Shortforms from Tumblr.
For those of you who don't follow me on Tumblr, which is probably good because I have a majorly ADD tumblr attitude and pretty much just spend my time reblogging Callum Keith Rennie, Bryan Batt, Paul Michael Glaser, et al. I do offer to fill requests on there every so often, especially the three sentence ones so if you're interested hop on over there and add me: Shawarma_Palace.
Here are the ones I've accomplished so far:
“Things would have been different, you know,” she tells Elias on the phone because sometimes she still has to rail against this. Sometimes she realizes how disgusted she should be with herself, except that Elias gets results and he’s managed to clean up the streets faster and more permanently than the police ever had. “If I had a family.”
“That’s how you and I are alike, Detective Carter.” Elias purrs in answer, and she can see him turn his head into the phone, look at his associate with amusement. “We don’t have families, but we’ve kind of become one, don’t you think?”
“You know what Fusco told me today?” She asks, laughing a little. She’s speaking into the phone, watching him in the street. They never communicate directly, but he likes to be sure she sees him at times, and his expression is politely listening. “That he ‘was into some stuff’ when he met Reese, ‘some bad stuff’ that he was ‘real sorry for’. That he ‘just wanted me to know’.”
It had been as funny then as it seemed to be now, but Elias doesn’t answer her laughter, sensing her bitterness at having every one fooled so well. Elias waits, a patient dark shadow with a shorter leaner one in mirrored hesitation. They’ll listen to the conversation, but that’s not what they’re here for.
“They’re working on somebody, or they were. Gregory Peck,” she gives the name, not sure if she wants them to find each other or not. She knows what will happen, theoretically, but Carter also believes that the guy in the suit is stronger than these two. That maybe he’ll kill them and no one else will ever know what she’s done.
She tells them what she knows anyway, because that’s what she’s always done.
“You might as well get comfortable,” Elias says pleasantly and he pats Finch’s shoulder with an overbearing affection that makes Finch almost wince away, “you’ll be here a while.”
Elias keeps a square brown box with a glass top and a dial on the front on his desk, which Finch knows is a hygrometer only because he’d grown up in circles where words like that mattered - and the needle is shy of the ‘ideal’ mark which twitches into Finch’s awareness like a fish-hook and holds just as tightly.
“I haven’t offered you one, where are my manners,” Elias says, his gaze following Finch’s to the box, and from his pocket he produces a cutter that’s half guillotine and half scissors and there’s such a threat inherent in the motion that Finch has to swallow his fear back, imagining what something like that could do to his anatomy.
John is just going to keep pushing these boundaries until they stop flexing, because they haven’t yet - the first time had been when John was frustrated and tired of listening to the sound of Lionel endlessly raising his voice in direct opposition to what he was doing with his hands and he had John had finally lifted his voice over it like the pack leader taking a subordinate’s muzzle into its mouth and wrenching it to the ground - only all he’d said was ‘get down on the floor’.
What he’s learning is that even under direct orders the sounds will never stop but all John has to do is ask and he can get Fusco to put on a dress - finding one in the appropriate dimensions had been Finch’s job, or lay face down on his own floor and let John stand barefoot on his back like he was the world’s ugliest and loudest throw rug, or accepting the confines of a pronged dog collar from John’s hands.
So when John puts the end of the lead attached to the chain end into Fusco’s hands and tells him to pull on it instead of touching himself, leaves him to sit on the floor while Reese is the one finally submitting to Harold and Fusco gets to appreciate that it’s not him, that he can bitch and bluster and growl but that will never put him into the top position, Fusco pulls until the prongs press his windpipe and he can almost see stars.
He knows the city will never welcome him like it does the man in the suit - Fusco thinks of him more like a sort of hellhound, almost as if he wasn’t real until he suddenly appeared in violent opposition to Fusco’s forward motion.
It means he chooses his paths a little more carefully amongst the buildings, trying to make the chase at least a little more interesting, forcing Reese to drop from fire escapes and unfold himself from shadows that should have been too small for him but somehow he’d tucked himself up into them.
“Not your usual route home, Lionel,” John says against his throat, and Fusco can’t tell if that’s pride or irritation coloring his tone because he’s too busy striking the dirty brick wall and curling his hands around John’s wrists not in resistance but anticipation.
(You can find the song here: http://youtu.be/EdjLlzbkihY )
They get together at the end of a long day at the bar in the back of the airport because it’s the only thing that’s still open that late.
