old drabbles, part 1 of 3
crossposted from killerbeautiful; part 1 of 4 : Crossovers and the_blank_slate-verse (because i have so many of them they need their own post).
BSG/Dark Tower : Kara Thrace, Alain Johns, gen
She'd been back to Delphi since the attack-- only once, and it hadn't been a long stay. Long enough to find out the truth about someone she'd thought was her friend, anyway. Long enough to rack up a few really bad memories-- ones she sure as frak wasn't looking forward to facing down alone.
She never knew whether to believe Alain when he said he hadn't used the Touch on her. Sure, he hadn't done it consciously. But with a thing like that, how could you know for sure you weren't using it? How could you tell when it stopped being a thing you did and started just being a thing you were? Either way, this time she wasn't gonna ask-- when he said he'd join her for her recon ride, she didn't argue or say anything at all, just moved her bag off the seat and put the mule in drive.
They drove in silence for a while. The cylons had done a good job cleaning up this part of the city before the humans took it back, but even now there were piles of rubble where houses used to be, and the token military presence did almost nothing to dispel the sense that this was a ghost town. It was unreal-- to Kara, who'd once spent every second of shore leave she could get immersed in Delphi's many distractions, it was hard to remember this was even the same city. Alain looked around them as the mule toiled through the streets, clearly interested by what he saw, but he didn't voice any of his thoughts until they reached where the park had once stood.
"Holy shit," Kara muttered as they swung the mule over a pile of ruined columns. She hadn't been here before, and now was glad she hadn't. Where once a long pool had sparkled in the sunlight, dappled with the occasional shadows of tall trees, now there was only rubble. The trees had burned along with several of the surrounding buildings, and the torn-up concrete was draped in a layer of fine white ash. It kicked up in swirls behind the mule as they passed, and Alain turned to watch behind them. "Gods, Kara," he said softly. She made a quiet scoffing sound. "My gods didn't have anything to do with this," she said, quiet fury underlining the words. "The god the toasters worship thinks humanity's a plague on the planet, and proved we didn't deserve to live by infiltrating us and turning our own weapons against us. That's what did this."
She couldn't resist sweeping around for another pass, pausing to idle in front of the fallen statue of Aphrodite, grief and anger burning in her throat like acid. She felt choked, sick, so enraged she was shocked her hands hadn't squeezed the steering wheel in half. Alain's eyes were on her face and she was sure he was seeing too much, but she couldn't compress it the way she did in front of the others. A few tears began to blur Kara's eyelids and she blinked them angrily away. His hand brushed over her shoulder, a brief gesture of comfort he could only have guessed she wanted. "I'm sorry," he said simply, and when she saw the depth of sympathy in his eyes she remembered with a jolt of understanding (and how could she have forgotten, she scolded herself) that he'd lost his home as well. Maybe worse than she had; he might die before they ever made it back, or they might find out later there was no way back. Her eyes focused forward again; down that road lay the potential for her ending up crying on his shoulder, and they had work to do. But she threw him a glance, a small smile, before she kicked the mule forward into drive again. "I'm sorry too," she said, hoping he could read her mind enough to see the thoughts that sat there-- the glasses, the guardians, the rose and tower she'd never seen, and a conviction freshly hammered home that there was more to this business of ka and ka-tet than she'd ever admit to aloud.
ASoIaF/Neverwhere : Croup and Vandemar, gen
When they were banished from London Below, they went elsewhere. They were nothing if not adaptable, and they traveled with a will, first to this world, then to that, never staying long. Long enough to do a few jobs here, a few jobs there, and then on again.
It wouldn't do to stay in one place too long, they reasoned. The last of the House of Arch could find them in other worlds if she so chose, and they were not inclined to be caught again.
It was months and months after Islington's imprisonment that Croup and Vandemar traveled to a place they'd never been before. Hot, it was really stinking hot out, the dust swirling around them and catching in their hair. "Well, Mr. Vandemar," said Croup, brushing off his shoulders with impeccable distaste. "It seems we've found ourselves somewhere new." Vandemar nodded. "Indeed, Mr. Croup, it is... most peculiar," he said, peering down his nose at a mangy dog worrying a bone. They were in a market- a bazaar, as such things were called, the brightly coloured awnings flapping merrily as the vendors hawked their wares as loudly as they could.
The assassins walked calmly through the crowd, pleased that it parted to give them space on either side, utterly ignoring the looks they got, both curious and fearful. Vandemar snagged a passing child by the shoulder. "What is this place?" he asked pleasantly, showing some teeth when he smiled. "This is Braavos," the child stammered. "And who rules here?" asked Mr. Croup equally pleasantly, his hand going to the boy's other shoulder. "Qu-Queen Daenerys," he stuttered, "th-there!"
They looked where the boy pointed, to a young woman-- a girl, really, she couldn't be more than sixteen or seventeen-- with ice-blond hair and an entourage of guards that looked, if possible, more barbarian than anything London Below had ever thought up. They approached, bowed low; oh yes, they were good at obeisance when the need arose; and offered their services. The young Queen was smart, they could see that, cutting through all their careful wording to the heart of what they did; what they were.
They retired to a pavilion to speak in private, where the pair explained in fuller detail what they did and how they wished to be paid. "And if I send you to someone-- anyone-- you will not hesitate?" she asked, her voice soft but strong, like velvet-wrapped steel. "My lady--" Croup began-- "Your Grace," Vandemar interrupted him, and Croup continued, "Hesitation is not in our vocabulary. Nor is mercy, nor failure. If you want someone gone, we will make him gone." The Queen tapped her chin thoughtfully, bent her head to whisper to the guard nearest her, a girl younger than herself and simply covered in weapons. The bells in her braid tinkled when she nodded, and the Queen straightened with a cool smile. "I believe we have an arrangement, then," she said with a graceful inclination of her head. "Take yourselves to Westeros then, my lords, and set yourselves upon the family called Lannister." She waved a hand, and a servant refilled their chilled wine. "My armies will not be far behind. You may take as your reward anything you find in the crypts and storage halls of King's Landing; and if you feel you need further recompense, I will settle all debts when I come in force to claim my kingdom." Just then there was a sweeping of wings, and a huge black dragon settled itself a few yards behind the pavilion, eyes gleaming in their direction. "Rest assured," she said coolly, "I do not plan to lose."
Croup and Vandemar grinned, sharp smiles full of teeth. Now this was an employer they could really enjoy working for.
Tortall/Discworld : Alanna of Trebond, Polly Perks, Maladicta, gen
"...and this is Maladict and I'm Oliver." The speaker was as young as Alan himself, beardless, probably had no idea how to handle that weapon he was carrying. Alan, at least, had a good sword at his side and knew what to do with it.1 And though these Borogravians claimed a war was on, Alan had heard that no one had seen any action in months. "It's mostly marching," Maladict agreed, his dark eyes lightly suspicious on Alan's face. Tucking back a strand of red hair, the new recruit assured him he was up to the task. "I've heard that one before," murmured the troll cleaning his nails nearby.
Late one night after they'd been marching for nearly three weeks, Alan woke late into the night to hear Maladict and Oliver arguing. "He's got the look," said Mal, a faint curl of smoke wafting up from his head. "You can't judge just on looks," Oliver maintained. He did not smoke, nor drink, nor do anything that might be considered a vice so far as Alan could see. "So what do you propose? Count to see if he's got an unusually large sock collection?" Alan's ears burned; he did have a few extra pairs, but what of it? So what if a man liked his feet to be dry? Didn't mean anything! "I don't know what I mean to do," Oliver said flatly. "But I do know you won't do anything til we agree about what to do." Alan could only see Mal's face; Oliver's was in shadow. Maladict did not look happy.2
A week later they reached an abandoned village with an empty inn. Oliver suggested they stay the night; Mal and Tonker and Lofty and Shufti and Igor were quick to agree. Alan didn't say anything. He vastly preferred the anonymity of roadside travel, when one bathed when and where one pleased, and didn't have to worry about anyone else nosing into one's business. But he soon discovered that his fellow soldiers were as jealous of their privacy as Alan was himself. He couldn't have been more pleased. The inn was large enough that they all had their own rooms. Oliver cooked dinner with the last remnants of supplies left in the larder and they sat down to eat. Soon they discovered the ale kept back in the cellar; soon after that they had abandoned eating entirely in favor of drinking and singing.
