12 Drabbles

[cest_what]

These were all written for the First Lines meme, over at my other journal; each starts with the first line of another fic. (Note that some of the linked fics are not safe for work, but all of the drabbles are.)

HARRY POTTER

Intent
for redorchids' Wade in the Water

“I think Cedric Diggory just tried to hit on me.”

Pansy gave Draco a pitying look. "Oh, yes?" she said.

"No, really." Draco grabbed her arm, catching up to her. "He passed me in the corridor, and he looked at me."

Pansy waited.

Draco raised his eyebrows. "With intent," he said. "I think he was about to say something, but then there were a bunch of Ravenclaw girls who wanted him to sign their ties. It was a bit pathetic."

"Uh huh," Pansy said.

HIKARU NO GO

Dogs and Theories of Evolution
for sarasusa's Breaks and Buds

(or AO3 link)

With typical disregard for the Touya salon's rarefied atmosphere and his own safety, Shindou skids into the back room like he's sliding into home plate.

Akira looks up from the calculus homework he's been trying to get through while he waits for Shindou. He frowns at the ornamental rug Shindou's sliding has bunched up.

"Touya!" Shindou says, his eyes bright. "Come, come quick!"

Akira narrows his eyes. "Can't you walk into the room like a civilised person?"

Shindou ignores this, already retreating back to the door. "Hurry," he says. "There's a puppy, and it's stuck in a tree."

"There's a..." Akira blinks at the empty doorway. "That's not even possible." He bites his lip for a second, then puts his calculator down and strides through the salon.

"Shindou, there can't be a dog up a tree," he insists as he comes out onto the street. There is, though. A small crowd of observers has gathered at the base of the tree over the road, and in its branches a labrador puppy is whining and scrabbling at the bark.

Shindou grabs Akira's arm and tows him over. "I think it must have got out a window and come across the roof," he says, and when he looks Akira sees that there is a roof that juts against the tree.

Akira thinks it must still be the dimmest puppy of its generation. How many dogs get stuck in trees? Especially before they're a year old.

"Careful!" Akira pulls Shindou out of the path of an oncoming car.

"Wha -? Oh, right." Shindou smiles at him distractedly. "I need you to give me a leg up so I can reach it." His attention is already back on the dog-in-tree.

Akira thinks about this for as long as it takes to realise that the person not giving the other a leg up will have to be the one climbing the tree.

It really is the stupidest puppy in the world. It flails at Shindou when he reaches it, trying to lick him and climb up him at the same time, claws scoring at his chest, and nearly sends them both tumbling out of the tree. Finally Shindou manages to get the puppy into his arms, and he climbs carefully back down, steady concentration in his eyes. He uses Akira's linked hands as a foothold again to get back to the pavement, and Akira ends up with a faceful of puppy. He squirms away, wiping his nose, as a ragged cheer goes up from the small group watching.

Shindou's grinning, his clothes scuffed and dirtied and a long scratch across his jaw. It makes Akira look at his mouth. He flushes, turning away.

"Now can we play go?" he asks.

Shindou's examining the puppy's collar. "There's a phone number!" he says. "I bet they'll be glad to get their dog back."

Akira looks at the accident of evolution currently whining and licking Shindou's face, and isn't so sure. But -

"You can call from the salon," he says, reluctantly. They're not going to have time for any go at all if Shindou's hanging around playing with a puppy. And probably some of the patrons will be scared of dogs, and the salon will be visited by health inspectors.

Shindou smiles blindingly bright and bumps Akira's shoulder as they turn back. He adjusts the dog in his arms. "We saved a puppy," he says happily.

Akira's having trouble looking away from the smile, or the way Shindou's bangs fall into his eyes as he looks down at the squirming dog. He maybe loses his breath a little.

The puppy's still a moron, though.

BANDOM

Shadow Strangers
for softlyforgotten's Did You Think That You Were Dreaming?

In the shadows, they stand like a set of oddly taken photographs: edges dark and clear cut, faces hazy, shadow-territory.

