Ficlets from a long drive
Basically, I'm reposting from comments so that I have copies of these on DW, too. No warnings on any.
For
lucifuge5 The One where Vecchio and Stella Talk about Playing Guitar. RayV/Stella
During the hottest part of the day, when the sun threatened to burn Stella's fair skin in bare minutes, they wandered the small stores scattered behind the beach houses and hotels. They made an eclectic mix -- high end boutiques stood beside second-hand paperback stores next to local artisan collectives. Ray couldn't guess from the exterior what they'd find when he pulled open the door for her.
In one of the second-hand shops, something grabbed Stella's attention midword to Ray. Her breath caught, and her expression went wide-open, excited, happy before she smoothed it back into her usual public reserve.
"What?" he asked looking to his side, trying to spot whatever she'd seen.
"Nothing," she said, then she shrugged and told him anyway. "I just had a Gibson like that once."
His eyes flickered across the nearest shelves of odds and ends. Oh, the electric guitar. He lifted it free of the surrounding junk and clear of the wooden buoy lying in front of it. "You did?" She took the guitar from him with a soft, almost fond smile. She ran her hands over it, checking it for Ray-didn't-know-what, almost unconsciously testing the tuning with her thumb. "Is it a good guitar?"
"Yes," she said quickly, almost defensively, then shook her head. "Well, sort of. It's not a collectible, anything like that. But it was a good guitar." She set it back down almost wistfully.
"I didn't even know you play."
"I don't, not anymore. When would I have time?"
"Then let's make time. We'll retire, move down here." As soon as he said it, he could almost see it. The two of them in Florida, to stay. "We'll live on the beach. You can play guitar, and I'll learn to fish or something." His thoughts strayed to the frustrating limited local entertainment options. "Open a bowling alley."
She laughed. "Not much of a retirement if you'll be running a business."
He waved that off. "It's renting shoes, not like it's hard. I'll hire some teenagers to run the place."
"I can't believe that's still bothering you."
"Well, what kind of town doesn't have a bowling alley? I mean, I ask you."
She laughed again and kissed him, soft, sweet and too brief. "It sounds wonderful, but we'd be bored in a month and missing real work. I don't need a beach or a guitar."
Ray let her draw him from the shop but made a note of which particular odd and ends shop it had been. He'd call later and find out whether they could ship the guitar to Chicago, because, sure, Stella didn't need a guitar. But he wanted to give her everything she didn't need.
~~~
And The One where Geoffrey and Sloan Hang Out. Gen.
Someone knocked on the office door, a novel enough occurrence that Geoffrey called 'come in' before he looked up. The visitor was Sloan, and Geoffrey briefly wondered if he'd heard about Ellen kicking him out and, more pertinently, whether that meant he was about to get punched in the nose. Again. But, no, everything about Sloan's carriage said 'despondence' not 'righteous (adolescent) fury.' Sloan frowned, his shoulders slumped, and he shuffled more than walked to drop into the chair opposite the desk and sprawl, a gangly mess of limbs.
Sloan sighed heavily. "S'okay if I hang here for a bit?"
Geof couldn't think of any particular reason why not. "Alright."
He turned back to the stack of papers on his desk. He'd been successfully ignoring said stack for weeks, months really, but Anna had started making noises about cutting off his coffee supply if he didn't at least sign the ones she'd fixed post-its to. Yellow flags protruded from most of the pages.
Tapping his pen against his lips, he wondered if signing off on Darren's outrageous wardrobe designs for Romeo and Juliet was the same as condoning the costumes themselves. Then he remembered Anna's less-than-veiled threats, closed his eyes and signed.
Sloan beeped. Geoffrey opened his eyes -- he'd begun playing a handheld game of some sort. He wondered why Sloan had come to his office to play video games, then shrugged. He had enough work sorting out characters' motivations; the motivations of contemporary living people were outside his area of specialization.
The scrawl on Darren's proposal looked close enough to a signature. He flipped to the next sheet. Proposed expansions to the Executive Shakespeare program. Ugh, what a useless wank. He sensed Richard's hand in it. He considered sending a note back requesting someone design a course with actual merit. Anna might be annoyed, but he could just buy his coffee down the street and bring it in with him.
Anna made really good coffee though. And she brought it right to him when she was in a good mood.
