For archival purposes, Fandom Stocking ficlets (various fandoms, most under PG13)
BSG, Kat/Starbuck:
The end of the world has passed them by.
Kat hangs onto the last bottle of ambrosia with one hand, fingers tight around the neck as Starbuck watches her from across the room. I earned this, Kat tells herself. But it's a hollow victory.
Maybe that's why she's still holding the bottle, tilting it to watch the liquid inside swirl and shift, when Starbuck gets up.
She won't come over to Kat's table. They've a long-standing tradition of mutual dislike. Distrust and competition have turned them into bitter somethings.
Two shots are about all that's left, and Kat doesn't question why Hot Dog gave her both glasses, as she pours between them. Spilling drops is safe still, and she licks the tips of her fingers after swiping at the liquid.
Alcohol, real and sweet--not harsh like the crap Chief's hawking all the damned time--burns her lips a little and she smirks up at Starbuck when she pauses.
"Come and drink a toast, Starbuck." Kat injects mockery into her voice, because she knows that her captain won't accept kindness. Not from her. And not like the ambrosia's a kindness. But she's feeling introspective or some bullshit like that, and the moment of clarity that said she should have won this hasn't escaped.
Starbuck isn't about to turn down good shit--not even when it's from Kat. There's no struggle in the captain's eyes as she drops down into the chair across from Kat.
"To me," Kat says, her shot already up and sticky in her fingers (should have poured slower).
It isn't a toast Starbuck looks like she wanted to drink to, but she does anyway, shooting the alcohol and slamming the glass down with a gasp as the burn slides down her throat.
Kat does the same, then tilts the bottle up, catching the last of the drops with a slurp of her tongue.
The table moves as Starbuck gets up, intent on getting away. Just for a moment, Kat wonders what she'd do if Kat went after her. If she stopped trying to fight her, and just--there's no profit in going there.
Kat sets the bottle down with a sloppy click and stands.
Profit isn't everything, and the end of the world has already happened. What the frak else can Starbuck do, demote her?
-----------
Primeval: New World, Dylan/Toby
"Are you seriously wearing those?" Dylan sounded disbelieving, as she slogged through the grass to Toby's side.
Toby cocked a hip and squinted at her, wishing she hadn't loaned Mac her shades. "Am I seriously wearing what?" Not that she really had to ask. Dylan was glaring at the shoes on her feet, a custom-job with chains and dangly bits that had called to Toby's sense of the ridiculous (right after getting a good bonus was a bad time for her to be shoe-shopping). They made her at least three inches taller than normal, but were surprisingly stable for chasing dinosaurs through woodland.
With an irritated gesture, Dylan held out a taser. "At least the raptors will hear us coming."
A disgruntled Dylan was sort of adorable, and Toby filed away that thought for later as she bent and un-hooked several sets of chain. Dropping them to the grass, she raised an eyebrow at Dylan, "Happy?"
They'd be back this way after chasing the latest dinosaurs to come through an anomaly. Not that Toby wanted to be chasing them--she'd much rather be sitting cross-legged in front of the spinning ball of glowing intersecting magnetic fields, working on her laptop as she tried to decode the energy signatures better in order to understand how the thing worked. If they could just predict them, that would be even better. Then no dinosaurs would rampage through, changing history.
"Guess so." Dylan slapped Toby's shoulder, obviously trying to be companionable, "C'mon, we've got raptors to track."
"Sounds fun." It didn't. Toby wasn't really looking forward to her next encounter with something that killed people. Still, it was part of the job. She sighed and checked her taser, then nodded, "You first."
Dylan gestured towards the trees, "Follow me, but not too close."
"Right." Just close enough to have a good view of Dylan's ass in the jeans she'd arrived in. Toby could handle that--she'd even try not to be distracted.
Which went about as well as it normally did. Dylan stalked a raptor silently, with Toby mostly-silent behind her, and they managed to corner, stun and bag it before a second broke cover and dove at Toby. It was only luck that she was facing the right way and still smarting from someone stealing her high score in Demons Run 4. Tasering a dinosaur wasn't quite the same as nailing a demon with a sawed-off shotgun in a computer game, but Toby was willing to take her points where she could.
"Nice job," Dylan gasped, like she was recovering from a sudden shock. She ducked around Toby, knelt and jabbed a needle into the raptor to put it out for longer than the thirty or so seconds that the tasers gave them.
