![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
perpetual_motionTitle: Finding
Author: Perpetual Motion
Fandom: Crossing Jordan
Pairing: Bug/Nigel
Rating: PG
Summary: He’s not a good Indian boy, as much as he’d like to be.
Dis: Not mine. Belongs to NBC.
Author’s Notes: First part written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
15minuteficlets. Second part written because I didn’t feel it was done.
Finding
By Perpetual Motion
He’s a scientific mind. He’s always searching for something. The answer to a question, the reason behind an act, the remote control when Nigel coerces him into couch sex during “Voyager”, and it gets knocked around *somewhere* that isn’t the cushions or in the dust-bunny void that is the six inches of space between the couch and the wall.
“Found it!” Nigel holds up the remote like he’s won a prize. “Lodged between the magazines on the rack, the bugger.” He holds the remote out to Bug with a little flourish of his wrist. “My liege.”
He’s a scientific mind, and he’s always searching, but it was never supposed to be for this. He’s a good Indian boy. He grew up and became a doctor. He wasn’t supposed to be gay. Good Indian boys weren’t gay. Good Indian boys married good Indian girls, grew good Indian beards, and had good Indian children who would grow up to be doctors or lawyers or cricket players. He knows Nigel’s watching him, so he takes the remote and tries not to look serious.
“You’ve got your serious look.” Nigel crosses his arm and waits.
“I do not.” Bug puts the remote on the end table by the couch and shakes his head. “You hungry?” Before he can slide around Nigel and get into the kitchen, Nigel has him by the arm. Bug considers fighting, but the last time he did, he still ended up pinned on the floor. He’s quick and in fairly good shape, but Nigel still has height and extra weight, no matter how bony he looks to the casual eye. Bug knows Nigel’s body. It’s not as bony as it looks.
“Buggles.” The nickname is a full sentence, and Bug has to fight not to respond to it. It’s Nigel’s weapon when he wants to soften Bug up.
“It’s nothing.” Bug watches Nigel watch him.
“It’s guilt.” Nigel tips Bug’s head up with his fingers and stares him square in the eyes. “I know your guilty face. What have you done?”
Nothing that will ever make sense to my parents, my family, the majority of the Indian community. Bug doesn’t say any of it. He shakes his arm loose from Nigel’s grip when it loosens and picks up his dropped trajectory towards the kitchen. He hears Nigel follow him, but he doesn’t look back. He opens the refrigerator to block Nigel out in some small way.
“Bug, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Bug listens to Nigel scoff and keeps staring into the depths of the refrigerator. They need eggs. And fruit. And practically everything else that belongs in a fridge. Bug keeps staring as he feels Nigel step around the door and peer in from over his shoulder.
“Looking for answers to the universe?”
“I don’t know.” Bug straightens and closes the door. “Maybe.” He can never stay silent around Nigel for long. Something about Nigel insists on chatter and noise. Especially if some person within his vicinity has something to get off of his chest. “I’m Indian.”
“I’ve noticed this.”
Bug appreciates that Nigel doesn’t try to make the statement funny. “To a certain point, I’m a good Indian son. I call my parents every week. I make sure they’re financially comfortable. I became a doctor.” He looks up at Nigel. “But I’m also a terrible Indian son because they won’t ever have grandchildren to carry on their name.” He watches Nigel watch him and checks his urge to explain any further. Nigel will understand. Nigel always understands.
“You know,” Nigel is speaking slowly, the way he does when he isn’t sure how something will be taken. “We could adopt. There are plenty of Indian children up for adoption, especially since the tsunami. We could check a few things out, see how they feel.”
Bug isn’t quite sure what to say. He stares at Nigel, waiting for his brain to tell him what to do. He’s got his arms around Nigel’s waist and his face in Nigel’s chest before he can register that he’s doing it. “Yeah.” He leaves it at that. He feels Nigel hug him back.
“And I won’t ask for any hyphenation or anything. Your last name is plenty long enough for the poor tyke.”
“You’re impossible.” Bug says it with affection as he curls more deeply into Nigel’s chest. He’s not a good Indian boy, as much as he’d like to be, and judging from the way he’s feeling as he stands in his kitchen being hugged by Nigel, he isn’t going to be a good Indian boy anytime soon. He decides that it’s about damned time he’s gotten used to the idea.
Author: Perpetual Motion
Fandom: Crossing Jordan
Pairing: Bug/Nigel
Rating: PG
Summary: He’s not a good Indian boy, as much as he’d like to be.
Dis: Not mine. Belongs to NBC.
