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TAKE PITY ON ME
If you'd like one of your characters to jump into bed with one of mine, leave a comment along with a prompt and I will write you a drabble/ficlet.
I listed my characters just a couple days ago; I'd link it again here, but A) I am lazy, and B) I don't like pulling up RP journals on work internet. I am not backlogged with cases, for the first time since arriving back here! The woman who I work with is out of the office! I am running out of things to do! Please give me things to write while I'm on my lunch break. That would be awesome.
You can consider this a drabble post in general, too, if that particular meme doesn't interest you. Give me a character or a pairing and some kind of a prompt, and I will take it from there. I don't always finish these things, but I try, and hey, you never know, maybe you will give me a prompt and I'll wind up writing thirty pages of fic for it (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
agonistes, I'm lookin' at you)! Look, I'll even make this post public! My fandoms are a matter of public record by now, I believe, but here's a random assortment of things that I will write for; if you see something missing from the list and want me to write it, can't hurt to ask! If you know I've seen or read something, I'll probably be willing to at least take a crack at writing for it.
Burn Notice, How I Met Your Mother, Leverage, Bones, Hellboy (movies or Hellboy and BPRD comics), Iron Man (movies or comics), Deadpool, Cable and Deadpool, Black Books, iCarly, National Treasure, Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VIII, Final Fantasy X, The Red Star, M*A*S*H, Firefly, Princess Tutu, Run Fatboy Run, Watchmen, The Office (bearing in mind I never saw the end of the last season),![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
milliways_bar, Sherlock Holmes, Torchwood (I have not seen series 1, but I've seen Children of Earth and most of series 2), True Blood (I've only seen the first six and a half episodes and read the first book, but I'll give it a shot!), Star Wars: X-Wing, Hot Fuzz, Star Trek (nu!Trek; you can request original series, Next Generation, Voyager, or even Enterprise if you want, but it's been years and I make no guarantees of the greatness of my memory)
I will write crossovers, crack, and basically anything else; I can only write sexy or gross things that are mildly sexy or gross (I am at my desk at work, pls remember. This is a worksafe space, darlings).
I inexplicably have the Next Generation theme stuck in my head. I haven't seen that show since I was 14 and obsessed. What, brain?
I listed my characters just a couple days ago; I'd link it again here, but A) I am lazy, and B) I don't like pulling up RP journals on work internet. I am not backlogged with cases, for the first time since arriving back here! The woman who I work with is out of the office! I am running out of things to do! Please give me things to write while I'm on my lunch break. That would be awesome.
You can consider this a drabble post in general, too, if that particular meme doesn't interest you. Give me a character or a pairing and some kind of a prompt, and I will take it from there. I don't always finish these things, but I try, and hey, you never know, maybe you will give me a prompt and I'll wind up writing thirty pages of fic for it (
agonistes, I'm lookin' at you)! Look, I'll even make this post public! My fandoms are a matter of public record by now, I believe, but here's a random assortment of things that I will write for; if you see something missing from the list and want me to write it, can't hurt to ask! If you know I've seen or read something, I'll probably be willing to at least take a crack at writing for it.Burn Notice, How I Met Your Mother, Leverage, Bones, Hellboy (movies or Hellboy and BPRD comics), Iron Man (movies or comics), Deadpool, Cable and Deadpool, Black Books, iCarly, National Treasure, Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VIII, Final Fantasy X, The Red Star, M*A*S*H, Firefly, Princess Tutu, Run Fatboy Run, Watchmen, The Office (bearing in mind I never saw the end of the last season),
milliways_bar, Sherlock Holmes, Torchwood (I have not seen series 1, but I've seen Children of Earth and most of series 2), True Blood (I've only seen the first six and a half episodes and read the first book, but I'll give it a shot!), Star Wars: X-Wing, Hot Fuzz, Star Trek (nu!Trek; you can request original series, Next Generation, Voyager, or even Enterprise if you want, but it's been years and I make no guarantees of the greatness of my memory)I will write crossovers, crack, and basically anything else; I can only write sexy or gross things that are mildly sexy or gross (I am at my desk at work, pls remember. This is a worksafe space, darlings).
I inexplicably have the Next Generation theme stuck in my head. I haven't seen that show since I was 14 and obsessed. What, brain?
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1/2
Thirty feet below the street, another geyser falls with a splash, but this one isn’t water.
“This is officially,” Liz punctuates the word with a burst of flame, “going on the list of the grossest things we’ve ever done.” She throws up her hand and hurls fire at the towering stack of gelatinous eggs that has been adhered to the sewer tunnel wall. She stands in thick, slow-moving, brown liquid that nearly comes to the top of her hip waders. She was wearing a paper mask, but nobody thought to make those fireproof; she has replaced the mask with a strip torn from her T-shirt. It barely covers her nose and mouth, but affords some protection from the stench.
POW! Red sends the angry mama frog-creature slamming through a tunnel wall with one blow from his stone fist. “Johannesburg was worse,” he says, pausing for thought. “So was the thing with the rotting pig intestines.”
Liz shoots him a quizzical look over her shoulder, lit by the controlled, towering pyre that was once a pile of egg sacs.
“Guatemala,” he says, starting to slog toward her. “ ’91? ’92. How’s it goin’?”
“Pretty good,” she says. Her eyes have gone deep, flat blue; her face is intent with concentration. “I think this is the last one. Would you tell the geniuses in the van they need to come up with an earpiece that isn’t going to melt the second I get above a hundred and fifty degrees?”
He grins; presses a finger to his own earpiece. “You guys hear that?”
As if in answer, something roars. Hellboy turns just in time to get pile-driven by something green, slimy, and really ticked off. They both go under with an enormous splash, which Liz instinctively throws an arm up against and turns away from. The wave hits her anyway, leaving her coughing and gagging, and, for a second, very glad of her makeshift face mask.
