As promised - my very first P/P-story, finally finished and translated into English. I made some corrections in spelling, but otherwise kept it the way I originally wrote it, a few weeks after watching KF TLC for the first time. Funny, I didn't know about this group or the existence of other P/P-fans then <g>

title: sparkles of light
author: Lady Charena (May-August 2004)
fandom: Kung Fu - the legend continues
codes: P/P, PG-15
beta : T'Len
archive: TOSTwins - others just ask
sum: Caine and Peter are dealing with the changes in their relationship and meet a strange woman.

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.

More P/P stories from me and my friends at the Dragon's lair -->

Part one: A night of beginning

>>And in the beginning, there was darkness and there was a single source of light. For ages, the light waited in its dark cradle, maybe slept, with the patience of the immortal. Even if there was nothing or no one to count the time, it nevertheless passed - second after second, month after month, century after century... eternity after eternity. Galaxies rose and vanished into oblivion again. Suns bloomed, spending their life force consuming themselves. Devastation or flourish - the light still slept on.

Until it woke. Why? Who would ever be able to tell... The light started to dance. And the faster it moved, the brighter it flared. Little sparkles were torn from the swirling light, hurled out into the darkness of space. Some of them flickered only for a moment and then - simply expired, leaving no trace behind. Others travelled far and were consumed by shadows, turning cold and dull on their path, almost lifeless. However, some of the precious sparkles crossed space and time unblemished and life giving, they created beauty and wisdom in their way.

All sparkles are still searching for their origin, the light they were torn from. Maybe once in an age two sparkles would meet and blend for the wink of an eye, before each continued on its path. Even if it might be only a second in time for the sparkles, counted in human terms centuries would be embraced before the parting. Generations were born, grew up and died, caught in the consumption of the two sparkles. Some of those humans lived with the knowledge of it, using the powers they felt deep within - some stayed deliberately blind because of fear - but passing on their gifts to these, who would come after them. Love and passion, strength and endurance, given from father to son, from mother to daughter. And like the sparkles did, those humans would search for the light. If they were lucky, they would meet other souls on their life's journey to be
joined in love, blending each into the other...<<

* * *

Peter woke with a start, for long moments confused about his surroundings. He got up, stretching his slightly stiff muscles it had been some time he last slept on such a hard surface - yawning, and brushing his tousled hair out of his face. "Dad?" he asked in a husky, sleep-coloured voice. But as soon as the word left his mouth, he sensed he was alone in the loft. Maybe his father was out on business, tending some patients of his or visiting Lo Si. Maybe it was better that way. Peter wasn't all that sure if he wanted to face his pop before he had time to think over what happened. He rose and went to take a shower.

Feeling the hot spray on his skin and while languidly soaping himself, Peter's thoughts returned to the rather strange talk he had with his pop last night. Well, to be honest, all the talking did Pop.

He had come to his fathers loft like he did as a child, haunted by bad dreams. But only this time there were no dragons beneath his bed to frighten him. Now he had to fight with... distressing feelings... At first, he was more than lucky to have Pop back in his life again - despite the wounds still festering in his soul or the anger of being left behind. His dad helped him to overcame the estrangement, sometimes clear felt between the two of them, maybe healing his own injuries, torn by the separation of father and son, in taking care of him. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, something changed. *He* changed. Distressing images of his father would appear in his dreams... holding him, touching him in ways far from fatherly. More than once he woke in the dead of the night, covered with sweat, the pressure of Pops lips still lingering on his. Ashamed of the surge of arousal he was feeling and still... it felt in a strange sense... right. Of course he had no intention of telling someone - the very least his father - just tried to woo the dreams away by pretending they did not exist. Sometimes he would feel the scrutiny of his dad's eyes on him, but he never even hinted or asked outright if something was wrong. Letting him steam in his own juices, so to speak...

