Drabbles, anyone?
Jan. 14th, 2011 10:02 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
out_thereIt's More Joy Day. I'm not feeling particularly joyful but I like the concept, so how about an offer of future joy?
Leave me a fandom, a pairing (or a character) and a prompt on Dreamwidth.
Tomorrow night when I'm alone and hiding from the rain, I'll write you a drabble.
Leave me a fandom, a pairing (or a character) and a prompt on Dreamwidth.
Tomorrow night when I'm alone and hiding from the rain, I'll write you a drabble.
no subject
Date: 2011-01-13 11:58 pm (UTC)Sherlock, Holmes/Watson, Sunday tea
Date: 2011-01-15 12:52 pm (UTC)The one and only exception to Sherlock's entire way of life is Sunday tea. Every Sunday afternoon at exactly four o'clock John will find himself dragged into some café, restaurant or hotel for afternoon tea. As far as John's concerned, afternoon tea should be a cuppa and a few biscuits, not finger sandwiches and croissants, colourful macaroons and poetically described tea choices. He wants a cuppa, not an 'indulgent experience for the senses' that costs over twenty quid each. But come hell or high water -- or in Sherlock's case, mysterious disappearances and puzzling murders -- Sunday afternoons mean afternoon tea.
It's not the strangest thing about Sherlock, but it's baffling. Strange enough that eventually -- after five consecutive afternoon teas, all at different but equally expensive establishments -- John has to ask. "Why do you keep taking me out for afternoon tea? Every Sunday, same routine, and it's not that I don't enjoy it but it is odd. So, why?"
"Sitting with someone else makes me look less eccentric," Sherlock says airily, helping himself to a vividly blue macaroon. "You appreciate routine and this is an outing I enjoy, so it should be a happy compromise."
"A happy compromise," John echoes because, well, what do you say to that?
"We're two people," Sherlock says, long fingers waving from himself to John, "going out and having fun."
John blinks and looks away, recalling saying something very similar not too long ago. He thinks it through and then decides that even if it's a stupid question, he still needs to ask. "You make it sound like we're dating."
"We're not?" Despite a mouthful of sugar confectionary, Sherlock sounds genuinely surprised. "What are we missing?"
"What stops this from being a date?" John asks. He waits for the obvious answer to occur to him, but it doesn't. Sherlock's even paid. Mostly because John can boil a kettle and make a cup of tea himself, so he refuses to pay ridiculous prices just to drink it in a fancy tea room, but he still paid. "Don't think we're missing anything, honestly."
"That's settled, then," Sherlock says, and in the same breath adds, "The blueberry macaroons are delicious, John. You really should try one. With your eyes closed if the colour unnerves you so much."
"I'll stick to my overpriced pot of tea, thanks."
Re: Sherlock, Holmes/Watson, Sunday tea
Date: 2011-01-16 12:24 am (UTC)Re: Sherlock, Holmes/Watson, Sunday tea
Date: 2011-01-17 01:36 am (UTC)Re: Sherlock, Holmes/Watson, Sunday tea
Date: 2011-06-16 09:14 am (UTC)Re: Sherlock, Holmes/Watson, Sunday tea
Date: 2011-06-16 09:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-13 11:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-14 12:05 am (UTC)Prison Break, Michael/Mahone, flight
Date: 2011-01-15 12:10 pm (UTC)Lincoln and Sara are out of the country. While Michael was a comatosed John Doe in a hospital ward, they set up lives south of the border, assuming Michael's death. Alex would begrudge them that fresh start, would hold a grudge on Michael's behalf (since Michael is almost incapable of holding his own), but he can't. Not while he's the one in this car.
Not when Michael woke up and gave a fake name to the nurses, and then called Alex.
Alex came because Alex had to. Because he owes his sanity, his freedom, his peace of mind to Michael Scofield and the very least he can give in return is some unquestioning support.
When Michael said, "I need to drive somewhere," Alex didn't ask questions. He arranged the hospital paperwork and took a leave of absence from his job, and got a spare key for his Ford Focus, then filled it with gas.
He still hasn't asked why Michael hasn't called Lincoln and Sara. He's asked what Michael remembers and got a narrow, sideways stare, an unflinching "All of it," as a reply.
"Don't you want to know what happened?"
"The plan worked. You would have told me at the hospital if it hadn't."