Author’s Notes: First part written for
15minuteficlets. Second part written because I didn’t feel it was done.Finding
By Perpetual Motion
He’s a scientific mind. He’s always searching for something. The answer to a question, the reason behind an act, the remote control when Nigel coerces him into couch sex during “Voyager”, and it gets knocked around *somewhere* that isn’t the cushions or in the dust-bunny void that is the six inches of space between the couch and the wall.
“Found it!” Nigel holds up the remote like he’s won a prize. “Lodged between the magazines on the rack, the bugger.” He holds the remote out to Bug with a little flourish of his wrist. “My liege.”
He’s a scientific mind, and he’s always searching, but it was never supposed to be for this. He’s a good Indian boy. He grew up and became a doctor. He wasn’t supposed to be gay. Good Indian boys weren’t gay. Good Indian boys married good Indian girls, grew good Indian beards, and had good Indian children who would grow up to be doctors or lawyers or cricket players. He knows Nigel’s watching him, so he takes the remote and tries not to look serious.
“You’ve got your serious look.” Nigel crosses his arm and waits.
“I do not.” Bug puts the remote on the end table by the couch and shakes his head. “You hungry?” Before he can slide around Nigel and get into the kitchen, Nigel has him by the arm. Bug considers fighting, but the last time he did, he still ended up pinned on the floor. He’s quick and in fairly good shape, but Nigel still has height and extra weight, no matter how bony he looks to the casual eye. Bug knows Nigel’s body. It’s not as bony as it looks.
“Buggles.” The nickname is a full sentence, and Bug has to fight not to respond to it. It’s Nigel’s weapon when he wants to soften Bug up.
“It’s nothing.” Bug watches Nigel watch him.
“It’s guilt.” Nigel tips Bug’s head up with his fingers and stares him square in the eyes. “I know your guilty face. What have you done?”
Nothing that will ever make sense to my parents, my family, the majority of the Indian community. Bug doesn’t say any of it. He shakes his arm loose from Nigel’s grip when it loosens and picks up his dropped trajectory towards the kitchen. He hears Nigel follow him, but he doesn’t look back. He opens the refrigerator to block Nigel out in some small way.
“Bug, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Bug listens to Nigel scoff and keeps staring into the depths of the refrigerator. They need eggs. And fruit. And practically everything else that belongs in a fridge. Bug keeps staring as he feels Nigel step around the door and peer in from over his shoulder.
“Looking for answers to the universe?”
“I don’t know.” Bug straightens and closes the door. “Maybe.” He can never stay silent around Nigel for long. Something about Nigel insists on chatter and noise. Especially if some person within his vicinity has something to get off of his chest. “I’m Indian.”
“I’ve noticed this.”
Bug appreciates that Nigel doesn’t try to make the statement funny. “To a certain point, I’m a good Indian son. I call my parents every week. I make sure they’re financially comfortable. I became a doctor.” He looks up at Nigel. “But I’m also a terrible Indian son because they won’t ever have grandchildren to carry on their name.” He watches Nigel watch him and checks his urge to explain any further. Nigel will understand. Nigel always understands.
“You know,” Nigel is speaking slowly, the way he does when he isn’t sure how something will be taken. “We could adopt. There are plenty of Indian children up for adoption, especially since the tsunami. We could check a few things out, see how they feel.”
Bug isn’t quite sure what to say. He stares at Nigel, waiting for his brain to tell him what to do. He’s got his arms around Nigel’s waist and his face in Nigel’s chest before he can register that he’s doing it. “Yeah.” He leaves it at that. He feels Nigel hug him back.
“And I won’t ask for any hyphenation or anything. Your last name is plenty long enough for the poor tyke.”
“You’re impossible.” Bug says it with affection as he curls more deeply into Nigel’s chest. He’s not a good Indian boy, as much as he’d like to be, and judging from the way he’s feeling as he stands in his kitchen being hugged by Nigel, he isn’t going to be a good Indian boy anytime soon. He decides that it’s about damned time he’s gotten used to the idea.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
on 2005-04-04 10:06 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2005-04-04 10:11 pm (UTC)This may sound weird but I love Bug feeling guilty because really, its the kind of problem that so many gay people live with. It's the feeling guilty because family is so fucking important, especially with ethnic families, and knowing that this is who you are and you can't change it no matter how dissapointed they are. Very realistic and heartbreaking.
AND OMG I LOVE THE IDEA OF THEM ADOPTING! They would be such cute parents. I'm trying to imagine Nigel at a Parent Teacher Conference and am extremely amused.