Alan was just drunk enough to be woozy. He was not woozy enough not to notice when the men of his company, who were all far more drunk than he was, started calling Oliver Polly. Or when Igor turned into Igorina. Mal was just Mal, but Alan could see the resemblance there too. Each slip was followed by a few smacks and a hasty correction of the proper name, but Alan kept on pretending he hadn't noticed a thing, and his fellows kept on pretending they hadn't messed up. Finally it was just he and Maladict left alone in the common room of the inn, just two drunken soliders eyeing each other rather warily over the remnants of a keg.
Mal looked like he wanted to say something, but he didn't know what. He kept starting to open his mouth, then filling it with ale instead. "As it happens," Alan said idly, draining the end of his own glass, "I have a hole in one of my extra pairs of socks. I have... quite a few, it's true, but... I was wondering if you had a kit to darn them with." He looked seriously at the other soldier with purple eyes full of honesty and amusement. "You never can have too many pairs of socks... right?" And then Maladict (whose name, Alan guessed, did not actually end with a consonant any more than his own did) actually smiled, and Alan smiled back. "Come see me in the morning," Mal promised.
"See you then," said Alan. He only stumbled twice on his way up to bed.
1 - For a given value of "knew". He'd watched enough swordfights to have the general principle down, and felt comfortable in the assertion that that would see him through most conflicts. That, and the idea that if you ran screaming at your enemy there was at least a fifty-fifty shot of him running away before you actually had to hit him.
2 - As much as Maladict ever looked happy, that is. Alan was beginning to have an idea that happy on Maladict looked about the same as mildly disgruntled on other people.
TR : Jon Snow/Susan Pevensie/Jay Guthrie
Susan tilted her head, looking at Jay with a little smile. "We're your friends, Jay. That's what we're here for, okay?"
Jay slumped forward, nearly collapsing in on himself. All of the crying he'd been putting off came roaring up through him like a hurricane, and his face crumpled. Blindly, choking on tears like he hadn't since he'd cradled Julia's cooling body, he reached his hands out for Jon and Susan.
They shifted closer, trying to be as near him as possible, trying to commute their love and sympathy to him, bigger than any words could say. Jon's temple nudged against Susan's cheek, his lips barely brushing Jay's forehead, and he thought for the briefest of moments he could hear their heartbeats join in one steady rhythm.
It was only a moment after that that Jon found himself eye to eye with his friend, the pain in his tear-clouded eyes too much for him to take. "Don't," he said softly, his hand lifting to cup Jay's cheek, their foreheads pressed together even as his other hand came to settle on the nape of Susan's neck. "Jay," she said quietly, dipping her head to rest on his shoulder, "we love you, you know." Jon could feel her fingers slide tentatively up his neck, and he shivered, the movement enough to shift his lips to brush Jay's in a light kiss. "We're here," he whispered, breathless from the lick of heat that swept through him at the touch, Jay's eyes bright and wide on his, his hand sliding through Susan's braid and undoing it as he pulled back to glance her way. Her eyes were dark and full of feeling, and from the way she squeezed his shoulder, he knew she felt the same as he. And then she'd turned her face toward Jay, her mouth sliding along his jaw while her fingers traced the line of his neck, and Jon was kissing him again, his palm pressed flat to his friend's chest just over his heart. Here, he seemed to say, here with us you're safe.
And for the next little while, as they sought to find a peaceful forgetfulness together, a bored white wolf stood guard outside the mouth of the cave.
TR : Narnia : Caspian/Eustace
Late at night Eustace tossed in his blankets like a fevered man, sleepless and troubled. Faces passed in front of his vision; faces dear and long mourned, of people loved and long ago lost. At last he dreamed, and in his dream he saw Narnia's rolling hills and sunny fields, the snapping pennants of Cair Paravel like a cheery welcome wave from an old friend.
He started awake with the Lion's name on his lips, falling back onto his pillow with tears of disappointment threatening to sting his eyes.
Nearby Caspian stirred, rolling over and looking his way; Eustace could see the gleam of his eyes in the moonlight. "You all right?" came the sleepy murmur, sounding closer than his eyes would have measured the distance. "Yes," he replied reluctantly, "just dreaming."
"I dream of it too," his friend admitted; he was more than half asleep, Eustace realized, the white flash of longing hitting him like a rock to the head as the clouds parted and Caspian's face was thrown into sharp relief. He was almost painfully beautiful; though it shamed Eustace to admit he looked, he couldn't deny it. "You should never have left," the young King added, his hand going drowsily to Eustace's shoulder, and from there to his neck, resting a moment before patting twice; friendly, but the hand stayed there.
"It's easier to bear with you here," Eustace said softly, compelled to truth by the still silence around them. "As it is for me, my friend," Caspian replied. "It was hardly the same without you." The long moment stretched between them, unmoving and quiet but for the sounds of their breathing; and then Eustace gave in and lifted his hand to cover Caspian's, fitting his fingers easily between his friend's. He wanted to reach for him, to pull him close and do-- he knew not what. Anything to ease the tightness in his chest, the jealous feeling that said You should be mine, mine as I am yours.
But Eustace was not yet as brave as that, and in the end he helped Caspian's hand off of his neck, squeezing gently before letting it go. "Go back to sleep," he murmured quietly. "I'll keep till the morning." Caspian nodded and was asleep again before another minute had passed; but Eustace stayed awake until the moonbeam lighting the planes of his friend's face was gone, and the world was dark enough to let him sleep again.
TR : RENT/Hellblazer : Mark Cohen/Chas Chandler
They were shitfaced, the way they were so often shitfaced these days-- that gorgeous friend of Snape's had somehow produced a cupboard full of booze that she said some guy had made from her honey stores, and they'd gotten into it with a will. Bitching, of course, the way they bitched whenever they got half-cocked and giddy, about being a rock-star's best friend and sometime lover; about the perks and quirks and basically how fucked up their relationships with their respective best friends were.
It didn't take long; once they wound down from hopping around yelling, they slumped onto the couch together, Mark's head on Chas's shoulder, his hand flopped loosely on the older man's knee. Chas said something Mark didn't catch, his voice a raspy rumble in his chest; and when Mark turned his face up to ask him to repeat it, he found Chas's lips dangerously close, his eyes dark and heady, boring into Mark's.
And what could he do then but close the gap? With a quiet little sound in the back of his throat he shifted up, his mouth open and warm and fit so easily to Chas's, one arm looping around his neck and pulling him down on top of him.
"We shouldn't," Chas breathed, "what about." But his mouth was hot on Mark's neck and his hand was quick on the zipper of his jeans, and Mark shook his head and shoved his glasses onto the coffee table, arching up against the body above him. "Fuck 'em," he muttered. "Who says rock stars get to have all the fun."
TR : RENT/Hellblazer : Mark Cohen/John Constantine
New York had once been a pond big enough for a small fish like Mark to get happily lost in. He'd relished it, the familiarity and the anonymity, the ability to know himself without anyone else having the same privilege.
But when Roger died, New York was suddenly too small, and Mark found he had to get away. Just for a few months, he assured them, the last few friends he had left alive and healthy. A few months, and I'll be back, I just can't stay right now.
So he went. Across the sea and touching down in London at eight a.m. on a Tuesday, with red eyes and rumpled hair and only the name (tucked carefully into his wallet) of someone to talk to about a place to live. Katy turned out to be cheery and sweet, and she didn't ask too many questions, which was even better than the other two put together. They found a routine, and Mark found a scene to lose himself in; filming during the day, the punk clubs at night, always coming home too drunk to give a shit that his bed was empty, or just drunk enough to be glad that it wasn't.
He'd been there nearly five months when he ran up to the bar to get a refill on his drink, and John Constantine was sitting on the stool next to him. Erstwhile dancing partner forgotten, he stared fish-mouthed for a minute, then took a chair and started talking. It was good to catch up; and selfishly, it was good to find someone whose life had gone almost as sharply downhill since returning from the island as his. They went outside for a cigarette and Mark wasn't surprised when he ended up with the bricks digging into his shoulder blades, his fingers fisting hard in John's hair as the older man's mouth moved over his.
