Warnings: crack because I don't write much else, I guess; Cain/Abel; mentions of Abel/Praxis; mentions of Deimos/Praxis; infidelity or open relationships, take your pick; Abel has an overinflated opinion of himself (as does Cain); mentions of drug usage; overbearing parents.

Notes: Fanon, come to my embrace! Cain's name is Sacha/Alexander, and the gossipy elevator guy is Athos.

Abel and the Mystery of the Missing 19th Century Russian Novel from Deimos' Footlocker

It was a dark and stormy night back on Earth at his parents' home. Through the window behind his parents where they sat in his father's study, Abel could see the trees swaying in the wind as lightning briefly illuminated the backyard.

"We'd better say goodbye in case the power goes out, darling. Tell your, um, tell Alexander we said hi. Send us a video back the first chance you get," his mother said, ending a lengthy monologue with all the latest gossip on family and friends.

"By the way," his father interjected quickly, "do you remember the Rodriguez's son? He's a doctor now, very successful. I gave him your email address—"

Abel closed the video message, absolutely not interested in whatever oncologist or ophthalmologist or neurologist his father was throwing at him now. Ever since he had sent a message home in which he bravely came out and identified his flight partner as his boyfriend (which was simpler than trying to explain his unconventional relationship with Cain), his father had been frantically trying to convince him to correspond with all manner of doctors, lawyers, investment bankers, bioengineers, astrophysicists, poets laureate—in short, any gay man more palatable than Cain. While he was pleasantly surprised that his parents had reacted well to his coming out, Abel was not eager for their input in his love life.

Cain burst into their quarters, energized from the fighters' morning training. "Hey, princess, put that shit away. Got something more important for you to work on."

They jerked each other off while making out and went to their afternoon shifts in high spirits.

Abel blew bubbles through a straw into a little box of protein beverage he had swiped from the mess. He swiveled around in his chair until he got dizzy and then propelled it in the opposite direction. He had been productive, but his shift was almost over and now he was bored.

"Psst," he heard from behind his workstation, and he caught glimpses of Deimos hovering nearby as he spun around.

Abel frowned bemusedly and slowed the chair. "What?"

Deimos beckoned to him, glanced around furtively, and beckoned again.

"I'm supposed to be working," Abel told him.

Deimos raised his eyebrows and made a strange face that probably meant, "You're supposed to, but you aren't. Come on, follow me. This is important."

Abel figured he had made enough progress for the day and wouldn't be missed for a little while. "Okay, fine. Lead on." He got to his feet, waited a moment for the world to stop spinning and tilting, and followed Deimos out of the lab.

Deimos took him a short ways down the corridor to a maintenance closet and gestured for Abel to enter ahead of him. Abel stepped back with a firm shake of his head. "Oh, no. No, I'm not interested. You're cute and all, but I'm happy with Cain and also a little bit of Praxis on the side."

Deimos shrugged his shoulders, Abel relaxed, and suddenly Deimos tried to shove Abel inside the closet anyway. They scuffled in the hall until Deimos caught Abel unawares with strategic hair-pulling and tripped him into the closet. Deimos pulled the door shut and fumbled for the light switch, while Abel readied himself for another round. "Bring it, Deimos! I can pull your hair just as hard and I'll tell Cain everything and you'll be in such big trouble!"

"Shut up," Deimos rasped, rubbing his side where Abel had kneed him. "That's not why I brought you here."

"You don't want to have sex with me?" Abel was affronted on principle.

Deimos gave him a withering look. "No, Abel, not everyone wants to have sex with you."

"Well, you're the exception."

"Shut up," Deimos said again. "Come over here. This is wearing out my voice."

Abel warily stood next to him and let Deimos speak lowly into his ear. "You solved crimes as a hobby while growing up, right?"

Abel was surprised Deimos knew of this fascinating and hitherto generally unknown tidbit about his adolescence. "Yes, I did crack a case or three in the manner of the Hardy Boys or Nancy Drew, except I was clever enough that I didn't need a brother or sidekicks to drag along. How did you know?"

"I know people who know people," Deimos said evasively. "I have a case for you to solve."

