[FIC] Unfinished Drabbles
Someone needs to kill my attention span, or whatever's left of it, and implant a friggin' WHOLE one inside my head. I can't finish ANYTHING. What the bloody hell.
So, below is a gathering of my USELESS and UNFINISHED along with ANNOYING AS HELL drabbles. I'm so ashamed, but I have to put them somewhere.
"Dial Tone"
Ryan was supposed to call. He was always supposed to call.
Sometime in their four-year partnership, Ryan and Esposito had came up with a rule, an unspoken agreement. One out of many, the agreement went as such:
Kevin Ryan was always the one who called Javier Esposito.
This rule applied to everything in their lives, in and out of the precinct. If there was a body, Ryan would be the one that calls Javier. If Lanie found something, Ryan would be the one that calls Javier. If Javier was the one who found something, Ryan would still be the one that calls him. They didn’t question who, what, when, where, why, and they most certainly didn’t complain about it, so the rule came to be.
It was one of the many rules in their partnership, one out of too many unbroken promises in the brotherhood they both so comfortably settled in.
Because they were brothers-not in blood, but in bond. Because they were brothers, that it hurt so fucking much when Ryan didn’t call.
They had been fighting. It happened way too often nowadays, and it seemed like Javier was nothing but pissed all the time. If he calms down for one second, Ryan’s words would set him off in the next. If he manages to grin for a minute, Ryan’s eyes would morph it into the dangerous snarl perfect for terrifying suspects into a murder confession.
They had been fighting, but that gave Ryan no reason to not call him.
"Jack Skellington"
"Hey, hey, Ryan- Ryan CAREFUL!"
Kevin Ryan's foot paused in midair, right before the soles of his shoes crushed the smallest, sorriest looking pumpkin in the world, effectively sending the detective's sense of balance spiraling out into the Halloween night and crashing into bits and pieces on the New York City pavement.
Rick's run might as well have been slow motion, when he sprinted forward, trying to save his miniature Jack Skellington pumpkin carving before it was too late. But deep inside, he knew he was too late. He was always too late. He was too late to buy the proper pumpkins for proper Jack-o'-Lanterns, he was too late to carve the small one he got to put outside. And now, he was too late to save Jack Skellington, carved with his tears and sweat, practically, before it was lost beneath the foot of Ryan forever...
Esposito's hand clasped tightly over Ryan's shoulder, bringing the leaning man back up straight, and Rick crashed, elbows-first into the ground, with a happy sigh of relief as he cradled his Jack Skellington pumpkin.
"...Dude. What's up?"
It took a second for Rick to realize that he was still on his stomach, wrapped around his darling pumpkin, and cleared his throat before standing up in a hurry.
"Ah, welcome, gentlemen, to my humble abode," he announced grandly, bowing dramatically before looking up with a grin. "How do you do this fine evening, Signore... samurai, and knight?"
"Mhm." Both Ryan and Esposito nodded confirmation, and each took turns to briefly flash their costumes. Ryan was decked out in a medieval Knight-In-Shining-Armor dress, helmet, shield, and cudgel and all, while Esposito dressed much simpler, in a white traditional Japanese kimono and a dark blue hakama over it, with a katana tied at his waist.
"Javi wanted us to be something completely different from each other this year," Ryan explained, shrugging uncomfortably with a series of loud clangs. Rick thought he saw a glimpse of a pitying, but relieved smirk on Esposito's face from not being the one stuck in the knight armor. "So we figured nothing could be more different than opposite ends of the world."
"So what are you s'pposed to be, Castle?" Esposito questioned, looking the writer up and down with a skeptical gaze. Ryan followed suit, albeit more surprised by the lack of... flamboyance in Castle's costume. Rick, after letting them look, took an arrogant twirl in his Italian patent leather loafers, showing off his simple black-and-white suit and tie, and the fake blood dripping from one ear, one eye, drizzling over his shirt.
"Well, the case kept me from getting a proper costume," he explained, stepping aside to let the two detectives in while he closed the door. "So I had to make due with what I had."
