a blast from the fanfic-y past!
I am reading my old entries from the summer of 2006 (oh, shh, it's not like you don't do it too! Well, yours. Not mine. I hope), and I stumbled across some drabbles I wrote in comments for a meme and rather liked upon rediscovering them! So I am going to put them here. Try to contain yourselves!
X-Files, Mulder/Scully: Rob and Laura (Threaten To) Strike Back!
"You can't be serious."
"Scully." Mulder feigns mortal offense. "Have I ever not been serious?"
She levels him with the most potent skeptical stare she can muster.
"Okay," he admits, holding his hands up in surrender, "maybe once or twice. But the point is that right here, right now, I am perfectly serious."
The sad part of the situation is that she believes he truly is. "But . . . marriage counseling, Mulder?"
"It's the only option!" he retorts. "Six couples make the random decision to go homicidal on their significant other, and the only link between them is a shared marriage counselor." He leans closer to her, eyes sparkling like a kid's on Christmas. "You can't deny that it's time for some deep cover investigation."
She crosses her arms in front of her chest. "Even if that is true, Mulder, don't you think it might be dangerous? If this . . ."
"Doctor Beirnard," Mulder supplies.
"Doctor Beirnard is driving these people to hurt one another in some way, then who's to say we won't wind up inflicting severe damage upon each other?"
"Ah!" Mulder says, and holds up a finger. "But we are not married. In fact," he continues, smirking at her in a way that makes her feel thirteen, "it could be argued that no romantic attraction at all exists between us."
Scully decides that it's probably safest to ignore that one altogether. "The last time we decided to go undercover as a married couple," she reminds him, "I got locked in a closet and you nearly got yourself killed by a gigantic bear-shaped dirt monster."
"And I bet you're just itching for some more of that wedded bliss, aren't you, Scully?" He's entirely impossible. Which she supposes she should have learned to expect by now.
She glares at him for as long as she can before inevitably relenting. "Fine."
Mulder grins broadly. "Glad to be back in business with you, Mrs. Petrie."
"Mulder?"
"Rob."
"This time, I'm choosing the names."
--
Pirates of the Caribbean, Jack/Elizabeth: Some Dead Man's Chest-Era Denial-Ridden Bonding!
But the thing that maddens her most of all is the fact that he seems to like her like this -- standing on deck at moonlight clutching a bottle of rum, not the slightest bit pretty or delicate in boys' clothes with her hair tangled in knots. She hates the idea of Will seeing her like this, although she tells herself sternly that he wouldn't mind in the slightest. Will always thinks she's beautiful. And it should be a lovely thing, too -- to be thought beautiful all the time. It's just that she'd rather be thought capable, clever, dangerous . . . a number of utterly unladylike things. Jack sees all of that.
It's silly.
"You look to be pensive, Miss Swann," Jack says from behind her, breaking the silence.
She feels her face flush and thanks God for the dark. "What makes you think that?"
"Your current solitary position, attractively furrowed brow, and abhorrent neglect of the lovely elixir you just so happen to be holding -- I'll take that off your hands, thanks," he tears the bottle from her grasp, "all lead me to reach that particular staggering deductive effort."
"Impressive," she deadpans.
"Do try to contain your admiration, luv," he retorts with a grin.
She rolls her eyes at him.
"Missing your young Mister Turner, then, are you?"
It almost seems merciful, as though he's given her an escape.
"Yes." She turns away from him and fixes her eyes on the moon. "Yes, terribly."
Silently, he passes the bottle of rum. She takes a grateful swig.
--
Lost, Kate/Sawyer; Random Fluff From The Good Ol' Mid-Season Two Days!
It's nighttime and it's raining hard and she stands outside and lets the water pour over her instead of running for cover. The rain is always warm here and she likes it; she closes her eyes and tastes the raindrops on her tongue. When Jack calls for her to come under the tarp, she pretends not to hear him and only feels a little bit guilty about it.
"Havin' fun, Freckles?"
She smiles but keeps her eyes closed.
"You do realize it's pourin' down rain out here?"
"Yeah," she affirms pleasantly.
"And any sane person'd get inside some place before they drowned?"
"Yeah," she says sweetly.
"All right, then," he says. "Just thought I'd check."
He doesn't walk away, though. She tries not to be too pleased about it.
"Son of a bitch, Freckles, I'm gonna be soaked to the bone for a week," he proclaims impatiently after a moment.
