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During ‘More Than Ordinary’

Selene Morgana Lilith Perdita X Windflower leant back against the rock and gazed into the flames. She heard a soft, satisfied sound from her right, and turned her head to look at her partner. In the flickering light, Dafydd’s smile looked distinctly sinister - but then, Selene knew, so did hers. “It’s almost romantic, isn’t it?” she mused, waving one hand at the inferno.

Dafydd almost retained his relaxed expression, but Selene saw the flurry of emotions which flashed across his face - satisfaction, fear, pain, loss, and under them all what looked like the memory of a burning rage. He composed himself immediately with a shrug of his shoulders, and turned a considering gaze on her. “No,” he said, “not really.”

Selene frowned slightly, then took a mental deep breath and reached out to touch his arm in what she hoped would be taken for a comforting gesture. “Memories?” She thought back to their initial meeting. “Is it reminding you of ‘Ravindeel’?”

Dafydd managed a chuckle. “If it was, you’d know by the grin on my face,” he pointed out. “I may not have liked the consequences, but I’d burn that abomination again given the chance.”

Selene cocked her head. “Something else, then?”

“Old scars,” Dafydd said, clenching his hand briefly into a fist. “And old battles.”

“Ah.” Selene turned to look back at the fire. “I suppose I have my own share of those,” she said, her mind’s eye replaying images of the burning castle, fire leaping from the walls to the tinder-dry pines that surrounded it.

She took a deep breath, shook her head to banish the thought, and placed her hand more fully on her partner’s arm. “Still,” she said, “that doesn’t mean it cannot be romantic. Romance is all about whose company you are in, after all.”

If Dafydd noticed her touch, he made no sign of it. Staring into the flames, he nodded slightly. “Yes,” he said. “I suppose it would be…”


During ‘Daughter of Desire’

Selene glanced up at the words and sniggered, provoking a raised eyebrow from Dafydd - while the badness of the fic was admittedly amusing, he hadn’t seen anything particularly special in the current section. “People, snuggling, each other, and bondage,” Selene explained in an amused tone, “are not words which work well in the same sentence,”

“Ah.” Dafydd flushed slightly, and nodded in understanding. “Well, I guess sometimes they are.”

Now it was Selene’s turn to raise an eyebrow. Dafydd shrugged. “There is a whole genre of literature built around snuggling-and-bondage.”

“Why, Dafydd,” Selene said, in a breathy voice, “I didn’t know you were into that sort of thing.” She stepped closer to him, holding out her arms.

“Er, no.” Dafydd held out a hand to fend her off - which rather backfired when she took it in her own and began to stroke his palm.

“Seriously, though,” Selene went on, apparently oblivious to what her hands were doing, “I’ve never seen the connection myself. A relationship can certainly include both snuggling,” and now her fingers began to caress their way up Dafydd’s forearm, “and, ah, sensuality - but I don’t think that form of connectedness works very well in the same sentence as this kind.” She lifted one hand to touch Dafydd’s hair gently.

The Pyro did his best not to jerk back, but instead to lean casually. He didn’t think it quite worked - Selene dropped his hand as if it had stung her, and her lips pressed together into a thin line.

“Well,” she said, dropping abruptly to sit on the grass, “bondage or no bondage, this scene shouldn’t take long…”


Before ‘Al and Death’

Selene slammed the Response Centre door behind her, stalked across the room, and glared at the console. “Don’t you dare,” she snarled, lightning sparking between her fingers.

“It can’t actually hear you, you know,” said a voice from behind her. Selene turned and treated Dafydd to a red-eyed glare, then stormed across the room and practically threw herself down onto the beanbag next to him.

Dafydd raised an eyebrow and carefully put his book down. “Bad?” he asked, pushing himself up onto one elbow.

“Abysmal,” Selene groaned. “Group therapy? Counselling? Do I look like I need counselling?”

“I’m not going to answer that,” Dafydd said warily. “So what else did the SO say?”

Selene’s eyes narrowed still further as she remembered. “A whole heap of balderdash about ‘camaraderie’, as if I have anything in common with one who would brag about this ‘Goggle Fight’ madness. And, oh yes, the oh-so-casual admission that the DIA have been drugging my food to try and calm me down.”

Behind her very real anger, Selene began to form a plan. If she played this right… she glanced sideways at Dafydd. “As for you, Agent Illian, your attitude is of no help at all.”