Spencer knows that you're not supposed to make any sudden movements. They're drawn to heat, and to kinetic energy, and if you stay still, sometimes they'll pass you over entirely. He always assumed that's what he'd do, if he was ever unlucky enough to see them, to be in their path. As kids, he and Ryan had actually practised it: games in which they'd stand in frozen poses in the back yard, scaring each other with the shadowmen they only half believed in. Spencer would do that now, he really would.

Except that as it turns out, when he sees the shadowmen this time, it's because he was looking for them. When he sees them this time, it isn't the first.

The first was the time they took Ryan.

Respect the Classics
for shihadchick's From a Cabin in the Middle of the Mountains

(or AO3 link)

"This may not have been our best idea," Spencer says, sitting down beside Jon, and not bothering to wait for an invitation to help himself to a smoke from his pack. He needs one now, seriously.

There's a thump and a shouted profanity from the storeroom behind them, and Spencer sets his shoulders to the door more firmly. It's locked, but you never know: schools probably cheap out on that kind of thing.

Jon stretches his legs out into the corridor. "This is the classic idea, Spence," he says. "You don't mess with the classics." He offers Spencer an easy smile and a light.

There's a particularly vicious kick to the door just behind Spencer's shoulderblades, and he winces. Ryan's still shouting muffled threats through the door - or muffled somethings, since it's a pretty good door and Spencer can't actually make out what he's saying. He hopes it's not Brendon upended a can of turpentine and we're passing out from the fumes or something. It would suck to accidentally kill their singer and guitarist in the name of intra-band harmony.

"So, uh," Spencer says. "How long do you think it'll take?" If it works. It won't work. It works in, like, slapstick comedy.

There's another thump and Jon grins. "It just has to be long enough that they, you know, unite with each other about what assholes you and me are," he says, and Spencer wishes he was enjoying this as much as Jon is. He takes a drag, and thinks that he should be enjoying it, kicking back in a school corridor after hours with Jon Walker and a packet of smokes. Spencer of a year ago would have found the image too cool to be real.

There's another kick and then something that Spencer interprets as one of them sliding their back down the door to sit on the floor. It's a pretty small storeroom, so they must be sitting pretty close together.

"I think your plan has a flaw," Spencer says. (It was a joint plan before he started picking holes in it: now it's definitely Jon's plan.) "Explain how the two of them being mad at us is actually better than them being mad at each other?"

"Aw, Spence," Jon says, "Ryan would never stay mad at you. And I am categorically impossible to be angry at for longer than half an hour; scientists have verified it."

He grins, and maybe he has a point. That should have come across as a lot more obnoxious than it did.

Jon taps ash onto the floor and bumps their shoulders together. "We have a show on Saturday," he reminds Spencer, more seriously. "A paying show. We need to all be able to at least share the same stage by then."

Spencer sighs, bumping his shoulder back and then just kind of leaving it there, leaning on Jon. "Yeah," he says.

Spencer passes one of the buds of his iPod up to Jon, and after that Ryan and Brendon don't make any noise at all. Maybe it'll work after all. Ten thousand teen movies can't be wrong, can they?

It's still a shock when they pull the door open and Ryan and Brendon don't even notice, wrapped up in each other and kissing against the back wall.

Toy Story Christmas
for frankkincense's If the Moon's a Balloon

(or AO3 link)

As Christmas tree fairies went, Brendon knew he was pretty unconventional. Strictly speaking he wasn't a Christmas tree fairy at all; he was a sailor doll. But the girl had twined a tiny crown of holly around his hat and set him in the top branches of the Christmas tree, and now Brendon was basically king of the den and it was awesome.

Except that the den was a long way from the playroom, and Brendon wasn't used to spending the night alone. He swung his legs, holding onto the branch with both hands. He could see the whole room from here, holly along the mantel and coloured-paper parcels under the tree, the fairy lights giving everything a low golden glow. The star above Brendon's head shone brighter, the faceted points throwing tangled light shapes against the ceiling.

Brendon was trying hard not to be lonely.