“I swear,” Nathan says - slurs really, and Harold hopes he’s not driving himself home - “If I have to harass one more old lady to take off her shoes.”
“I know,” Harold agrees, looking at his drink but not touching it, which ironically is much the same policy he takes with his co-worker in airline security.
They go through more cars this way; because even though Jack has had the curse longer he still shifts when he gets angry enough and Elias has apparently had enough of living because all of the pre-programmed station buttons have been changed so they play the same thing except one.
That one plays opera.
Elias is just as angry about it however, his shaggy gray form rapidly filling the passenger seat and his claws going through the cheap upholstry as they both snarl and try to find purchase to maul each other in a car that’s rapidly becoming too small to hold the both of them.
“You’re watching me in the SHOWER now,” Fusco is more accusing than asking, lifting his cell phone without even activating it and shouting into the mic he knows that Finch keeps activated even when the phone is off.
The phone rings, and Fusco answers it against his better judgement.
“Well, I wouldn’t really say watching - monitoring, maybe, in case of an accident-” but Finch never gets to finish, wincing back from the feedback as Fusco drops the phone in the toilet and flushes.
“Your tear gas grenades aren’t so hot now are they.”
Fusco is pissed because they’re not getting out of this and even back-to-back with John motherfucking Reese, the guy with all the equipment and the one you’d want to be back to back with when the shit hits the fan, he’s sure they can’t survive forever.
“Zombies don’t cry, Lionel,” John agrees, but he’s racking the shotgun for another go, anyway.
LOST:
“Of course I’ll help your wife,” Ben placates the wild-eyed man who had obviously come in from the farthest reaches of Tenerife.
His posting here had been hardly uneventful, but Dr. Linus had done his best with what he had been given - even though he felt more like a failure and a little more hardhearted every time he lost a patient to consumption.
“It’s going to cost you, though,” Ben appends, though he knows the man only barely speaks English, and he’s nodding anyway like he’d pay every price he could.
Avengers:
Pepper has gotten him worse birthday presents; really this was inspired, and he wants to know where she found this guy because he has probably the best arms he’s ever seen and he must work out around all the stripping because there’s no amount of pole-oriented gyration that gave you arms like that.
“You want to come to the afterparty?”
But the guy - you know Tony’s had a few guys in his lap with about that much clothing on but never one he thought didn’t want him for his money and that was pretty ridiculous because the guy’s a stripper - just laughs in his ear and answers, “That’s not professional, Mr. Stark.”
Here are the ones I've accomplished so far:
“Things would have been different, you know,” she tells Elias on the phone because sometimes she still has to rail against this. Sometimes she realizes how disgusted she should be with herself, except that Elias gets results and he’s managed to clean up the streets faster and more permanently than the police ever had. “If I had a family.”
“That’s how you and I are alike, Detective Carter.” Elias purrs in answer, and she can see him turn his head into the phone, look at his associate with amusement. “We don’t have families, but we’ve kind of become one, don’t you think?”
“You know what Fusco told me today?” She asks, laughing a little. She’s speaking into the phone, watching him in the street. They never communicate directly, but he likes to be sure she sees him at times, and his expression is politely listening. “That he ‘was into some stuff’ when he met Reese, ‘some bad stuff’ that he was ‘real sorry for’. That he ‘just wanted me to know’.”
It had been as funny then as it seemed to be now, but Elias doesn’t answer her laughter, sensing her bitterness at having every one fooled so well. Elias waits, a patient dark shadow with a shorter leaner one in mirrored hesitation. They’ll listen to the conversation, but that’s not what they’re here for.
“They’re working on somebody, or they were. Gregory Peck,” she gives the name, not sure if she wants them to find each other or not. She knows what will happen, theoretically, but Carter also believes that the guy in the suit is stronger than these two. That maybe he’ll kill them and no one else will ever know what she’s done.
She tells them what she knows anyway, because that’s what she’s always done.
“You might as well get comfortable,” Elias says pleasantly and he pats Finch’s shoulder with an overbearing affection that makes Finch almost wince away, “you’ll be here a while.”
Elias keeps a square brown box with a glass top and a dial on the front on his desk, which Finch knows is a hygrometer only because he’d grown up in circles where words like that mattered - and the needle is shy of the ‘ideal’ mark which twitches into Finch’s awareness like a fish-hook and holds just as tightly.
“I haven’t offered you one, where are my manners,” Elias says, his gaze following Finch’s to the box, and from his pocket he produces a cutter that’s half guillotine and half scissors and there’s such a threat inherent in the motion that Finch has to swallow his fear back, imagining what something like that could do to his anatomy.
