Happy Valentine's Day to you all.
Enjoy your gift <g>
LC



title: Pandora's box (Feb.05)
author: Lady Charena
fandom: Kung Fu - the legend continues
codes: P/P, NC-17
archive: TOSTwins - others just ask

sum: A rumor is spread about the nature of the relationship between Peter and Caine. With a rather surprising outcome...

Disclaimer: This story's mine, but I do not intend to touch the rights of the owner of the characters from KF-TLC I've used. No moneymaking, no offence meant. Lyrics belong to Depeche Mode.

More P/P stories from me and my friends at the Dragon's lair -->
http://tostwins.slashcity.net


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Words like violence
Break the silence
Come crashing in
Into my little world

Painful to me
Pierce right through me
Can't you understand...
(Depeche Mode - Enjoy the silence)
****************************************************


I.

I watch my son leave - his step lighter, his shoulders more straight, than he came to see me. His parting words of affection and a promise to return the next evening reverberate in the recurring silence. A silence I have learned to... dislike... lately. Peter's presence is still strong within my home and I close my eyes, trying not to miss him already. I know how futile... or arrogant... my desire is, to have my son at my side all the time. He is entitled to live his own life, in the way he chooses to do so.

Yes, I shall miss him, but it is such a precious, sweet pain, knowing he is no longer a lost dream, but alive and well. So I still my foolish heart and open my eyes again, taking in the room's sudden look of emptiness...

I use a towel to wipe my hands and get up. Neatly folding the towel I put it down on a shelf, next to the container with the remaining oil. There is enough left of the spicy-smelling mixture for at least two more massages, nevertheless I intend to produce a fresh... different... supply tomorrow. Peter claimed tonight to remember the smell from early childhood, but I do not think he is really able to do so. I used to massage his mother with the same blend of oils, to relief some of her tension and to prevent her skin from getting sore. Then she had already been to weak to leave her bed... Peter's words recalled my memories of that painful time and unexpectedly I find it unbearable to use the oil furthermore. I take the container to re- cork it - and suddenly feel the urge to hurl it against the wall as if I could shatter the pictures in my mind as easily as the pottery. Instead I gently push the cork into the opening and put the container back to the shelf, pushing it out of sight behind two big bottles.

I straighten my sleeves and fasten the cuffs, while I cross the space to my meditation room. Peter had been very tense when he came to me earlier this evening. Captain Simms confined my son to desk duty for two weeks, because of an incident Peter would speak off only vaguely. I did understand as much as he obviously had a sort of... disagreement... with one of his fellow officers at the precinct, which resulted in a confrontation. He is reluctant to speak about the reasons of the fight. My son revealed only - with a grim satisfaction that pained me - that he 'broke the guy's damn nose to shut him up'. Something in his voice warned me not to question him and so I kept my silence while I carefully spread ointment onto the angry dark bruises on his chin and cheek.

I wonder if I should ask Mary Margaret for a complete description of the incident... but all the same I am reluctant to pry into my
son's... affairs. So I will trust my Peter and wait for him to be ready to speak of his anger.

Lighting more candles at the altar, I try to prepare myself for meditation.

Tonight I find it difficult to rein my thoughts... they continue to revolve around Peter. I hold several incense sticks into a flame and watch them flare to life. They, too, remind me of my son and the way his eyes would light up at my touch, the anger chased away. I smother the flames and put the sticks into holders. Fine curls of smoke rise towards the ceiling and I idly watch them.

Tonight there is nothing more I can offer to Buddha and I bow my head both in shame and confusion. Forgoing meditation for the moment, I move to the window to watch the nightly sky rather than the lights of the city below. Peter often does the same when he visits me and I wonder if he chooses to look up towards the sky to be not reminded of his fear of heights... Heavy, gray clouds veil the stars. The rain I have sensed coming all day, will soon arrive.

Leaning forward I brace my palms against the smooth, cool glass. I extend my senses, giving in to my weakness, and run my thoughts along the silver line of the mental bond connecting me with my child.

Rain pours down onto Peter, I can feel the dance of water against his skin... no, not rain... the flow is warm and too steady. I concentrate more and create a mental image of my son in the shower. His face is turned up into the stream, water pearls around his closed eyes, slides over his full lips. Steam fills the shower stall like a tangible thing and I... I suddenly... envy... it. My breath catches, but I cannot stop the train of my thoughts... nor watching the vision of steam curling itself around the slender form of my Peter, caressing his skin like a lover would... like I would do. I envy the water, streaming down onto my son's strong shoulders, sliding down his arms and chest... its closeness as it wraps Peter in a cocoon of safety and warmth...

I ache to feel him against me, to wrap myself around Peter to keep him safe and warm, to caress his skin, to love him...

