Drabble/Ficlet Offer
I am having a crappy day so I am offering drabbles/ficlets for the first person to request on for each of the shows I am watching or other things I am fannish about. For your convenience a list:
Currently Watching
Rome written for aphrodite_mine
Title: Displaced Shame and Affection
Pairing: Octavia/Servilia
Rating: PG
Word Count: 402
Atia always thought that weaving was dull and only dull people need resort to such lifeless pastimes. That's what she'd told Octavia at least, when she asked why she'd not taught her to weave, like all the other mothers. Octavian suggested that Atia was lousy at weaving, based on the resentment in their mother's voice when the subject came up.
There were many normal occupations Atia detested, anything useful, or requiring concentration that didn't not lead to immediate pleasure and gratification, or promise power later on. As a result, Octavia had to learn from the slaves if she was to learn at all. It was from the slaves, also, that she first heard anything about her father, other than her faded childish memories. Atia never spoke of him.
The weaving is one of many reasons that Octavia is filled with shame and nerves when her mother sends her to Servilia. Servilia's kindness makes her feel all the more humiliated, reminded of her mother's cruelty. When she sits down at the loom she prays to the gods that it won't be clear her patterns are those of slaves. Not that Servilia will mock, but she cannot abide any more shame on her house and on her personage than her mother has already wrought.
Servilia praises her wearing without a hint of irony, serves her like an equal, like they are not part of Atia's game. Octavia doesn't believe her at first. It seems too implausible. It is only later that Octavian lets slip a rumor about the beginning of Atia's battle with Servilia. The word unnatural is one he has heard used. Octavian is young but he was always much cleverer than Octavia and she believes him. Everything with her mother comes down to lust, lust of the flesh or lust for power. It is all very much the same with her.
After that, Octavia can't help noticing the way Servilia's hand lingers at the base of her neck, the way her dress gapes open as she bends to retrieve a piece of fiber. Servilia is dignified and calm. Octavia much prefers her to Atia's censure and ridicule. She leans back against Servilia's curves and lets her older woman's fingertips rest where the swell of her breasts begin. It is no wonder Atia resents her, Servilia whispers, Octavia is such a flower as to make Atia in her prime look a common weed.
Battlestar Galactica
Veronica Mars written for novin_ha
Title: No Fairy Dust, No Magic Words
Character: Lamb
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 719
Keith Mars is outed from office and suddenly Lamb is supposed to have all the answers. People want miracles, and they want them from him. He's the sheriff isn't he? Lamb feels like a little boy, playing dress-up in his father's clothes. There's no room for honesty though, and he wants to be the hero every bit as much as people want him to be one. So he tries to think of what someone who knows might says, and he swaggers more then necessary and it seems like fortune smiles on him; because, the Kane girl's killer drops right in to his lap and he soon discovers that no one else wants to admit they don't know what to do either. So he practices an arrogant smirk, takes long lunches, and repeats the town wide mythology that Keith Mars was off his rocker.
Things are going pretty well until one Sunday morning Veronica Mars shows up in his office, make-up smeared and spirit crushed. She gives him that look he's almost gotten used to coming for spoiled middle aged citizens, full of unreasonable expectations. They want miracles. Now, Veronica Mars wants one too, as she looks across the table from him and says that she's been raped. What she wants, of course, is not to have been raped. What she wants is her mommy back, and her best friend un-murdered. She wants him to send her back to Wonderland, and out of this hell hole they call Southern California. Lamb wants out too. But he can't turn back time, can't change the rules the world operates on.
He can't lie to Veronica Mars either. Little girl grew up in this office, knows what it can and can not do. He can't fill her head with false assurances, act like he's going to bring that asshole to justice. There is little Lamb can do for anyone, even though he is sheriff now. So he gives her a dose of hard cold truth. The wizard can't give you anything you don't already have. He is merely the man hiding behind the curtain. She hates him for that.
Go ask the wizard for some answers; Lamb sure as hell doesn't have any.
Veronica gets tough but she doesn't just leave Lamb alone. She's always there, and every time she is he's being accused of letting her rape go unpunished, even though she never mentions it again. Life is cold and hard and Veronica Mars cuts like fire. She's everywhere, all the time. She's between him and sinking completely into the apathy of pretending to do his job in order to escape his own clueless state. They both are, father and daughter. Keith's initially friendly offers for help, Lamb shoves aside like an insult. By the time he's desperate for a hand, the mentor has turned into the enemy.
And now this rape investigation. Each call brings to mind Veronica's smeared eyeliner and broken innocence. He makes Sacks take the first few, but they keep coming and it seems like ignoring them will not make them go away any more than it will her. He goes to this next one, finds her there in the room and it's like he's having a bizarre nightmare until she points elsewhere. Another blonde little broken bird, crying as it lies on the ground. It's mother won't have anything to do with it once you touch it, but it's never going to make it back to the nest alone.
So he smirks and is snide and insulting. Better they think he's a jerk than incompetent. Lamb can be anything but not good enough. Then his father might be right, and Lamb would give anything to keep his father from winning. Years of torture that didn't leave the smallest mark on his body, provide motivation for hatred on the inside. He hates the Mars family most when they help him out. Needing help is weakness of character. That's what he'd written 1000 times before he was allowed to have any supper. So it's easier when they dismiss him, expect nothing, and he can at least not fail to meet the lowest denominator. This girl is bawling her eyes out, and Veronica expects Lamb to fail her.
The new one still expects miracles, wants to go back to Kansas.
Bones
The Office
Grey's Anatomy written for novin_ha
Title: Like High School
Characters/Pairings: Callie, Izzie, Callie/George, Addison
Rating: PG-13
Word Count:570
The hospital really is like high school all over again. Meredith and Cristina and Izzie are those freshman girls your whole senior class sort of hates because they got asked to prom instead of you. They giggle and whisper behind their anorexic little hands, and you know that they are mocking you.
