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drabble roundup - Misc
Probability
Sherlock/John . 312 words . college AU . written for speccygeekgrrl
Sherlock seemed to need more space than was physically possible. Maybe he was used to having a lot of room of his own, or maybe - and John suspected the latter - his previous accommodations had been more akin to a cupboard and all the newfound glory of a college dorm room excited him.
He hadn't known Sherlock for more than a week before they were inseparable, and John didn't question it because some part of him had been terrified of adjusting to civilian life again, of crawling back to university amidst a cloud of 'I told you so's. Sherlock was his buffer to all that, his shield, and very quickly, his morbid fascination.
For example, his laundry was currently on John's bed.
And that brought him back to his original thought, about space. Sherlock didn't understand this concept. He didn't understand that John was on his bed, he was using it, therefore it was not the place to dump clean laundry while he went about folding it, which seemed to involve a lot of wandering around in tight circles and muttering.
John sighed, and thought about saying something. He thought about probability (the statistics homework that he Wasn't Doing was probably to blame for that), specifically, the probability of Sherlock ever actually listening to him. If he thought about it, he could hear what Sherlock was saying - something about valence electrons, for the love of God, the man was impossible. So that would be - he consulted his book - a great round 0%. Well, that was easy.
He sighed, and srunched his knees up further under his chin, to give Sherlock a little more room. He was impossible, but John was nothing if not grateful, and if calculating Sherlock's reactions would help him get through Stat 101, he'd keep on giving him a long leash.
Court of Stars
Spock/McCoy . 592 words . Maycourt AU . written for willowanderer
Leonard didn't know how he got suckered into this.
Oh, right, because his foster parents (that's what he called them in real life, when he had to mention them at all) were too used to using him as a go-between (or, you know, mental meat shield) when delegations came visiting from other courts. And Leonard had this bad habit of saying yes.
They did this for two reasons, and neither of them had anything to do with his worth as a person. One, he was human. This gave him the license to speak his mind, because he was already on the bottom rung of the social ladder and therefore couldn't disgrace anyone by being blunt. Second, he was a doctor. Fights would inevitably break out and the fay could only only heal those under their protection, so, the guests would be vulnerable. Hence, doctor.
And he kept on saying yes because he had a weakness to being needed, and still - after all this time, after growing up there and wishing for all his childhood to just be normal - he was still fascinated by the Maycourt. By the fay.
So he stood to the side with the sprites and pixies and hobgoblins, Puck presiding over them with a stern glare that promised a swift death to anyone who upset their guests. Leonard got the feeling there was something different about this delegation, something special.
The whispers reached his ears, finally. Decembrists. Decembercourt. The Winterking.
Holy shit. The Winterking was coming here?
He shifted from foot to foot, feeling uncomfortable and wildly out of place, for all that he'd played in this courtyard as a kid. But even then, there had always been whispers about the Decembrists, about their dark history and frigid, unbending laws. Oh yes. He was well and properly cowed.
They arrived with ceremony; the Maycourt pulled out all the stops to welcome their prestigious guests. For a while, Leonard was shunted around from group to group, not exactly a servant but certainly not a courtier, and currently serving no useful purpose. Somehow, he ended up at the refreshments table, and with nothing better to do, he went over to pour himself a glass of punch.
Surprisingly, there was someone there already, and not a servant - a fay, tall and slim and actually getting himself a beverage.
Leonard had to stare a while. This was so ridiculously unusual that he couldn't help it.
The fay looked up. He was like most of his kind - tall, slim, beautiful, but his eyes were surprisingly deep and his hair was unusually short. His eyebrows twitched, then he held out the glass of punch he'd just poured.
He held out the glass to him. What the everloving hell. Leonard had never, in all his life, met a fay with even an ounce of selflessness, even for something as small as this - something a human would consider a common courtesy. It blew him away.
As if sensing his astonishment, the fay's lips quirked. "We Changelings must stick together," he murmured, in a voice low and dark like rich chocolate.
Leonard took the glass with shaking hands, eyes blown wide in the sheer bruising force of his own curiosity. "Yeah," he finally managed, and made up his mind right then and there not to let him out of his sight for at least the rest of the evening. "Yeah, we do."
