Micro-fics - first batch - Highlander and Sanctuary
Here are the first three sets of one sentence micro-fic sets, as offered and requested here on Dreamwidth and here on live journal. I am still taking requests, too.
As requested by grav_ity:
Highlander - Methos: Who, What, Why, Where, When
Who
“Just a guy,” Adam (or Ben, or Pierce, or …, all the way back to Remus and Metopholus,) would say and even mean it, but he was more than that, far more, and rare indeed was the person who could perceive that, who could see Methos in the depths of Adam’s eyes. James had been such a one; Declan looked to be another.
What
“I hate this part,” Methos started to say on a plaintive note as the shot finished tearing a messy and fatal hole in his chest; a wound like that never killed him for long, but both the moment of still blackness and the rush of cold air back into lungs reknit and laboring were always agony, “Worth, it though,” he finished when he could breathe again. “On the other hand, we should probably rethink our approach.”
Why
“Well, some things never get old,” Methos said, smiling as he combed his fingers through Declan’s short hair and settled Declan’s head more comfortably against the hollow of his shoulder, giving himself a moment to think: it had been a genuine question and deserved a genuine answer, though he didn’t often try to put words around why he kept on keeping on. “There is always more to learn, new things to see, people to love.” Now his smile was more to himself - that he knew he would most likely lose them never changed that.
Where
Methos had seen the midsummer sun rise over the heel-stone when Stonehenge was young, barefoot in the short green-gold grass; now he watched the sun send the first lance of light over the edge of the eclipsing disk of the Earth at solstice, booted feet pressing lightly into the lunar dust, filled with a wonder and awe that was both completely different and very much the same.
When
“The second - no, third - time we met, he extracted me from a somewhat … awkward … predicament at Bletchley Park by claiming me as a relation, a cousin several times removed; since then I have been happy to count myself a connexion of the Watson family, as it were.”
Read on AO3
As requested by aeron_lanart:
Sanctuary - Watson/Druitt: Details, Devil, Deep, Hurt, Time
Details
James had always been a very noticing boy, to the discomfort of his family who would have preferred he not see the sorts of things he did, but it wasn’t until he met John at Winchester (both of them twelve, united in comprehensive torment as New Men persistent in failing to know their place - or rather, refusing to accept that place) that he realized the details he noticed might apply to himself: as when John’s fingers would tighten into fists at a threat to James but not himself, or that James’ own heart would race whenever John smiled just so.
Devil
“Whatever it is that is on Fang Rock, killing the lighthouse keepers and frightening the locals cannot possibly be a devil, John, no matter what the local dominie, fishermen or revenue-men might believe,” James said with all the frustration of one for whom such illogical thought was anathema, yet ubiquitous. “It is killing by means of electricity, a purely physical and rationally approachable scientific principle, nothing whatever to do with spirits or religion or any other such nonsense, as Tesla would certainly agree. It may be described as ‘devilish’ or even acknowledged as evil, but it cannot be a devil.”
Deep
James bore the traditional ten stout strokes with the apparent fortitude that frightened John and infuriated the administrating prefect, not to mention the supposedly aggrieved (for which read seriously intellectually outclassed) senior-man; it was a response that only made Farlington hit all the harder and add the insult of ‘two for insolence’ to the injury of already bruised flesh, the cane cutting deep welts it would fall to John to tend. Only John would be allowed to see the cost of that stubborn silence, just as he was privileged to know why James was willing to pay it. Provoking man.
Hurt
As Colonel Korba taunted James and laid carelessly cruel hands on the machinery, John felt his fingers wanting to curl into punishing fists, just as they had all those years ago at school. He too had been cruel, but not careless, and James would know - did know - that there was a purpose behind the pain, however hurt and angry he was. But the reflexive twitch told him that despite all that had come between them, the death and horror and the chasm of time, there was still a part of John that could hardly bear to see James in pain.