A scrambling noise to his left made him jump and look around. Ryan was pulling himself the last bit up onto the mantelpiece. He flopped down, puffing, and gave Brendon a weak wave.

Brendon stood up in alarm, making the branch wobble and all its baubles bob and sway. "What's - is something wrong? Did something happen?"

Ryan was a cowboy doll, with spurs and a waistcoat and a coloured kerchief around his neck, but he also had hearts and birds inked high onto his cheeks, from the time the girl had had a creative fit. Bendon had thought he'd be annoyed about it, but after she'd gone he'd crept to a mirror and put his hand to his cheek, and then he'd smiled, small and delighted.

Now he blinked at Brendon. "I just came to say hello," he said. As if it was perfectly normal to trek down the stairs and all the way across the house and scale the mantelpiece just to say hello. He grinned at Brendon. "I like the tree."

Brendon smiled so wide it hurt. "Isn't it awesome? Did you see all the presents?" He sat back down on the branch, kicking his legs. "New toys tomorrow."

Ryan leaned forward, looking at the brightly wrapped shapes under the tree. "I heard them asking their parents for a Jonathan Lightyear," he confided.

Brendon eyed the presents, leaning over the side of the branch. "That box at the end might be big enough," he allowed. (He was pretty sure Jonathan Lightyear came with his own spaceship.)

He straightened back up, grinning at Ryan because he couldn't help himself. Ryan leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. "Happy Christmas, Brendon," he said quietly.

City Forsaken
for harborshore's New Year's Eve in the New York City where music isn't allowed

(or AO3 link)

There are no fireworks, no partying, no shouting "Happy New Year!" at passers-by. The streets are empty, the emptiness somehow spilling into the buildings around until Tennessee can't believe there's anything alive in the city.

It's freaking her out a lot.

"... the fuck," Charlotte growls. She eases the throttle on her bike, turning into a stop on the pavement. Tennessee pulls up a moment later, under the light of a streetlamp that spills bright illumination onto the emptiness in every direction.

It's New Year's Eve, Tennessee thinks, hysterically. New Year's Eve in the biggest party town on the east coast. It isn't possible that the streets could be deserted.

Charlotte pulls her helmet off, and without the visor Tennessee can see it when she pulls a face. "What on earth," she calls, and Tennessee makes a helpless gesture.

They ride on because what else can they do? If there's no party they at least have to find somewhere to spend the night. The further they go the more creeped out Tennessee gets, though. They speed down streets lined with inner city clubs, neon blinking and glowing, and nobody anywhere. Tennessee can't keep her eyes from straying to Charlotte again and again, a black leather figure on her red bike; can't help being nervous that she'll look away and Charlotte will be gone too.

That's why it's Charlotte who sees, rather than Tennessee; Charlotte who screeches to a stop, momentum nearly throwing her over her handle bars. Tennessee roars around in a tight semi-circle, pulling back to where Charlotte has jumped off her bike, kicking the stand down and abondoning it in the road.

Tennessee pushes her visor up, staring as Charlotte runs her hands over the words spray painted in huge black letters across the wall.

IS THERE ANYBODY ELSE HERE?

PLEASE FIND ME.

Tennessee climbs off her bike, leaving it at an acute angle to Charlotte's, there in the road. She comes up to Charlotte's shoulder, curling an arm around Charlotte's waist so that she can feel the heat of a human body. The last part of the message is simply:

My name is Z.

Hauntings
for jae_w's A Marriage of Convenience

"You're not the first one to do it, my lord, and you won't be the last."

Ryan grins, popping his hat on at a jaunty angle. "Maybe I'll be the first to last the night," he says.

The innkeeper looks unconvinced. Ryan doesn't care.

He's a little more daunted when they actually pull up to the house. They left the inn late, Ryan lingering over his dinner, and now it's past seven and full dark, their carriage lanterns throwing uneven light over the drive and the front steps. The house itself is a ragged black shape against the stars, its windows blind and broken, tall piled roof slats jutting into the sky.

