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I have to make a heck of a lot of plant labels this week, and complete many other similar tasks, so I could use a little fannish distraction (of the more creative sort than randomly browsing tumblr (which I still do not belong to, oh god tell me I'm not going to have to do this) or rewatching POI s2).
So, feel free to prompt - DVD commentaries on my fic, trope ficlets, Important Fandom Questions, whatever - and I'll fit in answers as I have time. I think you all know my fandoms, and I'll just tell you if you prompt something I can't do.
(Yes, that is a pay phone with a green roof in the DW icon. Seen in a California state park.)
So, feel free to prompt - DVD commentaries on my fic, trope ficlets, Important Fandom Questions, whatever - and I'll fit in answers as I have time. I think you all know my fandoms, and I'll just tell you if you prompt something I can't do.
(Yes, that is a pay phone with a green roof in the DW icon. Seen in a California state park.)
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Date: 2013-06-17 01:50 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2013-06-17 03:16 pm (UTC)From:Feel free to prompt another one, though.
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Date: 2013-06-17 07:12 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2013-06-24 07:10 pm (UTC)From:*
The nice thing about working the night shift, Vorberg had theorized with admittedly limited experience to back it up, was that it was quiet except when something bad happened, at which time the need to act was abundantly clear. The first night on guarding-suddenly-crazy-Simon-Illyan duty had blown that theory out of the ionosphere; he'd been called other people's names, told he couldn't exist, berated urgently about things that had happened before he was born, seized by the arm and shaken, and wept on by the man he'd idolized since he was fourteen, and there was nothing he could do about any of it except report the request for Miles Vorkosigan's presence. And nothing came of that, until he took matters into his own hands.
When Vorkosigan and the Vorpatrils mother and son took over bedside duty, he breathed a sigh of relief and retreated to the chair in the hall, pacing up and down a few times an hour in a nod to physical therapy. His legs no longer ached enough to keep him awake, and he wasn't allowed to read or watch vids on duty, so he people-watched, alternating between surreptitious and blandly threatening in best ImpSec style. Over the course of the nights before and after Illyan's surgery, he unmasked two thieves (the one stealing drugs he had to report, but the one pilfering office supplies he just glared at) and took private note of a sex scandal involving an analyst, a medical technician and a captain in Domestic Affairs. He also plotted five different building exit strategies dependent on location of infiltration or fire, composed several letters of complaint about the Dendarii Mercenaries (pleasantly uncensored because they could never be sent), and did a lot of soul-searching about his career prospects. And watched Simon Illyan and Alys Vorpatril fall in love.
At first he thought it must be a figment of his imagination - over many long space journeys he'd exhausted all the shoot-em-up vids early and discovered that he really preferred romantic comedies - but the signs were unmistakable, and he wasn't fool enough to think that age did anything to stop people from getting gooey-eyed over each other. His instructions included an hourly security check of Illyan's room, so to begin with he witnessed a lot of hand-holding and the calming effect Lady Vorpatril had on the Chief's agitation. Not that he spent any more time in the present with her than he did with anyone else, but it didn't seem to matter: clearly she made him feel better, whether he was calling her by her first name or her title, whether he was fantasizing Cetagandan war threats or gossiping over tea. Even in the day before the surgery, Illyan's semi-conscious ravings and desperate silences seemed less horrible when she was in his sight.
When they'd operated on him and he'd come somewhat back to himself - to Vorberg's great and secret relief - the partiality continued, in the sense that Illyan was more relaxed with Lady Alys than with anyone else, and less apt to hide his memory problems. Not that he did anything about it, and neither did she; Vorberg still walked in on a lot of arm-touching and eye-locking, but there was a declaration of feelings, it didn't happen on his shift. He considered casually dropping a book-disc of "My ImpSec Lover" into Lady Alys's bag, or having a dozen red roses delivered to Illyan with a Mysterious Admirer card in her handwriting, but this was HQ after all and he'd be found out, and then Illyan got sprung and the opportunity for playing Cupid passed by. Besides, it was none of his business.
Though he was secretly pleased, when on security detail at the Imperial Betrothal, to see another happy couple canoodling in a corner when they thought no one was watching.
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Date: 2013-06-24 08:40 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2013-06-24 09:03 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2013-06-24 08:55 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2013-06-24 09:01 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2013-06-17 04:55 pm (UTC)From:Also, that is a very cool phone box.
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Date: 2013-06-20 08:28 pm (UTC)From:*
"Tea? At the Imperial Residence? Me?"
"Don't be skittish, Finch. You've met them before." There wasn't much that fazed Harold Finch; Simon enjoyed watching his eyes widen at the mere thought of the Vorkosigans.
"I have met the Regent and the Regent-Consort once each. In secret. And I'm not skittish; I merely prefer to remain out of the limelight."
