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Entry tags:
fic: 'Lantis, SimonNarim
Disclaimer: Not mine. Spoilers: Letters From Pegasus.
Character: Narim/Simon. Rating: PG.
Notes: Spot the cameos. I'm going to bed.
It really hadn't been his century. At all. Grimacing with distaste, Simon (who had never decided on a last name, not that *she* had seemed to realize that) downed another shot of tequila.
Human women were insane. Ridiculous.
So very hard to understand, and in the end, control.
His first recent failure had been Samantha. Ah, Samantha. Beautiful, wise, intelligent, so very smart and yet so wrong. Perhaps that was where he had gone wrong with her. His over-weening arrogance hadn't allowed him to hide it completely when she spoke of human 'science'. More like children playing with sand, he sneered, accepting another tequila from the bartender.
Not that she'd ever truly understood about him. About what they could have been.
Instead, she'd considered him Narim, a sweet Tollan who just wasn't what she was looking for. No, she much preferred the rugged and oh-so-dumb Colonel O'Neill.
Not that she'd persued him. Narim (now Simon) had kept tabs on her, and she'd never gotten her courage to the sticking point.
Then, of course, there had been a short-lived fling with a federal agent named Kate Todd. That had ended in disaster. Simon was firmly convinced that women with guns were just not his thing and turned to a different avenue. Softer women, diplomats, scientists not associated with the Air Force.
Elizabeth Weir had seemed perfect. She hadn't looked for a facade to see past, and he'd easily fallen for her.
And yet she had lied to him, gone off to some place she couldn't tell him about. And now this. He wondered if human men understood being dumped via video tape. Probably not. Only he was quite that special.
Well, no more. He was going to swear off women completely, and devote his time to, well.. He didn't know what to. But it wouldn't be pleasing them.
"Is this stool taken?" The cool tone of voice didn't even make him turn to look at the woman who'd asked. He just grunted. "Thank you."
Simon waved the bartender over and ordered another tequila before downing the one in front of him.
"You seem to be drinking studiously."
He grunted again. Grunting. Something O'Neill probably did. Or whatever flyboy Elizabeth was now shacked up with (make no doubt, she *was* shacked up, otherwise she wouldn't be telling him goodbye).
"It's a woman, isn't it."
"I hate women," he informed her as his shot arrived. "In fact, I've sworn them off."
"Fabulous." A manicured hand settled on his wrist. "Then I have a proposition for you."
"Did you hear me, I said," Simon turned, intending to tell her to do some things that could only be accomplished with Tollan technology, and froze. She was a goddess. Long blonde hair crowned sweetly classical features. Darkly penciled brows emphasized her deep blue eyes, and carefully glossed lips were parted in a half-smile. "Uh..."
"My name, Simon, or should I call you Narim?" Her hand tightened on his wrist, "Is Emma Frost. And as I said, I have a proposition for you."
His mouth snapped closed. "Ok."
She smiled serenely. "Very good." Her fingers released him, "I suspect you'll make a very good pet."
-f-
Character: Narim/Simon. Rating: PG.
Notes: Spot the cameos. I'm going to bed.
It really hadn't been his century. At all. Grimacing with distaste, Simon (who had never decided on a last name, not that *she* had seemed to realize that) downed another shot of tequila.
Human women were insane. Ridiculous.
So very hard to understand, and in the end, control.
His first recent failure had been Samantha. Ah, Samantha. Beautiful, wise, intelligent, so very smart and yet so wrong. Perhaps that was where he had gone wrong with her. His over-weening arrogance hadn't allowed him to hide it completely when she spoke of human 'science'. More like children playing with sand, he sneered, accepting another tequila from the bartender.
Not that she'd ever truly understood about him. About what they could have been.
Instead, she'd considered him Narim, a sweet Tollan who just wasn't what she was looking for. No, she much preferred the rugged and oh-so-dumb Colonel O'Neill.
Not that she'd persued him. Narim (now Simon) had kept tabs on her, and she'd never gotten her courage to the sticking point.
Then, of course, there had been a short-lived fling with a federal agent named Kate Todd. That had ended in disaster. Simon was firmly convinced that women with guns were just not his thing and turned to a different avenue. Softer women, diplomats, scientists not associated with the Air Force.
Elizabeth Weir had seemed perfect. She hadn't looked for a facade to see past, and he'd easily fallen for her.
And yet she had lied to him, gone off to some place she couldn't tell him about. And now this. He wondered if human men understood being dumped via video tape. Probably not. Only he was quite that special.
Well, no more. He was going to swear off women completely, and devote his time to, well.. He didn't know what to. But it wouldn't be pleasing them.
"Is this stool taken?" The cool tone of voice didn't even make him turn to look at the woman who'd asked. He just grunted. "Thank you."
Simon waved the bartender over and ordered another tequila before downing the one in front of him.
"You seem to be drinking studiously."
He grunted again. Grunting. Something O'Neill probably did. Or whatever flyboy Elizabeth was now shacked up with (make no doubt, she *was* shacked up, otherwise she wouldn't be telling him goodbye).
"It's a woman, isn't it."
"I hate women," he informed her as his shot arrived. "In fact, I've sworn them off."
"Fabulous." A manicured hand settled on his wrist. "Then I have a proposition for you."
"Did you hear me, I said," Simon turned, intending to tell her to do some things that could only be accomplished with Tollan technology, and froze. She was a goddess. Long blonde hair crowned sweetly classical features. Darkly penciled brows emphasized her deep blue eyes, and carefully glossed lips were parted in a half-smile. "Uh..."
"My name, Simon, or should I call you Narim?" Her hand tightened on his wrist, "Is Emma Frost. And as I said, I have a proposition for you."
His mouth snapped closed. "Ok."
She smiled serenely. "Very good." Her fingers released him, "I suspect you'll make a very good pet."
-f-
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