It wasn't pretty, it wasn't graceful, and it sure as fuck wasn't any kind of fated encounter; the best part about it was, Mark reflected as he sucked his stomach in to let John's hand slip past his waistband, neither of them would give a shit if they never saw each other again after this. Neither of them really had it in them to care anymore, not about sex and certainly not about anyone they did it with.
And yet, even in spite of that there was a companionship in this, their broken solitude so dearly bought and fiercely held. They tumbled into John's bed an hour later, and Mark found he felt more at ease than he had in the entire span of days and weeks since he'd woken to find Roger cool and still in the hospital bed beside him. Rough hands and harsh mouth removed his ability to think, and he felt as he hadn't since, sensation and emotion he couldn't name overwhelming him; John's forehead bumped against his, Mark's name sounding hard and not at all reverent the way it used to when-- but no, he wasn't going there, and then it was all over, a shout and a clutching hand and his lips pressed hard to John's shoulder, thinking he could all but hear his heart beat.
And finally, for the first time in five and a half months, Mark slept without dreams.
TR : Veronica Mars / The Office : Eli Navarro / Pam Beesley
I know I got a reputation for being that guy that steals other guys' girls. It's not one I like, but I guess I came by it honestly. Still, it's one thing to go after a girl when she's got a man you hate or who you're just better than. It's another to sit drinkin' and flirtin' with a girl you call a friend when her husband's disappeared off the face of the earth, or as good as, not even two months earlier. But Pam's a good lookin' woman and I'm not about to turn her down when she asks me to keep her company at the election party. We end up on two of those big wood chairs by the fire with enough booze between the two of us to keep us going till dawn-- or till pass-out time, whichever comes first. She's knockin' em back pretty fast and I tell her to take it easy, but she gives me a look that just about melts the flesh off my face, and I see then that no matter how long it's been, she ain't done grievin', and prob'ly won't be for a while yet. So I just keep pace with her, steer us back to laughing territory, tryin' to ignore the looks we're gettin' from people who walk by. I can't tell if they're happy to see her out enjoying herself or concerned by her choice of company, but Pam doesn't seem to give a shit so I don't either. Even Echolls keeps it to himself when he walks by, just gives us a wave and tells her he's glad to see her. By the end of the night I can tell it's been good for her, even if she is gonna have a bitch of a headache in the morning. I tell her so while I walk her back to her hut-- practically carry her back, if you want the truth. "Will not," she tells me, sticking out her tongue. "Will so," I say, laughing. 'Sbeen awhile since I was around a girl who didn't mind being cute without bein' ironic about it. My arm's around her waist and she keeps lookin' up at me-- not too far up, I ain't that tall-- but just tall enough that she doesn't have to stretch too far to hop up and kiss me. I stop then, we're just a few yards from her hut and if she's gonna drag me inside I'm not gonna stop her, but I'm not gonna go without trying to make sure she's not gonna regret it in the morning. "Don't do this if you don't want to," I say, serious though I haven't pulled away from her yet. "You have to stay," she says with a sad little smile. "Who else am I going to send for a hangover cure in the morning?" She grabs my hands and pulls me inside, and I go with her. What can I say-- I'm a sucker for a damsel in distress.
TR : Narnia/HP : Lucy Pevensie, Ginny Weasley, gen
"He likes you," said Lucy authoritatively. "You're having me on," Ginny declared, sweeping her hair back from her face and adjusting her sunglasses. "I wouldn't do that to you!" Lucy protested, reaching for the frosted drink with the little umbrella in it that sat on the table between them. "Besides, he as good as told me."
Ginny looked skeptical. "Well what about you? What did he say about you and that friend of his?" Lucy rolled her eyes. "As if I'm interested in him anymore-- he told me bold as brass that I should be more careful riding in the woods alone. As if I couldn't take care of myself, even without that one around." Her bare toe nudged the belly of a sleeping direwolf nearby; two years old and near eleven stone, brindled grey and white, Valyria had scarcely left Lucy's side since the day she was born.
"Anyway," she went on, shifting on her lounge chair and settling back down again, "I heard he's been seeing whatshername, the blond one you went to school with." Ginny snorted. "Not likely. She's about as attentive to boys as Arya is to embroidery. Speaking of her, what about her boyfriend? He's got that friend, right? He's pretty cute." Lucy shrugged, grinning. "Very-- but also nearly ten years older than me. I do like the blond hair, though."
Ginny thought a moment, then shook her head. "I was going to suggest-- but it's too weird. I couldn't. He's Peter Pan, for Merlin's sakes!" They both dissolved into laughter, Ginny shaking her head to calm herself down. "The worst part is, you can never really tell when they might not interested in girls," she went on. "Alcuin, Will, Tim, you just never know. And that's not something I want to find out by trial and error!" she laughed.
Lucy sat up and pulled her hair back, reaching again for her drink with a sigh. "Sometimes it's awful living with your family," she confided. "According to them I'm still too young for a boyfriend-- at least I know that's what Peter would say, and Jon would probably agree with him for once, so that's that." Ginny gave a sympathetic smile. "With the Starks as your in-laws, you've got as many brothers as I have, huh." Lucy laughed. "Right, and mine are armed with swords and wolves. At this rate I'm going to be fifty before I find someone they all think is acceptable."
Lucy took another sip of her drink, and set it back down again. "But I stand by what I said earlier," she said, turning her head to the side to peer at her friend over the tops of her sunglasses. "He does like you." Ginny tried to scoff, but her face turned a shade pinker, and she was hard pressed to keep from smiling. Lucy laughed and turned back toward the sun. "It's alright. Better than someone awful, or someone I don't know. And besides which," she laughed, folding her arms behind her head with a satisfied grin, "if there's anyone in the world who can keep Edmund in line, it's you."
TR : ASoIaF/Narnia : Jon Snow/Susan Pevensie Snow (and their children :)), gen
Susan was in the solar when the raven arrived. Pure white with eyes black as coal, it landed on the sill and screeched. She jumped, then forced her hands to lay still on the desk for a moment before she stood and went to take the letter from its leg. Winter is coming, she thought as her fingers worked the twine. She knew what the white raven meant. This would be her third winter in Westeros; she was all too familiar with the change of the seasons.
The letter safely in her pocket, she put the raven in its cage and went to tell Bran it had arrived-- though, she allowed, he probably already knew. And indeed, he accepted her words without surprise. "I'll go see to feeding it and sending it back to the Citadel," he said, fingering his pale beard with a thoughtful smile. The wheeled chair she and Jon had brought back from the island was not useful in all parts of Winterfell, but they had rebuilt the main staircases and one entire tower with ramps beside all the stairs, that Bran might have more ease of movement. Her brother-in-law wheeled himself out of his library with practiced ease, and Susan watched him go with a light smile. Not everything about leaving was bad, she reminded herself. And surely her coming here had not been; if she had to leave her brothers and sister behind, better to find herself here than alone in London. Anything was better than that.
She walked deep in thought, moving toward her husband's study. Servants passed her on the stairs and bobbed curtseys, polite murmurs of "My Lady", returning the smiles she gave to one and all. She had had trouble in her youth determining whether she really missed being a Queen, or if it was simply Narnia itself she longed for; but now, as Lady of Winterfell and wife to the Warden of the North, she had to admit she enjoyed it. It was true that the North was no easy country to to love, but with Shadow at her side and her children stamped with the look of the Starks arrayed around her, she felt at home here as she knew Lady Catelyn never had.
Helen met her on the stairs. "Where did you come from?" she laughed, surveying her mud-covered daughter with bemused skepticism. "In the godswood," the girl breathed, pushing hair out of her face. At thirteen she was near as tall as Susan, and like to be taller before she was done. "Ned said he could hold his breath for longer underwater and I said I bet he couldn't, and when I won he knocked me in the mud." Susan opened her mouth to speak, but the words never came. "I did not!" came the shout from below, and the barefoot patter that heralded her middle son's approach. "You liar, you were the one who bet me and you tripped over a stupid root running away from me! I was only chasing her," he said contritely to his mother. "With handfuls of slime from the bottom of the pool!" his twin retorted, and Susan held out a hand to each to keep them separated. "Enough," she said, struggling to hold in a smile. "Go clean up, both of you, and don't come in here covered in muck again-- no matter where it came from," she added, her outflung hand forestalling her daughter's protest.
