Other Worlds

Supernatural - We Happy Few (1/1)

Sun, 15 Nov 2009 20:16:55 GMT

Title: We Happy Few
Fandom: Supernatural
Disclaimer: They belong to Eric Kripke
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Everything up through 5x08, "Changing Channels"
Summary: Three angels in a bar, having an existential crisis or two.

Note: First fic in a long, loooong time. And it's darn near close to crack, though the angst and the Good Omens references seem to have snuck in there regardless. I tried, man, I tried.

WE HAPPY FEW

They had bound her in so many charms and sigils, she could barely move, let alone listen to the world spin beneath her. Death, it seemed, was too good for Anael. Now her siblings wanted to know how she worked.

Anna would have preferred death. At least it would have been an end of sorts. Though, if the occasional whispers were true, perhaps that wouldn't have been the case at all. The Hosts of Heaven and the Hordes or Hell were ready to ride out once more, and God alone knew what the outcome may be. And He certainly wasn't talking to His children anymore, if He ever had in the first place. Not that it mattered much. Creation was poised on the brink of self-destruction and there was nothing she could do, except sag in her chains and await the End of Days.

Which is when her brother chose to come waltzing back in, timing as impeccable as always.

“So, I'm starting to have some doubts here,” the Trickster said, as if continuing an on-going conversation. “An existential crisis, if you will. It's annoying.”

Anna grunted something that might have been an acknowledgment, but it was tough to interpret when she remained gagged.

“I mean, it's not like anyone will listen to what I have to say anyway, but sitting around while Earth is destroyed over the usual family squabble? I don't know, it just feels sort of pointless. Like smashing up your favorite toys so no one else can play with them.”

Anna blinked.

“Look, I'm not saying I'm growing attached to the little hairless apes or anything, it's just that they have good points about them, and the Lord Father knows, they can be a hell of a lot of fun once you get them all wound up. I'd hate to see that much entertainment go to waste, know what I mean?” He waited for an answer, only to finally seem to notice that she was still contained. “Huh. Well, that just won't work.”

He snapped his fingers and just like that, she was free.

She could have sobbed with relief, but, rather than give him the satisfaction, drew as much dignity around herself as she could muster and said, “I suppose you want me to thank you.”

“Uh, yeah. It's not like I had to do it or anything.”

“No, you didn't.” If there was one thing being human had taught her that her brethren still didn't understand, it was humility. The only thing hurt here would be her pride and she cared little for that as it was. She inclined her head toward him. “Thank you.”

“No problem. So, what do you think?”

“About what?”

Gabriel placed his hands on his hips, looking exasperated. “The Apocalypse! Haven't you been listening to a word I've said?”

Anna stared at him for several moments, then sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “If we're actually going to be having this conversation, can we at least go somewhere where they serve alcohol?”

***

When she had still been Anna Milton, she had tended to avoid bars like this. Mostly because they were too damn loud. She could barely hear herself over the noise of the surrounding crowd, let alone her companions, so it seemed pointless to go out and socialize when they couldn't actually do any of the latter. Now, the mere fact that she was out and about and not chained was enough to make her want to visit a hundred bars, each one louder and drunker than the last.

Even if that meant putting up with Gabriel and his never-ending monologue.

“It wasn't like I killed the idiot permanently! As if going and making a deal with that demon bitch was something I cooked up just to screw with him. Ever notice how humans spend more time blaming demons and angels for things they're perfectly capable of doing all on their lonesome? If they spent half that much energy on taking responsibility for their own actions, maybe we wouldn't be staring down the barrel of Judgment Day right now.”

“Mmm.” Anna had learned eons back that the best way to deal with Gabriel was to nod every once in a while and make encouraging noises in all the right places. Eventually he would run out of steam and something constructive could happen. She pursued her options on the menu in front of her. Typical bar fare, but then, any fare was better than no fare right now. “Do you know if they serve buffalo wings?”

“What?” Gabriel blinked. “I don't know. Maybe?”

“I haven't had any in a really long time. I could use some good wings.” She glanced around, looking for the erstwhile waitress. “Is there table service here?”

“I have no idea. You're not listening.”

“I'm listening,” she lied and looked around for the waitress again. “I can listen and want wings at the same time. It's called multi-tasking.”

“Oh, for-” He snapped his fingers and a plate of buffalo wings appeared right in front of her. “There. Happy?”

“That's cheating.”

“Uh, Trickster, hello?”

She frowned. The wings really did look good, battered and just crispy enough. And they smelled heavenly, if you'd excuse the language.

“You forgot the bleu cheese dressing,” she said.

“God, you're picky.” Snap. “Better?”

“Yep.” She sent a silent apology to the small chickens providing her with sustenance, praying for the tiny whiff of soul that had been sacrificed. Then she dug in and, oh Lord in Heaven, they tasted as good as they looked. “Any chance of getting some lager while we're at it?”

“That you'll have to order. It's a bitch to create and I can never get the consistency quite right. Cost me no few trials during the Middle Ages, let me tell you. Viking heroes always managed to see right through the trick soon as they tasted the mead.” His eyes lost focus and an almost fond smile crossed his face. “Now, there were some party people. Even their afterlife rocked: non-stop wine, women and song and a bunch of badass warrior chicks guarding the gates.”

Anna sucked a bit of buffalo sauce off her right index finger. “I'm a badass warrior chick.”

“Yeah, but did you ever wear a horned helmet? I think not. Besides, it's just not the same. Heaven's too filled with warriors and not nearly enough of the wine.” He frowned. “Anyway, where was I?”

“The Apocalypse.”

“Right, right. Which, for the record, I wouldn't even be questioning if it weren't for the goddamned Winchesters. Can you explain that to me? What the hell is so freakin' special about them that they manage to throw a spanner into the works every time without fail?”

Anna shrugged. “What makes you think I have any clue?”

“Well, you know them better than I do. Both literally and biblically, I might add.”

She rolled her eyes. “Gabe, I've been in a cage the last few months. From the little I've heard, you should be asking Castiel about this, not me.”

“Huh.” Gabriel frowned thoughtfully and raised his hand. “Good point.”

“Don't-” you dare is what she meant to say but it was already too late. Gabriel snapped his fingers and there Castiel was, sitting at the table and looking vaguely befuddled.

This meant little. Castiel often looked befuddled.

He blinked several times and then focused on the grinning pagan sitting across from him. His lips curled back and he half-rose.

“Gabriel.” The name fell down like a curse.

Gabriel wagged a finger at him, not in the least perturbed by the rage all but radiating off the angel. “I wouldn't do that, little brother. If you recall the last time we met, I pretty much handed your ass back to you. Or do you need a reminder?”

He still grinned, but something glittered in his eyes that was not at all playful. Castiel backed down with something akin to a snarl, his attention drifting to the third body at the table. His eyes widened and all the self-righteous anger abruptly drained from him.

“Anna.”

She nodded, calmly wiping her hands free of sauce with her napkin. “Castiel.”

“How did you – when -”

She tilted her chin at Gabriel, who shrugged and said, “Any excuse to piss off Zachariah is a an excuse well worth it, I say.”

“Oh.” Then a little quieter, “Oh. Anna, I-”

She slapped him.

His head jerked to the side and for a moment, he stayed in that position. He slowly turned back to her, one hand against his cheek, eyes wide and sorrowful.

“I deserve worse,” he said.

“Apology accepted,” she said. “Don't ever do it again.”

“I... won't.”

There was a long, awkward pause.

“Well,” Anna announced, perhaps a little too brightly. “Since, the wait staff appears to have taken the night off, I'm going to the bar to order a pint. Who's in?”

***

It'd been a long time since she'd had a good drink. Well before she'd been committed, she thought. She'd lost interest in the binge drinking culture at school early her freshman year and after she'd regained her Grace, there'd never been any time to sit, let alone work her way through a beer.

The draft here was surprisingly decent, though Anna appeared to be the only one enjoying it. Castiel fiddled with his glass more than he drank from it and Gabriel had ordered something electric blue that came buried under a pile of fruit and a little paper umbrella.

“I get it, you know,” Gabriel said. “The whole tragic two-brothers-in-a-house-divided thing. It's the stuff of epic poetry and blah, blah, blah. People get sucked into that sort of shit, so it's not like I'm blaming you for it or anything.”

“Your actions would imply otherwise,” Castiel muttered, eyes focused on his beer. He seemed to regard it as some sort of puzzle he had yet to figure out.

Gabriel waved his hand at him. “That was business. Not a personal judgment on your lifestyle choice.”

“It is not a lifestyle -” Castiel trailed off, then looked up. “Oh. You're making a joke.”

“That was one of the things I always liked about you, Castiel, your sense of humor. Oh, no, wait, I meant the opposite.”

“Don't be an ass,” Anna told him.

“What? I'm not the one who has to get everything explained twice because I take it all so damned literally.”

“I'm sorry. I haven't spent as much time among mortals as you have.” Castiel tilted his head. “Apparently, I merely needed to abandon my post and join a pagan pantheon in order to do so.”

Anna snorted into her beer. Now, that had definitely been sarcasm. What did you know? The boy could be taught. “He's got you there.”

“Hey.” He pointed at her, then at Castiel. “Hey now. What do you two know anyway, huh? Nothing, that's what. You didn't hear from our Father, did you? Get Revelation? Did you? No, no, you didn't. But I did fucking constantly and then had to watch it all fall apart. And where's dear, old Dad now? You still have a single damn clue where?”

Castiel's hand tightened into a fist against the tabletop. “I will find Him.”

“Sure about that? 'Cause I'm pretty sure the Old Man's dead as a doornail. It'd be just like Him, too, just to screw the rest of us over.”

“That's not – it isn't true.” Something in the way Castiel said it made Anna sit up a little straighter, eyes truly focusing on him on the first time. “I felt His Mercy. I was – I was saved by it. And I will find Him and bring Him back to us.”

Belief and desperation rolled into one definitive statement. Castiel had had, Anna realized, a near-death experience, or at least the closest an angel could come to one, and it had changed him. He had always been so disconnected before, reliant on those around him to show him a path he had been too timid to seek out for himself. And now, on his own for the first time, he had forged himself into a true believer. She was both impressed and a little frightened by the idea.

Gabriel looked underwhelmed. “And then what? Going to ask him to fix everything? Snap of the fingers and bada-boom, bada-bing, it's like it never happened?”

Castiel glanced away, jaw tight. “I will think of something.”

“Oh, great. The fate of the world depends on you winging it. That is some awesome planning there, bro.”

“Give it a rest, already,” Anna snapped. “I don't see you doing much of anything to help.”

“Like you should talk. You ripped out your Grace because you couldn't put up with the bullshit anymore, remember?”

“Gee, suppose I could have run off to play pagan god for a couple centuries, but, gosh darnit, I just didn't have that luxury.” She gestured at Castiel. “Maybe Castiel's wrong. Maybe it's a fool's errand, because, heaven knows, I lost my faith long before I Fell. But at least he's doing something. What are you doing other than sitting back and acting like you're above it all?”

They glared at each other for a moment, before Gabriel slumped and muttered, “Knew I should've gotten Ariel to talk to instead. 'Least he gets my jokes.”

Anna smirked. “Yeah, but he still talks in iambic pentameter. You'd be nuts inside five minutes.”

They sat in a long silence. Anna debated the merits of getting Gabriel to conjure a second plate of wings but decided it was too much trouble. She could use another beer, though. It had been, she decided, one of the weirdest evenings of her very long life and since they had all managed to sit at the same table together without anyone being smited, she deserved a little indulgence.

“Do you really think it foolish?” Castiel said. “Trying to find our Father?”

Anna sighed, rubbing her forehead. “I don't know. I don't – don't truly believe in Him anymore. I wish I could, but I don't think I'm capable of it.” She didn't add that she was just too old and too exhausted to willingly have her heart broken again. Another thing being human had taught her, giving shape to emotions she had only the vaguest awareness of as an angel.

Gabriel snorted. “Oh, He exists alright. I've had His voice in my ear one too many times for there to be much question.”

“So, why didn't you say anything?” Anna said. “You knew there were doubts, before me, hell, before Lucifer. Why stay quiet?”

“Not how it works, sister. If it was, it'd be a lot easier, but then there wouldn't be much point to faith, would there?” He shrugged. “That's how it always got explained to me, anyway. I thought it was crap, but that's Ineffable Plans for you.”

“All of us doing our best to tear each other to pieces is part of the Plan?”

“How the hell should I know? It's ineffable.” Gabriel frowned down at the table, glaring at his drink. “I think I am entirely too sober right now.”

Anna rose. “I'll get the next round.”

***

The three of them stumbled out into the open air. Well, Gabriel stumbled. Anna hung onto a stubbornly stoic Castiel.

“I think we should start our own religion,” Gabriel said, swaying only a little. “Have you ever done that? Ho boy, it's fun.”

“Yeah?” Anna said. She concentrated on very carefully placing one foot in front of the other and was rather proud at the way she managed to walk in a not entirely crooked line. Balancing on Castiel helped, his hands warm against her back. “There's a rule against that. I think.”

“Rules, schmules. Humans do it all the time. Why shouldn't we?” Gabriel frowned momentarily, as if he found this thought troubling, then brightened. “Hey, we even have our own built-in triumvirate. How cool is that?”

“We'd have to be aspects of some sort.”

“Pfft. That's easy.” Gabriel pointed at himself. “God of Awesomness.” He pointed at Anna. “God-”

“Goddess.”

“Right. Goddess of Really Great Hair.”

“I know, isn't it?”

“Completely.” He pointed at Castiel. “God of – I don't know. Sticks Up Asses or something.”

Castiel looked pained. “I'm not God.”

“No duh. You'd just be a god, not the God. I think we all know what happens when you try to replace Him directly.” Something dark and despairing passed over Gabriel's face, a piece of himself he kept tucked deep and far away most of the time. It could be all too easy to forget that once, so very long ago, he had carried his burdens with a joy unmatched in the Host, only to have that self-same joy destroyed at the hands of his own brothers. And so, he'd done the only thing he could when it came down to a choice between rebelling against his Father or casting out his family: he'd run, as far and as fast as he could until he was unrecognizable to all who knew him. Recast and recreated in an image entirely of his own making.

Anna very much wanted to cry.

Gabriel stared at the stars overhead, eyes unfocused on any one in particular. “Fucking Winchesters. They worm their way inside your head with their stupid monkey stubbornness and you can never get rid of them. This why you follow them, Castiel? Because you can never leave them behind?”

Castiel remained silent for a very long time, his grip tightening against Anna. While there might have been a time she could have read his expression, what he was thinking now was a mystery to her.

His words came out slow and halting. “I don't... follow. It isn't like that. It is just – it's the right thing to do. Seeking our Father, protecting His creations. It's right, that is all.”

Gabriel snorted. “Must be nice, always knowing right from wrong.”

“Yes,” murmured Castiel. “It must be.”

In the silence that followed, Anna felt like she should say something but every time she opened her mouth, the words refused to come. One brother lost and jaded, the other fumbling for an epiphany that may never come. And one sister too weary to give them the comfort she might have once.

Gabriel rubbed a hand over his face. “You know what? This evening is starting to suck. I think I can blame that on the Winchesters, too.”

“Sam said he asked you to ally yourself with them,” Castiel suddenly said. “You should. You love this world, I know you do. Help protect it.”

Gabriel shook his head. “I do, little brother. But I love our family more.” His expression softened into something almost resembling kindness. “It's what'll kill us in the end.”

And there was nothing Anna or Castiel could say to that.

Gabriel straightened. “Well, kids, it's been a blast, but I think this is where I get off. Castiel, you find the Old Man, tell him...” He trailed off, then shrugged. “I don't know. Make up something cool and tell Him I said it. Anna.”

“Yes?” she said

“Don't do anything I wouldn't do.”

“That's a pretty short list.”

Gabriel grinned. “I know. Fantastic, isn't it?”

With a snap of his fingers, he was gone, leaving his two siblings alone on the street. They stared at the spot where he'd been for a moment.

Anna spoke first. “This position is kind of awkward. Can we sit down somewhere?”

“Of course.”

The world twisted, dissolved and remade itself in a new way. Anna found herself sitting on a bench on an observation deck overlooking, if she wasn't mistaken, the Grand Canyon. Not that there was much to see at night, but the stars shone more brightly here without light pollution from the city and there were worse places to be, certainly.

“Show off,” she said, but made no effort to move. She rested her head against Castiel's shoulder.

“Anna,” he said. “May I – may I make a confession? I didn't think it wise to say in front of Gabriel.”

“Yeah, shoot.” She felt more than saw his confusion and she clarified, “I mean, go ahead. Say what you want.”

“I think I might be scared.”

She placed her hand over his and his fingers intertwined with hers. “Of what?”

“Of – of everything.” It tumbled out of him in a rush. “That I will find our Father. That I will not. That He is dead. That He isn't. That Raphael is right and Lucifer was responsible for bringing me back. That I will lose both Dean and Sam this time. That they will destroy each other. That the world will end and it's my fault because I chose wrong.” His vessel's body trembled slightly. “I'm scared all the time.”

Anna laughed.

She didn't mean to and she wasn't trying to upset him, but, oh, oh dear, Castiel. Her poor, earnest brother. Only he could manage to capture the essence of humanity without ever realizing it.

He stiffened. “I don't understand why that's funny.”

“It's not, not really, it's just...” She shook her head and squeezed his hand. “Oh, Castiel, welcome to the human condition.”

She almost expected him to ask what she meant but he seemed to pick up on her intent. “This is what it's like to be human?”

“A lot of the time, yeah.”

“It's not very pleasant.”

She smiled, just a little. “Not always, but it's got its upsides, too.”

“Oh.” He looked down to where their hands met, the touch of skin on skin. “What will you do now, Anna?”

“I don't know. I'm sure they've noticed I'm missing by this point.” She sighed, reluctant to tell the truth, but knew it had to be said. “We shouldn't be found together. It's dangerous for both of us.”

“Yes, I know.”

They always did, but neither moved. What the hell, Anna thought, and said, “Still, I think we have enough time to watch the sunrise, don't you?”

END

Original - Disruption (1/1)

Tue, 27 Jan 2009 05:09:13 GMT

Title: Disruption
Rating: PG
Prompt: Romance/a medical prescription
Summary: Andrew has a routine. Too bad Tara isn't part of it.

Note: Written for the NYC Midnight 3rd annual short story challenge. An original(!) piece that had to a) be written in one week b) be 2,500 words or less and c) use the prompt above. A good experience and we're allowed to post stories for feedback as soon as we get confirmation from the site. And this is a fic journal, so why not, yeah?

And of course I receive the 'romance' genre after spending two hours ranting about it in a phone call to sarcasticval. Um, hooray for karma? Though all things considered, I don't think it turned out too badly.

DISRUPTION

Tara.

That's what her name tag said. “Tara.” Tilted to the left on her jacket. Her black hair fell out of her bun and surrounded her face with stray wisps. She grinned when Andrew walked up, like he was a long-lost friend she hadn't seen for some time.

“Hi. What can I get for you?”

Andrew stared at her for a moment. Maybe if he concentrated, she would simply disappear. But when the silence had stretched on long enough and Tara's smile had faded into puzzlement, he realized that was unlikely to happen.

“Where's Jeremy?” he said.

Tara shrugged. “Left town.”

“What?” No. Impossible. He hadn't heard her correctly or she was lying or – or something. Because this was Jeremy. Jeremy was always here.

“What?” he said again, just in case.

“Florida, I think. Or California, maybe. Someplace warm.” Tara shrugged. “Not that I blame him.”

“But – but – no. See, he's supposed to be here. Third Tuesday of every month at 3:33. I pick up my prescription and he gives me a 12 oz. black in this coffee cup.” He held up his stainless steel mug, to prove that what he said was true. She leaned forward to get a better look at it and nodded in approval.

“I like your mug. Very industrial-chic.”

“Thank you.”

“But Jeremy still left.”

“Two years,” Andrew said. “Two years, four months and-and sixteen days and Jeremy was always here.”

“And now I am,” Tara said. “You want me to pour you some coffee?”

“No. No, you can't because it was always Jeremy who did it and now he can't because he isn't here and it's just not going to work out, okay?”

Tara frowned, eyes narrowed. She shifted ever so slightly backward. “What sort of prescription did you say you had to pick up again?”

Andrew turned around and left.

***

“And she just kept saying he was gone! Like people just one day up and decide to move away for no reason whatsoever!”

Dr. Lyons watched with a neutral expression as Andrew paced her office. He would take three quick strides one way, turn, then walk three the other. At this point, he never even counted them anymore, it had become so ingrained in his psyche.

“From your perspective, I'm sure it may seem that way,” Dr. Lyons said.

Andrew shook his head. “No. No seem. Is. That's how it is.”

Dr. Lyons stayed silent a moment, then spoke cautiously. “Andrew, did you ever discuss this with Jeremy?”

“What? What do you mean?”

“Well, had he ever told you he was planning on moving?”

“No.”

“Did you ask?”

“I -” Andrew came to a stop, a frown pulling his face down. “No, I didn't.”

“How much exactly did you know about him?”

“Well, I – you know, that's something I – and, um.” He sat back in her armchair, a piece that coordinated nicely with the rest of the bland, unoffensive furniture in the room.

“He made coffee exactly the way I liked it,” he mumbled, looking down at the floor.

Dr. Lyons shifted, uncrossing then re-crossing her legs. “So, do you think you're upset because he moved without telling you or because this interrupts your routine?”

“Maybe. Sort of. I don't know.” He never really liked how she did that, spoke calmly and rationally and made all of his complaints seem so small.

“Maybe you should look at this as an opportunity, then. Speak to this girl, ah -”

“Tara. From her name tag.”

“Okay, so talk to Tara. Alter your routine.”

He finally looked up, horrified. “I can't do that! It would throw off my whole schedule!”

She held up her hand. “It doesn't have to be big or even important. But you need to start getting used to absorbing change again. It's why you're here, right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.” He frowned. “But I don't have to buy anything from her, right?”

Lyons almost, but didn't quite sigh. “No, Andrew. Just talk.”

***

3:33. Third Tuesday. Three minutes. That's all he'd give. Even if Dr. Lyons said he didn't have to stick absolutely to three minutes, it made him feel better.

Tara raised an eyebrow when he walked up. “Hey.”

“Hi.”

“You're the third Tuesday guy, right?”

“Right.”

“I've got a thing for faces.”

“Right.” They stood staring at each other until Tara gestured at his mug.

“So, can I get you something?”

“What? Oh, no.” He almost stuck the mug in his pocket until he realized there was no possible way for it to fit. “I'm not buying anything.”

“Um, okay.”

“It's not you, though. It's just Jeremy knew precisely how long to brew it for me and while I'm sure you're fine, I really, really need this done my way and that's how Jeremy did it, so I can't buy any coffee from you.”

She blinked. “I have no idea what you just said.”

“Oh. Right.” His watch beeped. Three minutes. “I, uh, have to -” He waved at his watch and pointed at the pharmacy.

“Okay.”

He turned on his heel and walked away. But he felt her brown eyes following him as he went.

***

“Hey, there, third Tuesday guy,” she said when he walked up. “You want to buy anything now?”

“No, just talk. I'm just supposed to talk.”

She crossed her arms. “If this is a come-on, it's the weirdest one I've ever seen.”

“What? No! I mean, it's not – no!” He had never even thought of that and now that she'd brought it up, he seriously contemplated running away and never returning. “It's a – a -”

“Yeah?”

“... social experiment?” It sounded weak even to his ears and her eyebrows shot up higher.

“Excuse me?”

“I'm just, ah, trying to know more people around here, you know. Because I don't and I think I should.”

It sounded like something Dr. Lyons would say, something she would encourage in him. But that didn't make it any less true and it was strange to suddenly make that connection.

Her mouth twitched. “And you're going to do that on the third Tuesday of every month?”

“Sure. People can do that.” He frowned. “Can't they?”

She threw her head back and laughed. High and smooth, like perfect waves. “What the hell, why not? Get to know me.”

He smiled. It felt odd, all crooked and out of sync, something gone too long without practice. “Okay, yes. I can do that.” His watch beeped and the smile vanished. “Except not right now.”

“'Cause you have to go.”

“Right.” He hesitated a moment, hovering in indecision before simply nodding and walking away.

“Hey, Tuesday guy!” Her yell turned him back momentarily. “What's your name?”

He blinked. “Oh. Um, Andrew.”

“Okay.” And there was that grin again, wide and beautiful and joyous. “See you around, Andrew.”

***

The third Tuesday again and their conversation sputtered to a start.

“So.”

“So.”

He stood aside as she mixed a latte for a woman in business casual. “Do you like – what do you like?”

“Um.” She exchanged coffee for cash and frowned at the woman's failure to put anything in the tip jar. “Kind of an open-ended question there.”

“Oh. Right. Never m-”

“Peanut brittle.” She nodded to herself, satisfied with the answer. “I like peanut brittle.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Get it whenever I can. You?”

“I'm allergic to peanuts.” Her face fell and he scrambled to come with something that didn't leave her out on a limb all by herself. “I like Twizzlers.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. That's all I'd ever used to get at movie theaters, even. No popcorn or anything, just Twizzlers.”

“What do you get now?”

“Hmm?”

“You said 'used to.'”

“Oh.” He looked down at his feet, noting a scuff mark on his left shoe. “I don't go to movies anymore.”

“Why not?”

He swallowed, unsure how to answer, knowing that he really didn't want to, not if he could possibly avoid it.

His watch beeped. Saved by the bell.

“No time,” he said and let that stand as both an excuse and an answer. He left before she could say anything else.

***

“I'm an accountant.”

Tara's eyes slid to the side, giving him that 'are you serious' look. “For real?”

“Yes. Why?”

She shrugged, sticking her hands in her pockets. “I don't know. Sounds kind of dry.”

“Oh, no. No, it's perfect. Numbers always are.” He looked at the street, at the people passing by. “No matter what, they always make sense.”

She followed his gaze and nodded. “Yeah, I can see that.”

***

“You a real blond?”

“What?” He ran his hands self-consciously through his hair. “Of course I am.”

She grinned. “Just checking.”

***

She told him she'd lived in the city for five years, that she'd grown up in the mid-west and had no interest in ever returning. One day she wanted to learn to surf and if she could go anywhere in the world, it would be Australia.

He said he'd always lived in the city and couldn't imagine moving anywhere else. He preferred his glasses to contacts and when he was a kid, he wanted to be a firefighter. He still didn't tell her why he had to go to the pharmacy.

The days lengthened, then warmed. Schools released for the summer and now they spent just as much time passed by children as they did adults. Sometimes they spoke in stilted, awkward spurts, unable to navigate each other. Others, they spoke as if they had been doing it their whole lives, one subject sliding without effort into another.

Most of the time, he stuck to his watch but every once in a while he ignored the beeping and allowed their conversation to continue until it died a natural death. He would have trouble at home those evenings, fretting over this disruption and re-writing his schedule one, two, three times (or six or nine or twelve sometimes, just in case).

But try as he might, he couldn't regret any of it.

***

And then one day, she wasn't there.

The big man at the hot dog cart didn't have a name tag and looked irritated when Andrew asked him where Tara was.

“Don't know any Tara.”

“She had a coffee cart right here. Every day, this is where she was.” Or at least every third Tuesday, but Andrew didn't bother to clarify because she had told him every day and what reason did she have to lie? “Where'd she go?”

“Listen, man, I have no idea. Never met the girl, wouldn't know where she went.” His fingers drummed against the side of the stand. “You gonna order or what?”

Andrew took a step back as something in him curled up and hid its head. “No, not now. Thank you.”

***

“I haven't heard you talk about Tara in a while,” Dr. Lyons said. “Has something happened?”

Andrew looked away. “Nothing at all.”

***

Fall found its feet and brought whispers of the winter ahead with it. Andrew made sure his schedule was absolute because he had really let it slide recently and the last thing he needed was to find himself back where he started. Keeping time was important. Knowing where he should be and where he had to go, that's what mattered.

“Hey, there, Tuesday guy.”

She sat on the sidewalk right next to the pharmacy door, looking smaller than he remembered her.

“You cut your hair,” he said.

Tara nodded and rose. She tucked a strand behind her ear, though it was too short to stay there for long. “Yeah. It seemed time. I'm sorry about last month. I lost track of my Tuesdays.”

“Oh.” He leaned against the window next to her, ignoring the stares of customers as they walked in and out of the door. “I didn't know where you went.”