She clambers up out of the water, onto the ledge that the rapidly melting eggs rest on, and she watches the roiling sludge. “Son of a bitch,” Liz says to the silent drip, drip, drip of the tunnel, and she takes a deep breath in preparation, fire flaring around her hands.
Hellboy breaks the surface, sewer water pouring off of him. “A guy comes to Vegas, he just wants to play a couple hands of poker; instead, I get your ugly mug,” he roars, slapping his hands down against the surface, looking around wildly. “I didn’t ask for your tongue all over me, pal. I got a girl!” Something powerful yanks him out of sight before he can say another word, but from his expression a split second before he goes under, Liz can guess what he was going to say: crap. Almost immediately, the frog-creature comes rocketing out of the sludge to slam into the tunnel wall.
Unfortunately, it is the near tunnel wall; Red's underwater aim apparently isn't great. Liz ducks as the creature hits the wall over her head and then crashes back into the water almost directly in front of her. That's how Liz finds herself standing between a mother and her blackened, smoldering eggs.
2/2
“Don’t,” Liz warns again, her hands balled into fists and her own voice echoing through the flames wreathing her body. Hellboy pops up halfway down the tunnel. The frog’s accusing eyes sink out of sight.
“Where’d Webby go?” Red calls, his growl audible even from a distance.
Something lunges out of the water right at Liz’s face, and she explodes, white-hot and unthinking. It happens in an instant, in one split second, and then ashes are raining down on her face and her head.
She looks at Red, who’s standing frozen with the Samaritan half-drawn. “Did I get it?” she asks.
“Yeah.” He holsters the gun and wades down the tunnel, toward her. Standing on the ledge as she is, Liz is taller; he reaches up and brushes ash out of her hair. “You got it, alright.”
The flames outlining her slowly extinguish; Liz’s eyes fade to brown. Her shoulders droop. “Did you hear the noise she made when she saw her eggs?”
“Yeah. But I heard the noises she made when she tried to drown me and take your head off, too.” He gently flicks ashes off her cheek. Liz smiles, tiny and reluctant. “You okay?” he asks.
“Fine. You?”
“Right as rain.” He cracks his neck. “Nothin’ we couldn’t handle. You were right, though.” Off her quizzical look: “This is one of the grosser ones we’ve been on.” She laughs a little; tucks her makeshift mask up around her mouth. “Hey guys,” Hellboy says. He frowns and lifts a finger to his ear – there’s nothing there. “Oh, for cryin’ out loud.”
“I told you I hate those things.”
“Yeah, yeah.” His eyes light up. “--Hey. The earpieces are gone, we’re the only ones down here – wanna check out the town?”
Liz, dripping with thick sewer water, looks at him.
He doesn’t blanch, but he does reconsider. “Wanna get a hotel room, take a shower, then check out Vegas?”
‘Well,” she says slowly, “we don’t have to get back to the plane til tomorrow.”
“Would you look at that.” Hellboy flicks off the red light on his belt. “Locator’s dead, too.” He shrugs expansively, and grins that grin that has gotten him into so much trouble over the years.
“Technology is so unreliable these days,” Liz deadpans, and she turns hers off, too. He grins broadly at her, sets his hands on either side of her hips, and swings her down into the muck.
“There’s a big fight goin’ on tonight; bet it’s on pay-per-view.”
She rolls her eyes tolerantly, slipping her right hand into his left and wading back through the tunnel at his side. “I did not come to Las Vegas to watch you watch two guys punch the crap out of each other.”
He considers. “How about for room service?”
A pause -- and then Liz smiles. “I could have come to Las Vegas for room service.”
Re: 2/2
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Ahem.
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Ben and Abigail shoot him matching weird looks in the rearview mirror. “I didn’t know you were that religious, Riley,” Ben says.
“I’m not, we’re just—” Riley sighs huffily; sinks down in the backseat. He mutters, “We’re going to Hell.”
“What was that?” Abigail asks over her shoulder.
Riley plasters on a fake, sarcastic smile. “Noth-ing!” he sings.
“Ah, uh, uhh--”
“Riley, hurry up!” Abigail snaps.
“You try remembering high school Spanish while people are trying to kill you!” Shots ping off the tile behind them; Riley yelps and hunches lower against the abandoned underground station’s wall. “Why don’t we ever have guns?” he demands, gesturing wildly with the ancient, crumbling Bible. “People seem to have this habit of shooting at u—”
“Riley!” Ben and Abigail holler together.
His eyes snap back to the fragile bookmark. “Uh – it says something about the New World, the, uh – the savages? I don’t know that word – OKAY, Genesis, page 54, verse six—” He noisily flips fragile pages, and Ben and Abigail – Ben peering around the corner onto the train platform and Abigail watching Riley – cringe as one.
“Be careful,” Abigail warns.
Riley tosses her a flat look over the top of his glasses, then looks down at the Bible. He blinks. “O-kay. Don’t remember this from Sunday school.”
“Stay back!” Ben shouts around the corner, into the momentary lull. “We’ll throw it onto the tracks if you don’t!”
“Dublin,” reads Riley. “We’re going to Dublin; we’re looking for a, um,” he frowns at the page. “A place where the sun and the moon collide and star flowers bloom.” Beat. “Some monk was seriously high when he wrote this.”
Ben glances at him over his shoulder, quick and intent. “Is that all it says?”
“Yeah; after that, we’re back into let there be light.”
“How do you know the next clue is in Dublin?” Abigail asks, crouched beside Ben.
“Because it says ‘go to Dublin.’ Poetic and weird, but straightforwa—” A bullet zings off a tile two feet from Riley’s head and he throws himself flat.
“Time to go!” Ben takes Abigail’s hand and they both scramble to their feet; he grabs Riley’s arm and hauls him up.
“We’re leaving the book here!” Riley yells around the corner, with an indignant look at Ben as he rolls his sore shoulder.