It looks exactly what a haunted house should look, Ryan thinks. He bites his lip, staring up at it.

"You aren't frightened by this," Spencer says, his voice flat with disbelief.

Ryan waves an arm. "It's," he says. "Haunted house, Spencer. Look at it."

"I'm standing right here," Spencer says. "How can you -?" He shakes his head.

Brendon finishes settling the carriage horses and comes up to where Ryan's still sitting astride his own horse. "What does Spencer say about it, sir?"

Spencer squints at the house. "Maybe," he says. "How would I tell? I've never met another ghost."

Ryan shrugs. "He doesn't know." He shot a sideways look at Spencer. "Also he thinks I'm ridiculous. But honestly, haunted house. Don't you think it looks rather uncanny?"

Brendon takes Ryan's horse's head, petting her nose while Ryan climbs down. He shoots a look at the house over his shoulder and shivers. "Yes," he says honestly. "I keep expecting the woman in white to come billowing out of the front steps. Or that we'll open the door and a bloody corpse in chains will fall out, and," he shudders, "open his eyes and stare at us."

Ryan and Spencer both look at him, and Brendon laughs, nervously. "It looks like that kind of place, is all I'm saying." Then he grins. "Although Spencer's right. I may be terrified of spirits, but it seems somewhat hypocritical in you."

"Exactly," Spencer agrees, although of course Brendon can't hear him. "You've known me since you were five." He scowls. "And I've never once billowed or fallen about in chains."

That's why Ryan's unnerved by the house, probably, and its reputation for unholy visitations and spirits. Spencer's never been anything alarming; it feels to Ryan as though he's a completely different category of spirit to the kind the villagers here spoke about so fearfully.

Ryan hopes he's not, though.

Brendon should be taking the horses around to the abandoned stable and giving them feed, but he's hovering at Ryan's side, still looking at the house. "How long do we need to stay, sir?" he asks, his voice hushed. "Do we need to be here all night, the way you told the innkeeper?

Ryan stares up at the broken windows, reflecting jagged starlight. He shivers again. "We need to be here until the spirits come out," he says. He feels as though he can will them into existence if he only stares with enough determination, enough hope. "We need to find one who can help free Spencer."

House of Cards
for frankkincense's Dressing Gown Blues

(or AO3 link)

Apparently Ryan's not quite over his purple stage. Alex tilts his tall hat out of his eyes, looking down at Ryan's latest creation. It tumbles high and crooked, a house of cards with walkway bridges and paper-symmetrical turrets. The cards are black and red, but wisteria blooms have been coaxed to grow up around it. The vines are holding up the structure, the blossoms spilling purple down winding tower staircases. There are court cards caught in random corners like royal portraits.

Ryan's napping in the teetering shade of the house. He opens one eye and then raises his hand in a wave and opens the other eye, smiling sleepily up at Alex. "What do you think?" He confides, "I think it's my best yet."

"It's very purple," Alex agrees. He tilts his head. "That colour's imperial purple, right? So it's an imperial palace." He approves.

Alex has an invitation to Z's tea party in his pocket, to meet the girl she found under an umbrella. But it's such a nice day, and the tea party will last for hours yet (maybe days). Alex pulls his hat off, holding it flat on his palms, and frowns at the house of cards. It shivers, wisteria blossoms rustling, and then it begins to grow. The wisteria plant races to catch up, vines unfurling and blossoming.

Ryan comes and rests his elbow on Alex's shoulder to watch.

Alex spins his hat, popping it back on his head. He turns to Ryan and bows.

"Your house, my lord."

Ryan smiles at Alex as though he's done something charming and amazing (Alex will never get tired of that). He slips his arm through Alex's, leaning into his shoulder as they duck inside.

Feline Factor
for clarityhiding's 100% Genuine

(or AO3 link)

It starts when Jon spots an advert for robot cats in the paper and orders one for Brendon.

It's a nice thought, honestly. Brendon loves gadgets and robots: his whole house is basically a hivemind of devices ticking along with each other, the toaster talking to the shower talking to the little thing with spinny wheels that brings Brendon his remote controls and beeps at him.

