"nobody's leading life the way they should."
I did that meme where you put your playlist on random and write a drabble in the length of the song. I think you were supposed to pick a specific fandom or whatever, but I just wrote because let's face it, I kind of hate following the rules. I uploaded the songs, too, because I actually liked the ones I ended up with, so feel free to download them if you want.
All titles are taken from the lyrics of the songs because I felt as though it was only fitting. And I'm original like that.
A/N: For some reason this song always reminds me of The West Wing (I think it has to do with the fact that it was on constant repeat last week when I was in TWW writing frenzy) so I forced myself to write something different. I've never written grey's fic before, so for my first time, I think this turned out okay.
::
[like clockwork] izzie, izzie/denny, pg
I had a dream
That I could fly from the highest swing
I had a dream
"Dream" - Priscilla Ahn
::
Izzie has this dream.
It’s her and Denny on a deserted beach, hand and hand with the sun on their shoulders and wind in their hair, barefoot and it’s blissful. Serene. Everything she’s ever wanted and she’s happy in this dream. More than happy.
She’s not really sure if happiness can actually be felt in dreams, exactly, but she feels it, it consumes her, and when she wakes the next morning with his kiss on her lips, and the feel of his palm so sure against hers, the happiness fades, floods right out of her in a giant whoosh of air that leaves her breathless.
Breathing in a ragged breath, she’ll take a moment to mourn the life she could have had (and a love she’ll never really know but misses with every fiber of her being) and then she’ll throw the covers off of her, count to ten backwards and forwards over and over - as long as it takes and some days take longer than others, it’s a constant game of progression and regression - before getting out of bed.
Like her basic surgical suture, she’s perfected the art of moving forward - some things you just never forget how to do.
[I'll Miss you when you're gone] rpf, jenn/brad, pg
A/N: I. Have. No. Idea. I guess this would be set right before he left to go shoot Mr. and Mrs. Smith and she was shooting The Break Up. I cheated with this one and listened to the song twice. Sue me.
::
Stole a kiss through your golden locks
I had a dream that you were gone
Woke up and you were gone
"Silver Coin" - Angus and Julia Stone
::
“So I can come and visit you, right?” Jenn asks, and he watches her closely, following her every movement as she moves in and out of their closet, throwing article of clothing after article of clothing onto their bed.
She’s packing his suitcase because that’s what good wives do for their husbands.
(and she thinks, maybe, if she’s a better wife, tries harder, things will get better. She doesn’t see the error in her line of thinking until way, way down the line.)
Brad gives her a look. “What do you think?” He asks pointedly and he laughs that hearty, full laugh that makes her heart all full and warm, threatening to burst. She tosses the shirt into his suitcase and plops onto the bed unceremoniously, crawling towards him.
He pulls her up and smiles. “You going to miss me?”
A brush of her lips against his and she snuggles into the crook of his arm, memorizing his scent, this moment, the feel of him against her. She holds him tighter and ignores the heaviness she feels in her chest - separate from the warm fuzziness, but just as prevalent.
“I already do,” she whispers and reaches up to brush her fingers against his stubble. The sight of her wedding ring enters her line of vision and the heaviness returns, grows larger, and it takes a second to gain control, to realize he’s talking.
“When I get a break let’s take a vacation. Just you, me, the beach with nothing but time,” his eyes search hers and she knows the idea of taking time off is a fantasy, but she doesn’t want to ruin the moment, the look in his eye so she kisses him instead.
It’s different, they’re different, and the promise of forever his kisses used to hold seems to have all but disappeared. She pushes it down. She perfected the art of ignoring the painfully obvious years ago.
When they say goodbye the next morning, his hands in her hair, hers around his neck, holding him tight, there’s something that lingers in the back of her mind, something that makes her uneasy.
Later after he’s long gone, when she’s trying to memorize her lines and go over the latest production notes, something inside of her lingers uncomfortably from that morning and she thinks, just briefly, that they aren’t going to survive this.
[you're all i ever wanted] lincoln/veronica, pg
Everything's falling, and I am included in that
Oh, how I try to be just okay
Yeah, but all I ever really wanted
Was a little piece of you
"Be Your Love" - Rachael Yamagata
::
He walks her home from school - it’s a bad part of town and he takes it upon himself to become her protector, her keeper of sorts. She doesn’t mind. The girls swarm after him in masses, trying to get attention from the bad boy, the rebel, and Veronica likes being the center of his world for those few short minutes. Likes the way his shoulder brushes with hers, just slightly, just briefly as they walk, left foot, right foot, always in sync with one another without even trying.
“Do you like it here?” He asks with false bravado, looking at her out of the corner of his eye. He thinks he’s being discreet but she’s always been overly sensitive to detail. The tiny bit of dirt under his nails, the smoothness of his skin, the lines of his smile - she notices everything without even trying.
Veronica kicks a piece of trash at her feet as she walks, misses her mom and her old house in the same breath. Thinks of her father at home, on the couch, drunk, maybe, hopefully. She swallows a lump in her throat as she pulls her coat tighter against the cold Chicago winter.
“What’s not to like?” She doesn’t mean for it to sound so bitter.
