2009 Trick-or-Treat ficlets (at last!)
Back on Halloween I asked people for prompts, promising ficlets in return. It has taken me a lot longer than I originally anticipated to complete said ficlets, as I am easily distracted. Also, they turned out longer than expected, in general. Either way, I have finished the last one, and here they are, in their un-beta'd glory! A number of these take place in universe of The Storybook Hour, as I was on a TSH-kick. That is my excuse, and I am sticking to it.
Ahem.
mourning_light prompted with, "the difficulties of growing squash." Somehow, this turned into a TSH 'verse with FOB. 325 words.
Squash.
"This is not a complex task," Pete said, staring down at the seeds in his hand with great concentration. "I can totally do it."
"Mom, weirdo's talking to himself again," his sister sing-songed from where she was perched on a step.
"Shut up, twit," Pete snapped tossing a dirt clod at her with his free hand. She managed to dodge it by ducking inside the house, but either way the clod achieved the desired affect-apparent privacy, peace, and quiet. Pete waited until the door had closed all the way, then turned to the woodpile resting against the cinderblock wall and raised an eyebrow. "Well? Are you going to help or what?"
Only someone who knew what to look for would have noticed the faint shimmer in the air as the alien moved and came closer. "I thought this was really easy," he said, voice echoing slightly in Pete's head.
"Well, yeah. But this is the science fair, Andy. It's my last year before high school, I want to actually win an award this time around and you're really good at this kind of stuff," Pete insisted, attempting to appeal to his friend's ego.
"What, plants? You realize that not all vegetarians are automatically good with plants, right?" Andy countered from his position right beside Pete.
"Well, that too, but I was actually talking about science," Pete said. "More advanced species and all of that."
"Just because my species is more advanced than yours doesn't mean that I actually get how all that technology stuff works. Anyway, if I understand it correctly, you're just experimenting with the level of sodium chloride in soil and its effects on crop development and production," Andy said, lifting one of the stacked flower pots and bringing it over so Pete could fill it with potting soil.
"Yeah, but I have a black thumb. I got it from my mom," Pete whined. "I need your help. Growing pumpkins is hard."
madamebeetroot asked for black cat(s) and Spencer. This one takes place in world of cat boys (and girls). 588 words. Mention of Jon/Spencer and past Pete/Mikey.
Can't Be Trusted.
While he'd like to claim he possesses an open mind, that he practices tolerance and does not discriminate based on silly, inconsequential things, there are certain beliefs that Spencer can't help but think there might be some truth to. Namely, those involving black cats and bad luck.
It's not that Spencer dislikes Victoria or Mike-he doesn't, not really. Mostly. Insofar as Spencer doesn't outright dislike any cat boy or girl that Pete, Joe, and Ryan build. He just feels thick fingered and tongued around Victoria, not his usual glib, lithe self. And Mike, well. Mike is a bit... Frightening. Cat boys and girls are supposed to be sexy, often with a side of cute. Spencer understands that different people have different personal definitions of what is "sexy" (Spencer's, for example, begins and ends with his master, Jon Walker), but when Mike is around, Spencer just wants to hide under a bed, or, if he's handy, curl around Jon.
Normally, Spencer wouldn't even think to connect hair and fur color to personality. He, Ryan, Adam, William, Ian, and Alex all have brown hair and fur around the same shade, and they have drastically different personalities and preferences (though, of course, Ryan's pretty much the exception to every cat boy rule, since he's the first and the oldest). Greta is cute, cuddly, and tricksy as all get out while Cash is just ridiculous and a bit of a douche sometimes, but they both are blonds.
The black cats just have all the evidence stacked up against them, is the thing. Hell, they have Frank in their number. Not that Spencer doesn't think Frank is fun and awesome, because he totally is. It's just that Frank has this tendency to get into trouble and drag everyone around him along when he does. And, despite having some of the world's best firewalls just like all the cat companions built by Catty Might Industries, Frank constantly manages pick up viruses. Black cats just can't be trusted, in Spencer's opinion.
Which is why he feels it a sound idea-nay, his veritable duty as a Good Cat Boy-to tell Pete, "I dunno if this is such a good idea. I thought you liked this guy? Didn't you used to date his brother?" Everyone around CMI knows about how Ryan is kind of, sort of, maybe based on this ex of Pete's.
"It's cool, Mikey and I are still friends," Pete says cheerfully as he drags the crate into the livingroom. "He says his brother needs someone to look after him, and when I told him I had the perfect cat boy, he said I was welcome to try it out. Well. Something like that. I think. No worries, I'm well-versed in Mikeyway."
"I'm not a cat boy. I'm a cat man," Brian grumbles as he tugs off his sweats and glares at the crate before climbing inside. "You so owe me, Pete. No one else has ever been shipped out of state. I'm doing this under protest, and only going through with it because of the damned obedience programing."
Pete beams at Brian and rubs his ears. Brian starts to purr, but it's obviously a reluctant move on his part. "Don't doubt my genius planning skills. Gerard's going to love you. And if he doesn't, you can always come back in three months once the obedience programming's worn off," Pete reassures him.
Spencer starts nervously scanning the room for someplace to hide. There is just no way this can turn out well.
gemmi999 asked for Brendon/Spencer making the perfect ragu sauce for dinner. This is another one in TSH 'verse. 1,225 words. Brendon/Spencer.
Home Economics.
The problem with dating one of your best friends is that it's fucking impossible to go on dates. Though it is likely that this is a problem specific to Spencer's situation, seeing as how he has Ryan to factor into the equation. Not that he and Brendon started out trying to deliberately hide what they're doing from Ryan. In the beginning they tended to sneak around, sure, but that was more because it was something awkward and new, something they were still getting used to. Once they settled, they didn't try to hide it any longer from Brent or Spencer's family (Brendon's family, of course, is another matter entirely), but Ryan somehow managed to either miss or just straight out not see it. Everyone else sees Ryan's blindness, but no one is able to explain it. In the end, they've decided to just go with it. Respect Ryan's wishes. Quirks. Oddities. Whatever.
Anyway, it's hard to date one of your best friends and hide it from your socially-stunted, asexual brother, in Spencer's personal, private opinion. Which would be why Spencer leaps at the chance to babysit Stacey and Susie for a few days while his parents take Ryan to a statewide science fair competition. Spencer is pretty sure their dad is planning to surreptitiously sabotage Ryan's project (a fully-functional hoverboard) before any judges can see it. No point in drawing unnecessary attention, after all, and it's unlikely Ryan will be particularly put out if he comes away with nothing fancier than an honorable mention. Not that Spencer is thinking about that right now. The question at the forefront of his mind right now is, "Can Brendon come over while you're gone?"
His mom's eyes narrow and Spencer gulps. He has a pretty good idea of what she's thinking about. "You can't have pizza for every meal and there must be at least two vegetables or a vegetable and a fruit at dinner every night," she tells him. "As for Brendon, he's welcome to stay the night as long as you both act responsibly. Remember, Spencer James-your room shares a wall with the girls' and Stacey is my eyes and ears."
Spencer's dad is much more succinct and to the point about the matter. "Don't touch the alcohol and no traumatizing your sisters."
"Yes, sir," Spencer squeaks, wide-eyed. Like he would ever try anything anywhere that Stacey or (god forbid) Susie might hear or see it. For one thing, the girls would never let him forget it. For another, well. Ew.
"Spencer. Vegetables," Mom says, as she has a one-track mind and does not understand that the necessary food groups for growing teenage boys are take out and ice cream.