The take-home lesson is: Brendon loves robots.

And he loved the robot cat, with its wide green eyes and silver ears and slinky springing up onto the top of the shower controls. And honestly, what kind of manufacturer puts a circuit override way up on top of the shower? And who knew it was going to activate the toaster's emergency mobility program, or that the dumb waiter would have the kind of security protocols built into it that could be activated by multiple conflicting electronic stimuli and a perambulating toaster? Or that the cat would be sufficiently alarmed by the noise to climb inside the atmospheric regulator and flick the override switches?

It is completely not Jon's fault that Brendon is currently locked out of his house while his appliances stage a coup, is Jon's point.

Staircase Magic
for ashlein's If You Were the Melody (Then I Would Be the Song)

(or AO3 link)

Brendon is seven when he starts counting. One, two, three, four, all the way up to twelve, that's how many there are the first time. Brendon stands at the top, swinging out on the bannister, and examines the steps. Twelve of them. Like Kara is, he thinks.

The next time he counts there are only ten. He gets to the top and huffs his breath out in a sigh, stomping down to the bottom again. Somewhere in another room somebody's practising a piano, and he climbs back up with his feet in time with the scales, one, two, three, four, five, but it stops at ten again. Brendon sits at the top of the stairs, chin in his hands, and wiggles his toes, grumpy and moping. But, he supposes, the first time was two weeks ago. He was younger then. It makes sense he's better at counting now.

The next time he counts it's his eighth birthday, and the urge strikes him as he's racing upstairs to get the batteries out of his Formula 1 car so that he can put them in his new mini keyboard. He jumps up the stairs quickly, feet tapping the numbers, and he must double up on a step or something because there are thirteen. He wants those batteries, but he stops at the top of the stairs anyway, hands on his hips as he stares narrowly at the steps bumping down into the hall.

He counts every day for nearly three weeks after that. Most days there are twelve steps. Some days there are eleven or thirteen, and once it went all the way up to sixteen and Brendon started to think that the house would have to add another storey.

He tells Kara about it, and she sighs and rolls her eyes and walks up the steps with him and then puts her hands on her hips and says, "There are twelve."

"Today there are twelve," Brendon says.

"Oh, today," Kara says. She doesn't believe him, though.

He stops counting every day; drops it down to once every few months. By the time he's fourteen, he only bothers to count once or twice a year. It's stopped feeling strange to him, almost. His house has a staircase that doesn't always have the same number of steps. It's just a thing. (Maybe not a thing he would mention to his friends, but he hasn't got any friends, so it's a moot point.)

When Brendon's seventeen, he does have friends. The day Ryan and Spencer come over for the first time, Brendon doesn't mean to tell them. He's nervous, though, and he counts under his breath as he leads them up to his bedroom.

"What are you doing?" Spencer asks, raising his eyebrows.

"I -" Brendon says. "Um. It's. A thing?"

They both look at him.

"Sometimestherearemorethantwelvesteps," he says in one breath. They give him identical confused looks. "Um. Or fewer, sometimes," Brendon says. He twists his fingers together, agonised.

Ryan scowls as though he thinks he's being made fun of. Spencer gives Brendon a level look, then he goes back to the bottom of the steps and counts as he climbs. (There are twelve.) He does it three times, and the third time Brendon hears him say thirteen as he reaches the top. Spencer looks up, his face blank and shocked.

"Brendon," Ryan says, his voice hushed. "Where does the staircase go? Did you ever follow it to the end?"

"It," Brendon says. "What? It goes to the landing."

Ryan rolls his eyes, and Brendon has no idea how Ryan Ross is the expert in freaky staircases, seriously, what is this?

Maybe Ryan Ross is the expert on ways of getting out, though. When he takes Brendon's wrist in one hand and Spencer's in the other and they climb again, shoulders pushed together together, Brendon closes his eyes on the last step (thirteen) because it feels like the thing to do.