Toby raised her taser and blew across the barrel. "Just doin' my job, ma'am," she joked before giving a soft sigh and holding out a hand to hoist Dylan back to her feet. "Should we tie them up, or something?"
"I'm on my way to your position with transport." Mac suddenly said over their comms.
"Roger. We'll keep hunting." Checking her supply of needles and taser bolts, Dylan frowned, then looked at Toby. "You still up for this, or do you want to stay on guard?"
"I'm up for it."
"Good." Dylan headed out of the raptor-filled clearing, then stopped and glanced back. Her hand covered the mic of her radio. "And Toby?"
"Yeah?"
"Stop looking at my ass."
Toby pulled a face, then grinned as she came abreast with Dylan, nudging her with an elbow. "But you know how science and you shooting things makes me feel."
"I know." Dylan made a long-suffering sound, then leaned in close for a quick kiss. A little heated and strange, and Toby wondered just how freaked out the other woman had been over the raptor that she'd tased.
"Lead, Dylan," murmured Toby, even though one hand was tugging at Dylan's belt, and she was seriously considering the merits of the tree behind Dylan.
Then it occurred to her that Mac would be around soon, and they still weren't telling anyone. Right. Restraint.
Her fingers flexed and she stepped back as Dylan turned away to lead them deeper into the woods, hunting the third raptor they thought had escaped.
-----------------------------
(Elementary, Avengers)
So, this is a half-formed idea of a fusion universe, and was intended to be Joan Watson/Natasha Romanoff, but I didn't really get there.
-untitled-
Sober companion wasn't as good a cover as personal assistant, but Joan was willing to bet that her assignment was far less annoying than Natasha's. Sherlock Holmes was arrogant, obnoxious, and frequently right. But at least she could see the way he was trying to become human. The little she'd heard of Tony Stark (filtered through reports) left her no desire to encounter him.
But her job did make it slightly harder to make drops and contact her handler. Sherlock was apt to snoop in her phone, email and probably the notebook in her purse, for all she knew.
The last time she'd underestimated an assignment, someone had paid the price. She wasn't about to do it this time. Not with their carefully orchestrated back-story for her that included ex-colleagues and lovers.
Still, it was with some relief that she slid into a chair at her favorite coffee shop, one hand wrapped around her mug, and raised her eyebrows at the woman who was sitting across from her. "Is there something new to add to my mandate?"
Natasha half-shook her head, pretending to be a stranger, her voice pitched half an octave higher than normal. "I'm afraid that seat's taken."
So, no, then. Joan let her brows drop into an exxagerated frown, then smiled politely. "I'm so sorry, I just need a minute to check something on my phone--"
With it out, she murmured, "Nothing new on Adler."
Her phone vibrated, and she snorted as she realized it was Sherlock. Probably with a case, or an observation about Natasha's legs and lack of sex life.
"I really must insist--" Natasha waved an ineffectual hand at Joan. "My boyfriend will be back any moment. You're taking his seat, and he won't be happy about that."
Standing, Joan picked up her mug, leaving behind her napkin. "Whatever."
With her back to Natasha, she deleted Sherlock's text demanding she return as there was an update on the case, and went to sit in the window. The message she'd left on the napkin told Natasha to meet her during her morning run for a more in-depth conversation.
She gave Sherlock five minutes before he flounced in, looking for her. At least she'd be finished with her coffee by then.
------------------------
Doctor Who, Romana and Seven
Of course it doesn't surprise Romana when he appears. She's just managed to catch her breath, body tensing at every little sound while K-9 chirps his startlement at the sudden movement of the curtains. It's all of a piece with the last hours of her life. Running, then pausing, and running again, hoping her pursuers won't stray from their path for the easier prey that she'd noted.
Humans, as a rule, were far too stupid to beware of things like moving rocks, and it is her fault they are here anyway. Better to deal with them herself than leave them up to adventurers who'd have no idea what to do with them.
"Hello, my dear, I do hope I haven't startled you." Then he pauses, recognition in his eyes. "Why, Romana--"
"I know which one you are," she says, before he can start an explanation--not that this one would. His seventh incarnation played too many things close to his chest, and she would in time take advantage of that. Had. "And I'm glad you're here."
