title:               Run for cover

author:            Lady Charena

fandom:          Kung Fu – the legend continues

codes:            P/P, PG-15


sum:               After a strenuous day, Peter is unable to sleep.


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.





It was after midnight, when Peter finally nosed the car into the parking spot behind the building his apartment laid. The chill in the air should have forced him into more animation, but instead it seemed to seep up from the cement and steal the energy from his body as he took the few steps to the entrance.


His long day was almost over and he was even too exhausted to be grateful. Five hours in court, waiting to be called to deliver his testimony, and then the case was postphoned for a week. Again. After that, he had spent six hours filling reports and making calls on a new case, a bomb attack to a warehouse. Fruitless effort, too. Lot’s of witnesses – but too many frightened people, and too many angry ones, as well.


It had been exhausting physically and mentally to fight the waves of anger, fear and even horror he received. He had to talk to Pop. How’d he stay it all day glimpsing on other people’s feelings? There must be some way of shielding… Yeah, Pop tried to warn him of this, coming with taking up his Shaolin training…


His stomach grumbled and he remembered having dry sandwiches at his desk at seven, snatching bites between phone calls as he tried to reach men and woman at home who had been unavailable during business hours to make arrangements for questioning. Finally, he had then spent “a few minutes” – which stretched out into several hours – getting ready for a meeting with Captain Simms the next morning.


Even Kermit had left before him, and he was well known for staying late, tied up to and lost for everything besides his computer.


It seemed forever to get home. Twisting the key one last time, he finally got the door open. With a happy groan, he shut it behind him and slipped of his jacket, loosing the tie he wore in court and still had on. Dumping both on the nearest chair, he made his way to the kitchen. Rummaging through the meagre contents of his fridge, he finally poured himself a large glass of cold milk and drained it. That cooled the acidy ace in his stomace, caused by too much tension and a gulped diner. He was too tired to eat anything now, although he felt hollow inside. He really ought to just go to bed…


Too tired to even make that simple decision he sat, empty glass still in his hand, at the kitchen table. He closed his eyes and then rubbed them absently. He should go to rest. Maybe making first some of the awful tasting tea Pop had provided to him the last time he had trouble sleeping. The little box with the bitter herbs still stood at the shelve like a visible reminder of his father to take better care of his health.


Pop was asleep. He simply knew it without being able to say *exactly* how he know. Gradually he’d discoverded that - when Pop was asleep – a… dimmed… feeling, tinged ever so slightly with aloneness, pervaded him. When he was awake, there was an energy, which would permeate his being.


Even Pop slept so why was he still up He asked himself that question as he stretched, trying to unkink his back. For just a fraction of a second he thought about not having him in his life… Not that he saw him very often, and when they did, the time was often spent on one of his problems or Pops.


Still thinking of Pop, of hurried meetings, fleeting touches and still all too uncommon embraces, he finally forced himself to get up and get ready for bed. He was glad to get out of his clothing. Climbing between the cool sheets gratefully, letting his body succumb to the comfort… it was wonderful!


His mind, however, refused to be seduced into relaxation. Fifteen minutes later he got up for a drink of water, convinced that the sudden thirst was keeping him from sleep. In bed again, he drifted in and out of awareness, tossing and turning. Eventually he got up and went to the window. Sometimes a few minutes of watching the city and some fresh air could be relaxing. Not tonight. Tonight it was chill, almost cold. The dim light wasn’t comforting. The night sounds of traffic were distant and cold to his ear. He shivered, wrapping his arms tight around himself; he tilted his head to look up into a sky that held only few visible stars.


Suddenly he wished his father to be here, his warm arms folded around him like he remembered from his childhood. He suppressed the thought. It was selfish to yearn for him to come, to want him to abandon his sleep that he might court his own. Besides, he was certainly no longer a child. His mind even dared more: he wished he were safe and warm in his arms – asleep. The very thought was a comfort… and brought a surge of arousal. He wrapped his arms more tightly around his body and stared out across the city, not seeing any of the lights at all.


When he made his decision he was not even consciously aware he had done so.


How oddly it occurred to him, how calmly. It brought no flare of excitement, no flare of resolution. He only went and was dressed – and left. He took the Stealth and did not hurry, even though something inside of him longed to speed up the car, driving madly through the nightly streets.


* * *


The distance between his apartment building and his father’s home seemed miles and miles away, but finally he arrived there at last. Taking up the stairs two or three a time he entered the loft. It was all quiet and the light was dim. There was only one candle at the entire room – on the altar – and it flickered slightly as he passed by. The room was all shadowy and he didn’t remember ever seeing it that way. He found himself almost tip-toeing across the room, stopping when he came to the foot of the sleeping platform. He held himself still and feasted his eyes on the sleeping form of his father.