He sighed and signed.
Maybe an hour later, he reached the bottom of the stack and sat back, sliding a hand over his hair with the vague thought that might smooth it back down. He felt less like Artistic Director than Pencil Pusher in Chief. Some of the plans and requests were maddening. Mostly Darren's. But he didn't think 'ew, no' would fly with Anna -- especially since some of these productions must be going forward under his presumed acquiescence, considering how long he'd been ignoring some of it.
"So," Sloan said, startling him. Geoffrey had almost forgotten the other man was there. "Wednesday dumped me."
He wondered if he'd known Sloan was dating a Wednesday. "Ah," he said and felt around for his line. "I'm sorry?"
"It's cool," Sloan said and stood, stretching. "Thanks," he added on his way out the door.
Geoffrey frowned after him, puzzled, then shrugged and gathered the papers. He had to make his report to Anna.
~~~
And! The One where Anna Drove Darren Home. Anna/Darren?
They don't talk about it. Ever.
And if sometimes Darren gets this little smile, indefinably different from his usual ones, perhaps slightly disbelieving and smug rather than arrogant--
"We don't talk about it. Ever," Anna reminds him with a bit of a snap. Though of course Darren continues to smile, and if anything it somehow becomes more infuriating. She huffs a theatrical sigh -- she's worked for a theatre company too long for anything less -- and stomps away, her professional heels clacking against the floor.
~~~
snoopypez asked for a due South/Psych crossover. F/K longings
Benton had initially been glad when Ray decided to give Mr. Spencer the benefit of the doubt.
With Ray, the one time they'd worked with a psychic, it had been a constant struggle for Ray to accept clues provided by an irrational, unexplainable source. Ray on the other hand, despite his early skepticism, had quickly been won over by Mr. Spencer's visions. Or perhaps it was more correct to say he'd been charmed by Mr. Spencer himself.
Ray cut the tape on the door and ushered Benton and Mr. Spencer inside. "Well, Shawn, what are the spirits telling you about our guy?"
He wouldn't go so far as to call Mr. Spencer a charlatan. But he'd begun to suspect that Mr. Spencer's flashes of insight were not, strictly speaking, psychic so much as overlooked clues assembled subconsciously by a quick mind -- like Ray's own hunches. And yet, Ray was increasingly impressed by them. "Yes, what can your spirits tell you about our suspect? Other than the obvious of course -- that he is male, right handed, of average build, brown-haired, and most likely either a taxidermist or zoologist by trade." Ben paused, then revised that last. "Or possibly recently returned from a visit to Australia or New Zealand, if the suspect had reason to come in contact with the local wildlife and hadn't cleaned his clothes since his return. The marsupial hairs could indicate travel, I suppose."
Mr. Spencer gave him a long, odd look, then said, "I'm hearing something, but I don't know how it relates to the case."
Ben indicated he should continue.
"'Quit pissing on his leg and just kiss him already.' Maybe you'll know what that means." Benton could feel a flush starting at his chest and hoped it didn't spread above his collar. But Mr. Spencer's attention had already shifted into the middle distance, and after a moment, he announced, "Also, the suspect's name begins with a 'b.' Let's go!"
~~~
For kanzenhanzai The One where Gus develops a Video Game Addiction (which clearly was a desperate cry for a crossover with The Middleman). Gen
Gus was a serious retro gamer. The graphics on his Atari may not look like much anymore, but those old games were compelling. And they didn't over-invest in the backstory: here's a princess, rescue her. Aliens are attacking, blow them up. Simple, and it put the emphasis squarely on speed and skills. If he wanted an epic, he'd watch the LotR trilogy, not pop in a video game.
Then he discovered Battlelands. Barry had given him a starter disc with a year's subscription at the company's annual not-actually-for-Christmas gift exchange (which just happens to be in December), because "you like video games, right, Guster?" He'd looked so puppy-eyed hopeful that Gus had had to open it and examine the documentation and generally pretend to be enthused.
He remembered MUDs. Online games were ridiculous.
***
Gus never saw the ambush coming. Fortunately, Gnomersidkk did. "Get down, SyQ!"
He ducked, and she blasted the bogel sneaking up behind him. "Thanks," he said, as she scooped up the loot.