At Romana's feet, K-9's ear-dishes whirl for a moment, then settle. Even he sounds tired when he reports, "Enemy approaching."
"Yes, they rather would be now, wouldn't they." With a surge of energy, she gets to her feet and holds out a hand to the Doctor. "I'm afraid our only option is the old one."
"Option?" He asks, taking her hand, his skin at once too-warm, familiar, and distant.
Romana bends to catch up a handful of the skirt this century had required. Now that K-9 is silent again, she can hear the grinding of stone upon stone. Her pursuers are nothing if not dedicated. "Run," she says as the Ogri crash through the door she'd closed minutes before.
"Oh dear."
"Yes," she replies with a slight tilt of her head. Then they're off, hand in hand, as she leads him deeper into the tangle of the labyrinth. Dimly, she hopes that K-9's map is accurate, and that the bottomless gorge she's leading them to will suffice.
-----------------------------
TW/DW, Martha/Tosh, AU
"Did you remember the milk?" Martha called out as she wandered into the kitchen. The flat she and Tosh were sharing was tiny, but suited their current needs. Her lover was busily emptying the shopping onto the counter, looking rather attractive in her sensible skirt and boots.
Tosh paused and rolled her eyes, a smile playing over her lips. "Of course I remembered. Unlike some people, I make lists."
Chuckling, Martha shook her head and moved to wrap her arms around Tosh, settling her chin on the other woman's shoulder. "Never gonna let me live that down, are you."
"Probably not. Any news while I was out?"
The question hung in the air for a moment, deadly serious, and Martha wanted to avoid it, but she knew better. "UNIT archives still have no listing for either Gwen Cooper or Ianto Jones."
"Well, they wouldn't, would they." Completely still, Tosh breathed in deeply, then released it in a rush. "Alternate universe theory was never my strong suit, you know. That was more Jack's field. He understood the consequences of changing the past better than anyone."
Martha tightened her hold on Tosh, and was silent for a moment. It was a horrible, selfish feeling, but she was honest enough not to back away from it. Given the choices, she would not return Toshiko to a timeline where she died brutally. Not even for Gwen and Ianto. "I haven't heard anything from him, either."
"That's not really a surprise." Suddenly brusque, Tosh pulled away from her and began shoving things into the fridge.
Not wanting to get into a fight, Martha silently put the dry goods into the cupboard, then went on to the clean and dry dishes she'd done earlier that day.
It wasn't often that they really discussed things properly. Martha blamed herself, her lack of courage to face the idea that Tosh might leave if she truly understood everything. Getting round to even talking about it was difficult enough. Actually admitting to Tosh that she actually knew how to change things back, well, that wasn't going to happen anytime soon.
The fridge slammed closed and Martha looked over to see Tosh gripping the edge of the counter, her head bent. "It's just--I remember dying. It was horrible. And all the time, all I could think was, 'I'm not ready'."
"We never are," Martha offered, trying for comfort as she moved closer. But something about Tosh's stance told her not to touch.
"Death is supposed to be a release from pain. But I wake up, sometimes, and my gut is clenched and there's a bullet tearing through me--over and over again. Except that it never happened, did it."
"No."
Tosh dropped her hands from the counter and straightened, and her smile was entirely pasted on as she turned to look at Martha. "That's that, then. So what's for supper?"
Biting her lip, Martha half-reached for Tosh, and then she dropped her hand and looked away, unable to meet the false brightness in the other woman's eyes. "I was thinking fish of some sort, or take-out."
"Let's go with curry. I've always liked curry."
And things slid back into some sort of normality.
------------------------
BSG, Kara/Kendra
Kara doesn't like to think about Kendra--not at first. She tells herself that it hurts too much because she should have been the one who was so reckless. It should have been her, going out in a blaze of glory. But Kendra hadn't listened--the by-the-book-officer had turned into someone as rebellious and headstrong as Kara. She done what Kara hadn't wanted to do.
Now she was dead.
The bleakness of that fact didn't keep Kara awake, but it did haunt her. There were moments, when she was working with Boomer to figure out the navigational systems of the heavy raider and how to apply it to the Colonial systems, when she would suddenly think about Kendra being there instead.
Her sarcasm and sharp words, the way she hadn't backed down an inch. Kara had admired that.