I snap out of the fantasy and find myself back in my place, my face pressed against the cold windowpane. I try not to analyze the strange turn my thoughts have taken, but concentrate on regaining breath and control.

Rain vibrates, driven by a sudden gust of wind, against the window. The sensation reverberates through my body and I shiver violently. I open my eyes and the pane reflects not my image back to me, but Peter's...

Turning away from the window, I lean against the nearby wall, gradually sliding down until I sit on the floor. Wearily I drop my face into my hands...


II.

I watch my son pace the room.

Peter's anger looms like a thundercloud and fills the air with tension. He has spoken very little since his arrival; wrapped up in his thoughts he aimlessly walked around or alternatively gloomily watched me restoring order to my workbench after a day busy with patients.

Now everything is back in its proper place and I can turn my attention towards Peter. He is standing next to the French doors, gazing out into the approaching night. I quietly step to my son and touch his shoulder.

He did not sense me coming and jerks round. His face colors and he smiles awkwardly. "Sorry," he murmurs even if nothing occurred that requires an apology.

I cup his cheek with my hand; his skin is very warm. Peter eagerly leans into my touch. "You are too tense to sense the difference between the arrival of a friend or a enemy." I skim my fingers across the fading bruises at his jaw.

"I know." He turns away from me.

"Peter."

He hesitates, gazing at me across his shoulder. "I can't tell you what happened, Pop. Please leave it alone."

I careful keep my face and my voice neutral. "As you wish."

With a groan Peter shakes his head. "It's nothing," he repeats. "I don't even want to think about it anymore, okay?" Spinning round on his heels he comes to me and kisses me onto the forehead. "Don't give me that hurt look of yours. Be a good dad and don't torture a tired son. Why don't you tell me something, Pop?" Expectation lights up his face. "Tell me a tale."

At this moment he looks so much like my little boy that I cannot help myself but to laugh. I cross the room and sit down in lotus at the raised platform. Invitingly patting the ground beside me, I wait for Peter to settle down next to me. Peter sits with his legs dangling over the edge of the platform, so I can see only the side of his face.

I decide this is not the time for a tale. "Which is the most ugly creature you can imagine?"

Peter looks at me from below lowered lashes, his smile is sly. "You told me that everything is beautiful. But beauty lies in the eyes of
the beholder."


I shrug.

"Okay, let me think... I once saw a big, fat rat in an abandoned warehouse. The ugliest thing I've ever seen." He suppresses a shiver, his gaze returned to the floor.

I extend my right arm with the palm up. "Now visualize this rat sitting on my palm."

Peter chuckles His attention aroused, he shifts sideward to face me, drawing one knee up, pulling the other leg under. "Can't... it's too big to sit on your palm, Pop."

"Concentrate, Peter," I gently chide. "Use your imagination."

"People always tell me I have none. Okay." A more serious expression settles upon his features. "So it's now sitting on your hand. Can you... You can see it, too, can't you?"

I nod. "Yes. And I feel it. It is a cold and heavy weight, like a stone picked up from the dirt." I extend my arm a little more toward Peter. "This rat... is a picture of your anger... your pain... the tension filling you. Put all these negative emotions in my hand, put them... into... the rat, Peter."

His eyes widen, but he does not speak.

"Touch the rat, Peter," I continue. "Lay your palm across it. Can you feel it? The coldness?"

Hesitantly he does as I request. Peter extends his left arm until his palm hovers in the air above mine. "I... I really feel it..." Peter's voice is a mere whisper - like is mine, I notice with some astonishment.

I move my hand up until the tips of my vaulted fingers touch Peter's wrist. He winces at the contact, but does not withdraw. I study my son's face, tight with concentration, the tip of his tongue darting out. I do not show my smile to not distract him.

"Now I feel the rat getting smaller and lighter - it seems to... vanish." I move my hand further up, straightening my fingers until my palm is almost touching Peter's. My fingertips are still close to his wrist and I sense the flutter of his heart beneath the warm skin. "But... there is something in the space between our hands. Something soft... something small... moves against your palm. Can you feel it, Peter?"

"Yes," he breathes without looking at me.

"Turn your palm up." I slowly withdraw my hand. "What do you see, sitting now on your fingers?"

"A... butterfly. It is beautiful. But, Pop..."

I move my hand beneath his and cup it. Pulling him toward me, I bend down and blow against his palm as if to shoo away the little animal.

Peter jumps, shaking his head as if waking from a dream. He looks at me with eyes wide with puzzlement. "There was no real butterfly, or? I mean, it's not more than... it wasn't here. I did see it only in my imagination, didn't I?"

I release his hand and shrug. In the silence that fills the room after his word I can almost hear the gentle brush of butterfly wings...

"I don't understand you, Pop." Peter shakes his head. "But it worked. I'm feeling better... even pretty good."

"Then... will you now tell me what is wrong?"