Self-Fulfilling Prophecies
Harry/Luna . 492 words . Merlin AU . written for bogged
It wasn't hard to be the Lord and Lady Dursley's serving boy. What was hard, he thought, was keeping the magic contained. They told him often enough how grateful he should be, that they were shielding him from Uther's wrath - and he was, truly. But they didn't understand how it liked to jump out of him sometimes, and they didn't understand that he needed training. He didn't either, really, until he met Hagrid who Wasn't A Magician (but could at least teach him what he needed to know) and Hagrid talked about the greatest magician who ever lived, whom Uther had burned.
He first met her in the street market, and he was startled because he had a fairly good knowledge of the people and shop owners and he'd never seen her or her father before. He would have remember. Oh, we would have remembered. Well, anyone could have remembered the patchwork jester's clothing she wore, or the way she jingled with every step, or the strange dead things hanging from a circle around her neck. He would have remembered her cornsilk blonde hair, and her bright, penetrating eyes, and the infectious nature of her smile.
"Penny for a prophecy?" she said, leaning excitedly over the counter, which was spread with all manner of utterly ridiculous objects that surely had no purpose. He tore his eyes away from the shell of a creature that seemed to be made completely of spikes (when his eyes had danced away from her face, aware he was staring) and looked back up.
"You do know this is Camelot," he said, hefting his bag a little higher. "Magic will get you killed."
The grin that spread over her face was secret, and knowing, and just for him. It made his insides do cartwheels. "That's why I don't ask just anyone."
She knew. Somehow, she could see him, see right through him, and she knew, but maybe it wasn't a bad thing because she was offering prophecies? Did that mean she had magic, as well?
She crooked her hands at him and he went, stumbling, until she could whisper in his ear. "I predict you'll meet me at the fallen log, in the woods, just after midnight. I say just after because I'm a little absent-minded and I'll probably be late." He was grinning, he knew he was, he couldn't help himself.
"Not a very big prophecy," he said.
"It's self-fulfilling. Those are the best kind." She grinned a grin of hidden sparkle, peeking out from the surface. "And not a word to anyone, young man. We're herbalists and explorers. Nothing magical about that." But she tapped the side of her nose, and it was all the confirmation he needed.
He nodded once, quickly. He would be there.
Sherlock/John . 312 words . college AU . written for speccygeekgrrl
Sherlock seemed to need more space than was physically possible. Maybe he was used to having a lot of room of his own, or maybe - and John suspected the latter - his previous accommodations had been more akin to a cupboard and all the newfound glory of a college dorm room excited him.
He hadn't known Sherlock for more than a week before they were inseparable, and John didn't question it because some part of him had been terrified of adjusting to civilian life again, of crawling back to university amidst a cloud of 'I told you so's. Sherlock was his buffer to all that, his shield, and very quickly, his morbid fascination.
For example, his laundry was currently on John's bed.
And that brought him back to his original thought, about space. Sherlock didn't understand this concept. He didn't understand that John was on his bed, he was using it, therefore it was not the place to dump clean laundry while he went about folding it, which seemed to involve a lot of wandering around in tight circles and muttering.
John sighed, and thought about saying something. He thought about probability (the statistics homework that he Wasn't Doing was probably to blame for that), specifically, the probability of Sherlock ever actually listening to him. If he thought about it, he could hear what Sherlock was saying - something about valence electrons, for the love of God, the man was impossible. So that would be - he consulted his book - a great round 0%. Well, that was easy.
He sighed, and srunched his knees up further under his chin, to give Sherlock a little more room. He was impossible, but John was nothing if not grateful, and if calculating Sherlock's reactions would help him get through Stat 101, he'd keep on giving him a long leash.
Court of Stars
Spock/McCoy . 592 words . Maycourt AU . written for willowanderer
Leonard didn't know how he got suckered into this.
Oh, right, because his foster parents (that's what he called them in real life, when he had to mention them at all) were too used to using him as a go-between (or, you know, mental meat shield) when delegations came visiting from other courts. And Leonard had this bad habit of saying yes.
They did this for two reasons, and neither of them had anything to do with his worth as a person. One, he was human. This gave him the license to speak his mind, because he was already on the bottom rung of the social ladder and therefore couldn't disgrace anyone by being blunt. Second, he was a doctor. Fights would inevitably break out and the fay could only only heal those under their protection, so, the guests would be vulnerable. Hence, doctor.