"...And?" Ryan questioned once they were inside the living room. "What are you?"
"Pier Paolo Pasolini," Rick announced with a flourishing Italian accent, which, in this case, was just Italian. At Ryan and Esposito's blank looks, he dropped the act of majesty and grumbled instead, "Italian filmmaker? Got ran over by his own car about five times by mobsters."
Ryan turned to Esposito with a stricken look. "Told you we should've gone for mafia."
"If you had, I'd never have believed you if you said it was a coincident," came Beckett's voice from behind the two detectives. Ryan and Esposito turned, while Rick simply looked up, to watch the female detective practically slink down the stairs, stilettos clicking crisply against the wood and her floor-length evening gown whispering as the cloth brushed against itself. The long stretch of pale skin of one shoulder was immaculate, and the dark swirling embellishments on the tight-fitting bodice glittered under dimmed fluorescent lights. Her hips twisted sensually as she moved, and when she came to a stop in the middle of the floor, all three of the boys were staring openly. Kate allowed this to go on for a few seconds, before answering the unspoken question.
"Maddalena."
"La Dolce Vita?"
Kate sent a pleased smile and nod in the direction of her detective, and Esposito turned to his partner in mild surprise and irritation.
"La Dolce Vita?"
"What?" the detective replied defensively. "It's a classic."
"If you had just asked, mio caro," Rick murmured from the back, stepping between Ryan and Esposito when he moved forward. "I would've gladly been your Marcello."
"That's why I didn't ask," Kate drawled, cocking her hips and letting one hand rest on the fabric of her dress. "You didn't even notice the dress when I came."
"Because you were wearing something outside of it," the writer protested. "How was I supposed to see it when it's hidden under a trench coat?"
Before the detective could reply, Ryan and Esposito cleared their throats strategically at the same time, stopping the banter.
"If you two are quite done," Ryan started.
"Prize Through Viewfinder"
“Vic’s name is Jim Bender, 58, retired cameraman,” Esposito reported. His nose was scrunched as the smell of dirt and heat and rotting flesh assaulted his senses. “His body was found inside the cinder block kiln.”
“Cinder block kiln?” Beckett questioned, fighting back a wince as she covered her face with the inside of her sleeve. Castle had already ducked beneath the collar of his suit jacket, and was about to pop up and explain, when Ryan appeared behind Esposito.
“Yeah. It bakes raw cinder blocks made here in the factory.” The detective gestured loosely to the building around them. Ryan, for one, didn’t seem particularly bothered by the smell. “Shaped blocks are packed in for a day, and each kiln is heated up to 110 degrees Fahrenheit.”
Long since used to Detective Ryan’s plethora of vaguely-useful knowledge, Beckett turned instead to Lanie, to confirm the suggested cause of death.
“Yup,” the medical examiner confirmed Beckett’s unasked question. “He was killed by the intense heat, if the blistered skin gives any indication.”
“It does,” Castle confirmed nasally from behind his shirt, and Lanie gave him the sexy-adult version of a child’s Sticking-the-Tongue-Out, completed with a commanding glare, and the writer immediately shifted his gaze. Ryan snickered at his left.
"The One That Didn't Even Get to Mentioning The Characters"
That evening was one of few that looked like a child finger-painted the sunset over New York City. Austere colorings traced through the sky in sensual curves, melting beside the heat of the sun and dripping into the clouds underneath. The extended fiery light feelers creeped against their backdrop, outlining a path a puppy would bound eagerly through, each of its leaps sending up a gust of scattered clouds up further into the air. It would sidle right up against the sun and its pot of simmering day, boiling over and spoiling for the night to take over, and its tongue would eagerly lap up the last of the leftover stew.
The lights looked almost fake, and one had to applaud humanity for being able to capture such beauty in all its natural wonder, and at the same time curse it for paradoxically ruining its nature.
Feel free to murder me now. Dammit, I really need to get through crap and not get friggin' distracted all the time...