“Sorry,” Dafydd said. “I, um, I brought you a crossbow? I know you’ve been after one.”

That wasn’t in the plan. Selene put on her sad face - there’d be time to squee over deadly weapons later - and replied, “Even crossbows don’t help right now.”

Dafydd held out his arms helplessly. “Then I don’t know what would,” he pointed out.

“You would if you were a Mary-Sue,” Selene muttered, smiling inwardly. Dafydd gave her a quizzical look, and she gestured vaguely with one hand. “You know - comfort, consolation, consideration.” Wild monkey sex on the RC floor, she didn’t - quite - add. There was such a thing as being too obvious. But what she had said ought to have primed him for the next step. She shifted, propping herself up, ready to fall into his arms and switch on the tears the instant he offered.

Dafydd reached out one far-too-tentative hand and patted her gently on the head. “Er, there there?” he said. “Um… it’s not as bad as you think it is? You got off lightly? Am I heading in the right direction here?”

“Lightly?” Selene repeated. “Lightly?!” She reached out - past the brand-new crossbow - and grabbed the first weapon she could find: a knife. By that time, Dafydd was already up and running - but that just made him a moving target.


During ‘Woodsprite of the North’

Dafydd stepped through the portal into a dark forest somewhere in Ithilien and looked around. “Selene?” he whispered.

“Over here!” came a hissed reply. Dafydd ducked down and crawled across to find Selene hidden behind a thicket of brambles. His jaw dropped. Then he slapped a hand over his own eyes and span to face the other direction.

“Whatever is the matter?” Selene asked, amusement tinging her voice.

“You’re not-” Dafydd shook his head, still refusing to look at her. “Selene, why aren’t you wearing any clothes?”

“I had to turn into a wolf,” Selene said cheerfully, and the rustling of leaves told Dafydd she had just shifted to lounge casually behind him. “I can take my garments with me when I shift, of course, but they simply refuse to stay on when I change back. I believe you’re kneeling on some of them, in fact.”

Dafydd instinctively shifted off the pile of black fabric, and caught another flash of bare skin before he remembered to close his eyes. “All right,” he said, sounding much more composed than he felt, “but why are you still… unclad?”

“I could say that I’d only just shifted back,” Selene mused, “since I was tracking the Fellowship, and my wolf form was the best way to do so… but I’d be lying.”

Dafydd felt the silence stretch out. “Then why?” he asked at last, his throat dry.

Selene snorted, and Dafydd felt her long fingers trail across his back. “Why do you think, Dafydd?” she asked. “I wasn’t aware it was one of the difficult questions.”

“Yes. Right. Um.” Selene’s hand wandered up to stroke the back of Dafydd’s neck, brushing his dark hair out of the way. Dafydd took a deep breath, then turned to face her, shifted to sit out of reach, and opened his eyes.

“Selene,” he said, meeting her gaze and making absolutely sure his eyes didn’t wander, “we have a mission to complete. Please get dressed.”

Selene stared at him for a long moment, and then nodded. With one hand she pulled her hair back and twisted it into a rough bun, and then - throwing occasional glances at Dafydd, who had pulled the Remote Activator out of his pocket and was doing his best not to look at her - gathered up her clothes and put them on. Finally, she delved into her pack and pulled out her notebook.

“Here you go,” she said in a low tone, holding it out to her partner. “The charge list.”


During ‘DOGA Interlude 2’

The darkness in the cafeteria didn’t bother Selene. She was aware that most of the other participants in the game of Truth or Dare could probably only make out vague outlines and shadowy faces, but her night-trained eyes revealed every detail.

And she had to admit, it was amusing. At that moment, two Spies were dancing on a table, a Despatcher was trying to write a poem in Klingon, and Agent Kayleigh was performing a striptease (which was a bit irregular - she’d actually dared herself to do it). Then there were the ‘truths’ - secrets, embarrassing stories, fantasies of all stripes. And, of course, there was the alcohol which made it all work. Selene took another sip of her neat vodka (there would be time for bleepka later), realised she’d accidentally downed the glass, and poured herself another.

“All right, all right,” said an agent she didn’t recognise, wearing the dead parrot of Improbabilities. “Selene.”

Selene’s head jerked up. “Present!” she called out, raising a hand.

“I don’t think we give out presents,” Robyn from Mary-Sues pointed out. “Duth or trare?” She blinked. “I mean, ruth or chair? Er…”

“I know, I know.” Selene thought about, then realised her mind was wandering to thinking about Dafydd (who had somehow disappeared from the game - she found that very suspicious). She tossed a mental coin, then a second one when the first didn’t come down, then finally shrugged and said, “Dare, please!”