"No one's making you stay," she points out.
His hand catches hers for a second and squeezes it; she keeps on smiling, and opens her eyes to find out that he's smiling back.
X-Files, Mulder/Scully: Rob and Laura (Threaten To) Strike Back!
"You can't be serious."
"Scully." Mulder feigns mortal offense. "Have I ever not been serious?"
She levels him with the most potent skeptical stare she can muster.
"Okay," he admits, holding his hands up in surrender, "maybe once or twice. But the point is that right here, right now, I am perfectly serious."
The sad part of the situation is that she believes he truly is. "But . . . marriage counseling, Mulder?"
"It's the only option!" he retorts. "Six couples make the random decision to go homicidal on their significant other, and the only link between them is a shared marriage counselor." He leans closer to her, eyes sparkling like a kid's on Christmas. "You can't deny that it's time for some deep cover investigation."
She crosses her arms in front of her chest. "Even if that is true, Mulder, don't you think it might be dangerous? If this . . ."
"Doctor Beirnard," Mulder supplies.
"Doctor Beirnard is driving these people to hurt one another in some way, then who's to say we won't wind up inflicting severe damage upon each other?"
"Ah!" Mulder says, and holds up a finger. "But we are not married. In fact," he continues, smirking at her in a way that makes her feel thirteen, "it could be argued that no romantic attraction at all exists between us."
Scully decides that it's probably safest to ignore that one altogether. "The last time we decided to go undercover as a married couple," she reminds him, "I got locked in a closet and you nearly got yourself killed by a gigantic bear-shaped dirt monster."
"And I bet you're just itching for some more of that wedded bliss, aren't you, Scully?" He's entirely impossible. Which she supposes she should have learned to expect by now.
She glares at him for as long as she can before inevitably relenting. "Fine."
Mulder grins broadly. "Glad to be back in business with you, Mrs. Petrie."
"Mulder?"
"Rob."
"This time, I'm choosing the names."
--
Pirates of the Caribbean, Jack/Elizabeth: Some Dead Man's Chest-Era Denial-Ridden Bonding!
But the thing that maddens her most of all is the fact that he seems to like her like this -- standing on deck at moonlight clutching a bottle of rum, not the slightest bit pretty or delicate in boys' clothes with her hair tangled in knots. She hates the idea of Will seeing her like this, although she tells herself sternly that he wouldn't mind in the slightest. Will always thinks she's beautiful. And it should be a lovely thing, too -- to be thought beautiful all the time. It's just that she'd rather be thought capable, clever, dangerous . . . a number of utterly unladylike things. Jack sees all of that.
It's silly.
"You look to be pensive, Miss Swann," Jack says from behind her, breaking the silence.
She feels her face flush and thanks God for the dark. "What makes you think that?"
"Your current solitary position, attractively furrowed brow, and abhorrent neglect of the lovely elixir you just so happen to be holding -- I'll take that off your hands, thanks," he tears the bottle from her grasp, "all lead me to reach that particular staggering deductive effort."
"Impressive," she deadpans.
"Do try to contain your admiration, luv," he retorts with a grin.
She rolls her eyes at him.
"Missing your young Mister Turner, then, are you?"
It almost seems merciful, as though he's given her an escape.
"Yes." She turns away from him and fixes her eyes on the moon. "Yes, terribly."
Silently, he passes the bottle of rum. She takes a grateful swig.
--
Lost, Kate/Sawyer; Random Fluff From The Good Ol' Mid-Season Two Days!
It's nighttime and it's raining hard and she stands outside and lets the water pour over her instead of running for cover. The rain is always warm here and she likes it; she closes her eyes and tastes the raindrops on her tongue. When Jack calls for her to come under the tarp, she pretends not to hear him and only feels a little bit guilty about it.
"Havin' fun, Freckles?"
She smiles but keeps her eyes closed.
"You do realize it's pourin' down rain out here?"
"Yeah," she affirms pleasantly.
"And any sane person'd get inside some place before they drowned?"
"Yeah," she says sweetly.
"All right, then," he says. "Just thought I'd check."
He doesn't walk away, though. She tries not to be too pleased about it.
"Son of a bitch, Freckles, I'm gonna be soaked to the bone for a week," he proclaims impatiently after a moment.
"No one's making you stay," she points out.
His hand catches hers for a second and squeezes it; she keeps on smiling, and opens her eyes to find out that he's smiling back.