“No we are not!” Abigail retorts, turning a wild eye on him. “That Bible is an incredibly rare manuscript from 1701, with the clue misprint ins—”
“Blah blah blah,” says Riley. “Yes, we are,” and he chucks the Bible around the corner, yellowed pages fluttering,and runs like hell.
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"Because it says 'go to Dublin'." ← I did, in fact, lol quietly irl.
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“Yours isn’t much better, I’m sorry to say,” says Sherlock Holmes, standing in the middle of a field of flattened, smoking grass. “American, I gather. Are you man or machine?”
“A little bit of both.” The deep, buzzing voice sounds like it wants to frown. “I think I took a wrong turn past Jupiter, maybe caught a fever somewhere along the way, ‘cause I am clearly delirious right now.”
Holmes frowns, giving the wondrous suit another once-over. “A bit garish, wouldn’t you say?”
“It’s all the rage back home,” the suit deadpans.
The man lying in the grass behind the suit groans, beginning to regain consciousness. The suit tosses a glance over its shoulder. “Friend of yours?”
“That is the Lord Ramsey. I was in the middle of apprehending him for the murder of his wife when you made your pyrotechnic appearance.” Holmes steps over and hauls the man to his feet by his collar. “The shockwave from your landing interrupted a pretty little speech, delivered while running like a frightened little girl, about how the lady in question deserved what she got.”
“I hate the speeches,” says Iron Man. “You’re welcome.” With one leap, he takes to the skies.
Lord Ramsey quivers. Holmes shades his eyes with his hand. "Most peculiar," he says, unconcerned.
ALTERNATE ENDING, which begins just after Iron Man lifts off:
An asteroid CRASHES DOWN out of the atmosphere and SUDDENLY CRUSHES the two men. The inscription (yes, on the asteroid) reads: THIS IS NOT SHERLOCK HOLMES.
THE END.
(As entertaining as Sherlock Holmes looks as a movie, and as much as I adore Robert Downey Jr., Rachel McAdams, and everyone else involved -- WHAT. NO. AUGH. Why even put the 'Sherlock Holmes' name on this thing???)
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Yes, the Holmes movie is going to be bad. It will also be hilarious, so I'm gonna watch it anyway. Also, you are awesome. <33
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Thus, asteroid of subtlety!
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And the asteroid of subtlety.
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I would request smut, but I think our sets of characters don't know each other well enough. Alas!
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1/2
In all the years that I have chronicled the many cases investigated by the great detective Sherlock Holmes, none were so strange and unsettling as the matter that he undertook in the spring of 1896.
"It is a beastly language," I said, once inside the hansom and safely away from the driver. "Really, Holmes, I cannot understand how you can grasp a word of it."
"As with all else, through careful study," Holmes told me. The cab rattled forward at a truly alarming speed. I clutched at the interior to maintain my seat, but Holmes had no such troubles. "And some practice with Mr. Zajic."
"The grocer? I was not aware that he came from this wretched place."
"Why, Watson! You have reached an early judgment on the city."
"I have," I replied staunchly. "We have experienced nothing but misfortune since our arrival. I shall be happy to see the end of this venture, and to return to London."
"The Anglican temperament!" Holmes cried, in one of the strange fits of amusement that occasionally overtook him. "I have never met the Englishman who would admit to finding a foreign city more agreeable than his own. For myself, I find Prague most stimulating." His hooded eyes had been lit with excitement since our arrival in the city, and for good reason. We had twice nearly met with tragedy, once in a fire at our lodging house and once on the docks on the Vltava River. With each dangerous encounter, Holmes seemed to shake his torpor yet further. I was pleased to see it, as he had been in a general malaise of boredom and cocaine for some weeks prior to the arrival of Ms. Horáčková and her astonishing problem, but I worried for our personal safety.
"Perhaps too stimulating," I said darkly, but Holmes only chuckled.
Holmes paced the tiny sitting room of our temporary lodgings, still dressed in the local fashion that had allowed him access to his suspect. "A man who sets a monster against his enemies is a monster himself," Holmes snapped. "He is a right devil, Watson, and make no mistake of it." I had not seen Holmes so agitated since the matter of the mad gatekeeper.
"Has Novak contracted a killer?" I asked, astonished. "That is who has been doing away with his rivals in the shipping trade?"
He nodded grimly. "The mastermind has been dealt with. Now, the puppet. I trust you have your service revolver, Watson."
"I do. Do you think I shall need it?"
"I should hope not. You will, however, need an excellent pair of boots. We must reach a rather remote location outside the city, and no hansom driver will take us at this time of night; not to this place."
"This is all terribly mysterious, Holmes," I said, gathering my coat and my pistol.
"I am sorry, Watson, but I will not go into greater detail; not without seeing the site for myself. I pray to God that my suspicions are wrong."
"Watson, have you heard the story of the golem?" Holmes asked. We stood in a tiny, abandoned Jewish house of worship. Dust rose with every movement, and we followed a large set of bare footprints.
"I have not." I fingered the grip of my revolver inside my coat pocket and followed Holmes, who led with a lantern. He bent so low over the trail that it seemed his hooked nose must touch the floor.
"It is old local folklore. The golem was supposedly a creature constructed of clay from the banks of the Vltava. The story says that a Jewish religious leader built the creature in the sixteenth century in an attempt to protect the city's Jewish population from harm. As the creature grew, it became increasingly violent and unpredictable, killing and spreading fear. The Emperor begged the rabbi to destroy the golem, and the rabbi, in turn, removed its life but hid it away in the attic of a synagogue in Prague, with the understanding that if the persecution of the Jews became rote once more, the golem would rise again."
2/2
"That is a fantastical tale," I said. "Do you believe that the murderer has been attempting to escape detection by impersonating this golem?"
"Perhaps, Watson. Perhaps." My old friend sounded dark and troubled, as he had since the afternoon.
"It is quite a roundabout way of accomplishing it," I observed. "Macabre, as well."