Luckily, you are not one of those girls who cries and breaks. Back in the real high school, you shrugged it off and kicked soccer balls in their perfect faces during P.E.; after their shiny hair lost interest, the boys showed back up in your window, and you laughed at them and beat them at mario kart.
You went to Prom with Angela Ashlyn, back from college. The Meredith Greys and Izzie Stevenses of the world were subjected to bad sex and cheap champagne. You and Angela talked about her college sweetheart (big mistake) and astronomy, everything from changing tires to blow jobs.
You weren't in love with Luke Pellas when Kimberly Fitzsimmons and Marcy Greenlin whispered in his ear about how you could stand to lose a few pounds, how you rode your bike instead of driving a car to school, how they had heard that everyone had seen you naked at Darryl Costa's New Year's party Sophomore year. You didn't shed a tear when he dumped you.
You are in love with George O'Malley though, enough in love to run off to Vegas, and enough that Izzie and Meredith and Cristina's snickering registers as more than slightly irritating. George tries to justify, to excuse. So you do the same, try and give them the benefit of the doubt. You cook, and you explain, and you keep their secrets.
It doesn't matter; because, girls like Izzie will always hate girls like you. It is girls in this case. Women wouldn't do this. Women wouldn't need this. So, you give up trying to change history for him. You've never been one to dwell and he's had you dwelling.
Addison Montgomery is beautiful and smart, and she reminds you just a little bit of Angela. When George says something about dinner and Izzie, you call up Addison and suggest drinks at the hotel bar. Let him have his judgmental bitch friends.
At work the next day you hear whispers. Apparently now you're the shunning whore; although, you were not invited; although, last week Izzie screamed to George that marrying you was a mistake, just like she always has been saying. You're done trying to get along with people who don't want you around.
Let George deal with it. The burden shouldn't always rest on your shoulders.
When he calls to say he won't be home for dinner, you call Addison. There isn't any reason at all for the home cooked meal to go to waste.
She tells you the food is wonderful, she says so are you. She's heading back to New York soon, and there is room for you in her practice when your residency is up in a few weeks.
If it were really high school this would be the end. Divorce papers signed coldly through the mail without a struggle. You, if no one else, are a woman now, however. So you tell him how it is; let him know there is a choice to be made.
You are going to New York. Will he? In high school he never would have gotten that option.
30 Rock
Ugly Betty written for qt_ninja
Title: The Ice is Thin, but Thickening
Pairings/Characters: Santos, Hilda, Justin
Rating: PG
Word Count:661
As he walks Hilda and Justin back to their house, Justin is beaming and Hilda looks at him like maybe she doesn't hate him for the first time in ages. They reach the door and Justin races inside to tell his grand pappy everything. Hilda lingers for just a moment, gives him that sort of half smile that always drove him wild.
"The way you stood up for him in the subway; Santos, it meant the world to Justin," She begins.
"You think I'd let, anybody, give my son shit?" he asks. He wants to reach over and touch her, but he knows it would break the moment of peace. Those days are long over.
"Even though you think his love of musicals is degrading?" Hilda promps, "Santos, I'm glad you did this for him, but I don't get it."
"Maybe you were right, Hilda." The words feel funny coming out, but not in a bad way, "I do want to be there for Justin, and I guess that means I am going to have to make some compromises."
Hilda looks surprised and doubtful, "You aren't going to try and change him anymore? You're okay with how he is?"
"I said compromise Hilda, not surrender. I'll go to his girly musicals and listen to his effeminate fashion talk, but Hilda you have to let me expose him to other things too. How can I know he wouldn't like going to a ballgame or shooting hoops unless I try it with him."
"If you're accusing me of..." Her voice is getting tight, distant.
"I'm not accusing you of anything Hilda. Listen, what do you want me to say? I've been a fuck up as a father, and I should have been here earlier? I know, but please Hilda, just give me a chance to make it up to him."
She's every bit as gorgeous as she was back in the old days, more so perhaps because he can't have her now. She stands there, hand on her hip, debating.
Justin chooses this moment to pop his head out the front door and offer everyone some hot cocoa.
Hilda nods that it's alright for him to accept, but in such a way as to make it clear that his other request is still in question. He sits across the kitchen table from them, Justin still filling Mr. Suarez in on the evening. He seems entertained. Hilda's watching and Santos wishes he could read her mind.
When she finally walks him out, Justin asleep already, Hilda hesitates but finally tells Santos, "Fine, you can do your manly activities with Justin, as long as he wants to go, and they have to be safe, no taking him to the races or something."
He feels a rush of relief. He wants to embrace her and tell her that they are the world to him, that he knows he's let them down before but it's going to be different this time. He settles for a smile instead.
"Alright Hilda, I'll let you decide what's okay, but you have to do it in good faith."
She gives him that little smile again, "Well, what did you have in mind?"
"The ballgame next weekend. I was thinking maybe you could come along too, that way you can see for yourself that I'm not doing anything sleazy or dangerous."
A little pain in his chest as he imagines her getting angry and the angry marks her nails leave. Then, she softens, "Fine. If Justin wants to go, we'll go."
"Great."
"Goodnight Santos," she turns to go back inside.
"Goodnight Hilda."
He's pretty sure she thinks Justin will say yes. He's fairly confident he's doing the right thing. It's been a while since he's had that feeling. Shit's been fucked up for so long and he's only now starting to see a way to clean it up a bit. It took a while to adjust. Hopefully, it's not too late now.
