Archive of Our Own ^beta

“I don’t get it,” Phobos complained. “Is this Christmas or Halloween? It’s not New Year’s Eve yet...” He shivered and stamped his feet in the shallow Martian snow, leaving reddish brown footprints. 

Deimos stared into the blue sunset as if he were trying to dissolve into it.

“It’s Koliada,” Abel explained for the fifth or sixth or maybe tenth time. “It’s a Slavic winter solstice festival celebrated around the end of December to honor the sun. We’re going to go around to everybody’s house and sing traditional carols, and they’ll give us candy and hot tea.” 

“They better give us something stronger than that,” Cain scoffed. “That shit’s for kids.”

“Where I’m from, caroling is for kids,” Praxis said. 

“Where you’re from—"

“All right, Cain, that’s enough.” Abel’s school teacher voice was surprisingly effective. 

Phobos sighed loudly. “Now that you got your dog to heel, Abel, can we get on with this? I’m freezing. I wish I’d stayed at Ludmila’s with Keeler and Encke.”

“Then you’d have to give candy to kids, and help set up and make food,” Ethos reminded him. “You didn’t want to do that, remember?”

“Okay,” Abel broke in, “everyone please remember to be civil! We’re here to have fun. I’ve sent you all the itinerary for our route in case we get separated, and sheet music for some traditional coal…yad..kas…“

“Kolyadki,” muttered Cain, Ethos, and Praxis in unison, but in different accents.

“Yes, thank you. I hope those of you who know the songs can lead us in them.”

“It’s like Keeler really is here,” Athos whispered to Ethos.

“Wait!” The door opened and the lead navigator himself rushed out into the cold, snowflakes already settling on his wispy braid. “You forgot something!” (1)

Encke had forgotten the blue scarf Keeler had crocheted for him; Keeler handed it to him with a mischievous smile and stole one last kiss before watching Encke set off on Ludmila's old Mars-mobile to take it to Caibels' (Alexethans?) for more repairs. 

Keeler was in a bright mood. His optimism kept brightening his countenance with laughter, flushed cheeks, cheerful smiles, rosy colored ideas and gleaming wishes as bright as the glint of the sparkling sun as it shone off the snow and his hair. He was glistening so thoroughly inwardly and outwardly that no stranger would have believed the immense strain and toll his mind and body had struggled through only so recently. Keeler and Encke had decided to stay on Mars a while. They'd been here a few months now and were still adjusting.

Back inside their home, Keeler settled down in a comfy old armchair and opened his tablet to the Martio-Russian language app. 

Keeler’s language studies were interrupted by a knock at the door. (2)

Even though he was alone in his office, the Lead Navigator sighed pointedly and let his forehead sink onto his delicate hand. “Come in”, he mumbled exasperatedly. “Заходи.” 

“Beg your pardon, sir”, stammered a blushing boy who Keeler recognized as the Taurus' navigator. “I'm sorry to interrupt, but there's a situation at Hangar Bay II.” 

“Care to elaborate, soldier?” 

The man's blush seemed to grow even more now as he squirmed in the doorway. “There's been a fight. Cain has been accused of, er, improper activities inside his Starfighter, sir, and has gotten his face smashed in in return.” 

“By the Lead Fighter, I hope? He's the one in charge in cases like that, so let the Lead Fighter handle this matter as he sees fit. Thank you for the report, and dismissed.” 

Keeler made to turn away, but the navigator wrung his hands and stubbornly stayed put. “He's at it, sir, but you know, his navigator was also involved in the, uh, activities. Abel. We weren't sure if you'd want to set a warning example...?” 

Abel? It really was no end of trouble with this one, was it? “I'm capable of making my own decisions, thank you, soldier. But yes, this is worrisome. I shall come down and see for myself. Is there anything else I need to know?” 

“Sir, I don't know the details of course, but rumour has it that this was some kind of, er, competition.” He made a little break here, as if unsure about how to go on. Keeler kept him on the tenterhooks, unhelpful. “About who could do it more often, in the ships, without getting caught.” 

