Drabble requests fulfilled!
I'm still in the Czech Republic, and the web access I was supposed to have at the hotel has been whimsical at best, but here we finally go: fannish drabbles for those who requested them. I hope you enjoy! :)
For talullahred:
A Week in the Lunchbox of James Wilson, Boy Wonder Oncologist
House MD: House & Wilson, Cuddy; PG (nothing slashier than the show itself)
Monday
House, this is the 187th time you’ve tried to steal my lunch. I’m now storing it at a secure location.
JW
Tuesday
You’ve kept count?
H
PS. Finders keepers.
Wednesday
I’m anal like that.
Diagnosis: kleptomaniac.
JW
Thursday
Counterdiagnosis: sad, uptight oncologist with no life.
H
Friday
I love you too, House.
JW
PS. Enjoy the celery.
Saturday
I know.
H
PS. You bastard.
Sunday
House, as you know, food is NOT to be stored in the morgue area at any time. Don’t make me go after you.
Cuddy
PS. Wilson, this better have nothing to do with you.
*
For irisbleufic:
Inevitable
His Dark Materials: Serafina Pekkala; G
Serafina Pekkala woke on the rocky side of the fell, Lake Enara gleaming orange-gold under the late-night sun that hung heavy in the bruised sky. The light hurt her eyes and the pain of her daemon being torn away was still blood-raw inside her chest.
She saw them then: the tall towers in the clouds.
Later, she learned that the sky-city wasn’t just a delirium. Yet she never regarded it as a coincidence that it should have appeared during her initiation.
In the tight-knit fabric of reality, what may seem haphazard is only part of the flow of the inevitable.
*
For kainoliero:
Erroneous
LotR / Harry Potter crossover: Elrond in Hogwarts; G
Elrond Half-elven was not amused.
It had been bad enough when those Oliphaunt-like creatures had trampled his cherished niphredil flowerbeds.
Things had not improved when he had followed them and inexplicably found himself inside an old stone building full of descendants of Men who - clearly erroneously - called themselves Wizards.
However, he had to admit the lowest point had come when he’d mentioned he was an Elf.
A tea-towel-wearing creature whose appearance offended his sense of the aesthetic was eyeing him, unimpressed.
“You could always start there,” it said and nodded towards a stack of dirty dishes waiting to be cleaned.
*
For kenazfiction:
Spaces
Torchwood: Ianto/Jack; PG
Sometimes all Ianto can think of is the space between Jack and himself.
With Lisa he believed the space could be closed; now he knows better.
Jack’s past, like his own, is unchanging as only memories can be, a space scattered with sharp stones that still draw blood.
Don’t look back. But you already did, and now that, too, is part of the same past set in stone.
They cannot exorcise each other’s ghosts; they can only learn to live with them. Jack’s hand shifts on Ianto’s skin, and in this narrow space between dark, rigid hours, they know how.
*
For ennorwen:
The Last Test
Batman Begins: Ducard/Wayne; R
This is the last test, and he knows it.
“Who do you belong to, Bruce?”
Ducard’s hands are warm and solid on his skin, as all living things of flesh and blood are, and in the darkness of the blindfold he no longer belongs to his cold, translucent memories.
“To the Shadows,” he whispers. “To you.”
He thrusts into Ducard’s hand once more, twice, and as he falls, a web of shadows catches him.
This is the last test, but he doesn’t know it yet: the far edge of the moment when he still believes this is all he wants.
*
For dynastessa:
Listening
His Dark Materials: Will/Lyra; G
“Sometimes,” Lyra told Will, “I feel like all the meanings will click into place like they used to.”
Pantalaimon was stretched across her legs, his face alert, his fur soft under her fingertips. Will was listening.
“But just as I think I’ve got it, it all disappears,” Lyra continued, biting her lip in frustration, “and I’m left with nothing but these dusty old books and piles of notes, and I think I’ll never be able to read the Alethiometer again.”
A world away, Will’s hand instinctively brushed the place where Pantalaimon would have been.
The garden was still around him.
*
For erfanstarled:
All Things Lost
The Dark Knight: The Joker/Batman; R
The concrete floor was cold under Bruce’s cheek, and the blade against his throat was colder. The taste of lipstick had dried on his lips. The mask had slipped, and he couldn’t see, so he focused on feeling: the icy draft, the bleeding - and through it all, his own arousal, impossible and true under him.
The Joker was straddling the small of his back, surprisingly heavy and strong. Long fingers were tracing the scars between Bruce’s shoulder blades.
“Oh, but this isn’t nearly satisfactory, Bruce,” the Joker hummed. “I want you to show me the invisible scars, those that run deepest.”
“I didn’t know you were into cheap psychobabble,” Bruce said, the words thick and sore in his mouth.
The fingers stopped on his skin, and he felt the Joker’s weight shift. The whisper brushed his ear.
“I don’t do cheap. I don’t do babble, either. Psycho, on the other hand…”
A sharp-sweet smell took Bruce’s breath away as a moist cloth was pressed over his face.
Before darkness closed upon him like a tide that does away with all things lost and washed ashore, he understood that neither of them would leave this room without their scars running deeper.