Also Fannish About
Song of Ice and Fire written for rosenblut
Title: Blossoming
Characters/Pairings: Jon Snow, Sansa Stark
Rating: PG
Word Count: 724
The last time Jon had seen his half-sister Sansa, she was a prideful little girl, full of fantastical ideals that clouded her judgment, and full of disdain for anything that did not seem to match them. She had been filled with disdain for him, her bastard brother; he had been infinitely beneath her. he had accepted the way things were. Bastard children learn to be resigned to these things early in life. He'd never cared for her the way he had Arya though, fierce little Arya. Arya had been a true sister to him. He and Sansa had been little more than strangers. She alone had seen him as other. Robb had been his friend; Bran had admired him despite his base born status. Sansa had kept her distance, not wanting to be tainted by his proximity.
When he first sees her again, Jon is overwhelmed by the change in Sansa. She has blossomed into a lovely woman, and this shouldn't surprise him, after all she was a handsome girl, but somehow it does. More than her beauty; however, it is her presence that startles him. Sansa has gained a grace and poise, a real understanding of the workings of people. Jon watches her interact with those around her and thinks to himself that she has become everything she thought herself to be but was not when he last saw her. Queen Danaerys's new Hand, Petyr Baelish, is not the only one to look at her with admiration and wonder. Jon notes the way she turns heads. Perhaps he was the one to underestimate her, when they were children.
He hovers, just outside her circle of attention, not intending to impose himself upon the distant lady has bloomed even in the midst of tragedy and chaos. She looks up and catches his eye though. Her cheeks flush and she cries out his name, with joy. Her admirers part, as though by witchcraft and the next thing Jon knows she is embracing him, as though he were a long lost loved one. Lord Baelish, Littlefinger as he is called, is at her shoulder almost immediately, wanting to make Jon's acquaintance.
Sansa introduces Jon, as if his bastard status is forgotten, holds his hands in hers as though she does not want to misplace him. He sees her examine his person. He's changed too, filled out and made more rugged by harsh cold and hard work in the north. She's looking at him like she's never really seen him before, though. Jon suspects this may be somewhat true; before the war, he was below her notice. Now she begs him to take a quiet supper with her that evening, just the two of them. She wants to catch up, although they were never informed of each other in the first place.
She is enchanting, and the warmth feels genuine, so he gladly accepts.
Across the table he is aware that she very much resembles her mother. She has none of the coldness for him that Lady Catilyn did though. She asks about his journey down, about his feats beyond the wall, and she listens to his responses. He is still somewhat in shock, unsure why she is being so kind. She keeps inviting him though, and he keeps accepting. Long evenings fill with reading and games; occasionally there are other guests, but more often they are alone, but for the servants. Every day sees her more lovely, more warm, engaging, and bright.
One evening he finally asks her: why has she sought him out? She smiles, almost sadly, and begins to tell him about her time in the Vale. She tells him of Alayne Stone, how easily people believed any number of things about you based on who your parents were supposed to be. It was not guilt alone that made her wish to right their relationship, however. Living as she had, made her think every day of what life for Jon must have been like, and the more she thought about it the more she admired his behavior. Before long she'd grown sorry of how little she's understood or appreciated about his life and the choices he had to make and those he was deprived of. She turns to face him, and tells him of her admiration. She has never looked more like a queen.
BtVS
AtS
Harry Potter written for shakanaman and qt_ninja
Title: Past
Characters/Pairing: Minerva McGonagall, Tom Riddle, Voldemort
Rating: PG
Word Count:370
They tell her not to go into the mayhem of that final battle. The younger ones, having no reason to think otherwise, think she should not go because she is too old. They say it is because she is too valuable, but she knows they see the lines on her face and the little threads of gray that have started to appear in her coal black hair. She wants to remind them that Albus was twice her age, and that never stopped him. The few remaining old timers, people who remember back before either war, have other reasons. Those are harder to refute. Ironic how some of the Order doesn't trust her for her aging and the others for her youth. Yet perhaps not, their young hero is no older than she was.
Horace refuses to help. Minerva can't help thinking, bitterly, that if he'd been better at it in the past, perhaps they wouldn't have had this problem. She wonders if there are still people out there who blame her. She has long since come to accept that he would have done it all anyway. That was what Albus said, and recently she's come to believe him.
In the end she convinces the others to let her come only because Potter, Granger, and Ron Weasley have taken off without them as well. Arthur actually looks as exhausted as Remus for once. She leaves them behind and as her tabby self she finds the way in through His defenses.
She has not seem Him in years, and although she's heard of the changes she has not seen most of them. They are not comparable to her aching bones and sagging skin. Tom would have been a handsome older man, refined looking. It had been a much discussed point among her classmates back during her days at Hogwarts. This abomination is nothing like his former skin. It makes it easier. His fair face had made it difficult for many, in earlier days, to see the pitch black evil within. Now, Minerva thinks to herself, his exterior matches his interior.
When the times comes she does not flinch. She has no doubt, no regrets except that she did not do this earlier.
Mythology
Arthurian Legends written for roguebelle, cyn_ful, and qt_ninja
Title: Hungry for the Light of Day
Characters/Pairings: Arthur/Morgan, Merlin
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 608
It would have been kinder to send her away, but that privilege was reserved for the golden son. Morgan, daughter of the first, murdered, marriage, walked like a ghost in her stepfather's castle. She grew up in shadow, a constant reminder that not all was well in the kingdom. Her sisters, older, escaped early to husbands that were beneath them. Uther had no intention of letting Gorlois' daughters raise up armies to avenge him. They all were cast as far from Cornwall as possible. There were no far corners left for Morgan, so the King delayed, let her fester in his castle. They wished her gone; they wished their son, their darling pride and joy, was there instead.