“Yeah, um, about that.” Her smile wasn't the one he was used to. It was small and hesitant and seemed on the verge of running away if he spooked it. “So, when I got the cart from Jerry – Jeremy – I didn't exactly get a permit, too. And when the city found out...”

“You lost the cart.”

“I lost the cart.” She blinked rapidly and her voice trembled a little when she said, “Pretty dumb, huh?”

“No, it's – it's-” He stumbled, looked for his footing and when there was none to be found, blurted, “I didn't leave my house once for nearly two years.”

When she only stared in response, he rushed forward, filling in the space as fast as he could. “I was so bad off, I couldn't get out of the house and when I finally did, I had to see a psychiatrist regularly – well, I still do and I need to be on medication, so – so, here I am.”

“Every third Tuesday,” she said slowly.

“Yeah.” All the energy fled from him and he sagged. “Yeah,” he said again. “So, I – I know from dumb, okay? Don't worry about it.”

“It's not dumb,” she murmured and slipped her hand into his. “It's not dumb at all.”

His first instinct was to shake free, but as he stayed there and let the warmth of her skin seep into his own, he marveled at how well their fingers fit together. Three was a good number, but maybe two wasn't so bad.

“Do you want to go get something to eat?” he said.

She looked to the pharmacy door. “Don't you have to get your medication?”

He thought for a moment, then smiled.

“I've got enough through this evening. I can pick it up tomorrow.”

END

Dresden Files (Book'verse) - Détente (1/1)

Tue, 27 Jan 2009 04:40:54 GMT

Title: Détente
Fandom: The Dresden Files Book'verse
Disclaimer: They belong to Jim Butcher
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Everything up through Small Favor.
Prompt: Murphy and Marcone interaction.
Summary: She really hated the mall. And she wasn't too fond of the man sitting across from her, either.

Beta: The splendiforous jaina. Thanks again!

Note: The second Yuletide 2008 fic, this time written for the_off_chance. I won't lie, I loved writing this. I love Murphy, I love Marcone and for some reason, I find it really easy to write both of them. Also, apparently I like sticking Murphy in a mall on Christmas Eve. For no other reason than it amuses me. I might have to turn this into a tradition: "Murphy stuck in a mall again? Must be Christmas."

DETENTE

Karrin Murphy wound her way through the last-minute shoppers and tacky holiday trappings. Even on Christmas Eve, children still stood in line to see a fake Santa resting with an exhausted slump on his artificial throne. She paused to look at a sunglasses kiosk doing brisk sale despite the cold gray of a Chicago winter. She debated getting an extra pair to keep in the car in case she left her Versaces behind at home or work, but decided if she was at the point where she was leaving designer sunglasses about, she had bigger problems. She moved on.

The food court at half-past noon was a mass of expanding and contracting humanity, lines long at every stand. Murphy stuck her hand in her pocket, fingers tracing the outline of the letter yet again. She'd read it to the point of memorization, yet when she spotted him sitting next to the center fountain, she almost didn't believe it.

He looked normal in the midst of the crowd. Big but not unusually so, knit cap pulled over his ears, pea coat unbuttoned but not shed. He drank from a cup of overpriced coffee and marked a paper in front of him, likely the crossword. He even had shopping bags from Radio Shack at his feet. Just another guy who couldn't get it together to go shopping for Christmas earlier.

You'd never think he was one of the most powerful crime lords in Chicago. Which, she thought, was probably the point.

Marcone looked up and through some eerie radar all his own, managed to find her staring at him. He met her eye and gave her a slight nod. Contact made and acknowledged. She walked over.

“Sergeant Murphy,” he greeted her.

“Mr. Marcone.”

He gestured at the chair across from him. “Please, have a seat.”

Inside her coat pockets, her hands curled into fists. She was tempted to arrest him right there and then, kick his seat out from under him, slap the cuffs on and haul him downtown. She couldn't even say she could make a case against him at the moment; she just wanted to see what he'd do.

She sat.

“I got your note,” she said.

“Yes, I see.”

“I don't like being summoned.”

“I assure you that wasn't my intent.” He pushed a second cup of coffee toward her, half-and-half and packets of sugar stacked on its plastic lid. “I wasn't certain how you preferred your coffee.”

She looked down at the drink but made no move to pick it up. “You sent me a letter.”

“Yes.”

“Hand-written.”

“Yes.”

“What, no telegrams available? No messenger pigeons?”

“Phones can be tapped and computers hacked. I was trying to be... discreet.” He tilted his head ever so slightly, eyes darting to the side and back again. “I thought it would be better. For both of us.”

“Uh-huh.” She looked around, took in the crowd. “Have to say, I wouldn't think this would be your style.”

“Did you expect a smoky Italian bistro instead? A group of men in expensive, tailored suits and gold chains sitting at the back booth?”

“Something like that.”

He smiled. Not much, but it was there. “I thought someplace public might make you more comfortable.”

“What if someone recognizes you?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Sergeant, do you honestly believe any of these people are paying the least bit of attention to us?”

She had to admit that was a good point. “Still, with your ear being a bit more noticeable now, I wouldn't think you'd want to take a chance.”

His hand made an abortive move toward his scarred side, but he managed to force it back down before it got there. Huh. So that did still bother him and he hadn't managed to overcome the tell yet. Interesting.

“And yet, here I sit, hat on and no one the wiser,” he said. “Come now, aren't you going to ask me what this meeting is about?”

She ignored the prod. All in good time. “I can imagine the hissy fit your people threw when they realized the logistics of staking this place out.”

He sighed. “Yes, Mr. Hendricks was especially displeased, but as he is still in my employ, he had no choice in the matter.”

“He here?”

“He's around. Is Mr. Dresden?”

She wasn't all that surprised by the question. Truthfully, she had thought about asking him to come and give her some back-up just in case this went south. But at the end of the day, Marcone had gone through some trouble to contact her directly, bypassing Harry entirely. And cop's instinct or not, that had her mighty curious.

“No.” At his questioning look, she said, “You're subtle. This?” She let her hand encompass the shops and people around them. “Not exactly subtle. I figured if you were going to try something, you'd have better taste than to do it in front of a crowded mall on Christmas Eve.”

He inclined his head, conceding the point. “I would like to think so, yes.”

“So,” she said.

“So.”

“Why am I here?”

He leaned over and reached into his shopping bag. Murphy stiffened, for a wild moment wondering if she had read him wrong, if he really was planning on pulling out a weapon and giving her one lousy Christmas present. But no, he only retrieved a plain manila envelope and placed it on the table.

“Occasionally, the nature of my business brings to my attention the activities of certain members of the Chicago police department. Some of those activities, I suspect, would not be looked kindly on by your superiors.” He pushed the envelope toward her. “I thought you might find this information interesting.”

She swallowed, throat suddenly dry. “What-what the hell is this?”

He sat back, the forefinger of his right hand tapping against the Formica tabletop. “A debt owed. Take it.”

“You – you're -” She couldn't speak, could barely breath, because – oh, shit. Shitshitshit. “So, I – what? Take this and then you – you call in a favor? Is that what you really think of me?”

Marcone blinked, appearing genuinely taken aback. “I'm afraid you've misunderstood. The debt was mine to repay.” When she answered with baffled silence, he added, “For services rendered earlier this year.”

“Oh, Jesus.” Her head fell into her hands, the weight that pressed down on her shifting in nature. “Jesus fucking Chirst.”

“Don't blaspheme,” he said in the automatic, off-hand tone of a former Catholic.

A little laughter seeped out despite herself. Because, well, Gentleman Johnnie Marcone was scolding her like a grade school nun.

Once she got herself under control, she looked up and pushed the envelope back. “You don't owe me anything.”

“I'm afraid I do.”

“No, no, seriously, you don't. You-” She broke off, shook her head. “God, do you have any idea how fucked up that is? Keeping a damn tally?”

“Regardless, I must insist.” He pushed it back toward her. “I have found myself in debt to several people this last year. I have done my best to ensure Mr. Carpenter's family will not worry over medical costs and while I am certain Mr. Dresden and I will have the opportunity to trade favors again, I have no such assurance with you.”

She folded her arms across her chest. “There's no obligation here, okay? I did what I did because that's what I do.”

“As do I.”

Tap, tap, tap. Nerves, she realized. Marcone was actually nervous. And this small thing, the tapping of a finger, that was new. She'd seen some of the recordings when the CPD had brought him and his over-priced lawyer into interrogation, even called in a favor to observe one or two of them herself. Cool as a cucumber. No tells, no gives, no nothing.

Not now. Not when he thought she was going to turn him down and leave him dangling.

She didn't know what was worse – that he expected it or that she was tempted.

The manila envelope continued to stare at her. Mocking her, she could have sworn to it.

“You could have given this to Dresden,” she said at last. “Like you said, you would have traded favors with him anyway.”

“Yes.”

“And he doesn't have to go through the same channels I do. He could have, you know,” she waggled her fingers, “done his thing.”

“Yes.” He glanced away, taking a moment. His next words were cautious. “But he doesn't understand this city. Not the way you and I do.”

No, no, he didn't. Harry was an excellent choice for Chicago's protector from all things that went bump in the night. Fiercely loyal, stubborn to a fault and he never gave up until all hope was lost. But he wasn't a native, hadn't grown up here, didn't have the essence of the city bred deep down into his bones. There were ebbs and flows he didn't understand, tides he'd never see.

But little Karrin and Johnnie, ah, they would have been a different story, wouldn't they?

“Let me guess,” she said. “Your neighborhood was split – half the guys got made, half got a shield.”

“Speaking from experience, Sergeant?”

“Touché.” Sighed, placed her hand on the table. Her fingers didn't quite touch the edge of the envelope. “I'm not Organized Crime or IAB. It won't be the easiest case to make.”

Again, he gave her that small, tight smile. “I trust in your resourcefulness.”

“There will be questions about where I got this information.”

“I'm sure you wouldn't be the first police officer to rely on an anonymous tip to point you in the right direction.”

“No, I guess I wouldn't be.” She took a deep breath and placed her hand on the envelope. This was it: commitment. “You're trouble, you know that, Marcone?”

“I've been told that once or twice, yes.”

“Okay. Okay, then.” She rose, envelope tucked under her arm. “I guess that's it.”

“Indeed. Though...” He trailed off, leaving the question unasked.

She frowned. “What?”

Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap. His gaze settled on her, that unnerving intensity focused once more. “Have you taken up the sword?”

A chill ran up her spine. “How – how did you-?”

“I have sources within that community. And it was obvious Mr. Carpenter would no longer be actively working. Rumor had it you might have taken his place. Have you?”

She had no idea how to respond to that. What in hell could he be playing at? Was this a potential threat? A backdoor to placing her under his control? Pure curiosity?

“What difference would it make to you if I did or didn't?” There. Ball back in his court.

“None at all. I thought only -” A pause. He looked away. “Well, I suppose Chicago could do worse. God, as well, if you believe in that sort of thing.”

Well. As long as she lived, she was never going to understand this man.

“I have to go,” she said.

“Of course.”

“Thanks for the coffee.”

“You didn't drink any.”

She shrugged, turned her back on him and left.

END

Ergo Proxy - Puppet Strings and Wooden Things (1/1)

Tue, 27 Jan 2009 04:27:55 GMT

Title: Puppet Strings and Wooden Things
Fandom: Ergo Proxy
Disclaimer: They belong to Manglobe.
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Entire series.
Prompt: I like what Ergo Proxy does with identity and awareness. I have a soft spot for the AutoReivs (particularly Kristeva) and what the Cogito virus does to them. I'm fine with gen, het, slash, xeno/techno kink, and any rating.
Summary: But Pino was not a little girl and so never pretended to travel to far off lands.

Beta: meganbmoore. Thanks again!

Note: Originally written for penny in Yuletide 2008 and once again, I have succeeded in falling entirely behind in my fannish updates. Go me?

Of the two stories I wrote, this was by far the harder of the two, mostly because of all the characters, it's the AutoRievs I've got the most trouble capturing and here was a challenge which specifically requested them. Oy. It still feels like it's missing a scene, though I'm more or less satisfied with the rest of the sequences.

PUPPET STRINGS AND WOODEN THINGS

i. all the good little toys

Once upon a time, in the great, shining city of Romdo, a little girl named Pino lived with her Mama and Papa.

Well, she wasn't really a little girl and her Mama and Papa weren't really her parents and the great, shining city of Romdo hid a dark, ugly truth under its light, but don't fret too much about it.

Pino's Papa was not a prince or a duke or a earl or royalty of any sort. However, he was Very Important to the city of Romdo and so did not spend very much time with Pino or Mama as he had, he said, Very Important Things To Do. Therefore, it was mostly only Pino and Mama living in their large home with its twisting hallways and giant windows and strange nooks that little girls could pretend were passageways to even stranger lands.

But Pino was not, as I said, a little girl and so she never pretended to travel to far off lands or imagined a prince riding to her rescue on a white horse or thought about becoming Very Important herself when she grew up. However, she was quite good at being a Pino and so she would follow Mama about as Mama did the things she was good at. Pino would hold the laundry basket or watch the oven bake dinner or calculate the median household income for the year or ask many, many questions, like “Mama, why do you wear such high heels?” Or “Mama, why do you change your hair color?” Or “Mama, why is Mr. Banks sleeping in Papa's bed?”

She never asked anything she wanted to know because she never wanted to know anything. But Pinos were supposed to ask questions and ask questions she did, even if she didn't care one way or the other about the answers.

Mama would answer anyway, regardless of Pino's lack of feeling on the matter. Sometimes she would tell the truth and sometimes she would tell her to be quiet and sometimes she would say, “Turing application off.” Then Pino would stand in a corner and not be anything for a while.

Things stayed the same for a very long time (2.38 years, to be exact). Papa worked, Mama looked after the house and Pino did as she was supposed to. When Mama brought home a baby, she even did an excellent job of being a Big Sister, once Mama let her get close enough to Little Brother to engage her expansive sibling subroutine.

One day, Mama took Pino and Little Brother to a giant mall, a place filled with all the wondrous things the citizens of Romdo deserved. They had done this many times before and likely would have done so many times in the future had not a monster chased a man directly into the crowd.

The man wasn't really a man and the monster wasn't exactly a monster, but we'll get to that in a bit.

Many people died in the path of their fight and many more screamed. As they passed by Pino, Mama and Little Brother, Mama didn't have time to scream, but she died very quickly. Little Brother died somewhat less quickly but by that point, Pino couldn't see him.

You see, Something Terrible was happening to Pino. Something Wonderful, too, though there were few in the city who would have called it that.

Pino fell to her knees, looked to the heavens and Became Real.

ii. of beasts and men

The man who wasn't a man had a name and that name, as it turned out, was Vincent Law.

He also had a Great Beast lurking inside him, something grey and ill-tempered and ancient, but most of the time he didn't seem aware of this. In fact, he didn't seem aware of much at all, except for all the times when he was, though it could often be difficult to tell the two apart.

He usually looked at Pino like he couldn't quite believe she was really there. Then again, he often seemed like he couldn't believe he was there, either.

“You don't have to wear the, um, bunny thing every day,” he said.

“I know,” Pino answered.

“So, why do you?”

“Because.”

“Because?”

“Because because.”

“... okay, then.”

It was a strange thing, Wanting. Liking. Desiring. Pino had never wanted anything before and now that she did, she wasn't always certain how to go about doing it. When she lived in Romdo, she had relied on a Fibonacci sequence of random selections to create the appearance of preference. Now, she found some of the things she had always done she didn't actually like and some that she hadn't, she did. It was all very confusing and it didn't help that the person she most wanted to be around in the whole world seemed to have the same problem.

She often sat at the table aboard their grand flying ship. She couldn't eat, but she liked to watch Vincent do so, while she rested her head on her arms and asked him all the questions she could possibly think of.

“Do you like red?” Pino asked. “I like red.”

“It's - it's alright,” Vincent said.

“But I like pink more.”

“Okay.”

“Does Vince have a favorite color?”

“I don't know. Maybe, um, blue?”

“Papa said blue is a boy's color and that's why the nursery has to be blue. Is that why you like blue?”

“Not really. I just... like it.”

“Why?”

“I don't know. Sometimes people just like things for no reason.”

Pino thought about this for a moment, then told him, “I still think it's because you're a boy.”

“Well, girls can like blue, too. I know lots of girls who do.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” He smiled then, a secret sort of smile, like he knew something no one else did. “Sometimes it brings out the color of their eyes.”

iii. peas under the mattress

The Princess, when she finally appeared, didn't act much like a princess. She cursed like a soldier, preferred black leather to delicate lace and liked to spend her free time cleaning her gun (an eight-round, Mossberg pump action shotgun, modified). She drank when they very occasionally had something to drink and smoked when they didn't.

She vehemently denied the latter, even though Pino had seen her climb out onto the deck after Vincent fell asleep in order to light up a counterfeit cigarette with an antique lighter. Pino didn't say anything because she remembered Mama yelling at her after she said something that was true when Mama insisted it wasn't. Pino didn't understand why people would ignore how things were because saying something wasn't so didn't make it happen that way. Perhaps this was just another mysterious Grown-Up Thing She Would Learn About When She Was Older.

“You're doing it wrong,” Re-l told her.

Pino looked up from the blue eye shadow she'd claimed from Re-l's substantial collection. She frowned. “No, I'm not.”

“Yeah, you are.” Re-l hunkered down and held out her hand. “Give it.” When Pino just stared at her, she snapped her fingers, one, two, three. “C'mon, I'm not standing here all day.”

Pino flipped the case over in her hands, one, two, three. “Why?”

“I'm going to do it right.” When Pino still kept flipping, she snatched the case back.

“Hey!”

“Fucking cogito,” Re-l muttered.

“Vincent said you shouldn't say-”

“Like I give a rat's ass what Vincent thinks. Close your eyes.”

Pino huffed, but obeyed. Re-l dusted the shadow around the lids, her touch a deft, light kiss. She worked silently for 1.73 minutes and Pino behaved herself the whole time. She didn't once open her eyes, even a little, or employ infrared or ultraviolet visual spectrums.

“Okay, done.”

Pino opened her eyes. Re-l held up the small compact mirror for her to see. “You have to follow the contour of the eye, extending out on either side. Then you outline the edge with pencil. Otherwise it gets smudged.”

Pino tilted her head from side to side, comparing one eye to the other. “It's crooked.”

“What?” Re-l glanced at the mirror, than back at Pino. “No, it isn't.”

“Yuh-huh. This one.” Pino pointed at her right eye. “Is one millimeter longer on the interior than this one.” She pointed to her left.

Re-l rolled her eyes and snapped the compact shut. “No one's going to notice.”

“But I noticed.”

“My point exactly.” She tossed the case back to Pino.

Pino started throwing it in the air and catching it. Up and down, up and down. “My way's better.”

“No, it isn't.”

“But it's more even.”

“Yeah, but – look, that's not important.”

“Why?”

“Because it's not always about results.”

“Why?”

“Because how you do it matters.”

“Why?”

“Because it – it just does, okay?”

“Why?”

“Because – because – oh, for fuck's sake, you're a machine. What's the point?” Re-l snatched up her coat. “I'm going.”

“Where?”

“Out.” Re-l yanked open the door to the deck and nearly ran over Vincent on his way back in.

“Oh. H-hey, Re-l-”

“Shut up.” She pushed past and stomped outside. Vincent stared after her for a moment, then turned to Pino.

“What did I say?”

Pino shrugged.

iv. a changeling in the cradle

Even good little girls made of sugar and spice and everything nice had their bad days. Good little Pinos were no exception to this rule.

Pino screeched and threw her shoes at Vincent. When he tried to grab her, she shrieked louder and tried to kick his shins. But Vincent, slight though he was for a man, was quicker. He slipped to the side and seized her wrists from behind. She struggled against his superior weight, kicking back at anything she could gain traction on. Her squirming finally unbalanced them, landing Vincent flat on his back with a crash.

Re-l stuck her head in from the deck. “What the hell is going on?”

“It's not – it's-” Vincent broke off as an elbow from a still-hysterical Pino almost caught him in the jaw. “Re-l, help!”

“And do what?”

“I don't know! Something!” Pino bucked against him again. “Anything!”

Re-l cursed and took hold of Pino's legs, preventing any potential damage they could cause to Vincent. But she wanted to hurt him and show him that he couldn't do this, that all she wanted was to stay and be and why couldn't he see that? She should be and live and it wasn't fair, it wasn'twasn'twasn't.

AutoReivs didn't exhaust themselves like humans, though even they tired eventually. Pino's struggles slowed and her screams tumbled into resigned silence. Vincent slowly sat up, holding her gently against his chest. She could hear the steady thrum of his heart beneath her, feel the heat of his body (38.076 degrees Celsius, always a degree or two higher than a normal human). Re-l released her legs as Vincent ran a hand through her hair.

“Finished?” he asked. Pino shook her head, burying her face into his red coat. He couldn't make her answer, he couldn't. “Come on, Pino, what's wrong?”

“Yeah, what is wrong?” Re-l said. “What exactly happened?”

“I don't know. I just – I was telling her she couldn't follow me again in Romdo, that it'd be too dangerous for her and she kept insisting and things... escalated.”

Re-l blinked. “You told her she couldn't do something.”

“Yeah.”

“And rather than acting like an AutoReiv, she had a complete and total meltdown.”

“What are you getting at?”

Re-l laughed, a rich, throaty sound. Pino peeked out at her and saw genuine amusement on her face for the first time. Re-l caught her looking and gave her a wink in response, still chuckling.

“What?” Vincent said. “What's so funny?”

“You. Spend all this time treating her like a kid and now you're shocked she took you up on the offer. That, Vincent, was your very fist, full-scale, grand mal temper tantrum.”

He gaped. She laughed again.

“Congratulations, 'Dad.'” She clapped him on the shoulder. “It's a girl.”

v. ever after

“And they watched the great, shining city of Romdo return to dust as the new day rose behind them.”

“The end?”

“After a fashion, I suppose.”

“But what happened to the beast and the princess?”

“Oh, they ran very far away and had many more adventures together.”

“Did they live happily ever after?”

“They lived. Which is much better, really, if you must know.”

“And Pino? What happened to Pino?”

“Well, she had any number of adventures, too, for a long, long time.”

“And then?”

“And then she grew up, in her own way, as all little girls must.”

“And what did she do then?”

“Why, whatever in the whole wide world she wanted to do, my dear. Whatever she wanted.”

END

Cable and Deadpool - Fourth Wall (1/1)

Sun, 20 Jan 2008 02:45:30 GMT

Title: Fourth Wall
Fandom: Cable and Deadpool
Disclaimer: They belong to Marvel Comics.
Rating: G
Original Publication: Yuletide 2007 for Apathy

FOURTH WALL

“Do you ever get the feeling you're a supporting character in someone else's story?” Bob asked.

Weasel looked up from the computer station. One screen had a news story about a babbling masked mercenary. Another, a G4 program on the “Top Ten Funniest Superheroes” (Number 1 was in contention as they debated whether Deadpool qualified as a hero or if the award should go to Spider-man again). And on a third, Deadpool himself, currently in a fight to the (temporary) death with three assassins, a bear and a sentient bowl of pudding.

“No. Why do you ask?”

“No reason.”

FIN

Life - Drabbles

Sun, 20 Jan 2008 02:16:08 GMT

Fandom: Life
Disclaimer: They belong to Rand Ravich and NBC.
Rating: PG
Original Publication: Yuletide 2007.

Note: These were additional treats written for various people. Recipients included with each drabble.

Title: Clearing the Air
Characters: Constance, Dani
For: meyerlemon

CLEARING THE AIR

“Are you sleeping with him?” Constance says.

She shouldn't ask but it's sort of inevitable and Dani nearly says yes. Because in some parallel universe where Charlie's a little needier and she's a little pushier, they're probably fucking like rabbits. But that's somewhere else that isn't here, where Constance doesn't deserve it and Charlie doesn't need it and Dani shouldn't want it.

“No,” Dani says.

Then Charlie shows up talking about kumquats. She and Constance nod to each other, like, 'yes, this is worth it,' before setting out to make Charlie blush.

He does, but he's ginger, so it's easy.

FIN

Title: Ginger
Characters: Charlie, Constance
For: LithiumDoll

GINGER

He's had the house for all of a week when he decides to spend the day lounging by the pool. No particular reason, just because he can.

He falls asleep around noon and wakes up about three hours later. Looks down and thinks, “Oops.”

Charlie gets up, feels dizzy and dried out, but manages to stumble inside without throwing up or fainting or otherwise embarrassing himself. He calls Constance – who else would he call? - and gets out something about sun and burns and his lobster impression, but it works because a half-hour later she's there with aloe and lotion and plenty of Gatorade.

“I think you burnt your scalp, too,” she says, as she rubs in the aloe. She's right – he can feel the tenderness along his hairline. Showers are going to be a bitch for the next couple weeks until he starts to peel. Fun.

“Yeah,” he says. “I forgot to wear a hat.”

“Oh, Charlie,” she says as if that sums it up. Which it kind of does.

“It's okay,” he says. “I'll put on sunscreen next time.”

Then he laughs because there will be a next time and he won't forget. Not ever again.

FIN

Title: Morning, Over Coffee
Characters: Charlie, Ted
For: Phantomas

MORNING, OVER COFFEE

“I am really tired of the looks,” Ted said.

Charlie paused, bagel halfway up to his mouth. “What looks?”

“The ones I get every time I say I live above your garage.”

“Um.” Charlie set his bagel back down.

“It's a really big garage!” Ted said, a little defensive.

“I know.”

“And the room's...fair sized. With plumbing and central air.”

“I know. I bought it.”

“Like I moved back in with my mother.”

“I'm not your mother.”

“I know. Mom's eighty-seven and lives in Florida. I'm not going to get the two of you mixed up.”

“Just making sure.”

FIN

Dresden Files (TV'verse) - Auld Lang Syne (2/2)

Sun, 20 Jan 2008 01:59:46 GMT

Title: Auld Lang Syne
Fandom: The Dresden Files TV'verse
Disclaimer: They belong to Jim Butcher, Robert Hewitt Wolfe and the Sci-Fi Channel.
Rating: PG
Spoilers: For the whole series up through 1x13 'Second City.'
Prompt: Bob, Harry and Murphy interaction for beth666ann.
Summary: A series of disturbing phone calls just before the holidays spells trouble for both Harry and Murphy.

Previous Parts:
Part One

PART TWO

“Connie Murphy, Hrothbert of Bainbridge. Bob, meet Murphy.”

Bob sketched a formal little bow. “A pleasure.”

Murphy did not entirely look like a gasping fish, but not for lack of trying. “This is a – you're a -”

“Ghost, yeah.”

“I prefer the term 'living impaired,' if you don't mind.”

“A ghost,” Murphy said. “A real, honest-to-god ghost.”

“Murph, you okay?”

“Yeah. I'm just going to – um.” She leaned over between her knees and started taking deep, measured breaths. Harry sat beside her and rubbed her back.

“A little much to take in, huh?”

She held up her thumb and forefinger an inch apart to illustrate her agreement.

Bob rolled his eyes. “I think she took it better the first time.”

That got Murphy looking back up again. “First time?”

“Not you you,” Harry said. “Dragon disguised as you. It's kind of a long story.”

“Dragon?”

“You know what, it's not important. Forget I said anything. What is important is Bob here is going to be serving as your decoy.”

“He is?” Murphy said.

“I am?” Bob said.

“Yes and yes,” Harry said to both of them. “Bob's got a trick he can do.” When Bob continued to stare at him with an incredulous expression, Harry jerked his head in Murphy's direction. “Come on. Show her.”

Bob crossed his arms. “I've said it before, Harry: I am not a trained poodle. And I don't do tricks on command.”

“What trick?” Murphy said, standing. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Look, there's this – no, okay, never mind. Bob's going to be with you tomorrow.”

“Oh, am I.”

“Yes,” Harry said, staring down the shorter ghost. “You are. I need you to look after Murphy.”

“Excuse me? Look after?” Now Murphy was glaring at him, too, which he thought was just a touch unwarranted. “First, what makes you think you get to make this decision for me? And second, how much use is a guy who can't touch anything going to be? No offense,” she offered to Bob.

“None taken. And the lady does raise a good point, Harry. I'm sure she's quite capable of defending herself.”

“Thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

“Murphy, I know that, okay? That's not the point.”

“Then what is the point? You deciding what's best for me again?”

“That's unfair.”

“Really? Because I'm starting to see a pattern here.”

“He does have a bit of chivalrous streak,” Bob told Murphy.

“I think the word you're looking for is 'chauvinistic.'”

