ears, completely oblivious –was he?– of the conversation the Captain was sustaining.

(He likes to pretend he does not feel the other's heavy gaze all over his back as he slowly slides the cloth down his shoulders and arms.)

Frank turns and there is a smirk somewhere hidden in David's eyes, something of a well-known secret and a growing crave. And it's deep blue against emerald green and dilated pupils and challenging looks.

His low, wry chuckle echoes in the room, eyes still fixed on the other's as he whispers, "What are you wearing, babe?"

No one ever suspected that the heavy breathing and husky voice of Bowman's had nothing to do with his girlfriend's lingerie.

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Ever since he first saw the blond haired man, at that time when he was tested to see if he could endure the Cryogenic sleep, ever since their eyes met when he woke up, his voice calm and soothing, it is always that same unreasonable through that assaults him – and obsessive, egoistic desire to posses the other. That Poole's time and admiration and respect and warmth and smile and love were his. That he –all what Frank Poole was– were his.

Nobody else's.

(He buries this- this human desire as deep as he can, for the sake of the mission but mostly for his own mental health.)

You could say that David Bowman is still a child inside.

A very spoiled and selfish one.

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Ah, Réponds…

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There is closeness and heath and eye contact and breathing and dizziness and low murmurs that no one really pays attention to what they mean but rather to the way they are said.

They end up on Bowman's bed –sleeping cocoon, he reminds himself-, neither really remembering how they got there but that hardly mattering at this moment. Lips are on lips and hands are on shirts and then shirts are off. Then hands are on skin and then -oh god- tongues are on skin and David really cannot stand the terrifying feeling of losing the shattered piece of self-control he still has but he feels like fire is running through his veins and -oh god- he is sure he had never been so hot in his life. He's not certain if Poole feels the same, but the way he is saying nonsense and moaning and groaning as he trails his kisses lower and lower and faster and faster is some indication and he can't help but whisper a low, gasped happy birthday into the other's mouth.

They are probably conscious of HAL's quizzical gaze over them but they are too lost in the moment to care. There is kissing and moaning and begging and teasing and tasting and thrusting and climaxing as they move in sync with the slow pausing of sensual lovemaking.

(There is also the relief of the primal and the need for something they'd through lost for just too much.)

Later, they lie together as comfortably as they can, sharing rough breaths and body heath and languid bites and crooked smiles as they bask in the afterglow of sex.

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Réponds à ma tendresse…

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Somewhere in the hypnagogia -the lap of time between consciousness and falling asleep- Frank Poole feels David Bowman's hands absentmindedly running through his back, and he can't help but shiver.

Frank opens his eyes and looks silently at David's face, observing the way his gaze is lost in the ship's ceiling and he is-

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Smiling.

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Verse-moi, verse-moi l'ivresse…

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When HAL's voice breaks the silence, David is slightly surprised to find out he did not noticed when he fell asleep. He looks down at himself –at the mess he and Poole probably are– and finds green orbs looking up at him, a lazy expression painted on the other's face. It's quite an embarrassing situation for himself and he can't help but feel his face burning –the unpleasant kind of burning– at Poole's deliberate carelessness.

"Um, I-" He is sure the name to describe HAL's tone of voice is awkward. "Am I allowed to ask a –some– questions?"

Bowman turns his head to face the wall, the bright red circle on the other side of the room beginning to get quite unnerving. He is pretty sure what HAL is going to ask about –as if it isn't obvious- but he is not sure whether or not to answer. If he just pretends to ignore the computer, would HAL forget about it?

(Surely not.)

"I… am aware that you humans get uncomfortable when discussing this sort of matters," It is pretty noticeable how he is looking for the right words. "And I would usually look up on the closer internet server to understand the things that haven't been explained to me, thought irrelevant or inappropriate. But since we are very far from our home planet and the contact with any source of information had become obsolete, I-"

David opens his mouth, still not quite sure of how to explain this- this affair, when he hears Frank commenting, somewhat annoyed yet not embarrassed at all, "Just ask, HAL."

"I have found similarities between the, eh, actions you both have just performed and- and intercourse between male and female humans, though I am ninety nine percent sure you are certainly not trying to produce a human baby. I am- I am confused. Is this some sort of practice male humans need so they do not lose their abilities to reproduce? Is- Is there any chance Frank develops and uterus and gives birth to a new human?"

By now, Bowman just wants the earth to open up and eat him. He feels Frank shaking in his arms, and he feels just as confused as HAL –though, he's sure a lot more embarrassed – when he hears the other burst out laughing.

"I hope not, we do not have the installations to take care of it and –what is so funny? – And, are you aware of the consequences of- of using, eh- those parts of your anatomy to practice? And, if it was Dave's turn to practice, when will it be Frank's?"