Outside the solar, she could hear her husband's voice and one other she guessed to be Bran Umber. She knocked, and immediately was called to enter. Inside, she found her husband and the grandson of the Greatjon standing over a table with papers strewn across it, a jug of heated wine and two goblets standing nearby. "Debating the plans again, my lords?" Susan asked, smiling. "Forgive me for disturbing you."
"My lady," Umber gave her a courteous bow, straightening with a smile. "My lady wife will thank you for the disturbance; I should have returned to our chambers an hour past. Jon, I will speak with you again later." Jon clapped his friend on the shoulder, and Umber took his leave, leaving Lord and Lady Snow alone in the solar. "Our children had a mudfight in the godswood," Susan informed him, her expression warring between bemused and serious. "I know," Jon said, pointing out the window to the view of the godswood below. "Helen almost got away," he said, a smile pulling at his mouth.
"The raven came from Oldtown this morning," she said as she came into the room, sliding an arm about his waist. "Winter is coming." He smiled, as he did whenever he heard her say the words, or saw her dressed in grey and white. "Your third one," he murmured, kissing the crown of her head. She reached up to tweak a lock of hair, still dark save for a few threads of grey starting at his temples. "Twenty years," she agreed, settling against his chest. "And we've often been told the worst winter is long behind us. Lucky that, hmm?" They had been gone just long enough for the war to end and the longest winter to pass, long enough for Daenerys Targaryen and her bastard husband to claim the Iron Throne, long enough to return to a world mostly at peace. "Lucky," Jon agreed, cupping her cheek with one hand, "though truly, not half so lucky as I am to have you returned to me." He kissed her with a smile, thankful as he had been every day of the twenty years she'd spent by his side. Whatever gods had brought her here, Aslan or the old gods of the Starks or the strange powers that had ordered the island, he thanked them fervently and without reservation. Whatever he and Susan had endured, whatever they would suffer in the future, they both felt that being together was worth the cost.
"We ought to plan to travel before autumn is truly underway," she said softly, tilting her head as Jon lightly nuzzled her neck. "Sansa will have delivered by now, and Arya will be home from Braavos in a month or less. Perhaps a trip to the Eyrie?" Her eyes fell shut and her fingers slipped through Jon's hair, freeing it from the tie that held it out of his face. "Perhaps," he murmured, sighing as she lifted his mouth to her own again. He tasted of the wine he'd been drinking, and she lingered at the kiss. When they finally parted, Susan's face was flushed and Jon was grinning. "My lady, I believe my thoughts have deserted me, and the only travel I am thinking of is upstairs to your bedchamber." Susan dropped her hands to his and pulled him toward the door, barely holding in a laugh. "My lord, I believe we are of the same mind."
TR: Labyrinth, semi-crossover w/Shakespeare : Jareth/Puck : rated PG13 ...i say semi-crossover because lyricality and i decided that for the purpose of labyrinth fic, all undergrounds/fairy worlds are the same world. this is my labyrinth canon, in other words. ;)
It made sense, after a fashion. They had left at points centuries apart; why then should he expect them to return together? But though their world was wide and deep, and before his eight-month holiday he would not have been able to tell the difference the presence of one spirit made.... now he could not say the same. Say true, the Underground was scarcely changed, the Labyrinth especially, which seemed to live and breathe with or without its ruler's instruction. It was the ruler who found himself unable to admit he was the one who had changed.
And he knew, too, that it was all a fool's gambit. There was nothing to tell him whether the Puck had returned to some point in the future or if he were simply off on another of Oberon's infamous errands. But he would never give the Summer King the satisfaction of asking after his servant. And so he was forced to wait-- and worse, forced to trust the sprite's affection to endure past the shores of the prison island. Trust did not make the Goblin King comfortable.
Day by day he made himself busy. There was enough to do, enough to oversee, enough abhorrent visits of state he hadn't made in decades. More often than not at night he fell into bed and was asleep before he had time to think. He'd never really needed sleep before the island, but now he craved it for the hours of unconsciousness it brought, which had heretofore only been accomplished through drink or spells. It was a relief, more than anything. One day flowed into the next, and the next, and the next, until it had been over a year since his return and not a sign of the Puck-- or his green king.
That changed on Midsummer. Insipid holiday, in Jareth's opinion, as if anyone needed an excuse to build a bonfire and go fuck in the woods. Even still, the goblins were simple creatures, and they built their fires early in the day in preparation for the long night ahead. It was afternoon when Hoggle came scraping into Jareth's courtyard, pausing by the fountain several paces behind where the Goblin King stood looking out over the serpentine walls and corridors below. "Your Majesty," he said, in the tone Jareth knew meant he did not come bearing good news.
"What is it," he demanded, half turning. "It's... well... the Summer King. And Queen. They are here... with their court." He cringed as Jareth turned to face him, though whether in fear of retribution or because he found the idea as distasteful as his master did, was unclear. "Very well," Jareth snapped. "Send them into the solar courtyard and have the servants bring refreshments." He stalked back into his bedchamber and quickly changed into something that would impress the Faery Queen and her retinue (including Oberon, the cuckold, though Jareth flattered himself that wouldn't require much). While fastening the lunar amulet around his neck, he glanced in a mirror, and couldn't help himself. With a pass of his palm over the surface, it shimmered, and the solar courtyard swam into view. Titania reclined on a chaise while the King of Faery occupied himself in flirting with one of her maids; here and there sprites and fairies of all sorts congregated and talked, the yard obviously abuzz with chatter though the mirror's image of it was silent.
Finally there was a split in the crowd and he could see. He simply stared for several minutes at the face he had begun to believe was gone from his life for good. Hair dark as night, impossibly bright eyes that hinted at starlight-- the metaphors were truly disgusting, but they had been penned by the best, and Jareth could not tear his eyes away. In truth, now faced with the actuality of the Puck in his castle, he found he was nervous. He stared and stared, until the damnable sprite looked up at him, saw him, and gave a little wave topped with that infuriating smirk of his.
With a wave of his hand Jareth banished the image. So he'd been caught-- what of it? It wasn't as if he'd expected Goodfellow to forget all the things that had been said between them on the island. He busied himself finding another pair of boots, to mask busying himself stilling his annoyingly persistent nerves. He was pulling one on when the voice came from the window, and he dropped it in surprise.
"It's not nice to spy on people." He sat on the sill, one foot tucked beneath him, the other dangling inside the room. He'd landed light as a bird and just as silent; there were white petals trapped in his hair. Insouciant as ever, there was no sign of travel-wear or worry about him. Infuriating creature-- if Jareth's heart hadn't nearly stopped with relief at seeing him, he'd have slapped him. "And since when have I ever been considerate of kindness?" the king asked, standing and crossing his arms over his chest. "Oh, never," the sprite obliged, hopping off the sill and adopting a similar pose, casually mocking. "It's actually one of your better qualities." He dropped his arms then and came further into the room, one step and then another, the aster petals falling from his hair and leaving a trail behind him. He began to circle the Goblin King where he stood, but Jareth pivoted on his heel and grabbed the Puck by the elbows. Still silent, the ancient eyes turned up to his, and Jareth's stomach dropped out from under him.
"Where have you been?" The whisper was almost desperate in its intensity. "Back there," was his simple answer, his hands skimming Jareth's waist, a look of haunted regret shading his face. "They told me you'd been back for a year... I only returned last week. This was the soonest I could make him leave." His head canted to the side, dark hair spilling over his shoulder. "I'm sorry you had to wait." The words were brief, no sign of deep emotion in them, but Jareth felt it nonetheless, saw it in the fluttering pulse at the faery's throat, and the relief was so great he could not tell if he had sighed it aloud or not. His hands slid up into Robin's hair, and he pressed his lips to the smooth forehead. "So am I," he murmured. He shut his eyes and breathed in the moment, feeling a loosening of the tension that had coiled around him since he'd woken up on the outskirts of the Labyrinth fourteen months ago.
