For Knitress -- Birthday Fic spam
Because she is awesome and the two of us go waaaay back, I offer something unconvetional in lieu of the typical Talbott's sweater in honor of the birth of knitress . Tomorrow is An Important Milestone in her life and that of the fandom universe as I know it. I would not be the fandom fen that I am today without her corrupting influence. "I love a man with a whip," she announced in 1981 during a summer when we were all together on campus oogling over Indiana Jones. (We also watched Lady's Di and Prince Charles' wedding). Yes, she skipped out to go see ESB in theaters that Spring (I was still in exams). During our endless mealtime discussions at the Plex, she knew, as I did, that Boba Fett was not the "other hope." We played D&D together. We both nearly had collective heart attacks during a true SQUEE moment when sitting with two less enthusiastic gentlemen in a theater in Illinois the first time we saw the trailer for ROTJ and realized 1)Leia was in chains; 2) they were back on Tatooine; 3) Lando didn't look so bad; 4)Luke was all in black and this did not signify anything good. My 12 inch action figures would not be the dapper plastic they are today without her knitting creations, which also are enshrined in Steve Sansweet's fandom collections.
I encourage you all to add your own ficlets and picspam, either here or in your own journals. I'll be adding more in comments over the next day or two. Some birthday ficlets, featuring some favorites of Knitress.
With a nod to intrikate88 who first proposed the brilliant pairing below. in the first piece.
Indy ran as if the Hounds of Hell were on his tail. (Not that there really were Hell Hounds - it was all just a lot of cross breeding of mastiffs and Great Danes decorated with phosphorous). He could hear the boulder thundering behind him - one misstep and he would be as squashed as Satipo had been skewered.
He saw the light of afternoon Peruvian sun. The tunnel’s end! He raced toward it. With a final desperate heave, he threw himself out the cave in cloud of dust and cobwebs. It hurt to land on the Hovito Golden Idol wedged between shirt and jacket, but the pain of the bruised ribs assured him the statue had made it through the mad, murderous dash.
Indy groaned and looked up, blinded by the sun. He shaded a hand over his eyes, squinting. A figure loomed over him, smiling and triumphant. Oh damn. I’d recognize those boots anywhere.
She was ringed by thirty locals, Hovitos, all unfriendly, all with spears aimed right at his head, heart and other places he held vital.
"You chose the wrong friends, Indy. This time, it will cost you."
"Dr. River Song," he gritted out through a mouthful of loose teeth and dirt. "Too bad the Hovitos don't know you the way I do."
River leaned down, affording him a good look at her magnificent cleavage. She yanked open his jacket and removed the idol, hefting it into her hands. "Yes, it is too bad, sweetie. You might warn them, if only you spoke Hovitos."
"That piece belongs in a Museum!"
"Why yes, it does, Dr. Jones. It simply will not be in your Museum."
She bent in closer. “And when I turn around and show the Hovitos their Golden god, you know what they will do, don’t you, sweetheart?”
“Prostrate themselves?”
She nodded. “And then, what will you do?”
“Run?” he mouthed.
Her smile and heart were as brilliant as diamonds - and as hard. River patted his cheek. “Good boy. Better luck next time, Dr. Jones. Look for me…”
River paused, oddly, as if searching her memory for something that actually had happened already. “In Murakush. Yes, Murakush.”
She stood and spun around, holding the Golden god aloft. “Curva antesh den mim!”
Indy ran.
o0o0
Quirinus Quirrell was dead, Tom Riddle was most definitely not dead, Harry Potter was in the infirmary, a lavatory was missing a toilet seat, and Albus Dumbledore could not rid himself of the vile aftertaste of a Bertie Bott’s earwax flavoured bean.
Placing the Philosopher’s Stone in the Mirror of Erised had been a brilliant stroke, of course, if he did say so himself. But now, he had to rid himself of the infernal thing. He did not and should not look upon its unattainable promise any more than his students should do so. He supposed he could send the Mirror to Gringott’s but the Goblin Bank had not been protective of the Philosopher’s Stone. The Mirror could be a similar danger and he’d not be able to use it a second time.
No, it was best if it were sent away. Far, far away.
“Well, Fawkes?” he asked the Phoenix as he tossed a robe over the mockingly empty and smiling faces of his loved ones reflected in the Mirror. “Who has the wit, resources and will to handle this bewitching object?”
The bird warbled his answer. Albus shuddered at the prospect but could see the wisdom. He opened his desk drawer and picked up the horrid thing. She called it “a mobile.” He pushed a button. And then another. And then another. Vexing thing. Electronics were not supposed to work in Hogwarts.
Finally it buzzed and hummed.
“Albus!” Dr. River Song cried. He assumed it was she. In the tiny screen of the mobile he could see a head wrapped in a turban. Her face was covered in a white mask that looked like paste and she had cucumbers over her eyes. Given Quirrell’s unfortunate demise, he could have done without the image of the turban.
“Dr. Song, charming as always.” They had met in Berlin during the War. The First World War. She had gotten him drunk on some vile licorice tasting drink and then stolen his wand. He had had to turn her into a newt with a borrowed one before she would give it back.
“I have an object of no use to me and think it might be of interest to you.”
Not ten minutes later, she had teleported into his office, never mind that there was no apparating into Hogwarts. Like electronics, with Dr. River Song, the Hogwarts’ wards were merely a challenge to be overcome with some combination of alien technology and explosive devices.
“Cucumber?” River Song asked.
“No thank you.”
“Hullo Fawkes!” she waved at the Phoenix and flipped him the cucumbers that had lately been adorning her eyes.
Fawkes snatched the vegetables (or were they fruits?) and chirped a greeting. There was an affinity between the two of them and possibly some sort of shared history as it seemed that both River Song and Fawkes were, more or less, ageless.
“Mirror of Erised?” she commented to the bird then turned to face him. “Tsk, tsk, Albus, I do not recommend such a toy around you!”
“Indeed not,” he agreed. “I assume you know a place to take it?”
“Of course!” River stalked across his office and yanked the obscuring cloak from the Mirror. Albus quickly averted his gaze.
River gasped as she beheld her heart’s desire.
“Oh, Albus! Thank you so much!” She gazed adoringly at the image, walked up to the mirror, mesmerized and gently touched its surface. She cooed.
“May I ask what you see, River? I know it is a personal question.”
“I am sorry you cannot see it, Albus,” she said, gazing upon the Mirror’s promise. “But they are the most adorable pair of Christian Louboutin patent leather platform pumps.” River Song sighed lustily. “In a lovely rich red.”
With another sigh, she tossed the cloak back over the Mirror. She pushed some buttons on the very large wrist watch and the Mirror shrank to the size of a wallet. River Song tucked it carefully into her jacket.
“Oh, and Albus?”
“Yes, my dear?”
“Be careful what you put your fingers into?” She kissed him on the cheek. “Ta ta!”