"It's not in the least unprecedented. I'm frequently asked to bring junior officers along on social occasions. Consider yourself a representative sample of ImpSec's best. Or my protégé. Or my date."
Finch's mouth twisted, suggesting a scowl, or a smile. "Who else will be in attendance?"
"It's a family party. Lady Alys. The Koudelkas." Simon paused briefly. "The Emperor, of course."
"Of course," Finch echoed faintly.
"He's an eight-year-old boy. Quiet. Not intimidating. He'll make a certain amount of socially-appropriate conversation - you'll recognize Lady Alys's influence - and then eat more cream cakes than anyone notices and fade away to watch Ivan construct and knock down buildings." And then, later, he would quiz Cordelia on Finch, nodding and frowning in a way that made him look three times his age, and storing the information away. "He's… unobtrusive. You'll appreciate him."
"I'm not good with children," Finch said. "Mr. Reese, on the other hand--"
"Reese wouldn't come even if he was invited. You know that. Besides, Sergeant Bothari will be there. In charge of Lord Miles." Reese and Bothari had met once, too, but it hadn't gone particularly well. "So, may I tell them you'll come?"
"I don't think I really have a choice." Finch's mouth twitched. "So you may as well say I'd love to."
*
He was all right on the day, of course. He turned up on time in a perfectly-pressed uniform, looking at ease, bowed and saluted and fake-kissed hands in the approved style, and not only endured Gregor's questioning but made the poor boy almost laugh once. Then he limped over to his designated chair next to Alys, and accepted a cup of tea and a few kind words, and Simon relaxed and let Aral draw him into conversation about last week's security glitch. It was some moments later when Aral broke off in the middle of a sentence, looking across the parlor.
"Huh," he said, and Simon followed his eyes.
Miles had been on Cordelia's lap, still a little drowsy from a painkiller-induced nap, but he'd evidently woken up and crawled over to Finch's chair in his usual determined fashion, dragging his braced legs. Simon caught his progress in time to watch him flop over onto his bottom, look up, and tap Finch on the knee.
Finch paused in whatever he was saying to Alys, and glanced down, surprised.
"Hi," said Miles.
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Date: 2013-06-20 09:09 pm (UTC)From:Also, I wondered if this prompt might spark another installment in the series, and I'm not sorry :-).
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Date: 2013-06-20 09:15 pm (UTC)From:Thanks, glad you liked it, and I knew I had to get the two of them together somehow. A tea party works. :)
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Date: 2013-06-22 08:45 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2013-06-22 12:40 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2013-06-19 12:08 am (UTC)From:Person of Interest, any character(s), any or all of the following: restraint, relief, requisite
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Date: 2013-06-24 07:12 pm (UTC)From:*
It hadn't occurred to Shaw that she'd start liking Harold and John. She didn't think she'd call them Harold and John, either, but after some weeks of avoiding addressing her by name, John started using "Sam" with a little smirk, so she had to smirk right back. Harold held out with "Ms. Shaw" for a while longer, until she told him he might as well save a syllable, and he gave her one of those flashing grins that made him look ten years younger, and began calling her Samantha.
Exasperated affection was pretty much how she had to define the feeling, and the first inkling of it came the day she was stuck in the Library long enough that she had to pee. When she asked, John got this oh-shit look on his face, exchanged a glance with Harold, then got up and walked her down a hall to the door marked "Women." The facilities worked fine, and there was toilet paper in the stall, but every surface was dusty and the faucet had dripped some kind of mineral stain down the sink; no one had been in the room in years. When she'd relieved herself, she did a little exploring; the men's room was up another floor. It wasn't pristine, but it had been swabbed down sometime in living memory, and it was clear that Harold and John had been using it; Harold had been using it, even on his bad days when avoiding the stairs would have saved him some pain.
The next time she went to the girls' room, someone had mopped it and there was a bouquet of lilies on the counter. "Amazed you dared step over the threshold," she tossed at them when she got back. "Weren't you afraid you'd get cooties?"
They were ridiculous, but she had to admire the way they got things done. Harold surprised her all the time; John was predictable but efficient. Somehow she ended up agreeing to regular sparring sessions with him, which he seemed to regard as a necessary training exercise and she thought of as a way to work off energy and provoke that oh-shit expression. Until one day, triumphant at pinning him, she caught herself almost vocalizing "You are such a wuss, Frank," and it hit her that she'd grown up with brothers, and here she was again. Though sometimes Harold was more like Mom, worried that they'd break something.