He drew back with a smile curving his lips, the first one in months. "Now you may do some waiting-- at least until after I've feasted your damnable King."
BSG/Dark Tower : Kara Thrace, Alain Johns, gen
She'd been back to Delphi since the attack-- only once, and it hadn't been a long stay. Long enough to find out the truth about someone she'd thought was her friend, anyway. Long enough to rack up a few really bad memories-- ones she sure as frak wasn't looking forward to facing down alone.
She never knew whether to believe Alain when he said he hadn't used the Touch on her. Sure, he hadn't done it consciously. But with a thing like that, how could you know for sure you weren't using it? How could you tell when it stopped being a thing you did and started just being a thing you were? Either way, this time she wasn't gonna ask-- when he said he'd join her for her recon ride, she didn't argue or say anything at all, just moved her bag off the seat and put the mule in drive.
They drove in silence for a while. The cylons had done a good job cleaning up this part of the city before the humans took it back, but even now there were piles of rubble where houses used to be, and the token military presence did almost nothing to dispel the sense that this was a ghost town. It was unreal-- to Kara, who'd once spent every second of shore leave she could get immersed in Delphi's many distractions, it was hard to remember this was even the same city. Alain looked around them as the mule toiled through the streets, clearly interested by what he saw, but he didn't voice any of his thoughts until they reached where the park had once stood.
"Holy shit," Kara muttered as they swung the mule over a pile of ruined columns. She hadn't been here before, and now was glad she hadn't. Where once a long pool had sparkled in the sunlight, dappled with the occasional shadows of tall trees, now there was only rubble. The trees had burned along with several of the surrounding buildings, and the torn-up concrete was draped in a layer of fine white ash. It kicked up in swirls behind the mule as they passed, and Alain turned to watch behind them. "Gods, Kara," he said softly. She made a quiet scoffing sound. "My gods didn't have anything to do with this," she said, quiet fury underlining the words. "The god the toasters worship thinks humanity's a plague on the planet, and proved we didn't deserve to live by infiltrating us and turning our own weapons against us. That's what did this."
She couldn't resist sweeping around for another pass, pausing to idle in front of the fallen statue of Aphrodite, grief and anger burning in her throat like acid. She felt choked, sick, so enraged she was shocked her hands hadn't squeezed the steering wheel in half. Alain's eyes were on her face and she was sure he was seeing too much, but she couldn't compress it the way she did in front of the others. A few tears began to blur Kara's eyelids and she blinked them angrily away. His hand brushed over her shoulder, a brief gesture of comfort he could only have guessed she wanted. "I'm sorry," he said simply, and when she saw the depth of sympathy in his eyes she remembered with a jolt of understanding (and how could she have forgotten, she scolded herself) that he'd lost his home as well. Maybe worse than she had; he might die before they ever made it back, or they might find out later there was no way back. Her eyes focused forward again; down that road lay the potential for her ending up crying on his shoulder, and they had work to do. But she threw him a glance, a small smile, before she kicked the mule forward into drive again. "I'm sorry too," she said, hoping he could read her mind enough to see the thoughts that sat there-- the glasses, the guardians, the rose and tower she'd never seen, and a conviction freshly hammered home that there was more to this business of ka and ka-tet than she'd ever admit to aloud.
ASoIaF/Neverwhere : Croup and Vandemar, gen
When they were banished from London Below, they went elsewhere. They were nothing if not adaptable, and they traveled with a will, first to this world, then to that, never staying long. Long enough to do a few jobs here, a few jobs there, and then on again.
It wouldn't do to stay in one place too long, they reasoned. The last of the House of Arch could find them in other worlds if she so chose, and they were not inclined to be caught again.
It was months and months after Islington's imprisonment that Croup and Vandemar traveled to a place they'd never been before. Hot, it was really stinking hot out, the dust swirling around them and catching in their hair. "Well, Mr. Vandemar," said Croup, brushing off his shoulders with impeccable distaste. "It seems we've found ourselves somewhere new." Vandemar nodded. "Indeed, Mr. Croup, it is... most peculiar," he said, peering down his nose at a mangy dog worrying a bone. They were in a market- a bazaar, as such things were called, the brightly coloured awnings flapping merrily as the vendors hawked their wares as loudly as they could.
The assassins walked calmly through the crowd, pleased that it parted to give them space on either side, utterly ignoring the looks they got, both curious and fearful. Vandemar snagged a passing child by the shoulder. "What is this place?" he asked pleasantly, showing some teeth when he smiled. "This is Braavos," the child stammered. "And who rules here?" asked Mr. Croup equally pleasantly, his hand going to the boy's other shoulder. "Qu-Queen Daenerys," he stuttered, "th-there!"
They looked where the boy pointed, to a young woman-- a girl, really, she couldn't be more than sixteen or seventeen-- with ice-blond hair and an entourage of guards that looked, if possible, more barbarian than anything London Below had ever thought up. They approached, bowed low; oh yes, they were good at obeisance when the need arose; and offered their services. The young Queen was smart, they could see that, cutting through all their careful wording to the heart of what they did; what they were.
They retired to a pavilion to speak in private, where the pair explained in fuller detail what they did and how they wished to be paid. "And if I send you to someone-- anyone-- you will not hesitate?" she asked, her voice soft but strong, like velvet-wrapped steel. "My lady--" Croup began-- "Your Grace," Vandemar interrupted him, and Croup continued, "Hesitation is not in our vocabulary. Nor is mercy, nor failure. If you want someone gone, we will make him gone." The Queen tapped her chin thoughtfully, bent her head to whisper to the guard nearest her, a girl younger than herself and simply covered in weapons. The bells in her braid tinkled when she nodded, and the Queen straightened with a cool smile. "I believe we have an arrangement, then," she said with a graceful inclination of her head. "Take yourselves to Westeros then, my lords, and set yourselves upon the family called Lannister." She waved a hand, and a servant refilled their chilled wine. "My armies will not be far behind. You may take as your reward anything you find in the crypts and storage halls of King's Landing; and if you feel you need further recompense, I will settle all debts when I come in force to claim my kingdom." Just then there was a sweeping of wings, and a huge black dragon settled itself a few yards behind the pavilion, eyes gleaming in their direction. "Rest assured," she said coolly, "I do not plan to lose."
Croup and Vandemar grinned, sharp smiles full of teeth. Now this was an employer they could really enjoy working for.
Tortall/Discworld : Alanna of Trebond, Polly Perks, Maladicta, gen
"...and this is Maladict and I'm Oliver." The speaker was as young as Alan himself, beardless, probably had no idea how to handle that weapon he was carrying. Alan, at least, had a good sword at his side and knew what to do with it.1 And though these Borogravians claimed a war was on, Alan had heard that no one had seen any action in months. "It's mostly marching," Maladict agreed, his dark eyes lightly suspicious on Alan's face. Tucking back a strand of red hair, the new recruit assured him he was up to the task. "I've heard that one before," murmured the troll cleaning his nails nearby.
Late one night after they'd been marching for nearly three weeks, Alan woke late into the night to hear Maladict and Oliver arguing. "He's got the look," said Mal, a faint curl of smoke wafting up from his head. "You can't judge just on looks," Oliver maintained. He did not smoke, nor drink, nor do anything that might be considered a vice so far as Alan could see. "So what do you propose? Count to see if he's got an unusually large sock collection?" Alan's ears burned; he did have a few extra pairs, but what of it? So what if a man liked his feet to be dry? Didn't mean anything! "I don't know what I mean to do," Oliver said flatly. "But I do know you won't do anything til we agree about what to do." Alan could only see Mal's face; Oliver's was in shadow. Maladict did not look happy.2
A week later they reached an abandoned village with an empty inn. Oliver suggested they stay the night; Mal and Tonker and Lofty and Shufti and Igor were quick to agree. Alan didn't say anything. He vastly preferred the anonymity of roadside travel, when one bathed when and where one pleased, and didn't have to worry about anyone else nosing into one's business. But he soon discovered that his fellow soldiers were as jealous of their privacy as Alan was himself. He couldn't have been more pleased. The inn was large enough that they all had their own rooms. Oliver cooked dinner with the last remnants of supplies left in the larder and they sat down to eat. Soon they discovered the ale kept back in the cellar; soon after that they had abandoned eating entirely in favor of drinking and singing.
