White Collar/Heroes, Burn Notice/Heroes, Discworld/White Collar, Firefly/Dead Like Me: Dialogue fics
You know, I don't think it's possible to write a fic without any "backstory" as the meme describes it. What on earth can the characters talk about if you don't give them something to do?
Title: The Petrelli Heist
Rating: PG
Word Count: 331
Summary: Neal & Peter Petrelli for saena17. Small cameo from Moz.
A/N: Set pre-series for both shows.
Neal’s worked with people in Peter Petrelli’s position before. There’s usually glee in their expressions, excitement at the potential danger, a thrill at the audacity of their actions. He sees none of these things in Peter’s face, when the red light of the security camera goes out and the service entrance door opens. Neal sees only dark determination.
They’re in the van, holding the gilt-framed canvas between them, when Neal’s curiosity gets the better of him. “I’ll have to leave New York after this, for a while anyway. Thought I’d let you know.”
He spots guilt on Peter’s face under the orange slide of streetlights, “Sorry.”
Neal gives him a small smile, “Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing. I know you don’t steal from Arthur Petrelli without incurring some consequences.”
A wince of shame. “He shouldn’t be allowed to do what he does.”
Another smile. Now they’re getting somewhere. “Is that why you did this?”
Peter’s smile is marred by bitterness, “You really wanna know?”
Neal leans forward, “I’m dying to.”
An equally bitter laugh. “Well, you may be a thief, Neal, but you really do care about this painting. About art. It’s just a thing to him, something he can show off to his friends, if he even remembers he bought it at all.”
“And?”
Peter laughs again, a little closer to genuine. His darkly gleaming eyes fall on Neal. “He won’t pay for nursing school.”
“Ah,” Neal says, not sure if the new knowledge pleases him or not.
“Unless you’re planning to con me out of my cut,” Peter continues, “You could do it, and I’d have no clue until it was way too late.”
Neal knows that. Can’t deny the itch of temptation. The glee, the excitement, the audacity. But he looks at Peter and tells the truth, “I don’t think anyone could ever betray you, Peter.”
One true smile creeps over Peter’s face, until Mozzie’s voice calls from the driver’s seat, “Okay, boys, social hour’s over.”
***
Title: Sub-Contracting
Rating: PG
Word Count: 649
Summary: Michael Westen and Claude Rains for englishmuffin2. Off-screen Sam and Fiona.
A/N: Set during the series for Burn Notice, but pre-series for Heroes. Which.. doesn't really work, temporally speaking, but oh well.
Michael can appreciate the irony that he had to get burned to gain access to this incredible, multinational, completely covert organization of people with actual, no joke, goddamn superpowers. He had to be hanging out with Sam on Bal Harbour Beach, fruit smoothie in hand, when David Webber stumbled nervously up and hired him to find out the identities of the two men who had been tailing him for a week. No government work would have ever gotten him here- sitting at the table in his loft, looking straight in the sharp blue eyes of a man who introduced himself as Claude Rains, and saying, “I can make things explode with my mind.”
“Oh yeah?” Rains replies mildly, “Since when?”
“Started about a month ago.”
“Mm, bet that’s been very frightening for you.” He sounds fantastically bored.
“Uh, yeah, it’s been rough.”
“Hurt anyone yet?”
“No, not yet. There have been some close calls, though.”
“I’d imagine so.” He picks at a bit of rust on the table before looking back to Michael. “All right, let’s have a demonstration, then.”
He blinks, “A demonstration? Uh, I’m not sure that’s a good idea. These explosions... they’re not exactly small.”
Rains shrugs, “If you want the Company’s help, friend, we need t’see you in action. Go ahead, you’ve got yourself well isolated here- good thinking, that, by the way- could probably get in a few blasts before anyone turned up askin’ questions.”
Michael stares for a moment, then swallows and stands, moving to the window. “Okay, I’ll... I’ll give it a try.”
“Good lad,” he hears Rains say.
