Confection

A/N: Random spur of the moment fluff!fic that came to me at a decidedly unrestful hour, IE: Seven in the morning. Every so often I have to offer a fluff fic to the writing gods, or else my productivity gears get jammed. Sigh.

Keep in mind. Nel-plus-PMS-equals-much-channeling-of-Albel.

Warnings: Implied sex. Heterosexual sex, that is. If this offends or scares you, or you think me a close-minded fop, I advise you run away. Heavy on the OoCness (although if it makes you feel better, you could consider it an AU sequel to my story Halo, as this is approximately how I imagine them being by the end of that arc) and on utter incomprehensibility. Have fun.

-

It was like I woke up with a deathwish. I don't really know why, or what started it, all I know is that eight in the morning rolled around, I kinda flopped and tossed and turned and eventually fell out of bed and a little light bulb went off in my head--see? Ding! And this little light bulb staunchly informed me that yes, today would be the day I would wreak irrevocable havoc on every one and everything I knew.

Well, at least the ones that weren't overly dangerous. You see. Had I done something like this to Mirage, on one of her 'days', I probably would have been summarily dismembered and my remaining parts scattered graciously to some third world country that promotes cannibalism on a regular basis. So I don't bother Mirage. Maria is much the same way, only I think her version would involve a gun in a very compromising location.

Nel, however...well let's just say I was curious.

Well. I reiterate: Woke up. Death wish. All is not well in the known universe.

And so what did I do?

I stole her cookies. Of course, it was a dare, so it wasn't entirely without prompting, but hey.

Let me tell you. When a woman is PMSing...never...ever steal her cache of candy.

Things get bloo--...wrong word choice. Wrong. Ahem, so. Things get VIOLENT. Yes, violent.

Very violent.

...Very fast.

-

"I'm going to kill him." It was really the only thing she could say, circumstances considered. And so the legendary Nel Zelpher, savior of the known universe, nefarious crimson blade and all-around 'sca-ree' lady, set off to slay a monster. Well, technically he wasn't a monster, but things were sure shaping up to paint Cliff Fittir in such a light. And when she got her hands on him--let's just say things wouldn't be pretty.

"Can I help?" The question was asked idly, without any real consideration for the consequences thereof. But hey. Death, maimage, pain. The world couldn't have produced any vintage more sweet. And if there was one thing that Albel the Wicked excelled at, it was All Things Baddass. Suffice to say, this often includes any of the following: torture, taunting-of-goodguys, sadism, masochism...you name it, it's likely he can do it, or has done it, or has no qualms about doing it to others, or has had it done to himself.

Nel eyed him with a glare that bespoke a death most painful if he persisted on pestering her. As he was well accustomed to such things, he merely shrugged and settled a hand on his katana. After a moment, she sighed. "You don't even know who I'm going to kill. Or," she added darkly. "Why."

Albel held up a hand--his good one-- and began ticking off fingers. "Lasselle, because he is a jackass. Cliff, because he is a sublimely incompetent moron. Fayt, because he is an innocuous maggot. Adray because he's been reading your diary...Roger because he's been going through your lingerie..."

"Or you. Because you're being irritating."

"Well, there is that," he allowed easily, smiling in a manner that was almost-but-not-quite feral. "Unfortunately, I'd have to defend myself. And if I recall correctly, I'm still very capable of defeating you in battle. Worm."

She pounced, grabbed a hold of him via those marvelously convenient ties in his hair and dragged him off down the hall. "I thought we had a discussion about your variation -or lack thereof- of insults?"

Albel liked to believe he could, at all costs, retain one thing. That thing? Dignity. Well, that and the ability to sire children, but that was hardly an issue at present, unless Nel decided to get exceedingly cruel. Cruelty tempered with her sense of humor was never a good combination indeed. Anyways, back to the dignity.

"Was that the same discussion in which we addressed your wanton urges to drag me around like some fool's plaything?" He contented himself to dragging his heels, folding his arms across his chest and acting for all the world like a sullen child. Nel was frighteningly strong for so slender a woman.

"Might have been."

"Ah. Well it's nice to know these things. For posterity's sake."

"I am going to shove that posterity's sake up your ass if you don't shut up."