“So, what the hell else am I supposed to do?!”

Judging by the looks he received, he was having volume control problems again. Harry hung his head in his hands and pretended he didn't want to cry.

“I'm out of ideas,” he said quietly.

He felt the cushion sink slightly as Murphy sat next to him. She stayed quiet for a moment, then said, “Is it really that bad?”

Harry laughed a little and leaned back, meeting her brown eyes with his own. “It's kind of always this bad.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Murphy sighed, running a hand through her hair and frowning at the tangles she found there. “So, why Bob?”

“Hmm?”

“I mean, this bodyguard thing. Why him and not you?”

Bob raised an eyebrow at the question but let Harry answer. “I need to put some things together physically. I'm not sure what we're dealing with, so I want to stock up.”

“And Bob?”

“If he's with you, I can track you, just in case Steve doesn't get back to me.”

“Always be prepared.”

“Yeah.”

“You're a regular boy scout, there.”

“You know, I can totally picture you as a Brownie.”

“I wasn't.”

“Little Costanza Murphy in pigtails, selling cookies.”

“Don't make me hurt you, Dresden.”

***

On Christmas Eve, the only reason the phone didn't ring was that it still lay on pieces at the bottom of the dumpster at the end of the block.

Not that mattered. Harry didn't sleep anyway.

***

When Bob abruptly manifested in the passenger seat of her car, Murphy almost drove off the road.

“Don't do that!” she said.

“I apologize,” Bob said. “But I'm afraid it was getting unaccountably cramped in that bag of yours.”

“You don't have a body. You can't cramp up.”

“That doesn't mean I like small, dark spaces.”

“Great. I get the one ghost with claustrophobia.”

Bob sniffed. “There's no need to be snippy.”

Murphy sighed and wondered just when her life had turned into an episode of The Twilight Zone. She glanced at Bob. He sat stiffly in the seat next to her and appeared intent on brushing imaginary dust off his impeccably pressed jacket.

“You know, if you're intangible, how come you aren't floating right out of the car?” she asked.

“Honestly, I try not to think about it too deeply. Physics and magic rarely mix well.” Bob paused, then added somewhat cautiously, “Regardless, I'm tied to my skull anyway. Whither it goes, I must follow.”

“It's a little sad that carrying around that skull is by far the least disturbing aspect of my week.”

“I'll choose to take that as a compliment.”

***

When Harry stuck his head inside the audio department, he caught Steve pouring a substance of unknown origins from a flask into a coffee cup.

“I hope you at least have something with caffeine in there.”

Steve jerked and spilled a thimbleful on his hand. Shaking it out, he said, “C'mon, man. It's Christmas.”

“And I'm sure Lieutenant Murphy would be happy to share the joy.”

“You just here to bust my balls or what?”

“Those malls. You find any of them?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Steve rummaged through a pile of papers for a moment before handing over a hand-written list that looked like it'd already celebrated both Christmas and New Year's. Maybe even Kwanzaa and Hanukkah, too. “There's a couple places on there. It help at all?”

Harry scanned the names. “Narrows it down. And I need to borrow your cell phone.”

“What? No!” In response, Harry merely pointed at the whiskey flask. Steve sighed and unclipped his phone. “Yours break or something?”

“I don't own one.”

Steve boggled. “You're one strange human being.”

“I get that a lot. When it breaks, I'll buy you a new one.”

“Don't you mean 'if?'”

“Sure, why not? Oh, and Steve?” Harry paused at the door. “Don't drink on the job anymore. Murphy's got enough on her plate and I don't want to have to clean up your mess.”

Steve turned to demand just what it was Harry thought he could do, but the other man was already gone.

***

“So, is every ghost tied to something?” Murphy asked.

Bob tilted his head. “I don't follow.”

“Like with the skull. Is every ghost like that? Forced to move with a body part or an object? Or are you special?”

Bob stayed silent for so long, Murphy wondered if she'd insulted him or made some sort of supernatural faux pas. And when he spoke, his intonation was strangely flat. “No, I have what you might call...special circumstances.”

“Oh. Should I even ask?”

“No.” And then, to her surprise, he added, “Not yet.”

“Fair enough.”

Her cell phone rang before the silence could become awkward.

“This is Murphy.”

Kirmani's voice crackled on the other end. “Our perp got another kid.”

“Hell. Where?”

When he told her, she realized she'd been expecting it. With sinking dread, she gave him her ETA and hung up.

“Lieutenant?” Bob said.

Murphy pulled into the left lane to make a U-turn. “Guess where we're going.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Yeah. Pretty much.”

***

Harry tended to avoid mobile phones when possible since they lasted even less time around him than most electronics. But desperate times and all that.

Murphy picked up on the second ring. “Steve?”

“No, it's me.”

“What are you doing with – no, wait, forget it. Not important. We've got a problem.”

“How big a problem?”

“I just got called into the Atrium. Another abducted kid.”

Harry glanced at his mall list and sighed. “That's the one.”

“Still no clue what this thing is?”

“Not really.”

“Great. Wait, Bob's yelling at me.” A muffled conversation followed, before Murphy said, “Hang on. I'm putting you on speaker.”

Brief scuffling commenced until Bob's overly loud voice came over the line. “HELLO? HARRY, CAN YOU HEAR ME?”

“Green Bay can hear you, Bob. Dial it down.”

“I'm sorry, I've never done this before. This is rather exciting for me.”

“We're happy for you. What's going on?”

“The missing children. They're connected.”

Harry sighed. “I miss the days when a coincidence was just a coincidence.”

“Don't we all. Harry, I'm almost positive it's one of the Sidhe.”

“You're kidding.”

“I only wish I were. But between the abductions and the backwards calls you've received, it has their grubby prints all over it.”

“So Mai's little trick allowed them slip through.”

“Unfortunately, it looks like it did.”

“Excuse me,” Murphy broke in. “But what's a Sidhe?”

“The Fae,” Bob answered. “The Fair Folk.”

“The – wait, are you saying a fairy is doing all of this? Like Tinkerbell?”

Harry sighed. “They're not like Disney flicks, Murph. They're monsters. Very old-school and very dangerous.”

“Yeah, but – fairies?”

“Lieutenant, I assure you, despite the watered down stories the twentieth century chose to inflict upon you, these are ancient creatures. And for the most part they dislike humans a great deal.”

“Great. So, what do we do?”

“I don't suppose you could convince someone else to meet your team for this case,” Harry said.

“No.”

“Figured. Just whatever you do, don't go into that basement. Wait 'til I get there.”

“Your plan sucks.”

“You got better one?”

“Sadly, no.”

“I'll see you, then.”

***

Murphy met her men on the first shopping level. Although the uniforms had all but shut down the building – much to the last-minute shoppers' dismay – the muzak still serenaded them with an instrumental version of 'Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.' While some gave the large shoulder bag she carried an odd look, a withering glare warded off any brave enough to try and question her on it.

She spoke briefly with the first officer on the scene, called in by mall security after their tapes revealed a figure – indistinct, of course – take off with the boy. She questioned the mother and felt like a sham when she'd already been told exactly what it was that'd taken her kid but adhering to protocol anyway. She ordered a general canvas of the area, made sure the barricade around the mall was secure, turned around and said, “Where's Kirmani?”

“Thought you knew,” McKenzie said. “He took a couple guys downstairs to take a look around.”

Murphy did not curse or in anyway change her expression when she said, “Can you show me how to get down there?”

McKenzie took her into the docking area for truck deliveries, opened the emergency door next to it and directed her down. She thanked him politely and as soon as she was alone, opened up her bag to reveal the human skull lying in it.

“Bob,” she said.

Black mist seeped out to take on Bob's form. He did not look pleased.

“I do believe you were told to stay out of the basement.”

“So I can leave good men to face something they're not ready for? I don't think so.”

“You're very stubborn.”

“How else do you think I put up with Dresden? Now, how do I kill Tinkerbell?”

***

Harry did not believe in karma. This was not so much a philosophical decision as self-preservation; after all, considering his life, and the mistakes he'd made during it, he didn't want to contemplate the idea of some sort of universal payback.

However, if he did believe in any of it, the traffic on Christmas Eve would have suggested he'd been one bad guy in a previous life.

By the time he arrived at the mall, there was no sign of Murphy and the officer at the police perimeter was either very dedicated to his job or had been warned about nuts calling themselves Dresden before. In an act that probably didn't help his karmic balance, he arranged a minor distraction in the form of a small fire twenty yards over. It was, he reassured himself as the gaggle of cops ran off and he slipped inside, only a very small fire that would extinguish itself in approximately ten minutes and he therefore shouldn't be feeling all that guilty.

It should also be noted that Harry's ability to justify morally ambiguous acts in the name expediency had been finely honed over the years.

When McKenzie approached him – coordinating the officers inside and trying to find out what the fuss outside was over the radio – Harry already had his credentials out.

“Murphy called me in,” he said.

McKenzie looked like he wanted to argue that, but another panicked call from his radio was a more pressing concern. Instead he waved Harry on and said, “She went downstairs. Try not to touch anything.”

“Of course she did,” Harry muttered. “Why listen to me? Not like I know what I'm talking about.”

He dug around in his messenger bag until he found a small glass skull. Gripping it in his fist, he concentrated on Bob, visualizing the ghost's skull. The glass slowly grew hotter until, in a near blistering burst of red light and heat, he got a ping on their location.

Yeah. This was going to be bad.

He pulled out his drumstick wand and Steve's cell, then took off for the docking bays.

***

“'A little uncomfortable,' he said,” Murphy said to herself. “Ghost wins the understatement of the year award.”

Still shaking out the arm Bob had phased through, Murphy hugged the cement wall as she approached the corner of the boiler room. Despite the cold winter had brought to Chicago, the basement was uncomfortably hot and bewilderingly large. No wonder Kirmani thought someone could have escaped down here. If she hadn't known better by now, she would have thought the same thing.

She re-gripped her gun and lead around the corner with it. When the corridor proved empty, she let out a breath she hadn't even realized she'd been holding. Walking forward, she wiped the sweat off her forehead with one jacket sleeve, trying to keep her eyes clear. No way did she die because she couldn't see where she was going.

A bang to her left nearly made her jump, but she brought her gun immediately to bear toward the noise. When Kirmani appeared, she almost shot him out of sheer annoyance.

“Jeez, Murphy, it's just me.”

She lowered her weapon. “Kirmani.”

“You okay? You're looking kind of pale.”

“Fine.” She took a deep breath and straightened. “I need you back upstairs.”

The younger detective frowned. “You sure? We haven't cleared-”

“Don't make me order you, Sid.”

Kirmani stiffened, expression hardening. “Thought you weren't going to pull rank on me anymore.”

“Fine,” Murphy said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “As a favor. It's Christmas Eve, I've got missing kids, a daughter stuck with my ex and I just need you upstairs right now, okay?”

“Yeah, alright.” Kirmani took a step back, paused and said, “You sure you're okay?”

Murphy tried to smile but didn't succeed all that well. “It's been a rough couple days, but I'm fine.”

Kirmani looked like he wanted to argue but just nodded and walked away instead. Her partner and men out of danger, Murphy slumped against the wall.

She wondered how Harry managed to do this for a living. No wonder he constantly looked on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

The ring of her cell phone almost gave her a heart attack. Cursing both at her jumpiness and the stupidity of leaving the ring on, she breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the caller ID.

“Dresden?”

The answer came back in a series of static consonants. She pressed the phone in closer, but that didn't help the volume much. “Dresden, is that you?”

She heard something that sounded like it might have been a question. She decided to go ahead and give what information she could. “Listen, I'm already in the basement, about dozen yards to the left of the main door. Just keep following the yellow pipeline.”

Another squawk of protest and she heard, “...stay...I'm in...” before it dropped again.

“Dammit,” she muttered, then louder, “Where are you?” When no answer came, she asked, “Can you even hear me?”

The phone remained stubbornly silent. She was just debating the merits of throttling it when a growl interrupted her. Feeling like a doomed fool, she turned.

“Oh my god.”

***

“Murphy? Can you hear me? Murphy!”

Three gunshots and scream answered him. The phone then promptly died with an electric whine and spark of blue magic.

Running through every curse he knew and making up a few more as he went, Harry took off at a dead sprint. Two lefts, a vague sense of Bob's skull to the right and he skidded to a halt at another junction. His heart dropped.

The thing that stood in front of him was human only in the sense that it had two arms, two legs and stood upright. But the face was a bloody mass of stripped flesh and the hulking figure stood so high its head almost brushed the ceiling. When it caught sight of Harry, it peeled back its lips to reveal a mouth full of far too many teeth, still red from its last meal.

Harry didn't hesitate. He called up a fire spell and channeled as much energy as possible through his wand and straight on to the thing's chest. It flew backwards hard enough to hit the back wall and crack the cement.

Harry immediately ran forward, pressing the advantage. He pushed all the rage he could into his magic, reaching for wind and fire and anything else that would follow his call, keeping the thought of Murphy front and center. Because he couldn't save her and that left vengeance and that was the only thing that was going to give him enough power to stop this.

The wand finally gave out when he was a yard or two away, the smaller weapon unable to handle the charge he'd been maintaining. It didn't matter. He threw the twisted, smoking piece of wood aside and reached back into his bag, pulling out a glass jar full of thin metal shavings.

He stopped a few feet away, allowed himself to relish the moment. It wasn't going to bring Murphy back, wasn't going to save all those kids, but it was a start.

Unfortunately, the monster had other ideas.

It seized his leg, pulling forward. Harry landed on his back, bad enough to knock the wind out of him and the jar out of his hand. The monster reared back, leaving Harry just enough room to bring his shield bracelet up before his face was torn off by the thing's claws. Even through the shield, he could feel the force of the blow, feel his will buckle. He'd expended too much too quickly and now it was only matter of time before the monster broke through. He was going to die in a mall on Christmas Eve. He tried not to find that a little funny.

Then, quite unexpectedly, the karma he didn't believe in kicked back into high gear.

A gunshot heralded a bullet to the monster's shoulder. It shrieked and pulled back, but was hit twice more, deadly accurate shots to the head and heart. Harry scrambled away and turned.

Murphy stood behind him. Her jacket was torn and bloodied, she had an abrasion on her cheek and wide, dilated eyes, but she was alive.

As she continued to empty her clip, she said, quite calmly, “I'm about to run out of bullets here, Dresden. You might want to do something.”

Harry skirted back, allowing her an unobstructed view and scrambled for his abandoned jar. He unscrewed the top just as he heard the dry clicks of Murphy's gun on an empty chamber. When he looked back up, the monster was already staggering to its feet again, but before it could get further he tossed the entire contents of the jar at its head.

There was a pause.

Then the monster screamed.

The iron, harmless to humans but deadly to the Sidhe, started to burn into the monster's face with sizzling, crackling efficiency. It scratched at itself, trying to dig out the metal with its claws as its screams became wet and gurgling. Murphy turned and Harry joined her, standing with one arm around her shoulder and keeping her close. They waited until silence finally descended into the room once more before looking.

There wasn't much left. A couple of misshapen bones sat in a foul-smelling, bloody but ultimately harmless puddle. And standing next to it, examining it with clinical detachment, was a second Murphy.

“You know, I do believe that was a Tommy Rawhead,” she said with Murphy's voice but Bob's inflection. “Great, nasty beasts, difficult to kill. Well done, Harry.”

For the first time in what felt like forever, Harry actually felt himself relax. “You had me worried when Murphy screamed.”

The Murphy in his arms snorted and the fake Murphy looked vaguely embarrassed.

“Yes, well, I'm afraid that was me.” At Harry's expression, she shrugged. “I was the decoy, remember? Nothing quite so distracting at the right moment as a scream in a Sidhe's ear.” Her figure rippled and was replaced by Bob's normal silver-haired form. He adjusted his sleeves back over the ever-present manacles and added, “I think it was some of my best work, personally.”

Murphy sighed, leaning against Harry more out of exhaustion than any sought comfort. “This is the worst Christmas I've ever had.”

“Sorry,” Harry said.

“And you do this all the time, don't you?”

“Well, not exactly like this, but yeah. More than I like.”

Bob rolled his eyes. “Oh please, don't let's come over all maudlin so soon. I haven't even been able to show off significantly yet.”

Harry frowned. “What are you talking about?”

The ghost smiled.

***

“You see, in lore, Tommy Rawhead ate the children it took. But, quite lucky for us, it was never specified exactly when that was.”

Murphy listened with half an ear as Bob rattled on and Harry muttered what sounded like an incantation over the locked janitorial closet. A spark of something that wasn't electricity leaped from his hand to the lock and the door creaked open.

And for the first time since this whole mess began, Murphy thought she might cry when the dirtied, scared, living faces of a dozen children stared back at her.

***

Six days after Christmas, a scant few minutes before midnight, Harry Dresden opened the door to the roof of his building and allowed Connie Murphy to step through.

She took in the scene with a critical eye. Two deck chairs with plenty of blankets piled up next to them. A small table with a bottle of champagne, two plastic glasses and Bob's skull sitting atop it. Two gas lanterns, lit and hanging from short metal stands, giving everything a soft, cheery glow.

She blinked. “What's this?”

Harry grinned. “The best view in the city. Come on.”

She followed him out and graciously sat in the chair he pulled out for her, figuring she could tease him later about his old-fashioned mannerisms. As she tucked a blanket thankfully around her legs and Harry opened the champagne, Bob seeped out of his skull.

“Oh,” he said. “This again. Well, I suppose I should be thankful you actually have company this time.”

Murphy glanced at Harry. “This time?”

Harry coughed, shuffled his feet and said, “Um, well, been a little...look, it's fine. Hazard of a holiday without a family.”

Murphy, who'd never had that problem, tried to cover up how utterly sad that was by waving her cup at Harry and demanding he pour for her first. He seemed grateful for the distraction, although still worried when he asked, “You sure it's okay you aren't with your daughter for New Year's?”

“She's nine, Dresden. New Year's for her is watching The Little Mermaid for the hundredth time and falling asleep before ten. My mom's over there in case anything happens, so don't worry about it.”

“Sure, okay. Right.”

He sat down in the opposite chair and settled into silence. Murphy took an experimental sip of her drink and decided the champagne was terrible, but that was also an unavoidable New Year's tradition. She used the liquid courage to ask, “So, have you had any more problems with those, um, things?”

“Things?”

“You know. The, uh, fairies.” She still felt like an idiot when saying it, but that was probably something she was going to have to get used to.

“Oh. Not much. But we'll probably be getting more incursions. Once you open a door like that, it's hard to close it all the way again.”

“Are they all as bad as that rawhead thing?”

“No, a lot are more annoyances than dangers.” He paused, grimaced, then said with some reluctance, “Some are much worse.”

“Oh.”

“Would – would you rather have not known?”

There was another question hidden in there and Murphy had to actually think about it. Life without Harry Dresden, without wizards and magic and ugly monsters lurking in the dark, was simpler. But it wasn't any safer. Monsters with human faces still ran free and she'd been fighting against them long enough to know that the truth would always be her first and best weapon.

“No,” she said. “I'd rather know.”

Harry looked strangely happy at the answer and settled back into his chair. “Okay.”

“Good lord, are the two of you going to be like this the rest of the evening?” Bob said. “The subtleties and insecurities of your conversation are enough to drive even a saint to heavy drinking.”

“You don't like it, you can always go back into your skull,” Harry said.

“And miss out on watching the two of you metaphorically tip-toe around each other for the rest of the evening? I have to get my entertainment somehow.” He looked back out to the city and added, “Besides, I've always liked the fireworks.”

“Fireworks?” Murphy said.

And, as if on cue (or was that by magic?), the first dazzling aerial display burst out above them.

She smiled. “Oh my god. Is that the city's show?”

Harry grinned. “Told you it was a hell of a view.”

“Wow. I just – wow.” She looked directly at Harry. “Thank you. This is incredible.”

He held up his glass. “Happy New Year's, Murphy.”

She clinked her own against it.

“You, too. Cheers.”

They sat back in comfortable silence, a tableau of three staring up at the night sky as it showered them with bright, gorgeous color and the old year gave way to new.

FIN

Dresden Files (TV'verse) - Auld Lang Syne (1/2)

Sun, 20 Jan 2008 01:54:58 GMT

Title: Auld Lang Syne
Fandom: The Dresden Files TV'verse
Disclaimer: They belong to Jim Butcher, Robert Hewitt Wolfe and the Sci-Fi Channel.
Rating: PG
Spoilers: For the whole series up through 1x13 'Second City.'
Prompt: Bob, Harry and Murphy interaction for beth666ann.
Summary: A series of disturbing phone calls just before the holidays spells trouble for both Harry and Murphy.

Beta: Ryuutchi. Thanks again!

Note: Originally written for the 2007 Yuletide challenge. Though author names were revealed a while back, I fell behind in my updates and only just caught up with my archiving. This version is a bit cleaner than the Yuletide posting - mostly typos - but the original can still be found at the Yuletide archive.

Split into two parts to avoid character limits.

AULD LANG SYNE

PART ONE

Twelve days before Christmas, at approximately 8:05 in the morning, Harry's phone rang.

Harry, in the midst of moving from Hare Pose to Lizard, almost didn't answer, but with a groan and the twin pops of his knees reminding him he wasn't as young as he used to be, he got up. He jogged to his desk, stubbed his toe and, hissing back a curse, picked up.

“Hello?”

A pause, then a trembling woman's voice on the other end said, “Dresden?”

Harry frowned, shifting his weight off his sore foot. “Murphy? That you?”

“Dresden, is that-” A bust of static interrupted the next couple seconds before Murphy came back on. “Dammit, where are you?”

“What?” Harry said. “Murph, you called me.”

“Can you-” Another static burst and when he next heard Murphy, her voice had dropped into a terrified whisper. “Oh my god.”

“Murphy?”

“Oh my-” Three sharp gunshots followed an inhuman roar. Then Murphy screamed and the phone went dead.

“Murphy? Murphy!” Harry tapped the line a couple times to try and re-connect but was met only with the dial tone. He slammed the phone down. “Hell's bells!”

“Harry?” Bob stuck his head out through the wall separating the lab from the main office. “Is something the matter?”

“Murphy's in trouble.” Harry didn't even bother putting on socks before slipping into his sneakers and throwing on his jacket. “I need to go.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“No – I-I don't know. I've got to run. Just...just don't invite anyone in.” And with that, Harry slipped out the door.

Bob rolled his eyes heavenward and waved an insubstantial hand through Harry's desk.

“I don't believe that will be a problem,” he said dryly.

***

“Kirmani! Kir-” Harry stopped before he ran into one of the civilian clerks, then continued his rush over to the young detective. “Kirmani!”

Kirmani sighed, set down his pen and turned to glare balefully at Harry. “What?”

“Where'd Murphy go?”

“I really don't see how that's any of your business.”

Harry ran a hand through his hair, leaving tufts sticking out at crazy angles. “Can we skip this today? Murphy's in trouble.”

Kirmani narrowed his eyes and gave Harry that all-too-familiar 'have you taken your medication lately?' peer. “Look, Dresden, we're hip-deep in a bunch of missing kids right now so whatever game you're playing-”

“It's not a game!” A lull in the surrounding chatter let Harry know he'd probably said that just a touch too loud, but he was past caring. “I got a call from her this morning and she's in trouble and I don't have the time to sit around bullshitting with you!”

“What the hell's going on around here?”

Harry jerked back and found Murphy staring at him. Coffee in hand and one eyebrow raised in annoyed disbelief. A far cry from the terrified woman on his phone this morning. Harry had never been so happy to see anyone in his life.

He pulled her into his arms. “You're okay!”

“Um, yeah,” Murphy muttered into his t-shirt. “Dresden?”

“Yeah?”

“You're still hugging me.”

“Right! Right.” He stepped back and tried to act natural. Hard, when his nerves were still frayed to the wire. “I just – when I got that call-”

“What call?”

“From you. A half hour ago.”

“Dresden, I didn't call you today.”

“Yes, you did.”

“I'm really pretty sure I didn't.”

“But – huh.” Harry attempted to pull himself together in light of this information. He could have been wrong and considering that Murphy was here and intact and rapidly loosing patience with him, that was looking like a good theory right now. He wondered how quickly he could slink out of the station without losing anymore of his dignity. “Okay, so you're fine.”

“Yeah, I'm fine.” Murphy touched his arm, her face softening. “Are you?”

“Just peachy. Must've been a – a prank of some sort. Sorry about this.”

“It's okay.”

“Right. I'm, uh, just going to leave now.” He did not actually run out the door, but it was close.

Murphy stared at him until he'd disappeared before turning to Kirmani. “What was that about?”

Kirmani shrugged.

***

“Are you certain nothing had happened?”

“Yes, yes and just in case, you were wondering, yes.” Harry collapsed into his sofa and rubbed his hands over his face. “She was annoyed, maybe, but fine.”

Bob crossed his arms, frowning thoughtfully. “And you're absolutely positive it was her voice on the phone.”

“Either that or the best imitator I've ever heard.” Harry let his head fall back and rolled it over to look directly at Bob. “You think it was a prank?”

“Possibly. But, being overly familiar with your brand of luck, I suspect not.”

“Great. So, what was it?”

“I have no idea.”

“You're a big help, thanks.”

Bob pinched the bridge of his nose. “Believe it or not, Harry, I don't know everything.”

“Back to square one, then.” Harry sighed. “Maybe it was something from the Nevernever.”

Bob nodded. “As likely as anything. The dimensional walls around here are going to be thin for the foreseeable future.”

“'Cause of what Mai did, pulling us through to the other side.”

“Correct. It could be a bleed-through. Or a psychic imprint. Any number of things, really. We simply don't have enough information right now.”

“Fantastic. Guess I've got something to look forward to over the holidays, then.”

***

Eleven days before Christmas, at 8:05 AM, the phone rang again.

Harry eyed it warily but when it failed to stop ringing through sheer willpower, he picked it up. “Hello?”

“Dresden?”

Harry sighed. “Hi, Murphy.”

“Dresden, is that-”

He let the other end of the line repeat itself until Murphy screamed again and disconnected. Harry – rather calmly, he thought, even with the trembling fingers – dialed Murphy's cell phone. It rang three times before she picked up.

“This is Murphy.”

“Hey, uh, Murph.”

“Dresden?” He heard someone ask a question in the background but couldn't distinguish any words. Murphy gave a muffled reply before saying back into the receiver, “Something up?”

“No, no, everything's, ah, fine over here. How about you?”

“The usual,” Murphy said slowly. “Is there a reason you called?”

“No. Yes. Um, I mean – hey, you free tonight?” Harry winced as the words came out of his mouth but there they hung anyway.

“Is this – Dresden, you didn't just ask me out on a date, did you?”

“What? No! No, I just needed a consult, is all.” Harry wondered if he banged his head against his desk a few times he might be less awkward.

“Oh,” she said, but Harry couldn't get a read on her tone of voice at all. “Well, could it wait? It's just this case right now, with the kids, I've had to put in extra hours, so...”

“No, that's fine. Nothing urgent. I'll, uh, call you later, okay?”

“Okay. Talk to you then.”

“Right. Bye.”

“Bye.”

Harry hung up and tried not to feel useless.

***

Ten days before Christmas, Harry didn't pick up the phone as he'd previously been picked by a young woman named Mandy the night before.

***

Nine days before Christmas, Harry didn't arrive back home until late in the afternoon, smelling vaguely of sulfer. Mandy had been wonderful. Her half-demonic ex-boyfriend, not as much. Even so, Harry suspected she hadn't appreciated it when he sent lover-boy back where he came from and was already mentally crossing her number out of his phone book.

He'd barely gotten three steps inside when Bob yelled out, “Harry, your infernal contraption has messages!”

Harry sighed and looked at the blinking light on his answering machine. With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, he rewound the tape and listened.

Murphy asked for help twice more. The electric company informed him he was late with this month's bill. And Mandy told him that while she'd had lovely time, she just didn't think she was ready to get back into another relationship so soon. Although the words she actually used were a lot less polite.

Harry moved to erase the tape and stopped, hand hovering over the delete button. He stayed there for a moment before ejecting the tape instead and popping it into his jacket pocket. He called to Bob that he was going back out, ignored the admonishment that he'd just arrived home, and slipped once more into the cold Chicago air.

Twenty minutes later, he strode up to Murphy's desk and before she could ask what he was even doing there, he said, “You need to hear something.”

***

When the call cut out for the second time, Murphy stopped the recording. “Okay, that's pretty creepy. No wonder you've been weird lately.”