Michael stares out into the sizzling Miami afternoon. He finds the palm tree he and Fiona rigged that morning. The woman herself is sitting in her car a couple of blocks away, remote detonator in hand, listening to Michael’s conversation with Rains and counting the seconds until it’s time to press the button. For Michael’s part, he keeps his eyes focused on the palm tree, just for the hell of it pretending it’s really the power of his mind that makes it burst into enthusiastic flames after a minute and a half.
He puts his hand to his forehead and turns away from the window, sagging slightly against the frame. “Right,” he startles to hear from barely two feet away. Rains is standing next to him, with a wide smile on his face.
“I, uh... so, okay, that’s it,” Michael stammers, only partly in-character. Something in Rains’ expression is making alarm bells ring in his head.
“That’s very well done, Mister Westen,” Rains says, “An’ if I’d never seen someone do that before, I might just believe it was the real thing.”
A chill falls into Michael’s stomach. “I... I don’t know what-”
“Oh please, y’think we don’t do our homework? Think we’d be as ignorant of Miami’s own Robin Hood as you are of us? This is the big leagues, mate. You’re workin’ with a better class of espionage.”
Michael straightens, mind spinning with escape routes and fight tactics. He tries to figure out how soon Fi will come barreling through his door, and what kind of weapons she’s packing, and if they’ll be any use. It belatedly occurs to him to wonder just what it is Claude Rains can do.
“Though, actually,” the man continues, “I could’ve almost bought the explosion thing- so many of ‘em seem to go off around you in the course of your... activities. You’ve been awfully busy round here. Helped an awful lot of people.” His tone’s gone softer, almost pensive.
“What are you saying?”
Michael can’t exactly define the change in Rains’ gaze. It’s still sharp and assessing, but somehow different from what he wore a few minutes ago. He thinks, maybe, there’s an edge of fear that wasn’t there before. “I’m sayin’ I want to talk to you about David Webber. He needs help.”
***
Title: Busted
Rating: PG
Word Count: 694
Summary: Sam Vimes and Mozzie for visiblemarket, with cameos from Neal and Carrot.
A/N: Look who didn't chicken out! Hope this works for you, hon.
The hell you can’t teach old dogs new tricks, Sam Vimes gripes in his head, Especially if there’s money to be made in it. Literally. He flips over another page of blessedly completed paperwork and continues writing his report. Some might sniff at the thought of the Duke of Ankh taking part in the relatively small bust of what they're calling a “paper-dangler” like the man known only as Mozzie. But Sam Vimes will die before he’ll be taken off the streets (though truly that is the usual order of things), and anyway he must be aware of all new avenues the city’s bad seeds excavate, no matter how much paperwork he incurs. It was one thing when forging money meant using an actual forge, he thinks, Now all you need’s the right kind of paper and ink. Bad business...
“Sir Vimes, are you listening to me?” his mind distantly hears from the cell.
“Of course I am, Mozzie, and I’ll tell you once again. There are no scorpion pits in the Patrician’s Palace.”
“Right, right, give the party line. You know, I used to have a lot of respect for you, until you sold out.” He hears the rustle of clothing over grumpily crossed arms.
“I’m crushed, Mozzie.”
“Well, I guess I can only hope the bloodline of Suffer-Not-Injustice Vimes hasn’t been watered down enough to be completely blind to the truth.”
Sam closes his eyes briefly, suppressing the urge to lash out at Mozzie, tell him he has no idea what he’s talking about, that there’s no glory in being the descendent of a regicide. If he knew for sure the little man had anything else going for him but paranoia, self-righteousness, and crime, he might.
“At least tell me you’re aware of the History Monks.”
“Couldn’t say, Mozzie.”
“The Men in Saffron? Sure you are. They control time, you know. The whole of time, in the hands of one secret organization. Does that seem right to you?”
“I suppose not.”
“Yes! Yes, that’s what I keep saying! But does anyone listen to me? No way. It’s enough to make you sick.”
“Uncle Mozzie, are you in there?” a voice rings out from the station.
Sam stands, ready for most things, though not a very handsome, well-dressed young man with wavy brown hair and sky-blue eyes, smiling like the sun and extending his hand to the suddenly old and gray and tired copper. “Sir Vimes, right? I’m Neal. I just posted bail for my uncle. Carrot told me I could come collect him.”