Maybe the point was taken. Maybe it wasn't. Maybe someone swung it out onto the dance floor and made it do the macarena--the truth is, no one knows. Because in the next instant, Nel seemed to have gotten a better idea.

It wasn't a gradual dawning, this idea. It was a wham-bam-thankyou-ma'am sort of deal. The metaphysical version of a quickie, if you will. She paused. She let him stand up properly. And then she shoved him against a wall and kissed him.

There were many things in his life that Albel the Wicked would protest. Pink hair dye, for instance. Being forced into bondage...well, maybe not so much. However. Being smothered by a highly desirable woman was not one of them. Even so, there were things to consider. Like his reputation. People who are, by nature, Wicked, are not, by nature, sappily romantic poets. The meshing of such creeds is like to end in disaster.

"You can't kiss," he informed her smugly, when she pulled away to breathe.

She glared at him, leaned up and bit him on the lip. Rather hard.

"Was that supposed to be an improvement?"

This time, she kneed him in the groin. Considerably enlightened by this showing of his enemy's strategy, he managed to gasp out; 'I--suppose so.'

Nel seemed satisfied. Nice for her, she was the only one. So. While she was busy molesting him in the hallway, unmindful of any who might stumble across them, it was only natural that someone do just that.

To exemplify: Nel must not have realized she'd shoved him against a door. And on a spaceship, things have a tendency to slide. Especially doors. Something about 'saving space', or something.

So it wasn't his fault that whoever was in the room decided they wanted out. Nor was it his fault that that someone didn't have the lightning-fast reflexes required to dodge an impassioned makeout session. And neither would he shoulder the blame for the fact that that someone was Cliff.

"Cliff. Nice to see you. Do you want to die?" Picture if you will the scene: Nel was sprawled atop Albel, who was in turn sprawled atop Cliff, who was quite unhappily pinioned to the floor. Now. Albel is many things, but a mediator he is not. It took all of his considerable skill to wriggle out from between the two, and all of his restraint not to run for something these fools called a 'camera'.

Cliff grinned sheepishly. "Um...Hey, Nel..."

Nel growled at him. "Answer the question, fool."

Cliff made a sound that might have been a meep, were it from someone less masculine.

"You?" Albel pointed at Cliff with his gauntleted hand. "Owe me for this." And with that, he scooped Nel into his arms, gave the blond man a Very Pointed Look and left the room. Of course, she struggled, but he liked to consider himself just a mite stronger than any pathetic wench. Never mind that this particular pathetic wench would impale him neatly on some sort of pike if he voiced that aloud.

Not that he was about to be cowed by a mere woman.

"Albel Nox. Put me down."

He gave her a Look. Now, this look consisted of an aloof smirk, a quirked eyebrow, and a shake of his head. How the head-shaking related to the look is to remain a universal mystery.

"Now."

But still, he said nothing. You see, as long as he merely refused to answer, she couldn't retaliate.

And that was exactly the advantage he was planning on. It wasn't until he made it to his room that she tried again. "Down. Now."

"Why," he responded with false sweetness. "Certainly."

And then he dropped her. A gentlemen would have dropped her on the bed, but he had to reaffirm his wickedness in at least some way, shape or form. Ergo, Nel did not receive the luxury of being dropped on a bed, but on the floor. At his feet.

Some might have deigned call him suicidal. He liked to think of it as adventurous.

"Your wish is my command," he reminded her.

"I hate you," she growled. Stubbornly, she folded her arms and sat there petulantly.

"It's mutual, rest assured. Are you having fun?"

"No."

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"You realize..." Albel paused and cleared his throat. His next words would perhaps present grave danger to certain bodily extremities. "I was the one who dared Cliff to relieve you of your...'sweets'."

More than anything, she looked thoughtful. Whatever retaliation he had expected, this was not it. "You realize it's customary for people to replace what they've stolen. Right?"

He held out one hand, palm-up in supplication, and she took it, hauling herself to her feet.

"I hadn't noticed," he said dryly.

She looked him up and down once--slowly. Her brusque nod didn't reassure him in the slightest. "Well... You're not an Oreo, but you'll do."

--

Criticism?