“Yeah, sorry about that. It's just...” Harry waved his hand to encompass the general universe and the perverse pleasure it took in kicking him in the head.

“No, I get it, it's fine.” Murphy frowned at the tape deck and drummed her fingers. “Where did you get this?”

“I don't know.”

“Is that a 'I don't know that I can tell you' or a 'I really, genuinely don't know?'”

“I really, genuinely don't know.” Harry sat in the chair next to her. “I've got some ideas, but I'm not sure you want to hear them.”

“I probably don't, but...”

“But?”

Murphy crossed her arms and stayed silent for moment. Her eyes locked on the ground, she spoke deliberately. “That was me on there. Even though I never called you, that was me.”

“Yes.”

“And you wouldn't be here at all if you thought it was someone else.”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Okay, then.” Murphy took a trembling breath, then popped the tape back into her hand. “Guess I knew I'd have to jump down the rabbit hole eventually.”

“Murph, if I could've-”

“Yeah,” she said, with a tight smile. “I know. Come on.”

“Where?”

“I've got an idea.”

***

Steve Brooks slipped the headphones off his head and stared at Murphy. “Whoa.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Can you clean it up?”

Steve glanced from her to Harry and back again. “This for real?”

“About as real as it gets. So?”

Steve nodded. “It'll take a couple days. I've got to transfer it to a digital file and the analog is going to leave a lot of hiss, but I can probably isolate the background without too much difficulty.”

“Great. Call me as soon as you get anything.” She backed up a step, but Steve called out.

“Lieutenant.” When she turned, he said, “How far off the clock is this going to be?”

Murphy paused, then said, “How far off you need it to be?”

“They just came out with an eighty gig I-pod with video.”

“Steve.”

“Fine. Veuve Clicquot, two bottles.” At Murphy's raised eyebrow, he grinned. “I've got an anniversary coming up.”

She rolled her eyes and pulled on Harry. “Fine. Let's go.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant!”

“Shut up, Steve.”

***

“Don't say you're sorry,” Murphy said when Harry opened his mouth again. Despite having nearly a foot on her, Harry practically had to trot to keep apace with her rapid stride.

“No, I was just – you think he'll keep quiet?”

“Who, Steve? Yeah. He can be a nerdy little mercenary, but he's alright. One of our best audio guys.”

“That was smart, the audio thing.”

“Well, I didn't make it to Lieutenant through sunny personality alone.”

“Whoa, I didn't mean-”

“I know, I know, I'm just-” Murphy sighed and rubbed her forehead. “I need some time here.”

“I really didn't mean to dump all of this on you.”

“Yeah, well.” Murphy smiled tightly. “Not like I didn't have a good idea what to expect when I first hired you.”

Harry placed a hand on her shoulder, giving it a soft squeeze. “We'll figure this out, Murph. I promise.”

“I'll call if I hear anything on my end,” she said and slipped out of his grasp.

Harry remained behind as she walked away. “Yeah, me, too.”

***

Eight days before Christmas, Harry answered the phone in the middle of the first ring. As Murphy demanded to know where he was with increasing frustration, he sprinkled an improvised concoction of dogbane and wormwood on the receiver.

“There's no guarantee this will work, you know,” Bob pointed out. “Search spells aren't exactly made to trace phone calls.”

“Were you always this negative when you were alive?”

“I was so overwhelmingly positive I believed I could bring the dead back to life. You can see how well that's worked out for me.”

“I can't just do nothing, Bob.”

“I never thought you would.” Bob tilted his head and added, “Although I disapprove of the double negative.”

“What are you, the grammar Nazi? A-ha!” The receiver squealed in static protest but a line of orange zipped down the wire toward the phone, enveloping it and then continuing on its way to the jack. “You see that?”

“I do believe there are some satellites that can see it, Harry.”

“The power of positive thinking, Bob,” Harry said as he grabbed his jacket.

“Yes, I'm sure the magic had nothing to do with it at all.”

“Positive. Thinking. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a mysterious call to track down.”

***

All things said and done, it was a lot easier to track footprints with Murphy's sunglasses than a phone signal. For one thing, he kept running into traffic and that was just asking to end up in the hospital at the worst possible time.

For another, it dead-ended at a cell tower.

Which narrowed the field exactly nothing as far as Harry was concerned.

He tried a little bit of spell-casting again, some thaumaturgy, and when that all failed, he kicked the nearest wall, which neither helped nor made him feel better.

When he returned home, frustrated and cold, Bob at least had the decency to not say 'I told you so.'

***

The phone rang near seven that night. Harry ate his last bite of a bachelor's meal of pre-packaged lasagna and picked up.

“This is Dresden.”

“It's me.”

“Hey. Your guy find anything yet?”

“No. Thought I'd check and see if your...whatever worked.”

“I cast a tracking spell.”

“...Of course you did.”

“Welcome to my very strange world.”

“Well?”

“I didn't get very far.”

“You know what's weird? That actually makes me feel a little better.”

“Why?”

“I don't know. I guess that being a wizard is just as frustrating as being a cop.”

“Hell, Murph, I could've told you that years ago.”

***

Seven days before Christmas, Harry let the machine pick up the daily morning call.

Murphy – the real one – called again that evening. They talked a little bit about her daughter and Harry offered to show her some magic tricks sometime. The sleight-of-hand kind, he clarified, not the wizard sort.

Murphy said she'd think about it.

***

Six days before Christmas and unwilling to pick up or listen to yet another recording of a desperate Murphy, Harry disconnected his answering machine and let the call ring through.

The phone didn't stop for a half-hour and only then because he unplugged the jack.

***

Five days before Christmas, the phone started ringing despite the fact it was still unplugged.

***

Four days before Christmas, Harry gave up on sleeping almost entirely. He managed a light doze for about fifteen minutes at his desk when knocking on his front door jerked him back to awareness. Rubbing a hand over his face, he managed to stumble to the door without injuring himself.

Murphy stood outside, dark circles under her eyes and scowl deeper than usual. “Why the hell weren't you answering your phone?” She blinked, leaned forward and added, “God, you look terrible.”

“Not like you should be talking,” Harry muttered.

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing. What's going on?”

Her eyes still narrowed, she said, “Get dressed. Steve's done.”

***

“Okay, so I was able to isolate the treble and base and clean up the background. I didn't get a lot. I mean between the general hiss and the amount of static, you're lucky I was able to find anything.” Steve threw a look at Harry. “Why're you even still using a tape machine, man? Digital revolution's been and gone already.”

“I'm the old-fashioned sort,” Harry said.

“Steve, focus,” Murphy said.

“Right, sorry. Anyway, most of what we've got is ambient noise. Not much there. But...” He pressed a button on his computer and a line of sine waves sprang to life as the speaker started calling Harry's name.

“I don't hear-”

Steve held up a finger, silencing him. When the first static broke in, it was still almost overpowering, but very distantly, he could now hear “Dresden, is that you?...already...basement...dammit, where are you?”

Steve stopped the recording and said, “Impressed?”

“I'll let you know if you get a better location for me than a basement,” Murphy said.

“Oh, ye of little faith.” Steve started up the recording again and let it play through until Oh my god. “There. You hear that?” At the blank stares he received, he sighed. “No treble this time.” He typed a couple commands and re-started the audio. This time Murphy's voice dropped out entirely, leaving only the static hiss of the background, rising and falling. Even with the main audio cut so drastically, it still came as a surprise when a faint, tinny, but clear voice came through.

“A reminder to all shoppers: due to the Christmas holiday, we will be closing at six today. Again, a reminder to all shoppers: the mall will close at six today. Thank you and we wish you the best of holidays.”

Steve grinned. “How good am I?”

“Good enough I may buy you that champagne after all,” Murphy said. She looked over at Harry. “A shopping mall. On Christmas Eve.”

“Yeah, that sounds like loads of fun.” Harry dug around in his pocket until he found the crumpled piece of paper he'd scribbled the cell tower location on. “Hey, Steve, there any way you can tell what mall this tower would service?”

Steve blinked. “Yeah, probably. Not my area, but I can find someone to narrow it down.” He frowned and said, “Wait. How can it be from Christmas Eve? Is this from last year or something?”

“Or something,” Harry said. “Get back to me soon as you can, okay? Murphy's got my number.”

“Yeah, but-”

“See you, Steve,” Murphy said and followed Harry out of the office.

***

Murphy waited until they could slip into an empty interview room before asking, “Was that message from the future?”

Harry grimaced. “Probably a psychic ripple of some sort. They can happen when something from my side of the fence goes a little haywire.”

“But it's from the future.”

“Yeah.”

“Seriously.”

“Seriously.”

Murphy then did the last thing he expected.

She laughed.

“Um,” he said. “Okay.”

“No, it's-” She interrupted herself with another giggle before getting back under control. “Oh god, I've been so worried about this whole thing and now? All I have to do is avoid the mall?”

“It's not usually that simple.”

“Harry, have you ever been to a mall on Christmas Eve?”

“No.”

“Then let me be the first to tell you: you couldn't pay me to get within a hundred miles of one, even if I weren't getting messages from myself in the future.” She shook her head. “I think we just solved out own problem.”

“You really think it's that easy?”

“Avoiding the mall for the next few days? Yeah, it pretty much is.”

“Murph, you sure?”

She shook her head, gave him an amused grin and patted his shoulder. “Go home, Dresden. Get some rest. I don't think you'll have to worry about any more phone calls.”

***

Three days before Christmas, Harry had plugged back in his phone and didn't even notice the time when he picked up.

“This is Dresden.”

“Dresden?”

His hand tightened around the receiver. “Oh no.”

“Dresden, is that-”

The phone shattered on impact when it hit the wall. Five minutes later, Harry stood at the pay phone up the block.

“Lieutenant Murphy speaking.”

“Hey, it's me,” Harry said. “We've run into a slight hitch.”

***

Murphy arrived at his apartment promptly at six-thirty that evening. Her good mood from the day before might as well have never existed.

“So,” she said. “I'm not going to lie. This is really starting to suck.”

“Yeah.” He took her coat and hung it on the rack he kept in the corner of his sitting room. “I'm sorry. I mean, I thought it might have been a causality thing, but with you being so certain, I thought if anyone could get out of a pre-determined destiny loop, it'd probably be you, so I didn't say anything and-”

She held up a hand. “Enough.” Harry's jaw clicked shut and Murphy sat on his couch. She hung her head in her hands for a moment before taking a deep breath and looking up. “I really thought I was okay with this. I thought knowing was better than – than the constant uncertainty.”

“I know.”

“Is it because of you? Is your weirdness just seeping into my life through osmosis or is it, I don't know, bad luck or something?”

“Honestly?”

“Yes.”

Harry sighed. “It's probably a little of both.”

“Well, shit.” Murphy slumped back, looking defeated. “That's it, then.”

“Hey, I didn't say that.”

“Really? And just how do you get out of some sort of causality whatever-it-was?”

Harry bit his lip. He thought for a moment, studying the floor with an almost artistic intensity before meeting her in the eye and saying, “It's probably about time you met Bob.”

END PART ONE

Doctor Who/Firefly - Waltz (1/1)

Mon, 03 Sep 2007 21:46:02 GMT

Title: Waltz
Fandom: Doctor Who, Firefly
Disclaimer: They belong to Joss Whedon, Russell Davies and the BBC
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Through S3 of Doctor Who, S1 of Torchwood and the BDM for Firefly. Plus That Companion Spoiler (sort of).
Prompt: Jack/Inara for Rokeon
Summary: Six times Inara ran into Jack Harkness

Note: Written for the annual Multiverse fic challenge as a pinch-hit assignment, now published here since authors' names were revealed. First time participant. First time with such a short turnaround time for an assignment. It is entirely possible I did it in a fit of temporary insanity.

This is a slightly cleaner version than the one at the archive since I've had the time to re-read and correct. Constructive criticism is still appreciated.

WALTZ

i.

Inara sat out on the patio of Graham Lee’s city home, back straight and ankles crossed demurely. She clasped her hands in her lap and tried to keep them from trembling.

Just breath in time, Lady Mai had told her. It’s a client like any other.

Easy for her to say. But Inara had never been out of the Guild House before, when it was her charms alone that would determine the outcome of the next few hours. As discreetly as possible, she wiped sweaty palms along the edge of her skirt and once more recited her lessons.

Always be polite.

Never show surprise and never judge.

You are the most beautiful woman he has ever seen. Act as if it is true and it will be.

There is nothing in this moment except the act itself.

In a second of panic, she found herself at an abrupt loss for the proper way to serve tea (did she clean the whisk first or the scoop?), but a muffled boom pulled her out of her thoughts. Another boom followed and the building shook.

Yells came from inside and Inara stood, previous uncertainty giving way to small slivers of fear. She stepped back – perhaps to run or maybe just give her room to think, she wasn't sure yet – when the doors flew open to release a young man running at full throttle. With no time to get out of the way, he slammed into her and the pair fell to the ground in a tangle of limbs and skirt.

“Wei!”

“Sorry! You okay, m – Inara?”

At the sound of her name, she took a good look at the man sprawled on top of her. Black hair, blue eyes, wonderful smile. Handsome and he probably knew it, too. She tried to place him as he helped her to her feet but he was wholly unfamiliar.

“You’ll have to forgive me,” she said. “But have we met?”

“Jack!” A blonde girl skidded to a halt beside them, shortly followed by an older man in a worn leather jacket. “You alright?”

“I’m fine.” He glanced at Inara. “You?”

She nodded, as the second man took a look at the two of them and rolled his eyes. “You really think this is the time?”

“Huh?” As if just realizing he still had his arm across her shoulders, Jack stepped back to a less invasive position next to her. “Oh, Doc, no, it’s not what you think. This is Inara. We go way back.”

We do? She wanted to say but the blonde girl was already speaking. “Think you really do know everyone in the universe. I’m Rose, by the way, and that’s the Doctor.” She held out a hand which Inara took gingerly.

“Um, Inara,” she said, trying to keep up.

“Yes, yes, isn’t this nice, we’re all friends now,” the Doctor said. “Bully for us. Now can we go? Preferably before the building collapses?”

“What?” Inara looked at Lee’s home, which was listing to the side and did indeed appear in imminent danger of falling. “But – but-“

“Don’t worry, all the little humans made it out safe and sound,” the Doctor said and took off again. Rose followed and Jack grasped her hand.

“Come on!”

Having little choice, she ran. After she tripped for a second time, ripping her skirt beyond repair, Jack swept her up into his arms. Ignoring her outraged squawk, he continued after his friends until they reached a large blue box a couple dozen meters away. After he released her, she hit him in the chest.

“Ow! Inara!”

“I don’t know what's going on, but that was my client back there and I am not going to shame the Guild by running away from-from whatever it was you people thought you were doing.”

“Yeah, about that.” Jack pointed back at the house. Or at least what was left of it. It seemed, in their haste to leave the scene, she failed to notice the building simply giving up the ghost and collapsing in on itself. Before catching fire.

As sirens began wailing in the distance, Inara said a word she very rarely said in English.

The Doctor grimaced. “Fire’s a bit of overkill, yeah.”

Jack shrugged. “Hey, you wanted to make sure to get the whole infestation, nothing does it quite like blowing them up, then lighting them on fire.” Suddenly he turned his blinding smile back on Inara. “Though I can’t say I expected to see you there. How’s tricks, Inara?”

She wondered if that was a dig at her profession, but decided no, he was sincere. If perhaps a little bit insane.

“I don’t know you.” She said it slowly, carefully, enunciating each word just to make sure he understood.

His smile faded. Behind him, Rose muttered a rueful “Oops,” while the Doctor’s expression went frightfully blank.

“Jack,” he said.

“Yeah,” Jack muttered. He took Inara by the arm and guided her to a spot where they wouldn't be overheard. He was gentle, but she didn’t think she could have run if she tried.

“What is this?” she said. “Who are you?”

“Listen.” He placed his hands on her shoulders and looked her square in the eye, handsome face suddenly grave. “You have to forget you saw me today. Don’t talk about it to anyone and if you see me again, don’t mention it at all.”

“But-“ How do you know we’ll meet again?

He didn’t let her say the words, just kissed her in an all-together strange way, brief and sentimental.

“Go home, Inara Serra. I’ll see you around.”

And before she could even breath again, he left. She stood for a time, trying to put together her thoughts as the fires continued to burn. A strange wheezing noise drifted to her, like some great beast trying to lumber its way into the world. But when she looked up, there was nothing there, only a light breeze and the memory of Jack’s kiss. Jack himself and his two friends had vanished, along with the blue box.

She wondered how she was ever going to explain this to Lady Mai.

ii.

Inara nearly fell over when she saw the face of her new client. However, professional that she was, she merely raised an eyebrow.

Jack grinned at her from the entryway. “Hey, Inara.”

“Jack.” She wondered what exactly she was supposed to say to him. Blown up any buildings lately? He had told her not to mention it, but she couldn’t just ignore his existence. She finally settled on, “I didn’t expect to see you again.”

“I get that a lot.”

When he seemed disinclined to come the rest of the way into the Guild House, she gestured forward. “I was told you wanted to discuss the particulars of your request in person?”

“Sort of. A little.” He stepped back and looked at someone hidden behind the door frame. “Come on. Promise she doesn’t bite.”

A red-haired woman slunk into sight. Jack clasped her hand and pulled her inside. Though she stared resolutely at the floor, Inara could see the blush along her cheeks.

“Can’t believe you talked me into this,” the woman muttered. “’s humiliating.”

“No, it’s not,” Jack said, sounding like he meant it. “Inara Serra, meet my very good friend Donna Noble.”

“Oh god,” the woman groaned and placed her hands over her face. Like his previous companions, she spoke with a Dyton Colony accent.

Inara nodded and said, “Jack, can I speak to you for a moment?”

“Sure.” After he made sure Donna was ensconced in one of the plush chairs with a warning to not go anywhere, he joined Inara at the far corner of the foyer. “What’s up?”

“Jack,” she started, then paused. What was she to say? She still didn’t know how this man knew her name or how he’d come under the impression they were friends. The steps of this dance remained frustratingly vague. But he was still a client and she was still a Companion and there were more practical matters to consider. She sighed. “If you know me so well, I’m sure you know my requirements when it comes to more... unusual requests.”

“I’ve got the coin, if that’s a problem.”

She came very close to glowering at him, but her voice remained bland. “It’s not the coin. It’s the way you’ve approached me. I don’t go to clients blind and I don’t like being ambushed.”

He sighed. “I’m sorry. You’re right and I know better. But...” He glanced back at Donna, pulled in on herself on the chair. “It took a lot to get her here.”

“And what is she to you? Because if you’re involved-“

“What? Oh no.” He grinned. “No, I wouldn’t push your standards that far.” His expression softened. “She’s just a dear friend who’s been through a lot.” At some point he had grasped her hand, thumb circling the skin between her own thumb and forefinger. The gesture was both platonic and achingly intimate. “And she deserves to feel beautiful for a night.”

Inara studied him for a moment, the way he stepped just a hair closer into her personal space than was strictly polite, the steady eye contact, the almost loose posture. She wasn’t certain, but she believed he’d had some Companion training himself. “And you can’t do that for her?”

His smile turned a bit melancholy. “She wouldn’t believe me.”

Inara sighed and turned to look at his friend again. A little heavy-set, on the near side of forty but probably not for much longer, clothing almost dowdy, though the colors were bright. A face that seemed plain at first glance, but, perhaps if she smiled – yes, there could be beauty there, too.

“If this happens again,” Inara said. “I’ll ban you from the registry myself.”

Jack nodded. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

Together, the two of them walked back to Donna, who glanced up, her expression pinched and wary.

Inara smiled, gentle as a breeze. “Donna, I’m Inara. It’s a pleasure meeting you.”

“Um...” Donna mumbled. Inara patted her hand.

“Why don’t you and Jack take a moment and I’ll start making the tea.”

As Inara walked back to her quarters, she heard Donna say, “We came all this way for tea?”

“Best tea in the whole ‘verse,” Jack answered and though she had no idea why he would say that, Inara smiled all the same.

iii.

She ran across him by accident when Serenity docked for minor repairs. Mal had taken Jayne and Zoe to negotiate with Badger (or fight with him or threaten him, depending on which way the wind blew) and she wanted to browse among the shops a bit. She paused in front of a window display and debated whether or not to get the little sun-dress for Kaylee, who lacked more feminine clothing in favor of the coveralls and old shirts she needed to bang around the engine room.

She saw his reflection walk by in the glass and before she quite knew what she was doing, turned around with a startled, “Jack?”

He didn’t seem to hear her the first time, so she repeated his name. He paused, turned back and Inara had to physically stop herself from stepping back. Something had vanished from his face, some indefinable joy, and what remained almost scared her.

He mouthed her name and in two quick strides he had her crushed against him. His hands dug into her back with bruising force and she could feel the tremors in his body.

“I thought – with everything else...” He took a shaky breath, pulling back. He didn’t hold on with such desperation now and he was smiling, though it didn’t reach his eyes at all. “You look good.”

“So do you.” And that was the truth, even if the line of his jaw was tight with anger and the grey she could’ve sworn was at his temples the last time she’d seen him had vanished. Perhaps he dyed his hair? A possibility, but for all his looks, he’d never actually struck her as vain. “What brings you here?”

“Oh, you know, this and that. The usual.” Lies. Big, fat lies and not even entertaining ones. He noticed her frown and cleared his throat. “How about you?”

Avoid, dodge, parry and change the subject. She recognized the technique after living with Mal for so long, but let it go. Because, honestly, what did she actually know about Jack that she had any right to call him out on it? “I’m fine. My ship’s docked for a day or two and I’m not due to meet another client until we get back to Ariel.”

She left it dangling as an invitation and Jack didn’t disappoint. “Got time for a drink then?”

He offered her his arm. She slipped a hand through it. “Sounds divine.”

They found a small, not entirely shabby inn with a bar and fine music. She spoke of politics on the core planets and what chance the conservatives had to take over parliament in the next elections and the rumors that a new cycle of colonial expeditions would be starting soon. He mentioned a passing interest in sports and told her an utterly outrageous story about seducing some initiate Shepherd with the assistance of only his looks and a well-timed explosion. She didn’t believe a word of it, though she laughed anyway.

They spoke of nothing personal, no mention made of why she was no longer in the Guild House, no talk of his rage. And it was only with mild surprise she heard herself suggest they rent a room upstairs for however long they might need it.

He worshiped her body, gave more than he took and his intimate knowledge of where to bite and kiss, of what would make her gasp and moan just so, would have been frightening if he hadn’t looked so utterly lost in wonder. She arched against him as he groaned and they came together.

He confessed afterwards. Everyone always did.

“They took two years from me. No explanation, no apology. And for a moment I thought, – it’s stupid, I know it’s stupid – I thought they could take you, too. They didn’t, they wouldn’t, but I don’t even know what it was I did. What was so horrible that they erased it completely.”

He looked like he might cry, so she kissed him. She couldn’t comfort him any other way, not when their dance was still so strange and the words refused to move in rhythm, but ever so slowly, she was learning.

“Jack, Jack, Jack,” she said.

“One day,” he said. “You’re really going to have to tell me why you call me that.”

When she woke the next morning to Mal pounding on the door – demanding to know just what in the tain xiode she thought she was doing, not telling anyone where she was – Jack had already left.

iv.

Sometimes, despite knowing better, Inara still expected a white knight to come rescue her. To take her away and admit for once, just as a change, that he needed her. It probably said something about her life that her knight had turned out to be a cynical, small-time criminal who fought on the wrong side of a civil war.

Her knight never turned up, at least not when she actually wanted him to.

Jack did instead.

She caught one of her initiates talking to a man out in the garden. At first annoyed that the girl would break House rules to sneak him in, Inara couldn't help the smile when she saw who it was.

“Jack, honestly, you need to start wearing a bell.”

He grinned and picked her up, spinning her in an undignified circle before pulling her into a hug. “Inara! How's tricks, doll?”

“As best as can be expected. How about you?” She stepped back and took a good look at him. The angry, hard lines of his face had vanished and whatever had been missing last time had reasserted itself. He looked years younger.

She frowned and leaned a little closer. No, she wasn't mistaken. He was younger, maybe even younger than when they'd first met. But that couldn't be possible, right? Trick of the light.

Except that wasn't how it worked. Not this dance and not this man, even if she wasn't quite ready to admit it out loud yet. Too many steps and her timing was all wrong.

Jack frowned. “Is something wrong?”

“No, I'm sorry. I was wool-gathering. Tell me, how long can you stay?”

“A week, maybe. My... employers gave me some time off.” He tugged on his ear and grinned. “Wait. That mean I can stay here?”

“As long as you contribute a little something.”

Jack looked like all of his birthdays came at once. “Really?”

Inara glanced at the initiates peeking through the windows at them. Word traveled fast. “Oh, I'm sure we'll be able to put your talents to use.”

v.

The man they brought in from the Alliance lab looked more dead than alive, the blood covering him from nearly head to foot. Mal looked grim as he left him off in Simon's care, a still sort of rage that Inara hadn't seen since Miranda.

“How is he?” she asked.

Mal shrugged and looked away. “Doc's not sure he's gonna make it.”

He wasn't a hero, her knight, or at least that's what he said, but sometimes he had heroism thrust on him and somehow that made it more heart-breaking.

“River's having a bad spell,” he said. “Could you-?”

“Of course.” Simon would be too busy caring after their dying patient to keep an eye on his sister and Inara had a talent for calming her.

She found their pilot sitting outside the med bay, knees drawn up and hugged tightly to her chest. Inara settled in next to her and River leaned against her shoulder, though she kept her arms clasped around her legs.

“Jack-be-nimble wasn't fast enough,” River said. “The candle burned blue.”

Inara rubbed her shoulder. “It'll be okay, sweetie.”

River sighed. “It's not easy being a fact when nobody likes the truth.”

Inara said nothing. Sometimes it was easier to just let River talk and not question it.

They watched as Simon worked, first patching up, then cleaning their guest. With the blood gone, the face revealed was that of man in his middle years, hair solidly grey and face etched with hard lines.

Inara frowned and sat a little straighter. It was difficult to tell in repose, but his face struck a familiar chord.

“Oh,” River said. “I'm sorry. I forgot he was your friend, too.”

Inara's hand tightened enough against River that the girl yelped. When she squirmed away, Inara hardly noticed, her attention riveted on the man on the surgical table.

“Renci de Fouzu,” she whispered. “Jack.”

As soon as Simon told her their patient was out of the woods, she planted herself in the other bed, refusing to take her eyes off the impossibility before her. And with a closer look, there was no doubt it was Jack, aged far too much in the time she'd last seen him but here he was and there she was and that was the truth of it.

She must have dozed off at some point because the next thing she knew, a hoarse voice was saying her name. She opened her eyes to meet Jack's blue gaze.

He smiled and it took a few of the years off. “Hey.”

“Hey,” she said back. She stood and came to his bedside, grasping his hand in her own. It wasn't an old man's hand, not yet, but the lines and the grey didn't speak to a life of leisure. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired. Used.” He squeezed her hand. “I'm glad you're here.”

“Jack.” She touched his hair, which had been black only a short while ago, grazed the face that had been young. That still was around the eyes. “What happened?”

“Oh, you know, took the slow path this time around.” His smile turned a bit watery. “Didn't think I'd see you under these circumstances, though.”

“How bad was it?”

“Had some good times along the way. Could've lived without the last few months, though.” He blinked rapidly, then said, “Shit, am I crying?”

“Yes.”

He placed a hand over his eyes and let out a shuddering sob. Inara laid her head against his chest, holding on as he wept and when he finally fell asleep again, she allowed herself to cry.

He stayed long enough to recover – which he did faster than he should have, but no one said anything about it – and asked only to be let off at the next core world.

As he gathered what few belongings he'd acquired during his stay, Inara watched from the doorway. He still looked older than he should have, but his smiles were easy now and his eyes had gotten a bit of their spark back.

“Where do you plan on going?” she asked.

“I don't know yet. I always liked Londinium. Or maybe I'll try being a colonist again. Haven't done that in... well, a good long while.”

“And exactly how long is a 'good long while?'”

He grinned. “It's different for everyone.”

She nodded. It wasn't really what she wanted to hear but it wasn't a lie and that was good enough for her. “I think I finally figured it out. What you are. It's impossible, of course, but it fits.”

“I had a friend once. He liked to believe in six impossible things before breakfast. And sometimes he did six impossible things before breakfast which is a pretty hard standard to live up to.” He winked. “But I'm trying.”

“Yes,” she said. “I do believe you are.”

He hugged her very close and then kissed her on the forehead. “I don't think I'll be back, so you take care of yourself.”

But you will she thought, keeping time in her head. One-two-three, one-two-three. You will.

However, she said nothing aloud, only nodding and letting him vanish into the 'verse once more.

vi.

It was late summer planetside when the boy arrived on Inara's doorstep.

He looked maybe eighteen, black hair in need of a cut and blue eyes full of sharp intelligence. His clothing, all wrong for this time and place, was dusty and worn and the bag slung over his shoulder had seen far better days. Inara rose as he approached.

“Howdy,” he said with a grin.

Inara inclined her head, gracing him with a small smile. “Hello, Jack.”

The grin faltered. “Oh, um, that's – that's not my name.” He spent a moment trying to recover himself before suddenly straightening. “But for you, darling, I can be anyone you'd like.”

She laughed a little at his clumsiness, though it was endearing all the same. Stepping on toes and miscounting the beat were how you learned to dance, after all. She held out a hand.

“Come on, xíâo péngyou. I have a lot to teach you.”

FIN

Life on Mars - What Sort of Day Has It Been? (1/1)

Mon, 30 Jul 2007 14:20:02 GMT

Title: What Sort of Day Has It Been?
Fandom: Life on Mars
Disclaimer: They belong to people who are not me.
Rating: PG-13-ish
Spoilers: Post 1x06.
Betas: dorsetgirl and bloodrebel333. Thank you so much, guys!
Summary: They are alive and the world turns and it's enough.

Note: Written for smallfandomfest. The prompt was Sam/Gene/Annie, sharing a bottle of wine on a rooftop or in a field. The threesome is somewhat more subtext, than text, but I think it turned out well.

WHAT SORT OF DAY HAS IT BEEN?

It’s been a long day, even with Reg Cole all tucked up, neat as you please, but it’s not over yet and Annie is still buzzing. She knows she shouldn’t have the second pint and most certainly not accept the congratulatory bottle of wine from Nelson (“On the house.”) but she’s okay and Sam’s okay and the Guv’s alive, so she’ll celebrate.

She’s not sure how the three of them have ended up in the Cortina, but there they are, Sam and Gene engaging in the usual verbal sparring up front –

“You shouldn’t drive after all you’ve drunk-“

“Shut it, Dorothy.”

- her in the back, the streets of Manchester flying by as Gene hits his usual sub-sonic speed. She’s never been in his car before and she’s a little surprised to find it so clean. Not what she would’ve expected judging by the state of his office, but the Guv can be slippery to pin down sometimes.

A flash of green catches her eye and she leans forward, shouting, “Stop! Stop the car!”

Gene slams on the brakes, very nearly catapulting her into Sam’s lap. As she struggles to right herself, Gene glowers. “Are you cracked?”

She grins and opens the door. “We need to get out here.”

“What?”

“Annie,” Sam starts, but she’s already out and moving.

“Come on, then!” she says back.

“Daft bird,” Gene mutters not for her to hear, though she does anyway.

She hugs the wine bottle to her chest, feet moving in a not-quite-straight line across the street as the two men follow. Pavement slopes gently into grass, still green in the summer heat, though it has that brittle, dried look of plants gone too long without water. Beyond the grass lies the river, water catching the last light of the low-hanging sun. It is not an isolated area by any means; the garbage and debris of human existence lie scattered close to the road and in the distance she can still hear evening traffic. But this is her most favourite spot in the entire world and what better place to be when she wants to make sure her heart is still beating?

She sits on the ground and goes to work liberating the cork from the bottle. Sam walks to one side of her, Gene to the other.

“Well,” Sam says, looking at her little oasis in the midst of the city and smiling. “This is nice.”

“So glad you went in for that extra education, Sammy-boy,” Gene says. “Given you the vocabulary of a poet, it has.”

“Oh shut up,” Sam says, but it lacks bite. He sheds his coat as he takes a seat beside her. Gene huffs a little more (“When in the land of the clangers...”) before doing the same.

“Ah!” The cork comes free in Annie's hand and she takes a good, long swallow. Not a great wine, not even a good one, but it falls sweet on her tongue all the same. She offers the bottle to Sam, who accepts.

“So you come here often?” he says, then grimaces. “God, that sounds like a bad pick-up line.”

She grins. “There are good ones?”

“Touché.” Sam hands the wine off to Gene and around it goes.

“I loved it here as a little girl,” Annie says. “Used to come out with my sister and we'd pretend it was a forest. Fairy rings and enchanted princesses, you know?” Sam looks at her with that strange, intense curiosity of his and she blushes. “Or not.”

“I didn't know you had a sister.”

“Yeah, I told you.” And she has, too. “Went to her wedding a few weeks back, remember?”

“I – you did.” He speaks quietly, eyes suddenly so far away. “I-I forgot.”

Is he trying to figure it out? Slide her back into whatever box he thinks his mind pulled her out of? One more puzzle-piece to add to his amazing self-absorption.

She isn't normally so harsh in her assessments, privately accusing him of overthinking reality when he often doesn't think about it enough. The future that keeps him forever occupied is also the reason he takes her seriously, looks and actually sees her when everyone else only sees a skirt. A mass of confusing, intriguing contradictions is their Sam.

“Have you got any family?” she says.

“No. Well, my mum,” he says, wine back in his hand, dangling from his fingers. “But she's – not here.”

“Retired to some old biddy's home?” Gene says, rescuing the wine from his DI's neglect. Sam glares at him.

“No, she just... moved.” Again the hesitation, the one Annie has begun to recognize as Sam's attempt to hide the truth without actually lying, years yet to come leaving ghostly imprints on all his words. “And I'll thank you not to insult my mother.”

“Wouldn't dream of it. Raised a fine girl like you, didn't she?” Sam opens his mouth to retort, but Annie breaks in.

“So, what about you, then?” she says. “Family?”

Gene snorts and drinks. “Far as you're concerned, no.”

“We shared.”

“That's because you're both women.”

“Hey!”

“That's it,” she says and snatches the wine from him. “No more for you.”

“Might I remind you I'm your superior officer?”

“My wine.” She holds the bottle close. “My rules.”

Gene opens his mouth, re-thinks what he's going to say, then shrugs. “Fair enough.” He reaches into a pocket and pulls out a flask. This one is notable for its lack of a bullet hole.

“You're unbelievable,” Sam says as he rolls up his over-long sleeves. He rests his arms on bent knees, exposing a thin strip of too pale skin. Annie frowns and tilts his arm so she can see better in the fading light. It's an old scar, mostly surgical in nature but snakes nearly from wrist to elbow. Sam raises an eyebrow. “Something wrong?”

“Oh! Sorry!” She snatches her hand away, retreating from his personal space. “I wasn't thinking.”

“'s okay.” He bends his arm to look at the scar. Gene leans around Annie to catch a glimpse and nods in what appears to be approval. “I forget it's there, honestly.”

“Do you mind if I ask-?”

He shrugs. “Car accident when I was twelve. Broke my arm and the bone pierced right through the skin.”

“Yuck.”

“Oh sure. Blood everywhere, me hollering, Mum damn near fainting, it was a mess. But I had a cast for six weeks and that made me the coolest kid at school.” Sam grins, for once revelling in something thoroughly boyish. It's a little beyond Annie's ken, but Gene grunts in male solidarity.

“Can't prove you've lived without a scar or two.” At Sam's raised eyebrow and Annie's tilt of the head, Gene lifts up his trouser leg, showing off a knot of ugly twisted skin just to the side of his shin. Annie winces.

“Looks painful.”

“Knife,” Gene says, hitting the scar with side of his fist, miming a stab. “Little bastard were carrying a bloody fishing knife. Didn't even see it 'til the damn thing was buried hilt deep in my leg.”

“Let me guess,” Sam says. “Didn't even slow you down through sheer force of manly will.”

“Got my own back,” Gene says, ignoring the sarcasm. He turns to Annie. “So what about you, then, sweetheart?”

Annie blinks. “Me?”

“You were the one who wanted to share and share alike.”

“Come on.” Sam nudges her, friendly-like. It's a comfortable, natural gesture. “If the rest of us are gonna go all Jaws...”

“'Jaws?'”

“Yeah, y'know, while they're hunting the shark? 'We're gonna need a bigger boat.'” It is, perhaps, the worst attempt at an American accent Annie has ever heard and it has both her and Gene staring at him in bewilderment. Sam blushes beet red all the way to the tip of his ears. It's surprisingly adorable.

“Um,” he says, staring at the ground. “Guess it's not out yet. Never mind.”

Annie sighs, dwells for a moment on what it means to be one of the boys, and takes a large swallow of wine. Courage burning all the way down, she un-tucks her shirt from her skirt and lifts it up.

Gene appears intrigued. “Planning on giving us a show?”

“No. Sharing.” She points to a hook-shaped scar on her stomach. “There.”

Sam reaches out a hand and almost, but doesn't quite, touch it. He traces it in the air. “Was this... appendicitis?” he guesses.

She nods. “I was ten.”

“Scarred nicely.”

“Um,” she says, because what's supposed to be her response to that? “Thank you?”

“No, I mean...” He fumbles for the words. “It's a-a clean heal.”

“Seen worse, have you?”

“Once or twice.”

“Hark at you,” Gene says. “Talking like you'd know anything about it.”

“Some of us actually like learning about things other than which horse to bet on in the Grand National,” Sam snaps.

“Well, that'd be the difference. I know something useful.”

“Gentlemen,” Annie says. “Play nice.”

“He started it,” Gene says

“I did not!”

“Oi. Nice,” Annie says. “Both of you. I've decreed it.”

Sam smiles. “Decreed?”

“My rules, remember?” Annie nods. “I said so.”

“And do we get something if we behave ourselves?” Sam says.

“DI Tyler, are you asking me to bribe you?”

He's leaning closer to her now and she believes it's possible they're both quite a bit drunker than she originally thought. “Of course not. I've vowed to uphold the law.”

“So you're above such petty concerns.”

“Entirely.”

She kisses him.

It's meant to be quick, platonic, but it rapidly becomes something else. She pushes into him and his hand winds up the back of her neck. He plays with her hair as she lays a palm against his chest, feeling as his heartbeat quickens.

This and nothing else she thinks but can't say what it means.

“Oi, oi, oi!”

Gene's voice cuts through the intimate moment and they break apart. Sam still has his eyes closed, looking a little flushed. Annie licks her lips, tasting the ghost of Sam left behind.

“Honestly, like randy teenagers you are.”

Annie leans back to look at him, head hanging practically upside down. “Feeling left out, Guv?”

Gene snorts. “That supposed to be an offer, Cartwright?”

And because the wine has made her a little more honest than is safe, she says, “Maybe it is.”

He closes the distance between them. It's not at all like kissing Sam, who is gentle and curious and feels like the wind. Gene tastes of cigarettes and booze, as old and solid as the earth itself. But the position is awkward, putting a strain on her neck, and she's forced to break it off when her elbow slips and she lands on her back with a small 'oof.'

Sam leans over her, almost cheek to cheek with Gene. “Annie, you alright?”

She grins at them. “Wow.”

Sam grins back. “You're drunk.”

“Yep.” She points at him. “Now, kiss and make up.”

“With Gene?” Sam glances at the Gov, who glowers right back.

“My rules.” She gestures with her hands, trying to close the gap between them by will alone. “Go on.”

Gene sighs. “Think you hit your head a little too hard, Cart-”

Sam grabs him and kisses him. It's not quick and it's not camp. It's proper, a real honest-to-god why-yes-I-am-quite-enjoying-this kiss. Time holds its breath for them, the two men pressed together, the woman watching them.

This and nothing else.

Then Gene pushes away and Sam ends up beside Annie, shaking with laughter.

“Have you gone completely round the bend?”

“Don't know about you, Gene,” Sam says as he laces his fingers behind his head, looking inordinately pleased with himself. “But I'm perfectly comfortable in my sexuality.”

“Poofter.”

“Neanderthal.”

The argument has no rancour, if it had any in the first place. Annie can't remember if she's ever seen Sam this relaxed, wine loosening him enough to forget himself for once and just be.

I love you she thinks, not for the first time. She's never said the words aloud and perhaps she never will. But that way lies in the future's misty distance and today is today. They are alive and the world turns and it's enough.

“Good day today,” she says. Sam frowns at her but Gene nods.

“Good day.”

When Sam remains silent, she wonders if they've lost him again, that he's remembered and retreated inside himself. But then he smiles and it's beautiful.

“No one died,” he says. “Good day.”

His hand finds its way to the top of hers where she lets it lie. Above them, night steals across the sky and the first stars appear.

FIN

Doctor Who - Where Ever I May Roam (1/1)

Mon, 30 Jul 2007 14:13:19 GMT

Title: Where Ever I May Roam
Fandom: Doctor Who
Disclaimer: It all belongs to the BBC.
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Post-S3. And features That Companion Spoiler for S4.
Summary: Phone calls, text messages, friends who let friends drunk-dial and Torchwood.

Note: Inspired by comments in post-finale threads that there should be drunken text messages between the Doctor and Martha. It all went downhill from there.

WHERE EVER I MAY ROAM

Phone Message 2:04 AM GMT

“You've got Martha's phone. Message away!”

“Wha-? Didn't even change my message? Damn. Should've thought of that. Actually, no, you should've thought of that and then told me and-and then I wouldn't feel like such an idiot leaving a message to myself at – at...Kate, what time is it?”

“Two. Is that the ex? Ohmigawd, you're drunk-calling your ex!”

“I am not! Not my ex, anyway.”

“You are! Lemme speak to 'im!”

“What? No! Leggo! Give me-”

“'alo Martha's ex, you git! She's a dooooctor now! So there! Ow! Hey, quit it! That's my hair-!”

“Um, yeah. Sorry 'bout that.”

“Owww, didn't have to hit so hard...”

“Just wanted to let you know I passed my exams. And that I'm not drunk.”

“You soooo are.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Am not.”

“Still on the phone, then.”

“Oh, shit.”

Text Message 2:35 AM GMT

MAY B A LIL DRNK. - M.

Phone Message 9:25 AM GMT

“You've reached the voicemail of Dr. Martha Jones. If this is urgent, please page me at 07555 435500. Otherwise, leave a message after the beep.”

“Hello? Am I doing this right? Just realized I never actually left one of these voice-thingergadgets before. That's sort of weird, now that I think of it, but I never had much need to. Well, I guess I don't really need to now, either, but I don't know. Seems rude if I don’t. And it's pretty straight forward, really – wait for beep, leave message. Which is what I'm doing right now. Leaving a message, that is. If I were waiting for the beep, you'd hardly know, right?

“Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes. Martha Jones! Doctor! That's brilliant, that is. Best job in the whole universe, if I do say so myself. And you got one up on me with the diploma. Never did do well on my exams. But you! Blimey, that's fantastic. Congratulations. And, um, yes. Okay. That's all.”

Phone Message 6:43 PM GMT

“This is the Doctor, currently residing at Martha’s old phone number. If you’re trying to reach me, Martha, I can’t answer right now, possibly because the universe is ending or there are some really good drink specials at Milliways. And if you’re trying to reach Martha Jones, clearly she isn’t here anymore. What sort of friend are you that you don’t have her new number? For shame.”

“…you are so blessedly weird. And of course I’m brilliant. I’m insulted you had any doubt. And hang on, what do you mean you don’t have a diploma? All this time bragging on how clever you are and you aren’t even a proper doctor?”

Phone Message 10:23 PM GMT

“It’s not my fault I don’t test well!”

Phone Message 11:52 PM GMT

“Bwahahahahaha!”

Phone Message 1:07 AM GMT

“Leaving a message just to cackle maniacally is not as funny as you think it is, Ms. Jones.”

Text Message 1:33 AM GMT

BETTER TO LAUGH BY TXT? HA!
O GD Y M I STILL AWAKE? – M.

Text Message 1:39 AM GMT

I’m still awake, so that’s hardly impressive. Also what’s the point to all of this text nonsense? It’s like taking a perfectly good form of communication and making it twice as difficult just for the sake of –

Text Message 1:43 AM GMT

-Character limit exceeded? What does that even mean? Well, fine, just be that way. Stupid phone.

Text Message 10:35 AM GMT

MEANS U TALK 2 MUCH EVEN IN TXT. – M.

Phone Message 11:24 PM GMT

“Are you implying I babble, Ms. Jones?”

Phone Message 11:30 PM GMT

“What imply? I outright said. And that’s Dr. Jones to you, Mr. Smith.”

Phone Message 3:45 PM GMT

“Maaaartha. Tell the bartender ‘m not too drunk to drive an’ he can give my TARDISH keys ba’ right thish inshtant...No, ‘m not gonna give you that, ger’off!”

“Ma’am, not sure who your boyfriend is, but he’s staying here ‘til he sleeps it off or you come and pick him up.”

“No, ‘m not!”

“Unless I kick him out for belligerence.”

Phone Message 4:47 PM GMT

“Doctor, nowhere on Earth does ‘Martha’ translate into ‘Designated Driver.’ And considering you’re not even on Earth right now, you can find a way home your own damn self.”

Phone Message 5:17 PM GMT

“Mar’fa. Me ‘gain. Sorry. Jus’ wanted you t’know. Love you. ‘night.”

Phone Message 6:33 PM GMT

“Did you just – I mean that isn’t – you can’t just say things like that! Not after all…

“…oh, sod it. Call me when the hangover wears off.”

Phone Message 12:55 PM GMT

“Martha, ah, this is – all right, this is a little embarrassing, but I don’t remember actually calling you last night. Though Thomas – that’s the bartender, lovely chap, have to introduce you two sometime – said I may have left some messages. And, well, I just heard the mail you left. Whatever it was I said, I’m sorry. I really didn’t – this is stupid, apologizing to a machine. Well, an un-sentient machine at any rate. Couple of sentient robots out there – did you meet them? Can’t remember off the top of my head if we stopped over on any of those planets or not. And I’m babbling again, aren’t I? Right. Well, this is me and I’m sorry and I’m not hungover. Anymore. Bye.”

Phone Message 8:45 PM GMT

“Sorry, me again. Just hadn’t heard back from you and I wasn’t sure if you were still mad or not.”

Phone Message 4:30 AM GMT

“Oh, stars, you are still mad, aren’t you?”

Phone Message 10:44 AM GMT

“Right. I’m going to stop calling now. This is me saying, I’m not gonna call again.”

Phone Message 2:37 PM GST

“Sarah J – wait, hang on, this is Martha’s voicemail. Oh, bollocks. See what you’ve done to me? Not even trying to call you and now I have some sort of Pavlovian reaction in dialing your number automatically. Officially, I am the saddest saddo in all of time and space.”

Phone Message 8:23 PM GMT

“Hey, Doctor. Sorry it took so long to get back to you. Twenty-four hour call really is the fourth circle of hell, as it turns out. Anyway, know you left a couple messages but my voicemail appears to have eaten most of them. Kind of hope they weren’t about the end of the world or anything...oh god, were they about the end of the world? That’d be a bit embarrassing, wouldn’t it?

“Anyway, did you want to talk? Got a little time right now if you do, so call me back.”

Text Message 9:14 PM GMT

No. Just...wanted to make sure we were still all right.

Text Message 9:22 PM GMT

ALWAYS – M.

Text Message 9:30 PM GMT

Good. Good night, Martha Jones.

Text Message 9:34 PM GMT

NIGHT DR. – M.

Phone Call 2:22 PM GMT

“Doctor, listen-”

“This isn’t the Doctor.”

“Oh. Who’s this?”

“Donna. Who’re you?”

“Martha Jones. Ah, look-”

“Oh, you’re the one that keeps texting him!”

“Um, yep. That’s me, I guess. Look, he’s not there at the moment, is he?”

“No, he’s...tied up.”

“...you mean that literally, don’t you.”

“Little furry things with spears. They want to sacrifice him in my honor.”

“Your honor?”

“Redheads are sort of like gods here, apparently. As you do.”

“I’d say I’m surprised but I’m really, really not.”

“Right, well, it’d be nice to chat and everything, but-”

“-you’re a little busy. Got it. Tell him I called when he’s recovered his dignity, will you?”

“Not a problem.”

“Ta.”

Phone Message 5:04 AM GMT

“It was not, for the record, a virgin sacrifice, no matter what rumors Donna’s been spreading about me. And she’s a fine one to talk since she’s hardly a natural ginger and – ow! Donna, don’t slap me when I’m on the phone!”

Phone Message 7:03 PM GMT

“Hi, this is Dr. Owen Harper. You were on Martha Jones’ speed dial as her GP and I was hoping you could answer some questions pertaining to her medical records. There’s been an... incident and I need to know of any allergies, genetic disorders or pregnancies she might have had. If you can call me back on her mobile or fax those records over to 029 2055 6731, it’d be much appreciated.”

Phone Message 7:12 PM GMT

“Doctor, it’s Jack. Ignore that previous message. Martha’s fine, I’m fine, we’re all fine here. How’re you?”

Phone Message 8:58 PM GMT

“Jack! What the hell has Torchwood done now?! And what did you do to Martha? Pick up! JAAAACK!”

Phone Message 4:57 AM GMT

“Ohmigawd, were you worried? Tha’s sooooo sweet! You’re jus’ a sweetheart, you are. Should come right over here and lemme give you a big hug, you big ol’ softy bear.”

“Martha, give me the phone.”

“Ah, no, don’ do tha’! Need to tell him I looove him. He luffs me, y’know. Tol’ me so.”

“That’s great, Martha. Mind if I tell him that for you?”

“Awww, you looove him, too. Tha’s so sweet!”

“Yeah, so you keep saying. Hey, Doc, Jack again. Listen, Martha’s fine, really.”

“Loooove you!”

“Just a little doped up at the moment.”

“An’ I love you, too, Jack.”

“And, uh, slightly more amorous than usual. Crisis averted, apocalypse canceled, no need to get all Oncoming Storm on us. We’ve got it sorted. I’m just gonna put Ms. Thing here to bed-”

“Ooooh, sexy!”

“-and I’ll catch up with you later.”

Phone Message 6:43 AM GMT

“Jack, I – no words. I have no words. One of you call me back whenever.”

Text Message 6:35 PM GMT

OMG. I CALLED U. V. EMBARASSING. SRY.– M.

Text Message 6:41 PM GMT

Nah, hardly the worse thing to do on pain meds. I once held myself hostage after a difficult regeneration. Ask me about it sometime.

Text Message 6:52 PM GMT

...ALWAYS SOMETHING NEW WITH U. – M.

Text Message 7:01 PM GMT

No, really, it’s a funny story. Also had another doctor in it. Grace Holloway. Oh, she was lovely, she was. Well, other than killing me the once. You’d get along famously, I just know it. I should really look her -

Text Message 7:05 PM GMT

Stupid character limit.

Text Message 7:10 PM GMT

@_@ - M.

Text Message 7:13 PM GMT

I have no idea what that means.

Text Message 7:18 PM GMT

MEANS UR EXHAUSTING. GOING BACK TO BED. – M.

Phone Message 11:09 PM GMT

“I just got to meet Harriet Jones! Jack knows her from all the Torchwood stuff and there was some sort of official function he took me to and I met her! Harriet. Jones!

“Though she’s got this thing where her left eye starts twitching whenever your name gets mentioned. What in the world did you do to her?”

Phone Message 2:16 AM GMT

“It’s not my fault! Well, mostly not my fault. Eighty percent. Eighty percent not my fault. Maybe seventy-five. And could hardly have expected who’d take over after –

“And I’ve got an idea! Let’s never mention this ever again!”

Phone Message 6:57 AM GMT

“You really have a knack for pissing off both our parliament and our monarchy, don’t you?”

Phone Message 8:02 AM GMT

“I’ll have you know Winston Churchill and I got along quite well, thank you very much. And President Rebecca Bartlett always thought I was dashing. Though I suppose you wouldn’t know her since she won’t be elected until 2106. It’s a landslide victory, by the way. Charming woman. And quite the political genius. Shame it takes so long for the Americans to figure it out.”

Phone Message 3:45 PM GMT

“Martha? It’s Donna. The Doctor told me to try Jack Harkness first but he kept hitting on me and frankly, I’m not that hard up that I need to have phone sex with some unhinged American with too much time on his hands. Anyway, he said if he ever stayed unconscious for too long, I’d need to put him into some sort of stasis-whatzit and give him an injection. ‘Cept I don’t know what to give him since he’d said I probably wouldn’t need it and was he this infuriating when you lived here? Because I have half a mind to leave him on the floor and let him sort it out on his own. Only then I’d be stuck here, too. So, call back, alright? Quick as you can.”

Phone Call 4:23 PM GMT

“Martha?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“Oh, thank Christ.”

“Okay, Donna, listen. Where are you right now?”

“Infirmary. Dragged him over to the little coffin thing, but I don’t have any idea what I’m supposed to do now.”

“It’s some sort of stasis unit. High-tech medical equipment. Human, more or less, but from, like, the fifty-second century or something. How’s his breathing?”

“A little raspy but I think it’s even.”

“Hearts?”

“Um, hang on...one’s...I dunno. They both sound really fast. Like hummingbirds.”

“Tachycardia. Dammit. Okay, I need you to look in the fourth cabinet to the left of the stasis unit.”

“Right. I’m there.”

“Third shelf up. Should be something labeled atenolol.”

“Yeah, I see it.”

“Take a syringe – um, second – no, wait, third drawer on your right – and fill it with the atenolol.”

“...that seems like a lot.”

“I know, but we need to get his hearts-rate down and a human-sized dose isn’t going to cut it.”

“Okay, okay...got it.”

“Now, this is important. You're going to have to inject it directly into his vein.”

“Oh god.”

“Donna, you've got to concentrate here.”

“No, it's just – I hate needles.”

“Donna -”

“Sorry, sorry. So, what, I put it in his arm?”

“Try to find a visible vein. Elbow will probably be the easiest.”

“Right, ummm...hang on, sleeve's up. He really is a skinny thing, isn't he?”

“Never did seem to eat enough, no.”

“Okay – ew, ew, ew...'s in. I think. Now what?”

“Make sure he's all the way in the unit and press the green button on the right.”

“Right and – ahhhh!”

“Yeah, I did the same thing, first time.”

“That is the strangest thing I ever saw. And he just -”

“Pops out, good as new in about twenty-four hours. Don't ask how it works. He won't tell you or he'll try to overwhelm you with technobabble and hope you don't ask again.”

“How'd you stand it?”

“Learned to pick my battles.”

“...he really is a bit rubbish with people, isn't he?”

“Ha. Yeah, he is. Listen, I'm sorry but I've got to go. I'm still at work and I think they'll start to notice their junior doc missing if I don't get back.”

“'Course, yeah. And, um, thanks.”

“Any time. He gives you any grief, give me a call, yeah?”

“Sure. Bye, then.”

Phone Message 5:43 PM GMT

“Good gods, Martha, what'd you say to Donna? I come out of stasis – good job on that, by the way – and the first thing she does is slap me and burst into tears. All I've heard is something about you and tachycardia and how I'm rubbish with people and then she starts crying again.”

Phone Message 7:23 PM GMT

“She's right. You are rubbish with people. Take her somewhere nice. Tropical. Buy her some flowers – yellow flowers, and I mean that – and apologize for almost dying on her without a backup plan.”

Phone Message 10:06 PM GMT

“My life was never this complicated before I got a bloody mobile.”

Phone Message 11:27 PM GMT

“Doctor, I mean this with all due affection, but – stop being an arse and just do it.”

Phone Message 7:18 PM GMT

“Doctor, it’s me. Um, just-just give me a call. I, um, I really need to talk to someone right now.”

Phone Call 7:28 PM GMT

“Martha, what happened?”

“Lost someone on the table today. Little girl.”

“Oh.”

“Sorry, sorry, this is so stupid, I know. I mean, hardly the first time I’ve seen something terrible happen, right? Saw all those things, during that year. Could tell you horror stories, I could.”

“Martha…”

“And not like it wasn’t bound to happen eventually, right? Law of averages. I knew that I couldn’t always save everyone, I knew it. So, just bad luck it was an eight-year-old girl, right?”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. Because before I could at least pretend. We’ll un-do it all and everyone will be okay and they won’t have died and that’s fine, except – except now I can’t. Girl’s dead and I have to tell her parents we can’t bring her back and – a-and...”

“Martha?”

“...’m alright...”

“It...gets better.”

“Liar.”

“No – it’s...that sick feeling? The one where you knew it was someone’s life you were directly responsible for? That never goes away. And if it does, well, worry. But everything else? Won’t always feel like the world’s ending – unless it is. But that usually has somewhat less mobile phone calls and more setting things on fire.”