Keeler turned to face the man in earnest, now. “So this has been ongoing? Well that's just egregious! Is this a battleship here or a gay sauna in Mykonos? I shall put an end to these scandalous aberrations immediately!” 

Apparently beside himself, Keeler threw his papers onto the table with a flourish and vigorously got up to follow the other man to the elevators.

Damn, he thought inwardly though, now that the whole conspiracy is busted, how are Encke and I supposed to come out the winners? (3)

Keeler feared that all his scheming had been for naught. All those bribes to rig the scoring, the hacks he'd done to alter the code of the algorithm to work in their favour for the final calculations, all the crew members—even a few military police—who he had in his pocket. None of his efforts would mean anything if they didn't win. 

They'd devised the plan for the competition shortly after the mutiny, in a haze of afterglow bliss once he and Encke had finally gotten some time alone. And without any interruptions. Even in that glorious state, they had both been anxious about maintaining control over the crew as Acting Commanders. They needed to show no weaknesses. At the same time, they needed to keep the crew happy and prevent discontent from festering as the Sleipnir made its way home. 

Desperate times called for desperate measures, and that was how the idea of the games had been born. 

Using a modified version of the team scoring system that was already in place to rank Fighter-Navigator pairs, the performance of each team in the various events was publicly tracked and displayed. Additional scores were added for each event that required human judges from among the ship's crew. When they announced it, Encke had given a brilliant speech about keeping up morale and the importance of being a united force. About giving the ship a little bit of seasonal cheer, and good old-fashioned competitive fun. 

But they both knew its ulterior purpose: to let them top the rankings and show they were fit to lead. To silence any questioning and keep them in control after the mutiny. The lead team had to win the Sleipnir Winter Games by any means necessary, and Keeler knew that it was up to him and Encke alone to ensure that. (4)

What Keeler also knew was that Encke was a rule follower. Usually Keeler loved that about his partner. He found his straightforward boy scout do-gooder lead fighter all kinds of irresistibly charming. Under normal circumstances. The Sleipnir Winter Games were not normal circumstances. So if they were going to win, they would have to use foul play, and it was going to be up to Keeler to do the dirty work, all while shielding Encke from it as much as possible. Luckily, Keeler had plenty of practice lying, cheating, and doing it all with a disarming smile. 

First thing first was strategy. You couldn't beat a system if you didn't know its rules by heart, so Keeler put his analytical brain to work and scrutinized every event of the Games for how to exploit it. The events that simply utilized the ship's basic functions were easy enough to plan for. Encke was a given to at least place in the top 3 for hand to hand combat. The fighter ship obstacle course held out in space was something Keeler could win in his sleep.

But the Martian colonists had a natural advantage in the simulated snow events, since the colonies were icy at least half the year. Snow was much rarer on the warm climate of Earth. And he and Encke were both born and raised Terrans. Fighter/Navigator Pair Ice Skating looked the trickiest. Encke's poise and natural athleticism could be trusted to quickly pick up the intricacies of gliding around on ice, but Keeler had no faith in his own ability to do the same.

And unfortunately the rules said both partners had to skate. Encke couldn't just swan across the ice, carrying Keeler in various lifts. Which was dumb. What could be a better demonstration of their bond than showing off how much they trusted each other - Encke not to drop him, and him not to slice up Encke by accident. So sabotage it was. He'd 'accidentally' overlook a temperature spike that melted the ice rink down to mush, and the event would be canceled.

Red Team vs Blue Team Snowball Fight was easy to rig. Make sure everyone on the opposing side had a sudden bout of indigestion, and they'd forfeit. Snow Fort Building seemed the easiest to catch up. He could engineer anything out of any material at hand with just a few moments of thought, and Encke was strong, meticulous, and would be easily cooed into making Keeler a snug and impenetrable snow fort with a judicious application of big pleading eyes. 

Keeler had his plan. It was as good as any tactical assault he had devised against the Colterons. So how had he gotten busted dumping a whole bottle of cayenne pepper into the borscht? The cooks were out of the kitchen checking on a conveniently timed alarm. Encke should have been checking on the commotion. 