"Hey, I owed you for that bandersnatch."
"True," he said. Their avatars bumped fists. That mod had totally been worth the hours he'd put into programming it. He checked the area map which was pretty sketchy. It was a new island, very few adventurers had explored it, and the ones who had had been pretty unshare-y with the details. "I think we're maybe halfway to the volcano. Keep going?"
"Absolutely!" Gnomersidkk's voice rang in his right ear, almost obscured by the strange alarm that meant her phone was going off. He heard her move the microphone away from her mouth to muffle the conversation, but she didn't hit mute. "Let me guess, it's the end of the world?"
Her boss's voice carried clearly over the headset. "You're darn touting it is, Dubby. And you were supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago."
From his other side, he heard a theatrically loud groan. "Have you been playing that stupid game all night?
He turned. "Shawn, what are you doing here?"
Shawn tried to raise one eyebrow at him like Spock. Like usual, they both went up. "As you've often pointed out to me, this is an office. I work here. Come on, we've got a case."
"Ok, give me like--"
"Alright, alright, hold your horses, boss, I'll just be --"
"Now," he heard from both sides, and his screen went blank.
"Did you just unplug me? I can't believe you did that."
"It's for your own good. Now come on, real life's a-waiting."
~~~
And The One where Fraser is being Recruited as a Gundam Pilot. J/G Kidding! Gen.
On a routine check of his various accounts and aliases, J discovered an abnormally high amount of spam sent to one email address. He glanced at the first mailing, and he frowned. They were not supposed to be in contact with one another. But the pharma ad had all the hallmarks of one of G's coded messages. He stared at the message for a long moment, finger tapping idly on the keyboard. It could, just possibly, be a trap.
Curiosity got the best of him. He saved the entire spam folder, then deleted the account.
After several days of filtering, decoding and sorting -- made harder by a mailing from a 'Sanquian prince' requesting account information in exchange for a share in his fortune that had originally seemed to fit the metric but turned out to truly be spam, J had pieced together G's message. He frowned, but in for a credit... he dialed the indicated shipboard number.
"Howard, here-- oh, it's you." Howard radiated disapproval.
The corner of his mouth turned up. "It's good to see you, too."
"Hang on, I'll patch you through."
There was a moment's static, and then G appeared, hair filling the screen. "We have a problem," he stated.
"Yes, many," J replied agreeably. "Which one is important enough to risk--"
"It's that new pilot S sent O, when his original pilot... fell through."
J frowned slightly. S favored adult pilots, claiming they possessed better physical resistance to the rigors of suit battle than adolescents, but he couldn't imagine O's suit would require that much retrofitting to accommodate a full grown --
"Master O is now reconsidering the wisdom of O.M."
J drew back from the screen. Master O had previously been Operation Meteor's staunchest supporter.
G smiled sardonically. "Yes, thought that might get your attention. Apparently, S's candidate has very clear ideas on justice, vengeance and the distinction between the two. And he's arguing O around -- as well as the husband of O's prior pilot."
"Get me his information. I'll send Heero -- it should be a good test." J disconnected. Days passed, then an email appeared in another previously unused account, reading only Fraser, Benton. He deleted the email and purged the account. The light gleamed off his false eyes, and he smiled. It was time to send his little weapon out into the world.
~~~
For china_shop The One where Peter Finds Out that Neal Plays Guitar. Peter/Neal
Peter pushed open the lobby doors and paused in the shadow of the building. That Neal had charmed a street musician out of his acoustic guitar -- out of his livelihood -- during the short space Peter had been inside wasn't surprising. Neal was charming. Peter was aware of Neal's charm, familiar with it. He trusted in it to gull criminals now instead of marks and was wary of it being turned towards himself, not as certain of his immunity as he needed Neal to believe.
No, what surprised him was the skill. The music filled the side street, notes bouncing off smooth stone walls like dust motes twisting in a beam of sunlight. Even from here, Peter could see the surety in Neal's hand curled around the neck of the guitar, his fingers certain on the frets, clever on the strings, coaxing cascading notes from the instrument that were somehow controlled and wild both at once. He was smiling softly, and though his eyes were hidden by the brim of his ridiculous hat, Peter thought he might be catching a glimpse of one of Neal's sincere expressions.