But last night, again waking up from a frightening erotic dream, he just couldn't stand the loneliness of his rooms anymore and he let the Stealth take him to his dad's loft. It had been close to midnight, but he found his father awake, sitting on the balcony, the flute on his lap - and not at all amazed about his son's ruffled and unexpected appearance. Instead, he padded on the still sun-warmed tiles to his side and Peter went to him, silently sitting down. Near enough to brush shoulder and arm of his dad, sending a shiver through his body...

"What is it, that distresses you so much, Peter?" he said, without looking at him.

However, Peter remained silent, his lips clamped together, two thin white lines in his face. He didn't dare to answer, not trusting his voice to conceal the upheaval in his mind. Although he couldn't turn away as his fathers eyes fastened on his - apparently looking into his soul.

"I suppose you did not come to watch the shooting stars with me, my son."

"Shooting stars?" Peter asked, gladly taken the change for diversion.

Without letting his eyes go, Caine pointed out a hand to the nightly sky.

Peter tore away from the scrutinizing gaze and actually saw the fiery trail of a shooting star crossing the sky almost above them. "Nice view. Didn't know about this happening tonight."

"There so much we both do not know, my son."

An arm came round his back, drawing him nearer to his dad's body and Peter complied without any hesitation, letting drop his head onto his father's shoulder. He could smell incense and an undefined odour of herbs, for him forever inseparably connected with the presence of Pop. He turned his head a little more until he could hide his face in the silken cool strands of silver gleaming hair. It soothed him, cajoled him into a dreamlike state of relaxing. Peter almost thought he could hear the strong and steady, ever calm heartbeat of his father.

His eyes involuntarily closed, as Caine started to talk. "And in the beginning, there was darkness and there was a single source of light..."

Maybe he felt asleep or went into a dreamlike state of trance, because the next he knew were the strong arms of his father encircling him, carrying him to the platform where a surprisingly soft mat covered the bamboo. "Pop?" he whispered, as Caine put him down onto it.

"Sleep, my son. There is nothing to fear."

And he believed in that without any doubt. He lay unresisting while his shoes, socks, and jeans vanished - Dad was undressing him like a child... A kind of much-needed comfort was transmitted through every touch, stripping Peter down to his briefs.

Peter closed his eyes and already again at the verge of sleep felt his father's body cuddling up to his, a cotton clad thigh resting against his, one arm gently cradling his head to a bare chest, the other circling his waist to pull him near. His last wake impression was the whisper of tender lips on his temple...

* * *

Peter turned the spray down and stepped out of the shower. He found some clothes he had kept here for some time without any real cause. Just finished drying his hair, he rather felt than heard his dad return. Suddenly his heart rate would speed up and he carelessly dropped the towel to the floor.


Gulping against a sudden lump in his throat, Peter left the bathroom. "Hi Dad," he said, forcing a light tone into his voice. "Care to go out and have some breakfast with me?"

A slight, tender smile crossed Caine's lips. "You look much better than when you came here, Son."

"Uh, yeah. Seems all I needed were a couple of hours of undisturbed sleep." Peter smiled sheepishly. "Thanks, Pop."

He gained a questioning gaze and a familiar shrug. "I did nothing."

"I mean... for letting me stay... for... holding me tonight. I needed you so much..." Peter felt a blush creeping up his cheeks. "I mean..."

Head tilted, his father watched him, something moving behind the calmness in his eyes. "I understand."

"You... do...?" Peter paused, insecure about what to say next.

"You were not the only one in... need... last night, Peter." Crossing the distance between them, Caine took his son's face into both hands, pulling him closer. His fingers dug into the still damp hair, resting with slight pressure against the sensible skin. "My... Peter..."

Half-heartedly Peter tried to pull away from his fathers all-too- seeing eyes, but find himself unable to do so. He licked his dry lips. "Please," he whispered - not knowing, what he pleaded for to stop it or to... kiss... him...

His father did neither. "Do you remember what I told you tonight?"

"I... no..." he lied. "I have to go now, Dad. Let me... please... let me go."