“Yeah.”

“Chin up. Had a bad day. Tomorrow’ll be better.”

“...not about to start singing, are you?”

“Nah. My singing’s been outlawed in three galaxies as cruel and usual punishment. Wouldn’t want to subject you to that.”

“I appreciate it, then. And sorry to unload all this on you. Know you’re not really into sitting on the phone, listening to me blubber.”

“Martha Jones, don’t you ever apologize for giving me a call.”

“Okay. Okay, then. I have to go. And, Doctor?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

Phone Message 6:37 PM GMT

“Hello, erm, Dr. Smith. My name’s Toshiko, I’m a friend of Martha’s. Listen, we’re trying to put together this thing for her birthday tomorrow and Jack said you’d been seeing her but you’d been out of town on business for a while. I thought it’d be a nice surprise for her if we could get you over to the pub before she gets there. Jack said you had your own transportation? He’s being evasive, but you know him. Anyway, if you’re available, give me a call back. Thanks.”

Phone Message 9:54 PM GMT

“Jack, why does everyone have this number? I only ask because I was sure Martha was the only one who knew and yet I keep getting calls from your people asking me out to surprise birthday parties or for medical records I don’t have. It’s disconcerting.”

Phone Message 11:06 PM GMT

“Hey, I didn’t give Tosh anything. She’s a tech geek – figured it out all on her own. And it wouldn’t kill you to show up.”

Phone Call 10:31 PM GMT

“’lo?”

“Mum?”

“What?”

“Leo, what’re you doin’?”

“Thought this was Mum’s number.”

“Leo Jones, I am very much not your mother.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

Phone Message 10:53 PM GMT

“Sorry about Leo. Had a little too much to drink.”

“Izzat your boyfriend?”

“No! God, why does everyone keep asking that?”

“I know who that is! Lemme talk to him!”

“Jack, no, don – why do I even bother?”

“Doctor, you cad. You utter scoundrel. Leaving our poor, defenseless-“

“Defenseless?”

“Hush, he’s on a roll.”

“-defenseless Martha to fend her lonely way through her birthday without you. A pox on you, sir. A pox, I say!”

“Oh, good god.”

“Also, no gift? No flowers? Not even a card? Cheap, Doc, that’s what you are. A cheapskate. Or date. As the case may be.”

“Thank you, Jack. Now, where was I?”

“Telling him off!”

“Right. Anyway, we’re at the McGovern Pub up in Cardiff – yes, Tosh, I know you invited him. Come if you can. Jack said to tell you we have banana daiquiris. Talk to you later.”

Phone Call 5:26 PM GMT

“What?”

“Martha?”

“Is the world ending?”

“Um, no, not that I know of.”

“Aliens invading? Dimensions shifting? Zombies?”

“Uh, no.”

“Then – no, I’ll be right there! I’ve just got – now’s not a good time.”

“Right. I’ll call back.”

Phone Call 8:02 AM GMT

“Listen, Doc-“

“People...shooting...at us. Can’t...talk...running.”

“Okay, then.”

Text Message 5:42 PM GMT

EVER FEEL LIKE THERES A JOKE THE ENTIRE UNIVERSE GETS AND U DONT? – M

Text Message 1:57 AM GMT

Pretty sure my people invented that.

Phone Call 3:47 PM GMT

“Mr. Smith.”

“Dr. Jones.”

“I need a pickup.”

“I’m on my way.”

FIN

Charmed - Tie Me Up, Tie Me Down (1/1)

Sun, 29 Jul 2007 20:08:13 GMT

Title: Tie Me Up, Tie Me Down
Fandom: Charmed
Disclaimer: They belong to Constance Burge, Brad Kern, and the WB.
Rating: NC-17
Original Publication: charmedslash
Summary: That deadly trinity: demons, disco and sex.

Note: I'm actually not all that big on slash. Except apparently when it comes to Charmed. Possibly because there's so little of it, I have this perverse desire to see and write more. Plus, Drake. Man, I loved Drake. It was too bad he didn't get more screentime with Cole, because you got the feeling the two actors were having a ball together.

TIE ME UP, TIE ME DOWN

October, 1977

“You had sex with her?”

“Say it a little louder, why don’t you. What’s your problem, anyway?”

“What part of ‘kill her’ didn’t you understand?”

“Actually, my orders were to ‘eliminate any threat.’ She’s joining a convent. Not exactly a lot of cloistered nuns out vanquishing demons.”

Cole hung his head in his hands. Count on Drake to exploit the loopholes. “And the sex?” he said.

“I deflowered her. Something to feel extra guilty about. It’s evil,” Drake said. Cole glared at him. “Kind of.”

“Oh, and you got absolutely nothing out of it.”

“Hell, what can I say?” Drake laced his fingers behind his head and grinned. “Those uptight Catholic girls turn into tigers in the sack.”

Cole shook his head and looked over Drake’s report. Or rather, the report he was writing for Drake. If Drake actually wrote it, it’d turn into a treatise on Romantic poets or a dirty limerick.

It was how their relationship worked. Drake would push the rules to the breaking point, Cole would cover for him, even as it destabilized his position in the Brotherhood of the Thorn. Part of it could be attributed to loyalty; the two had grown up together, the boy who did everything he could to become a demon and the demon who wished he were anything but. It formed an almost fraternal bond, with Cole keeping a fond if exasperated eye on his older colleague.

More importantly, Cole just plain liked him. Drake was fun, when not spouting iambic pentameter, and kept as far away from the backstabbing Underworld hierarchy as was possible, meaning Cole could keep at least one friend around he wouldn’t have to kill at some point further down the road.

Besides, protestations to the contrary, Drake was about as evil as your average used car salesman. If Cole didn’t look out for him, no one else would. God knew he couldn’t take care of himself.

Drake rubbed a hand through his short, shaggy brown hair. He‘d seen Star Wars a few months back and decided Han Solo was everything he wanted to be whenever he got around to growing up. Thus far he‘d managed the hair and the clothes but the attitude still needed some work. “When was the last time you got laid, anyway?”

Cole’s quill skidded across the parchment, leaving behind a trail of unintelligible black ink. “What?”

“You know, the horizontal tango.” Drake grinned. “The two-backed beast. Sowing your oats. Wink-wink, nudge-nudge-”

“Alright, I get it! Stop listing euphemisms.”

“Well?”

Cole found he actually had to think about it. “Um, Katrina?”

“Katrina the succubus?”

“The very same.”

Drake blinked. “That was almost a year ago.”

“Nine months, actually.”

“How is it remotely possible that you’re a demon?”

“Hey-”

“Hell, how is it possible that you’re male?”

“Are you trying to be insulting?”

“Nine months...”

“Not everyone’s a nymphomaniac. Unlike some people in this room I could mention.”

“No wonder you’re in such a bad mood.”

“Is there a point you’ll be reaching any time soon?”

“Yeah.” Drake stood. “You’re going out tonight.”

Cole raised an eyebrow. “Oh, am I?”

“You need it. When was the last time you wore anything other than a cloak anyway? A cloak made from polyester, no less.”

“It’s not-”

“Whatever. They make you itch in uncomfortable spots and look idiotic to everyone except the Source. And we all know how He dresses.”

Cole sighed. Arguing with Drake rarely got anyone very far. Arguing with Drake On A Mission amounted to trying to stop a tsunami by politely asking it to leave. “Look, I’ve got to finish the report-”

Drake slammed his hand down on the parchment which promptly vanished with a little puff of smoke. “Oops.”

Cole threw his quill down. “Raynor’s going to have my hide.”

“Tell him you blew it off to corrupt some innocent little girl with a night of wild, meaningless debauchery.”

“I doubt he’ll see it that way.”

“Who cares? We’re demons. If that’s not an excuse to be contrary, I don’t know what is.”

***

A mass of humanity gyrated on the dance floor under the multi-colored lights. The pounding bass vibrated straight through to Cole’s bones and he’d lost track of who was buying who drinks sometime around the third martini. His so-called corrupting influence might as well have been left at the door; he’d caught at least six frat boys doing lines of coke the last time he was in the men’s room and he’d had more than one offer for something that could be snorted, smoked or swallowed.

Just another Saturday night at the disco.

Drake seemed to be having a blast. He held court at the bar, a sparkling, charming king.

“Did anyone ever tell you, you look like Harrison Ford?” said some blonde whose name he’d already forgotten.

“Sure. We’re related.”

“Get out! You serious?”

“Swear to god, cousin on my mother’s side.”

The girl squealed and snuggled in closer to Drake. Her friend, - Shirley? Sherry? - a too thin brunette, draped herself over Cole.

“So,” Shirley (or Sherry) said. “You related to anyone famous, too?” The silver bracelets twinkled as they caught reflected light from the disco ball. He found it distracting.

“Nope, afraid not. I’m…pretty boring, actually.”

“You don’t look boring.” She tapped his nose. “You look, um, mysterious.”

“Really?”

“Oh yeah, very much a man of few words.”

“I like to keep people guessing.”

“Oooh, sexy.” Blondie replaced The Bee Gees on the sound system. Sherry (or Shirley) tilted her head to the side and smiled. “Like this song. Wanna dance?”

“I don’t really dance.”

“That’s okay. Neither do I.” Her breath tickled his ear and her leg pressed right between his. The friction did all sorts of interesting things to his groin. He slipped his hands under her flimsy, gold shirt, feeling soft, hot skin.

“Got any other suggestions?”

She giggled. “A few.”

“Shit!”

Drake’s curse drew his attention. “What?”

“Lucius.” Cole followed his gaze to a giant of man with the tattooed markings of a Heretical demon.

“Oh, damn.” He’d rarely spoken to Lucius outside of Brotherhood meetings, but the demon was known to have a short fuse. “What’d you do?”
“There’s the possibility I might have accidentally slept with his mate.”

“Which one?”

“Um, all of them?”

“Jesus, Drake!” He disentangled himself from Shirley (or Sherry). “Does he know?”

“DRAKE!” The bellow was so loud it momentarily caused a hushed pause from the crowd.

“Seems likely,” Drake said. “Ladies, accept my deepest apologies.” He kissed their hands. “You’re lovely but I’m afraid we must be off.”

He grabbed Cole by the collar and hauled him toward the entrance. Indignant yells and an enraged roar let them know Lucius wasn’t far behind. They burst out the doors into the cool, October air, drawing curious looks from the humans waiting in line by the velvet rope.

“Think we can shimmer without him tracking us?” Drake said.

Cole shook his head. “Too many people around anyway.”

“So, we run?”

“We run.”

“Man, I hate running.” However, Drake obediently followed the departing Cole.

New York wasn’t a city Cole knew well, not like San Francisco or London, where the back alleys and underground had become second homes during his childhood. The path he choose was more guesswork than knowledge and by the time he led them into a dead end he could only hope Lucius was as lost as he was. He paused and let Drake catch up with him.

The other demon braced his arms against his knees, panting. “Think we lost him?”

“Hello, Drake.”

Lucius, along with five more Heretical demons melting out of the shadows. Cole glared at Drake. “I wanted to go to CBGB’s, but you had to insist on the damn disco.”

Drake shrugged and turned his most amiable grin on Lucius. “Lucius! To what do we owe the honor?”

“My mates smell of you, Mercurian.”

“You sure? Could be this new perfume. Hear its all the rage with the ladies on Fifth Avenue.”

Lucius’s cheeks flushed an angry red. “You dishonor my clan and then you have the gall to mock me?”

“Me? Mock? Never.” He paused. “Your wives, on the other hand, might tell a different story.”

Lucius blurred out of sight, shimmering from the end of the alley to Drake, one strong, meaty hand wrapped around Drake’s throat. “Explain to me again why I shouldn’t wrench your head from your shoulders.”

“Love... to,” Drake wheezed. He pawed ineffectively at the fingers crushing his windpipe. “Need.. to... breath first.”

“Alright, that’s enough.” Cole placed a hand on Lucius’s arm. “Back off.”

Lucius’s gaze never wavered from Drake. “This doesn’t concern you, Belthazor.”

“Please. Half the Underworld has been in your bed while you were absent from it. Killing Drake won’t make them any more faithful.”

“Thanks... buddy.”

“Shut up, Drake.” He turned back to Lucius, tightening his grip. “Last chance, Lucius. Let it go.”

“I’m not threatened by you, half-breed.” He jerked his head and his friends advanced. Ah, the lackeys. Cole had wondered when they’d come into play. “Kill him slowly.”

Drake grinned. “Should’ve... listened... to him.”

Cole ducked the first fireball thrown at him as Drake kicked out, hitting Lucius squarely between the legs. Lucius stumbled back, dropping Drake, and then Cole had more pressing matters to deal with. He fired off twin energy balls which went wide but distracted the Hereticals long enough for him to shimmer behind them. He broke the neck of one and got another with a third energy ball. He ducked and rolled under a second gout of flame, sweeping his leg under the closest Heretical. When he went down, Cole grabbed him and used him as a shield against the next barrage of fire. He flung his arms out, and, with precision born of long practice, fired two dead-on hits.

When he looked up, Lucius had Drake on the ground, hands once more wrapped around Drake’s throat. “Stupid little pissant!”

“Pissant... or not... they wouldn’t need... me.” Drake grabbed Lucius’s shirt. “If you... weren’t so... lousy in bed.”

His hand erupted into flame, as did Lucius. Lucius had enough time to look surprised before he was sent screaming on his merry way back to hell.

Silence reigned, punctuated by heavy, labored breathing and a strange sound that Cole finally realized originated from Drake.

He was laughing.

“Did you see that?” Drake said, voice coming out hoarse. “Did you see us? We kicked ass!”

He scrambled to his feet, practically bouncing in place. “Five Heretical demons and you’re not even breaking a sweat! And Lucius - man, I’ve wanted a shot at that guy for years!” He shadow-boxed an imaginary Lucius. “Yeah, that’s right, who’s a pissant now? You wanna mess with me? Believe me, you-”

Cole grabbed him by the lapels and slammed him against the wall, blocking him in.

“Cole, what-”

“Shut. Up.” Cole pushed him back again. “Do you have an idea the trouble you’ve just brought down on me? The uproar the Brotherhood is going to be in come morning? And you’re standing there like it’s nothing. As if every time you screw up, it isn’t me who has to clean up after you!”

“That’s not-”

“What’s worse, you expect it of me! Like I’ll always be around to take care of your mess! When the hell are you going to stop acting like such goddamn child?”

“Hey, I don’t force you to do anything.” Cole opened his mouth but Drake rushed right on through. “That’s a role you choose for yourself. Know why?” He smiled a lazy sort of smile. “’Cause you like me.”

Drake kissed him.

For a moment, Cole was too shocked to do anything but stand there. Rationality at last reasserted itself and he broke away. “What the hell do you-”

Without warning, Drake reversed their positions and it was Cole hitting the wall hard enough to see stars and feel the brick crack underneath him. He struggled for a moment, but Drake, full-blooded demon even if he didn’t act like one, had always been the stronger of the two.

“Stop. Just... stop.” Drake leaned his forehead against Cole’s, closing his eyes. “You need this. You need to - to feel for a night, alright? Just - just let go for once.”

He kissed Cole again, tongue snaking out, seeking entrance. Cole responded and then it was both of them battling for supremacy of the situation. Drake tried to pull back a bit but Cole growled deep in his throat and hooked his hand through Drake’s belt loops.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish.”

“Don’t worry,” Drake said. He grasped the growing bulge in Cole’s jeans, eliciting a gasp from the half-demon. He smirked. “Just not overly fond of fucking in alleyways.”

Cole seized him by the hair and yanked him down, kissing with bruising force and shimmering them both to his quarters in the Underworld.

“Not into foreplay?”

“I thought I told you to shut up.”

Kissing, wet and deep, Drake yanking at his shirt, pulling it open and sliding his hands over bare skin. He kissed down Cole’s neck, sucking hard at the juncture along his collarbone. Cole bit his lip and hissed. He fumbled with Drake’s shirt, buttons spilling to the floor and revealing a smooth, perfect chest, heated against his hands. Drake grunted and snapped his fingers. All clothing vanished, leaving them free of remaining constraints.

“Nice trick,” Cole said.

“It’s come in useful once or twice.”

Drake’s hands seemed to be everywhere, one grasping his hair, the other his cock. Cole moaned, bit on Drake’s lip. They performed an odd sort of shuffle to his bed and tumbled onto it, Cole on his back, Drake above him. It felt like Drake wanted everything at once, nipping, licking, kissing all the way down. Pushing himself closer and closer, devouring a little piece of Cole at a time. Cole almost drew him back up, that constant litany of more, more, more reciting in his head but then Drake drew his cock into his mouth and all other thoughts promptly fled.

“N-nine hells...”

So, Drake hadn’t spent recent years just chasing skirts if his prowess at blowjobs was any indication. He nearly swallowed Cole’s full length before pulling back and sucking hard on the tip, massaging the balls. At the second deep throat, Cole nearly jerked off the bed, Belthazor clawing at the edges of his mind, demanding to come out and finish this, grab Drake, pound into him, leave only blood and sweat on the mattress. The change rippled against his skin when he felt a painful grip against his thighs.

“Don’t.”

God, he has so fucking close and Drake was getting cold feet? “Are you kidding me?”

“Don’t change.” Drake pulled himself up, kissed him fiercely. When he broke it off, Drake was grinning but something unreadable flashed in his eyes. “Don’t start something you can’t finish, remember?”

Cole groaned but beat back on his demonic half. “You’re killing me here.”

Drake shook his hips, rubbed his cock against Cole’s. “I think we’ll figure something out.”

“Goddamn cock tease.”

“Now that you mention it.” Drake snapped his fingers and a bottle of oil appeared. “Any preferred position?”

“Do I look like I care?”

“Good point.”

He dipped his hand in the oil, pulled it out glistening and slipped it under Cole’s ass. A finger slid inside, then two, both hitting right where they needed to. Cole jerked, growled, “Fuck!”

“Not yet.” Cole hauled Drake up by his hair and practically shoved his tongue in his mouth. Drake made a surprised sound that melted into a groan when Cole grabbed his dick. He fondled the head, grabbing the oil and pouring it over them. Drake tried to pull back but Cole kept hold of his neck.

“Now.” He gave another tug on Drake’s dick to emphasize the point.

Drake grunted what he assumed was an affirmative. Cole shifted his legs, tilted his ass, waiting for Drake to reposition himself. Cole nodded and Drake rammed himself home.

Their bodies providing friction for his dick trapped between them and when was the last time he’d been with a man? When was the last time he’d been needed like this by a man or woman? He couldn’t remember, didn’t know, didn’t care because Drake, eyes still open and staring into infinity, had enough need to consume them both.

The end grew closer. No more talking, just grunts and vicious growls, Drake’s dick in him, Drake’s hand pumping his cock. He almost asked what it could be Drake saw beyond him but no words anymore, just bodies speaking to each other and who needed words anyway, who needed to breath, when it was easier to pull Drake down for one searing, beautiful kiss before he was going, going, gone.

Wet warmth between them, in him. Drake fell, tucked his face into Cole’s neck and trembled.

***

Cole woke to an empty bed and sore body. He touched a few finger-shaped bruises by his hip and took a quick inventory of any other inadvertent injuries. He came away with a few more bruises and a couple scratches but nothing to in particular worry about.

He got dressed, waving a hand and letting the inherent magic in the area clean the room. He wandered out into the main chamber and found Drake sitting in a chair he didn’t recall owning, pursuing a copy of...

“Stranger in a Strange Land?”

Drake looked over at him and grinned. “Abuse of religious imagery and Martians. What is there not to like?”

“And the armchair with... are those ducks on the upholstery?”

“Well, you didn’t have one.”

“An armchair or a duck?” Cole held up his hand when Drake opened his mouth. “Never mind. I don’t want to know.” He shook his head. “So, last night. Was that your plan all along?”

“Plan B, at least. Plan A involved those two girls and possibly a whip.” Drake tilted his head. “Does it matter?”

“Not really. Thanks.”

“See, you‘re in a better mood already.”

A flare of fire of fire abruptly appeared, giving way to Raynor. “Belthazor! Triad chambers, now!” He blinked out of existence just as quickly.

Drake raised an eyebrow. “What’s that about?”

“Your report. Or Lucius. Or both. Who knows? I’ll take care of it.”

“Thanks.”

“Hey, I owe you one.”

Cole turned to leave, only to find Drake shimmered in front of him. He seemed on the verge of saying something but kissed Cole instead, a slow, lingering act that burned all the way down. Cole blinked. “What was that?”

Drake shrugged, stuck his hands in his pockets and was all affable cool again. “Just wanted to see what it felt like in the morning.”

Cole smirked and punched him lightly in the shoulder. “You don’t have any feelings. See you later.”

He walked away. Drake stared after him, smile slowly fading into something entirely different.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “See ya.”

FIN

Charmed/Donnie Darko - Leap Year (1/1)

Sun, 29 Jul 2007 19:41:33 GMT

Title: Leap Year
Fandom: Charmed, Donnie Darko
Disclaimer: They belong to Constance Burge, Brad Kern, the WB and others.
Rating: R
Original Publication: charmedslash
Summary: Time travel's a bitch.

Note: It was the first time I wrote slash in years. It lacks plot. And the pairing is darn close to crack!fic. But I really, really like this story anyway.

LEAP YEAR

Day 1 (First Day)

Nights like this happen often. Or maybe they don’t happen at all. Chris is feeling oddly contradictory tonight.

The club could be any club: loud, dark and pulsing with drunken, wild energy. Chris doesn’t normally indulge in anything other than single-minded obsession, but here he may escape briefly the confines of his family and all the secrets he keeps from them. They wouldn’t understand, couldn’t understand and that’s just fine, fine, fine. It’s not like he cares. Except when he does.

No. Not what he wants to think about. Not going to think about Mom with blood on her mouth or Aunt Phoebe screaming as she dies. Not going to think about the man who is his father (but not yet) and how much he hates him when he isn’t loving him so much it hurts. Not going to think about Bianca. Especially Bianca.

Nope. Tonight isn’t for thinking. It’s for drinking heavily and maybe a brief groping session with whoever catches his eye. He knows he’s pretty or at least that’s what he’s been told. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s taken advantage of that fact.

“Hey. Hey, some service, that too much to fucking ask?”

Chris allows his eyes to slide to the right, catches a glimpse of dark hair and bedroom eyes. The kid is too young to be in here, but hell, technically so is Chris, so it’s not like he can judge.

The kid locks into his stare, gives him a grin that momentarily tries to straighten before giving up and sliding into a slant. “Some bartender, huh?”

Chris shrugs, takes another sip of his beer. The kid’s eyes follow the movement and Chris is sure to look as satisfied as possible. Look at me and all my drinking-age glory. The kid licks his lips. “Say, could you-”

“Nope.”

“Not even just-”

“Not even.”

“Fuck.” And then the kid says it a couple more times because he seems to like the word.

“You’ve got a mouth on you.”

“Like you’d be in here if you were such a freak-ass prude.”

“Point.” The kid takes that as an invitation to sit next to him. He casts one, last longing look at Chris’s beer before sighing.

“Can you spot me two bucks for a Coke?”

“And why would I do that?”

“’Cause I asked nicely, fucker.”

It’s the delivery that makes Chris laugh and he waves the bartender over.

“Coke for my friend.”

Day 6

The kid is explaining the sex life of Smurfs. Chris has no idea what a Smurf is and the only information he’s been able to glean from his drinking companion is that they’re blue and dickless. According to the kid, this is the reason that he would never want to be a Smurf. Being dickless, that is. He hasn’t stated whether or not he’d be okay with the blue part.

Chris eyes the kid for the nth time in as many hours. He’s short, shorter than Chris - which doesn’t say too much but says enough – and he has a habit of waving one hand in the air as he speaks, like he’s conducting an orchestra.

“What’s your name?” Chris asks. He can’t believe that he forgot to ask before.

“Huh?”

“Your. Name.” Chris pokes at him with the index finger of his beer hand. The kid glares at the finger for minute before, quicker than Chris would’ve thought, he snatches the bottle and takes a long, loud swallow.

“Donnie Darko.” The kid wipes his mouth with his sleeve and offers the bottle back to Chris. Chris declines. “You?”

“Chris…” He almost says ‘Perry,’ but he’s been allowed to be himself too easily here and he hates the lie anyway. “Halliwell.”

Donnie tilts his head, maybe noticing the secondary pause or maybe just contemplating Smurf sex. “’kay.”

“Donnie Darko.” Chris repeats the name, allows it to settle comfortably in his memory. “That’s very…alliterative.”

“Gretchen told me it was like a superhero’s name,” Donnie says. He looks pleased with this knowledge, slouching down comfortably on the chair and sipping some more beer.

“Gretchen? Friend of yours?”

“Something like that.”

“Girlfriend?”

“We...went out.” Emphasis on the past tense. “She was cool.”

Was. Had been. Chris decides he doesn’t want to talk about Gretchen anymore.

Day 10

The night has taken on gray-edged hues, lights blurred into dim objects on the edge of his vision. Chris wonders if he’s drunk too much or if it’s just enough. He never used to drink but he likes this bar and he likes talking with Donnie, who’s alright if a little weird.

Donnie’s winning at quarters. Chris doesn’t know why since he’s pretty sure Donnie has been matching him shot for shot. They have an unspoken agreement; Chris pays, Donnie pretends he isn’t an underage drinker. Or underage period. Chris thought he was younger at first but now he’s not so sure. He was never very good at judging age.

“Do you believe in magic?” he blurts. Why did he just ask that?

Donnie doesn’t look up from his perfectly lined shot, hand still poised to flick the coin into the designated cup. “What? Like David Copperfield shit?”

Chris shakes his head. “No, not stage magic. Real magic. Like – like Wicca and witches and stuff.”

“There was girl in my high school who said she was Wiccan. I think she just liked wearing a lot of black.”

“You’re not listening.”

“Am so. Oh, watch.” His finger connects and the quarter flips twice before landing neatly in the beer with a small plop. “Nothing but net. Drink.”

Chris hastily takes a swallow before glaring at Donnie. “You’re not taking me seriously!”

“Well, what the fuck am I supposed to say?”

“Just answer the question!”

Donnie glares at him from under half-lidded eyes. He looks like he could kill you just for breathing and Chris realizes he might actually be capable of it. “What difference does it make?”

“None.” Chris is angry and has no idea why. What does it matter anyway? Chances are, Donnie will be dead in twenty years as another one of Wyatt’s triumphs and it’s not like he would know Chris at that point. He doesn’t even know Chris now. Chris doesn’t exist. “Nothing. Never mind.”

They sit in brooding silence and stare at everything except each other. Donnie taps a brief staccato beat against the tabletop, coming to some sort of conclusion all on his own. “I’ll answer your question if you answer mine.”

Chris narrows his eyes, mouth thinned into a hard, suspicious line. “What’s the question?”

“Do you believe in time-travel?”

Something reaches right into Chris’s heart and squeezes.

He’s on his feet and out the door without another word.

Day 17

Chris huddles in the corner booth, trying to sink into the darkness behind him and ignoring the screaming agony along his side.

There’d been a demon but since when hadn’t there been? He’d been big, mean, and packed one hell of a fireball, so of course he’d headed directly for Wyatt.

And for a split second, Chris had frozen because he could see all of his problems being solved for him. There wouldn’t be a tyrant and his mother would be alive and he wouldn’t be alone. It was so simple he wondered why he hadn’t thought of it before.

Then Piper screamed and he orbed in, grabbing Wyatt and getting him out of harm’s way, taking only the edge of the fireball before his mother unleashed the full power of her fury on the demon that dared try to take her son. Tried to take both of her sons, truth be told, but she didn’t know that.

Afterwards there had been questions, a demand to know what had happened, why had he hesitated, was he just not ready for this? His side ached and his family hated him and rather than face their constant litany of why, why, why, he orbed away, because it all hurt too much to face.

He shifts, grimaces, regrets going without at least asking Paige to take a look at his side. Between the two of them, they probably could have swung enough Whitelighter power to heal it right up. As it is, he’s had to take care of it himself and though it’s no longer weeping, it remains a painful reminder of his day.

Not that he doesn’t deserve it.

“Didn’t think you were coming back.”

Donnie suddenly stands next to him and he wonders if he passed out briefly, missing the kid’s arrival. Chris tries to smile but gives it up as too much effort. “Didn’t expect to be.”

“You look like shit.”

“Pretty much how I feel, so that’s appropriate.”