Alan was just drunk enough to be woozy. He was not woozy enough not to notice when the men of his company, who were all far more drunk than he was, started calling Oliver Polly. Or when Igor turned into Igorina. Mal was just Mal, but Alan could see the resemblance there too. Each slip was followed by a few smacks and a hasty correction of the proper name, but Alan kept on pretending he hadn't noticed a thing, and his fellows kept on pretending they hadn't messed up. Finally it was just he and Maladict left alone in the common room of the inn, just two drunken soliders eyeing each other rather warily over the remnants of a keg.
Mal looked like he wanted to say something, but he didn't know what. He kept starting to open his mouth, then filling it with ale instead. "As it happens," Alan said idly, draining the end of his own glass, "I have a hole in one of my extra pairs of socks. I have... quite a few, it's true, but... I was wondering if you had a kit to darn them with." He looked seriously at the other soldier with purple eyes full of honesty and amusement. "You never can have too many pairs of socks... right?" And then Maladict (whose name, Alan guessed, did not actually end with a consonant any more than his own did) actually smiled, and Alan smiled back. "Come see me in the morning," Mal promised.
"See you then," said Alan. He only stumbled twice on his way up to bed.
1 - For a given value of "knew". He'd watched enough swordfights to have the general principle down, and felt comfortable in the assertion that that would see him through most conflicts. That, and the idea that if you ran screaming at your enemy there was at least a fifty-fifty shot of him running away before you actually had to hit him.
2 - As much as Maladict ever looked happy, that is. Alan was beginning to have an idea that happy on Maladict looked about the same as mildly disgruntled on other people.
TR : Jon Snow/Susan Pevensie/Jay Guthrie
Susan tilted her head, looking at Jay with a little smile. "We're your friends, Jay. That's what we're here for, okay?"
Jay slumped forward, nearly collapsing in on himself. All of the crying he'd been putting off came roaring up through him like a hurricane, and his face crumpled. Blindly, choking on tears like he hadn't since he'd cradled Julia's cooling body, he reached his hands out for Jon and Susan.
They shifted closer, trying to be as near him as possible, trying to commute their love and sympathy to him, bigger than any words could say. Jon's temple nudged against Susan's cheek, his lips barely brushing Jay's forehead, and he thought for the briefest of moments he could hear their heartbeats join in one steady rhythm.
It was only a moment after that that Jon found himself eye to eye with his friend, the pain in his tear-clouded eyes too much for him to take. "Don't," he said softly, his hand lifting to cup Jay's cheek, their foreheads pressed together even as his other hand came to settle on the nape of Susan's neck. "Jay," she said quietly, dipping her head to rest on his shoulder, "we love you, you know." Jon could feel her fingers slide tentatively up his neck, and he shivered, the movement enough to shift his lips to brush Jay's in a light kiss. "We're here," he whispered, breathless from the lick of heat that swept through him at the touch, Jay's eyes bright and wide on his, his hand sliding through Susan's braid and undoing it as he pulled back to glance her way. Her eyes were dark and full of feeling, and from the way she squeezed his shoulder, he knew she felt the same as he. And then she'd turned her face toward Jay, her mouth sliding along his jaw while her fingers traced the line of his neck, and Jon was kissing him again, his palm pressed flat to his friend's chest just over his heart. Here, he seemed to say, here with us you're safe.
And for the next little while, as they sought to find a peaceful forgetfulness together, a bored white wolf stood guard outside the mouth of the cave.
TR : Narnia : Caspian/Eustace
Late at night Eustace tossed in his blankets like a fevered man, sleepless and troubled. Faces passed in front of his vision; faces dear and long mourned, of people loved and long ago lost. At last he dreamed, and in his dream he saw Narnia's rolling hills and sunny fields, the snapping pennants of Cair Paravel like a cheery welcome wave from an old friend.
He started awake with the Lion's name on his lips, falling back onto his pillow with tears of disappointment threatening to sting his eyes.
Nearby Caspian stirred, rolling over and looking his way; Eustace could see the gleam of his eyes in the moonlight. "You all right?" came the sleepy murmur, sounding closer than his eyes would have measured the distance. "Yes," he replied reluctantly, "just dreaming."
"I dream of it too," his friend admitted; he was more than half asleep, Eustace realized, the white flash of longing hitting him like a rock to the head as the clouds parted and Caspian's face was thrown into sharp relief. He was almost painfully beautiful; though it shamed Eustace to admit he looked, he couldn't deny it. "You should never have left," the young King added, his hand going drowsily to Eustace's shoulder, and from there to his neck, resting a moment before patting twice; friendly, but the hand stayed there.
"It's easier to bear with you here," Eustace said softly, compelled to truth by the still silence around them. "As it is for me, my friend," Caspian replied. "It was hardly the same without you." The long moment stretched between them, unmoving and quiet but for the sounds of their breathing; and then Eustace gave in and lifted his hand to cover Caspian's, fitting his fingers easily between his friend's. He wanted to reach for him, to pull him close and do-- he knew not what. Anything to ease the tightness in his chest, the jealous feeling that said You should be mine, mine as I am yours.
But Eustace was not yet as brave as that, and in the end he helped Caspian's hand off of his neck, squeezing gently before letting it go. "Go back to sleep," he murmured quietly. "I'll keep till the morning." Caspian nodded and was asleep again before another minute had passed; but Eustace stayed awake until the moonbeam lighting the planes of his friend's face was gone, and the world was dark enough to let him sleep again.
TR : RENT/Hellblazer : Mark Cohen/Chas Chandler
They were shitfaced, the way they were so often shitfaced these days-- that gorgeous friend of Snape's had somehow produced a cupboard full of booze that she said some guy had made from her honey stores, and they'd gotten into it with a will. Bitching, of course, the way they bitched whenever they got half-cocked and giddy, about being a rock-star's best friend and sometime lover; about the perks and quirks and basically how fucked up their relationships with their respective best friends were.
It didn't take long; once they wound down from hopping around yelling, they slumped onto the couch together, Mark's head on Chas's shoulder, his hand flopped loosely on the older man's knee. Chas said something Mark didn't catch, his voice a raspy rumble in his chest; and when Mark turned his face up to ask him to repeat it, he found Chas's lips dangerously close, his eyes dark and heady, boring into Mark's.
And what could he do then but close the gap? With a quiet little sound in the back of his throat he shifted up, his mouth open and warm and fit so easily to Chas's, one arm looping around his neck and pulling him down on top of him.
"We shouldn't," Chas breathed, "what about." But his mouth was hot on Mark's neck and his hand was quick on the zipper of his jeans, and Mark shook his head and shoved his glasses onto the coffee table, arching up against the body above him. "Fuck 'em," he muttered. "Who says rock stars get to have all the fun."
TR : RENT/Hellblazer : Mark Cohen/John Constantine
New York had once been a pond big enough for a small fish like Mark to get happily lost in. He'd relished it, the familiarity and the anonymity, the ability to know himself without anyone else having the same privilege.
But when Roger died, New York was suddenly too small, and Mark found he had to get away. Just for a few months, he assured them, the last few friends he had left alive and healthy. A few months, and I'll be back, I just can't stay right now.
So he went. Across the sea and touching down in London at eight a.m. on a Tuesday, with red eyes and rumpled hair and only the name (tucked carefully into his wallet) of someone to talk to about a place to live. Katy turned out to be cheery and sweet, and she didn't ask too many questions, which was even better than the other two put together. They found a routine, and Mark found a scene to lose himself in; filming during the day, the punk clubs at night, always coming home too drunk to give a shit that his bed was empty, or just drunk enough to be glad that it wasn't.
He'd been there nearly five months when he ran up to the bar to get a refill on his drink, and John Constantine was sitting on the stool next to him. Erstwhile dancing partner forgotten, he stared fish-mouthed for a minute, then took a chair and started talking. It was good to catch up; and selfishly, it was good to find someone whose life had gone almost as sharply downhill since returning from the island as his. They went outside for a cigarette and Mark wasn't surprised when he ended up with the bricks digging into his shoulder blades, his fingers fisting hard in John's hair as the older man's mouth moved over his.