"We'll make salads and eat fruit," Spencer says, fighting to keep from rolling his eyes.
"And?"
"And we'll get Mexican one night?" Sacrifices: Spencer is willing to make them for his mother and his love life.
She sighs. "I suppose that'll have to do. Ryan, honey, are you sure you want to wear that?"
A couple of months ago Ryan discovered newsboys caps and fingerless gloves. It makes for interesting (if amusing) outfits, in Spencer's opinion. Ryan blinks and looks up from adjusting a lace-edged cuff, allowing Spencer to see that Ryan has also discovered their mother's eyeliner and, apparently, Susie's facepaints. "I like birds," Ryan says, touching his cheek right below the blackbirds painted there. "Is there something wrong?"
"No, just checking," she says, pressing a kiss to his bare cheek. "Very pretty."
"Mom," Ryan moans, pulling away from her. "I'm a guy and I'm sixteen-I'm not pretty."
It takes everything Spencer has to maintain a straight face and not laugh his head off. Ryan has clever fingers and knows where Spencer sleeps at night. Laughing is a bad idea. Especially if Spencer is hoping to have awesome makeouts with his boyfriend this weekend. "Looks neat," he says instead, "but I wouldn't wear it to school if I were you. Unless you want to get stuffed in a locker."
"Duh. I'm not an idiot," Ryan snaps.
"Dude, I never said you were," Spencer tells him. He knows Ryan's not an idiot-everyone knows Ryan isn't an idiot. Ryan just seems to be a little detached from reality sometimes, is all. Like those five months when they were seven and Ryan insisted on wearing tunics and tights like some kind of medieval page. Modern fashion and Ryan frequently have difficulty seeing eye-to-eye, but it's useless to try and point this out to Ryan. "Good luck wowing the judges."
"You should come too," Ryan grumbles, grabbing Spencer and hugging him tight.
"Yeah, well. Someone has to drive Susie to dance practice and and keep Brendon out of trouble," Spencer says as he hugs back just as tight.
Though he means it as a joke, keeping Brendon out of trouble proves more difficult than Spencer anticipated. Friday night, Spencer is arguing with Stacey over what kinds of toppings to get on the pizza when Brendon opens his big, fat mouth and says, right in front of young, impressionable Susie, "We could make it ourselves, you know. Then we can have whatever we want on it."
Susie, of course, jumps on this and refuses to let it go. "Oh, oh! Can we, Spencer? Please? Can we?" She does this because she is evil and lives to torment Spencer and make his life miserable and difficult. Also, there is a high likelihood that she has a weird little crush on Brendon. Because he is a good big brother, Spencer refrains from growling at her. Barely. Stacey, possessing a better sense of self-preservation than her sister, high-tails it out of there.
"No," Spencer snaps, "we can't. It'll take too long." Spencer took home economics in middle school. He knows stuff about cooking (in, granted, a vague sort of way). This, unfortunately, causes both Susie and Brendon to deflate, forcing Spencer to quickly backtrack and add, "We could make something else, though, I guess? Not macaroni and cheese." Spencer is onto Susie and her sneaky, cheesy ways.
"I know how to make a really awesome ragu sauce," Brendon says quickly, rushing to Spencer's rescue when Susie's face starts to turn red with anger.
"You're a vegetarian," Spencer says, frowning. He is a good boyfriend who knows and pays attention to things like that, after all.
"Occasionally vegetarian. Vaguely," Brendon says, waving a hand in the air. "My mom taught me how to make it, it's really good, I swear. It's pretty much my duty to pass my ragu knowledge onto you." Because he is absolutely ridiculous, Brendon leers and waggles his eyebrows at Spencer.
"Yeah?" Spencer asks in a strangled voice. Absolutely ridiculous apparently really works for Spencer. This explains a lot, really. "Gonna keep me from being an absolute klutz in the kitchen?"
If anything, Brendon's grin grows even wider. "Under my guiding hands, you will make the perfect ragu sauce, Spencer Smith," he promises, licking his lips.
"Oh, yuck," Susie exclaims. "Stacey, they're being gross again!"
Spencer snorts as he hooks an arm around Brendon's waist and tugs him closer. "If you can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen," he tells her, not waiting to see if she takes his advice before he pulls Brendon down for a kiss. In Spencer's defense, he's a bit distracted.
Some anonymous person asked for Brendon and Ryan being parents in TSH 'verse. I am pretty sure that it was starting on this fic that got me on a TSH kick again, so let's all blame anonymous, shall we? 535 words. Brendon/Ryan.
Number 67.
After refusing to be parted from his precious car for the sake of touring no matter how hard Pete begged, Ryan finally gives when Shax is a little over a year old. There's no question as to whether they'll be leaving Shax in Vegas with his grandparents-Ryan would never tolerate being parted from his son for the length of time a world-wide tour would take, and anyway, it's not like Shax isn't a model child. As the telepathic kid of two telepaths-one of whom Spencer is reasonably sure is the strongest telepath in the U.S., if not the world-Shax has a better understanding of what's right and wrong than most children his age.
Since Black Belinda isn't really outfitted for air travel (or, rather, since the number of permits needed to fly a hearse across several ocean and continents is insane and no one wants to deal with the paperwork), they're forced to make do with regular airplanes and buses. Ryan, who hasn't been on a plane since he was five, is possibly more excited than even Shax at the prospect of riding in a large, flying contraption again.
Unfortunately, Zack has foreseen this eagerness. "I need your gadget, Smith," he says, attempting to stare Ryan down. Attempting because matters are somewhat complicated by the fact that Ryan is completely immersed in patiently explaining turbines and jet propulsion to Shax, who is in the belly carrier that is currently strapped onto Brendon. It's a bit disconcerting how both Shax and Brendon are listening to Ryan with both wide eyes and rapt attention, particularly when probably only one of them has any understanding of what Ryan's talking about, and, in all likelihood, that one person is not Brendon.
Sighing, Zack covers Ryan's mouth with his hand and tries again. "You can't take your sonic multi-tool on the plane as carry-on."
"But it's not sharp and it isn't going to set off the metal detectors," Ryan insists once he's pried Zack's hand away.
"Sure, but I also don't want you taking the plane apart mid-flight," Zack says, crossing his arms. "Fork it over already."
Ryan grumbles but does as instructed. "This is number sixty-seven in the list of reasons why your cousin Sarah Jane is way, way cooler than Zack," he tells Shax. The baby nods, reaching out for his father.
"Ba," Shax says in his serious little voice, and Ryan melts, taking him out of the carrier.
"Well, naturally. We'll show that usurper Luke just how awesome we are. Sarah Jane was ours first," Ryan agrees, cuddling his son to his chest.
Brendon rolls his eyes. "Only you would agree to a world tour just so you can show Shax off to Sarah Jane," he says, shaking his head and smiling.
Ryan narrows his eyes and glares at Brendon. "Are you saying Shax does not warrant a world-wide tour in order to alert as many people as possible to just how amazing he is?" he asks coldly.
Laughing, Brendon leans over to kiss first Ryan's curls, then Shax's. "Never said that. Our boy is amazing. You know he's going to wow them all." He feels it goes without saying that Ryan will too.
saxihighlandck had the brilliant idea of ghosts on a bus. This is just one ghost, but it's still a brilliant idea (I think?). 481 words.
Can't Stop the Rock.
