Title: Reason or Rhyme

Disclaimer: The characters in this story do not belong to me, but to the amazing Hilari Bell.

Warning: Slash, as per usual.

I'm trying to finish another full story, but in the meantime, have a pointless drabble.


"We're going to need more saddle oil," Fisk is saying, while he unpacks a sweaty Tipple.

The numbers are running through his head as he considers how much money they have left, how many other supplies need replenishing, just how long they can go without another meal. He barely registers Michael stalking up behind him.

A hand grabs Fisk roughly to spin him around and he manages a slightly snappy, "Michael, what—", before a pair of lips cut him off.

Michael kisses like he does everything else, wholeheartedly and without regard to social norms. Fisk hasn't had a lot of practice to be sure, but he always saw kissing as some chaste exchange between husband and wife or an all out buffet as an excited boy tries to devour his hired lover. With Michael it's somehow less and so much, much more.

"Now?" Fisk rasps out, trying to decipher how any part of their current predicament could be taken as romantic. The two of them are slick with grime from a long day of riding, both as exhausted as their mounts. Fisk hasn't eaten in a day and a half, Michael slightly longer, and the cold nip of winter is settling in, making the ground an intolerable bed. They're running low on every imaginable supply, they're bruised and beaten by the strenuous journey, and they haven't seen another human being in days.

This is the time that Michael decides to kiss him.

"Unless you have an actual protest," Michael says, voice a rough growl that does something to Fisk's insides, "then maybe your mouth could be put to better use."

It's hard to argue with logic like that.