“Neal?” Mozzie says, “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in Quirm.”
“Didn’t I tell you my trip was ending early? Could’ve sworn I wrote. And here I am, newly arrived back home, expecting maybe a nice welcome from my favorite uncle, perhaps a meal- but where is he? Rotting in a cell in Pseudopolis Yard!” Neal turns back to Sam, “I apologize for all this, sir. I promise any fines my uncle has to pay will be paid.”
Mozzie snorts in his cell.
“Might be something a bit more than fines,” Sam says, “We caught him making fake money. The new paper kind.”
An expression flashes across Neal’s face, and it is definitely not horror at his uncle’s dastardly crime, though it tries very hard to be a second later. “Oh- oh dear. That’s awful. Well then, whatever- whatever punishment you deem fitting, that’ll be... fine. But, for now, is it all right for me to take my uncle home?”
Sam shrugs, and moves to the cell, unlocking the door and pulling it open. Mozzie sails through it, nose in the air. “Come, Neal,” he says, “I wither in this den of unthinking submission and uniformity.”
Sam follows them out into the station and through the gate, Carrot coming silently to stand at his side. “Mister Neal- I didn’t get his last name,” Sam says once the pair are out of sight.
“Caffrey, sir.”
“Interesting character.”
“Indeed, sir. Described his trip to Quirm as ‘profitable.’”
Sam almost laughs, “Did he, now?” He lights a contemplative cigar. “Captain?”
“Two uniforms are en route to Mozzie’s residence.”
“Cheers.”
***
Title: An Arrangement of Time
Rating: G
Word Count: 444
Summary: Simon Tam and Rube for c_quinn, plus River.
A/N: Okay, River stuck her nose in and kind of stole the show (which I'm sure Simon's used to). If you want to, c_quinn, please give me another prompt and I'll try again.
Simon stays close to River, hand on her shoulder, head bowed, as they walk alone through the streets of Beaumonde’s busiest city. Pushing his heartache away becomes more difficult with every step they take from Serenity. He doesn’t hear the man calling him until he’s almost right next to them, “Young fella! Hey, young fella!”
Simon turns to find a tall, middle-aged man with hawkish features looking right at him. “Um, yes?” he replies, though his fugitive instincts are ordering him to run.
“I was wondering if you could help me out, see, I’m looking for a-” the man opens a worn, brown leather organizer inside which Simon spots four yellow squares of paper- “Ah, right, an H. Washburne. Could you tell me where he is?”
“I... Uh, no, I don’t know that name.” Not anymore.
The man blinks, “You fly with him, don’t ya’?”
It’s Simon’s turn to blink, and catch hold of River’s arm in preparation to bolt. “Who told you that?”
The man shrugs, “Friend of a friend, nothing to worry about. Actually, though...” he peeks in his organizer again, “That makes you S. Tam, right? Name’s Rube, nice to meet ya’.”
The man holds out his hand, and Simon automatically moves to shake it- until River suddenly materializes between them, “NO!” Her cry is sharp and high with fear.
Rube jerks back, expression oddly amused, “No?”
“No,” she says, definitively.
“Well, miss, you know none of us really has a choice in the matter.”
“Time enough,” River counters, though her voice still shakes, “Time in puddles and lakes and oceans. Have a whole sea to yourself. Time enough for him. Leave his soul alone.”
Rube flicks through his yellow squares with a lifted eyebrow, but River just says, “And hers. And hers.”
Rube peels off one and holds it up. Simon sees “H. Washburne” above some other words too small to read, “But not his?”
Simon looks to River- sees anguished grief that belongs on no young girl’s face. “He is a leaf on the wind,” she murmurs through tears, “Make him soar.”
Rube heaves a sigh, looking down at his yellow squares. He looks up, and his eyes are like the black, two dark holes of bone-chilling nothingness. “You have my word.” He disappears into the crowd.
“River, what the hell was that?” Simon demands.