Neal had admitted he could play "a little." From this, Peter had expected something like the slow strumming and laborious chord changes that had seeped through the walls of his college apartment. People who played "a little" guitar struggled to create sounds that could only with charity be described as musical, music-ish, music-like. This was music.
Neal had skilled hands. Of course he did -- Peter knew that, had known that for years. He must have in order to create those masterworks of forgery, to pick pockets and locks as easily as breathing. But despite having seen Neal's metaphoric hand in cases throughout the years, he'd never really had the opportunity to watch his actual hands at work. It was beautiful. He was beautiful, and Peter's chest tightened.
Neal glanced up, caught Peter standing by the building doors, and his fingers stumbled slightly. Peter wanted to ask if that stumble was accidental or intentional, if it was because Neal had seen him or simple distraction, but that wasn't his role.
He walked over like he'd never paused to listen or watch, and his face settled into the expected vaguely amused lines. "You play 'a little' guitar, huh?"
Neal smiled, wide, bright and questionable, and wound the melody to a close that sounded natural and unrushed. Coins clattered into the open guitar case in place of applause. "Just a little," he agreed. "I like to keep my hand in."
~~~
For dessertfirst The One where Dean and RayK Geek Out over Muscle Cars while Bob draws Cas and Benton into a Long Discussion about Caribou. F/K, hints of Cas/Dean
Ben shifted his weight minutely. Castiel's gaze kept drifting to a spot approximately one foot off Ben's right shoulder which was... disconcerting. Not that Ben could complain, when his own attention was being drawn involuntarily away from Castiel to the two men leaning over the engine of a 1967 Impala. Well, to one in particular.
Ray laughed, which made Ben smile at him even though Ray couldn't see it. Ray was laughing more freely today. He felt confident that the changes in their relationship -- and the weekend spent affirming that change -- were responsible for Ray's good mood. He was responsible for Ray's good mood, and that was a dizzying thought.
"-- a fellow officer that you want." Ben suppressed a sigh. His father had yet to reconcile himself to the alteration in their relationship and was shamelessly taking advantage of his inability to argue his side in public. "There are women in the service. Why not find one and--"
Benton snorted and tuned him back out. Because that had worked so well when Maggie had come to Chicago. Honestly, Ray's turtle had a longer memory. Though on second thought, given some of the things that had recently taken place in front of the terrarium, he hoped he was wrong about that.
"-- has needs. Lord knows, the tales Buck and I could--" Ben winced. Unfortunately, his father was also developing a distressing tendency to reveal far more personal information than Ben was comfortable knowing.
"I'm sorry," Castiel said, and Ben was grateful for the interruption, however accidental. "But I don't understand how caribou figure into human sexuality."
Startled, Ben turned away from Ray to fully face the other man for the first time. Ben's father, thankfully, had fallen silent. Perhaps because he, too, had realized that Castiel was staring directly at him. "Pardon?"
"I don't understand how caribou figure into human sexuality," he repeated without inflection.
"They don't," Ben replied over the beginnings of his father's blustering response.
His eyes slid back to Ben, a question in them.
"He doesn't approve of my current relationship."
"Relationship? That's a bit strong," his father grumbled.
Castiel turned towards the Impala with a frown. "But you love him."
So much for circumspection. "Yes."
"It's a phase, Benton!"
"Be still," Castiel said. "Love matters."
Surprisingly, his father was.
~~~
And for sisterofdream The One where Sam Explains Things like Die Hard to Cas because Cas is Trying to Impress Dean. Gen
"Yippee-ki-yay. Mother fucker," Castiel said.
A smothered smile rippled across Sam's face and then smoothed out. "Ok, again, but without the pause."
He opened the mouth to repeat the phrase again, then stopped and frowned. "You are certain this is necessary?"
"Absolutely," Sam said, widening his eyes in a manner that strangers found compelling and Castiel had learned meant he was almost certainly lying. It was... interesting that Sam felt comfortable lying to him now. He wondered about the reasons, whether it could be considered a good thing. While he thought, Sam coughed and rubbed the back of his neck in a familially recognizable gesture of discomfort. "Ok, it's not necessary. But Dean will like it. After he gets over gaping like a fish."
He considered this, then nodded. It was not necessary, but he would do it. Correctly. "Yippee-ki-yay, mother fucker."