Time
In the quiet of Helen’s comfortable library, the almost imperceptible hesitation in the so long unerringly steady clockwork, the fractionally altered note of gear and pump and relay that signaled wear and weary mechanical effort where once had been all precision and effortless, smooth working of the device that maintained his life was a clangor to James’ undimmed perceptions; seeing John (John!) lounging on Helen’s sofa as if he belonged there, James did not know if he hoped or feared that John could hear it too, and if he would understand how little time was left them if he did.
Read on AO3
As requested by mogwai_do:
Highlander - Methos: Swift, Paper, Bright, Ocean, Gold
Swift
Swifts wheeled and called around the delicate spires of the new cathedral, exactly as they had around the earlier tower, generations gone, as Methos hoped they would around works reaching to the sky yet unimagined many generations hence: they were old friends.
Paper
The fire consumed the last sheets in a moment, leaving only an ashy imprint of a life in the air, dying with the documents and certificates that represented it; Methos watched the last shadow crumble, another paper life already folded in his coat. All that now remained of Herisson D’Aquille was memory and words that only he could read.
Bright
Brilliance dazzled eyes accustomed to storm-dark, lancing off the hard-glazed snow, the ice-rimed trees, every frozen water-drop casting a rainbow in the bitter-bright sunlight as Methos cautiously poked his head past the stiff layers of hide and wool that protected the entrance to the winter-dwelling; despite the killing-cold, it was a beautiful morning.
Ocean
When sufficiently motivated (or pressed), Methos would admit to sailing across the Irish Sea in a coracle with a handful of monks. The tale was even true, as were the ones of travaux-forces and being sacrificed to angry ocean-gods; but of those he did not speak.
Gold
Methos knows that salamanders (true salamanders, fire-born and red-coal-fed) are real, and even though bonfires and hearth-fires and forge-fires are much rarer in the current industrial, technological age, he still looks to see them glimmering gold-bright and basking in the flames.
Read on AO3
This entry was originally posted at http://lferion.dreamwidth.org/217625.html, where there are currently
comments. Please comment there using OpenID.
As requested by grav_ity:
Highlander - Methos: Who, What, Why, Where, When
Who
“Just a guy,” Adam (or Ben, or Pierce, or …, all the way back to Remus and Metopholus,) would say and even mean it, but he was more than that, far more, and rare indeed was the person who could perceive that, who could see Methos in the depths of Adam’s eyes. James had been such a one; Declan looked to be another.
What
“I hate this part,” Methos started to say on a plaintive note as the shot finished tearing a messy and fatal hole in his chest; a wound like that never killed him for long, but both the moment of still blackness and the rush of cold air back into lungs reknit and laboring were always agony, “Worth, it though,” he finished when he could breathe again. “On the other hand, we should probably rethink our approach.”
Why
“Well, some things never get old,” Methos said, smiling as he combed his fingers through Declan’s short hair and settled Declan’s head more comfortably against the hollow of his shoulder, giving himself a moment to think: it had been a genuine question and deserved a genuine answer, though he didn’t often try to put words around why he kept on keeping on. “There is always more to learn, new things to see, people to love.” Now his smile was more to himself - that he knew he would most likely lose them never changed that.
Where
Methos had seen the midsummer sun rise over the heel-stone when Stonehenge was young, barefoot in the short green-gold grass; now he watched the sun send the first lance of light over the edge of the eclipsing disk of the Earth at solstice, booted feet pressing lightly into the lunar dust, filled with a wonder and awe that was both completely different and very much the same.
When
“The second - no, third - time we met, he extracted me from a somewhat … awkward … predicament at Bletchley Park by claiming me as a relation, a cousin several times removed; since then I have been happy to count myself a connexion of the Watson family, as it were.”