Sometimes, she would admit to herself that it wasn't the only thing she'd admired. More than once, while they'd been arguing, she'd found her gaze distracted by the flushed cheeks, sparkling eyes and parted lips. If she'd stopped an argument by kissing Kendra--by shoving her up against a locker as she'd wanted to more than once, would there have been a different outcome?
Would it be Kendra occasionally thinking about Kara going out in her blaze of glory?
Not a comfortable thought, so Kara doesn't think it at all, if she can help it.
---------------------
Elementary, Joan, also, St. Trinian's references
"I taught there once."
Since he wasn't in the habit of sharing confidences, Joan half-suspected Sherlock of some sort of lying. Still, she looked up from her paper, and asked, as she was meant to, "Taught where?"
"The infamous St. Trinian's." He gave it rather a mocking twist, but still managed to imbue his words with carelessness.
Joan gave him a non-committal sound in reply, and turned the page.
"Actually, it was rather a trial."
Bingo.
"They tried to drown me, then burn me at the stake. It was a most enlightening two hours."
"I'm sure it was." Joan folded the paper and set it down, giving him a serene look. "And what brought this memory on?"
"Oh, nothing." But he was toying with what looked suspiciously like an envelope. And the look he gave her was half-accusatory, "However, Watson, I do take it amiss that you never mentioned the entirety of your background."
She accepted the slightly-mangled envelope from him, noting the postmark, and shrugged. "It wasn't relevant."
"Relevant!? You're receiving mail from the finest institution to turn out young female delinquents and criminals, and you don't consider that relevant?"
"Not at all." The letter was probably some sort of alumni invitation, and the look in Sherlock's eyes said that he wouldn't rest until he'd learned all. With another half-shrug, she told him, "I only spent one semester there on an exchange program."
If she'd tried to bomb the post office, he would have looked less scandalized. Still, he recovered quickly. "Well. I see, then."
"Anyway, I don't keep in touch with anyone there, this is probably just a request for funds." They came infrequently--more often, when she'd been a working surgeon. She tucked the envelope in her pocket. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I should go call my mother."
"Yes, of course. Wouldn't want her to call me as she did last time you neglected her."
Joan kept her face from showing her amusement at his petulance, and went up to her room. Where she proceeded to open the envelope, and then make several phone calls. None of which were to her mother.
The end of the world has passed them by.
Kat hangs onto the last bottle of ambrosia with one hand, fingers tight around the neck as Starbuck watches her from across the room. I earned this, Kat tells herself. But it's a hollow victory.
Maybe that's why she's still holding the bottle, tilting it to watch the liquid inside swirl and shift, when Starbuck gets up.
She won't come over to Kat's table. They've a long-standing tradition of mutual dislike. Distrust and competition have turned them into bitter somethings.
Two shots are about all that's left, and Kat doesn't question why Hot Dog gave her both glasses, as she pours between them. Spilling drops is safe still, and she licks the tips of her fingers after swiping at the liquid.
Alcohol, real and sweet--not harsh like the crap Chief's hawking all the damned time--burns her lips a little and she smirks up at Starbuck when she pauses.
"Come and drink a toast, Starbuck." Kat injects mockery into her voice, because she knows that her captain won't accept kindness. Not from her. And not like the ambrosia's a kindness. But she's feeling introspective or some bullshit like that, and the moment of clarity that said she should have won this hasn't escaped.
Starbuck isn't about to turn down good shit--not even when it's from Kat. There's no struggle in the captain's eyes as she drops down into the chair across from Kat.
"To me," Kat says, her shot already up and sticky in her fingers (should have poured slower).
It isn't a toast Starbuck looks like she wanted to drink to, but she does anyway, shooting the alcohol and slamming the glass down with a gasp as the burn slides down her throat.
Kat does the same, then tilts the bottle up, catching the last of the drops with a slurp of her tongue.
The table moves as Starbuck gets up, intent on getting away. Just for a moment, Kat wonders what she'd do if Kat went after her. If she stopped trying to fight her, and just--there's no profit in going there.
Kat sets the bottle down with a sloppy click and stands.
Profit isn't everything, and the end of the world has already happened. What the frak else can Starbuck do, demote her?
-----------
Primeval: New World, Dylan/Toby
"Are you seriously wearing those?" Dylan sounded disbelieving, as she slogged through the grass to Toby's side.