Brendon can be a bit ridiculous sometimes. Having known him for a few years now, it would've been nigh impossible for Spencer to've somehow missed this tidbit of information. Still, he's best friends with Ryan, he's used to ridiculous. Or, well, if not used to it, he's at least vaguely tolerant. Mostly.
Brent, on the other hand, Spencer is not used to being ridiculous. "Seriously," he says slowly, eying Brent up and down, "did you eat something weird? You know Zack's always saying we shouldn't eat what the fans give us."
"Fuck you, I'm not high," Brent snarls. "And I am not joking. That bus is fucking haunted." His entire arm shakes as he points at the bus, and Spencer knows Brent isn't as into this as the rest of them, but he didn't think Brent would pull something like this as an excuse to pull a diva act. Or snap under mental pressure, if that's what's going on.
"Dude. It's a bus, not a house. Or a boat, train, or car. It's not exactly prime haunting material. You're probably just hearing Ryan-he talks in his sleep sometimes, but as long as there's no mention of chartreuse zombie giraffes, it's harmless," Spencer tells him with a shrug. It's sound advice, really. Well. Except for that one time with the parsnip and banana oil parfaits, but they don't speak of that anymore, and besides, Spencer is sworn to secrecy when it comes to that. Ryan is kind of a killjoy sometimes.
"Yeah, because Ryan is totally likely to start playing basslines in his sleep," Brent mutters. "Modified basslines."
"It's Ryan," Spencer says. "Who are we to question his odd and nonsensical behaviours?" Granted, Ryan isn't usually one to play music in his sleep, but he's been getting stranger and stranger since getting them signed. Maybe the stress is finally getting to him.
"Ugh, fine, it's Ryan. But I swear if he doesn't stop it, I'm quitting this gig."
"I'll talk to him," Spencer reassures Brent, rubbing his temples and willing away the headache he can already feel building up.
A month later, Spencer's headache is full-blown and refuses to go away. "Great. Brent's left because he can't get over the bus being haunted."
"Sorry," Jon says sheepishly, fading to near-transparency when Spencer glares at him.
"Hey, that's not fair," Brendon insists, leg bouncing up and down as he looks between Spencer and the almost invisible ghost. "Jon was technically here first, he shouldn't have to change just because one person can't handle a minor haunting."
"Look on the bright side, Spencer," Ryan says sagely. "Jon can play better and he hasn't got a clingy girlfriend he's going to wander off to visit or call."
"I've been dead for nearly thirty years," Jon offers helpfully.
Spencer sometimes thinks the problem here started when he agreed to be in a band with Ryan.
Being the enabler that she is, belle_bing asked for TSH Brendon/Ryan anniversary fic. 374 words. Brendon/Ryan.
Anniversary.
On Ryan and Spencer's twenty-second birthday, they're a couple days outside of Providence on their first actual, official tour as The Storybook Hour. Overall, the night's a lot calmer than the celebration that took place the year before. Brendon blames Zack, the babysitter they've been saddled with. Ryan doesn't blame Zack, but that could mostly be because he wasn't a fan of what happened on his and Spencer's twenty-first.
They've caught up to and have been tagging along with Cobra Starship for the past few days, and, with the exception of Jon, the guys are more than a little surprised that this group of near strangers is trying its hardest to break Zack's "no wild parties" rule. Ryan's not sure how it's happened, but he's apparently been made a honorary Cobra, which evidently means he is expected to pose with the perpetrators of puerile pranks for photographic proof. It takes some time, but he eventually escapes the tenacious grip of one Alex Suarez before he can be dragged into any serious trouble and-if his still-fumbling mental probes are to be believed-before Brendon's managed to get himself absolutely soused.
Ryan still isn't practiced enough at telepathy to divine Brendon's location in a crowd, but as it happens, it doesn't matter since Brendon sidles up before Ryan can even start searching for him. "Hey, what's up? You looking for me?" Brendon asks, smiling his regular, brilliant, infectious smile.
"I wanted to-" Ryan starts, then stops, grabbing Brendon's hand and tugging him out of the room, out of the door of the hearse and into the cool quiet of the early September evening. "Hi. I love you."
"Love you too, birthday boy," Brendon tells him. Despite his smile, he's projecting an air of confusion. "What's going on?"
Unable to hold out any longer, Ryan surges forward, pressing his lips to Brendon's and kissing him quickly. "Wanted to tell you happy anniversary," Ryan mutters, flushing.
"Anniversary? We've only been dating for a few months," Brendon reminds him.
"First kiss," Ryan explains in a rush. "Um. You probably don't remember, you were pretty out of it last year."
Brendon stares at him, gaping before his face breaks into a grin. "Oh, Ryan. Happy anniversary to you too."
chameleongirl79 suggested that someone has found The Big Red Button (of Doom?). Another TSH 'verse ficlet, this time with The Cab. 470 words.
Scientific Method.
"This is Cash's fault," Alex says. He feels quite confident about saying it this time as it is a conclusion reached in a very scientific manner. Observe:
"Obviously," Marshall says dryly. This is because Marshall is a cheater who reads people's minds and is also biased in Cash's favor. Alex knows this. He tries very hard to not know it, but Cash is very loud. And likes to talk about his exploits. Loudly.
"Hey. I said I was sorry," Cash insists. "And it might not be a bad countdown, you know. Or even a countdown! You need to be a more supportive member of the team, Singer."
"Okay, first of all? It's a big, red button. Of course it's a bad countdown," Alex says. "Secondly? We're a band, Colligan, not a team. And since you're still not Ryan Smith, we're still not The Storybook Hour, so you need to stop messing with alien stuff."
Cash at least has the decency to look chagrined and hunch his shoulders a bit. "So, um. D'you think we're still in cell range for The Storybook Hour?"
"We better be or else you are so dead," Marshall grumbles as he digs out his phone and starts punching buttons.
Sighing, Johnson rubs his face and slumps back against the wall. "I hate it when Ian visits his folks. Shit like this never happens he's around."
zeenell asked for something involving kittens. I took the liberty of setting this in the girlband universe. 301 words.
The Dangers of Cooing.
There's something stalking Bob on the bus. He isn't sure how he knows-some weird sort of sixth sense that comes from having to always be on his toes around his band, or possibly just a side-effect of the parsnip and banana oil parfaits he was foolishly talked into by that titchy little Ross kid last night. Either way, stalking is not conducive to weird, dessert-induced hangovers, and Bob is not allowing it to happen on his watch. "Stop it," he growls, keeping his eyes squeezed shut and he feels around and grabs a shoe, chucking it in the direction of the stalking.
He expects a grumble or an, "Ow." What Bob gets is a yowl. That... is not right. There should be nothing capable of yowling on this bus, seeing as how Frank is currently somewhere in Jersey (supposedly-Bob has his suspicions that Frank is not, in fact, where Jamia thinks he is), and Bob distinctly remembers leaving Brendon at his apartment last night, seeing as how The Best Thing Since is currently on break and New London Fire was passing through Chicago. No yowling on the bus.
The yowling is followed by cooing. Cooing on a tour bus is, quite possibly, even more dangerous than yowling in Bob's experience. It might be time to risk opening his eyes, he thinks, tentatively lifting one just a crack.
A pair of bright, yellow eyes are watching him.
"What the fuck," Bob demands, scrambling as far back in his bunk as he possibly can. A tiny, striped kitten stares up at him.
The kitten mews. A few feet away, another little, furry head pokes around the doorway leading from the front lounge to the bunk area and mews as well.
"Alicia, for the last fucking time, no cats on the bus!"
barmy_bunk suggested Spencer running into Bob in front of a shoe store at the mall. Since the prompt was so specific, I, of course, had to go in a completely random direction with it. 721 words.
All Hush-Hush.
After dropping out a month before graduation, Spencer never honestly expects to see anyone from the Academy again. They've all gone off to bigger, brighter, better things. They have futures that are going places, while he's just this side of twenty with no real training in anything he can use, since all pilots are legally required to possess at least certificates of completion, if not actual diplomas. It makes sense, it saves lives, Spencer understands and supports the protocol. Unfortunately, it also means he's stuck stocking shelves at the Solar Shoe Emporium on SS-2-785BX. Academy dropouts don't get diplomas, and he'd have to go to a trade school if he wanted a certificate.
The thing is, Spencer doesn't even know why he left the Academy. He enjoyed being a cadet, he liked the classes, the concepts, the ideas, he loved the flying. And he gave it all up just for some stupid, pointless reason that he doesn't even remember anymore, though he's pretty sure Ryan was somehow involved. Ryan and a Struvian goat. Spencer seriously needs to learn to stop listening to navigators and their oh so clever ideas, especially since Ryan somehow managed to not drop out after they did... whatever it was (Spencer suspects large amounts of oddly-colored liquor were also involved in addition to the goat). He's now somewhere in the Beta Quadrant, running stats and star charts for Pete Wentz, while Spencer is stuck staring off into space with a sneaker in hand while some fucker tries to walk off with a pair of high heels they haven't paid for that cost more than Spencer makes in a week.
Cursing violently, Spencer tosses the sneaker aside and dashes out of the store, intent on catching the thief before he's left with a reprimand and yet another pay cut. Two years may've passed, but apparently it's not long enough for Spencer's body to've forgotten eight years of intensive training at the Academy, and he has the thief tackled and pinned within seconds. At least, he thinks he does, but further investigation reveals the person to be distinctly less curvy than the blonde he was following, and also quite a bit more ginger on top. Also, familiar.
"Morris?" Spencer gasps, and he knows he's staring, but he can't help it. Morris was cadet on the navigation track a couple of years ahead of Ryan back at the Academy who was, from what Spencer recalls, kicked out in a great hullabaloo that involved a lot of shouting from the dean's office, three crates of nonflammable fireworks, and a girl from the engineering track in a bikini swimsuit. He is definitely the last person Spencer ever expected to see in an out-of-the-way place like SS-2-785BX. "What the hell are you doing here?"
Morris blinks, glances around, and sits up, causing Spencer to tumble backwards. "You're... Smith, right? Ryan's boy."
"We're friends," Spencer grumbles, though he's pretty sure most friends don't run off to a the opposite side of the galaxy to participate in somewhat-shady salvage operations. Not that Spencer's still sore about that or anything. "Just friends. I'm nobody's boy."
"Right, right. As for why I'm here, well. My pilot's gone and decided to run off and buy his own ship, so I'm grounded," Morris explains, scowling. "Say," he says suddenly, his face lighting up, "you were in the pilot track, weren't you? D'you think you could fly a '78 Gilesian Falcon?"
"Sure, they're just knockoffs of the cargo-cruisers coming out of the Menkent system, and we learned those in second year," Spencer says, confused. He'd love a chance to get behind the controls of a Gilesian Falcon-it's one of the few times that the knockoff's better than the original-too bad he knows it's never going to happen. "But I never got my diploma. There was this girl from Altair who knew a guy on Santraginus V, see, and Ryan couldn't pass up a chance like that, especially since he had a bottle of Ol' Janx stashed away that he'd gotten off his dad, and-"
"Say no more, I got it," Morris says, nodding his head. "Actually, diploma doesn't really matter in this case."
"I don't have a certificate either," Spencer warns.
"Also not a problem. Tell me, Smith-what are your thoughts on piracy?"
FINALLY, as some of you who follow this journal may know, formerlydf and I have this vague idea that one day (one day!) we might write some stories in which 3/4 of Panic (1.5) are faily vampires. She asked for vampires, and I ended up writing some of the backstory for that AU. This is a bandom fic, honest. It just reads like an original story because the time period necessitated name changes and we have a (sort of kickass) vampire mythos that we've come up with. And I like Wikipedia too much. 682 words.
Lamia.
They travel together for nearly five centuries by Margarita's reckoning. Then comes the day that Mus is too slow, Margarita is too far away, and the locals are just a bit too keen. She never does find out their exact reasons for putting a six-year-child through trial by fire. By the time she returns from a day out tracking, it's too late for Mus and Margarita knows better than to approach anyone and demand an explanation. The people here know Mus as her child, and she does not expect them exempt the mother from the same treatment they have shown the son.
After Mus dies, there's a span of years that Margarita simply misplaces. She doesn't think she ever crosses the divide that separates moral from amoral, but without a partner to watch over her, she cannot be sure. Ideally, she should have had two partners just in case one died, but as long as she traveled with Mus, it was always difficult to get anyone else to stay. Children are precious and wondrous, symbols of of life and vitality. For a child to be like them is... wrong. It violates one of the fundamental rules of an unwritten code of ethics.
Mus dies and Margarita loses time.
All told, she thinks she passes nearly fifty years in a daze of pain and bereavement. Mus was really the last tie she had to her mortal life, a final lingering responsibility. With him gone she feels lost and adrift. At last she comes to herself again somewhere in Gaul. When she catches her reflection in a river, she sees she is half-clothed, her hair full of leaves. The image calls to her mind the tales of the Bacchae that she learned in her youth, which simply serves to remind her of all she has lost and how much the world has changed. She shies away from her reflection, runs from it even. Runs so far that when she finally stops, she finds herself in the land of her childhood, though it is no longer as she left it.
Having run so far for so long, she toys with the thought of settling down. But it is difficult to settle when you know the world around you will change while you stay the same, and memory of how mortals respond to that which they do not understand is still stinging and raw. Rather than settling, she takes up the hunt once more. If she captures and contains the amoral ones, perhaps the mortals will not fear striges so in the future and there will be no repeat of the tragedy of Mus.
In her heart, she knows she is only fooling herself.
She stays on the island longer than she ever thought she would. Though she has been away for oh so very long, she finds comfort and reassurance in the familiar terrain and weather. So long does she stay that she herself changes, becoming someone new. As she moves north, into Caledonia, her name changes as the people she meets shape the sounds differently, drawing them out. Now she is not Margarita, nursemaid of Mus, but rather Margaretta, the foreign young woman who hunts down monsters and murderers, bringing them to justice by fire.
The land is harsher in the north, and the people are more sparse, spread out over greater distances. For the first time in ages she feels safe, secure. On a rocky outcrop near the coast, she builds a house, small and serviceable, and settles down. Weeks, months pass without her ever seeing a soul except for when she ventures out every few days in the dead of night to feed. It is quiet, the only sounds those of the wind, the waves, the gulls-all of them comforting. It is lonely, but she finds she doesn't mind. She hasn't seen another moral strix for centuries by her count, not since Mus's untimely end. These days, Margaretta feels very much at home with loneliness.
Alone in her house by the sea, she waits for the world to pass her by.
Ahem.
mourning_light prompted with, "the difficulties of growing squash." Somehow, this turned into a TSH 'verse with FOB. 325 words.
Squash.
"This is not a complex task," Pete said, staring down at the seeds in his hand with great concentration. "I can totally do it."
"Mom, weirdo's talking to himself again," his sister sing-songed from where she was perched on a step.
"Shut up, twit," Pete snapped tossing a dirt clod at her with his free hand. She managed to dodge it by ducking inside the house, but either way the clod achieved the desired affect-apparent privacy, peace, and quiet. Pete waited until the door had closed all the way, then turned to the woodpile resting against the cinderblock wall and raised an eyebrow. "Well? Are you going to help or what?"
Only someone who knew what to look for would have noticed the faint shimmer in the air as the alien moved and came closer. "I thought this was really easy," he said, voice echoing slightly in Pete's head.
"Well, yeah. But this is the science fair, Andy. It's my last year before high school, I want to actually win an award this time around and you're really good at this kind of stuff," Pete insisted, attempting to appeal to his friend's ego.
"What, plants? You realize that not all vegetarians are automatically good with plants, right?" Andy countered from his position right beside Pete.
"Well, that too, but I was actually talking about science," Pete said. "More advanced species and all of that."
"Just because my species is more advanced than yours doesn't mean that I actually get how all that technology stuff works. Anyway, if I understand it correctly, you're just experimenting with the level of sodium chloride in soil and its effects on crop development and production," Andy said, lifting one of the stacked flower pots and bringing it over so Pete could fill it with potting soil.
"Yeah, but I have a black thumb. I got it from my mom," Pete whined. "I need your help. Growing pumpkins is hard."
madamebeetroot asked for black cat(s) and Spencer. This one takes place in world of cat boys (and girls). 588 words. Mention of Jon/Spencer and past Pete/Mikey.
Can't Be Trusted.
While he'd like to claim he possesses an open mind, that he practices tolerance and does not discriminate based on silly, inconsequential things, there are certain beliefs that Spencer can't help but think there might be some truth to. Namely, those involving black cats and bad luck.
It's not that Spencer dislikes Victoria or Mike-he doesn't, not really. Mostly. Insofar as Spencer doesn't outright dislike any cat boy or girl that Pete, Joe, and Ryan build. He just feels thick fingered and tongued around Victoria, not his usual glib, lithe self. And Mike, well. Mike is a bit... Frightening. Cat boys and girls are supposed to be sexy, often with a side of cute. Spencer understands that different people have different personal definitions of what is "sexy" (Spencer's, for example, begins and ends with his master, Jon Walker), but when Mike is around, Spencer just wants to hide under a bed, or, if he's handy, curl around Jon.
Normally, Spencer wouldn't even think to connect hair and fur color to personality. He, Ryan, Adam, William, Ian, and Alex all have brown hair and fur around the same shade, and they have drastically different personalities and preferences (though, of course, Ryan's pretty much the exception to every cat boy rule, since he's the first and the oldest). Greta is cute, cuddly, and tricksy as all get out while Cash is just ridiculous and a bit of a douche sometimes, but they both are blonds.
The black cats just have all the evidence stacked up against them, is the thing. Hell, they have Frank in their number. Not that Spencer doesn't think Frank is fun and awesome, because he totally is. It's just that Frank has this tendency to get into trouble and drag everyone around him along when he does. And, despite having some of the world's best firewalls just like all the cat companions built by Catty Might Industries, Frank constantly manages pick up viruses. Black cats just can't be trusted, in Spencer's opinion.
Which is why he feels it a sound idea-nay, his veritable duty as a Good Cat Boy-to tell Pete, "I dunno if this is such a good idea. I thought you liked this guy? Didn't you used to date his brother?" Everyone around CMI knows about how Ryan is kind of, sort of, maybe based on this ex of Pete's.
"It's cool, Mikey and I are still friends," Pete says cheerfully as he drags the crate into the livingroom. "He says his brother needs someone to look after him, and when I told him I had the perfect cat boy, he said I was welcome to try it out. Well. Something like that. I think. No worries, I'm well-versed in Mikeyway."
"I'm not a cat boy. I'm a cat man," Brian grumbles as he tugs off his sweats and glares at the crate before climbing inside. "You so owe me, Pete. No one else has ever been shipped out of state. I'm doing this under protest, and only going through with it because of the damned obedience programing."
Pete beams at Brian and rubs his ears. Brian starts to purr, but it's obviously a reluctant move on his part. "Don't doubt my genius planning skills. Gerard's going to love you. And if he doesn't, you can always come back in three months once the obedience programming's worn off," Pete reassures him.
Spencer starts nervously scanning the room for someplace to hide. There is just no way this can turn out well.
gemmi999 asked for Brendon/Spencer making the perfect ragu sauce for dinner. This is another one in TSH 'verse. 1,225 words. Brendon/Spencer.
Home Economics.
The problem with dating one of your best friends is that it's fucking impossible to go on dates. Though it is likely that this is a problem specific to Spencer's situation, seeing as how he has Ryan to factor into the equation. Not that he and Brendon started out trying to deliberately hide what they're doing from Ryan. In the beginning they tended to sneak around, sure, but that was more because it was something awkward and new, something they were still getting used to. Once they settled, they didn't try to hide it any longer from Brent or Spencer's family (Brendon's family, of course, is another matter entirely), but Ryan somehow managed to either miss or just straight out not see it. Everyone else sees Ryan's blindness, but no one is able to explain it. In the end, they've decided to just go with it. Respect Ryan's wishes. Quirks. Oddities. Whatever.
Anyway, it's hard to date one of your best friends and hide it from your socially-stunted, asexual brother, in Spencer's personal, private opinion. Which would be why Spencer leaps at the chance to babysit Stacey and Susie for a few days while his parents take Ryan to a statewide science fair competition. Spencer is pretty sure their dad is planning to surreptitiously sabotage Ryan's project (a fully-functional hoverboard) before any judges can see it. No point in drawing unnecessary attention, after all, and it's unlikely Ryan will be particularly put out if he comes away with nothing fancier than an honorable mention. Not that Spencer is thinking about that right now. The question at the forefront of his mind right now is, "Can Brendon come over while you're gone?"
His mom's eyes narrow and Spencer gulps. He has a pretty good idea of what she's thinking about. "You can't have pizza for every meal and there must be at least two vegetables or a vegetable and a fruit at dinner every night," she tells him. "As for Brendon, he's welcome to stay the night as long as you both act responsibly. Remember, Spencer James-your room shares a wall with the girls' and Stacey is my eyes and ears."
Spencer's dad is much more succinct and to the point about the matter. "Don't touch the alcohol and no traumatizing your sisters."
"Yes, sir," Spencer squeaks, wide-eyed. Like he would ever try anything anywhere that Stacey or (god forbid) Susie might hear or see it. For one thing, the girls would never let him forget it. For another, well. Ew.
"Spencer. Vegetables," Mom says, as she has a one-track mind and does not understand that the necessary food groups for growing teenage boys are take out and ice cream.
"We'll make salads and eat fruit," Spencer says, fighting to keep from rolling his eyes.
"And?"
"And we'll get Mexican one night?" Sacrifices: Spencer is willing to make them for his mother and his love life.
She sighs. "I suppose that'll have to do. Ryan, honey, are you sure you want to wear that?"
A couple of months ago Ryan discovered newsboys caps and fingerless gloves. It makes for interesting (if amusing) outfits, in Spencer's opinion. Ryan blinks and looks up from adjusting a lace-edged cuff, allowing Spencer to see that Ryan has also discovered their mother's eyeliner and, apparently, Susie's facepaints. "I like birds," Ryan says, touching his cheek right below the blackbirds painted there. "Is there something wrong?"