Since then, they haven't discussed it. Alex doesn't want to. Bottom line is that he doesn't care. If Michael needs a few days, a few weeks, a few months to get lost, so be it. If Michael wants to spend hours behind the wheel, squinting into the sunlight, following country backroads without saying a word, Alex can live with that. If Michael wants to avoid people, avoid motels and camping grounds, wants to spend alternate nights shifting in the passenger seat or twisted awkwardly across the backseat, that's fine too. Alex will defend his right to go a little crazy: if any deserves a good mental breakdown, it's Michael Scofield.
When Michael pulls over at dusk, pocketing the keys and getting out of the car, Alex doesn't complain or demand answers. He just gets out and leans on the hood beside Michael. Michael's hands are behind him, out of sight. There are scars from the electrical burns, angry red skin from the tips of Michael's fingers to the heel of his palms but Michael always rests his hands palms-down; Alex only sees the damage when Michael's asleep. He wonders if it hurts.
They watch the sun sink behind the endless flat horizon of Idaho, until the last spark of orange clouds fades to indigo. Michael pulls the keys out of his pocket, but keeps leaning on the car. "You don't have to be here," he says, and it the first time he's spoken in three days.
Alex shrugs.
"I can drop you off somewhere. This isn't--" Michael says, but he drops his chin and closes his eyes.
Alex thinks Michael doesn't know what this is and what it isn't. And even if Michael knew, he still wouldn't know how to say it. "You going to keep driving?"
Michael nods.
"Then I'll stick around."
There isn't anything more to be said, so they get back into the car and drive through the darkness.
Re: Prison Break, Michael/Mahone, flight
Date: 2011-01-18 08:20 pm (UTC)Re: Prison Break, Michael/Mahone, flight
Date: 2011-01-18 09:51 pm (UTC)*agrees completely*
no subject
Date: 2011-01-14 12:27 am (UTC)No worries if you don't feel you can write this prompt, but I will throw it out there just in case: Generation Kill, Brad/Nate, silence is telling
Generation Kill, Brad/Nate, silence is telling
Date: 2011-01-15 11:11 am (UTC)Like everything else in the corps, almost any topic is fair game. Your high school sweetheart, the last time you shot someone, the worst hangover you ever had, the best foreign pussy and the most stupid reason to go to war. There's nothing too obscene or violent, nothing too racist, sexist or personally insulting that can't be shared with brothers in arms.
But there are some things no self-respecting Marine would ever say aloud. Admitting that you're scared shitless because the next rifle fire you hear could be the shot that ends you -- no real Marine would say it. You can talk about going home for a dozen reasons, for the pizza, the beer, your family, your girl, your baseball team, your motorbike, the ease of buying lube, but it had better have nothing to do with fear or being sick to your stomach of passing half-decayed bodies in the streets.
From sand-gritty skin to the marrow of his bones, Brad's a Marine. He knows what you don't say. He knows it so well that there are things he couldn't say even if he tried. He couldn't imagine ever being the kind of sniveling, spineless insult to the Corps that would call home and give voice to the traitorous thoughts they all ignore.
It's hell here and I might not come home.
It only takes one damn bullet. The best weapons and provisions (if the Corps even provided that), all the training in the world and it still comes down to dumb luck.
I love you. I miss you. Don't think for one moment that any of this could make me forget that.
I'd say I wish you were here, but I'm glad you're not. I'd rather know you're safe.
Brad's not going to say any of that. He never does. Not when he's deployed, not even when he's back home. But for all that Nate doesn't wear the uniform these days, for all that he's stepped back into civilian life like any other chai-sipping peace-loving motherfucking hippy, he's still a Marine where it counts.
He knows there are things you don't say. And it has nothing to do with whether or not it's true.
Re: Generation Kill, Brad/Nate, silence is telling
Date: 2011-01-15 02:50 pm (UTC)Thank you! Joy indeed!
PS Do you mind if I add a link to it in the next GK community roundup? We have a section for comment fic.
Re: Generation Kill, Brad/Nate, silence is telling
Date: 2011-01-17 01:44 am (UTC)Yay! Brad is fascinating to watch because he's like that all the time -- brash Marine on the surface but so much happening underneath. (He's so my favourite.)
PS Do you mind if I add a link to it in the next GK community roundup? We have a section for comment fic.
I've changed this post to public, so go ahead. *g*
Re: Generation Kill, Brad/Nate, silence is telling
Date: 2011-01-17 12:41 pm (UTC)Nate will always be my favourite, for so many reasons, but that can basically be summed up as he's a BAMF and he was played by Stark Sands!