Merlin, the old enchanter was less old in those days, finally took pity on the hopeless girl. She'd grown like a flower in a cave, twisting towards the light. She looked nothing like her mother, fruitful and full breasted. No, she was a mere slip of a girl, and yet older than she ought to have been. Merlin was softened by the element of the fey in her, took her riding with him. Uther dared not say no, without the wizard his kingdom might crumble to dust he feared.
He did not tell Morgan that the young man they met by the steam was the brother she so resented. He did not tell the boy that she was his sister, or that he had a sister at all. He let them sit in the warm grass and watch the shadows grow.
Arthur had been raised in full sunlight, working and thriving, unrestrained. He was broad shouldered and easy laughing. This girl was a mystery to him, a curiosity he could not resist. He was mesmerized by her dark eyes, her pale skin. He made her trinkets, picked flowers for her to weave into her ebony hair. Merlin, busy in his books, did not observe the shift from curiosity to besotted until it was far too late. Arthur, desperate to prove himself, consulted Merlin on how he might establish himself in this world and thus enable himself to provide for the slight girl he'd come to think so much of, and Merlin knew his negligence had brought something very ill about. Arthur would not heed his warnings, thought his mentor was lying to him because he wanted the beloved for himself.
Merlin had no choice but to tell Morgan the truth. True, she enjoyed the time spend out in the open, but Merlin suspected it was more the escape than where it lead to. Indeed, she seemed fairly indifferent when he brought the boy up. So, he confessed all to her, and learned his mistake. Years of pent up frustration and resentment had been building for her mother, the King, and the brother she did not know, and when Merlin told her of the impossible situation all she saw was opportunity to take something from them all.
She found Arthur, sulking by their favorite spot. She told him that Merlin had told her never to see him again, though not why. She swore she'd run away because she could not bear the thought. He promised her his soul and heart and everything in the world he could offer. She'd stopped running and he caught her, wrapped her up in his solid, sun scorched, arms. Mouths and hands, fumbling in ignorance. He claimed every inch of her. Yet, after it was done, he still knew nothing of her. The allure and mystery was intoxicated and unabated. All he wanted was more, and he had no idea what she had taken from him.
His Dark Materials written for shakanaman
Title: Butterfly Bezerking
Pairing: Asriel/Marisa
Rating: PG
Word Count: 252
The moment he laid eyes on her, he wanted more. It did not take long to find out who she was and where he might find her. Watching her innocent laughter in the garden, he felt a moment of hesitation. Asriel wasn't prone to hesitation, or doing anything but going relentless after what he wanted. Marisa Coulter was so lovely though, so pure and joyful, delicate and lithe. She was a butterfly, and he was contemplating how to capture her without crushing her wings. He almost considered giving up, letting her fly away in peace. That was not his nature though. As he watched Coulter, the brute, stare proprietarily at her, Asriel found himself casting a shadow over her, as she laid in the grass. The decision was made.
He watched her in horror now, as he realized the monster he’d created. The carefree girl was gone. Instead, there was a cruel widow, a vicious politician, activist, and socialite. Her gaze burned him. She was no less beautiful, no less compelling, but Asriel felt what might have been fear or might have been regret. She descended upon his with a chill that gave him pangs as she kissed his cheek. She called him her mentor, her maker. Asriel both wished it was not true and longer to have that kind of power over her again. She turned, coolly, and he was left remembering. He almost wondered if he’d made the wrong decision, but then he remembered there were larger purposes at hand.
Firefly/Serenity written for silver_fic
Title: The Things That Aren't Hers
Characters: River, Crew
Rating: PG
Word Count: 510
Jayne doesn't like to play cards with her. He claims she must cheat, but River can't help it if she sees the probabilities and patterns of possibility in her mind. Jayne cheats, but River never calls him on it. Better to keep the peace, let him have his handicap the way se has hers. Jayne's favorite games are all very simple, the more dependent on luck they are the better. River likes complex strategy, something to fill her head so there are less empty spaces for the things that don't belong in there.
Sometimes Mal asks her to go into those foreign spaces, pull out knowledge that isn't hers but he can use. He isn't really asking; he's telling. River can tell. It's hard at first. Everything all jumbled and hidden. It is like flying on a ship with no controls, twisting and turning and pinching till she cries out, till she is sick.
Simon demands Mal put a stop to it. The whole crew against him, Mal is forced to abandon his project. River hides in the small areas of her brain she knows are safe for a while, and everyone can tell.
Inara invites River to her shuttle, brushes her hair, teaches her relaxation techniques, meditation. River lets down the walls of her mind a little bit. She learns to let go the the edges she's holding so tightly together and slowly she begins to dip back into the unknown. Exploring, in small ways at first. Soon the sea of others thoughts is up to her waist, up to her breast, and she dives in, staying down for as long as possible before she needs to resurface.
Inara is worried; this isn't what she intended, but River insists. It's getting better. She's getting stronger. The waters start to take form, to separate. She knows all about how Jayne's step-daddy taught him cards. It makes sense and does not tangle up with the screams of the men than never laid down. She starts to suggest ways to treat her to Simon, correct his calculations.
Still there's the nightmares, the times the bad things seep into her head and she cannot do anything. Inara wipes her sweaty forehead and says gently that it's just like the meditation, to focus not on exterior things but on herself. Simon is still furious. It is not like the nightmares are new, not like they don't predate these attempts to access the information buried in her mind. Logic, in this case, is irrelevant to him.
River minds the dream less as she heeds Inara's suggestion, focuses not on escaping but on small things, like flexing her toes. She learns to tune the screams out.
Mal is surprised when she tells him the probabilities of which sets of protocol the Alliance will follow in the given situation. Simon looks murderous, like Mal's been pressing all along; through he hasn't, not since that first time. River repeats herself calmly, staring Simon down, and the Captain gets the lilt of a smile as he springs into action.