Out of nowhere, Holmes stopped in his tracks. He lowered the lantern and clutched my arm. "Do you see that?"
A figure sprawled across several broken crates ahead. It lay on its back, muscular arms and legs spread wide in an unmistakably lifeless pose. As Holmes lifted the lantern once more, light struck the body and I could not help but gasp.
Its skin was tinted brown and grey, a color that shared more similarities with the earth than with any natural human physiology. Its limbs were rangy and powerful, combined with the broad barrel chest of a laborer. It wore no clothing but for a wooden plaque with a brass knocker, which did little but cover certain key anatomical points. It had no hair or eyebrows, and its eyes were closed in repose.
No sooner had I stepped forward than Holmes was on me.
"Not one step closer! You cannot aid the sorry wretch now, Watson, even if you had been able to help it in the first place, which I sorely doubt. It has been drained of life."
"My God, man! Do you mean to say he has been murdered?"
"If the poor devil was ever alive to begin with." With this singularly cryptic statement, Holmes raised the cover from the lantern. "This does not mitigate the threat posed to the townspeople."
"What will do so?"
"Fire," Holmes answered.
I blanched. "You cannot be serious."
"Indeed, I am."
"How can you be certain that he is dead?" I demanded.
"You have seen your share of corpses, Watson, and you are an excellent doctor, at that. Is that a corpse?"
"It most certainly is," I was forced to admit. "But my God, Holmes -- this is not a church, but it is a house of worship!"
"I shall make my apologies to the proper authorities." Holmes looked very queer, the lantern light only deepening the sharpness of his features. I did not recognize his expression at the time, but now, years later, I do believe that it was fear, or perhaps uncertainty. Both were unfailingly rare emotions to find in Sherlock Holmes, and even at the time, it unnerved me to the core.
For a moment, it seemed that Holmes's eyes burned nearly as strongly as the light of the uncovered lantern. "My dear fellow, you have stood by me unflinchingly in the past, and I am afraid I must ask too much of you once more. Please trust me when I say that the corpse's and the synagogue's utter destruction is of the utmost importance."
How could I refuse such a speech? I could not.
I felt the pangs of conscience as I stood on the hilltop and watched the quaint little building burn. The heat and crack of falling timbers had driven us to a safe distance. The blaze lit the surrounding countryside, but none came.
I believed then and I believe now that Holmes did not share my regret. He only steadily watched the flames for some time, and when he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse. "I do not think that this story is one for your chronicles."
"Nor do I," I agreed readily, struck quiet by the roaring fire.
"Do not ask me for answers, Watson," Holmes said, his voice low. "I have none."
Following our nighttime escapade, there were no further reports of broken necks combined with strange sightings in Bohemia. Holmes would never speak of what occurred in his altercation with the merchant named Novak, nor of what happened to the man. All that I know is contained within these pages. I have my own suspicions, and I leave you to yours.
Re: 2/2
HEARTS. AMAZING. OMFG.
"The Anglican temperament!" Holmes cried, in one of the strange fits of amusement that occasionally overtook him. "I have never met the Englishman who would admit to finding a foreign city more agreeable than his own. For myself, I find Prague most stimulating."
Pitch-perfect. *beaming*
Re: 2/2
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BARRING THAT: JAMES RHODES AND SOPHIA PETRILLO, TAG-TEAM
I stand by NO CHINESE, as I don't have access to translators here...
The trip doesn’t amount to more than a stagger, but only because Tony has her arm slung around his neck and he has a firm hold on her.
“Yeah,” he grunts, setting her back on her feet. “It was pretty wild. What did you put in that punch, engine fuel? Come on, don’t make me do all the work here – lift your feet—”
Kaylee does as directed (barely) and they start to climb the stairs in the silent house. “It’s a secret,” she informs him. “It’s a family recipe; I can’t tell you.” She tries to tap her own nose and misses; taps her cheek instead and beams with amusement.
“Kaylee, if you don’t start picking your feet up, I’m going to have to carry you and embarrass the gui out of both of us.”
She’s giggling, but she does start swaying her way up the staircase, leaning heavily on him. "Why's that?"
“Why would we be embarrassed? Well, me, because my back would give out, very undignified, and you when you woke up in the morning and realized I carried you up the stairs.”
Kaylee cracks up. “O-kay, Mr. Stark,” she says. “Ten-four. Where we goin’, anyhow?”
He half snorts. “You are going to bed.”
“Why’re we goin’ upstairs?”
“Because,” Tony says, as they clear the last step and start toward the nearest open, dark doorway, “Rhodey’s hogging the couch in the workshop and Hogan’s in the living room, and while the idea of letting you sleep where you were on the floor was, admittedly, entertaining, I am a gentleman.”
“You?” says Kaylee. “You’re a gentleman.”
“You’re a very mean drunk,” Tony tells her, which sends her over the edge into giggles again. “Seriously. See if I let you make the punch for an employee New Year party ever again.”
“Ain’t my fault people as can’t hold their liquor drank my punch,” Kaylee says airily. Beat. “I never been to this part of the house.”
“That’s because you,” Tony helps her through the guest bedroom door, shooting her another of the bemused looks that he’s been shooting her for most of the night, “aren’t usually a guest here. Down you go.” So saying, he lets her down on the bed. By this point, Kaylee has sufficiently tangled herself in him that it’s a surprise to no one when he goes down with her. He flops onto his back; she’s curled on her side, laughing.
“You know, for someone so petite, you’re surprisingly heavy,” he says to the ceiling.
“You callin’ me fat, Tony Stark?” Kaylee challenges.
He glances at her. One side of his mouth tilts. “What if I am?”
She socks him in the arm. Pretty good, too. “You’re a mean old man!”
“Ow! You’re abusive! Jarvis, did you see that?”
“Ten points to the lady,” the cultured voice says, and Kaylee, grinning, blows a kiss at the ceiling.
“Your alliance is unholy,” Tony says. “Send Dummy up with some water, would you?”
“Certainly, sir.”
Tony sits up. Kaylee frowns. “Where you goin’?” she asks, a little hesitant.
He looks at her for a long moment. “Nowhere,” he says, finally, and he lies back down on his side, head in his hand.
Beat.
“As long as you swear you’re not gonna hit me again.”
“I ain’t makin’ no promises,” Kaylee says, and she beams at him.
Re: I stand by NO CHINESE, as I don't have access to translators here...
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The next clue takes the National Treasure crew to Los Angeles, because the manuscript is currently in the possession of one Tony Stark.
Yes, I am that evil.
1/2
"Well -- yeah," says Riley Poole, sweating it out where he stands in front of the desk. "I kinda did."
"Well, that's pretty ballsy of you," Stark drawls.
"I've broken into the National Archives, Buckingham Palace, and the White House." He ticks them off on his fingers.
(Stark raises his eyebrows at him.)
"One little," he holds up his thumb and forefinger, close together, "corporate office didn't seem so tough."
Stark looks kind of amused. "Well," he says, swinging his feet down, "to give credit where credit's due, we're not exactly what you'd call a normal corporate office, and you came closer than anybody else has, Mr. Poole." Riley starts; Stark snorts. "Yeah, I recognized you," he says. "Which means I also know that Ben Gates is around here somewhere, too, and probably Dr. Abigail Chase. Is it sexist to say I really hope she's around? Wow, is that a good-looking woman."
Riley shoots him a long look.
"No? Okay. That's fine. I still wanna talk to your boss, though."
Riley makes an inarticulate sound of frustration. "He's not my boss! Why does everybody think that!"
"But you knew who I was talking about, didn't you?" Stark grins; it's all teeth. "I want to talk to Ben Gates, Riley; get him up here, would you?"
He sets his jaw stubbornly. "What if I don't?"
"Then I'm gonna call the cops, or maybe the FBI, or maybe the Department of Homeland Security or SHIELD -- so many great guys in dark suits; so little time -- and I'm going to let them deal with all the federal, state, criminal, and moral laws that you broke today. They're probably going to start with jail, and then, you know, that whole Patriot Act thing -- they can basically leave you there as long as they want. Charming, huh?"
"--Ben," says Riley through his teeth, "don't."
Stark leans back in his chair; looks him over with a gleam in his eyes. "Ben, please do," he says. "Earpieces? Nice. My security didn't pick those up; you'll have to share that little secret."
"I don't have to do anyth-- Ben, seriously, no. Turn around." Riley slants an unimpressed look at Stark. "This guy's a whackadoodle."
Stark guffaws. Riley hates his guts.
"--can't go in there," says a woman's raised voice from outside. "Hey, hey; you can't go--" The door slams open.
"Hi," says the man in a security guard uniform and a receding hairline. "You wanted to see me."
"Ben Gates." Tony Stark points at him. "You, sir, are my very favorite white collar criminal."
"Happy to hear it." Ben, in reality, looks like he'd rather be having all his teeth yanked than be in this office right now. "You okay, Riley?"
"Fine," is the dejected response.
"So?" Ben spreads his hands wide, stepping farther into the office. "What now, Stark?"
"Now," says Tony, "you tell me exactly what you guys are doing trying to get into my personal office, and I decide how I feel about how good your excuse is."
"We're looking for a manuscript," Ben says after a second, ignoring Riley's protesting, "Ben!" He folds his arms. "We've been led to believe you have it."
2/2
"It belonged to your father," Ben says, steady. "An astronomy manual by Charles Augustus Young."
Stark's face hardens, just a little, at the mention of the book belonging to his father. "And now you're going to tell me it's a clue in a treasure hunt."
"Yes," says Ben. "Yes, it is."
"Did you ever consider asking to borrow it?" asks Tony, and Riley and Ben both stare at him.
"...No?" says Riley.
"Yes," Ben corrects firmly. "We tried to get in touch with you for months. Your assistant stonewalled us every time."
"Aha," laughs Tony. "Ahahaha, hahaha, haha, okay. That, I don't doubt." He opens a drawer; pulls out a sheet of paper and a pen and hunched over the desk to scribble something. "This," he says, "is my e-mail address. So if you ever need anything again, you don't pose as Stark security or IT." He hands the sheet of paper to Riley, who looks down and reads: TONYSTARK@STARKINDUSTRIES.COM.
Riley thinks of the months of trying to get a phone number for Stark, the weeks spent planning this break-in. "Oh come on."
"And now," he leans forward over his desk, hands clasped, "let's talk about this treasure-hunting expedition. There's you, you, and the lovely Dr. Chase."
Tony Stark grins.
"Need a fourth?"
Re: 2/2
I love this. So very much. I sort of want to write a continuation of this now. *smirkyface*
Re: 2/2
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\o/
1/2
Also, I had most of this written well before I got the notification that you had posted yours! Great minds think similarly when it comes to openings?
"You're sure you're okay?" Liz presses as she watches him touch the icepack to his mouth again, and Abe smiles at her, lopsided but entirely genuine.
"I'm fine," he promises, walking through the Bureau hall beside her, "just like I was the first four times you asked."
It was gently delivered but clearly the wrong thing to say; Liz glances down. She looks just as strange -- and beautiful, Abe thinks; she's always been that -- in the yellow robes topped by a BPRD jacket (Abe's jacket) as she did earlier, but now she seems a little lost in all that fabric. "I'm sorry," she says, "I know I keep asking and it's stupid, but--"
"No," he shakes his head; "I'm sorry, this must all still be overwhelming--"
"Abe?"
He blinks; glances sideways at her. "Yeah, Liz?"
"Can we quit apologizing?"
He grins. "Yeah. Okay."
"And it's not that it was overwhelming," Liz says, after a second. "It's that I hate seeing you hurt."
His heart thumps in his chest, almost as strongly as it did when she touched his face after first noticing the blood. "And I hate seeing you -- kidnapped."