Fingers brush up against her own for just the briefest of seconds, soft, light, barely there.
It’s comforting.
[we can go far] jim/pam, pg
With the night as our blanket
And Ghosts in the yard
You lean in close and say
I think we can go far
"Circus" - Crag Cardiff
::
It’s their first thanksgiving together, and after they get home (they go to her parents house because it’s closer and, well, she kind of likes the idea of neutral territory, always has) they lay on the floor near the fire and Pam swears she can still smell his mother’s turkey and stuffing. Her stomach grumbles. Jim smiles. There’s two wine glasses and half a bottle of champagne, soft music in playing in the background and they’re a bit tipsy.
“When we weren’t together,” Jim says, and he kind of chokes on the words and her heart does this funny little thing it always does when they broach this subject of before, that dark time she chooses to look back upon fondly, as a stepping stone of sorts because it’s so much easier than the alternative. “I used to place a pillow right here,” he pats his right shoulder, “so I could fall asleep.”
She smiles beautifully, teeth and all and does not tell him how she used to trace the lines of his face, backwards and forwards in her mind when she couldn’t sleep at night. How she bought his cologne and sprayed it on her pillow that first month so she could still smell him, so she could still have just that tiny little part of him.
Suddenly he’s sitting up and he’s pulling her ankles, dragging her towards him. She sits up in response and he pulls her even closer. Chest against chest, arms around his neck. She breathes him in, feels his hands on his face, his lips on her forehead. She feels complete, weightless. Perfect.
“God, I am so in love with you,” he whispers, his lips a mere breath away from hers and she kisses him, soft, leisurely, drawing it out, making a memory and somewhere in the deep contours of her mind, as his hand travels to her own and intertwines, she knows without a shadow of a doubt that this is it.
[a little bit of your song still in my ear] rufus/lily, pg
there’s still a little bit of your song in my ear
there’s still a little bit of your words I long to hear
you step a little closer to me
so close that I can´t see what´s going on
“Cannonball” - Damien Rice
::
It starts like this:
Twenty years earlier, a lifetime really, and there was a shared look across a crowded bar, his smile and eyes, a promise that kept her warm all night long. Lily was barely eighteen, all blonde hair and wide eyes, with a smile that brightened everything within reach. She’s carefree, happy, and her nails are painted jet black and her Doc Martens clash with her cut-off dress, and she does not care.
“Rufus,” he says, his head cocking to the side, just slightly, regarding her softly.
It’s instant, the connection, the attraction. It’s one of those rare moments that brings clarity and a smile, wide and shiny-bright, and she knows, even then, so young, that this is the beginning of something epic.
Lily had never believed in fairy-tales before him, and she never did believe in them after him, either.
Some things really are just once in a lifetime.
All titles are taken from the lyrics of the songs because I felt as though it was only fitting. And I'm original like that.
A/N: For some reason this song always reminds me of The West Wing (I think it has to do with the fact that it was on constant repeat last week when I was in TWW writing frenzy) so I forced myself to write something different. I've never written grey's fic before, so for my first time, I think this turned out okay.
::
[like clockwork] izzie, izzie/denny, pg
I had a dream
That I could fly from the highest swing
I had a dream
"Dream" - Priscilla Ahn
::
Izzie has this dream.
It’s her and Denny on a deserted beach, hand and hand with the sun on their shoulders and wind in their hair, barefoot and it’s blissful. Serene. Everything she’s ever wanted and she’s happy in this dream. More than happy.
She’s not really sure if happiness can actually be felt in dreams, exactly, but she feels it, it consumes her, and when she wakes the next morning with his kiss on her lips, and the feel of his palm so sure against hers, the happiness fades, floods right out of her in a giant whoosh of air that leaves her breathless.
Breathing in a ragged breath, she’ll take a moment to mourn the life she could have had (and a love she’ll never really know but misses with every fiber of her being) and then she’ll throw the covers off of her, count to ten backwards and forwards over and over - as long as it takes and some days take longer than others, it’s a constant game of progression and regression - before getting out of bed.
Like her basic surgical suture, she’s perfected the art of moving forward - some things you just never forget how to do.
[I'll Miss you when you're gone] rpf, jenn/brad, pg
A/N: I. Have. No. Idea. I guess this would be set right before he left to go shoot Mr. and Mrs. Smith and she was shooting The Break Up. I cheated with this one and listened to the song twice. Sue me.
::
Stole a kiss through your golden locks
I had a dream that you were gone
Woke up and you were gone
"Silver Coin" - Angus and Julia Stone
::
“So I can come and visit you, right?” Jenn asks, and he watches her closely, following her every movement as she moves in and out of their closet, throwing article of clothing after article of clothing onto their bed.
She’s packing his suitcase because that’s what good wives do for their husbands.
(and she thinks, maybe, if she’s a better wife, tries harder, things will get better. She doesn’t see the error in her line of thinking until way, way down the line.)
Brad gives her a look. “What do you think?” He asks pointedly and he laughs that hearty, full laugh that makes her heart all full and warm, threatening to burst. She tosses the shirt into his suitcase and plops onto the bed unceremoniously, crawling towards him.