The girl wipes her eyes, though her face is still a mess of pain. “An arrangement.” She’s silent for a beat, staring out at the city around them. Then small hands wrap around his arm and tug, guiding him toward a building marked the Maidenhead Bar. “Come on,” River says, “I need a drink.”
Title: The Petrelli Heist
Rating: PG
Word Count: 331
Summary: Neal & Peter Petrelli for saena17. Small cameo from Moz.
A/N: Set pre-series for both shows.
Neal’s worked with people in Peter Petrelli’s position before. There’s usually glee in their expressions, excitement at the potential danger, a thrill at the audacity of their actions. He sees none of these things in Peter’s face, when the red light of the security camera goes out and the service entrance door opens. Neal sees only dark determination.
They’re in the van, holding the gilt-framed canvas between them, when Neal’s curiosity gets the better of him. “I’ll have to leave New York after this, for a while anyway. Thought I’d let you know.”
He spots guilt on Peter’s face under the orange slide of streetlights, “Sorry.”
Neal gives him a small smile, “Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing. I know you don’t steal from Arthur Petrelli without incurring some consequences.”
A wince of shame. “He shouldn’t be allowed to do what he does.”
Another smile. Now they’re getting somewhere. “Is that why you did this?”
Peter’s smile is marred by bitterness, “You really wanna know?”
Neal leans forward, “I’m dying to.”
An equally bitter laugh. “Well, you may be a thief, Neal, but you really do care about this painting. About art. It’s just a thing to him, something he can show off to his friends, if he even remembers he bought it at all.”
“And?”
Peter laughs again, a little closer to genuine. His darkly gleaming eyes fall on Neal. “He won’t pay for nursing school.”
“Ah,” Neal says, not sure if the new knowledge pleases him or not.
“Unless you’re planning to con me out of my cut,” Peter continues, “You could do it, and I’d have no clue until it was way too late.”
Neal knows that. Can’t deny the itch of temptation. The glee, the excitement, the audacity. But he looks at Peter and tells the truth, “I don’t think anyone could ever betray you, Peter.”
One true smile creeps over Peter’s face, until Mozzie’s voice calls from the driver’s seat, “Okay, boys, social hour’s over.”
***
Title: Sub-Contracting
Rating: PG
Word Count: 649
Summary: Michael Westen and Claude Rains for englishmuffin2. Off-screen Sam and Fiona.
A/N: Set during the series for Burn Notice, but pre-series for Heroes. Which.. doesn't really work, temporally speaking, but oh well.
Michael can appreciate the irony that he had to get burned to gain access to this incredible, multinational, completely covert organization of people with actual, no joke, goddamn superpowers. He had to be hanging out with Sam on Bal Harbour Beach, fruit smoothie in hand, when David Webber stumbled nervously up and hired him to find out the identities of the two men who had been tailing him for a week. No government work would have ever gotten him here- sitting at the table in his loft, looking straight in the sharp blue eyes of a man who introduced himself as Claude Rains, and saying, “I can make things explode with my mind.”
“Oh yeah?” Rains replies mildly, “Since when?”
“Started about a month ago.”
“Mm, bet that’s been very frightening for you.” He sounds fantastically bored.
“Uh, yeah, it’s been rough.”
“Hurt anyone yet?”
“No, not yet. There have been some close calls, though.”
“I’d imagine so.” He picks at a bit of rust on the table before looking back to Michael. “All right, let’s have a demonstration, then.”
He blinks, “A demonstration? Uh, I’m not sure that’s a good idea. These explosions... they’re not exactly small.”
Rains shrugs, “If you want the Company’s help, friend, we need t’see you in action. Go ahead, you’ve got yourself well isolated here- good thinking, that, by the way- could probably get in a few blasts before anyone turned up askin’ questions.”
Michael stares for a moment, then swallows and stands, moving to the window. “Okay, I’ll... I’ll give it a try.”
“Good lad,” he hears Rains say.
Michael stares out into the sizzling Miami afternoon. He finds the palm tree he and Fiona rigged that morning. The woman herself is sitting in her car a couple of blocks away, remote detonator in hand, listening to Michael’s conversation with Rains and counting the seconds until it’s time to press the button. For Michael’s part, he keeps his eyes focused on the palm tree, just for the hell of it pretending it’s really the power of his mind that makes it burst into enthusiastic flames after a minute and a half.