Read on AO3
As requested by aeron_lanart:
Sanctuary - Watson/Druitt: Details, Devil, Deep, Hurt, Time
Details
James had always been a very noticing boy, to the discomfort of his family who would have preferred he not see the sorts of things he did, but it wasn’t until he met John at Winchester (both of them twelve, united in comprehensive torment as New Men persistent in failing to know their place - or rather, refusing to accept that place) that he realized the details he noticed might apply to himself: as when John’s fingers would tighten into fists at a threat to James but not himself, or that James’ own heart would race whenever John smiled just so.
Devil
“Whatever it is that is on Fang Rock, killing the lighthouse keepers and frightening the locals cannot possibly be a devil, John, no matter what the local dominie, fishermen or revenue-men might believe,” James said with all the frustration of one for whom such illogical thought was anathema, yet ubiquitous. “It is killing by means of electricity, a purely physical and rationally approachable scientific principle, nothing whatever to do with spirits or religion or any other such nonsense, as Tesla would certainly agree. It may be described as ‘devilish’ or even acknowledged as evil, but it cannot be a devil.”
Deep
James bore the traditional ten stout strokes with the apparent fortitude that frightened John and infuriated the administrating prefect, not to mention the supposedly aggrieved (for which read seriously intellectually outclassed) senior-man; it was a response that only made Farlington hit all the harder and add the insult of ‘two for insolence’ to the injury of already bruised flesh, the cane cutting deep welts it would fall to John to tend. Only John would be allowed to see the cost of that stubborn silence, just as he was privileged to know why James was willing to pay it. Provoking man.
Hurt
As Colonel Korba taunted James and laid carelessly cruel hands on the machinery, John felt his fingers wanting to curl into punishing fists, just as they had all those years ago at school. He too had been cruel, but not careless, and James would know - did know - that there was a purpose behind the pain, however hurt and angry he was. But the reflexive twitch told him that despite all that had come between them, the death and horror and the chasm of time, there was still a part of John that could hardly bear to see James in pain.
Time
In the quiet of Helen’s comfortable library, the almost imperceptible hesitation in the so long unerringly steady clockwork, the fractionally altered note of gear and pump and relay that signaled wear and weary mechanical effort where once had been all precision and effortless, smooth working of the device that maintained his life was a clangor to James’ undimmed perceptions; seeing John (John!) lounging on Helen’s sofa as if he belonged there, James did not know if he hoped or feared that John could hear it too, and if he would understand how little time was left them if he did.
Read on AO3
As requested by mogwai_do:
Highlander - Methos: Swift, Paper, Bright, Ocean, Gold
Swift
Swifts wheeled and called around the delicate spires of the new cathedral, exactly as they had around the earlier tower, generations gone, as Methos hoped they would around works reaching to the sky yet unimagined many generations hence: they were old friends.
Paper
The fire consumed the last sheets in a moment, leaving only an ashy imprint of a life in the air, dying with the documents and certificates that represented it; Methos watched the last shadow crumble, another paper life already folded in his coat. All that now remained of Herisson D’Aquille was memory and words that only he could read.
Bright
Brilliance dazzled eyes accustomed to storm-dark, lancing off the hard-glazed snow, the ice-rimed trees, every frozen water-drop casting a rainbow in the bitter-bright sunlight as Methos cautiously poked his head past the stiff layers of hide and wool that protected the entrance to the winter-dwelling; despite the killing-cold, it was a beautiful morning.
Ocean
When sufficiently motivated (or pressed), Methos would admit to sailing across the Irish Sea in a coracle with a handful of monks. The tale was even true, as were the ones of travaux-forces and being sacrificed to angry ocean-gods; but of those he did not speak.
Gold
Methos knows that salamanders (true salamanders, fire-born and red-coal-fed) are real, and even though bonfires and hearth-fires and forge-fires are much rarer in the current industrial, technological age, he still looks to see them glimmering gold-bright and basking in the flames.
Read on AO3
This entry was originally posted at http://lferion.dreamwidth.org/217625.html, where there are currently
comments. Please comment there using OpenID.