"No, just checking," she says, pressing a kiss to his bare cheek. "Very pretty."
"Mom," Ryan moans, pulling away from her. "I'm a guy and I'm sixteen-I'm not pretty."
It takes everything Spencer has to maintain a straight face and not laugh his head off. Ryan has clever fingers and knows where Spencer sleeps at night. Laughing is a bad idea. Especially if Spencer is hoping to have awesome makeouts with his boyfriend this weekend. "Looks neat," he says instead, "but I wouldn't wear it to school if I were you. Unless you want to get stuffed in a locker."
"Duh. I'm not an idiot," Ryan snaps.
"Dude, I never said you were," Spencer tells him. He knows Ryan's not an idiot-everyone knows Ryan isn't an idiot. Ryan just seems to be a little detached from reality sometimes, is all. Like those five months when they were seven and Ryan insisted on wearing tunics and tights like some kind of medieval page. Modern fashion and Ryan frequently have difficulty seeing eye-to-eye, but it's useless to try and point this out to Ryan. "Good luck wowing the judges."
"You should come too," Ryan grumbles, grabbing Spencer and hugging him tight.
"Yeah, well. Someone has to drive Susie to dance practice and and keep Brendon out of trouble," Spencer says as he hugs back just as tight.
Though he means it as a joke, keeping Brendon out of trouble proves more difficult than Spencer anticipated. Friday night, Spencer is arguing with Stacey over what kinds of toppings to get on the pizza when Brendon opens his big, fat mouth and says, right in front of young, impressionable Susie, "We could make it ourselves, you know. Then we can have whatever we want on it."
Susie, of course, jumps on this and refuses to let it go. "Oh, oh! Can we, Spencer? Please? Can we?" She does this because she is evil and lives to torment Spencer and make his life miserable and difficult. Also, there is a high likelihood that she has a weird little crush on Brendon. Because he is a good big brother, Spencer refrains from growling at her. Barely. Stacey, possessing a better sense of self-preservation than her sister, high-tails it out of there.
"No," Spencer snaps, "we can't. It'll take too long." Spencer took home economics in middle school. He knows stuff about cooking (in, granted, a vague sort of way). This, unfortunately, causes both Susie and Brendon to deflate, forcing Spencer to quickly backtrack and add, "We could make something else, though, I guess? Not macaroni and cheese." Spencer is onto Susie and her sneaky, cheesy ways.
"I know how to make a really awesome ragu sauce," Brendon says quickly, rushing to Spencer's rescue when Susie's face starts to turn red with anger.
"You're a vegetarian," Spencer says, frowning. He is a good boyfriend who knows and pays attention to things like that, after all.
"Occasionally vegetarian. Vaguely," Brendon says, waving a hand in the air. "My mom taught me how to make it, it's really good, I swear. It's pretty much my duty to pass my ragu knowledge onto you." Because he is absolutely ridiculous, Brendon leers and waggles his eyebrows at Spencer.
"Yeah?" Spencer asks in a strangled voice. Absolutely ridiculous apparently really works for Spencer. This explains a lot, really. "Gonna keep me from being an absolute klutz in the kitchen?"
If anything, Brendon's grin grows even wider. "Under my guiding hands, you will make the perfect ragu sauce, Spencer Smith," he promises, licking his lips.
"Oh, yuck," Susie exclaims. "Stacey, they're being gross again!"
Spencer snorts as he hooks an arm around Brendon's waist and tugs him closer. "If you can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen," he tells her, not waiting to see if she takes his advice before he pulls Brendon down for a kiss. In Spencer's defense, he's a bit distracted.
Some anonymous person asked for Brendon and Ryan being parents in TSH 'verse. I am pretty sure that it was starting on this fic that got me on a TSH kick again, so let's all blame anonymous, shall we? 535 words. Brendon/Ryan.
Number 67.
After refusing to be parted from his precious car for the sake of touring no matter how hard Pete begged, Ryan finally gives when Shax is a little over a year old. There's no question as to whether they'll be leaving Shax in Vegas with his grandparents-Ryan would never tolerate being parted from his son for the length of time a world-wide tour would take, and anyway, it's not like Shax isn't a model child. As the telepathic kid of two telepaths-one of whom Spencer is reasonably sure is the strongest telepath in the U.S., if not the world-Shax has a better understanding of what's right and wrong than most children his age.
Since Black Belinda isn't really outfitted for air travel (or, rather, since the number of permits needed to fly a hearse across several ocean and continents is insane and no one wants to deal with the paperwork), they're forced to make do with regular airplanes and buses. Ryan, who hasn't been on a plane since he was five, is possibly more excited than even Shax at the prospect of riding in a large, flying contraption again.
Unfortunately, Zack has foreseen this eagerness. "I need your gadget, Smith," he says, attempting to stare Ryan down. Attempting because matters are somewhat complicated by the fact that Ryan is completely immersed in patiently explaining turbines and jet propulsion to Shax, who is in the belly carrier that is currently strapped onto Brendon. It's a bit disconcerting how both Shax and Brendon are listening to Ryan with both wide eyes and rapt attention, particularly when probably only one of them has any understanding of what Ryan's talking about, and, in all likelihood, that one person is not Brendon.
Sighing, Zack covers Ryan's mouth with his hand and tries again. "You can't take your sonic multi-tool on the plane as carry-on."
"But it's not sharp and it isn't going to set off the metal detectors," Ryan insists once he's pried Zack's hand away.
"Sure, but I also don't want you taking the plane apart mid-flight," Zack says, crossing his arms. "Fork it over already."
Ryan grumbles but does as instructed. "This is number sixty-seven in the list of reasons why your cousin Sarah Jane is way, way cooler than Zack," he tells Shax. The baby nods, reaching out for his father.
"Ba," Shax says in his serious little voice, and Ryan melts, taking him out of the carrier.
"Well, naturally. We'll show that usurper Luke just how awesome we are. Sarah Jane was ours first," Ryan agrees, cuddling his son to his chest.
Brendon rolls his eyes. "Only you would agree to a world tour just so you can show Shax off to Sarah Jane," he says, shaking his head and smiling.
Ryan narrows his eyes and glares at Brendon. "Are you saying Shax does not warrant a world-wide tour in order to alert as many people as possible to just how amazing he is?" he asks coldly.
Laughing, Brendon leans over to kiss first Ryan's curls, then Shax's. "Never said that. Our boy is amazing. You know he's going to wow them all." He feels it goes without saying that Ryan will too.
saxihighlandck had the brilliant idea of ghosts on a bus. This is just one ghost, but it's still a brilliant idea (I think?). 481 words.
Can't Stop the Rock.
Brendon can be a bit ridiculous sometimes. Having known him for a few years now, it would've been nigh impossible for Spencer to've somehow missed this tidbit of information. Still, he's best friends with Ryan, he's used to ridiculous. Or, well, if not used to it, he's at least vaguely tolerant. Mostly.
Brent, on the other hand, Spencer is not used to being ridiculous. "Seriously," he says slowly, eying Brent up and down, "did you eat something weird? You know Zack's always saying we shouldn't eat what the fans give us."
"Fuck you, I'm not high," Brent snarls. "And I am not joking. That bus is fucking haunted." His entire arm shakes as he points at the bus, and Spencer knows Brent isn't as into this as the rest of them, but he didn't think Brent would pull something like this as an excuse to pull a diva act. Or snap under mental pressure, if that's what's going on.