Instead, Keeler felt a wide hand slip against his lower back. "What are you doing?" Encke asked. His voice was low, and Keeler couldn't make out if his tone was disapproving or drawling in suppressed amusement. 

Keeler gulped, caught red-handed cheating in the Sleipnir Winter Games by Encke who was supposed to be in the dark about his nefarious methods! (5)

The scanners had unfogged and Vicks' pants became uncomfortably tight as he watched the icy hot lovemaking on the screen. He couldn't tear his eyes away or press the score buzzer. He should but... the lead fighter was displaying such an expertise at entering...and almost exiting… and entering again... 

This was forbidden. No fornicating during the games. It just made the whole thing drag on too long. It's why he refused to play Colony Monopoly with Cain again. He'd been covered in sweat and breathless by the end of a damn board game, Cain leaning over him, drawling ‘good game,’ and grinning like a fool. 

Vicks touched himself sort of discreetly as the passion onscreen increased enough to begin melting the igloo fort. Luckily there was a giant ice sculpture of an eight legged horse blocking the doorway. Except... He saw something dark behind the sculpture. A flash of black and grey in the shimmering ice. 

Suddenly Deimos was in his lap and all over him. This must be the Solstice Sex Games no one had told him about, and with Deimos doing unspeakable, exhilarating things to his body, Vicks paid no attention to the surveillance screen showing Keeler smirking into Encke's mouth as heat radiated thick plumes off their bodies into the freezing air. (6)

He had a nagging feeling, though…wasn’t he supposed to be doing something? Something that didn’t involve Deimos’ silky mouth and clever hands and excruciatingly nimble feet? Wasn’t he supposed to stay away from the fighters and navis? Wasn’t he supposed to…watch someth—GAAAH.

Vicks jerked his face to the left, wrenching off the medical half-mask. The shimmering, sexy world sloughed off like a snakeskin, and Deimos was gone. 

Vicks was seated at the familiar, grimy control panel in the engine room, the screens in front of him flickering. Each one showed the progress of a team member in the winter games, and was labeled with their task name and team name. In front of his face, the mask writhed on its accordion tube, still spraying sickly sweet hallucinogenic gas into the air, and he tried to reach for it but discovered his hands were tied behind his back. 

Shit, Keeler had turned off the gravity. He had also tied Vicks to the seat by the simple and effective method of buckling his seatbelt. Contemplating his own zero-G bondage and drugging at the hands of evil Keeler made Vicks kind of horny again, but he knew he had to escape: he was the referee and monitor of the Sleipnir Winter Games, and Keeler was definitely not playing by the rules! (7)

But as Keeler was drugged himself, it wasn't too difficult for the maintenance tech to escape from his sex dungeon eventually. He hastened back to the Hangar Bay. Ski jumping was the next scheduled event there, and Vicks knew he had to do his job as good as the drugs in his system would allow. 

It was mostly fighters jumping because they were familiar with snow and generally more venturesome, but some navigators had mustered up the courage, too, and were lined up next to the Reliant, ready for takeoff. Why the Reliant, you ask? Well, in absence of a real mountain, one lowered wing of Cain's and Abel's starfighter was used as a jumping hill. 

Of course there was no real snow either, but instead loads of lubrication oil were used (and extinguishing foam, for the visual effects). The in run was inevitably very short, so good results depended entirely on the quick reaction of the jumpers. There was no wind to influence the results, which was good for once, because Vicks knew that on earth, tournaments were notoriously interrupted or delayed by gusts of wind. 

Vicks secretly hoped that nobody would jump too far, either, because the out run was short and the door of the Hangar Bay provided a natural (and hard) barrier between “snow” and space. The lube was slippery, though - it was not quite clear if stopping would be possible at all. 

Vicks saw some pretty bad accidents coming, but his job was handing out scores and not providing first aid. For the style scores, Vicks would be assisted by Wedge, because he was the expert on everything clean, and Phobos, the expert on elegance and beauty. 

Cain was the first to jump.