She has the grace to laugh. He hadn't had any idea just how badly he'd missed her laugh until he hears it again. "Well, I hate it, too," she says. "But you got me back." Her eyes flick to his; her mouth twists wryly. "Again.
"Thanks, Abe." She rests her shoulder against his and he wraps his arm around her; it's instinct, he tells himself, perfectly natural.
"Anytime," he tells her, and they both know he means it, that he'll come for her anytime, anywhere, no matter what.
"They really gave away my quarters?" Liz asks.
"Kate raised hell when she found out," Abe says, apologetic, which is an answer in and of itself. "Someone in requisitions was apparently under the impression you weren't coming back. All of your stuff is in storage; we got to it in time to make sure it didn't get thrown out. Are you sure you don't want to--"
"Abe, I want two things right now," says Liz. "One, I want to sleep in a bed in Colorado, and two, I want pants." He can't quite stop the half-grin that rises. "I'll go to the infirmary tomorrow, I promise. They checked me out on the plane; they said I was okay. So I'll go tomorrow. I need to see Panya, too, and get my stuff, move into a new room; if there's time before the apocalypse."
"There'll be time," he says, confident.
She glances at him strangely. "What makes you so sure?"
We just got you back, he thinks; he says, "I don't know. I just am."
Her mouth curves. "Very mysterious," she tells him.
Abe inclines his head. "I do my best," he says, solemn, and he wins another laugh.
They're not really talking about what happened in the Himalayas. They're not talking about Memnan Saa or his predictions or any of that; Liz got the explanation on the plane ride (giant robots in Munich, Ben Daimio still missing, frog epidemic worsening, Lobster Johnson, Johann, Heca-Emem-Ra and exactly what Liz did while she was dead to the world and not under her own control), and it was a lot all at once, and Abe hasn't brought it up again in a couple of hours. She's smiling; she's laughing. It can wait, Abe thinks. The apocalypse can wait a few more hours.
Re: 1/2
This is brilliant. Touching and so very them. Thank you.
2/2
"Just a box or two." There's nobody in the halls; everybody knows the big one is coming, is gearing up, getting ready, or spending time with family. "We started taking it out of storage before we left for China."
"You guys were that sure you'd bring me back," she says, quiet.
"We were hoping." They're at his door; Abe turns away to wrestle with the doorknob, but in doing so, he opens up a new profile to Liz and she sucks in a breath through her teeth. She reaches up and touches his chin with two quick, light fingers, and Abe isn't quite sure whether to freeze or to let her turn his head, but in the end, he goes with door number two.
"Your face is swelling up," she says.
"It hit a pretty big pole," he reminds her. His gills flutter once, twice, before he gets them under control. "I'll be okay."
Liz takes the icepack right out of his hand and very, very carefully presses it to the corner of his mouth; Abe doesn't wince. "You need to--" She seems to realize exactly what she's doing -- standing well within his personal space, cupping his face in one hand and holding ice to a bruise with the other -- in the middle of the sentence; her voice hitches. "--to, um, to keep icing it."
"I will," Abe promises, low, and for once, he doesn't look away, and Liz doesn't either. She runs her thumb across his cheekbone, slow and steady, and he realizes that she is going to kiss him about ten seconds before she does it, but that doesn't make those ten seconds any less nervewracking. It's slow, first one leaning in and then the other, until their lips finally meet, careful and chaste.
For a moment afterward, they stare at each other.
Then it's hard to say who exactly makes the first (second) move, but whoever it may be, the second kiss is rather less slow and cautious. Liz throws her arms around his neck; Abe backs her up against the door without entirely realizing that he's doing it and sinks his hands into her hair, cradling her head. It's a shock to both of them when he suddenly hisses in pain and half-pulls back, a hand rising part of the way to his face.
Liz looks between him and the icepack melting in her hand; there's color high in her cheeks. "Oh, Jesus, Abe, your mouth--"
"For God's sake, Liz," Abe says, strangled; "It's fine," and then he kisses her again, and Liz is kissing him back and fumbling for the doorknob.
("Abe," she says later. "Abe Abe Abe," and he'll be damned if it's not the beautiful thing he's ever heard.)
Kate Corrigan freezes with her hand inches from the door, knuckles poised and ready to knock. There's a box of books under her arm, a pair of pants thrown on top, but she only has eyes for the yellow-orange fabric on the floor. It has been caught in the door, as if whoever closed the door didn't know or didn't care that much of the long train was still out in the hallway. The room is quiet, but the other half of the robes certainly isn't on anyone inside.
Kate only looks for a moment. Then she gives a tiny ghost of a smile, sets down the box, and tiptoes away.
Re: 2/2
Just GUH.
~DIES~
This is fantastic. THANKYOU.
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>.> The Piotr/Maya AU? Can be totally gen if you want, but they make me laugh!
Alternately, because CHOICES ARE HARD: Princess Tutu on the starship Enterprise.
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"... Thank you," says Maya, half-smiling in an attempt at a polite dismissal, and the oblivious waitress moves away, still beaming. Maya finally exhales, her expression losing some of its practiced calm as she looks across the table at Piotr. "Oh my God," she says.
"She is a very attentive waitress," Piotr says, caught somewhere between laughter and pressing a hand to his face.
"I have to say, I didn't expect a reaction like this." She tips her head toward the gaggle of waitresses who are conferring in an excited jumble by the bar. "People back home are a little more ... wary of me." Wary is one way to put it; frightened is a more accurate alternative. Maya wears the greatcoat of a Red Army officer; her bearing marks her as a sorceress, and her white, pupil-less eyes set her apart, both in general and for anyone who's heard the stories of what happened at Archangel (and everyone has heard the stories). Maya Antares is given a wide berth in the Citadel.
In San Francisco, however, it is a different story.
"They think you are an X-Man," Piotr says, a little apologetic. "Apparently, Ororo has eaten here several times. They seem ... excited."