Peter visibly stiffens. With a sigh he moves away and slips from the platform. His back turned to me he stops. "You're not one to give up lightly, are you, Pop?"

I do not answer.

"It's... just too ridiculous. I didn't want to... I don't want to get you in touch with such... dirt!"

The pain in his voice calls me to his side. I touch his shoulder and he turns towards me. "Tell me."

"That guy at the precinct... Thompson... he..." Peter hesitates.

"Yes?" I gently urge, intensifying my grip.

"He made... innuendos." Peter blushes. "About you."

"Ah." I feel relief. Peter thought only to spare me pain not knowing I would not feel it. "What did he say?" I ask, mildly curious.

"Gibberish. Made no sense at all." Peter averts his face.

I move my hand to his jaw and make him look at me. "Tell me."

Peter takes a deep breath. As he finally speaks, his voice is not more than a whisper. "He... said... he watched you. And me. When we are together. The way you look at me. The way you touch me. He said... if he... I really don't want to repeat this, father."

"Peter, tell me."

"He said if he didn't know you're my father... it looks like... I've got a taste for older men."

It takes a few moments until I understand... at least I do believe I understand. "He implied that you and I... are... more than a father and a son." Peter's face blurs and suddenly I remember my... vision... from the night before. I softly draw air into my lungs and feel Peter's hands on my shoulders.

"Pop? You're okay? See, that's why I didn't want to tell you. It's just..." he falters. "I couldn't let him stand there with his foul mouth and insult you. So I... I broke his nose. You know... I'm always... And he straight up ran to Strenlich and..."

"I understand." I push back the disturbing memories and manage to smile reassuringly at my son. I take him in my arms and hold him close to me. Hesitantly he relaxes into my embrace. I feel his face pressed into my neck and move one hand up to stroke his hair. "His words cannot touch us, Peter. They cannot... soil... the feelings between us. But I also understand how he came to his conclusions. If it... causes you such distress... I will restrict my expressions of my love for you in the presence of others..."

Peter moves his head to look at me. "But... I don't want you to stop, Pop. I want them to see that I..." He averts his eyes again.

"What, Peter?"

"I want them all to see that you love me. And I want them to know that I love you. These fifteen years without you... I didn't believe that anybody ever would love me again and no one did... not like you. And I don't want it to be turned into something ug... something to be shunned because of one perp."

I gently push his face back to my shoulder and continue to caress him. My hands travel down his back. "I will never stop loving you, Peter," I whisper, my mouth close to his ear. Forgive me, Peter...


III.

"Pop?"

I watch my son standing at the door of my meditation room.

"Am I intruding?" he quietly asks.

I shake my head, not telling him that I sensed his presence for some time.

Peter enters the room to sit down on the floor opposite to me. "I had an... unpleasant talk with Captain Simms this morning." He clears his throat. "Thompson filed an official complain about me. Unprovoked attack of a fellow officer."

"Captain Simms is a very understanding woman, I am positive, when you explained to her..."

"I didn't tell her," Peter interrupts me. "It's none of her business." He shrugs, nervously running his fingers through his hair. "Got her pissed off with me." A humorless smile spreads across his face. "Nothing new."

"Peter..."

"Don't say it, Pop. She's used to my..."

I lift my hand to stop his words. "Please, listen to me, my son. I need to know why... this... distresses you so much."

Peter stands up and moves to the altar, idly playing with one of the candles. "I... I don't want anybody to say something so... disgusting... about you."

"Disgusting." The word tastes like bitter ashes in my mouth as I repeat it.

"Not... I don't want it to sound that way, Pop. It's just... the way he looked at me... like I'm... something horrible he accidentally stepped into." He slowly turns to look at me. "Father..."

There is a plea in his voice I cannot ignore. I get up and stand close to him. I suddenly think of the fable of Pandora's box. Some containers, once opened, could never be closed again. Right now in front of us, stands one of these boxes, open. Contains unknown. Or perhaps not...

There is a slight tremor in my hand as I reach out for Peter and cradle his cheek in my palm. My son regards me with bright, loving eyes.

This Pandora's box will never be closed for me, never.

"Peter..." What emotion was that flashing across his expressive face? Hope, quickly concealed? Let it be hope... "There is nothing inside you to be ashamed of. Nothing... I would not... recognize... and love."

"Recognize?"

Again, a stillness, and something... more, maybe... excitement? "

"Everything you have inside you... I have inside me. We are... one." I watch my fingers caress his face, a bridge over the space between us. I take the last step closer and feel Peter tremble against me. His beautiful face close enough to kiss... For a very long moment we wordlessly stare at each other. And in the silence... everything is laid in the open. "Will you forgive me..." I whisper. "if I..."

"Please..."

