Kim Possible: The Cosmic Sitch

A series of one shots by Caith

A/N: So we all know that Caith's crack pairing for Kim Possible is Ron Stoppable/ Monkey Fist. We also know that Caith sucks, with a capital S, at finishing multi-chapters. So, I offer up a compromise, in the form of my slowly-becoming-infamous multi-oneshots. The deal is this: I provide a basic plot and background wherein a relationship of some kind can blossom. Then I write tons of oneshots about that relationship from differing scenes and points of view. If you'd like an example, bebop on over to my Yu Yu Hakusho fic, "Rest In Pieces".

Anyhoo, since it worked so well over there, I thought I'd give it a shot over here. Obvious warnings: Slash. Yaoi. Shifty ratings. A complete disregard of season four, save a few items (that whole 'turning into stone' thing doesn't bode well for a serious relationship) lack of Kim/Ron. Maybe some KiGo. If you're very very good children.

IN THE CASE OF FLAMERS: I am writing homosexual situations between two consenting adults. Last time I checked this was legal. If you want to tell me I'm going to burn in hell, at least take the time to email me personally as opposed to blocking up my review page. Either that or seriously reconsider your own stance on your beliefs, since in order to flame me you would have had to…er..read the story. With the relationship in it. That you disapprove of. Yeah.

Right. Without further adieu, I present to you the first shot of The Cosmic Sitch.

Part 1: Joking

Montgomery Fiske was speechless.

This was not a normal occurrence. Hell, it could even be called abnormal. Montgomery, known to his friends as Monty, always got the last word. It had something to do with the way his brain was wired, with that 'damnable British wit' that people kept accusing him of using to unfair advantage. Whatever it was, Fiske was never at a loss for words. Even in the heat of battle, he always had something snarky to say.

Yet as he sat there, in his large red-leather upholstered Victorian chair, staring at the dismal glow of his computer screen, not a single thing came to mind. Not one syllable managed to penetrate the dark grey fog that had fallen around his senses.

He brushed simian fingers over the keyboard, slate grey eyes narrowed. His eyebrow cocked as though he had thought of a possible explanation for what he saw; then he shook his head, obviously disregarding whatever theory he had been grasping at. He leaned back, crossing one leg over the other, his foot- eerily similar in design to his hand- beating against the chair's arm in a quick, slightly impatient beat.

"Joking."

It was one word, spoken quickly, as though he was afraid he would lose it if he held onto it for too long.

"You must be joking." He informed his computer. "There isn't any way."

But there was. It was right there in black and white, staring back at him with all the smugness of- well- of Kim Possible as she walked off with a mystical item he needed. Or Shego when she made a well-placed monkey joke and he didn't have the time to retort. It was the kind of smug that made him want to go feral and start breaking things.

"It. Isn't. Possible." He explained to himself. "It's not. Not at all."

There had to be a logical explanation. After all, Tai Shing Pekwar was an old art. It was more legend than reality now, and the Yamanouchi school did its part to obscure the true beginnings of the martial arts form. There was a distinct possibility that what he was looking at was merely another legend, just another dead end, like the many others he had investigated over his years.

The issue being that it WAS true. Montgomery was certain that it was true, in that gut-deep way. What he was looking at was nothing less than genuine fact. If he went to Yamanouchi (assuming he didn't have to kill a bunch of students to get in the front door) the Sensei of the school would tell him that it was true. If he were to contact Possible's irritating little computer rat, he would tell him that it was true.

Montgomery was effectively searching for denial.

"It isn't true." He said, a little more desperately now. "That isn't it at all. At ALL." He stood- well, flipped over his chair using biologically engineered monkey hands- and began pacing back and forth. The strike of a match and the room filled with the scent of prince Albert tobacco; he exhaled deeply, the cloud of smoke obscuring his features as he clutched the thin pipe tightly.

"It's all some terrible joke." He said with a nod. "Obviously. A joke."

He slumped to the floor, automatically taking up a crossed-leg position. Meditation, that was the answer. Meditation…except that he couldn't seem to focus, couldn't seem to drag himself down into that calming blackness that usually soothed all his problems. He opened one eye, glared at the computer.

"It's a lie." He said, firmly. "I am not in love with Stoppable. I'm not."

He slapped a hand over his mouth, eyes going wide. He slowly allowed the hand to fall away, staring down at his monkey-fingers.

"I am not in love with Stoppable." He said aloud, cautiously. The words bounced back at him, callously, tiny shuriken from all sides. He could practically SEE his mother standing over him, shaking her head. "Stop telling me a lie, Montgomery Arlington," she'd say, rolling her eyes.

"I am NOT lying!" he exclaimed. "I'm not!"

Yes you are.

He winced at the internal rebuff, looked at the computer again. The page was still open.

"In the case where the mystical powers divide, one to another, then there is some thread which binds the two, threads of affection or love; for the primate is a social creature, and dark and light each need the other to complete a mutual existence, and for this reason the power is also called the shroud of lovers. Never will the power choose just one, for the destruction of that one would be imminent; the power is meant to be shared, to be held and cherished, and history tells of the power of its bond over those whose love transcends all."

"It's a joke." He said softly. "A terrible, terrible joke. I don't…"

He looked at the pipe in his hand, still smoking. He looked around the room, at his red leather chair and his books and his artifacts. He looked at the small photo album- press releases, each showing the same two faces- a fire-haired young girl, and her blonde, innocently suspect best friend.

"God help me." He whispered, putting his hands over his face. "I do."

A/N: Aww, poor Monty. You're so full of emo. Don't worry, Caith to the rescue!...of course, that requires dealing with Ron-The-Oblivious….but that's next chapter.