"Better," Sam grinned.
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lucifuge5 The One where Vecchio and Stella Talk about Playing Guitar. RayV/Stella
During the hottest part of the day, when the sun threatened to burn Stella's fair skin in bare minutes, they wandered the small stores scattered behind the beach houses and hotels. They made an eclectic mix -- high end boutiques stood beside second-hand paperback stores next to local artisan collectives. Ray couldn't guess from the exterior what they'd find when he pulled open the door for her.
In one of the second-hand shops, something grabbed Stella's attention midword to Ray. Her breath caught, and her expression went wide-open, excited, happy before she smoothed it back into her usual public reserve.
"What?" he asked looking to his side, trying to spot whatever she'd seen.
"Nothing," she said, then she shrugged and told him anyway. "I just had a Gibson like that once."
His eyes flickered across the nearest shelves of odds and ends. Oh, the electric guitar. He lifted it free of the surrounding junk and clear of the wooden buoy lying in front of it. "You did?" She took the guitar from him with a soft, almost fond smile. She ran her hands over it, checking it for Ray-didn't-know-what, almost unconsciously testing the tuning with her thumb. "Is it a good guitar?"
"Yes," she said quickly, almost defensively, then shook her head. "Well, sort of. It's not a collectible, anything like that. But it was a good guitar." She set it back down almost wistfully.
"I didn't even know you play."
"I don't, not anymore. When would I have time?"
"Then let's make time. We'll retire, move down here." As soon as he said it, he could almost see it. The two of them in Florida, to stay. "We'll live on the beach. You can play guitar, and I'll learn to fish or something." His thoughts strayed to the frustrating limited local entertainment options. "Open a bowling alley."
She laughed. "Not much of a retirement if you'll be running a business."
He waved that off. "It's renting shoes, not like it's hard. I'll hire some teenagers to run the place."
"I can't believe that's still bothering you."
"Well, what kind of town doesn't have a bowling alley? I mean, I ask you."
She laughed again and kissed him, soft, sweet and too brief. "It sounds wonderful, but we'd be bored in a month and missing real work. I don't need a beach or a guitar."
Ray let her draw him from the shop but made a note of which particular odd and ends shop it had been. He'd call later and find out whether they could ship the guitar to Chicago, because, sure, Stella didn't need a guitar. But he wanted to give her everything she didn't need.
~~~
And The One where Geoffrey and Sloan Hang Out. Gen.
Someone knocked on the office door, a novel enough occurrence that Geoffrey called 'come in' before he looked up. The visitor was Sloan, and Geoffrey briefly wondered if he'd heard about Ellen kicking him out and, more pertinently, whether that meant he was about to get punched in the nose. Again. But, no, everything about Sloan's carriage said 'despondence' not 'righteous (adolescent) fury.' Sloan frowned, his shoulders slumped, and he shuffled more than walked to drop into the chair opposite the desk and sprawl, a gangly mess of limbs.
Sloan sighed heavily. "S'okay if I hang here for a bit?"
Geof couldn't think of any particular reason why not. "Alright."
He turned back to the stack of papers on his desk. He'd been successfully ignoring said stack for weeks, months really, but Anna had started making noises about cutting off his coffee supply if he didn't at least sign the ones she'd fixed post-its to. Yellow flags protruded from most of the pages.
Tapping his pen against his lips, he wondered if signing off on Darren's outrageous wardrobe designs for Romeo and Juliet was the same as condoning the costumes themselves. Then he remembered Anna's less-than-veiled threats, closed his eyes and signed.
Sloan beeped. Geoffrey opened his eyes -- he'd begun playing a handheld game of some sort. He wondered why Sloan had come to his office to play video games, then shrugged. He had enough work sorting out characters' motivations; the motivations of contemporary living people were outside his area of specialization.
The scrawl on Darren's proposal looked close enough to a signature. He flipped to the next sheet. Proposed expansions to the Executive Shakespeare program. Ugh, what a useless wank. He sensed Richard's hand in it. He considered sending a note back requesting someone design a course with actual merit. Anna might be annoyed, but he could just buy his coffee down the street and bring it in with him.
Anna made really good coffee though. And she brought it right to him when she was in a good mood.
He sighed and signed.