Donnie glances from side to side, takes in the rest of the bar with his black, black eyes and frowns. “I hate this fucking place.”

Chris chuckles, though it hurts. “Yeah. Me, too.”

“You wanna leave?”

“Yeah. Let’s go.” He thinks, then adds, “But not home.” Home’s over two decades away and too far to reach by walking.

“My place sucks.”

“That’s okay.”

Donnie doesn’t comment on Chris’s slow, stumbling place and Chris doesn’t comment on the derelict that pretends to be Donnie’s apartment. The door isn’t locked, but then, who would bother breaking in? The bare bulb hanging from the center of the ceiling reveals a torn, stained sofa, a mattress with no frame, an ancient refrigerator, and a couple of crates filled with the odds and ends of a life.

Donnie gestures at the sofa. “Sit, if you want.”

Chris sits gingerly, thankful for the respite though he doesn’t tell Donnie so. He would expect the sofa to smell of its age but there’s only the hint of artificial pine and something unidentifiably Donnie. He closes his eyes and allows himself to sink into that scent for a moment.

“Chris. Chris, wake up, asshole!”

Chris jerks and fights off the presence next to him before he wakes fully. The bulb is out, moonlight filtering in between the grime on the windows. Donnie has his hand on his arm, dressed in an over-sized shirt and flannel pajama bottoms.

Chris blinks. “What?”

“You talk in your sleep,” Donnie tells him irritably. “Shut up, already.”

“Sorry. I – sorry.” Chris rubs a trembling hand over his face and tries to remember what he dreamed of but can only grasp at fleeting images in between arriving at Donnie’s apartment and waking with Donnie next to him.

“’kay, I’m going back to sleep.”

“Wait.” And now it’s Chris’s hand on Donnie’s arm. Donnie frowns.

“What?”

Chris doesn’t know, can’t say, so he pulls Donnie down and kisses him because it’s easier than finding the words. A slight stiffening meets this turn in events before lips soften and open up, allowing a tongue to slip past outer defenses. Chris pulls on Donnie’s shoulders and Donnie snakes a hand up Chris’s neck, grasping short, brown hair. They pull their mouths apart, a short respite.

“Never done this before,” Donnie says. He’s not hesitant or really surprised, just forwarding a fact in the same deliberate way he says everything else. Chris wonders if he’s ever hesitant.

“I have,” Chris admits and he’s not really making a grand declaration, either.

They kiss again and Chris shifts his hands from shoulders to the smooth skin under Donnie’s shirt. Donnie helps him take the T-shirt off before Chris divests himself of his own shirt and now they’re both down to their pants, taking a little more time learn each other’s skin. Chris moves his mouth down Donnie’s neck to the hollow of his collarbone and onto the planes of his chest. Donnie doesn’t say much, only gasps as he lightly bites a nipple, pausing to suck and taste.

On the couch now, Donnie on his back, Chris above him and the hands that enjoy conducting invisible orchestras have slipped inside Chris’s jeans, grasping what’s there. Chris is hard, hard, hard and there’s a new melody for Donnie to listen to in his head.

Too many clothes between them, Chris decides, and there’s another momentary break while jeans and flannels and boxers leave the stage. Chris likes Donnie all nude and open and he shows his appreciation by opening his mouth wide and taking what Donnie has to offer. Donnie grunts, jerks, grabs Chris’s shoulders.

“Nice,” he gasps but doesn’t seem capable of more speech and Chris is otherwise occupied.

He fondles the shaft, the balls, pulls back to pay some special attention to the tip. Donnie is starting to jerk his hips but Chris doesn’t want him gone yet, not when he needs something, too. He takes his time working back up Donnie’s torso, ignoring the kid’s noise of dissatisfaction and cutting him off with a wet kiss.

“Turn over?” Chris says.

“Oh, um, yeah.” Donnie smirks. “Condom. Black backpack, over there.”

Chris nods, leaves him for the thirty seconds it takes to find the chain of shiny blue wrappers and the bottle of lube that tumbles out. One wrapper open, on and Chris is back to pay some more attention to Donnie.

“You sure?” he asks, just in case.

“You sure you’re not gonna faint on me again?”

“Yeah. And I didn’t faint.” Donnie just gives him one of his slanted smiles and turns over onto his stomach.

He’s not quite so calm at first penetration, a little stiff and Chris wonders if he should be the one on his hands and knees. But then Donnie gives a laugh.

“Wow. This is really fucking weird.”

Chris rewards him with a kiss on the shoulder and a stroke with his hand. There they stay, Donnie below, Chris’s hand wrapped around him, Chris rocking gently. Donnie comes first, so close to the edge already. Chris follows soon after and then they’re cleaning up, laughing in that way you do when you’re not sure what to say anymore.

They don’t hold each other when they fall asleep.

Day 23

“I do, you know,” Chris says.

“Do what?”

“Believe in time-travel. It’s a bitch.”

“Yeah,” Donnie says. “It really is.”

Day 24

“Do superheroes count as magic?”

“In a way, I guess.”

“Then I guess I believe in magic.”

Day 27

Where do you go, Chris?

His family doesn’t understand him, asking questions they should already know he’d never answer. It doesn’t matter where he goes, whether it’s Up There, to the Elders and their rules, or Down Here, with Donnie and whatever it is they have.

It’s all just fine, fine, fine.

Day 28

Donnie has rolled a joint and the air hangs heavy with drugged smoke that makes Chris feel like flying. He grins and can’t quite remember why he is, although he’s pretty sure Donnie said something funny. Or maybe he thought Donnie said something funny. Not important, really, cause he just wants to lay on the old mattress and let go for a bit.

“I think I loved her, but I’m not sure,” Donnie says.

“Who?”

“Gretchen. I miss her a lot.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. But in the end, we were never really together because that universe never happened. So maybe I just imagined being in love with her.”

“Maybe.” Chris bites his lip and though he feels that familiar lump in his throat, he pushes forward with what he needs to say. “I miss Bianca. All the time.”

“Girlfriend?”

“Fiancée.”

Was. Had been.

“Shit. Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” And on some level, it is, even if his eyes burn a little still. “It’s over now.”

Donnie lies down next to him, passes him the joint and crosses his arms behind his head. “Are we in love? Do guys fall in love with each other?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. I’m too screwed up to know.”

“Emotional problems?”

“A couple.”

“Join the club.”

Donnie slides down out of his line of vision, but Chris can feel him running his hands down his body, to between his legs, calling him to life. And then, God, it’s Donnie’s mouth on him and so much for those studies associating pot with impotence.

“You’ve never done this before,” Chris says but it’s very much not a complaint.

Donnie pauses. “Expanding my horizons while I still can.”

“’Still-‘ what does that mean? Donnie?” But Donnie doesn’t answer and Chris soon forgets he ever asked.

Day 29 (Last Day)

“It looks like-like this stream. Like a tube of water coming out of your stomach,” Donnie says. “You can predict the future just by following the streams, even though you can’t change them.”

“That’s nice,” Wyatt says. “This has to do with you shooting my brat brother how?”

The gun still sits hot in Donnie’s hand even if Chris’s body has long since been leeched of all warmth.

“Oh. See, you were always supposed to figure out a way to come back here. And Chris was always supposed to die. But my way’s a little quicker.” Donnie likes how his voice never trembles, all the while wondering just how long it’ll take for the blond psychopath to realize he only had the one bullet. But he’s done this before and he can do it again.

Though even he isn’t sure he can stay seventeen forever.

“You were going to torture him, right?”

“Not for too long,” Wyatt admits, setting the sword aside and walking around the two young men caught in a bloody tableau. There, Donnie thinks. He can see it now, two paths intersecting and drawing apart, eddies of time creating whirlpools between them. Donnie knows how it’s going to end and everything will be just fine, fine, fine.

“Still, he was my brother. And he was an awful lot of trouble to track down, what with his attempts to completely rework the fabric of space-time and all.”

“Wouldn’t be here if he didn’t,” Donnie says. Because it’s true. He exists in the imaginary moments, the ones that don’t ever last for long.

Wyatt frowns. “What?”

“I see your stream, y’know. Want to know your future?” Wyatt says nothing, but Donnie likes this part so he keeps going. “You pace back to the right again, and then you pause for a minute over there by that crate and I think you finally decide ‘fuck it’ and go for the sword. Except...”

They both know he shouldn’t, but Wyatt takes the bait. “Except what?”

“Except I get there first.”

And Donnie moves.

It doesn’t matter whose hand grabs the hilt, or who shouts what. It doesn’t matter what blood is spilled or that for a brief period there may have been magic or a superhero or a rip through the fabric of space and time.

None of it happens anyway.

Day 1 (First Day)

The club could be any club: loud, dark and pulsing with drunken, wild energy. Chris doesn’t normally indulge in anything other than single-minded obsession, but here he may escape briefly the confines of his family and all the secrets he keeps from them. They wouldn’t understand, couldn’t understand and that’s just fine, fine, fine. It’s not like he cares. Except when he does.

Chris shudders and for a minute he knows exactly what’s going to happen next. Someone will call out for service (is that too much to fucking ask?) and he’ll turn and there will be this kid with dark hair and bedroom eyes and then they’ll talk and for a moment, he won’t be so goddamn lonely.

But no one ever calls for service and when he looks, the chair next to him is empty. He feels a pang.

Then it’s gone, as if it had never been.

FIN

Randall & Hopkirk/Quantum Leap - Strangers in a Bar (1/1)

Sun, 29 Jul 2007 19:11:40 GMT

Title: Strangers in a Bar
Fandom: Randall & Hopkirk/Quantum Leap
Disclaimer: They belong to other people.
Rating: G
Original Publication: R&H mailing list

STRANGERS IN A BAR

The case went badly. He’d had an argument with Marty. Again. That called for a pint. Or two. Or five.

“Wouldn’t be so bad if someone else knew, y’know?” Jeff slurred to the man next to him. “Only ones who do are animals. Or kids. Or idiots.”

“Idiots?”

“Morons. Loonies. And lucky me, the only one in the world who can see or hear ‘im. Because I’m special.”

Sam Beckett glanced at Al, who was ogling their waitress. The fact that he was waist-deep in the middle of the bar didn’t seem to bother him.

“I can relate,” Sam said.

FIN

Pitch Black - Drabbles

Sun, 29 Jul 2007 18:09:38 GMT

Fandom: Pitch Black/Chronicles of Riddick
Disclaimer: They belong to other people
Rating: Various
Original Publication: irenak

Title: Not Exactly Johns
Circa: Pre-Chronicles
Characters: Tombs

NOT EXACTLY JOHNS

Going Johns, they call it in the biz.

Obsessive, hyped, nuts is what they mean.

William Johns. Good merc. Good tracker. ‘Til he went up against Riddick. Now it’s his feud with the legendary bounty that’s remembered, not the man behind it. And everyone knows how that story ended out in the ghost lanes.

Tombs hears the whispers behind his back. Going Johns, they say. Poor bastard. But he’d be happy to tell them, top-shelf whiskey burning in his throat, shit-eating grin on his face, that he’s not going Johns. That he never could.

He’s having too much damn fun.

FIN

Title: Meanwhile, Back on Serenity...
Circa: Post-Pitch Black
Characters: Riddick, Jack, Imam and guest stars
Note: A crossover that never went very far.

MEANWHILE, BACK ON SERENITY...

The large man with the shined eyes had his knife trained on River’s throat, Zoe, her double barrel on the large man. Simon appeared to be in the midst of having a nervous breakdown and the bald girl was screaming at Zoe to stop threatening her friend.

Mal finally lost it.

“Is there anyone on this gorram ship that is not a wanted fugitive?”

Silence.

“I don’t believe I am,” Book said.

“Nor I,” Imam added.

Mal glowered at both of them. “And you two wonder why I take issue with God.”

Riddick grinned. “Man after my own heart.”

FIN

Charmed - Drabbles

Sun, 29 Jul 2007 02:24:26 GMT

Fandom: Charmed
Disclaimer: They belong to Constance Burge, Brad Kern and the WB.
Rating: Various
Original Publication: charmeddrabble

Note: Most were prompted by challenges. Notes with individual drabbles.

Title: The Jersey Devil
Characters: The Charmed Ones, Leo
Prompt: X-Files Titles

THE JERSEY DEVIL

After hours of anxious waiting, Leo at last orbed back. “We tracked down the new Source.”

“And?”

“He’s in Hoboken.”

Piper blinked. “Hoboken? As in Hoboken, New Jersey?”

Leo nodded. “That’s it.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“Nope. Apparently he wanted to keep a low profile and there’s something about the ley lines in Hoboken that make it perfect for calling down the hoards of Hell.”

Phoebe groaned. “I can’t believe we have to go and fight the Apocalypse in a town called Hoboken!”

“I don’t know,” Paige mused. “It’s somehow fitting the end of the world would start in New Jersey.”

FIN

Title: Genderbender
Characters: Chris/Bianca
Prompt: X-Files Title

GENDERBENDER

“Whitelighters can shapeshift, can’t they?”

“A little,” Chris admits.

“So did you ever, you know,” Bianca gestures vaguely, “do it as a girl?”

He blushes, let’s that stand as his answer.

“Did you like it?”

His face feels red-hot but he nods because it’s Bianca asking.

She taps a nail against his bare chest. “Would you show me?”

“Are you sure?”

She laughs, flips her hair. “When am I ever not?”

He shifts as they kiss, hard planes giving way to soft curves. Bianca’s hand falls between her legs, one finger slipping inside. Chris tosses her head back and moans.

FIN

Title: Universal Invarients
Characters: Phoebe, Cole
Prompt: Movie Quotes

UNIVERSAL INVARIENTS

Cole had been depressed since the incident with Emma but Phoebe didn’t realize how bad it was until later.

When Cole found the remote.

“What are you doing?”

“Channel surfing.”

“Was there something you wanted to watch?”

“No.”

“Don’t you have anything better to do?”

“No.”

“Because if you don’t, I could-”

“Look, it’s a perfectly normal human male thing to do. Leo told me so.”

“Leo isn’t exactly normal.”

“I’m adapting.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Don't stand in the way of my actualization as a man.”

Phoebe had to wonder if stripping him of his powers was one of her better ideas.

“Don't stand in the way of my actualization as a man." - Being John Malkovitch

FIN

Title: Say No More
Characters: Paige/Richard
Prompt: Movie Quotes

SAY NO MORE

They’d reached the point where it wasn’t so awkward talking about past relationships anymore. Paige snuggled in closer to Richard as he spoke.

“You tend to go in for the long haul, don’t you?” she said.

“Yeah. Most don’t try to bury me alive but, well, yeah.” Richard tilted his head. “Any wild stories from your past I should know?”

“Ohhh, I don’t think so.” She lied badly enough that he noticed. He gave her a poke.

“Come on, I spilled.”

“Weeelll...”

“I promise, nothing shocks me.”

She told him.

His response could be heard from three miles away.

“THIRTY-SEVEN?!”

Thirty-seven?! - Clerks

FIN

Title: King of Wishful Thinking
Characters: Cole
Prompt: 80's Music

KING OF WISHFUL THINKING

He pretends to be her just for a moment, catching a glimpse of the future.

Love, life, death. The usual.

And the two of them, growing old together, gnarled hands touching with fond melancholy as they bid farewell to…

To what? To each other? The world?

Even he knows what a lie that is.

He keeps trying to see but it never works and he must admit defeat to the imaginary girl in his head, giving her the only thing he has left.

Cole Turner releases the last bits of his sanity, laughing as he watches the remains float away.

FIN

Hellboy - Drabbles

Sun, 29 Jul 2007 02:05:17 GMT

Fandom: Hellboy movieverse
Disclaimer: They belong to Mike Mignola and Guillermo del Toro.
Rating: PG-13
Original Publication: hellishness

Title: Both Ways Now
Characters: Hellboy, Myers

BOTH WAYS NOW

Not much surprised Hellboy. He still hadn’t expected to find Myers in the utility closet, tongue shoved down Agent Mark Swanson’s throat.

After much stammering and rearranging of clothes, he sat in his private quarters, staring at Myers and trying to exude an air of “I am a man who is comfortable in my sexuality and not at all weirded out by what I just saw.”

“So.”

Myers nodded. “Yeah.”

“And Liz...?”

“I’m bisexual. Equal opportunities and all.”

“Okay.” The same thought seemed to occur to them simultaneously. Hellboy eyed Myers warily. Myers grinned.

“Don’t worry. You’re not my type.”

FIN

Title: Paradise
Characters: Hellboy/Liz

PARADISE

He drifts down, further, further. The contrast of red on white fascinates him.

So much heat, warm mouth pressed against his own. Hand between her legs and she moans.

There are points where he thinks only to stop as her tongue...where did she learn to do that with her tongue?

They find a rhythm. He doesn’t mind if she’s on top. He likes looking at her. He’s always liked looking at her.

She cries his name as she comes.

They lie together afterwards. For him, heaven will always be out of reach. For the first time, it doesn’t really matter.

FIN

House M.D. - Little White Lies (1/1)

Sun, 29 Jul 2007 01:57:24 GMT

Title: Little White Lies
Fandom: House, M.D.
Disclaimer: They belong to David Shore
Rating: G
Original Publication: housefic

LITTLE WHITE LIES

He’s an addict but he’s fine.

He thinks Cuddy will always be a politician first, a doctor second.

He thinks Wilson is overly sentimental and ought to finally admit there’s no such thing as love.

He knows that he’ll never make decent doctors out of any of his residents.

He’s not scared of Vogler, even if he does threaten his friends. The friends he doesn’t really want, anyway.

And he absolutely does not, under any circum stances, like Allison Cameron.

House lies like everyone else, but the little ones don’t hurt anybody.

At least, that’s what he keeps telling himself.

FIN

Trigun - Drabbles

Sun, 29 Jul 2007 01:49:32 GMT

Fandom: Trigun
Disclaimer: They belong to Yasuhiro Nightow.
Rating: Various
Original Publication: 100bullets

Note: Many were initiated by prompts. Each drabble has its own note if it needs it.

Title: Where She Remained
Characters: Rem
Prompt: None

WHERE SHE REMAINED

A limp hand, once so strong, lies still in her own. The hospital room smells of false flowers and antiseptics, a place cleaned to greet the wounded and dying. She watches a shooting star fall outside the window and...

...coughs as acrid smoke fills the cabin, the wail of the alarm deafening. She watches another star fall through a cracked viewscreen, carrying her boys to whatever destiny awaits them on the dusty planet below.

His name is the last thing on her lips before she dies. Only she doesn’t, not really, because she’s still in that room, holding his hand.

FIN

Title: Twilight Outtake
Character: Rem, Angel
Prompt: None. Unless you count jaina encouraging me. Total omake.

TWILIGHT: LIKE THEY WERE REALLY IN THAT GYM TO “WORK OUT”

Rem blinked. "Really?"

"Really," Angel answered, sitting beside her.

"You mean you-" She blushed. "Not at all?"

"Well, once or twice," he admitted. "But with the curse and me losing my soul and turning into a sadistic killing machine almost every time - well, it tends to, uh, hold me back."

"I-I'm not sure what to say - oh!" She gasped in surprise and not a little pleasure as a cool hand slid underneath her T-shirt, caressing bare skin.

"Of course, just because I can't," Angel whispered huskily, his other hand drifting toward the band of her shorts. "Doesn't mean you can't."

FIN

Title: Leap of Faith
Character: Wolfwood
Prompt: None.

LEAP OF FAITH

Wolfwood is a true believer. Beyond the influence of his mentor, his decision to be ordained lay solely within the intricacies of his own heart.

His belief is not unwavering. How can it be when life is short and hard, when man allows his darker nature to take hold and to hell with the consequences?

Now that life of questions without answers has changed. Because when he sees Vash smile and mean it, when he watches Meryl hold her head high, when he holds Millie in his arms and marvels at her graceful strength, he no longer believes.

He knows.

FIN

Title: Crooked Halos
Character: Wolfwood/Millie
Prompt: None. Part of a longer fic that wouldn't write anymore.

CROOKED HALOS

He hadn’t meant to kiss her but now that he was, he didn’t want to stop. She tasted of lingering coffee and innocence, an intoxicating combination.

Millie pulled back first, eyes wide. “We shouldn’t.”

Wolfwood’s calloused thumb traced a gentle line along her cheekbone. “Why not?”

“You’re...” She lowered her voice and leaned closer. “You’re a priest.”

And of the many reasons this was an exceedingly bad idea, that was the least of them. He couldn’t help it. He laughed and loved her all the more.

“Honey, I don’t know if you noticed, but I’m not a very good priest.”

FIN

Title: Mary, Full of Grace
Character: Wolfwood
Prompt: Your mom.

MARY, FULL OF GRACE

Wolfwood doesn’t remember much of his mother. Impressions mostly, made misty with time. Hands that were rough but not against him. A voice of lilting worry and questions. Her face has been lost to him but he doesn’t think she was a very large woman.

Her scent, though. He remembers that. Baking and cinnamon and the constant aftertaste of desert dust. He remembers crawling into her arms and burying himself in that smell, feeling safe.

Madonna and child, frozen in tableau. A beautiful image of his once-had-been.

He remembers the day she smelt like gunpowder.

He never felt safe again.

FIN

Title: One Tequila, Two Tequila...
Character: Knives, Vash, Mary Ann
Prompt: Knives hits on a canon female

ONE TEQUILA, TWO TEQUILA...

Knives wouldn’t admit it, but the drinks with the little umbrellas were surprisingly potent.

He pulled Vash close, patting him on the chest. “Perhaps,” he slurred, “these pina coladas aren’t so bad after all.”

“Knives?”

“Yes?”

“I’m over here.”

Knives blinked at Vash, standing a yard away, and tried to figure out the physics behind the – he now realized – soft flesh beneath his hand. The world went black before he could.

*

Vash stared at his unconscious brother. “I’m sorry. He usually isn’t so grabby.”

“Really?” Mary Ann said, shaking out her bruised hand. “That’s when I noticed the familial resemblance.”

FIN

Title: Ragin' Cajun
Character: Vash, Doc
Prompt: None. Just a response to some of the sillier names people gave Vash's kids.

RAGIN’ CAJUN

Doc didn’t understand Vash’s panic. His son, with his mother’s dark hair and father’s bright, blue-green eyes, appeared perfectly normal at a distance. “Vash, I’m not sure-”

At that moment, the boy spotted his assistant carrying supplies across the room. He immediately leapt up and opened the door for her. “Here, chère, lemme help you wit’ dat.”

“Why, aren’t you sweet.”

“Hey, how can I resist de charms of a petite fil like yo’self?”

The young woman giggled.

Vash, ever hopeful, said, “It’s just a phase, right?”

Doc sighed. “Well, really, what did you expect after naming the kid Remy?”

FIN

Title: The Miseducation of Meryl Stryfe
Character: Meryl
Prompt: Meryl's education

THE MISEDUCATION OF MERYL STRYFE

Her father stands tall over her, always imposing, but never cruel.

He teaches her to hold the gun with both hands. Steady, girl, steady, keep your eyes on the target, don’t ever look away. Lessons everyday in the art of steel and gunpowder.

Her shot goes wide but still hits and a bird lies dead at her feet. It looks so tiny there, she begins to cry.

“Don’t fret, baby-doll, you didn’t mean it,” her father says, wiping away tears with that big hand of his. “We’ll bury it proper, all right?”

And this, too, she knows is a lesson.

FIN

Title: The Not-so-tame Shrew
Character: Vash/Meryl
Prompt: None. Unless you count people complaining about Meryl going OOC in het fic. In which case, dude. Really.

THE NOT-SO-TAME SHREW

“Vash?” Meryl glanced over at the gunman. “Do you think at heart I’m really just a little woman looking for a big, strong man to help her settle down?”

Vash blinked. “Um...is this a trick question?”

“I’m serious.”

Vash eyed all fifty derringers spread around her. She was currently re-loading number 43. If he wasn’t mistaken, he was pretty sure she called that one ‘Bill.’ “I’d have to say not so much, no.”

She sighted the gun. “Good answer.”

“I try my best.”

“Especially if you ever want to have sex with me again.”

“The thought had crossed my mind.”

FIN

Title: Sex, Lies and Smoking in Bed
Character: Meryl/Wolfwood
Prompt: Sex, Lies and...

SEX, LIES AND SMOKING IN BED

Meryl, still breathing hard, frowned as Wolfwood lit up. He always did and she always told him to stop. He glanced at her as if in anticipation of the rebuke.

“It’s...” She paused, then decided to give him a not-so-gentle reminder. “It’s just sex.”

He placed a hand behind his head, face expressionless. “Sure. Doesn’t mean a thing.”

He smoked and stared at the ceiling. She rolled over, trying to sleep. And in the morning, when she left before he woke and they went back to pining for those they couldn’t have, they would both pretend it was all true.

FIN

West Wing - Drabbles 2

Sun, 29 Jul 2007 01:12:40 GMT

Fandom: West Wing
Disclaimer: They belong to Aaron Sorkin.
Rating: Various
Original Publication: FF.net, October 2003 - June 2004

Title: A Greek Tragedy
Circa: Un-specified.
Characters: Josh

A GREEK TRAGEDY

“Grandmother?”

“Cancer.”

“Grandfather?”

“Cancer.”

“Both of them?”

“Yep.”

“Really?”

“Unfortunate coincidence, huh?”

“Well, what about your aunt?”

“Slipped, hit her head, drowned in the pool.”

“Your uncle?”

“Car accident. Decapitated.”

“Ew. Um, childhood best friend?”

“Struck by lightening.”

“Pet goldfish?”

“Overfed by the house-sitter.”

“The dog?”

“Choked on a squirrel.”

“...”

“Yeah, we didn’t see that one coming either.”

“Josh, is there anyone in your family who didn’t meet a tragic end?”

“Well, my great-uncle died peacefully in his sleep at the age of ninety-two.”

“I guess that’s something.”

“Of course, he thought he was Julius Caesar at the time.”

FIN

Title: A Game of You
Circa: Posse Comitatus
Characters: CJ

A GAME OF YOU

Maybe he won’t call her Ms. Cregg anymore. Maybe he’ll scream her name.

My, what talented hands you have.

The Vera Wang’s gone and so is his tux.

Oh, you didn’t learn that at Secret Agent school.

He won’t take a bullet for her. She won’t let him. Then he couldn’t make her moan and grasp blonde hair going to gray in hands with perfect, manicured nails.

You can’t make me let you go.

Maybe he won’t call her Ms. Cregg anymore and maybe she won’t be crying on a bench while the lights around her flash blue and red.

FIN

Title: The Art of Compromise
Circa: Un-specified
Characters: Josh

THE ART OF COMPROMISE

Mom once said a relationship needs room for argument without losing the ability to find the middle ground.

That never happened with Mandy. She always won, woe to whoever said otherwise.

That never happens with Amy. Oh, they fight alright, but they mostly stop when she throws a water balloon at him or they have sex. No one ever admits defeat, no one ever surrenders. No one ever wins, either. Too much in common to find their way through it all.

He tries to ignore the little voice that tells him he and Donna always find a way to compromise.

FIN

Title: What Ever Happened to Sam Seaborn?
Circa: Post Season 4. Gone AU now.
Characters: Sam. And a special guest star.

WHATEVER HAPPENED TO SAM SEABORN?

Sam was straightening his tie when his new partner came into the locker room. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

“So, did you get the forty-seventh straightened out?”

Jay scratched the back of his neck. “Well…”

Sam sighed. “It’d be nice to know if I actually won or not.”

“Hey, be thankful we managed to neuralize the amount of people we did. Creating an entire political campaign out of thin air ain’t exactly easy, you know.”

“I know. Still...”

“Look on the upside,” Jay said with a grin as the pair stepped out into MIB headquarters. “’Least you look pretty in black.”

“Damn straight.”

FIN

Title: Lie Bleeding
Circa: N.S.F Thurmont
Characters: Josh, Donna

LIE BLEEDING

Why can’t it be both? she asks.

Hand against his back in those first awful weeks after Rosslyn.

At the hospital, watching as they remove the last bits of glass from his palm.

Face falling when he insults another would-be boyfriend.

That smile at Christmas this year when he finally does something right by her.

Dropping everything to fly halfway around the world because she was hurt and what difference does it make?

None, Josh tells himself while standing outside the OR, because he’s not in love with Donna Moss.

Even if at the moment he’s having difficulty believing that.

FIN

Title: Higher Educations
Circa: Pre-series
Characters: Josh/Sam

HIGHER EDUCATION

“The few, the proud, the... the...”

“... inebriated?”