Ask away!
Currently Watching
Rome written for aphrodite_mine
Title: Displaced Shame and Affection
Pairing: Octavia/Servilia
Rating: PG
Word Count: 402
Atia always thought that weaving was dull and only dull people need resort to such lifeless pastimes. That's what she'd told Octavia at least, when she asked why she'd not taught her to weave, like all the other mothers. Octavian suggested that Atia was lousy at weaving, based on the resentment in their mother's voice when the subject came up.
There were many normal occupations Atia detested, anything useful, or requiring concentration that didn't not lead to immediate pleasure and gratification, or promise power later on. As a result, Octavia had to learn from the slaves if she was to learn at all. It was from the slaves, also, that she first heard anything about her father, other than her faded childish memories. Atia never spoke of him.
The weaving is one of many reasons that Octavia is filled with shame and nerves when her mother sends her to Servilia. Servilia's kindness makes her feel all the more humiliated, reminded of her mother's cruelty. When she sits down at the loom she prays to the gods that it won't be clear her patterns are those of slaves. Not that Servilia will mock, but she cannot abide any more shame on her house and on her personage than her mother has already wrought.
Servilia praises her wearing without a hint of irony, serves her like an equal, like they are not part of Atia's game. Octavia doesn't believe her at first. It seems too implausible. It is only later that Octavian lets slip a rumor about the beginning of Atia's battle with Servilia. The word unnatural is one he has heard used. Octavian is young but he was always much cleverer than Octavia and she believes him. Everything with her mother comes down to lust, lust of the flesh or lust for power. It is all very much the same with her.
After that, Octavia can't help noticing the way Servilia's hand lingers at the base of her neck, the way her dress gapes open as she bends to retrieve a piece of fiber. Servilia is dignified and calm. Octavia much prefers her to Atia's censure and ridicule. She leans back against Servilia's curves and lets her older woman's fingertips rest where the swell of her breasts begin. It is no wonder Atia resents her, Servilia whispers, Octavia is such a flower as to make Atia in her prime look a common weed.
Battlestar Galactica
Veronica Mars written for novin_ha
Title: No Fairy Dust, No Magic Words
Character: Lamb
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 719
Keith Mars is outed from office and suddenly Lamb is supposed to have all the answers. People want miracles, and they want them from him. He's the sheriff isn't he? Lamb feels like a little boy, playing dress-up in his father's clothes. There's no room for honesty though, and he wants to be the hero every bit as much as people want him to be one. So he tries to think of what someone who knows might says, and he swaggers more then necessary and it seems like fortune smiles on him; because, the Kane girl's killer drops right in to his lap and he soon discovers that no one else wants to admit they don't know what to do either. So he practices an arrogant smirk, takes long lunches, and repeats the town wide mythology that Keith Mars was off his rocker.
Things are going pretty well until one Sunday morning Veronica Mars shows up in his office, make-up smeared and spirit crushed. She gives him that look he's almost gotten used to coming for spoiled middle aged citizens, full of unreasonable expectations. They want miracles. Now, Veronica Mars wants one too, as she looks across the table from him and says that she's been raped. What she wants, of course, is not to have been raped. What she wants is her mommy back, and her best friend un-murdered. She wants him to send her back to Wonderland, and out of this hell hole they call Southern California. Lamb wants out too. But he can't turn back time, can't change the rules the world operates on.
He can't lie to Veronica Mars either. Little girl grew up in this office, knows what it can and can not do. He can't fill her head with false assurances, act like he's going to bring that asshole to justice. There is little Lamb can do for anyone, even though he is sheriff now. So he gives her a dose of hard cold truth. The wizard can't give you anything you don't already have. He is merely the man hiding behind the curtain. She hates him for that.
Go ask the wizard for some answers; Lamb sure as hell doesn't have any.
Veronica gets tough but she doesn't just leave Lamb alone. She's always there, and every time she is he's being accused of letting her rape go unpunished, even though she never mentions it again. Life is cold and hard and Veronica Mars cuts like fire. She's everywhere, all the time. She's between him and sinking completely into the apathy of pretending to do his job in order to escape his own clueless state. They both are, father and daughter. Keith's initially friendly offers for help, Lamb shoves aside like an insult. By the time he's desperate for a hand, the mentor has turned into the enemy.
And now this rape investigation. Each call brings to mind Veronica's smeared eyeliner and broken innocence. He makes Sacks take the first few, but they keep coming and it seems like ignoring them will not make them go away any more than it will her. He goes to this next one, finds her there in the room and it's like he's having a bizarre nightmare until she points elsewhere. Another blonde little broken bird, crying as it lies on the ground. It's mother won't have anything to do with it once you touch it, but it's never going to make it back to the nest alone.
So he smirks and is snide and insulting. Better they think he's a jerk than incompetent. Lamb can be anything but not good enough. Then his father might be right, and Lamb would give anything to keep his father from winning. Years of torture that didn't leave the smallest mark on his body, provide motivation for hatred on the inside. He hates the Mars family most when they help him out. Needing help is weakness of character. That's what he'd written 1000 times before he was allowed to have any supper. So it's easier when they dismiss him, expect nothing, and he can at least not fail to meet the lowest denominator. This girl is bawling her eyes out, and Veronica expects Lamb to fail her.
The new one still expects miracles, wants to go back to Kansas.
Bones
The Office
Grey's Anatomy written for novin_ha
Title: Like High School
Characters/Pairings: Callie, Izzie, Callie/George, Addison
Rating: PG-13
Word Count:570
The hospital really is like high school all over again. Meredith and Cristina and Izzie are those freshman girls your whole senior class sort of hates because they got asked to prom instead of you. They giggle and whisper behind their anorexic little hands, and you know that they are mocking you.