It wasn't pretty, it wasn't graceful, and it sure as fuck wasn't any kind of fated encounter; the best part about it was, Mark reflected as he sucked his stomach in to let John's hand slip past his waistband, neither of them would give a shit if they never saw each other again after this. Neither of them really had it in them to care anymore, not about sex and certainly not about anyone they did it with.
And yet, even in spite of that there was a companionship in this, their broken solitude so dearly bought and fiercely held. They tumbled into John's bed an hour later, and Mark found he felt more at ease than he had in the entire span of days and weeks since he'd woken to find Roger cool and still in the hospital bed beside him. Rough hands and harsh mouth removed his ability to think, and he felt as he hadn't since, sensation and emotion he couldn't name overwhelming him; John's forehead bumped against his, Mark's name sounding hard and not at all reverent the way it used to when-- but no, he wasn't going there, and then it was all over, a shout and a clutching hand and his lips pressed hard to John's shoulder, thinking he could all but hear his heart beat.
And finally, for the first time in five and a half months, Mark slept without dreams.
TR : Veronica Mars / The Office : Eli Navarro / Pam Beesley
I know I got a reputation for being that guy that steals other guys' girls. It's not one I like, but I guess I came by it honestly. Still, it's one thing to go after a girl when she's got a man you hate or who you're just better than. It's another to sit drinkin' and flirtin' with a girl you call a friend when her husband's disappeared off the face of the earth, or as good as, not even two months earlier. But Pam's a good lookin' woman and I'm not about to turn her down when she asks me to keep her company at the election party. We end up on two of those big wood chairs by the fire with enough booze between the two of us to keep us going till dawn-- or till pass-out time, whichever comes first. She's knockin' em back pretty fast and I tell her to take it easy, but she gives me a look that just about melts the flesh off my face, and I see then that no matter how long it's been, she ain't done grievin', and prob'ly won't be for a while yet. So I just keep pace with her, steer us back to laughing territory, tryin' to ignore the looks we're gettin' from people who walk by. I can't tell if they're happy to see her out enjoying herself or concerned by her choice of company, but Pam doesn't seem to give a shit so I don't either. Even Echolls keeps it to himself when he walks by, just gives us a wave and tells her he's glad to see her. By the end of the night I can tell it's been good for her, even if she is gonna have a bitch of a headache in the morning. I tell her so while I walk her back to her hut-- practically carry her back, if you want the truth. "Will not," she tells me, sticking out her tongue. "Will so," I say, laughing. 'Sbeen awhile since I was around a girl who didn't mind being cute without bein' ironic about it. My arm's around her waist and she keeps lookin' up at me-- not too far up, I ain't that tall-- but just tall enough that she doesn't have to stretch too far to hop up and kiss me. I stop then, we're just a few yards from her hut and if she's gonna drag me inside I'm not gonna stop her, but I'm not gonna go without trying to make sure she's not gonna regret it in the morning. "Don't do this if you don't want to," I say, serious though I haven't pulled away from her yet. "You have to stay," she says with a sad little smile. "Who else am I going to send for a hangover cure in the morning?" She grabs my hands and pulls me inside, and I go with her. What can I say-- I'm a sucker for a damsel in distress.
TR : Narnia/HP : Lucy Pevensie, Ginny Weasley, gen
"He likes you," said Lucy authoritatively. "You're having me on," Ginny declared, sweeping her hair back from her face and adjusting her sunglasses. "I wouldn't do that to you!" Lucy protested, reaching for the frosted drink with the little umbrella in it that sat on the table between them. "Besides, he as good as told me."
Ginny looked skeptical. "Well what about you? What did he say about you and that friend of his?" Lucy rolled her eyes. "As if I'm interested in him anymore-- he told me bold as brass that I should be more careful riding in the woods alone. As if I couldn't take care of myself, even without that one around." Her bare toe nudged the belly of a sleeping direwolf nearby; two years old and near eleven stone, brindled grey and white, Valyria had scarcely left Lucy's side since the day she was born.
"Anyway," she went on, shifting on her lounge chair and settling back down again, "I heard he's been seeing whatshername, the blond one you went to school with." Ginny snorted. "Not likely. She's about as attentive to boys as Arya is to embroidery. Speaking of her, what about her boyfriend? He's got that friend, right? He's pretty cute." Lucy shrugged, grinning. "Very-- but also nearly ten years older than me. I do like the blond hair, though."
Ginny thought a moment, then shook her head. "I was going to suggest-- but it's too weird. I couldn't. He's Peter Pan, for Merlin's sakes!" They both dissolved into laughter, Ginny shaking her head to calm herself down. "The worst part is, you can never really tell when they might not interested in girls," she went on. "Alcuin, Will, Tim, you just never know. And that's not something I want to find out by trial and error!" she laughed.
Lucy sat up and pulled her hair back, reaching again for her drink with a sigh. "Sometimes it's awful living with your family," she confided. "According to them I'm still too young for a boyfriend-- at least I know that's what Peter would say, and Jon would probably agree with him for once, so that's that." Ginny gave a sympathetic smile. "With the Starks as your in-laws, you've got as many brothers as I have, huh." Lucy laughed. "Right, and mine are armed with swords and wolves. At this rate I'm going to be fifty before I find someone they all think is acceptable."
Lucy took another sip of her drink, and set it back down again. "But I stand by what I said earlier," she said, turning her head to the side to peer at her friend over the tops of her sunglasses. "He does like you." Ginny tried to scoff, but her face turned a shade pinker, and she was hard pressed to keep from smiling. Lucy laughed and turned back toward the sun. "It's alright. Better than someone awful, or someone I don't know. And besides which," she laughed, folding her arms behind her head with a satisfied grin, "if there's anyone in the world who can keep Edmund in line, it's you."
TR : ASoIaF/Narnia : Jon Snow/Susan Pevensie Snow (and their children :)), gen
Susan was in the solar when the raven arrived. Pure white with eyes black as coal, it landed on the sill and screeched. She jumped, then forced her hands to lay still on the desk for a moment before she stood and went to take the letter from its leg. Winter is coming, she thought as her fingers worked the twine. She knew what the white raven meant. This would be her third winter in Westeros; she was all too familiar with the change of the seasons.
The letter safely in her pocket, she put the raven in its cage and went to tell Bran it had arrived-- though, she allowed, he probably already knew. And indeed, he accepted her words without surprise. "I'll go see to feeding it and sending it back to the Citadel," he said, fingering his pale beard with a thoughtful smile. The wheeled chair she and Jon had brought back from the island was not useful in all parts of Winterfell, but they had rebuilt the main staircases and one entire tower with ramps beside all the stairs, that Bran might have more ease of movement. Her brother-in-law wheeled himself out of his library with practiced ease, and Susan watched him go with a light smile. Not everything about leaving was bad, she reminded herself. And surely her coming here had not been; if she had to leave her brothers and sister behind, better to find herself here than alone in London. Anything was better than that.
She walked deep in thought, moving toward her husband's study. Servants passed her on the stairs and bobbed curtseys, polite murmurs of "My Lady", returning the smiles she gave to one and all. She had had trouble in her youth determining whether she really missed being a Queen, or if it was simply Narnia itself she longed for; but now, as Lady of Winterfell and wife to the Warden of the North, she had to admit she enjoyed it. It was true that the North was no easy country to to love, but with Shadow at her side and her children stamped with the look of the Starks arrayed around her, she felt at home here as she knew Lady Catelyn never had.
Helen met her on the stairs. "Where did you come from?" she laughed, surveying her mud-covered daughter with bemused skepticism. "In the godswood," the girl breathed, pushing hair out of her face. At thirteen she was near as tall as Susan, and like to be taller before she was done. "Ned said he could hold his breath for longer underwater and I said I bet he couldn't, and when I won he knocked me in the mud." Susan opened her mouth to speak, but the words never came. "I did not!" came the shout from below, and the barefoot patter that heralded her middle son's approach. "You liar, you were the one who bet me and you tripped over a stupid root running away from me! I was only chasing her," he said contritely to his mother. "With handfuls of slime from the bottom of the pool!" his twin retorted, and Susan held out a hand to each to keep them separated. "Enough," she said, struggling to hold in a smile. "Go clean up, both of you, and don't come in here covered in muck again-- no matter where it came from," she added, her outflung hand forestalling her daughter's protest.