“Nice!” the prospective darer murmured. “All right, all right… kiss… Steve.”

“Who? Me? What?” Steve jerked his gaze away from Kayleigh and peered frantically around the gloomy circle. “I’m doing what now?”

“Me,” Selene said, then slapped a hand over her mouth. “I mean, kissing me,” she mumbled between her fingers.

Steve got somewhat unsteadily to his feet and walked across to where Selene sat. “Could be tricky,” he pointed out. “With the hand and all…”

Selene glared at him, but lowered her hand. She stared up at Steve, who stared back down at her. Finally, she snapped, “Well? What are you waiting for?”

“You to stand… up?” Steve offered. “No?” Selene didn’t move, so he shrugged, bent down, wobbled, thought better of it, and finally had to sit heavily on Selene’s lap. Selene wrapped her arms around him - purely, she told herself, to support him - and tilted her face up to meet his.

The kiss was… nothing special. It was intense, certainly, with two clumsy tongues pushing into mouths that tasted of more alcohol than could possibly be good for you, but it didn’t overwhelm Selene, carry her away into heights of ecstasy, or any other cliches.

At least, not at first. As it went on, the vampire began to fantasise that it wasn’t Steve the Random Assassin who was making such a determined assault on her tonsils. Instead, it was her tall, troubled partner - the one she’d had eyes for since she first laid, well, eyes on him, the one who had steadfastly ignored every opening she’d ever given him. She tightened her arms around the man on her lap, and her kiss became hungry, even desperate.

Not that he seemed to mind. Selene felt a hand tangle in her hair - which was going to be murder to brush, but she didn’t care right then - and pull her in closer. The man’s lips moved urgently against hers, and his tongue seemed determined to explore every corner of her mouth. She let out a soft moan, pulling the man against her, and wished the kiss would last forever.

It didn’t. The man pulled away, panting for breath, and Selene gave a quiet whimper. “Dafydd…” she whispered.

“What’s that?” the man asked, and he was Steve again. Selene shook her head slightly, unlocking her arms and letting him get up.


“Definitely,” she said, forcing a smile. “Definitely completed the dare.” She wrapped her arms around herself and pressed back into the chair, wondering if she could persuade it to swallow her up.

Robyn gave a polite cough. “Selene?” she said. “It’s your turn…”


After ‘After Midnight’

“... you’re retiring.”

“Yes.” Dafydd stood uncertainly by the console, his small bag in one hand. “It’s been… rough.”

“No kidding,” Selene said, rolling her eyes, but the levity seemed forced.

Dafydd swallowed. “Selene - you’ve been an excellent partner. Our department-”

“You’re retiring,” Selene said again, cutting over him. “With her.”

Dafydd hesitated, then nodded. “Constance and I - we’ve spent a lot of time together. We helped each other through some very dark times. We’re very close.”

Selene muttered something inaudible, and Dafydd frowned. For his ears not to hear, she had to be really trying. “Sorry, I-”

“I said,” Selene snarled, her eyes blazing red, “why her? ‘Spent time together’? ‘Dark times’? ‘Very close’? That describes us just as well as her! Why her, Dafydd? Why not me?”

Dafydd took a half-step back. Trying to defuse the situation, he said, “Well, I’m quite partial to the way she looks-”

In a single convulsive movement, Selene yanked her black t-shirt over her head, then reached round and unfastened her bra. The red fabric fell away, and she held her arms out to the side, sparks flickering between her fingers.

“What’s wrong with me?” she yelled. “Was I not obvious enough? Didn’t I try hard enough? Tell me, Maglor, what should I have done to get you to pay the slightest bit of attention to me?”

Dafydd stared at his partner, her hair roiling with static electricity, her chest heaving as she practically hyperventilated. Then, very gently, he shook his head.

“I love her, Selene,” he said quietly. “I love her - and not you.”


Disclaimer: The Protectors of the Plot Continuum is the creation of Jay and Acacia. All other agents belong to me or to Kaitlyn. All canonical elements are the property of their respective creators. This story is defined as ‘canon-friendly agentshipping’ - for the purposes of continuity, all non-shippy elements are deemed to have happened, while the shippy components are possible (‘canon-friendly’), but not determined to be either canonical or uncanonical.