...On the other hand, Inception slash, anybody? Eames/Arthur?
So, below is a gathering of my USELESS and UNFINISHED along with ANNOYING AS HELL drabbles. I'm so ashamed, but I have to put them somewhere.
"Dial Tone"
Ryan was supposed to call. He was always supposed to call.
Sometime in their four-year partnership, Ryan and Esposito had came up with a rule, an unspoken agreement. One out of many, the agreement went as such:
Kevin Ryan was always the one who called Javier Esposito.
This rule applied to everything in their lives, in and out of the precinct. If there was a body, Ryan would be the one that calls Javier. If Lanie found something, Ryan would be the one that calls Javier. If Javier was the one who found something, Ryan would still be the one that calls him. They didn’t question who, what, when, where, why, and they most certainly didn’t complain about it, so the rule came to be.
It was one of the many rules in their partnership, one out of too many unbroken promises in the brotherhood they both so comfortably settled in.
Because they were brothers-not in blood, but in bond. Because they were brothers, that it hurt so fucking much when Ryan didn’t call.
They had been fighting. It happened way too often nowadays, and it seemed like Javier was nothing but pissed all the time. If he calms down for one second, Ryan’s words would set him off in the next. If he manages to grin for a minute, Ryan’s eyes would morph it into the dangerous snarl perfect for terrifying suspects into a murder confession.
They had been fighting, but that gave Ryan no reason to not call him.
"Jack Skellington"
"Hey, hey, Ryan- Ryan CAREFUL!"
Kevin Ryan's foot paused in midair, right before the soles of his shoes crushed the smallest, sorriest looking pumpkin in the world, effectively sending the detective's sense of balance spiraling out into the Halloween night and crashing into bits and pieces on the New York City pavement.
Rick's run might as well have been slow motion, when he sprinted forward, trying to save his miniature Jack Skellington pumpkin carving before it was too late. But deep inside, he knew he was too late. He was always too late. He was too late to buy the proper pumpkins for proper Jack-o'-Lanterns, he was too late to carve the small one he got to put outside. And now, he was too late to save Jack Skellington, carved with his tears and sweat, practically, before it was lost beneath the foot of Ryan forever...
Esposito's hand clasped tightly over Ryan's shoulder, bringing the leaning man back up straight, and Rick crashed, elbows-first into the ground, with a happy sigh of relief as he cradled his Jack Skellington pumpkin.
"...Dude. What's up?"
It took a second for Rick to realize that he was still on his stomach, wrapped around his darling pumpkin, and cleared his throat before standing up in a hurry.
"Ah, welcome, gentlemen, to my humble abode," he announced grandly, bowing dramatically before looking up with a grin. "How do you do this fine evening, Signore... samurai, and knight?"
"Mhm." Both Ryan and Esposito nodded confirmation, and each took turns to briefly flash their costumes. Ryan was decked out in a medieval Knight-In-Shining-Armor dress, helmet, shield, and cudgel and all, while Esposito dressed much simpler, in a white traditional Japanese kimono and a dark blue hakama over it, with a katana tied at his waist.
"Javi wanted us to be something completely different from each other this year," Ryan explained, shrugging uncomfortably with a series of loud clangs. Rick thought he saw a glimpse of a pitying, but relieved smirk on Esposito's face from not being the one stuck in the knight armor. "So we figured nothing could be more different than opposite ends of the world."
"So what are you s'pposed to be, Castle?" Esposito questioned, looking the writer up and down with a skeptical gaze. Ryan followed suit, albeit more surprised by the lack of... flamboyance in Castle's costume. Rick, after letting them look, took an arrogant twirl in his Italian patent leather loafers, showing off his simple black-and-white suit and tie, and the fake blood dripping from one ear, one eye, drizzling over his shirt.
"Well, the case kept me from getting a proper costume," he explained, stepping aside to let the two detectives in while he closed the door. "So I had to make due with what I had."