He pulls her up and smiles. “You going to miss me?”
A brush of her lips against his and she snuggles into the crook of his arm, memorizing his scent, this moment, the feel of him against her. She holds him tighter and ignores the heaviness she feels in her chest - separate from the warm fuzziness, but just as prevalent.
“I already do,” she whispers and reaches up to brush her fingers against his stubble. The sight of her wedding ring enters her line of vision and the heaviness returns, grows larger, and it takes a second to gain control, to realize he’s talking.
“When I get a break let’s take a vacation. Just you, me, the beach with nothing but time,” his eyes search hers and she knows the idea of taking time off is a fantasy, but she doesn’t want to ruin the moment, the look in his eye so she kisses him instead.
It’s different, they’re different, and the promise of forever his kisses used to hold seems to have all but disappeared. She pushes it down. She perfected the art of ignoring the painfully obvious years ago.
When they say goodbye the next morning, his hands in her hair, hers around his neck, holding him tight, there’s something that lingers in the back of her mind, something that makes her uneasy.
Later after he’s long gone, when she’s trying to memorize her lines and go over the latest production notes, something inside of her lingers uncomfortably from that morning and she thinks, just briefly, that they aren’t going to survive this.
[you're all i ever wanted] lincoln/veronica, pg
Everything's falling, and I am included in that
Oh, how I try to be just okay
Yeah, but all I ever really wanted
Was a little piece of you
"Be Your Love" - Rachael Yamagata
::
He walks her home from school - it’s a bad part of town and he takes it upon himself to become her protector, her keeper of sorts. She doesn’t mind. The girls swarm after him in masses, trying to get attention from the bad boy, the rebel, and Veronica likes being the center of his world for those few short minutes. Likes the way his shoulder brushes with hers, just slightly, just briefly as they walk, left foot, right foot, always in sync with one another without even trying.
“Do you like it here?” He asks with false bravado, looking at her out of the corner of his eye. He thinks he’s being discreet but she’s always been overly sensitive to detail. The tiny bit of dirt under his nails, the smoothness of his skin, the lines of his smile - she notices everything without even trying.
Veronica kicks a piece of trash at her feet as she walks, misses her mom and her old house in the same breath. Thinks of her father at home, on the couch, drunk, maybe, hopefully. She swallows a lump in her throat as she pulls her coat tighter against the cold Chicago winter.
“What’s not to like?” She doesn’t mean for it to sound so bitter.
Fingers brush up against her own for just the briefest of seconds, soft, light, barely there.
It’s comforting.
[we can go far] jim/pam, pg
With the night as our blanket
And Ghosts in the yard
You lean in close and say
I think we can go far
"Circus" - Crag Cardiff
::
It’s their first thanksgiving together, and after they get home (they go to her parents house because it’s closer and, well, she kind of likes the idea of neutral territory, always has) they lay on the floor near the fire and Pam swears she can still smell his mother’s turkey and stuffing. Her stomach grumbles. Jim smiles. There’s two wine glasses and half a bottle of champagne, soft music in playing in the background and they’re a bit tipsy.
“When we weren’t together,” Jim says, and he kind of chokes on the words and her heart does this funny little thing it always does when they broach this subject of before, that dark time she chooses to look back upon fondly, as a stepping stone of sorts because it’s so much easier than the alternative. “I used to place a pillow right here,” he pats his right shoulder, “so I could fall asleep.”
She smiles beautifully, teeth and all and does not tell him how she used to trace the lines of his face, backwards and forwards in her mind when she couldn’t sleep at night. How she bought his cologne and sprayed it on her pillow that first month so she could still smell him, so she could still have just that tiny little part of him.
Suddenly he’s sitting up and he’s pulling her ankles, dragging her towards him. She sits up in response and he pulls her even closer. Chest against chest, arms around his neck. She breathes him in, feels his hands on his face, his lips on her forehead. She feels complete, weightless. Perfect.
“God, I am so in love with you,” he whispers, his lips a mere breath away from hers and she kisses him, soft, leisurely, drawing it out, making a memory and somewhere in the deep contours of her mind, as his hand travels to her own and intertwines, she knows without a shadow of a doubt that this is it.
[a little bit of your song still in my ear] rufus/lily, pg
there’s still a little bit of your song in my ear
there’s still a little bit of your words I long to hear
you step a little closer to me
so close that I can´t see what´s going on
“Cannonball” - Damien Rice
::
It starts like this:
Twenty years earlier, a lifetime really, and there was a shared look across a crowded bar, his smile and eyes, a promise that kept her warm all night long. Lily was barely eighteen, all blonde hair and wide eyes, with a smile that brightened everything within reach. She’s carefree, happy, and her nails are painted jet black and her Doc Martens clash with her cut-off dress, and she does not care.
“Rufus,” he says, his head cocking to the side, just slightly, regarding her softly.
It’s instant, the connection, the attraction. It’s one of those rare moments that brings clarity and a smile, wide and shiny-bright, and she knows, even then, so young, that this is the beginning of something epic.
Lily had never believed in fairy-tales before him, and she never did believe in them after him, either.
Some things really are just once in a lifetime.