It's an update! Theoretically set three years after BIOTP.
WARNING: This chapter contains Pence, aka Peter/Vince slash. You have been warned.
Merry Christmas, WtchCool.
Un-beta'ed, as always.
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Chapter Two: Tis the Season...
Very few people were privy to what went on behind closed doors in the Fleming-Faraday home. Even though the two men had been married for nearly three years, information on their private life was surprisingly scarce. Vince Faraday was rather notorious in reporting circles for his dislike of the press (especially so since Scales had been released from prison last year, due to a reporter who was no longer employable in Palm City); his partner had the money to back that dislike up.
If any of the reporters who camped out in the vicinity of ARK Towers these days, praying for a tidbit from Palm City's "royal family", were privy to what happened in the penthouse during the holidays, they would have made a fortune. (And been promptly contacted by ARK's legal department, but that wasn't the point.)
Vince Faraday (or Fleming, depending on which man was asked) had the flu. The former police officer was rather miserable, as one—it was Christmas, and two—his son, now thirteen and moody, was visiting. His partner wasn't helping matters any.
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"You're sick again," Peter observed, leaning against the doorjamb. There was a mug of hot tea in his hands, and he appeared quite smug. Vince sneezed loudly from inside his blanket-cocoon, as if to prove the older man right.
"Shut up Fleming," Vince growled, before sneezing again. He had no idea what had caused this bout of flu, and it was making him cranky. The vigilante wished, not for the first time, that he could simply immolate the smug man by sheer willpower. Yes, he had the flu, but that didn't mean his beloved husband had to rub it in.
"Need I remind you," Peter replied lightly as he sat down next to his partner, "that we have shared the same name for the last three years?" Vince grumbled something rude under his breath as his blanket shifted, letting in the cold air of the penthouse.
"That wasn't very polite, darling," Peter admonished the former police officer. "I do seem to recall that you were the one who insisted on running around the city in that get-up of yours, night after night." He smiled teasingly at Vince, who glowered back. The dark look was somewhat ruined by the subsequent sneeze and another bout of coughing.
"Go away," Vince finally mumbled, flopping back against the mattress. This was one thing he really hated about his life: When he got sick, he got really sick. There was no middle ground, or even a gentle end of the spectrum; he simply got sick. Having the Ebola virus might have been a walk in the park, compared to the flu.
"No," Peter replied with a smile. "I don't think I will." He set the steaming mug of tea on the bedside table close to Vince, before resting his hand on the younger man's forehead. He tsked mentally and made a note to call in their doctor. He could probably cook an egg on his husband's forehead if he wanted to, at this point.
You could always let him die, you know, Chess muttered in the back of Peter's mind. Peter sighed and rubbed his temples, doing his best to ignore the homicidal maniac. Despite his best hopes, Vince had found out about the homicidal maniac; hopefully, in his fevered state, he wouldn't guess what was going on. Peter's wish was rewarded almost immediately.
"Don' ge' sick too," Vince slurred, looking up at Peter with concern. "Jamie'll kill us if we both end up with the flu."
Peter looked at his husband of three years for a few seconds before he burst into laughter. "Vince," he said after a few minutes, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes, "I do believe being sick suits you. Your sense of humor is improving." The billionaire leaned over and pressed a gentle kiss to Vince's forehead.
Vince made a rude gesture, ruining the moment. Peter sighed and stood up.
"Get some sleep Vince," he said gently, placing another gentle kiss on the younger man's forehead. Vince mumbled something sleepily under his breath, and was asleep before Peter left the room.
Half an hour later, Peter re-entered the room. Vince was sitting up and attempting to drink the mug of lukewarm tea and pull his socks on at the same time. Peter sighed as he watched the younger man struggle with his tasks. Vince was so stubborn sometimes…
Just drug him and put us both out of our misery Chess said, vanishing before Peter had even registered that the maniac had been there.
"Vince," Peter said reproachfully, "What are you doing?" Vince looked up at him, an innocent smile on his face.
"Getting up," Vince replied, as if that explained everything. "It's Christmas, and—"
"The city will be quite safe, dear," Peter said, striding over to the bed. "And you are going back to sleep, even if I have to make sure you do." To emphasize his point, the billionaire crawled into the bed next to his partner.
Vince grumbled sleepily as Peter's arms encircled him, but quieted down in seconds.
"Merry Christmas Vince," Peter whispered into Vince's ear.
His partner was asleep, but a small smile curled around the former vigilante's lips all the same.
Neither of them really cared that their respective children were still in the penthouse's living room, no doubt planning to use their combined resources to take over the world. Or, in Jamie's case, teaching her step-brother how to use a point-and-shoot camera to gather blackmail material for next Christmas.
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So, what did you think? Good? Bad? Not enough romance between Peter and Vince? Drop a line and let me know!