“Hill record!”, Vicks bellowed through his microphone, because it was true, right? Nobody had ever jumped farther, because nobody had ever jumped before! Sadly, Cain's landing left much to be desired, so he got deductions. 

Athos was the next candidate. Maybe his lighter weight worked to his advantage – in any case he outdid Cain and the crowd cheered. 

“And what a beautiful Telemark landing on top of that!”, Phobos commented. “Top tier style scores for ski jumper Athos!” (8)

Keeler held back a curse and watched the remaining jumps with trepidation, hoping that he and Encke wouldn't fall too far behind after this event. He had never been in good enough physical condition to do much skiing and Encke had mostly done cross-country before. He had faith that Encke's general athleticism and graceful movements had given the judges enough to appreciate, so their lead wouldn't be decimated even if they didn't win this round of the games. 

And besides, the next event was his to lose. 

When he got into the kitchen of the ship, the first thing Keeler did was sort the tools and ingredients at his work station. Flour, check. Butter, check. Rolling pin, check. 

It didn't take long, and he knew he had time to spare. While the others were scrambling and trying to look up recipes on their tablets, Keeler could recall his from memory. One of the few good memories he had from his childhood; baking during the holidays during years when he was well enough. He threw together the dough quick as anything, wrapping it and placing it in the fridge to hydrate while he constructed his secret weapon. 

He'd spotted some aluminum foil baking pans upon entering the food preparation area, probably used for storing and reheating some of the stuff they got served in the mess hall. They may not have festive cookie cutters on board, but there was nothing in the rules that said he couldn't make his own. 

With precision, he cut and folded the flexible aluminum sheets into regular, repeating geometries. 

Glazing the tops of the lightly golden treats with white icing, he sprinkled them with beautiful blue sanding sugar. It quickly hardened into a thin, delectable crust that would melt in the mouths of the lucky recipients. 

Keeler knew his snowflake sugar cookies would come out on top, but he still felt a flutter of anticipation in his stomach as he carried the tray up to the judges' table. (9)

Saul Holyrood caught the Lead Navigator in the ice-blue tiger stare that had made him the terror of baking contestants everywhere. He held it for so long that Keeler’s knees buckled because he’d forgotten to breathe. The snap as the hammer descended on the delicate white chocolate dome was the only thing that shook him out of the deadly trance.

“Your chocolate is in temper,” Holyrood said thoughtfully.

“And the galaxy mirror glaze is lovely,” added Keri Cherry. 

They reached in for snowflake cookies and snapped them in half in turn; Holyrood as usual holding his up to the light and examining it while Cherry got down to business. 

Just eat it already, you overgrown housecat, Keeler chanted silently. He could hardly drug the judges if they never got around to eating the damn things, could he? And even once they did, it would be a gamble as to how fast the concoction would work.

Pretty fast, as it turned out.

Holyrood downed his entire cookie and picked up another, stuffing it in his mouth while he continued to stare at Keeler. His stare was becoming slightly cross-eyed. “These are perfeckly baked. Beautiful hint of citrus. Very fit.”

Keri Cherry winked. “No soggy bottoms here. Except me. I’m in danger of a soggy bottom.”

Holyrood lurched forward, hand extended…the coveted Holyrood handshake! But somehow he missed, his hand veering in the direction of Keeler’s chest, and Keeler began to wonder if he hadn’t put a little too much happy juice in the cookie icing… (10)

"Haha, so glad you liked it," he laughed awkwardly, catching the hand on his shoulder. His own hand hung sadly unshaken in the air. Surely he looked like a fool on camera...maybe they would edit this part out from the Great Sleipnir Bake-off. 

Except, he'd been really obvious about that happy juice spiking. It would be a natural plot point for the show. So it seemed like he was doomed for televised humiliation. But soon he had bigger problems. 

Holyrood clutched his shoulder and looked deeply into his eyes. "Keeler, I'm like the cat who got the cream, eating these cookies. They are the cat's meow, the pick of the litter." 

Keeler wasn't really sure where these cat-related or adjacent idioms were coming from. There was nothing feline in the shape of his bake, or the theme of this episode. 