Poole's voice interrupted HAL's, "Yes, David, when will it be Frank's turn to practice?"

His laugh is melodious, quite infectious, and he begins to smile and then grin and before he notices he cannot help but burst out laughing too until his stomach hurts and HAL is more confused than ever.

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Réponds à ma tendresse… Réponds à ma tendresse…

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Heartbeats.

Now that he has the time to think carefully about it -and oh god, he does has time- David Bowman can admit to himself that what positively keeps him from going completely nuts are heartbeats.

Those heartbeats.

He drags his fingers lazily down and up Poole's back, drawing patterns, and as he closes his eyes and concentrates on the steady breathing and the almost symphonic thump, thump, thump coming from the asleep, warm body laying comfortably on his arms and-

David Bowman hears those heartbeats and he feels alive.

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Ah, Verse-moi l'ivresse…

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He likes to think that it is remarkably pathetic to find out you actually feel something that could possibly be love for someone when that someone has just been killed, but it is the moment in which Poole takes a pod outside the ship to bring in the failed AE-35 unit and as the pod begins moving toward him and as he is killed when his spacesuit is torn, that all the confusion and all the mixed feelings fall into place.

Everything makes sense and for a moment all David wants to do is cry.

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Verse-moi… Verse-moi l'ivresse… Réponds à ma tendresse…

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He feels like he is drowning and the moment he begins arguing with HAL each fiber of his body feels like they are fighting to betray him, to make him just fall down on his knees and break down, the agony giving orders and counter orders, tensing each muscle to the point where he thought they'd tear.

(At this point, dying just sounds like a good idea.)

And for a moment, he really thinks he is dying too.

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Standing alone in a world of darkness blurred and slightly unreal, David Bowman is just David Bowman again, he is just alone with only his troughs for company, he is owner of his heart again and-

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Why? Why did everything have to end this way?

Well, that's because you're very stupid.

He hated himself for being right.

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Réponds à ma tendresse… Ah, Verse-moi l'ivresse.

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Now that he has the time to think carefully about it -and oh god, he does, does, does hastime- David Bowman can admit to himself that he is positively going insane.

Because if it is not because of his current state of greatness and power and if it is not because of what he had just went through and if it was not because of he himself, he could always blame it on Frank Poole and all that he ever made him feel.

He needed a whole life and millions of light-years to figure it out.

But then again, he could always think of something.

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[[ I can't find the words to say
When I'm confused
I traveled half the world to say
You are my muse. ]]

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Author's Babbling:

Please don't lynch me.

I assure you that I'm as confused and distressed as you. Primarily because OH DEAR GOD WHAT THE FUCK?! Yeah, it doesn't make sense to anyone. In my defense, the two guys alone in the freakin' space for half the book made me.

Consider things from my perspective.

You grow up reading books, but when you are a six-to-eleven year old girl, all that catches you attention are novels that deep into people's feelings. You, obviously, develop that strong feeling that people, no matter in what circumstances, do feel. They feel stuff like anger and contentment and love and sadness and no matter what because they're human.

Around twelve you begin getting interested in other kind of books, the ones with real plots and less of anything else, and ta-dah you find out that there's a world full of literature out there. Sure, the main characters may be different, sure, the main plots of those books may have changed. But they're still the lovable people you remember.

It's hard to remember the author barely says anything about how they are feeling about this or that, when your mind is continuously filling those gaps. It's understandable that your picture of the characters, and the way they're feelings can get a little blurry from what the author actually intended.

So… Thoughts? I always believed Dave Bee was a little too obsessive-compulsive. May be just my imagination, but still. Also, wasn't Frankie really nice and cute in the I-don't-really-give-a-damn way?

Anyways, I'd like to know which of the Odyssey books is your favourite? I loved 2001, but just adored 2010. I'm halfway through 2061, but it's just a little boring. Like Clarke was forcing himself to write, rather than doing it because he wanted to. Is 3001 good, or does it just keeps getting worst?

I wrote this before reading 2010, so, when I did read Bowman's little bits, I was like, WTF, Betty-WHO? Someone said that after 2001 they make you hate Dave Bee, and it was so true D:

But I'm in love with Leonov's crew. I had quite the little fangirl moment with the Dimitri/Chandra scenes, and I developed a girl-crush on Tanya. Also Curnow/Katerina and Max/Zenia were love, and Floyd is even cuter than in 2001. In fact, I support anyone aboard Leonov/Floyd…

So, which 2001 character/pairing should I write next? I want to revive the fandom.

Review if you liked, loved, hated or whatever. Everyone who gets the practice joke earns a cookie.

.Vanilla In Wonderland's Productions.

04 - May - 2010