Abel tensed eagerly and wished he had the striking black fedora he had always worn when sleuthing. "Tell me more."

"A book of mine was stolen two weeks ago."

"What book?"

"The Brothers Karamazov."

"Are you sure you didn't misplace it?"

"It's enormous. How could I misplace it?"

Abel narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. "Enormous like Praxis' prick? That sort of enormous?"

Deimos frowned a little. "They are comparable, yes…"

Abel nodded. "That's quite a book. I think I read it in school. It was really long and hard."

Deimos gave him a weary look, so Abel dispensed with the dick jokes. "Where did you last see it?"

"It was in my footlocker. I was looking for something else, but I remember seeing it."

"Who else has had access to the footlocker recently?" Abel instinctively reached up to tilt his fedora at a more rakish angle, but recalled he didn't have it. Maybe his parents could send it to him.

"Well, Cain keeps a stash of cigarettes there, so he knows the combination. And a month ago I opened it so that my navigator and I could get out some stuff for…uh…"

Abel stared down Deimos with as stern an expression as he could manage. "If you don't tell me everything, I can't promise any results from my investigation."

Deimos folded his arms sullenly. "We were just getting out my pedicure set. But that's not relevant."

Abel knew the value of caring for one's feet (although he thought a pedicure itself was not strictly necessary), so he carefully maintained a blank expression. "And did your navigator see the combination?"

"I don't know. I don't think so."

"Is there anyone you suspect of stealing it?"

Deimos nodded eagerly and whispered in Abel's ear: "Cain!"

Abel raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Why do you think he stole it?"

"He…really likes nineteenth century Russian literature," Deimos offered.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"That's odd, because I've only ever seen him read nineteenth century French literature. And any-century porn."

Abel and Deimos eyed each other for a moment. Deimos shrugged.

"Okay," Abel agreed, finally. "I'll take the case."

Deimos was visibly relieved. "So, you'll let me know if you find it?"

"Absolutely. But first I'll need to examine the scene of the crime."

Deimos stood uncomfortably close to Abel as they stared down into the footlocker. A few clothes, a couple worn books, Cain's cigarettes, the pedicure kit and a bottle of clear nail varnish…Deimos' footlocker was decidedly ordinary, without so much as a bloody handprint or a ransom note.

"Wait!" exclaimed Abel, catching sight of a gleaming object stuffed inside a sock.

"That's one of my knives," Deimos said, pushing his hand away.

"Oh." Abel was disappointed, but the case would go on. "Well, I guess I'll dust for fingerprints—"

"What, and get powder all over my stuff? No way. Just go search Cain's footlocker. I bet you can crack the combination, since you're so smart," Deimos flattered him.

Abel turned pink with pleasure. "I will investigate all suspects thoroughly," he declared. "Never fear, Deimos. I'll find your book."

Taking leave of Deimos, Abel went to back to his workstation and paced thoughtfully. His sleuthing instincts told him that Cain had probably filched the book for whatever reason. He was often passive-aggressive with Deimos. If they had had an argument recently, Cain might have stolen the book to spite him.

But it wouldn't be fair to ignore Deimos' navigator, that Athos and his stupid hair and stupider face. Indeed, Athos was just as likely a suspect, what with his beady little eyes and pointy rat-like nose and that little flounce in his step that made Abel want to smash his kneecaps.

Snotty Athos had once claimed to have read War and Peace in the original Russian at age three with one arm tied behind his back while blindfolded. If he had conquered Tolstoy, then he would certainly see Dostoevsky as a worthy, even irresistible challenge. Yes, arrogant Athos seemed ever more suspicious.

And there was yet another possible motive. Abel had also witnessed in the showers that Athos' weenie was smaller than average. Maybe he wanted the book that was commensurate with the size of Praxis' dick to compensate (somehow).

Another revelation struck Abel: Athos had utterly hideous feet. Abel had seen Athos barefoot many times in the showers after physical training, and those feet had certainly never been within a mile of a pedicurist. It appeared to Abel very strange that Athos was suddenly interested in buffing his toenails—with Deimos, no less! Surely Athos had used Deimos' enthusiasm for foot care to learn the combination to the footlocker.

Yes. It was all becoming clearer. Abel would launch his investigation, and Athos would soon enough have a rendezvous with justice.

Abel shadowed Athos through their evening physical training and into the showers. He got an eyeful of Athos' thingy, glanced down at his own better-than-average dick, and was glad he would never have to resort to stealing hefty books to compensate for any lacking in that department.

But then he heard another navigator joke about Athos' dick, in a friendly manner, and Athos replied with like affability: "Mine might be smaller than yours, but it's as shapely as Michelangelo's David's. Wouldn't have it any other way!"

Abel was dismayed to hear Athos reveal such confidence in his modest endowment. His suspicion that Athos had stolen the book for compensatory purposes crumbled. All that remained was Athos' natural evilness and his toes. Were they polished or not?

In the steam of the showers, it was difficult to see Athos' feet. Feeling frustrated and rather creepy, Abel stayed close to Athos as they washed and promptly followed him when he made to leave.

"Halt!" Abel cried, blocking Athos from reaching the lockers. If Athos put on his socks, all would be lost.

"What the fuck is up with you?" Athos spat at him.

"Show me your feet, you pig-faced nincompoop," Abel commanded him.

Athos' expression was odd. It was obvious to Abel that guilt cast this strange pallor over him.

Taking advantage of Athos' state of confusion, Abel pushed him down on a bench and stooped to look at his feet. And he was stunned to find…

"You've had a pedicure!"

Athos shrugged. "Yeah, my fighter showed me how to do it. What's the big deal? Never thought to give your stinky feet some tender loving care, fart-breath?"

With that, Athos kicked Abel in the face and went on his merry way.

Abel scrubbed his face until the skin was new and tender, but he still shuddered to think that Athos' nasty pedicured foot had actually touched him. What disturbed him almost as much was that Athos really had done his toes with Deimos. Abel's clever deductions were falling apart. When Deimos opened the footlocker, had Athos only been interested in a pedicure after all?

Could it be possible that Deimos was correct? Was Cain the thief?

Abel considered breaking into Athos' footlocker, just to be sure, but did not relish risking another encounter so soon. He would check Cain's footlocker and search their quarters first. Just a formality, of course.

He stood in front of Cain's footlocker and tapped his foot. Abel lacked much of the information he usually used for password and code-cracking, such as birthdays of family members and address numbers. This undertaking was truly a challenge.

He crouched and keyed in 1234. The locker beeped twice and remained locked.

4321, 1379, and 2468 likewise were incorrect. Abel scratched his head.

"Surely not," he mused, but he tried the default combination anyway: 1111.

The footlocker opened.

"Wow, really, Cain?" he muttered, and squinted at the contents. Cain's clothes were folded neatly to one side, and the rest of the locker's contents were a jumble. Trying to move items as little as possible, Abel sifted through bottles of hair gel, tubes of lubricant, birthday cards, novels by Alexandre Dumas, porn in various formats, vodka, and cigarettes. The Brothers Karamazov was nowhere to be seen.

Abel shut the locker and clambered to his feet. The best hiding place was not the most obvious, of course. Knowing he had less than half an hour before Cain returned from his own evening training, Abel frantically searched in and behind their chest of drawers, under the bedding spread across the floor, the cabinet under the bathroom sink, the laundry hamper, and even the toilet tank (just in case). His efforts were for naught, however, and Abel ended up right back where he started, now red in the face from bending over to stick his head inside the cabinet.

He tugged at his uniform collar, his face still too warm, and went to turn on the fan. "Not that it'll do any good," he muttered. "Stupid thing doesn't even work."

And then he knew the answer. "The air vent. Damn it, Cain!" Abel groaned. "No wonder it's been so stuffy in here lately. For fuck's sake, who hides a book in an air vent?"

He pried the grating from the wall and removed the book that filled half of the recess. The cover suffered under a layer of dust, indicating that Cain had hidden it soon after the theft, which seemed to confirm Abel's suspicion that Cain had committed the crime to spite Deimos after an argument. Abel wiped away the dust and admired the faded gold designs stamped on the leather binding. (Presumably it was The Brothers Karamazov, but he could not read Cyrillic letters.)