Maybe an hour later, he reached the bottom of the stack and sat back, sliding a hand over his hair with the vague thought that might smooth it back down. He felt less like Artistic Director than Pencil Pusher in Chief. Some of the plans and requests were maddening. Mostly Darren's. But he didn't think 'ew, no' would fly with Anna -- especially since some of these productions must be going forward under his presumed acquiescence, considering how long he'd been ignoring some of it.
"So," Sloan said, startling him. Geoffrey had almost forgotten the other man was there. "Wednesday dumped me."
He wondered if he'd known Sloan was dating a Wednesday. "Ah," he said and felt around for his line. "I'm sorry?"
"It's cool," Sloan said and stood, stretching. "Thanks," he added on his way out the door.
Geoffrey frowned after him, puzzled, then shrugged and gathered the papers. He had to make his report to Anna.
~~~
And! The One where Anna Drove Darren Home. Anna/Darren?
They don't talk about it. Ever.
And if sometimes Darren gets this little smile, indefinably different from his usual ones, perhaps slightly disbelieving and smug rather than arrogant--
"We don't talk about it. Ever," Anna reminds him with a bit of a snap. Though of course Darren continues to smile, and if anything it somehow becomes more infuriating. She huffs a theatrical sigh -- she's worked for a theatre company too long for anything less -- and stomps away, her professional heels clacking against the floor.
~~~
snoopypez asked for a due South/Psych crossover. F/K longings
Benton had initially been glad when Ray decided to give Mr. Spencer the benefit of the doubt.
With Ray, the one time they'd worked with a psychic, it had been a constant struggle for Ray to accept clues provided by an irrational, unexplainable source. Ray on the other hand, despite his early skepticism, had quickly been won over by Mr. Spencer's visions. Or perhaps it was more correct to say he'd been charmed by Mr. Spencer himself.
Ray cut the tape on the door and ushered Benton and Mr. Spencer inside. "Well, Shawn, what are the spirits telling you about our guy?"
He wouldn't go so far as to call Mr. Spencer a charlatan. But he'd begun to suspect that Mr. Spencer's flashes of insight were not, strictly speaking, psychic so much as overlooked clues assembled subconsciously by a quick mind -- like Ray's own hunches. And yet, Ray was increasingly impressed by them. "Yes, what can your spirits tell you about our suspect? Other than the obvious of course -- that he is male, right handed, of average build, brown-haired, and most likely either a taxidermist or zoologist by trade." Ben paused, then revised that last. "Or possibly recently returned from a visit to Australia or New Zealand, if the suspect had reason to come in contact with the local wildlife and hadn't cleaned his clothes since his return. The marsupial hairs could indicate travel, I suppose."
Mr. Spencer gave him a long, odd look, then said, "I'm hearing something, but I don't know how it relates to the case."
Ben indicated he should continue.
"'Quit pissing on his leg and just kiss him already.' Maybe you'll know what that means." Benton could feel a flush starting at his chest and hoped it didn't spread above his collar. But Mr. Spencer's attention had already shifted into the middle distance, and after a moment, he announced, "Also, the suspect's name begins with a 'b.' Let's go!"
~~~
For kanzenhanzai The One where Gus develops a Video Game Addiction (which clearly was a desperate cry for a crossover with The Middleman). Gen
Gus was a serious retro gamer. The graphics on his Atari may not look like much anymore, but those old games were compelling. And they didn't over-invest in the backstory: here's a princess, rescue her. Aliens are attacking, blow them up. Simple, and it put the emphasis squarely on speed and skills. If he wanted an epic, he'd watch the LotR trilogy, not pop in a video game.
Then he discovered Battlelands. Barry had given him a starter disc with a year's subscription at the company's annual not-actually-for-Christmas gift exchange (which just happens to be in December), because "you like video games, right, Guster?" He'd looked so puppy-eyed hopeful that Gus had had to open it and examine the documentation and generally pretend to be enthused.
He remembered MUDs. Online games were ridiculous.
***
Gus never saw the ambush coming. Fortunately, Gnomersidkk did. "Get down, SyQ!"
He ducked, and she blasted the bogel sneaking up behind him. "Thanks," he said, as she scooped up the loot.
"Hey, I owed you for that bandersnatch."