And he kept on saying yes because he had a weakness to being needed, and still - after all this time, after growing up there and wishing for all his childhood to just be normal - he was still fascinated by the Maycourt. By the fay.
So he stood to the side with the sprites and pixies and hobgoblins, Puck presiding over them with a stern glare that promised a swift death to anyone who upset their guests. Leonard got the feeling there was something different about this delegation, something special.
The whispers reached his ears, finally. Decembrists. Decembercourt. The Winterking.
Holy shit. The Winterking was coming here?
He shifted from foot to foot, feeling uncomfortable and wildly out of place, for all that he'd played in this courtyard as a kid. But even then, there had always been whispers about the Decembrists, about their dark history and frigid, unbending laws. Oh yes. He was well and properly cowed.
They arrived with ceremony; the Maycourt pulled out all the stops to welcome their prestigious guests. For a while, Leonard was shunted around from group to group, not exactly a servant but certainly not a courtier, and currently serving no useful purpose. Somehow, he ended up at the refreshments table, and with nothing better to do, he went over to pour himself a glass of punch.
Surprisingly, there was someone there already, and not a servant - a fay, tall and slim and actually getting himself a beverage.
Leonard had to stare a while. This was so ridiculously unusual that he couldn't help it.
The fay looked up. He was like most of his kind - tall, slim, beautiful, but his eyes were surprisingly deep and his hair was unusually short. His eyebrows twitched, then he held out the glass of punch he'd just poured.
He held out the glass to him. What the everloving hell. Leonard had never, in all his life, met a fay with even an ounce of selflessness, even for something as small as this - something a human would consider a common courtesy. It blew him away.
As if sensing his astonishment, the fay's lips quirked. "We Changelings must stick together," he murmured, in a voice low and dark like rich chocolate.
Leonard took the glass with shaking hands, eyes blown wide in the sheer bruising force of his own curiosity. "Yeah," he finally managed, and made up his mind right then and there not to let him out of his sight for at least the rest of the evening. "Yeah, we do."
Self-Fulfilling Prophecies
Harry/Luna . 492 words . Merlin AU . written for bogged
It wasn't hard to be the Lord and Lady Dursley's serving boy. What was hard, he thought, was keeping the magic contained. They told him often enough how grateful he should be, that they were shielding him from Uther's wrath - and he was, truly. But they didn't understand how it liked to jump out of him sometimes, and they didn't understand that he needed training. He didn't either, really, until he met Hagrid who Wasn't A Magician (but could at least teach him what he needed to know) and Hagrid talked about the greatest magician who ever lived, whom Uther had burned.
He first met her in the street market, and he was startled because he had a fairly good knowledge of the people and shop owners and he'd never seen her or her father before. He would have remember. Oh, we would have remembered. Well, anyone could have remembered the patchwork jester's clothing she wore, or the way she jingled with every step, or the strange dead things hanging from a circle around her neck. He would have remembered her cornsilk blonde hair, and her bright, penetrating eyes, and the infectious nature of her smile.
"Penny for a prophecy?" she said, leaning excitedly over the counter, which was spread with all manner of utterly ridiculous objects that surely had no purpose. He tore his eyes away from the shell of a creature that seemed to be made completely of spikes (when his eyes had danced away from her face, aware he was staring) and looked back up.
"You do know this is Camelot," he said, hefting his bag a little higher. "Magic will get you killed."
The grin that spread over her face was secret, and knowing, and just for him. It made his insides do cartwheels. "That's why I don't ask just anyone."
She knew. Somehow, she could see him, see right through him, and she knew, but maybe it wasn't a bad thing because she was offering prophecies? Did that mean she had magic, as well?
She crooked her hands at him and he went, stumbling, until she could whisper in his ear. "I predict you'll meet me at the fallen log, in the woods, just after midnight. I say just after because I'm a little absent-minded and I'll probably be late." He was grinning, he knew he was, he couldn't help himself.
"Not a very big prophecy," he said.
"It's self-fulfilling. Those are the best kind." She grinned a grin of hidden sparkle, peeking out from the surface. "And not a word to anyone, young man. We're herbalists and explorers. Nothing magical about that." But she tapped the side of her nose, and it was all the confirmation he needed.
He nodded once, quickly. He would be there.