"...And?" Ryan questioned once they were inside the living room. "What are you?"
"Pier Paolo Pasolini," Rick announced with a flourishing Italian accent, which, in this case, was just Italian. At Ryan and Esposito's blank looks, he dropped the act of majesty and grumbled instead, "Italian filmmaker? Got ran over by his own car about five times by mobsters."
Ryan turned to Esposito with a stricken look. "Told you we should've gone for mafia."
"If you had, I'd never have believed you if you said it was a coincident," came Beckett's voice from behind the two detectives. Ryan and Esposito turned, while Rick simply looked up, to watch the female detective practically slink down the stairs, stilettos clicking crisply against the wood and her floor-length evening gown whispering as the cloth brushed against itself. The long stretch of pale skin of one shoulder was immaculate, and the dark swirling embellishments on the tight-fitting bodice glittered under dimmed fluorescent lights. Her hips twisted sensually as she moved, and when she came to a stop in the middle of the floor, all three of the boys were staring openly. Kate allowed this to go on for a few seconds, before answering the unspoken question.
"Maddalena."
"La Dolce Vita?"
Kate sent a pleased smile and nod in the direction of her detective, and Esposito turned to his partner in mild surprise and irritation.
"La Dolce Vita?"
"What?" the detective replied defensively. "It's a classic."
"If you had just asked, mio caro," Rick murmured from the back, stepping between Ryan and Esposito when he moved forward. "I would've gladly been your Marcello."
"That's why I didn't ask," Kate drawled, cocking her hips and letting one hand rest on the fabric of her dress. "You didn't even notice the dress when I came."
"Because you were wearing something outside of it," the writer protested. "How was I supposed to see it when it's hidden under a trench coat?"
Before the detective could reply, Ryan and Esposito cleared their throats strategically at the same time, stopping the banter.
"If you two are quite done," Ryan started.
"Prize Through Viewfinder"
“Vic’s name is Jim Bender, 58, retired cameraman,” Esposito reported. His nose was scrunched as the smell of dirt and heat and rotting flesh assaulted his senses. “His body was found inside the cinder block kiln.”
“Cinder block kiln?” Beckett questioned, fighting back a wince as she covered her face with the inside of her sleeve. Castle had already ducked beneath the collar of his suit jacket, and was about to pop up and explain, when Ryan appeared behind Esposito.
“Yeah. It bakes raw cinder blocks made here in the factory.” The detective gestured loosely to the building around them. Ryan, for one, didn’t seem particularly bothered by the smell. “Shaped blocks are packed in for a day, and each kiln is heated up to 110 degrees Fahrenheit.”
Long since used to Detective Ryan’s plethora of vaguely-useful knowledge, Beckett turned instead to Lanie, to confirm the suggested cause of death.
“Yup,” the medical examiner confirmed Beckett’s unasked question. “He was killed by the intense heat, if the blistered skin gives any indication.”
“It does,” Castle confirmed nasally from behind his shirt, and Lanie gave him the sexy-adult version of a child’s Sticking-the-Tongue-Out, completed with a commanding glare, and the writer immediately shifted his gaze. Ryan snickered at his left.
"The One That Didn't Even Get to Mentioning The Characters"
That evening was one of few that looked like a child finger-painted the sunset over New York City. Austere colorings traced through the sky in sensual curves, melting beside the heat of the sun and dripping into the clouds underneath. The extended fiery light feelers creeped against their backdrop, outlining a path a puppy would bound eagerly through, each of its leaps sending up a gust of scattered clouds up further into the air. It would sidle right up against the sun and its pot of simmering day, boiling over and spoiling for the night to take over, and its tongue would eagerly lap up the last of the leftover stew.
The lights looked almost fake, and one had to applaud humanity for being able to capture such beauty in all its natural wonder, and at the same time curse it for paradoxically ruining its nature.
Feel free to murder me now. Dammit, I really need to get through crap and not get friggin' distracted all the time...
...On the other hand, Inception slash, anybody? Eames/Arthur?