~
A/N: This last one is a double drabble. Apologies for potential unfairness; I didn't have time to trim it down to drabble-length, and I wanted to post it today, because I won't have web access until sometime Sunday again.
For talullahred:
A Week in the Lunchbox of James Wilson, Boy Wonder Oncologist
House MD: House & Wilson, Cuddy; PG (nothing slashier than the show itself)
Monday
House, this is the 187th time you’ve tried to steal my lunch. I’m now storing it at a secure location.
JW
Tuesday
You’ve kept count?
H
PS. Finders keepers.
Wednesday
I’m anal like that.
Diagnosis: kleptomaniac.
JW
Thursday
Counterdiagnosis: sad, uptight oncologist with no life.
H
Friday
I love you too, House.
JW
PS. Enjoy the celery.
Saturday
I know.
H
PS. You bastard.
Sunday
House, as you know, food is NOT to be stored in the morgue area at any time. Don’t make me go after you.
Cuddy
PS. Wilson, this better have nothing to do with you.
*
For irisbleufic:
Inevitable
His Dark Materials: Serafina Pekkala; G
Serafina Pekkala woke on the rocky side of the fell, Lake Enara gleaming orange-gold under the late-night sun that hung heavy in the bruised sky. The light hurt her eyes and the pain of her daemon being torn away was still blood-raw inside her chest.
She saw them then: the tall towers in the clouds.
Later, she learned that the sky-city wasn’t just a delirium. Yet she never regarded it as a coincidence that it should have appeared during her initiation.
In the tight-knit fabric of reality, what may seem haphazard is only part of the flow of the inevitable.
*
For kainoliero:
Erroneous
LotR / Harry Potter crossover: Elrond in Hogwarts; G
Elrond Half-elven was not amused.
It had been bad enough when those Oliphaunt-like creatures had trampled his cherished niphredil flowerbeds.
Things had not improved when he had followed them and inexplicably found himself inside an old stone building full of descendants of Men who - clearly erroneously - called themselves Wizards.
However, he had to admit the lowest point had come when he’d mentioned he was an Elf.
A tea-towel-wearing creature whose appearance offended his sense of the aesthetic was eyeing him, unimpressed.
“You could always start there,” it said and nodded towards a stack of dirty dishes waiting to be cleaned.
*
For kenazfiction:
Spaces
Torchwood: Ianto/Jack; PG
Sometimes all Ianto can think of is the space between Jack and himself.
With Lisa he believed the space could be closed; now he knows better.
Jack’s past, like his own, is unchanging as only memories can be, a space scattered with sharp stones that still draw blood.
Don’t look back. But you already did, and now that, too, is part of the same past set in stone.
They cannot exorcise each other’s ghosts; they can only learn to live with them. Jack’s hand shifts on Ianto’s skin, and in this narrow space between dark, rigid hours, they know how.
*
For ennorwen:
The Last Test
Batman Begins: Ducard/Wayne; R
This is the last test, and he knows it.
“Who do you belong to, Bruce?”
Ducard’s hands are warm and solid on his skin, as all living things of flesh and blood are, and in the darkness of the blindfold he no longer belongs to his cold, translucent memories.
“To the Shadows,” he whispers. “To you.”
He thrusts into Ducard’s hand once more, twice, and as he falls, a web of shadows catches him.
This is the last test, but he doesn’t know it yet: the far edge of the moment when he still believes this is all he wants.
*
For dynastessa:
Listening
His Dark Materials: Will/Lyra; G
“Sometimes,” Lyra told Will, “I feel like all the meanings will click into place like they used to.”
Pantalaimon was stretched across her legs, his face alert, his fur soft under her fingertips. Will was listening.
“But just as I think I’ve got it, it all disappears,” Lyra continued, biting her lip in frustration, “and I’m left with nothing but these dusty old books and piles of notes, and I think I’ll never be able to read the Alethiometer again.”
A world away, Will’s hand instinctively brushed the place where Pantalaimon would have been.
The garden was still around him.
*
For erfanstarled:
All Things Lost
The Dark Knight: The Joker/Batman; R
The concrete floor was cold under Bruce’s cheek, and the blade against his throat was colder. The taste of lipstick had dried on his lips. The mask had slipped, and he couldn’t see, so he focused on feeling: the icy draft, the bleeding - and through it all, his own arousal, impossible and true under him.
The Joker was straddling the small of his back, surprisingly heavy and strong. Long fingers were tracing the scars between Bruce’s shoulder blades.
“Oh, but this isn’t nearly satisfactory, Bruce,” the Joker hummed. “I want you to show me the invisible scars, those that run deepest.”
“I didn’t know you were into cheap psychobabble,” Bruce said, the words thick and sore in his mouth.
The fingers stopped on his skin, and he felt the Joker’s weight shift. The whisper brushed his ear.
“I don’t do cheap. I don’t do babble, either. Psycho, on the other hand…”
A sharp-sweet smell took Bruce’s breath away as a moist cloth was pressed over his face.
Before darkness closed upon him like a tide that does away with all things lost and washed ashore, he understood that neither of them would leave this room without their scars running deeper.
~
A/N: This last one is a double drabble. Apologies for potential unfairness; I didn't have time to trim it down to drabble-length, and I wanted to post it today, because I won't have web access until sometime Sunday again.