He puts his hand to his forehead and turns away from the window, sagging slightly against the frame. “Right,” he startles to hear from barely two feet away. Rains is standing next to him, with a wide smile on his face.
“I, uh... so, okay, that’s it,” Michael stammers, only partly in-character. Something in Rains’ expression is making alarm bells ring in his head.
“That’s very well done, Mister Westen,” Rains says, “An’ if I’d never seen someone do that before, I might just believe it was the real thing.”
A chill falls into Michael’s stomach. “I... I don’t know what-”
“Oh please, y’think we don’t do our homework? Think we’d be as ignorant of Miami’s own Robin Hood as you are of us? This is the big leagues, mate. You’re workin’ with a better class of espionage.”
Michael straightens, mind spinning with escape routes and fight tactics. He tries to figure out how soon Fi will come barreling through his door, and what kind of weapons she’s packing, and if they’ll be any use. It belatedly occurs to him to wonder just what it is Claude Rains can do.
“Though, actually,” the man continues, “I could’ve almost bought the explosion thing- so many of ‘em seem to go off around you in the course of your... activities. You’ve been awfully busy round here. Helped an awful lot of people.” His tone’s gone softer, almost pensive.
“What are you saying?”
Michael can’t exactly define the change in Rains’ gaze. It’s still sharp and assessing, but somehow different from what he wore a few minutes ago. He thinks, maybe, there’s an edge of fear that wasn’t there before. “I’m sayin’ I want to talk to you about David Webber. He needs help.”
***
Title: Busted
Rating: PG
Word Count: 694
Summary: Sam Vimes and Mozzie for visiblemarket, with cameos from Neal and Carrot.
A/N: Look who didn't chicken out! Hope this works for you, hon.
The hell you can’t teach old dogs new tricks, Sam Vimes gripes in his head, Especially if there’s money to be made in it. Literally. He flips over another page of blessedly completed paperwork and continues writing his report. Some might sniff at the thought of the Duke of Ankh taking part in the relatively small bust of what they're calling a “paper-dangler” like the man known only as Mozzie. But Sam Vimes will die before he’ll be taken off the streets (though truly that is the usual order of things), and anyway he must be aware of all new avenues the city’s bad seeds excavate, no matter how much paperwork he incurs. It was one thing when forging money meant using an actual forge, he thinks, Now all you need’s the right kind of paper and ink. Bad business...
“Sir Vimes, are you listening to me?” his mind distantly hears from the cell.
“Of course I am, Mozzie, and I’ll tell you once again. There are no scorpion pits in the Patrician’s Palace.”
“Right, right, give the party line. You know, I used to have a lot of respect for you, until you sold out.” He hears the rustle of clothing over grumpily crossed arms.
“I’m crushed, Mozzie.”
“Well, I guess I can only hope the bloodline of Suffer-Not-Injustice Vimes hasn’t been watered down enough to be completely blind to the truth.”
Sam closes his eyes briefly, suppressing the urge to lash out at Mozzie, tell him he has no idea what he’s talking about, that there’s no glory in being the descendent of a regicide. If he knew for sure the little man had anything else going for him but paranoia, self-righteousness, and crime, he might.
“At least tell me you’re aware of the History Monks.”
“Couldn’t say, Mozzie.”
“The Men in Saffron? Sure you are. They control time, you know. The whole of time, in the hands of one secret organization. Does that seem right to you?”
“I suppose not.”
“Yes! Yes, that’s what I keep saying! But does anyone listen to me? No way. It’s enough to make you sick.”
“Uncle Mozzie, are you in there?” a voice rings out from the station.
Sam stands, ready for most things, though not a very handsome, well-dressed young man with wavy brown hair and sky-blue eyes, smiling like the sun and extending his hand to the suddenly old and gray and tired copper. “Sir Vimes, right? I’m Neal. I just posted bail for my uncle. Carrot told me I could come collect him.”
“Neal?” Mozzie says, “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in Quirm.”