John is just going to keep pushing these boundaries until they stop flexing, because they haven’t yet - the first time had been when John was frustrated and tired of listening to the sound of Lionel endlessly raising his voice in direct opposition to what he was doing with his hands and he had John had finally lifted his voice over it like the pack leader taking a subordinate’s muzzle into its mouth and wrenching it to the ground - only all he’d said was ‘get down on the floor’.
What he’s learning is that even under direct orders the sounds will never stop but all John has to do is ask and he can get Fusco to put on a dress - finding one in the appropriate dimensions had been Finch’s job, or lay face down on his own floor and let John stand barefoot on his back like he was the world’s ugliest and loudest throw rug, or accepting the confines of a pronged dog collar from John’s hands.
So when John puts the end of the lead attached to the chain end into Fusco’s hands and tells him to pull on it instead of touching himself, leaves him to sit on the floor while Reese is the one finally submitting to Harold and Fusco gets to appreciate that it’s not him, that he can bitch and bluster and growl but that will never put him into the top position, Fusco pulls until the prongs press his windpipe and he can almost see stars.
He knows the city will never welcome him like it does the man in the suit - Fusco thinks of him more like a sort of hellhound, almost as if he wasn’t real until he suddenly appeared in violent opposition to Fusco’s forward motion.
It means he chooses his paths a little more carefully amongst the buildings, trying to make the chase at least a little more interesting, forcing Reese to drop from fire escapes and unfold himself from shadows that should have been too small for him but somehow he’d tucked himself up into them.
“Not your usual route home, Lionel,” John says against his throat, and Fusco can’t tell if that’s pride or irritation coloring his tone because he’s too busy striking the dirty brick wall and curling his hands around John’s wrists not in resistance but anticipation.
(You can find the song here: http://youtu.be/EdjLlzbkihY )
They get together at the end of a long day at the bar in the back of the airport because it’s the only thing that’s still open that late.
“I swear,” Nathan says - slurs really, and Harold hopes he’s not driving himself home - “If I have to harass one more old lady to take off her shoes.”
“I know,” Harold agrees, looking at his drink but not touching it, which ironically is much the same policy he takes with his co-worker in airline security.
They go through more cars this way; because even though Jack has had the curse longer he still shifts when he gets angry enough and Elias has apparently had enough of living because all of the pre-programmed station buttons have been changed so they play the same thing except one.
That one plays opera.
Elias is just as angry about it however, his shaggy gray form rapidly filling the passenger seat and his claws going through the cheap upholstry as they both snarl and try to find purchase to maul each other in a car that’s rapidly becoming too small to hold the both of them.
“You’re watching me in the SHOWER now,” Fusco is more accusing than asking, lifting his cell phone without even activating it and shouting into the mic he knows that Finch keeps activated even when the phone is off.
The phone rings, and Fusco answers it against his better judgement.
“Well, I wouldn’t really say watching - monitoring, maybe, in case of an accident-” but Finch never gets to finish, wincing back from the feedback as Fusco drops the phone in the toilet and flushes.
“Your tear gas grenades aren’t so hot now are they.”
Fusco is pissed because they’re not getting out of this and even back-to-back with John motherfucking Reese, the guy with all the equipment and the one you’d want to be back to back with when the shit hits the fan, he’s sure they can’t survive forever.
“Zombies don’t cry, Lionel,” John agrees, but he’s racking the shotgun for another go, anyway.
LOST:
“Of course I’ll help your wife,” Ben placates the wild-eyed man who had obviously come in from the farthest reaches of Tenerife.
His posting here had been hardly uneventful, but Dr. Linus had done his best with what he had been given - even though he felt more like a failure and a little more hardhearted every time he lost a patient to consumption.
“It’s going to cost you, though,” Ben appends, though he knows the man only barely speaks English, and he’s nodding anyway like he’d pay every price he could.
Avengers:
Pepper has gotten him worse birthday presents; really this was inspired, and he wants to know where she found this guy because he has probably the best arms he’s ever seen and he must work out around all the stripping because there’s no amount of pole-oriented gyration that gave you arms like that.
“You want to come to the afterparty?”
But the guy - you know Tony’s had a few guys in his lap with about that much clothing on but never one he thought didn’t want him for his money and that was pretty ridiculous because the guy’s a stripper - just laughs in his ear and answers, “That’s not professional, Mr. Stark.”