In the most tender of all caresses Caine's fingers slid slowly down Peters cheeks, his thumb brushing ever so slightly his child's lips. "If you must go, then go," he said softly, withdrawing his hands, leaving Peter feeling bereft.

He never felt so devastated since the destruction of the temple. Blindly reaching out, Peter clung to his father. "I don't want to loose you again," he whispered, hiding his face onto his dad's neck.

"I will stay with you for as long as it lies within my power, Peter."

Tender hands rubbed soothing circles on Peter's back. "I don't know how much more of this I can stay," Peter murmured, his fingers digging into the shoulders he held himself up. "Dad, it's wearing me out. I can't think... and I try... but can't fight it..."

"So why fight love?"

"The... need..." Suddenly words hit home and Peter lifted his head to gaze at his pop with wonder. "No. can't possibly know what I'm talking about..."

"I know this is a very difficult situation - for both of us. It is also new for me. But if you trust me... we will find a solution."

"I... you don't... understand... it's impossible! You're my father! One... doesn't feel... that way... for ones fath..." A finger came to lay gently across his lips, cutting off the words.

"Feel desire?" The word hung gloomily between them. "I sense it for some time in you, Peter. And tonight I tried to tell you about there is no need to deny what you feel."

"You don't..." He stopped, searching his father's eyes. "...understand. You would despise me."

"Because you offer love, Peter?"

"It's impossible!"

"Is it? Or maybe it is inevitable..." Caine bent forward to gently lay his lips onto those of his son.

Peter stiffened, but his mouth opened to the loving caress and their kiss deepened fast. With a low sound between laughter and anguish, Peter stepped back. "I... really must go now..."

"Come tonight. We have to talk."

"I cannot," Peter tried to control his ragged breathing. "There is a surveillance running... I'm due to take the shift until midnight."

"Then come, whenever you are ready to." For moments, pain shone clearly in the calm orbs of his father's eyes. "Please."

"I... will," Peter promised. With this, he turned to go.

Exhaling a low moan, closing his eyes, Caine put a hand out to support himself against the next wall. Concentrating on the rough, cool surface he was feeling beneath his palm, helped him to regain control. His thoughts formed a silent prayer... if he was wrong, he would lose more than he knew he could possibly bear... his son. And maybe his very soul.

Part two (Interlude): A mysterious woman

Rubbing his aching neck, Peter left the precinct after delivering a short report. How many words could one use to say that nothing happened - nothing at all. Except he lost every game of cards he played with Blake. 'Lost your lucky charm, huh, Peter?' He snorted. Christ, thinking about his talk with Pop this morning he'd rather believed he'd lost his mind...

At that moment, he suddenly collided with something... or to be precise - with someone. "Uh... I'm really sorry," he said, offering a hand to the person he'd run down. "I've got lost in my thoughts, so I didn't see you coming round the edge."

It was a woman, not much older than Peter. She looked at him and at his extended hand with something like aversion, than came to her feet without help. She brushed some dirt from her long, dark coat and gave a low sound of disgust as she discovered the broken heel of her left boot. Steadying herself with one hand against the wall, she slipped out of the damaged shoe, holding it up in front of Peter's face. "I've paid 250 Dollars for this cursed things in Paris! They're manual work, sewn especially for me. And all you say is: sorry, I didn't mean to." With an angry sound she dropped the boot to the street, already slipping out of the other, which followed his counterpart only seconds later.

"Surely a broken heel can be repaired. And of course I'll pay for it..." Peter offered.

"Oh, shut up, will you?" the woman answered. To Peter's astonishment she simply sat down onto the pavement and started to rub the soles of her feet with the knuckles of one hand. "I've thought they're going to kill me any moment." She brushed her short hair back, it was blond, almost white and surrounded her face like a kind of helmet. Only two long strands hung down along her cheeks to the shoulders, a thin, black, silken band braided into each of them, looking more like exotic earrings. Dark coloured lips opened to a slight smile as she met his eyes. "Twyla Nicols," she said.

"Peter Caine," he answered, reaching for her extended hand. "May I offer you a ride?" The second their fingers touched a blinding beam of light seemed to explode in Peter's head. With a low cry of pain, he stumbled back, finally collapsing against the wall. Palms pressed against his ears he tried to fight back the roaring he could hear, a stifling wave of cold closing around him. He found it difficult to breath and his heartbeat rushed up.

The woman watched him with clear, grey eyes, her face impassive as if looking to something she had seen a dozen times before. Maybe she had... She came slowly to her feet and grabbed a pair of simple black gloves from the pocket of her coat. Slipping her fingers into them, she approached Peter and took his hands, tearing them away from his ears. "It will soon be over," she said. "But you're in no condition to drive. Where's your car?"

The roaring in Peter's ears ebbed slowly to a subdued tingle, but black spots danced still in front of his eyes as if he had looked into a strong light. "Over there... the Stealth" The words came weak and horse from his dry lips. He felt a hand in the pocket of his jacket, searching for the car-keys.

"Okay. Where do you live?" Twyla asked impatiently. She was tired and her head ached since she touched the hand of this young man. And he hated the trouble she knew about to come when Peter Caine recovered enough to ask questions she would be unable to answer. At the other side, she was too curious to know the cause for his strong reaction to simply run away.

"Chinatown." Peter gave her the address of his father's loft and - helped by Twyla - managed to climb into the car. Resting his head against the cool glass of the window, he closed his eyes until a push into his side called his attention.

"Hey. I believe we're right here."

Peter nodded and started to climb out of the car.

Twyla took her boots and followed Peter to help him further, as suddenly a voice from the shadow of the building spoke: "What happened to my son?"

Startled Twyla swirled around to face a man, stepping out onto them. "I don't know," she said without a moment's consideration.

The eyes of the older man narrowed. "You do," he answered without emphasis but Twyla felt his words like an accusation. "We need to bring him into the house, where I can take proper care of him."

Twyla stepped back and quelled a surge of fear and anger. "It was not my fault."

Caine supported his son. He turned half to look at her. "Come," he simply said.

And Twyla followed him, accepting the authority of the other man. At least for the moment.

* * *

Standing in the bedroom door, Caine watched the woman in front of the windows. She shed her coat and gloves, carelessly throwing it onto the floor to lie next to her boots. There was something in the slim, tall figure that would make the hairs in his neck raise. Obviously feeling his presence she turned, her arms crossed in front of her breasts as if in a defensive manner.

"Is he okay?", she asked. The soft light of the candles were reflected in her eyes, strangely lifeless silver mirrors in the honey- toned frame of her face.

Caine crossed the room to stand in front of her. "He rests - but I was unable to discover the source of his distress."

Twyla gave an undefined shrug. "Well I'm no doctor, there's nothing I could do. I think I'd better go now." She passed Caine to leave but her wrist was caught in a steel hard grip. With an angry jerk of her hand, she freed herself, turning to face him. "What?" she asked furiously.

"I am not convinced you are telling the truth."

Twyla was rubbing her wrist. She shrunk from Caine's touch as he reached for her to examine if he had involuntarily hurt her. "Don't touch me!"

Caine lifted his hands, palms up. "I do not intend to harm you."

A bitter smile twisted her dark lips. "You'd rather be careful that I won't hurt you. I don't want to have the same trouble all over again." She pushed the sleeve of her midnight blue blouse down to cover the red marks at her wrist.

"What kind of... trouble? Maybe I can be of assistance."

Twyla laughed. It wasn't a pleasant sound at all. "Thank you - I've been *assisted* for years, doctors and psychologists turned me inside out until I was sixteen. My younger sister got herself killed at the age of fourteen because she couldn't stand all that surveillance and prying." Abruptly she turned.

"I am sorry." Caine closed his eyes for a moment, feeling for Peter, but his son slept. "May I offer you some tea?"

"You're no one to give up lightly, are you?" She turned half to look at him. "Tea would be fine."

Caine answered to both with a bow.

* * *


Teil 2