“Didn’t I tell you my trip was ending early? Could’ve sworn I wrote. And here I am, newly arrived back home, expecting maybe a nice welcome from my favorite uncle, perhaps a meal- but where is he? Rotting in a cell in Pseudopolis Yard!” Neal turns back to Sam, “I apologize for all this, sir. I promise any fines my uncle has to pay will be paid.”
Mozzie snorts in his cell.
“Might be something a bit more than fines,” Sam says, “We caught him making fake money. The new paper kind.”
An expression flashes across Neal’s face, and it is definitely not horror at his uncle’s dastardly crime, though it tries very hard to be a second later. “Oh- oh dear. That’s awful. Well then, whatever- whatever punishment you deem fitting, that’ll be... fine. But, for now, is it all right for me to take my uncle home?”
Sam shrugs, and moves to the cell, unlocking the door and pulling it open. Mozzie sails through it, nose in the air. “Come, Neal,” he says, “I wither in this den of unthinking submission and uniformity.”
Sam follows them out into the station and through the gate, Carrot coming silently to stand at his side. “Mister Neal- I didn’t get his last name,” Sam says once the pair are out of sight.
“Caffrey, sir.”
“Interesting character.”
“Indeed, sir. Described his trip to Quirm as ‘profitable.’”
Sam almost laughs, “Did he, now?” He lights a contemplative cigar. “Captain?”
“Two uniforms are en route to Mozzie’s residence.”
“Cheers.”
***
Title: An Arrangement of Time
Rating: G
Word Count: 444
Summary: Simon Tam and Rube for c_quinn, plus River.
A/N: Okay, River stuck her nose in and kind of stole the show (which I'm sure Simon's used to). If you want to, c_quinn, please give me another prompt and I'll try again.
Simon stays close to River, hand on her shoulder, head bowed, as they walk alone through the streets of Beaumonde’s busiest city. Pushing his heartache away becomes more difficult with every step they take from Serenity. He doesn’t hear the man calling him until he’s almost right next to them, “Young fella! Hey, young fella!”
Simon turns to find a tall, middle-aged man with hawkish features looking right at him. “Um, yes?” he replies, though his fugitive instincts are ordering him to run.
“I was wondering if you could help me out, see, I’m looking for a-” the man opens a worn, brown leather organizer inside which Simon spots four yellow squares of paper- “Ah, right, an H. Washburne. Could you tell me where he is?”
“I... Uh, no, I don’t know that name.” Not anymore.
The man blinks, “You fly with him, don’t ya’?”
It’s Simon’s turn to blink, and catch hold of River’s arm in preparation to bolt. “Who told you that?”
The man shrugs, “Friend of a friend, nothing to worry about. Actually, though...” he peeks in his organizer again, “That makes you S. Tam, right? Name’s Rube, nice to meet ya’.”
The man holds out his hand, and Simon automatically moves to shake it- until River suddenly materializes between them, “NO!” Her cry is sharp and high with fear.
Rube jerks back, expression oddly amused, “No?”
“No,” she says, definitively.
“Well, miss, you know none of us really has a choice in the matter.”
“Time enough,” River counters, though her voice still shakes, “Time in puddles and lakes and oceans. Have a whole sea to yourself. Time enough for him. Leave his soul alone.”
Rube flicks through his yellow squares with a lifted eyebrow, but River just says, “And hers. And hers.”
Rube peels off one and holds it up. Simon sees “H. Washburne” above some other words too small to read, “But not his?”
Simon looks to River- sees anguished grief that belongs on no young girl’s face. “He is a leaf on the wind,” she murmurs through tears, “Make him soar.”
Rube heaves a sigh, looking down at his yellow squares. He looks up, and his eyes are like the black, two dark holes of bone-chilling nothingness. “You have my word.” He disappears into the crowd.
“River, what the hell was that?” Simon demands.
The girl wipes her eyes, though her face is still a mess of pain. “An arrangement.” She’s silent for a beat, staring out at the city around them. Then small hands wrap around his arm and tug, guiding him toward a building marked the Maidenhead Bar. “Come on,” River says, “I need a drink.”