Outside the solar, she could hear her husband's voice and one other she guessed to be Bran Umber. She knocked, and immediately was called to enter. Inside, she found her husband and the grandson of the Greatjon standing over a table with papers strewn across it, a jug of heated wine and two goblets standing nearby. "Debating the plans again, my lords?" Susan asked, smiling. "Forgive me for disturbing you."
"My lady," Umber gave her a courteous bow, straightening with a smile. "My lady wife will thank you for the disturbance; I should have returned to our chambers an hour past. Jon, I will speak with you again later." Jon clapped his friend on the shoulder, and Umber took his leave, leaving Lord and Lady Snow alone in the solar. "Our children had a mudfight in the godswood," Susan informed him, her expression warring between bemused and serious. "I know," Jon said, pointing out the window to the view of the godswood below. "Helen almost got away," he said, a smile pulling at his mouth.
"The raven came from Oldtown this morning," she said as she came into the room, sliding an arm about his waist. "Winter is coming." He smiled, as he did whenever he heard her say the words, or saw her dressed in grey and white. "Your third one," he murmured, kissing the crown of her head. She reached up to tweak a lock of hair, still dark save for a few threads of grey starting at his temples. "Twenty years," she agreed, settling against his chest. "And we've often been told the worst winter is long behind us. Lucky that, hmm?" They had been gone just long enough for the war to end and the longest winter to pass, long enough for Daenerys Targaryen and her bastard husband to claim the Iron Throne, long enough to return to a world mostly at peace. "Lucky," Jon agreed, cupping her cheek with one hand, "though truly, not half so lucky as I am to have you returned to me." He kissed her with a smile, thankful as he had been every day of the twenty years she'd spent by his side. Whatever gods had brought her here, Aslan or the old gods of the Starks or the strange powers that had ordered the island, he thanked them fervently and without reservation. Whatever he and Susan had endured, whatever they would suffer in the future, they both felt that being together was worth the cost.
"We ought to plan to travel before autumn is truly underway," she said softly, tilting her head as Jon lightly nuzzled her neck. "Sansa will have delivered by now, and Arya will be home from Braavos in a month or less. Perhaps a trip to the Eyrie?" Her eyes fell shut and her fingers slipped through Jon's hair, freeing it from the tie that held it out of his face. "Perhaps," he murmured, sighing as she lifted his mouth to her own again. He tasted of the wine he'd been drinking, and she lingered at the kiss. When they finally parted, Susan's face was flushed and Jon was grinning. "My lady, I believe my thoughts have deserted me, and the only travel I am thinking of is upstairs to your bedchamber." Susan dropped her hands to his and pulled him toward the door, barely holding in a laugh. "My lord, I believe we are of the same mind."
TR: Labyrinth, semi-crossover w/Shakespeare : Jareth/Puck : rated PG13 ...i say semi-crossover because lyricality and i decided that for the purpose of labyrinth fic, all undergrounds/fairy worlds are the same world. this is my labyrinth canon, in other words. ;)
It made sense, after a fashion. They had left at points centuries apart; why then should he expect them to return together? But though their world was wide and deep, and before his eight-month holiday he would not have been able to tell the difference the presence of one spirit made.... now he could not say the same. Say true, the Underground was scarcely changed, the Labyrinth especially, which seemed to live and breathe with or without its ruler's instruction. It was the ruler who found himself unable to admit he was the one who had changed.
And he knew, too, that it was all a fool's gambit. There was nothing to tell him whether the Puck had returned to some point in the future or if he were simply off on another of Oberon's infamous errands. But he would never give the Summer King the satisfaction of asking after his servant. And so he was forced to wait-- and worse, forced to trust the sprite's affection to endure past the shores of the prison island. Trust did not make the Goblin King comfortable.
Day by day he made himself busy. There was enough to do, enough to oversee, enough abhorrent visits of state he hadn't made in decades. More often than not at night he fell into bed and was asleep before he had time to think. He'd never really needed sleep before the island, but now he craved it for the hours of unconsciousness it brought, which had heretofore only been accomplished through drink or spells. It was a relief, more than anything. One day flowed into the next, and the next, and the next, until it had been over a year since his return and not a sign of the Puck-- or his green king.
That changed on Midsummer. Insipid holiday, in Jareth's opinion, as if anyone needed an excuse to build a bonfire and go fuck in the woods. Even still, the goblins were simple creatures, and they built their fires early in the day in preparation for the long night ahead. It was afternoon when Hoggle came scraping into Jareth's courtyard, pausing by the fountain several paces behind where the Goblin King stood looking out over the serpentine walls and corridors below. "Your Majesty," he said, in the tone Jareth knew meant he did not come bearing good news.
"What is it," he demanded, half turning. "It's... well... the Summer King. And Queen. They are here... with their court." He cringed as Jareth turned to face him, though whether in fear of retribution or because he found the idea as distasteful as his master did, was unclear. "Very well," Jareth snapped. "Send them into the solar courtyard and have the servants bring refreshments." He stalked back into his bedchamber and quickly changed into something that would impress the Faery Queen and her retinue (including Oberon, the cuckold, though Jareth flattered himself that wouldn't require much). While fastening the lunar amulet around his neck, he glanced in a mirror, and couldn't help himself. With a pass of his palm over the surface, it shimmered, and the solar courtyard swam into view. Titania reclined on a chaise while the King of Faery occupied himself in flirting with one of her maids; here and there sprites and fairies of all sorts congregated and talked, the yard obviously abuzz with chatter though the mirror's image of it was silent.
Finally there was a split in the crowd and he could see. He simply stared for several minutes at the face he had begun to believe was gone from his life for good. Hair dark as night, impossibly bright eyes that hinted at starlight-- the metaphors were truly disgusting, but they had been penned by the best, and Jareth could not tear his eyes away. In truth, now faced with the actuality of the Puck in his castle, he found he was nervous. He stared and stared, until the damnable sprite looked up at him, saw him, and gave a little wave topped with that infuriating smirk of his.
With a wave of his hand Jareth banished the image. So he'd been caught-- what of it? It wasn't as if he'd expected Goodfellow to forget all the things that had been said between them on the island. He busied himself finding another pair of boots, to mask busying himself stilling his annoyingly persistent nerves. He was pulling one on when the voice came from the window, and he dropped it in surprise.
"It's not nice to spy on people." He sat on the sill, one foot tucked beneath him, the other dangling inside the room. He'd landed light as a bird and just as silent; there were white petals trapped in his hair. Insouciant as ever, there was no sign of travel-wear or worry about him. Infuriating creature-- if Jareth's heart hadn't nearly stopped with relief at seeing him, he'd have slapped him. "And since when have I ever been considerate of kindness?" the king asked, standing and crossing his arms over his chest. "Oh, never," the sprite obliged, hopping off the sill and adopting a similar pose, casually mocking. "It's actually one of your better qualities." He dropped his arms then and came further into the room, one step and then another, the aster petals falling from his hair and leaving a trail behind him. He began to circle the Goblin King where he stood, but Jareth pivoted on his heel and grabbed the Puck by the elbows. Still silent, the ancient eyes turned up to his, and Jareth's stomach dropped out from under him.
"Where have you been?" The whisper was almost desperate in its intensity. "Back there," was his simple answer, his hands skimming Jareth's waist, a look of haunted regret shading his face. "They told me you'd been back for a year... I only returned last week. This was the soonest I could make him leave." His head canted to the side, dark hair spilling over his shoulder. "I'm sorry you had to wait." The words were brief, no sign of deep emotion in them, but Jareth felt it nonetheless, saw it in the fluttering pulse at the faery's throat, and the relief was so great he could not tell if he had sighed it aloud or not. His hands slid up into Robin's hair, and he pressed his lips to the smooth forehead. "So am I," he murmured. He shut his eyes and breathed in the moment, feeling a loosening of the tension that had coiled around him since he'd woken up on the outskirts of the Labyrinth fourteen months ago.
He drew back with a smile curving his lips, the first one in months. "Now you may do some waiting-- at least until after I've feasted your damnable King."