Luckily, you are not one of those girls who cries and breaks. Back in the real high school, you shrugged it off and kicked soccer balls in their perfect faces during P.E.; after their shiny hair lost interest, the boys showed back up in your window, and you laughed at them and beat them at mario kart.
You went to Prom with Angela Ashlyn, back from college. The Meredith Greys and Izzie Stevenses of the world were subjected to bad sex and cheap champagne. You and Angela talked about her college sweetheart (big mistake) and astronomy, everything from changing tires to blow jobs.
You weren't in love with Luke Pellas when Kimberly Fitzsimmons and Marcy Greenlin whispered in his ear about how you could stand to lose a few pounds, how you rode your bike instead of driving a car to school, how they had heard that everyone had seen you naked at Darryl Costa's New Year's party Sophomore year. You didn't shed a tear when he dumped you.
You are in love with George O'Malley though, enough in love to run off to Vegas, and enough that Izzie and Meredith and Cristina's snickering registers as more than slightly irritating. George tries to justify, to excuse. So you do the same, try and give them the benefit of the doubt. You cook, and you explain, and you keep their secrets.
It doesn't matter; because, girls like Izzie will always hate girls like you. It is girls in this case. Women wouldn't do this. Women wouldn't need this. So, you give up trying to change history for him. You've never been one to dwell and he's had you dwelling.
Addison Montgomery is beautiful and smart, and she reminds you just a little bit of Angela. When George says something about dinner and Izzie, you call up Addison and suggest drinks at the hotel bar. Let him have his judgmental bitch friends.
At work the next day you hear whispers. Apparently now you're the shunning whore; although, you were not invited; although, last week Izzie screamed to George that marrying you was a mistake, just like she always has been saying. You're done trying to get along with people who don't want you around.
Let George deal with it. The burden shouldn't always rest on your shoulders.
When he calls to say he won't be home for dinner, you call Addison. There isn't any reason at all for the home cooked meal to go to waste.
She tells you the food is wonderful, she says so are you. She's heading back to New York soon, and there is room for you in her practice when your residency is up in a few weeks.
If it were really high school this would be the end. Divorce papers signed coldly through the mail without a struggle. You, if no one else, are a woman now, however. So you tell him how it is; let him know there is a choice to be made.
You are going to New York. Will he? In high school he never would have gotten that option.
30 Rock
Ugly Betty written for qt_ninja
Title: The Ice is Thin, but Thickening
Pairings/Characters: Santos, Hilda, Justin
Rating: PG
Word Count:661
As he walks Hilda and Justin back to their house, Justin is beaming and Hilda looks at him like maybe she doesn't hate him for the first time in ages. They reach the door and Justin races inside to tell his grand pappy everything. Hilda lingers for just a moment, gives him that sort of half smile that always drove him wild.
"The way you stood up for him in the subway; Santos, it meant the world to Justin," She begins.
"You think I'd let, anybody, give my son shit?" he asks. He wants to reach over and touch her, but he knows it would break the moment of peace. Those days are long over.
"Even though you think his love of musicals is degrading?" Hilda promps, "Santos, I'm glad you did this for him, but I don't get it."
"Maybe you were right, Hilda." The words feel funny coming out, but not in a bad way, "I do want to be there for Justin, and I guess that means I am going to have to make some compromises."
Hilda looks surprised and doubtful, "You aren't going to try and change him anymore? You're okay with how he is?"
"I said compromise Hilda, not surrender. I'll go to his girly musicals and listen to his effeminate fashion talk, but Hilda you have to let me expose him to other things too. How can I know he wouldn't like going to a ballgame or shooting hoops unless I try it with him."
"If you're accusing me of..." Her voice is getting tight, distant.
"I'm not accusing you of anything Hilda. Listen, what do you want me to say? I've been a fuck up as a father, and I should have been here earlier? I know, but please Hilda, just give me a chance to make it up to him."
She's every bit as gorgeous as she was back in the old days, more so perhaps because he can't have her now. She stands there, hand on her hip, debating.
Justin chooses this moment to pop his head out the front door and offer everyone some hot cocoa.
Hilda nods that it's alright for him to accept, but in such a way as to make it clear that his other request is still in question. He sits across the kitchen table from them, Justin still filling Mr. Suarez in on the evening. He seems entertained. Hilda's watching and Santos wishes he could read her mind.
When she finally walks him out, Justin asleep already, Hilda hesitates but finally tells Santos, "Fine, you can do your manly activities with Justin, as long as he wants to go, and they have to be safe, no taking him to the races or something."
He feels a rush of relief. He wants to embrace her and tell her that they are the world to him, that he knows he's let them down before but it's going to be different this time. He settles for a smile instead.
"Alright Hilda, I'll let you decide what's okay, but you have to do it in good faith."
She gives him that little smile again, "Well, what did you have in mind?"
"The ballgame next weekend. I was thinking maybe you could come along too, that way you can see for yourself that I'm not doing anything sleazy or dangerous."
A little pain in his chest as he imagines her getting angry and the angry marks her nails leave. Then, she softens, "Fine. If Justin wants to go, we'll go."
"Great."
"Goodnight Santos," she turns to go back inside.
"Goodnight Hilda."
He's pretty sure she thinks Justin will say yes. He's fairly confident he's doing the right thing. It's been a while since he's had that feeling. Shit's been fucked up for so long and he's only now starting to see a way to clean it up a bit. It took a while to adjust. Hopefully, it's not too late now.