Ethos and Helios, the designated hosts of the bake-off came up after Holyrood moved along. "Well now we have got to try these cookies." 

"Oh I'm not sure that's the best idea--" Keeler started, but they were already munching away. 

"I'll just be a cat burgler and steal a few more. What did you put in these, lieutenant?" Ethos asked, again with the cat puns. And also, was it Keeler's imagination, or did Ethos suddenly have whiskers and orange cat ears on the top of his head? Keeler ate one himself and immediately coughed. He'd been heavy handed but he hadn't thought he had put in this much happy juice into his icing! And he certainly didn't remember them being this strong in his taste test.

Helios didn't seem to notice his coughing and gobbled one up as well. "These really are magical! Why don't you let the cat out of the bag and tell us your secret?"

He beamed at Keeler, whose eyes swam as a fluffy black tail twitched behind him. But Keeler could only demure, saying "Curiousity killed the cat."

After the filming ended, everyone moved away from the kitchen and into the mess hall to share their bakes. The crowd descended on Keeler to try out his Holyrood approved cookies. Keeler attempted to warn them that something seemed a little off, but it was like herding cats, and after everyone ate one, he was only met with resounding praise. 

He sampled another cookie himself. When he looked back up, all the fighters and navigators had cat ears and tails. He was surrounded by cat-people. 

Oh dear, Keeler thought, I really put the cat amongst the pigeons this time. He and everyone else had consumed far too much of the happy juice icing. Almost no one remembered what they did the rest of the afternoon, or who won the day and who was eliminated because it all went by in a blur. Keeler especially found it hard to concentrate since whenever he looked down, all he saw were cat paws where his hands should be. (11)

On the complete opposite end of the ship, Abel's attention was briefly caught by the strange shape of what looked like cat pawprints tracked over the metal of the locker floors. They were dark, indicating some kind of small animal must have just been in here recently and - probably regrettably, found itself drenched before it scampered off. 

"Abel! You coming?" A gruff interjection to his thoughts brought Abel back to his senses. He looked up from staring at the floor, and glanced over at his fighter, already in the nude and standing nearby a hot spray of water falling down from one shower head. His cheeks rouged a shade darker, an annoying reaction his body insisted on exhibiting when they were anywhere semi-public and about to get busy. 

"Uh, yeah, sorry." Abel dropped the clean clothes he'd just taken out of his locker on the nearby bench, and then removed his underwear, feeling the warm and humid air wafting over his naked body. He took the last few steps towards Cain, who was eyeing him up and down with one corner of his mouth curled into an admiring smirk.

"Never gets old," he remarked, mostly to himself, and Abel's eyebrows briefly shot up. "Huh?" 

"Nothing. Come here." Cain reached out one tanned, veiny hand to grasp Abel by the waist, pulling him beneath the hot spray and up against a cold metal wall.

Abel's eyelids fluttered shut as lips closed on his, and everything else that might have occupied his mind quickly flooded out, replaced in whole by fervid indulgence. (12)

And indulge himself he did! 

But once the indulgence was over and he came back to himself, the worries that had preoccupied him before resurfaced. Pesky anxieties were stubborn like that. 

He rolled off of the bunk, throwing the blanket completely over the still-dead-to-the-world fighter. He'd be useless for the remainder of the afternoon. 

Abel pulled on his fatigues and wound his way through the corridors, no particular destination in mind, simply walking while he mulled everything over. 

The final event and closing ceremony of the Sleipnir Winter Games were coming up soon. Unlike every other real sports competition, the results for each team were secret, so Abel could only guess where he and Cain placed in the standings. Lt. Keeler had been determined to win; there had been fire in his eyes and a wildly competitive passion that Abel had never seen before in his usually gentle Lead Navigator. Dreamed about, sure. Keeler did have a perfectionist streak that always demanded results, which Abel often fantasized being turned on him, alone in Keeler's private office...regretfully, it had never happened.