"True," he said. Their avatars bumped fists. That mod had totally been worth the hours he'd put into programming it. He checked the area map which was pretty sketchy. It was a new island, very few adventurers had explored it, and the ones who had had been pretty unshare-y with the details. "I think we're maybe halfway to the volcano. Keep going?"
"Absolutely!" Gnomersidkk's voice rang in his right ear, almost obscured by the strange alarm that meant her phone was going off. He heard her move the microphone away from her mouth to muffle the conversation, but she didn't hit mute. "Let me guess, it's the end of the world?"
Her boss's voice carried clearly over the headset. "You're darn touting it is, Dubby. And you were supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago."
From his other side, he heard a theatrically loud groan. "Have you been playing that stupid game all night?
He turned. "Shawn, what are you doing here?"
Shawn tried to raise one eyebrow at him like Spock. Like usual, they both went up. "As you've often pointed out to me, this is an office. I work here. Come on, we've got a case."
"Ok, give me like--"
"Alright, alright, hold your horses, boss, I'll just be --"
"Now," he heard from both sides, and his screen went blank.
"Did you just unplug me? I can't believe you did that."
"It's for your own good. Now come on, real life's a-waiting."
~~~
And The One where Fraser is being Recruited as a Gundam Pilot. J/G Kidding! Gen.
On a routine check of his various accounts and aliases, J discovered an abnormally high amount of spam sent to one email address. He glanced at the first mailing, and he frowned. They were not supposed to be in contact with one another. But the pharma ad had all the hallmarks of one of G's coded messages. He stared at the message for a long moment, finger tapping idly on the keyboard. It could, just possibly, be a trap.
Curiosity got the best of him. He saved the entire spam folder, then deleted the account.
After several days of filtering, decoding and sorting -- made harder by a mailing from a 'Sanquian prince' requesting account information in exchange for a share in his fortune that had originally seemed to fit the metric but turned out to truly be spam, J had pieced together G's message. He frowned, but in for a credit... he dialed the indicated shipboard number.
"Howard, here-- oh, it's you." Howard radiated disapproval.
The corner of his mouth turned up. "It's good to see you, too."
"Hang on, I'll patch you through."
There was a moment's static, and then G appeared, hair filling the screen. "We have a problem," he stated.
"Yes, many," J replied agreeably. "Which one is important enough to risk--"
"It's that new pilot S sent O, when his original pilot... fell through."
J frowned slightly. S favored adult pilots, claiming they possessed better physical resistance to the rigors of suit battle than adolescents, but he couldn't imagine O's suit would require that much retrofitting to accommodate a full grown --
"Master O is now reconsidering the wisdom of O.M."
J drew back from the screen. Master O had previously been Operation Meteor's staunchest supporter.
G smiled sardonically. "Yes, thought that might get your attention. Apparently, S's candidate has very clear ideas on justice, vengeance and the distinction between the two. And he's arguing O around -- as well as the husband of O's prior pilot."
"Get me his information. I'll send Heero -- it should be a good test." J disconnected. Days passed, then an email appeared in another previously unused account, reading only Fraser, Benton. He deleted the email and purged the account. The light gleamed off his false eyes, and he smiled. It was time to send his little weapon out into the world.
~~~
For china_shop The One where Peter Finds Out that Neal Plays Guitar. Peter/Neal
Peter pushed open the lobby doors and paused in the shadow of the building. That Neal had charmed a street musician out of his acoustic guitar -- out of his livelihood -- during the short space Peter had been inside wasn't surprising. Neal was charming. Peter was aware of Neal's charm, familiar with it. He trusted in it to gull criminals now instead of marks and was wary of it being turned towards himself, not as certain of his immunity as he needed Neal to believe.
No, what surprised him was the skill. The music filled the side street, notes bouncing off smooth stone walls like dust motes twisting in a beam of sunlight. Even from here, Peter could see the surety in Neal's hand curled around the neck of the guitar, his fingers certain on the frets, clever on the strings, coaxing cascading notes from the instrument that were somehow controlled and wild both at once. He was smiling softly, and though his eyes were hidden by the brim of his ridiculous hat, Peter thought he might be catching a glimpse of one of Neal's sincere expressions.