She smiles, sudden and bright and very amused. " 'Apparently'?" she questions, and Piotr has the grace to look sheepish.
"She may have recommended it as romantic," he allows.
"She wasn't wrong," she points out, warmth in the curve of her mouth, and he smiles, quiet and pleased.
"Nyet." His hand covering hers on the table -- as it has for some time now -- he strokes her thumb with his. "It's nice. Though I didn't expect to be putting on a show."
Maya laughs; Piotr knows her abilities well enough by now to realize that her reaction coincided with a burst of giggles from the waitresses; he chuckles himself, and asks, "Are you laughing at me or at all the people watching us?"
"A bit of both."
He shoots a bemused glance over his shoulder, in the general direction of the bar, then looks back at Maya. "Do I want to know what they're saying?"
"They really like our accents," she tells him, and he cracks up a little. "And your biceps. And in the interest of looking that girl in the face when she comes back, I'm not going to repeat anything else."
This time, Piotr cracks up a lot.
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THIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIS MUCH.
Hee hee hee hee.
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-dary!
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Across the table, Barney Stinson lowers his glass of fine, fine scotch. “Dibs?” he repeats, scornful. “What’re we, at recess here?” Beat. Whining: “I saw her first!”
“Sorry,” Tony says, blithe and anything but apologetic. “Playground rules trump all.”
“Who says?” Barney objects suspiciously.
Tony knocks back the rest of his scotch, rises, and grins the grin of a predator. “Me,” he says, and he heads for the redhead at the bar.
Two minutes later, he stumbles back to the table with a red handprint emblazoned on his cheek.
Barney is falling all over himself laughing. Literally. He leans to one side so dramatically that he nearly tumbles out of his seat.
“Yeah,” Tony half-grumbles, half-deadpans, taking his old seat. “ ‘Cause that’s helpful.”
“That was Melody,” Barney informs him. “She gets around. She’s to-hooo-totally nuts.” Over the rim of his glass: “And not the hot kind.”
Tony regards him for a moment. “You,” he announces, “are a terrible wingman.”
“No,” says Barney. “I’m a wingman who knows when something’s gonna be really funny.” He starts laughing again; Tony gives him the finger and pours himself another measure of scotch from the obscenely expensive bottle. “Oh, come on. C’mon. There’s hotter here than Melody.”
“I don’t know. The wannabe Broadway starlets are, I have to say, on a whole, considerably less hot than the wannabe Hollywood starlets.” Tony gestures with his glass. “I’m reconsidering the whole Manhattan Stark Industries satellite office plan.”
He waves him off, unimpressed. “That’s just your left coast superiority complex talking. No, no. How about—” He surveys the crowded bar very seriously, hand moving – then pointing directly at a girl in a backless red dress, “her.”
“Hm. Not bad.” Tony shoots him a look. “Does she throw a haymaker like Evander Holyfield?”
Barney rolls his eyes. “How should I know?” he says. “Come on. Let’s do this.” He cracks his neck, one side then the other, and drains his glass.
“Ohhh no.” Tony points at him. “First, you tell me the game plan.” Not that Tony Stark needs a gameplan. Or a wingman. Barney is lucky he’s entertaining. “What would you do if I was – what’s-his-name, Puppy Face with the hair wax.”
Incredulous: “Ted?”
“Yeah, whatever. Do what you’d do if you were,” he gestures with his glass, “wingman-ing it up with Hair Wax.”
“Uh, no,” says Barney. “ ‘Haaaaave you met Tony Stark?’ ?” He scoffs. “Please. Too easy.”
Tony’s eyebrows are way, way up. “The point is easy. I don’t know about you, but I love easy.”
“Easy’s all well and good, but it’s the thrill of the hunt. We need a challenge!” Barney insists, in the tone that usually means he’s about to quote the Bro Code or make some kind of ridiculous declaration.
“Uh huh. A challenge.” He lifts his sunglasses off the bridge of his nose and looks at Barney. “And this isn’t because if I took these off and said hey everybody, I’m Tony Stark, every woman in this place would be all over me, and ignoring you.”
“Pfft. Pfffft. No,” says Barney. It’s wildly unconvincing. “It’s about the hunt!”
Tony shrugs. “Okay.” He drops his sunglasses again. “I’m losing my sight and looking for one last night with the last beautiful woman I’ll ever see; you’re my doting, grief-stricken brother who’s here in the big city to be my seeing eye dog, and who needs a little TLC, and I don't mean the channel with all the home makeover shows.”
“Yes,” says Barney, eyes alight with delighted, manic appreciation for a newly discovered kindred spirit. “YES! Josiah, my brother—”
“Josiah,” Tony repeats, shaking his head. “Not gonna fly.”
“Tonight is going to be legen—” Barney throws up a forestalling hand, “WAIT FOR IT--”
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Now you have it stuck in my head, too. DUH-nuh-nuh-nuh-NUUUH-nuhnuh-nuh-NUH-nunnnnnn
The Elliot Job, 1/2
“Elliot, you’re cooking.” Hardison speaks like he’s talking to a small child, but he’s keeping a weather eye on the knife in Elliot’s hand. He gestures at himself with both hands, a wide motion of his arms. He says, wry and yeah, it’s really this simple: “We hungry.”
“You speakin’ in the royal ‘we’ now?”
Hardison’s brow furrows. “What?” He glances to one side then the other; his genuinely bewildered face says he doesn’t see what he’s looking for. He turns all the way around.
Elliot sighs sharply. “Shoulda known you couldn’t have got in here by yourself.” He sets the knife down; storms around the island and blows past Hardison into the hall. “Parker!”
“I could have got in here by myself!” Hardison calls after him. “You're underestimating my capacity for sneakiness!” With a glance down the hall, he leans across the island and picks a piece of chicken off the bone.