So Abel knew Keeler was more cutthroat than he let on. And for some reason, he really wanted to win these games. Since Lt. Encke would bend over backwards to please Keeler, the two of them would be hard to beat; Abel reasoned they were in first place. Phobos and Deimos had to be last since they had not once participated in any event as a team. Abel and Cain had done well in all of their events until they had been recently sidetracked. His mental tally put them in the top five at least, if not top three.

What worried Abel was why did he even care about this? If he thought about it for longer than a few minutes, he could see how these games were nothing more than a distraction by the higher-ups, designed to keep the restless troops in line and out of trouble while they plodded their way through deep space before their next confrontation with the Colterons. What did they need such an elaborate distraction from though? They had a gym, a rec room, and fraternizing among the troops was not just allowed but encouraged. Typically, that sufficed. 

But maybe something was being put in their borscht or pumped through the air vents because he could never hold that thought for long. It would slip away from his mind and soon the games and his ranking were the most important thing he could think of. 

While he still had the clarity to question what was happening, he decided to investigate. Turning into the mess hall yielded nothing. He found Cook and Bering demonstrating how to prepare a ready-to-eat meal with a song and dance routine that had surely been improvised but looked suspiciously practiced. 

In the corner, there was a plate with one lone cookie covered with neon green icing. Abel didn't have an appetite at the moment, so he left it for someone else. 

Shady plans had to reside in the commanders' quarters, right? Abel headed there next. On his way there, he passed Keeler and Encke having one of their bickering sessions in the corridor near the large viewing windows out into the abyss of space. 

"It's too dangerous," Encke said. His voice tended to carry, too used to giving commands.

 Abel thought he heard Keeler mutter, "Don't be a scaredy-cat,” but that sounded very unlike his Lead Navigator so he must have misheard. 

Could Abel trust Keeler with this investigation? Or was he too enmeshed in the plan himself? 

Before he could come to a decision, Keeler stopped him with a smile.

"Ah Abel, we need your second opinion. Have you noticed," Keeler asked, "that we have come into range of an anomaly in space-time?" (13)

Had he noticed? By the look in Keeler's eye he seemed to realize that of course Abel knew. Abel had been dreaming of a place he had first imagined reading his favorite childhood novels and then through writing extensive fan fiction. And suddenly on the ship, walking towards central one morning he had doubled over and been hit by waves of deja vu, nostalgia, vivid scenes from old day dreams. He'd been so confused until he connected it with the feelings that happened when he warped the Reliant. 

Abel coughed and said, "Let me have a look at it."

Keeler flipped his braid and motioned with a hand. Abel came to stand and stare at the intricate digital diagrams and calculations on the glowing screen. He felt sick but afterwards a pang of longing and wonder filled him. His brown eyes widened. Wetting his lips he glanced back at Keeler's steady, penetrating gaze. That cool blue stare seemed to read his mind, maybe it could. 

In a hushed tone Abel asked, "Is this part of our mission...to go through it?" 

"It can be, if we have the right type of navigators,” was Keeler's reply. 

And that was how the nightmarish wonderful dream began. A journey no crew had taken before. No one knew if it had an end or if it did, where the exit would lead.

Once while Abel was standing on the bridge, staring out at too-real phantasms that seemed lifted off the pages of Cordelia Bering's vivid novels, Valentina placed a warm hand on his shoulder and leaned close to his face, which blushed at the sudden proximity. Her whispered confession filled him with an eternal calm such as he would never again know in this lifecycle. (14)

“I put all my laundry in the same load. Whites…colors…socks…shirts…underwear…sheets…everything. I just set it to ‘cool’ and it all turns out fine. It’ll be okay, kiddo. It’ll be okay.” She patted him on the back. “Just don’t use too much detergent.”

Her hip pocket buzzed, and she fished for her phone. “I gotta go pick up my friend Bina. She’s stuck in a time loop or something. You boys stay grounded until I get back, okay? Relatively speaking.”

“Okay,” said Abel. 

He watched the scenes swirl by, inseparably tangled together like wet clothes in a washing machine. Would the cycle ever end? Maybe, as the Indigo Girls said, once their souls got it right. Once they became clean. Or maybe they would spiral infinitely onward like the passage of the seasons…only time would tell. (15)