"Dude. It's a bus, not a house. Or a boat, train, or car. It's not exactly prime haunting material. You're probably just hearing Ryan-he talks in his sleep sometimes, but as long as there's no mention of chartreuse zombie giraffes, it's harmless," Spencer tells him with a shrug. It's sound advice, really. Well. Except for that one time with the parsnip and banana oil parfaits, but they don't speak of that anymore, and besides, Spencer is sworn to secrecy when it comes to that. Ryan is kind of a killjoy sometimes.
"Yeah, because Ryan is totally likely to start playing basslines in his sleep," Brent mutters. "Modified basslines."
"It's Ryan," Spencer says. "Who are we to question his odd and nonsensical behaviours?" Granted, Ryan isn't usually one to play music in his sleep, but he's been getting stranger and stranger since getting them signed. Maybe the stress is finally getting to him.
"Ugh, fine, it's Ryan. But I swear if he doesn't stop it, I'm quitting this gig."
"I'll talk to him," Spencer reassures Brent, rubbing his temples and willing away the headache he can already feel building up.
A month later, Spencer's headache is full-blown and refuses to go away. "Great. Brent's left because he can't get over the bus being haunted."
"Sorry," Jon says sheepishly, fading to near-transparency when Spencer glares at him.
"Hey, that's not fair," Brendon insists, leg bouncing up and down as he looks between Spencer and the almost invisible ghost. "Jon was technically here first, he shouldn't have to change just because one person can't handle a minor haunting."
"Look on the bright side, Spencer," Ryan says sagely. "Jon can play better and he hasn't got a clingy girlfriend he's going to wander off to visit or call."
"I've been dead for nearly thirty years," Jon offers helpfully.
Spencer sometimes thinks the problem here started when he agreed to be in a band with Ryan.
Being the enabler that she is, belle_bing asked for TSH Brendon/Ryan anniversary fic. 374 words. Brendon/Ryan.
Anniversary.
On Ryan and Spencer's twenty-second birthday, they're a couple days outside of Providence on their first actual, official tour as The Storybook Hour. Overall, the night's a lot calmer than the celebration that took place the year before. Brendon blames Zack, the babysitter they've been saddled with. Ryan doesn't blame Zack, but that could mostly be because he wasn't a fan of what happened on his and Spencer's twenty-first.
They've caught up to and have been tagging along with Cobra Starship for the past few days, and, with the exception of Jon, the guys are more than a little surprised that this group of near strangers is trying its hardest to break Zack's "no wild parties" rule. Ryan's not sure how it's happened, but he's apparently been made a honorary Cobra, which evidently means he is expected to pose with the perpetrators of puerile pranks for photographic proof. It takes some time, but he eventually escapes the tenacious grip of one Alex Suarez before he can be dragged into any serious trouble and-if his still-fumbling mental probes are to be believed-before Brendon's managed to get himself absolutely soused.
Ryan still isn't practiced enough at telepathy to divine Brendon's location in a crowd, but as it happens, it doesn't matter since Brendon sidles up before Ryan can even start searching for him. "Hey, what's up? You looking for me?" Brendon asks, smiling his regular, brilliant, infectious smile.
"I wanted to-" Ryan starts, then stops, grabbing Brendon's hand and tugging him out of the room, out of the door of the hearse and into the cool quiet of the early September evening. "Hi. I love you."
"Love you too, birthday boy," Brendon tells him. Despite his smile, he's projecting an air of confusion. "What's going on?"
Unable to hold out any longer, Ryan surges forward, pressing his lips to Brendon's and kissing him quickly. "Wanted to tell you happy anniversary," Ryan mutters, flushing.
"Anniversary? We've only been dating for a few months," Brendon reminds him.
"First kiss," Ryan explains in a rush. "Um. You probably don't remember, you were pretty out of it last year."
Brendon stares at him, gaping before his face breaks into a grin. "Oh, Ryan. Happy anniversary to you too."
chameleongirl79 suggested that someone has found The Big Red Button (of Doom?). Another TSH 'verse ficlet, this time with The Cab. 470 words.
Scientific Method.
"This is Cash's fault," Alex says. He feels quite confident about saying it this time as it is a conclusion reached in a very scientific manner. Observe:
- Exhibit A: A small, oddly shaped room with metal walls, one of which contains a number of lights, switches, and buttons, as well as a large LCD screen.
- Exhibit B: Strange characters on the LCD screen, one of which has been changing at regularly timed intervals. Alex is thinking countdown.
- Exhibit C: One button, large and red, set apart from the rest. More characters encircle it.
- Exhibit D: Cash's finger on said button.
- Fact: The characters on the screen didn't start changing until Cash pushed the big, red button.
- Fact: Alex (and, for that matter, the rest of the guys) would not be here if Cash hadn't held started playing around with the weird little doohickey he "borrowed" from Brent Wilson and "forgot" to return. Cash may think he is Ryan Smith, but he really, really isn't. Really. Unknown alien technology is not meant to be fiddled with, Alex is pretty sure. Especially when said doohickies have a chance of being matter transmitters. Transmat devices. Whatever. Alex knows music, not alien tech. It's okay if some of his science comes from Star Trek or Stargate.
"Obviously," Marshall says dryly. This is because Marshall is a cheater who reads people's minds and is also biased in Cash's favor. Alex knows this. He tries very hard to not know it, but Cash is very loud. And likes to talk about his exploits. Loudly.
"Hey. I said I was sorry," Cash insists. "And it might not be a bad countdown, you know. Or even a countdown! You need to be a more supportive member of the team, Singer."
"Okay, first of all? It's a big, red button. Of course it's a bad countdown," Alex says. "Secondly? We're a band, Colligan, not a team. And since you're still not Ryan Smith, we're still not The Storybook Hour, so you need to stop messing with alien stuff."
Cash at least has the decency to look chagrined and hunch his shoulders a bit. "So, um. D'you think we're still in cell range for The Storybook Hour?"
"We better be or else you are so dead," Marshall grumbles as he digs out his phone and starts punching buttons.
Sighing, Johnson rubs his face and slumps back against the wall. "I hate it when Ian visits his folks. Shit like this never happens he's around."
zeenell asked for something involving kittens. I took the liberty of setting this in the girlband universe. 301 words.
The Dangers of Cooing.
There's something stalking Bob on the bus. He isn't sure how he knows-some weird sort of sixth sense that comes from having to always be on his toes around his band, or possibly just a side-effect of the parsnip and banana oil parfaits he was foolishly talked into by that titchy little Ross kid last night. Either way, stalking is not conducive to weird, dessert-induced hangovers, and Bob is not allowing it to happen on his watch. "Stop it," he growls, keeping his eyes squeezed shut and he feels around and grabs a shoe, chucking it in the direction of the stalking.
He expects a grumble or an, "Ow." What Bob gets is a yowl. That... is not right. There should be nothing capable of yowling on this bus, seeing as how Frank is currently somewhere in Jersey (supposedly-Bob has his suspicions that Frank is not, in fact, where Jamia thinks he is), and Bob distinctly remembers leaving Brendon at his apartment last night, seeing as how The Best Thing Since is currently on break and New London Fire was passing through Chicago. No yowling on the bus.
The yowling is followed by cooing. Cooing on a tour bus is, quite possibly, even more dangerous than yowling in Bob's experience. It might be time to risk opening his eyes, he thinks, tentatively lifting one just a crack.
A pair of bright, yellow eyes are watching him.