Also Fannish About
Song of Ice and Fire written for rosenblut
Title: Blossoming
Characters/Pairings: Jon Snow, Sansa Stark
Rating: PG
Word Count: 724
The last time Jon had seen his half-sister Sansa, she was a prideful little girl, full of fantastical ideals that clouded her judgment, and full of disdain for anything that did not seem to match them. She had been filled with disdain for him, her bastard brother; he had been infinitely beneath her. he had accepted the way things were. Bastard children learn to be resigned to these things early in life. He'd never cared for her the way he had Arya though, fierce little Arya. Arya had been a true sister to him. He and Sansa had been little more than strangers. She alone had seen him as other. Robb had been his friend; Bran had admired him despite his base born status. Sansa had kept her distance, not wanting to be tainted by his proximity.
When he first sees her again, Jon is overwhelmed by the change in Sansa. She has blossomed into a lovely woman, and this shouldn't surprise him, after all she was a handsome girl, but somehow it does. More than her beauty; however, it is her presence that startles him. Sansa has gained a grace and poise, a real understanding of the workings of people. Jon watches her interact with those around her and thinks to himself that she has become everything she thought herself to be but was not when he last saw her. Queen Danaerys's new Hand, Petyr Baelish, is not the only one to look at her with admiration and wonder. Jon notes the way she turns heads. Perhaps he was the one to underestimate her, when they were children.
He hovers, just outside her circle of attention, not intending to impose himself upon the distant lady has bloomed even in the midst of tragedy and chaos. She looks up and catches his eye though. Her cheeks flush and she cries out his name, with joy. Her admirers part, as though by witchcraft and the next thing Jon knows she is embracing him, as though he were a long lost loved one. Lord Baelish, Littlefinger as he is called, is at her shoulder almost immediately, wanting to make Jon's acquaintance.
Sansa introduces Jon, as if his bastard status is forgotten, holds his hands in hers as though she does not want to misplace him. He sees her examine his person. He's changed too, filled out and made more rugged by harsh cold and hard work in the north. She's looking at him like she's never really seen him before, though. Jon suspects this may be somewhat true; before the war, he was below her notice. Now she begs him to take a quiet supper with her that evening, just the two of them. She wants to catch up, although they were never informed of each other in the first place.
She is enchanting, and the warmth feels genuine, so he gladly accepts.
Across the table he is aware that she very much resembles her mother. She has none of the coldness for him that Lady Catilyn did though. She asks about his journey down, about his feats beyond the wall, and she listens to his responses. He is still somewhat in shock, unsure why she is being so kind. She keeps inviting him though, and he keeps accepting. Long evenings fill with reading and games; occasionally there are other guests, but more often they are alone, but for the servants. Every day sees her more lovely, more warm, engaging, and bright.
One evening he finally asks her: why has she sought him out? She smiles, almost sadly, and begins to tell him about her time in the Vale. She tells him of Alayne Stone, how easily people believed any number of things about you based on who your parents were supposed to be. It was not guilt alone that made her wish to right their relationship, however. Living as she had, made her think every day of what life for Jon must have been like, and the more she thought about it the more she admired his behavior. Before long she'd grown sorry of how little she's understood or appreciated about his life and the choices he had to make and those he was deprived of. She turns to face him, and tells him of her admiration. She has never looked more like a queen.
BtVS
AtS
Harry Potter written for shakanaman and qt_ninja
Title: Past
Characters/Pairing: Minerva McGonagall, Tom Riddle, Voldemort
Rating: PG
Word Count:370
They tell her not to go into the mayhem of that final battle. The younger ones, having no reason to think otherwise, think she should not go because she is too old. They say it is because she is too valuable, but she knows they see the lines on her face and the little threads of gray that have started to appear in her coal black hair. She wants to remind them that Albus was twice her age, and that never stopped him. The few remaining old timers, people who remember back before either war, have other reasons. Those are harder to refute. Ironic how some of the Order doesn't trust her for her aging and the others for her youth. Yet perhaps not, their young hero is no older than she was.
Horace refuses to help. Minerva can't help thinking, bitterly, that if he'd been better at it in the past, perhaps they wouldn't have had this problem. She wonders if there are still people out there who blame her. She has long since come to accept that he would have done it all anyway. That was what Albus said, and recently she's come to believe him.
In the end she convinces the others to let her come only because Potter, Granger, and Ron Weasley have taken off without them as well. Arthur actually looks as exhausted as Remus for once. She leaves them behind and as her tabby self she finds the way in through His defenses.
She has not seem Him in years, and although she's heard of the changes she has not seen most of them. They are not comparable to her aching bones and sagging skin. Tom would have been a handsome older man, refined looking. It had been a much discussed point among her classmates back during her days at Hogwarts. This abomination is nothing like his former skin. It makes it easier. His fair face had made it difficult for many, in earlier days, to see the pitch black evil within. Now, Minerva thinks to herself, his exterior matches his interior.
When the times comes she does not flinch. She has no doubt, no regrets except that she did not do this earlier.
Mythology
Arthurian Legends written for roguebelle, cyn_ful, and qt_ninja
Title: Hungry for the Light of Day
Characters/Pairings: Arthur/Morgan, Merlin
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 608
It would have been kinder to send her away, but that privilege was reserved for the golden son. Morgan, daughter of the first, murdered, marriage, walked like a ghost in her stepfather's castle. She grew up in shadow, a constant reminder that not all was well in the kingdom. Her sisters, older, escaped early to husbands that were beneath them. Uther had no intention of letting Gorlois' daughters raise up armies to avenge him. They all were cast as far from Cornwall as possible. There were no far corners left for Morgan, so the King delayed, let her fester in his castle. They wished her gone; they wished their son, their darling pride and joy, was there instead.