And actually Harold's worry was kind of endearing. She got used to hearing him in her ear in the middle of an op, squawking out "Ms. Shaw!" (she couldn't cure him of formality in the field; there was a lot of "Mr. Reese!" too) and letting out a little sigh when she responded. It didn't stop him from sending them into some pretty hairy situations - civilians who didn't know what the hell they were doing could be more dangerous than terrorists who did, it turned out - or from putting himself out there too, more often than he should. Though she figured out, the first time she crossed paths with him while he was doing the give-no-fucks billionaire act with the requisite cane and you-are-a-lower-form-of-life glances, that he had a flair for the dressing-up parts, especially when he turned up later in the day just as plausibly playing a mild-mannered cable repairman.
So she didn't worry about him back, not that she would have anyway aside from the chance he'd get one of them or a number killed. That is, until the day he didn't come home from his routine undercover at a school - he did "substitute teacher" really well too - and John's pacing and teeth-gritting made it past annoying and into contagious.
"Damn it," she muttered to herself after she'd done two lengths of the stacks, and John turned a whole new kind of oh-shit look on her - he looked like Frank when she'd put his hamsters out on a fifth-floor windowsill - and she really wanted to punch him, but instead said something stupid about Harold being fine and then strolled away though not before she heard him actually whimper. Unless that was Bear.
Twenty minutes later Harold walked in the door, and John made a crack about detention because that was how he said "if you'd been dead Sam would have had to sit on me to stop me shooting myself," and Harold snarked back with equal restraint and Bear licked everybody's hands, and she realized suddenly what she was feeling. Relief. Everybody she cared about alive at the end of the day. Everything rosy.
"While you were out you could have got some new flowers for the bathroom," she told Harold. "I like pink."
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Date: 2013-06-25 12:31 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2013-06-25 01:03 am (UTC)From:Thanks!
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Date: 2013-06-25 10:44 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2013-06-25 11:09 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2013-06-25 10:56 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2013-06-25 11:09 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2013-06-20 06:21 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2013-06-21 10:20 pm (UTC)From:*
Nathan's bare hand touched the knob before the idea of fingerprints occurred to him. Anyway, the door was ajar. Heart pounding, he slipped inside, gun at ready.
The apartment was dark and silent, or as silent as any space in Manhattan could be: the sort of silence he was afraid he'd begun to anticipate. Though it was probably the smell that triggered both despair and nausea. His stomach had already begun to roil at the metallic tang by the time he found the body laid out on the kitchen floor. The flashlight's beam illuminated seventies harvest gold and avocado vinyl that had been filthy before the sticky red spatter and pool contaminated it; the knife was still in her chest. He stumbled to the sink and vomited; clutched the edge of the counter, dizzy; felt the sweat bead on his forehead. Then he thought of DNA and went on his knees, rummaging under the sink for bleach. When he'd cleaned the sink he wiped off every surface that might identify him, including the doorknob as he left. His hands hadn't stopped trembling when he pushed open the door of the bar two blocks away.
Halfway through his third whisky, he became aware of a body on the stool next to him and a whiff of jasmine-scented perfume. He stole a glance at the new arrival and found she was checking him out too. Red hair, slim in a blue dress, about forty. He wouldn't have taken much notice as a rule, nor was he in the mood now, but the fact that she was breathing made her appealing. "Hey," he said.
"Hey to you too."
"Come here often?"
"What is a nice girl like me doing in a place like this?" she said, humor and sorrow under the words, and he suddenly very much wanted to know.
"Let me buy you a drink and you can tell me," he said, signaling the bartender, and she ordered a gin and tonic as if it was something she'd just invented, and clinked her glass against his.
"I don't know, really," she said when she'd taken the first sip. "It just all got a bit too much. We were having dinner, and there was something he didn't say, and I walked out in the middle of some really good pad thai, and here I am." She drank a little more and added, "It's not as if people aren't allowed to have secrets."
"Amen to that," he said. "But it gets lonely. Having them."
"And watching people have them, too."
He leaned closer. "We could keep each other company."
She laughed. "Oh, no no, I haven't had nearly enough gin and tonics for that. I don't think there are enough." It was entertaining, the way her thoughts showed up in her face: realization, dismay. "Oh, oops," she said. "Please don't think I meant that as an insult."
"No offense taken. And you can buy the next round."
Twenty minutes later, he found himself blurting out that it wasn't like he was a superhero, he couldn't fly places, he couldn't always be there in time, and she told him not to give up, even though he was sure he hadn't said what it was he'd nearly washed his hands of. It didn't really matter; he liked her encouragement. She looked increasingly familiar to him as the evening went by, though that might have been the déjà vu effect of drinking a lot and looking away. Every time he looked back, she was even more there. He fell a bit in love with her voice, though he didn't really listen to what she was saying.
At one point she might have said Harold. Or he might have. He wasn't sure.
The sirens went by outside near midnight, and he went cold all over and stumbled into the men's room and threw up again, and when he came out she was gone.
There was another number in the morning.
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Date: 2013-06-22 02:15 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2013-06-22 12:47 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2013-06-24 09:42 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2013-06-25 10:25 pm (UTC)From: