Action Archaeologist

is such a funny sequence

There is literally a Pizza Hut across the street from the pyramids.

“I’m a soldier. I have to do what I’m told even if it means sacrificing myself or my freedom.” Which was why he’d confessed to committing his commander’s crimes, and held up under every interrogation since. Paris just wanted to be a good soldier regardless of what the records would officially show. To the lieutenant, following orders was far more important than following his own selfish desires - such as wishing he could live just another day. Which the universe had granted him, he supposed to torment him for every second of life he had stolen. “I can’t feel them,” Paris said of his stitches, frowning a little. The alcohol he drank had done its job as an anaesthetic. His fingers only trembled a little as he peeled off the borrowed shirt Sam had left him during the last leap. Beneath it, his numbed skin was cold and clammy to the touch, though threads of the cheap fabric had embedded themselves into some of his scars. Unaware of this, Paris turned to the trousers he was wearing instead, and started wrestling with the buttons above the zipper. Being drunk made his usually perfect vision very blurry, and impaired his coordination.

"Soldiers are supposed to follow orders, yes, but there are also rules about what type of orders they are supposed to follow. That does not include covering for someone who breaks the rules they were meant to follow. Even if it's a superior officer."

Paris listened intently for a moment, before reaching over to place his fingertips against Sam's face - an action left over from their first few leaps together, one that had now become so much more. Even if Sam couldn't see his own face, Paris could feel it for him, feel what he really looked like, and Sam could move his fingers wherever he wanted them. “There are times,” Paris said softly, “where I allow my mind to wonder...what could be. It is perhaps foolish of me, considering our predicament, but it is often what brings me sleep in the night.” Paris brushed Sam's cheek with one thumb, head cocked to the side again. “I think about us, the three of us, having a home together. In a hypothetical situation where I am not a fugitive from my own people, and would not be arrested upon our return to your time. I have never before desired retirement from the service, but if it meant I would spend the rest of my life with the men I cherish, then I would gladly give it up.”

Paris curled into Sam's side a little more, resting his head on the pillow so he could look up at him better. “I have... also thought about something somewhat different. As you know, the admiral and I have not had very pleasant childhoods, but...perhaps we could provide a better one for a child in the future. I am incapable of reproduction of course, and medical surrogacy with either yours or the admiral's genetic material would not bring us nearly as much joy as adopting a child just as in need as we were. Giving her the life we never had. I admit that I have never wanted to raise a child before, but that is the accepted convention of the ‘proper family experience’ is it not?” Al seemed so happy with small children, Paris thought, and both Al and Sam had had younger sisters. They seemed to know what to do. They could teach Paris to do it, too.

more here

Paris cocked his head to the side as he processed Sam's words. “That is all and well, Dr. Beckett,” he replied, “but I have not aged a day past twenty-four years, and there are no studies into the nature of my disorder that could tell me if I will ever age again.” He pulled the blankets over his legs, curling closer to Sam under them. Whether Paris aged or not, he couldn't imagine his life without Sam (or Al) and didn't particularly want to. He loved them both so much that it was impossible to remember how he'd felt before he met them. Speaking of which... The lieutenant's brow furrowed slightly for a moment. “Do you believe it will ever be over, sir?” He glanced up. “The leaps, I mean.”

Even in this hazy state of mind, Paris could still feel small sparks of pleasure where Sam's fingers brushed against his own, and it made a slight blush rise to his cheeks. It was noticeable, but could almost be dismissed as just a side effect of the alcohol in his system. The unexpected dip he'd taken in the ocean had torn open his stitches and the salt water had crept into his wounds, resulting in so much pain that his resolve had finally failed him. Alcohol was the only drug available to Sam in this desolate place, and Paris had obligingly taken it when the other man told him to while he repaired the damage. It had numbed his pain, and kept him significantly more quiet than he would have been, but it had dazed him. “I wasn't afraid to die,” he said now, slurring his words slightly, “I was prepared.” Paris curled his fingertips over Sam's. Prepared, but deep down, in a part of his mind that was selfish and illogical and bad, Paris had very secretly wished he didn't have to.

(via)

QUANTUM LEAP 1.03 Star-Crossed - June 15, 1972

And then comfy lil cozy crevices where you just dug start ~calling your name~

Okay but consider: -Very soft (no rocks at all, just buttery smooth, sifted, light, and fluffy soil -Pesky rocks are on the other side of the dirt pile. Don’t even worry about them. -Usually cool to the touch, even on a hot day -You can just sink into it. Like a snow angel. But dirt. Bliss.

But what I'm also hearing is that a pile of freshly sifted dirt will attract an archeologist the way that a single piece of paper in the wilderness will attract a domestic cat.

They had then attempted to figure out his age through examining his body. Paris had seen too much, and heard too much. Killing him was a waste of his beauty, and he seemed young enough that they could sell him instead. A new argument then started, as one of the men pointed out how that would not prevent Paris from sharing what he’d heard. Very few others sought this treasure, and he could give them an advantage. All the while, Paris had sat there politely, more curious about this mysterious item (an ancient summoning horn of some sort) than he was concerned about his captors’ intentions for him. But the men did not ignore him for very long. They’d seen Indy’s whip and Paris’ whip scars and put two and two together, believing Paris to be Indy’s slave. And so they asked him about his ‘master’, whom they believed sought the item as well, without explaining any of their thought process. Paris had of course been of no help at all, irritating them.

Paris opened his mouth to obligingly respond, but then he closed it again when Indy hushed him, slipping further into a daze. And suddenly he was kissing him. Oh. Paris’ eyelids fluttered shut and he parted his lips automatically. In the darkness of this alcove, he could feel every inch of the other man’s body pressing against his own, his heart racing with every passing second that this position was maintained. If the lieutenant was distracted before, it was absolutely nothing compared to how distracted he was right now. Any thoughts about his recent capture - as incoherently assembled as they were - seemed to have just melted away the moment Indy’s lips crashed into his. His legs had given way some time ago, but he had no use for them now. Everything he had ever needed was in this man. Paris couldn’t breathe, increasingly light-headed as he was but Paris didn’t need to breathe. It… didn’t matter.

me, burying my face in my hands: Maybe…?

Had Paris been a different man, he would have protested this lack of accuracy describing his five foot seven frame, perhaps even pointed out that it was Indy who was tall, thus making the lieutenant appear to be much smaller as part of a classic optical illusion. But as it was, the other's decision to suddenly manhandle him... only made Paris' heart race in his chest. He went easily, without complaint or struggle, emerald eyes as wide as saucers. His gaze, as respectful as it usually was, flickered from Indy's shoulder to his face, ever so hesitantly, before moving back to his hands. Paris much preferred being treated like a ragdoll by this man over any other, and before he could control himself - he was speaking this illogical thought out loud.

"Here, I'm sure we can lose them." Although... He could just stand back and let Paris take them. He's seen him in action and he's... Unbelievably deadly when he actually fights back. Which never seems to be for himself. He'll let him loose if it's needed, but otherwise... He pulled him into a dark corner, the two of them squeezed into a tight spot, Indy's arms braced against the wall behind Paris, pinning him there. "How did you manage to piss them off, anyway?" It's not like that seemed like a particularly hard thing to do, although Paris is always unerringly polite.