"What the fuck," Bob demands, scrambling as far back in his bunk as he possibly can. A tiny, striped kitten stares up at him.
The kitten mews. A few feet away, another little, furry head pokes around the doorway leading from the front lounge to the bunk area and mews as well.
"Alicia, for the last fucking time, no cats on the bus!"
barmy_bunk suggested Spencer running into Bob in front of a shoe store at the mall. Since the prompt was so specific, I, of course, had to go in a completely random direction with it. 721 words.
All Hush-Hush.
After dropping out a month before graduation, Spencer never honestly expects to see anyone from the Academy again. They've all gone off to bigger, brighter, better things. They have futures that are going places, while he's just this side of twenty with no real training in anything he can use, since all pilots are legally required to possess at least certificates of completion, if not actual diplomas. It makes sense, it saves lives, Spencer understands and supports the protocol. Unfortunately, it also means he's stuck stocking shelves at the Solar Shoe Emporium on SS-2-785BX. Academy dropouts don't get diplomas, and he'd have to go to a trade school if he wanted a certificate.
The thing is, Spencer doesn't even know why he left the Academy. He enjoyed being a cadet, he liked the classes, the concepts, the ideas, he loved the flying. And he gave it all up just for some stupid, pointless reason that he doesn't even remember anymore, though he's pretty sure Ryan was somehow involved. Ryan and a Struvian goat. Spencer seriously needs to learn to stop listening to navigators and their oh so clever ideas, especially since Ryan somehow managed to not drop out after they did... whatever it was (Spencer suspects large amounts of oddly-colored liquor were also involved in addition to the goat). He's now somewhere in the Beta Quadrant, running stats and star charts for Pete Wentz, while Spencer is stuck staring off into space with a sneaker in hand while some fucker tries to walk off with a pair of high heels they haven't paid for that cost more than Spencer makes in a week.
Cursing violently, Spencer tosses the sneaker aside and dashes out of the store, intent on catching the thief before he's left with a reprimand and yet another pay cut. Two years may've passed, but apparently it's not long enough for Spencer's body to've forgotten eight years of intensive training at the Academy, and he has the thief tackled and pinned within seconds. At least, he thinks he does, but further investigation reveals the person to be distinctly less curvy than the blonde he was following, and also quite a bit more ginger on top. Also, familiar.
"Morris?" Spencer gasps, and he knows he's staring, but he can't help it. Morris was cadet on the navigation track a couple of years ahead of Ryan back at the Academy who was, from what Spencer recalls, kicked out in a great hullabaloo that involved a lot of shouting from the dean's office, three crates of nonflammable fireworks, and a girl from the engineering track in a bikini swimsuit. He is definitely the last person Spencer ever expected to see in an out-of-the-way place like SS-2-785BX. "What the hell are you doing here?"
Morris blinks, glances around, and sits up, causing Spencer to tumble backwards. "You're... Smith, right? Ryan's boy."
"We're friends," Spencer grumbles, though he's pretty sure most friends don't run off to a the opposite side of the galaxy to participate in somewhat-shady salvage operations. Not that Spencer's still sore about that or anything. "Just friends. I'm nobody's boy."
"Right, right. As for why I'm here, well. My pilot's gone and decided to run off and buy his own ship, so I'm grounded," Morris explains, scowling. "Say," he says suddenly, his face lighting up, "you were in the pilot track, weren't you? D'you think you could fly a '78 Gilesian Falcon?"
"Sure, they're just knockoffs of the cargo-cruisers coming out of the Menkent system, and we learned those in second year," Spencer says, confused. He'd love a chance to get behind the controls of a Gilesian Falcon-it's one of the few times that the knockoff's better than the original-too bad he knows it's never going to happen. "But I never got my diploma. There was this girl from Altair who knew a guy on Santraginus V, see, and Ryan couldn't pass up a chance like that, especially since he had a bottle of Ol' Janx stashed away that he'd gotten off his dad, and-"
"Say no more, I got it," Morris says, nodding his head. "Actually, diploma doesn't really matter in this case."
"I don't have a certificate either," Spencer warns.
"Also not a problem. Tell me, Smith-what are your thoughts on piracy?"
FINALLY, as some of you who follow this journal may know, formerlydf and I have this vague idea that one day (one day!) we might write some stories in which 3/4 of Panic (1.5) are faily vampires. She asked for vampires, and I ended up writing some of the backstory for that AU. This is a bandom fic, honest. It just reads like an original story because the time period necessitated name changes and we have a (sort of kickass) vampire mythos that we've come up with. And I like Wikipedia too much. 682 words.
Lamia.
They travel together for nearly five centuries by Margarita's reckoning. Then comes the day that Mus is too slow, Margarita is too far away, and the locals are just a bit too keen. She never does find out their exact reasons for putting a six-year-child through trial by fire. By the time she returns from a day out tracking, it's too late for Mus and Margarita knows better than to approach anyone and demand an explanation. The people here know Mus as her child, and she does not expect them exempt the mother from the same treatment they have shown the son.
After Mus dies, there's a span of years that Margarita simply misplaces. She doesn't think she ever crosses the divide that separates moral from amoral, but without a partner to watch over her, she cannot be sure. Ideally, she should have had two partners just in case one died, but as long as she traveled with Mus, it was always difficult to get anyone else to stay. Children are precious and wondrous, symbols of of life and vitality. For a child to be like them is... wrong. It violates one of the fundamental rules of an unwritten code of ethics.
Mus dies and Margarita loses time.
All told, she thinks she passes nearly fifty years in a daze of pain and bereavement. Mus was really the last tie she had to her mortal life, a final lingering responsibility. With him gone she feels lost and adrift. At last she comes to herself again somewhere in Gaul. When she catches her reflection in a river, she sees she is half-clothed, her hair full of leaves. The image calls to her mind the tales of the Bacchae that she learned in her youth, which simply serves to remind her of all she has lost and how much the world has changed. She shies away from her reflection, runs from it even. Runs so far that when she finally stops, she finds herself in the land of her childhood, though it is no longer as she left it.
Having run so far for so long, she toys with the thought of settling down. But it is difficult to settle when you know the world around you will change while you stay the same, and memory of how mortals respond to that which they do not understand is still stinging and raw. Rather than settling, she takes up the hunt once more. If she captures and contains the amoral ones, perhaps the mortals will not fear striges so in the future and there will be no repeat of the tragedy of Mus.
In her heart, she knows she is only fooling herself.
She stays on the island longer than she ever thought she would. Though she has been away for oh so very long, she finds comfort and reassurance in the familiar terrain and weather. So long does she stay that she herself changes, becoming someone new. As she moves north, into Caledonia, her name changes as the people she meets shape the sounds differently, drawing them out. Now she is not Margarita, nursemaid of Mus, but rather Margaretta, the foreign young woman who hunts down monsters and murderers, bringing them to justice by fire.
The land is harsher in the north, and the people are more sparse, spread out over greater distances. For the first time in ages she feels safe, secure. On a rocky outcrop near the coast, she builds a house, small and serviceable, and settles down. Weeks, months pass without her ever seeing a soul except for when she ventures out every few days in the dead of night to feed. It is quiet, the only sounds those of the wind, the waves, the gulls-all of them comforting. It is lonely, but she finds she doesn't mind. She hasn't seen another moral strix for centuries by her count, not since Mus's untimely end. These days, Margaretta feels very much at home with loneliness.
Alone in her house by the sea, she waits for the world to pass her by.