Elliot steps out of a door a minute later, frog-marching Parker, who looks thoroughly unrepentent. He parks her on the stool beside Hardison, then holds out his hand, palm up.
Parker’s eyes flick away, and she produces from her pockets: two keycards, a set of brass knuckles, and a little figurine in the shape of a monkey.
“You took the monkey?” Elliot says, betrayed, and he sets the items on the far counter.
Hardison raised an eyebrow. “I think the real question is, why do you have the monkey.”
“It’s for good luck,” he says defensively. “I picked it up in Cambodia.” He turns back toward the stove and Hardison immediately tips his head toward Elliot, at Parker. Go on, the gesture says. She violently shakes her head; he nudges her, which she answers with a silent swat, which starts them off poking, pointing, frantically miming, and making significant eyes at each other right up until Elliot turns around. The second that he does, they’re both sitting perfectly still, Parker with her hands folded neatly in her lap, and Hardison – the better actor – half-sprawled across the island, looking bored.
Elliot shoots them a wary look, but shakes it off. “Seriously. Get out of my apartment.”
“Man, don’t do that. Don’t be cold like that.”
“It’s not very hospitable,” Parker agrees.
“Hospitable? I don’t have to be hospitable to anybody that breaks into my house.” He points at Hardison with the knife. “You’re lucky I didn’t snap your spine when I caught you.”
“C’mon, Elliot. Every time I’m alone with her, she puts me in a damn choke hold!”
Elliot half chuckles. “You think I’m gonna stop that?”
Parker smiles, sudden and bright. It’s unnerving.
“No,” Hardison says, putting his hands up and starting to lean away. “Parker, no; I mean it, I don’t want to hurt you—”
She takes him down with one move. They disappear behind the island with a yelp from Hardison. “Get off,” rasps Hardison’s voice. “Get her off. Elliot. Elliot. Grk!”
The Elliot Job, 2/2
The choking sounds continue. It’s a little pathetic.
“Hey Parker, don’t kill him, okay?” Elliot calls. “I don’t feel like cleanin’ up any messes today.”
Parker giggles. Again: unnerving. That girl ain’t right in the head.
Elliot glances over his shoulder at the island. “Parker.”
And then: ominous silence.
He rolls his eyes. He sets the knife down and comes around the island to find Hardison and Parker laid out on his kitchen floor, side by side, both with their eyes shut and hands folded over their stomachs, an unnatural stillness to them. Elliot frowns and bends over – and both sets of eyes snap open at once, and he finds himself flat on his back thanks to a throw he taught Parker. She’s sitting on his chest and Hardison’s on his knees.
Elliot glares up at Parker. “The hell’re you doing?” he demands.
“We tried subtle,” Hardison says, leaning around Parker’s shoulder.
“We did.” Parker shakes her head. “But you were really stupid.”
“Hey,” says Elliot.
“So now,” finishes Hardison, “we’re goin’ for the direct approach. We figured you’d appreciate that.”
“The direct approach to what?” Elliot asks, and then Parker leans down and kisses him, and he’s so startled by that that it takes a moment for him to realize that there’s more than one set of hands on him.
He sits up like Parker weighs nothing (and she kinda does); she tumbles into his lap and falls back against Hardison, who steadies her with a hand. “Both of you,” says Elliot, almost but not quite a question.
“We’re a team,” Parker says, frowning at him (presumably for interrupting that kiss).
“Let me get this straight,” Elliot says. “You two decided to seduce me, so you made a two-man con out of it.”
“…Yep,” she confirms.
Hardison shrugs. “Nothing else worked.”
Elliot looks from one of the people sitting on him to the other. Hardison’s arm is looped around Parker’s waist from behind; they’re both watching him calmly, like this is the most natural thing in the world.
“Freaks,” says Elliot, and Parker looks that particular kind of blank when she can’t figure out the meaning behind what somebody’s saying, but Hardison gets it.
He grins broadly. “Freaky deaky, baby.”
When the other two start kissing around her, Parker stares blankly for a second longer, and then she says, “--Ohh-hh. I get it!” and she beams.
Re: The Elliot Job, 2/2
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"Oh, you are cute," purrs the woman who's following him like she's got all the time in the world. She looks like Laura Ashley from the waist up and high-end Hot Topic from the waist down. It's bizarre.
"Aha! Ahahaha!" Riley laughs, borderline hysterical. "Great! Um, I, uh, kinda didn't realize you were a vampire til you did the--" The vampire hisses, flashing her fangs, and Riley's swallow is audible. "--yeah, that, and you're totally hot and I like you, I really do, but I also like my blood. Right where it is."
She's still advancing. He has nowhere else to go.
"...In my body."
The vampire chuckles, low and throaty. "Oh, shut up," she says. "This won't hurt a bit, sweet thing."
Suddenly, Riley is struck by the fact that she's right; he's being silly. This won't hurt a bit. And hasn't he always been curious about this? She won't kill him, and she is super hot-- She's coming toward him now, hair shiny and loose and perfect around that beautiful face (even her fangs are shiny). When she lunges, she doesn't quite leave a blur behind her, so she isn't moving as fast as he saw her move (didn't see her move) outside.
Even in the inexplicable warm haze of trust that he has fallen into, Riley's body recognizes when somebody's coming at him, even when Riley himself is too far gone to care. His hands fly up in front of him, on 100% pure instinct. The vampire slams into him. There is a meaty sound -- and then she shrieks.
Riley shakes his head violently just in time to get a faceful of blood. It's courtesy of the female vampire, who's projectile-vomiting it. He starts to yell, then tastes copper and gags. For once in his life, Riley Poole does the smart thing: he keeps his mouth shut.
A few seconds later, it's all over. Riley cracks an eyelid to find that what remains of the vampire is on the floor (and all over Riley) in wet clumps of red organic matter. He slowly looks down at his hands.
He's holding half of a splintered wooden swizzle stick.
"... I didn't mean to," Riley says, to the largest clump.