Toby cocked a hip and squinted at her, wishing she hadn't loaned Mac her shades. "Am I seriously wearing what?" Not that she really had to ask. Dylan was glaring at the shoes on her feet, a custom-job with chains and dangly bits that had called to Toby's sense of the ridiculous (right after getting a good bonus was a bad time for her to be shoe-shopping). They made her at least three inches taller than normal, but were surprisingly stable for chasing dinosaurs through woodland.
With an irritated gesture, Dylan held out a taser. "At least the raptors will hear us coming."
A disgruntled Dylan was sort of adorable, and Toby filed away that thought for later as she bent and un-hooked several sets of chain. Dropping them to the grass, she raised an eyebrow at Dylan, "Happy?"
They'd be back this way after chasing the latest dinosaurs to come through an anomaly. Not that Toby wanted to be chasing them--she'd much rather be sitting cross-legged in front of the spinning ball of glowing intersecting magnetic fields, working on her laptop as she tried to decode the energy signatures better in order to understand how the thing worked. If they could just predict them, that would be even better. Then no dinosaurs would rampage through, changing history.
"Guess so." Dylan slapped Toby's shoulder, obviously trying to be companionable, "C'mon, we've got raptors to track."
"Sounds fun." It didn't. Toby wasn't really looking forward to her next encounter with something that killed people. Still, it was part of the job. She sighed and checked her taser, then nodded, "You first."
Dylan gestured towards the trees, "Follow me, but not too close."
"Right." Just close enough to have a good view of Dylan's ass in the jeans she'd arrived in. Toby could handle that--she'd even try not to be distracted.
Which went about as well as it normally did. Dylan stalked a raptor silently, with Toby mostly-silent behind her, and they managed to corner, stun and bag it before a second broke cover and dove at Toby. It was only luck that she was facing the right way and still smarting from someone stealing her high score in Demons Run 4. Tasering a dinosaur wasn't quite the same as nailing a demon with a sawed-off shotgun in a computer game, but Toby was willing to take her points where she could.
"Nice job," Dylan gasped, like she was recovering from a sudden shock. She ducked around Toby, knelt and jabbed a needle into the raptor to put it out for longer than the thirty or so seconds that the tasers gave them.
Toby raised her taser and blew across the barrel. "Just doin' my job, ma'am," she joked before giving a soft sigh and holding out a hand to hoist Dylan back to her feet. "Should we tie them up, or something?"
"I'm on my way to your position with transport." Mac suddenly said over their comms.
"Roger. We'll keep hunting." Checking her supply of needles and taser bolts, Dylan frowned, then looked at Toby. "You still up for this, or do you want to stay on guard?"
"I'm up for it."
"Good." Dylan headed out of the raptor-filled clearing, then stopped and glanced back. Her hand covered the mic of her radio. "And Toby?"
"Yeah?"
"Stop looking at my ass."
Toby pulled a face, then grinned as she came abreast with Dylan, nudging her with an elbow. "But you know how science and you shooting things makes me feel."
"I know." Dylan made a long-suffering sound, then leaned in close for a quick kiss. A little heated and strange, and Toby wondered just how freaked out the other woman had been over the raptor that she'd tased.
"Lead, Dylan," murmured Toby, even though one hand was tugging at Dylan's belt, and she was seriously considering the merits of the tree behind Dylan.
Then it occurred to her that Mac would be around soon, and they still weren't telling anyone. Right. Restraint.
Her fingers flexed and she stepped back as Dylan turned away to lead them deeper into the woods, hunting the third raptor they thought had escaped.
-----------------------------
(Elementary, Avengers)
So, this is a half-formed idea of a fusion universe, and was intended to be Joan Watson/Natasha Romanoff, but I didn't really get there.
-untitled-
Sober companion wasn't as good a cover as personal assistant, but Joan was willing to bet that her assignment was far less annoying than Natasha's. Sherlock Holmes was arrogant, obnoxious, and frequently right. But at least she could see the way he was trying to become human. The little she'd heard of Tony Stark (filtered through reports) left her no desire to encounter him.
But her job did make it slightly harder to make drops and contact her handler. Sherlock was apt to snoop in her phone, email and probably the notebook in her purse, for all she knew.
The last time she'd underestimated an assignment, someone had paid the price. She wasn't about to do it this time. Not with their carefully orchestrated back-story for her that included ex-colleagues and lovers.