Merlin, the old enchanter was less old in those days, finally took pity on the hopeless girl. She'd grown like a flower in a cave, twisting towards the light. She looked nothing like her mother, fruitful and full breasted. No, she was a mere slip of a girl, and yet older than she ought to have been. Merlin was softened by the element of the fey in her, took her riding with him. Uther dared not say no, without the wizard his kingdom might crumble to dust he feared.
He did not tell Morgan that the young man they met by the steam was the brother she so resented. He did not tell the boy that she was his sister, or that he had a sister at all. He let them sit in the warm grass and watch the shadows grow.
Arthur had been raised in full sunlight, working and thriving, unrestrained. He was broad shouldered and easy laughing. This girl was a mystery to him, a curiosity he could not resist. He was mesmerized by her dark eyes, her pale skin. He made her trinkets, picked flowers for her to weave into her ebony hair. Merlin, busy in his books, did not observe the shift from curiosity to besotted until it was far too late. Arthur, desperate to prove himself, consulted Merlin on how he might establish himself in this world and thus enable himself to provide for the slight girl he'd come to think so much of, and Merlin knew his negligence had brought something very ill about. Arthur would not heed his warnings, thought his mentor was lying to him because he wanted the beloved for himself.
Merlin had no choice but to tell Morgan the truth. True, she enjoyed the time spend out in the open, but Merlin suspected it was more the escape than where it lead to. Indeed, she seemed fairly indifferent when he brought the boy up. So, he confessed all to her, and learned his mistake. Years of pent up frustration and resentment had been building for her mother, the King, and the brother she did not know, and when Merlin told her of the impossible situation all she saw was opportunity to take something from them all.
She found Arthur, sulking by their favorite spot. She told him that Merlin had told her never to see him again, though not why. She swore she'd run away because she could not bear the thought. He promised her his soul and heart and everything in the world he could offer. She'd stopped running and he caught her, wrapped her up in his solid, sun scorched, arms. Mouths and hands, fumbling in ignorance. He claimed every inch of her. Yet, after it was done, he still knew nothing of her. The allure and mystery was intoxicated and unabated. All he wanted was more, and he had no idea what she had taken from him.
His Dark Materials written for shakanaman
Title: Butterfly Bezerking
Pairing: Asriel/Marisa
Rating: PG
Word Count: 252
The moment he laid eyes on her, he wanted more. It did not take long to find out who she was and where he might find her. Watching her innocent laughter in the garden, he felt a moment of hesitation. Asriel wasn't prone to hesitation, or doing anything but going relentless after what he wanted. Marisa Coulter was so lovely though, so pure and joyful, delicate and lithe. She was a butterfly, and he was contemplating how to capture her without crushing her wings. He almost considered giving up, letting her fly away in peace. That was not his nature though. As he watched Coulter, the brute, stare proprietarily at her, Asriel found himself casting a shadow over her, as she laid in the grass. The decision was made.
He watched her in horror now, as he realized the monster he’d created. The carefree girl was gone. Instead, there was a cruel widow, a vicious politician, activist, and socialite. Her gaze burned him. She was no less beautiful, no less compelling, but Asriel felt what might have been fear or might have been regret. She descended upon his with a chill that gave him pangs as she kissed his cheek. She called him her mentor, her maker. Asriel both wished it was not true and longer to have that kind of power over her again. She turned, coolly, and he was left remembering. He almost wondered if he’d made the wrong decision, but then he remembered there were larger purposes at hand.
Firefly/Serenity written for silver_fic
Title: The Things That Aren't Hers
Characters: River, Crew
Rating: PG
Word Count: 510
Jayne doesn't like to play cards with her. He claims she must cheat, but River can't help it if she sees the probabilities and patterns of possibility in her mind. Jayne cheats, but River never calls him on it. Better to keep the peace, let him have his handicap the way se has hers. Jayne's favorite games are all very simple, the more dependent on luck they are the better. River likes complex strategy, something to fill her head so there are less empty spaces for the things that don't belong in there.
Sometimes Mal asks her to go into those foreign spaces, pull out knowledge that isn't hers but he can use. He isn't really asking; he's telling. River can tell. It's hard at first. Everything all jumbled and hidden. It is like flying on a ship with no controls, twisting and turning and pinching till she cries out, till she is sick.
Simon demands Mal put a stop to it. The whole crew against him, Mal is forced to abandon his project. River hides in the small areas of her brain she knows are safe for a while, and everyone can tell.
Inara invites River to her shuttle, brushes her hair, teaches her relaxation techniques, meditation. River lets down the walls of her mind a little bit. She learns to let go the the edges she's holding so tightly together and slowly she begins to dip back into the unknown. Exploring, in small ways at first. Soon the sea of others thoughts is up to her waist, up to her breast, and she dives in, staying down for as long as possible before she needs to resurface.
Inara is worried; this isn't what she intended, but River insists. It's getting better. She's getting stronger. The waters start to take form, to separate. She knows all about how Jayne's step-daddy taught him cards. It makes sense and does not tangle up with the screams of the men than never laid down. She starts to suggest ways to treat her to Simon, correct his calculations.
Still there's the nightmares, the times the bad things seep into her head and she cannot do anything. Inara wipes her sweaty forehead and says gently that it's just like the meditation, to focus not on exterior things but on herself. Simon is still furious. It is not like the nightmares are new, not like they don't predate these attempts to access the information buried in her mind. Logic, in this case, is irrelevant to him.
River minds the dream less as she heeds Inara's suggestion, focuses not on escaping but on small things, like flexing her toes. She learns to tune the screams out.
Mal is surprised when she tells him the probabilities of which sets of protocol the Alliance will follow in the given situation. Simon looks murderous, like Mal's been pressing all along; through he hasn't, not since that first time. River repeats herself calmly, staring Simon down, and the Captain gets the lilt of a smile as he springs into action.
Ask away!