Neal had admitted he could play "a little." From this, Peter had expected something like the slow strumming and laborious chord changes that had seeped through the walls of his college apartment. People who played "a little" guitar struggled to create sounds that could only with charity be described as musical, music-ish, music-like. This was music.
Neal had skilled hands. Of course he did -- Peter knew that, had known that for years. He must have in order to create those masterworks of forgery, to pick pockets and locks as easily as breathing. But despite having seen Neal's metaphoric hand in cases throughout the years, he'd never really had the opportunity to watch his actual hands at work. It was beautiful. He was beautiful, and Peter's chest tightened.
Neal glanced up, caught Peter standing by the building doors, and his fingers stumbled slightly. Peter wanted to ask if that stumble was accidental or intentional, if it was because Neal had seen him or simple distraction, but that wasn't his role.
He walked over like he'd never paused to listen or watch, and his face settled into the expected vaguely amused lines. "You play 'a little' guitar, huh?"
Neal smiled, wide, bright and questionable, and wound the melody to a close that sounded natural and unrushed. Coins clattered into the open guitar case in place of applause. "Just a little," he agreed. "I like to keep my hand in."
~~~
For dessertfirst The One where Dean and RayK Geek Out over Muscle Cars while Bob draws Cas and Benton into a Long Discussion about Caribou. F/K, hints of Cas/Dean
Ben shifted his weight minutely. Castiel's gaze kept drifting to a spot approximately one foot off Ben's right shoulder which was... disconcerting. Not that Ben could complain, when his own attention was being drawn involuntarily away from Castiel to the two men leaning over the engine of a 1967 Impala. Well, to one in particular.
Ray laughed, which made Ben smile at him even though Ray couldn't see it. Ray was laughing more freely today. He felt confident that the changes in their relationship -- and the weekend spent affirming that change -- were responsible for Ray's good mood. He was responsible for Ray's good mood, and that was a dizzying thought.
"-- a fellow officer that you want." Ben suppressed a sigh. His father had yet to reconcile himself to the alteration in their relationship and was shamelessly taking advantage of his inability to argue his side in public. "There are women in the service. Why not find one and--"
Benton snorted and tuned him back out. Because that had worked so well when Maggie had come to Chicago. Honestly, Ray's turtle had a longer memory. Though on second thought, given some of the things that had recently taken place in front of the terrarium, he hoped he was wrong about that.
"-- has needs. Lord knows, the tales Buck and I could--" Ben winced. Unfortunately, his father was also developing a distressing tendency to reveal far more personal information than Ben was comfortable knowing.
"I'm sorry," Castiel said, and Ben was grateful for the interruption, however accidental. "But I don't understand how caribou figure into human sexuality."
Startled, Ben turned away from Ray to fully face the other man for the first time. Ben's father, thankfully, had fallen silent. Perhaps because he, too, had realized that Castiel was staring directly at him. "Pardon?"
"I don't understand how caribou figure into human sexuality," he repeated without inflection.
"They don't," Ben replied over the beginnings of his father's blustering response.
His eyes slid back to Ben, a question in them.
"He doesn't approve of my current relationship."
"Relationship? That's a bit strong," his father grumbled.
Castiel turned towards the Impala with a frown. "But you love him."
So much for circumspection. "Yes."
"It's a phase, Benton!"
"Be still," Castiel said. "Love matters."
Surprisingly, his father was.
~~~
And for sisterofdream The One where Sam Explains Things like Die Hard to Cas because Cas is Trying to Impress Dean. Gen
"Yippee-ki-yay. Mother fucker," Castiel said.
A smothered smile rippled across Sam's face and then smoothed out. "Ok, again, but without the pause."
He opened the mouth to repeat the phrase again, then stopped and frowned. "You are certain this is necessary?"
"Absolutely," Sam said, widening his eyes in a manner that strangers found compelling and Castiel had learned meant he was almost certainly lying. It was... interesting that Sam felt comfortable lying to him now. He wondered about the reasons, whether it could be considered a good thing. While he thought, Sam coughed and rubbed the back of his neck in a familially recognizable gesture of discomfort. "Ok, it's not necessary. But Dean will like it. After he gets over gaping like a fish."
He considered this, then nodded. It was not necessary, but he would do it. Correctly. "Yippee-ki-yay, mother fucker."
"Better," Sam grinned.
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