This time the staircase keeps going.

In the same 'verse, with an unfortunate tense change:

Clover's Way
for mahoni's Fell Out of Bed, Butterfly Bandage, But Don't Worry

Jon was counting backwards from one thousand. If he got down to zero, he was going to turn back and just ... well, Clover would come back on her own, right? Cats did that, didn't they?

Guilt bit into him at the thought.

There had been three hundred and twenty four steps so far (he subtracted from six hundred and seventy six in his head). At first it had just been a long staircase leading down, and then it had been corridors and steps that tilted and turned down odd corners. Jon didn't know how it was light enough to see, but the walls were a comforting burgundy colour, and the steps were scuffed and homey.

It was still fucking weird. Jon didn't even know how Clover had found it. His bedroom closet didn't normally have steps in it.

He was at four hundred and twelve when he heard the voices ahead. He hurried his steps, hopping down a flight of four steps and turning the corner at the bottom. The three boys holding some kind of conference in the corridor looked up, their faces shocked. The fair-haired one was holding Clover against his chest. Jon's eyes went straight to her.

"Oh, thank fuck," he said.

The boy blinked and looked down at the cat in his arms. She was squirming against him and hissing, and he was holding her in that awkward too-careful way that people who don't know cats have. She managed to get a foreleg free and swiped her claws across his arm. He swore, in a resigned sort of way that made Jon notice the other scratch marks on his arms.

"Uh," Jon said. He stepped forward. "Here, let me..."

"Thanks," the boy said as Jon took Clover out of his arms. "I mean -"

She was ecstatic to see him, twisting around in his arms to sniff his nose and hair, purring madly.

"I guess she's yours," the boy finished, and Jon tilted his face out of the way of Clover's whiskers long enough to give him an embarrassed smile.

"Er, yeah," he said. "Um." He freed an arm and offered his hand. "I'm Jon."

The other two boys were staring at him. "Dude," one of them said, his eyes huge. "Dude, do you know where we are?"

The fair-haired one who'd held Clover nudged him, then shook Jon's hand. "I'm Spencer," he said. "That's Brendon and Ryan."

"Cool," Jon said. He smiled at the other two, who were all dark eyes and open mouths. "And I have no clue. This was all Clover's idea."

The skinny one Spencer had called Ryan, the one who hadn't spoken yet, took a deep breath. "Clover?" he said. "That's her name?" His voice was a flat drawl, but he looked shy as he fixed his eyes on Jon. "Maybe ... maybe she knows her way around, then. Maybe she could show us how to get somewhere?"

Clover licked Jon's jaw, purring in his ear. Ryan was staring at Jon with careful hope in his eyes.

And. Okay, then. Jon tilted his head, thinking about it. "Yeah," he said. He smiled at Ryan. "I guess she could."

And a bonus, for softlyforgotten's completely imaginary fic:

Pirouettes

(or AO3 link)

Ashlee danced pirouettes around Z every goddamned day. She was like some kind of - of perfect dancing machine, it was enfuriating.

"I don't have any bones left," Ryan complained. He slumped forward, hinged at the middle with his arms hanging down. "They're all ... floppy." He falied one arm out, knocking against Z's hip.

(They were supposed to be attuned to each other. Z rubbed her hip, her mood even worse.)

"We still need to practise more," she said. "I told you, I've seen some of what Ashlee and Pete are doing, and we can beat them if we can pull this off."

Ryan groaned and straightened. Z snagged his hand, tugging him towards her, and he slid an arm easily around her waist, pushing their foreheads together as they two-stepped to the side.

"You really think we can beat them?" Ryan asked. His face was all unfocused, their foreheads still touching. Z closed her eyes.

"Maybe," she whispered. Ryan stepped back and she let herself twirl out and back in to his arm, sliding her elbow onto his shoulder.

"And then Ashlee will make out with you?" Ryan asked.

"You - what -" Z's eyes snapped open, her cheeks flaming.

Ryan was grinning, delighted.

"Shut up and dance," Z grumped. She was still blushing.