Still, it was with some relief that she slid into a chair at her favorite coffee shop, one hand wrapped around her mug, and raised her eyebrows at the woman who was sitting across from her. "Is there something new to add to my mandate?"
Natasha half-shook her head, pretending to be a stranger, her voice pitched half an octave higher than normal. "I'm afraid that seat's taken."
So, no, then. Joan let her brows drop into an exxagerated frown, then smiled politely. "I'm so sorry, I just need a minute to check something on my phone--"
With it out, she murmured, "Nothing new on Adler."
Her phone vibrated, and she snorted as she realized it was Sherlock. Probably with a case, or an observation about Natasha's legs and lack of sex life.
"I really must insist--" Natasha waved an ineffectual hand at Joan. "My boyfriend will be back any moment. You're taking his seat, and he won't be happy about that."
Standing, Joan picked up her mug, leaving behind her napkin. "Whatever."
With her back to Natasha, she deleted Sherlock's text demanding she return as there was an update on the case, and went to sit in the window. The message she'd left on the napkin told Natasha to meet her during her morning run for a more in-depth conversation.
She gave Sherlock five minutes before he flounced in, looking for her. At least she'd be finished with her coffee by then.
------------------------
Doctor Who, Romana and Seven
Of course it doesn't surprise Romana when he appears. She's just managed to catch her breath, body tensing at every little sound while K-9 chirps his startlement at the sudden movement of the curtains. It's all of a piece with the last hours of her life. Running, then pausing, and running again, hoping her pursuers won't stray from their path for the easier prey that she'd noted.
Humans, as a rule, were far too stupid to beware of things like moving rocks, and it is her fault they are here anyway. Better to deal with them herself than leave them up to adventurers who'd have no idea what to do with them.
"Hello, my dear, I do hope I haven't startled you." Then he pauses, recognition in his eyes. "Why, Romana--"
"I know which one you are," she says, before he can start an explanation--not that this one would. His seventh incarnation played too many things close to his chest, and she would in time take advantage of that. Had. "And I'm glad you're here."
At Romana's feet, K-9's ear-dishes whirl for a moment, then settle. Even he sounds tired when he reports, "Enemy approaching."
"Yes, they rather would be now, wouldn't they." With a surge of energy, she gets to her feet and holds out a hand to the Doctor. "I'm afraid our only option is the old one."
"Option?" He asks, taking her hand, his skin at once too-warm, familiar, and distant.
Romana bends to catch up a handful of the skirt this century had required. Now that K-9 is silent again, she can hear the grinding of stone upon stone. Her pursuers are nothing if not dedicated. "Run," she says as the Ogri crash through the door she'd closed minutes before.
"Oh dear."
"Yes," she replies with a slight tilt of her head. Then they're off, hand in hand, as she leads him deeper into the tangle of the labyrinth. Dimly, she hopes that K-9's map is accurate, and that the bottomless gorge she's leading them to will suffice.
-----------------------------
TW/DW, Martha/Tosh, AU
"Did you remember the milk?" Martha called out as she wandered into the kitchen. The flat she and Tosh were sharing was tiny, but suited their current needs. Her lover was busily emptying the shopping onto the counter, looking rather attractive in her sensible skirt and boots.
Tosh paused and rolled her eyes, a smile playing over her lips. "Of course I remembered. Unlike some people, I make lists."
Chuckling, Martha shook her head and moved to wrap her arms around Tosh, settling her chin on the other woman's shoulder. "Never gonna let me live that down, are you."
"Probably not. Any news while I was out?"
The question hung in the air for a moment, deadly serious, and Martha wanted to avoid it, but she knew better. "UNIT archives still have no listing for either Gwen Cooper or Ianto Jones."
"Well, they wouldn't, would they." Completely still, Tosh breathed in deeply, then released it in a rush. "Alternate universe theory was never my strong suit, you know. That was more Jack's field. He understood the consequences of changing the past better than anyone."
Martha tightened her hold on Tosh, and was silent for a moment. It was a horrible, selfish feeling, but she was honest enough not to back away from it. Given the choices, she would not return Toshiko to a timeline where she died brutally. Not even for Gwen and Ianto. "I haven't heard anything from him, either."
"That's not really a surprise." Suddenly brusque, Tosh pulled away from her and began shoving things into the fridge.