“That too.”

Two beer bottles clinking together and for some reason beyond his ken, Sam chooses that exact moment to kiss Josh. His roommate blinks, tilts his head to the side.

“Did that just happen?”

Sam blushes. “Yeah.”

“Huh.”

Sam fumbles for an explanation. “College. I just thought, well, we’re supposed to experiment, right? Um, and if you don’t – that’s, I mean-”

Josh cuts him off with another kiss, tongue sneaking out, brushing against Sam’s. Josh grins when he pulls away.

“If it’s in the name of a good education and what all…”

FIN

West Wing - Drabbles 1

Sun, 29 Jul 2007 00:53:30 GMT

Fandom: West Wing
Disclaimer: They belong to Aaron Sorkin.
Rating: Various
Original Publication: FF.net, October 2003 - June 2004

Note: The collected drabbles. Each with their own note if they've got one.

Title: Absolutely Fabulous
Circa: Un-specified.
Characters: Josh. And some very special guest stars.
Note: Yes, this one won an award. A sort-of crossover of miniture proportions.

ABSOLUTELY FABULOUS

Josh was sure he hadn’t done anything to deserve this.

He hadn’t caused any international incidents. Well, not recently.

He hadn’t started any wars. That he knew of.

He hadn’t kicked any puppies.

Okay, so Josh was *reasonably* certain he hadn’t done anything to deserve being woken up at 7:30 am on a Saturday by a film crew and five gay men who insulted his hair and demanded to know what kind of moisturizer he used.

Reasonably certain. Almost positive. Mostly.

At the very least he knew who to blame.

“DONNA!”

“Oh, I like him,” Carson said. “He’s so commanding.”

FIN

Title: Moments Before
Circa: In the Shadow of Two Gunmen
Characters: Josh

MOMENTS BEFORE

Maybe it’s a bit like falling in love.

He’s not sure he’s ever actually been. In love, that is. But he’s heard a lot about it, how you’re flying and sinking and your heart’s breaking all at once.

He’s pretty sure that last part isn’t supposed to be literal, gaping chest wound and blood spilling over your hands.

Maybe it’s not like that at all. Maybe it’s more like sex. Petite mort. Isn’t that what the French call an orgasm? Where did he hear that? It sounds like something Donna would tell him just to see his reaction.

So maybe it’s like love or maybe it’s like having sex with Donna and he’s not sure why he just thought that. But Toby’s calling him now and he needs to answer.

Except he can’t because he’s too busy falling.

FIN

Title: Downhill Racer
Circa: Post-In Excelsis Deo
Characters: Josh, Donna

DOWNHILL RACER

By the time Donna arrived at Josh’s office, she was already out of breath.

“This,” she announced, “is all your fault.”

Josh blinked. “My fault?”

“You gave me a book on alpine skiing. You gave me vacation time. You suggested a quality ski resort. It’s. All. Your. Fault.” She punctuated each word with a finger jabbed at his chest.

“My fault.”

“Yes.”

“That you broke your leg.”

“Yes!”

Josh thought about that for a moment. “Does that mean I can’t start referring to you as Donna ‘The Snowbunny’ Moss?”

She responded by hitting him in the shin with her crutch.

FIN

Title: The Sound of Silence
Circa: Un-specified
Characters: Toby

THE SOUND OF SILENCE

Toby is not, by nature, a loud man.

He can be. And within this administration, that’s a necessity. Shouting is less a state of being that it is a survival tactic, the only way to be heard above the ruckus.

Still, compared to his co-workers, he tends to fade into the background. He isn’t stridently vocal like Josh or striking like CJ. He lacks Sam’s talent for small talk and Leo’s ability to command. He will never inspire loyalty like Josiah Bartlet.

But Toby remembers something the others don’t.

It’s always the quiet ones you have to look out for.

FIN

Title: Matched Set
Circa: AU. Well, now it is
Characters: Josh/Donna

MATCHED SET

Because Bartlet’s second term was over, because they’d been together over eight years, because to him it seemed like the perfect solution, he said, “Let’s get married.”

“What?”

“Let’s get married.”

“Doesn’t that normally involve dating first?”

“Who says we ever did anything normally?”

“See, I still don’t understand why that makes it a good idea.”

“Well, you’re the only person who knows where any of my stuff is.”

And because Bartlet’s second term was over, because they’d been together over eight years, because he spoke the truth without ever saying anything at all, she said, “Okay. Let’s get married.”

FIN

Title: They Get Paid to Wake You Up
Circa: In the Shadow of Two Gunmen
Characters: Dr. Lee

THEY GET PAID TO WAKE YOU UP

He’d been a little insulted when he got over the oh-god-the-First-Lady-is-talking-to-me panic. He was perfectly aware of doctor-patient privilege, thank you very much.

Still. The leader of the free world was lying in the surgical unit and he had a disease which could destroy his mind in the midst of his service and could it be the country might just possibly have the right to know that?

But, frankly, it didn’t matter what rights the country had.

His only obligation was to insure the President of the United States would wake up tomorrow morning.

So that’s exactly what he did.

FIN

Title: Playing Make-Believe
Circa: 17 People
Characters: Toby

PLAYING MAKE-BELIEVE

He could’ve asked how he was feeling. Could’ve. Didn’t.

That would make it real and as long as it’s only seventeen people who know it’s not really real and he can pretend he’s not keeping secrets. He can pretend he wasn’t lied to, pretend that whatever’s left of his idealism remains intact, and, at the terrible heart of it all, pretend a great man he’s been privileged to call friend is not being destroyed by inches.

Which means he can pretend he doesn’t want to cry.

Not that it matters because he’s Toby fucking Ziegler and he wouldn’t cry anyway.

FIN

Title: Shadows
Circa: Un-specified
Characters: Charlie.

SHADOWS

Sometimes it’s bothersome, knowing that you’ve been reduced to a shadow in the corner after the press crops the photo. Easy to ignore the kid ‘cause unless someone’s shooting at him, the kid don’t matter.

But then you’ll get a glimpse of something out of the corner of your eye, a phantom with black curls and chubby hands holding up a picture, asking, is that you, Daddy? You turn to her so you can say, sure is, sweetheart, only to find her vanished back to wherever ghosts of possible futures go.

Even so, you find you’re not so bothered anymore.

FIN

Title: Seeds of Greatness
Circa: Two Cathedrals
Characters: Mrs. Landingham

SEEDS OF GREATNESS

She speaks of him often. Her husband teases her about having a crush.

She doesn’t. Well, maybe a little. Only in a fond, wistful sort of way. She isn’t blind. Cute kid, wide-eyed, articulate.

And brilliant. She doesn’t think he even recognizes his own genius, not when he’s been taught to hide it so well by an old man fallen prey to petty, bitter envies. Capable of so much if only pointed in the right direction.

He doesn’t know it yet, but the Bartlet kid’s going to change the world. If nothing else, Delores plans on making sure of it.

FIN

Title: The First Time
Circa: Two Cathedrals
Characters: Jed, Mrs. Landingham

THE FIRST TIME

As Jed held the ice to his bruised cheek, Mrs. Landingham sat down beside him, cookie tin in hand.

“Talked to your father, I see.”

“Yeah.”

“Guess he disagreed with me.”

“Yeah.” He couldn’t say which shamed him more, that he’d failed to argue the point or that it’d taken so long for him to try and do so.

She opened the tin. “Want one?”

He blinked. “You never let me have a cookie.”

“First time for everything.”

Jed didn’t think she was talking about her baking. Accepting her offer, he bit into the best chocolate-chip cookie he’d ever had.

FIN

House, MD - Five Things That Never Happened to Gregory House (1/1)

Sun, 29 Jul 2007 00:15:16 GMT

Title: Five Things That Never Happened to Gregory House
Fandom: House, M.D.
Disclaimer: They belong to David Shore.
Rating: PG-13
Original Publication: FF.net, March 2005
Summary: What it says on the tin. A 'five things' fic.

Note: I've always like the 'five things' format but don't often get bitten by a bug for one. For reasons still beyond my understanding, House S1 did it for me. Oddly, even after all this time, they still work fairly well as legitimate AUs.

FIVE THINGS THAT NEVER HAPPENED TO GREGORY HOUSE

i.

He thinks about his father. Not often, but sometimes. His father wanted him to take the job at Princeton.

“Good, steady pay, Greg, and a prestigious position. What’s holding you back?”

Nothing, except his father but dear, old Dad didn’t need to know that. At least the interview had gone well until the dean had mentioned the particulars.

“And, of course, there are required clinic hours.”

“I’m sorry, could you repeat that? I thought I wouldn’t have to deal directly with patients.”

“Patient care is part of what makes us good physicians, Dr. House.”

And then the explanations and the dictations and Greg had smiled in a polite, strained way before walking out.

Fuck clinic hours and fuck the old man to boot.

The CDC had been more than happy to take him in. It wasn’t everyday that a rising star of the infectious disease world wanted to live on a government salary.

And now, as he looks at the torn sleeve of his biohazard suit, he wonders if maybe listening to his father wouldn’t have been the worse thing to do after all.

ii.

James shows up at his apartment with a bottle of whiskey in one hand and a bag of pot in the other.

“What-”

“Not right now. Can I come in?”

“Yeah, sure.”

It’s after the first joint but before the whiskey that James finally spills.

“She left me.”

And Greg, who knows it’s almost always the woman who does the dumping when it comes to James, sighs. “Well, that wasn’t exactly unpredictable.”

“Yeah.” James won’t meet his eyes. Instead, he pours a tumbler of fine whiskey and cradles it against his chest. A grown man’s security blanket.

An hour slides by in an alcoholic and smoky haze. Greg entertains James with stories of the more idiotic patients he’s seen and gets stiff smiles in response. James had always been a morose drunk.

“She didn’t love me anymore,” he abruptly announces.

Greg searches heavenward for a sign of relief but none comes. He’s familiar with this part of the ritual but that doesn’t make it any less taxing. “Did she mention why or did she just get it tattooed on her forehead?”

James chuckles in a sore sort of way. “No tattoos. Just a note. ‘Don’t love you anymore, sorry if that sucks, bye.’ ”

“Your taste in women never ceases to amaze me.”

James’s eyes slide toward him. He has to tilt his head slightly; even slouching on the couch together, Greg sits taller than he does. “You know what’s funny?”

“What?”

“I didn’t love her anymore, either.”

James has a hand on his leg, sliding up, up, up and when he opens his mouth to protest, James cuts him off with lips and tongue. James feels heavier than a woman against him, all angles and planes, and now it’s Greg with his hand moving between James’s legs. It’s not sweet or tender and Greg is now sure the pot had been as much about courage as forgetting.

But, then, he supposes this situation had been predictable, too.

iii.

Stacey walks back into the hospital room. No, not walks. Stalks back in, heels going clickity-clack against the tile floor. She leans over him, inches from his face, and suddenly it’s not the pain in his leg he’s worried about.

“You. Are. A. Fucking. Moron,” she says. “And the next time you try to pull that jackass routine to get rid of me, I’ll personally make sure that Wilson tapes your mouth shut. You got that?”

“Got it.” His voice still sounds raspy.

“Good.” She sits angrily in the chair next to him. He didn’t think you could sit angrily but then Stacey had always surprised him. “Now, what the hell was up with Timmy on Passions anyway?”

He can’t be sure if she’s actually watching the television or just glaring at it, with those arms crossed and the rage practically radiating off of her.

For the first time in a very long time, a genuine smile graces his face.

iv.

He has the Vicodin.

He can’t believe he didn’t think of it before.

He hobbles toward the medicine cabinet, opens it up and stares at the small prescription bottle. He remains that way for some time.

Could he?

Yes, yes he could. He’d never been into deluding himself about what he was capable of and now is about the worst time to start doing so.

He grabs the bottle, rattles it. Nearly full. Nice.

He hobbles back to the kitchen because he doesn’t walk anywhere anymore and finds a bottle of wine. Good year, too. He pauses momentarily, unsure where to sit but then decides he likes the piano bench. No significance there – although he can imagine future speculation – other than the fact that he just likes his piano.

His leg feels stiff and painful as he sits but he’s okay with that. After all, he’ll only have to live with it for the rest of his life.

The pills spill out onto the ebony wood, little candies from the Easter Bunny just for him. He opens the wine, wonders if he should go back and get a glass, then decides against it. Formality has never been his thing anyway. He takes a drink directly from the bottle, lets it burn a little before beginning in earnest.

One potato, two potato...

Another drink of wine.

Three potato, four...

He feels a little fuzzy and can’t be sure if that’s actually the drugs kicking in or if it’s this entire surreal situation.

Five potato, six potato...

His pile of candies dwindles.

Seven potato, more.

He doesn’t feel his leg. Then again, he’s not feeling much of anything. It’s all rather pleasant actually and he gives a slurred laugh. A little tired, though. Maybe he should rest his head on his arms.

He realizes belatedly that he didn’t leave a note.

v.

“Everyone likes you.”

“Do you?”

Oh, good Christ, what the hell does she want from him? Has he suddenly become host to the litany of Cameron’s insecurities? Is she somehow under the impression that he wants to hold her hand? Sure, he thinks, hire the pretty, broken girl to find out what makes her tick because it might be interesting. That’s the bestest idea ever.

What the fuck had been in the meds that day?

“I have to know.”

She’s way too close to him now and he can’t tell if this is more not-so-subtle manipulation or genuine anxiety. It could be, in fact, just about any damn thing that he really and truly doesn’t care about. But at this point she’s got her bottom lip stuck out and her eyes wide in that just-about-to-cry way and she couldn’t look more like a kicked puppy if she tried. So, before he even has time to think up an appropriately cutting remark, the truth tumbles out all on its lonesome.

“Yes.”

They stay standing there, the rest of world spinning away into the abyss. And he knows that everything, everything changes now.

Even him.

FIN

Farscape - Chasing the Years (1/1)

Sat, 28 Jul 2007 23:47:03 GMT

Title: Chasing the Years
Fandom: Farscape
Disclaimer: They belong to Rockne S. O'Bannon, David Kemper and Jim Henson Productions.
Rating: G
Original Publication: FF.net, October 2004
Summary: Even happy endings can't last forever.

Note: Published during the lead up to The PeaceKeeper Wars, this is the PKW compliant version, though the original is still available on FF.net. Out of what I've written, I'm not sure if this is my personal favorite, but it's darn close.

CHASING THE YEARS

She had seen thirty-two cycles come and go before she came to Moya. Old enough, she supposed, but not so old when Sebaceans lived to be over two hundred, if they were careful.

Peacekeepers, of course, were rarely careful and never kind.

He cried, sometimes, at night, those first few weeks. She thought him weak, but in the morning he would bounce into the mess or command with a bright smile and rapid patter only he seemed to really understand. He liked her and that confused her even more.

Human. The word sounded strange and wrong on her tongue but she grew used to it. She grew used to a great many things.

The first time they lay together, bodies intertwined, he did not cry. He held her tight, as if she might be the only real thing left in his world. Which, they would soon learn, she was. The incident haunted him always, though he rarely spoke of it.

He went mad, for a little while. She was surprised at herself, at how much it hurt to watch him slip away. Peacekeepers did not form attachments. They certainly did not love.

But she was not a Peacekeeper anymore and so it didn't matter that she loved him, even when he was sick, even when he was lost. She knew that he would heal and come back to her because hope had followed a strange and winding path to find her.

She had never known hope before. She immediately seized it and locked it away in a heart-shaped box. Every once in while she would take a little key and open the box, marveling at this beautiful thing that she barely recognized, before closing it and tucking it away once more. Nobody knew she had it, so no one could take it away.

The second time was less clear. Count it with the one who died? Or the one who lived? Thirty-four cycles seen, give or take a few days death, and she felt no wiser. He had burrowed deep inside her, deeper then anyone else, and there discovered her hope after all. It was nurtured in his light, giving her a few fleeting moments of laughter before he killed it without remorse.

Except he didn't, because he lived and that hurt, too.

It wasn't actually his baby, the one who lived, but it was close enough for both of them and she gave her heart-shaped box a little polish. She learned English, enough to get by, but he would always tell her that her grammar was terrible. She told him his Sebacean was worse and they both spoke the truth, so that was all right.

They went home. He walked away wounded when he gave it up and she could hear him crying at night again. Only now she would come into his room and hold him and be confused all over again, though she didn't mind so much anymore.

She chose to have their son when she was thirty-six. He was three cycles younger than her but seemed older. Or maybe it was just because he had seemed so young when they first met. Zhaan once called him innocent and though she could certainly attest that that was no longer true, she missed it a little sometimes.

She never told anyone, just tucked it in next to her hope and locked the box again.

There was a war, as was inevitable, and they both had a few more scars to count and a family to come home to when it was over. He wanted a wedding like his father's, open air under a shining sun. They settled for a broken fountain and the bright colored lights of death above them. He gave her a ring, simple, as all good symbols should be. She added her name to his, which delighted him no end. He liked to refer to himself as "the little missus."

She didn't understand it because she never fully understood him but she laughed anyway. She liked being able to laugh with him.

Their son grew up handsome and strong, a devastating combination. Since the first had turned out so well, they decided to have another. Their daughter was born the morning he discovered the grey at his temple.

He said it made him look distinguished. She smiled but it never reached her eyes.

A third child followed, another girl, and then they both took a look at themselves and decided enough was enough. She had seen forty-two cycles by then and had started to notice that the lines at the corner of her eyes were a little deeper than they used to be.

The babies grew into children. They possessed all of their parents' best traits and a few of their worst, although no two parents loved their children more. And then they weren't children anymore, but grown. Young people ready to make their way out into the universe and find their own families to tend to.

He turned to her. All grey now, but stronger than anyone thought and his eyes still the brightest blue she'd ever seen and he'd asked, "Okay, what's next?"
She shrugged because she had no idea, but that was okay. She had a heart-shaped box that was still full.

They roamed. They had always roamed but now they didn't have to worry if Scarrans wanted them dead or if Peacekeepers wanted the secret histories trapped in their heads or if madmen wanted whatever it was madmen always wanted from them. They saw tragedy and beauty and sin and virtue and it was nothing new except when it was.

At seventy cycles, she learned her youngest daughter was dead. An accident. It seemed anti-climatic, they who had gone through so much to be robbed by something so pointless.

He cried at the funeral. She saved her tears until they reached their bedroom where she could collapse to the floor and weep. He held her, saying nothing.
They mourned and it hurt like so many things had since she met him, but it lessened over time. She often wished it wouldn't, even though she knew that was how it had to be.

Their son asked them to stay for a while, so they did. He spoiled the grandchildren, taught them how to play football, a mind-numbingly complicated game. She watched from the windows as they played in the yard and when they came inside, she told them all of the stories she had collected.

The end crept on them, insidious and unstoppable. He needed a cane while she still stood straight and though her hair was as grey as his, she didn't feel it in the same way he did. He gave her a smile and she knew that he was thinking the same thing.

She should have been prepared, the good soldier, ready to embrace the fallen comrade who had told her that he would never live as long as she did. As was a particular failing of hers, she had heard, but not listened and death came too swiftly, even though almost everyone else saw it coming well beforehand.
She held his hand as he breathed his last, history repeating itself twice over in half-remembered dreams of other loves and gardens nurtured by her hand.

He lived much longer than he said he would but it still wasn't enough. It never would be.

She observed the day of her birth, one hundred and three cycles before. Her son said stay, again, and her remaining daughter offered to move closer. But she declined them both with distant politeness and set out for the unknown frontier she loved in a way beyond passion.

She found the son of Ka D'argo tending to a farm his father would have loved. They spoke for a time but grief held words still between them and she knew she would not stay for long.

Chiana she found after another cycle had passed and the girl had become an old woman. They embraced as friends and laughed about it. Chiana spoke of Jool and how Stark died and of Rygel's continued sporadic rule over a people that had long forgotten him. They didn't talk of lost loves or regrets and though she thought she could stay there, if anywhere, something else beckoned and she left.

Her ship moved toward the stars, map fibers and old, hand-written charts in a familiar scrawl laid out before her. She took out her heart-shaped box, blew the dust and cobwebs from it, and opened it to see if there was anything left inside. The rusted hinges squealed and she thought a hole had emptied it of its contents, but, as it turned out, a small bit of hope remained wedged in the corner after all.

Decision made, she choose the direction he had been searching for a long time ago and headed out. Without wormholes, it would take at least sixty cycles to get back home and give him rest. She didn't mind.

She had time.

FIN

Charmed - Parallel Intersections (10/10)

Sat, 28 Jul 2007 22:43:47 GMT

Charmed - Parallel Intersections (9/10)

Sat, 28 Jul 2007 22:37:57 GMT

Title: Parallel Intersections
Fandom: Charmed
Disclaimer: They belong to Constance Burge, Brad Kern and the WB
Rating: PG-13
Original Publication: FF.net, April 2004 - June 2004
Summary: In which the time-space continuum is heavily abused and second chances are found.

Previous Parts:
Prologue
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six
Part Seven

PART EIGHT

There is nothing that does not have its mandate.
-Mencius

The fire lasted for two more days. It spread over five hundred city blocks and decimated a two-mile long swath of the city, including the entirety of Chinatown. Added to the earthquake, it left nearly three thousand dead, over two hundred thousand injured and countless without homes.

No one was ever quite sure how many died in Chinatown or how many truly required emergency assistance. Years of prejudice and mistrust between the city at large and this immigrant population had made most Chinese wary of seeking state help. For the most part, relief was organized by and for the community only. After all, they’d been doing it for years beforehand anyway.

Over these days and those immediately following them, Cole left the house only once, to attend a service for Abelone. Paige chose to remain behind, believing her presence to be unwelcome. Cole’s probably wasn’t much appreciated either but he thought he owed a debt to the dead. Paige didn’t disabuse him of the notion; a little guilt seemed healthy for him.

The rest of the time he wandered the Manor like a ghost, silent and haunted. He helped where allowed, mostly be shadowing Betsy upon her return. Unlike Paige’s previous offers to help, Betsy didn’t seem to mind. She gave him any busy work she could, seeming to intuitively pick up on his need to keep his mind occupied. She even managed to elicit a smile from him when she presented his newly clean and mended coat for approval. How the maid had ever managed to get the blood stains out, Paige would never know.

When Gertrude wasn’t in the attic spot-checking their preparations for the temporal work, she was re-organizing the house or receiving professional-looking and uniformed visitors that were in charge of emergency services for the city. Paige was fairly certain a substantial check had exchanged hands.

Paige herself remained at something of a loose end. Mostly she just read over any of Gertrude’s available spells and practiced her casting to keep her skills sharp. Sometimes Cole would come and silently observe her, but more often than not she was left alone.

A week after the earthquake, Gertrude approached her. “It’s time, dear.”

Paige changed out of her shirtwaist and skirt, corset and petticoat and slipped back into her light halter-top and Capris. She felt at once both liberated and vulnerable. Strange, the things one grew used to.

The spell was performed in the attic, Paige standing to the side while Gertrude actually cast it and Cole...

Well, she didn’t really know why Cole was there.

“So, explain to me again why he’s here,” she said, jerking a thumb in his direction.

“I was wondering the same thing,” Cole said. The sling was gone but he still held his arm awkwardly, the scar permanent.

“Insurance. Regardless of whether or not Paige actually landed where she did due to your presence, I’d prefer not to take the chance of her being sent wherever your future self is residing at the moment. Hopefully, this should ground her to this particular location.”

It sounded like just a touch of bullshit to Paige, but erring on the side of caution and all that, so she didn’t object. Gertrude handed her a piece of jasper. “Now, be sure not to lose this one. I plan to create a temporal block to prevent anyone else from interfering with this time again and you won’t be able to come back.”

“Believe me, I don’t ever plan on doing so.” On impulse, Paige hugged the older witch. “Thanks. For everything.”

Gertrude patted her on the back. “You’re welcome, dear.”

The two women separated and then Paige was left to stare at Cole. At a loss as to what else to do, she stuck her hand out. “Hey, I know we aren’t friends or anything but, um, good luck.”

He looked at her hand as if surprised at the offer. Slowly, he placed her hand in hers. “Best of luck to you, too.”

They dropped physical contact as soon as it was convenient to do so. Paige flopped her arms against her sides. “Okay, oh great and powerful Oz. Send me on home.”

Gertrude scattered the proper ingredients in her cauldron, Paige mentally checking them off along with the other witch. Gertrude stuck a match, murmured the spell and lit the mixture. Paige had just enough time to wonder if she’d heard the words correctly before the smoke bubbled over the edge of the pot, snaked its way across the floor and surrounded her...

When the smoke cleared, Gertrude looked with satisfaction on the empty attic.

“You always were the meddlesome one.”

Gertrude smiled. “As if you were one to talk. That boy’s coat was well beyond any normal repair.”

Bright blue lights materialized out of the ceiling and pulled together to form an amused Betsy. “It was hardly personal gain.”

“Did I say that?”

“Of course not. Perish the thought.” Betsy looked around the attic. “I truly will miss this old horror.”

“It’s hardly old. Or a horror, for that matter.”

“You weren’t the one in charge of cleaning it.”

“So, where do you think we should finally retire to?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve always wanted to see the Caribbean.”

“Sounds splendid.”

Whitelighter placed her hand over witch’s. “You saw it all, didn’t you? From the moment that girl arrived, you knew exactly how it was going to end.”

“Now that, indeed, is a secret I will never tell.”

Betsy shook her head. “At least you might have warned them.”

“And ruin the surprise?”

Betsy laughed. “You never change.”

“In the words of those who came before me,” Gertrude squeezed her fingers, “blessed be.”

Betsy smiled. “Blessed be.”

***

“Are you sure she didn’t leave a note?

Piper sighed as Phoebe paced. “I’m sure.”

“So, where could she have gone? She’d been out for hours.”

“Phoebe, seriously, why do you think I would know? More importantly, why do you think I would’ve found out in the five minutes since you last asked me?”

“Sorry, sorry. It’s just – I’m worried.”

“I know. Me, too.”

Paige had definitely been working on a spell earlier, but Piper didn’t recognize the ingredients. It was a strange combination of plants associated with, among other things, traveling, protection and clairvoyance. At least she now knew why her laurel kept disappearing.

Just what had her little sister been up to?

“No luck scrying?” Phoebe planted herself over Piper’s shoulder to stare at the map of the city.

“Wherever she is, it doesn’t look like she’s in San – wait.” The crystal at the end of the chain trembled for a moment, circled rapidly, then slammed itself onto the map. “Um, okay. It looks like she’s... here?”

“Piper.” Phoebe pointed toward Paige’s used cauldron. It started to wobble, its movement growing in intensity until it shook so violently it knocked itself off the table. On impact, it shattered, spewing out smoke so thick for a moment it completely covered the attic.

“Phoebe!”

“I’m,” coughing, “I’m here!”

Piper’s eyes watered as the grey drifted apart, revealing her youngest sister sitting in the middle of the floor and looking a little dazed.

“Paige!” Phoebe practically tackled her. Piper joined in on the group hug somewhat more sedately. “Where have you been?”

“That’s, uh – Phoebe, I’d like to breathe a little.” The redhead coughed as her sister loosened her hold. “How long was I gone?”

“At least five or six hours,” Piper said.

“That’s all?” Paige grinned. “Boy, wait ‘til I tell you what happened to me!”

“Matthews? Who are these women?”

A male voice certainly not belonging to Leo. Phoebe was the first to see him, face going to dead white. She practically choked on the name. “Cole.”

“Cole? What?” Piper looked in the same direction and saw, to her shocked dismay, Cole Turner standing in the corner, appearing not at all dead. In fact, he appeared to be the exact opposite of dead, if somewhat more disheveled and thinner and... younger than she’d last seen him.

What the hell was going on?

Before she could raise her hands and activate her powers, Paige scrambled to her feet. “Cole? Why are you still here?”

“Me?” He looked confused. “I’m supposed to be here. Why are you still here? And where’s Mrs. Mayweather?”

“She’s – oh that sneaky, little – I’m gonna kill her.”

“Excuse me?” Piper said. “Would someone care to explain what’s going on here?”

“Why isn’t he dead?” Phoebe spat, glaring at her ex-husband. “You told me he was dead.”

Cole blinked. “I’m sorry, miss. Have we met?”

“It’s another trick, isn’t it? Another one of your goddamn-”

“Phoebe, whoa, it’s not a trick. It’s, well, it’s my fuck-up.” Paige rubbed her temples. “Everyone just sit down and try not to kill each other for a couple minutes. This is going to be a looooong story...”

END PART EIGHT