Powerful. Sleep gave Kwai Chang Caine no innocence, as it sometimes did to other men. He appeared peaceful, but retained an air of masculine maturity and power as well. Pop was clothed in silks and they clung to every line of his body.


Pop slept on his side, his hair was a wave of silver in the half-light, flowing over the futon. His hand was closed on a fold of the blanked. He was beautiful, Peter thought as he started to undress.


Yet he could not have told at what point his eyes opened. Perhaps Pop thought he was not real, for he said nothing, only pulled himself up on one elbow and gazed at him.


Peter was naked then, unselfconscious about it. He ran his hands through his hair once and crawled into the bed, sliding his body in beside Pop, into sweet warmth and his hesitantly enfolding arms.


“Peter?” His voice was a whisper, a puff of breath, of wonder, of confusion, against his hair.


“Pop,” Peter sighed in response, his head came down onto his dad’s shoulder – and he fell asleep.


* * *


Caine laid back, his eyes unable to leave the impossible sight of Peter, here. It could not be – and yet his senses confirmed the truth. Peter’s unique scent filled the air, his cool, naked body made a wide stripe of sensation down his side and the sound of his child’s breath was loud in Caine’s ears.


Cautiously he eased away an inch, unwilling to endure the too-sweet delight of such an intimate touch. In his sleep, Peter shifted, not allowing him to remove the source of his comfort and so he ceased to try to move him away. Peter’s hand was between them in an awkward position and he gently pulled it up, holding it on his chest with one of his own.


His own sleep had vanished. Although he was tired from hours of labour, he was wide-awake now. His mind kept shifting from the marvel of Peter’s presence to the memory of the sight, which had greeted his eyes when he first opened him. The white column of Peter’s body had been in deep shadow, but his eyesight was exceptional even under these conditions.


Just thinking about it was sweet agony. He threw his head back, jaw clenched, until the surging tide of sensations became manageable again and he prayed that Peter would not wake up and find him in such a state.


Why did he not simply leave Peter and went to find another place to sleep – or better to meditate? How could he justify it? That Peter needed him here? That he knew Peter would not sleep well away from him?


He had never been able to find the exact words to explain even to himself his relationship with his son, the way it had grown and unfolded to more than simply being father and son. Words about the… things… that were, and were not. Not yet. Was he too weak? Had he lured Peter somehow?


Had he? Had Peter known the essence of his thoughts as he knew his? He had tried so hard to keep his intensions pure, but he was not always successful. Sometimes the longing to have Peter here, here in his arms, in his bed, had come to him despite his best efforts at sublimation or surpression. Sometimes he wanted Peter with him desperately.


Peter had come, he would sleep, and then he would go. It had to be that way. It would be harder now that he carried in his mind the image of him, naked, looking into his eyes. So beautiful. He lay, letting the memory wash over him, bittersweet. Perhaps it penetrated Peter’s sleep, for he roused, murmured something soothing, and rubbed his head against Caine’s shoulder before sinking into sleep again.


Caine choked back a small sound, fighting the impulses any man would have with his lover in his arms…


A long time later he was finally able to ease over onto his side, making his body a shield against the faint light of the single candle. He found a confortable position for them both, pulled the blanket up higher and, letting his need for Peter soothe him, he was eventually able to fall asleep.







Inspired by


RUN FOR COVER - Sugarbabes

When blues, got me down
Then I, get turned around
I tend to, cut myself off
From things, I shouldn't run from

It doesn't really matter
Sometimes we run for cover
I'm always on the outside

Stabbed me in the back
Wanted things that I lack
Sticking to your ploy
Is this something you enjoy?
Publicity and insecurities
Just wanna be me
It's my need to be free

It doesn't really matter
Sometimes we run for cover
I'm always on the outside (on my own)
You never seem to wonder
How much you make me suffer
I speak it from the inside

Looking right at me (at me)
Won't receive my plea (my plea)
Tell me what you mean (you mean)
I'm not what's on the screen (oh-oh)
Faking what will be (will be)
Fighting the fatigue (fatigue)
That's quite enough for me (for me)
Makes me wanna scream
(scream, scream, scream, scream, scream, scream)

Keep it to myself (Keep it to myself)

It doesn't really matter
Sometimes we run for cover
I'm always on the outside
Keep it to myself (keep it to myself)
You never seem to wonder
How much you make me suffer
I speak it from the inside

Keep it to myself
(Keep it to myself) (on my own)

It doesn't really matter
Sometimes we run for cover (on my own)
I'm always on the outside
Keep it to myself (keep it to myself)
You never seem to wonder
How much you make me suffer
I speak it from the inside