Peter closes his eyes and I bent my head to kiss my son. A choked moan vibrates against my lips and than I feel him respond. His mouth opens hungrily and his hand comes up to grip my shoulder, than up to clutch the back of my head. A thrill courses through my body and I pull him closer to me. I have wanted this, yes, wanted exactly this, the coolness of Peter's mouth and the exciting pressure of his body against mine. "I have hungered for you..." I whisper against his lips, telling a truth I dared not to reveal even to myself until now. "...wanting you as part of myself for so long. That I could have this..." Peter pushes back to look up into my face. The desire reflected back from his eyes is almost more than I... I frame his face with both hands and pull Peter back into my arms, taking his mouth with mine.

We kiss hungrily, frantically moving closer, caressing each other as we remove our clothes, leaving them in jumbled pile on the floor. Stretched out on the small meditation mat we hold each other, mouths locked together as hands explore the unmapped contours of our naked bodies.

I cannot get enough of Peter's taste and move my mouth down the strong neck, leaving a trail of burning kisses as I make my way to the smooth chest. I suck in a nipple, my tongue flickering back and forth across it, bringing moans of pleasure from my writhing son. My fingers dance over chest and belly, skimming over the soft skin of thighs and hips, before settling on the rigid cock.

Wrapping my fingers around the straining organ, I gently squeeze, running my thumb over the tip, one finger working at the tip, Peter's hips slowly pistoning. I pull my mouth away from the rigid nub and return to the sweet taste of my lover's lips, my tongue dueling with its counterpart.

Peter pulls at me, urging me on top as my hands come up to entangle in the hazel hair. His legs part, trying to bring our bodies closer; his hands all over me. Breaking the kiss, I bite and suck his throat.

"Pop, please... I need..."

My arousal growing with the reality of his body under mine, Peter's hands on my buttocks pulling us still closer. I can feel his cock, hot and wet against mine, as our hips ground together.

"What do you need?" I whisper. "Me? Do you need me?"

"Take me. Make us one, Pop. Make it no one can part us, ever."

Make us one. His words ring like a song of forever in my ears. I slowly rise to my knees between Peter's thighs, and bring my head down to drew his cock into my mouth, my tongue working along the shaft as I suck.

Peter's mouth moves soundlessly, his hips driving his cock deeper in my mouth. I shift down, glide my tongue over and around his shaft, pushing his thighs wider apart to reach the puckered opening below. I suck along the inner thigh, nip at the tender skin, while my fingers tease at the opening. Hands pull at me and I look up to see blatant need in my son's face.

"I want you. I want you inside me, Pop." Peter's voice is thick with desire. He pulls his legs up to rest against his chest, exposing himself fully. "I have dreamed of this."

"As I have dreamt of making you my own." Another truth rising out of Pandora's box...

"Do it. Do it now..." Peter moans as my finger insinuates itself into his rectum, stretching him as I slid it in and out, join one more and then another. He rocks back onto the invading digits. "Christ, that feels good..."

"Then this should feel even better..." I whisper as I withdraw my fingers. I rise and lean over Peter, resting one hand above his shoulder, while using the other to position my leaking manhood against Peter's anus. Then, ever so slowly, I push forward, my shaft sinking into slick moistness.

Peter pants harshly as I fill him, his eyes going wide as he watches my cock disappear into his body. I sense his slight discomfort, but it is swiftly overshadowed by overwhelming pleasure as I begin to rock my hips, pushing in deeper, harder. Peter cries out every time my cock slides across his prostate.

I throw my head back, my awareness centering on the feel of the wet tightness wrapped around my manhood. I could never have imagined this
feeling, the wonder of filling Peter's body, my cock giving him pleasure, the indescribable sensation as I bury myself over and over in the clenching orifice, and the knowledge, that this is mine, mine to take and mine to give...

"Yes, Christ, yes..." Peter's head rolls form side to side, his hips thrusting up to meet the invading cock in a relentless reach for completion, each slide of flesh into flesh bringing us closer, closer. The sound of our bodies coming together, the slap of groin against upturned buttocks fills the room.

We burn alive in an inferno of our own making, each plunge of my cock feeding the fires within. I bent down to cover Peter's lips with mine, to drink his frenzied cries - and with one final thrust, I come, my seed filling the beloved body. I hear Peter cry out and shudder into climax, the flames flaring up and incinerating both of us, leaving only the union that would forever embody our love.

* * *

I wake up with Peter in my arms. This is so new, and wonderful... and so very comfortable. "You are beautiful, did you know that?" I whisper against his hair.

Peter chuckles. "Your love makes me so." Reaching for my hand he brings it to his lips, placing a kiss on the open palm. "I love you, too." Suddenly he looks at me, his eyes wide with astonishment. "You know... after all... I might have to thank Thompson..."

I laugh and pull my beautiful boy closer to me.

end