Not wanting to get into a fight, Martha silently put the dry goods into the cupboard, then went on to the clean and dry dishes she'd done earlier that day.
It wasn't often that they really discussed things properly. Martha blamed herself, her lack of courage to face the idea that Tosh might leave if she truly understood everything. Getting round to even talking about it was difficult enough. Actually admitting to Tosh that she actually knew how to change things back, well, that wasn't going to happen anytime soon.
The fridge slammed closed and Martha looked over to see Tosh gripping the edge of the counter, her head bent. "It's just--I remember dying. It was horrible. And all the time, all I could think was, 'I'm not ready'."
"We never are," Martha offered, trying for comfort as she moved closer. But something about Tosh's stance told her not to touch.
"Death is supposed to be a release from pain. But I wake up, sometimes, and my gut is clenched and there's a bullet tearing through me--over and over again. Except that it never happened, did it."
"No."
Tosh dropped her hands from the counter and straightened, and her smile was entirely pasted on as she turned to look at Martha. "That's that, then. So what's for supper?"
Biting her lip, Martha half-reached for Tosh, and then she dropped her hand and looked away, unable to meet the false brightness in the other woman's eyes. "I was thinking fish of some sort, or take-out."
"Let's go with curry. I've always liked curry."
And things slid back into some sort of normality.
------------------------
BSG, Kara/Kendra
Kara doesn't like to think about Kendra--not at first. She tells herself that it hurts too much because she should have been the one who was so reckless. It should have been her, going out in a blaze of glory. But Kendra hadn't listened--the by-the-book-officer had turned into someone as rebellious and headstrong as Kara. She done what Kara hadn't wanted to do.
Now she was dead.
The bleakness of that fact didn't keep Kara awake, but it did haunt her. There were moments, when she was working with Boomer to figure out the navigational systems of the heavy raider and how to apply it to the Colonial systems, when she would suddenly think about Kendra being there instead.
Her sarcasm and sharp words, the way she hadn't backed down an inch. Kara had admired that.
Sometimes, she would admit to herself that it wasn't the only thing she'd admired. More than once, while they'd been arguing, she'd found her gaze distracted by the flushed cheeks, sparkling eyes and parted lips. If she'd stopped an argument by kissing Kendra--by shoving her up against a locker as she'd wanted to more than once, would there have been a different outcome?
Would it be Kendra occasionally thinking about Kara going out in her blaze of glory?
Not a comfortable thought, so Kara doesn't think it at all, if she can help it.
---------------------
Elementary, Joan, also, St. Trinian's references
"I taught there once."
Since he wasn't in the habit of sharing confidences, Joan half-suspected Sherlock of some sort of lying. Still, she looked up from her paper, and asked, as she was meant to, "Taught where?"
"The infamous St. Trinian's." He gave it rather a mocking twist, but still managed to imbue his words with carelessness.
Joan gave him a non-committal sound in reply, and turned the page.
"Actually, it was rather a trial."
Bingo.
"They tried to drown me, then burn me at the stake. It was a most enlightening two hours."
"I'm sure it was." Joan folded the paper and set it down, giving him a serene look. "And what brought this memory on?"
"Oh, nothing." But he was toying with what looked suspiciously like an envelope. And the look he gave her was half-accusatory, "However, Watson, I do take it amiss that you never mentioned the entirety of your background."
She accepted the slightly-mangled envelope from him, noting the postmark, and shrugged. "It wasn't relevant."
"Relevant!? You're receiving mail from the finest institution to turn out young female delinquents and criminals, and you don't consider that relevant?"
"Not at all." The letter was probably some sort of alumni invitation, and the look in Sherlock's eyes said that he wouldn't rest until he'd learned all. With another half-shrug, she told him, "I only spent one semester there on an exchange program."
If she'd tried to bomb the post office, he would have looked less scandalized. Still, he recovered quickly. "Well. I see, then."
"Anyway, I don't keep in touch with anyone there, this is probably just a request for funds." They came infrequently--more often, when she'd been a working surgeon. She tucked the envelope in her pocket. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I should go call my mother."
"Yes, of course. Wouldn't want her to call me as she did last time you neglected her."
Joan kept her face from showing her amusement at his petulance, and went up to her room. Where she proceeded to open the envelope, and then make several phone calls. None of which were to her mother.