"Well, Athos, you're off the hook…this time!" he said aloud, dramatically. He jammed the grating back into place and left to find Deimos.

"Is this your book?" victorious Abel asked the moment Deimos opened the door to his quarters. (To Abel's private relief, Athos was not present.)

"Yeah, great, thanks," Deimos said, holding out his hand expectantly.

"Cain put it in the air vent. He's so weird. It's a nice book," Abel said conversationally. "I like the marbled edges. What edition is it?" He flipped it open, and… "The mystery deepens!" he cried. "This is a hollow book."

Deimos tried to look surprised. "Amazing!"

"How could you possibly have not noticed?" Abel wondered incredulously. "Why, you must be as dumb as a rock. No wonder Cain likes me more than you."

Deimos tried to look like he wasn't thinking about punching Abel in the mouth.

"Did you really try to read it? Did you wonder why the pages wouldn't turn and why there was a big hole where the rest of the story should have been? Did—ow, fuck!"

Deimos tried to look contrite. "Sorry, my fist slipped."

Abel carefully felt his teeth to make sure they were all intact. "Uh, anyway, I'll continue with my investigation."

"But it's finished," Deimos said after a pause. "You found my book."

"But it's hollow, and something used to be in it!" Abel deduced. "I'm going to find out what happened to the contents."

"That won't be necessary—"

"I never leave a crime unsolved!"

"No, really—"

"The thief will be apprehended by yours truly—"

"It was cough syrup, okay?!" Deimos snapped.

"What?"

"I was keeping cough syrup in the hollow book. Cain obviously used it up, probably traded it to other fighters for cigs, so don't bother looking for it," Deimos ground out.

Abel snorted. "Why would you hide your cough syrup?"

"It's pretty potent. They put stuff in it on colony outposts that isn't legal elsewhere," Deimos grumbled.

"What sort of stuff?"

"I don't know, some opiate. Not that it matters anymore now that Cain squandered my stash," he muttered sulkily.

Abel realized then that Deimos had known who stole the book (and its contents) and why all along. Nevertheless, he, Abel, had performed exceptional detective work. "Case closed," Abel decided. "Another success to add to my sterling record."

"Isn't that fucking great," Deimos chimed in snarkily.

Abel made a triumphant return to his quarters that evening, eager to open the old journal in which he had recorded all his cases and make a new entry—his very first mystery solved in outer space, and what a strange one! And then he had to record a message to his parents asking them to send his fedora, so that he would be ready for future mysteries. But Cain was waiting for him with a thunderous expression, and Abel knew there wouldn't be time for journaling yet.

"Guess what I found on the computer," Cain growled, looking much more dangerous than sexy.

"Porn?" Abel hazarded.

"A message from some endocrinologist named Jaime, inviting you to visit his family's vacation condo on Mykonos when you're next on leave. Ring any bells, princess?"

Abel winced. "Oh, he's a guy my parents know. They want me to, um, meet him. But I'm not interested," he asserted flatly.

His confidence restored, Cain relaxed his belligerent stance and scoffed, "Of course. Why would you be when you know no one will ever measure up to me?"

Abel was about to point out that while Cain had superior technique, Praxis was bigger, but decided to postpone that discussion. "Um, you didn't reply to the message, did you?" he asked instead.

"Don't worry, baby. I sent him a picture of you picking your nose and he's not interested either anymore."

Abel scowled. "I do not pick my nose!"

"I had Deimos alter a photo. Looks pretty fucking good. He even added a beer gut, splotchy complexion, and patchy five o'clock shadow. Want to see?"

"No," snarled Abel.

"Fine. Let's fuck."

"Not in the mood."

"Come on, baby, my dick is lonely…"

"Last time I checked, you have two hands to keep it company," Abel snapped.

"I'll rim you and suck you," Cain wheedled, but Abel flipped him off and went to find Deimos again, who needed a punch in the mouth of his own.

The end.

Another note: "My dick is lonely" was inspired by "my cock is cold" from the touching and hilarious fic Belated by tjnstlouismo. Oh, Cain.