multifandom ficlets
For my 1K today (1282 actually), here's some drabble-ish fanfics that I, as usual, can't explain.
Title: See I've Been Brave In Crazy Weather
Fandoms: Battlestar Galactica, Once Upon a Time, The Avengers, SyFy's Alice, BBC's Sherlock
Pairings: Kara/Leoben, Emma/Jefferson, Natasha/Loki (say whaaaaaat), Alice/Hatter, Molly/Jim
Rating: Pg-13 ish
Summary: We've decided to let you live: interpretations.
A pale face, lined and weather-beaten, blue eyes like death, hovers into her blurred vision, resolves itself into something a little too familiar.
“We've decided to let you live,” says Leoben, kindly, and both his hands are open, as though this is a gift she has not earned. Something beyond recognition. Something beyond her.
Kara turns her face away, licks her dry and bloody lips, misshapen from the swelling.
“Is that a good thing?” she says.
Leoben's eyes are steady on her face. She can feel them, though she can't see them now.
“Yes,” he says. He believes it. What doesn't he believe?
“I'm supposed to thank you?” she says.
“This time,” he tells her, and he puts one palm on her forehead, like a blessing. “Last time, you said you loved me. Next time, maybe you'll put my eye out. This time, be grateful.”
She closes her eyes, breathes in. Her lips tremble, and press together, a firm solid soundless line. Leoben's fingers tighten briefly on her forehead, then release, though the slight dry pressure of his palm remains. His fingers move a bit, upwards, into her hair.
“I can hear you, you know,” he says, quietly. “Praying. Maybe not to the same person, but on the same frequency.”
And she says nothing, and the nothing echoes, echoes around her empty mind; and flips through channels, to find static, only static, till it's an answer in a language she can understand.
Emma hangs her hands over the bars of the cell, wrists flat against the cold metal. She makes a face at him, the by-now-classic Emma Swan grumpy face. He just can't get enough of it, which is, probably, why he keeps doing things to piss her off.
“I've decided to let you live,” she says.
“Oh good,” says Jefferson. “I was wondering.”
She narrows her eyes at him. “You had to know that knocking me out, abducting Mary Margaret, and trying to beat both of us up would catch up with you eventually, right?”
He shrugs, just a little. “Well,” he says, “I've been told that sanity isn't my strong suit.”
Emma snorts, which he likes almost as much as the grumpy face. He jump-starts a smile, though it takes a few tries to get it going, and holds up his handcuffed wrists.
“So. Gonna let me out, then?”
Emma smirks. He's undecided about how he feels about the smirk.
“I said I'd let you live,” she says. “I didn't say anything about where.”
“You've decided to let me live.”
Natasha purses her lips. “It wasn't up to me.”
Loki's at the bars, such as they are. How he ended up in restraints that look like plain old handcuffs, in a room that looks like a common jail cell, is unknown, though Natasha thinks it must have something to do with someone on the design team liking the retro look. Anyway, he's too close. She takes a step back, her expression guarded.
“Ah, but if it had been,” says the prisoner, and she finds herself wishing, not for the last time, that they had left the Lecter-mask on his mouth. Why hadn't they? And that they could have convinced him to wash his hair. Why hadn't they? And that she hadn't come here in the first place, really. Why has she? “What then?”
She shrugs.
“Diplomatic,” murmurs Loki. “Strong silent type. The brains in the outfit. The brains in an outfit.”
She walks towards him, arms folded.
“Is that why you asked me to come here? So you could try to get to me again? Because that worked so well the first time.”
The ferocious gleam of his wide, wide grin lessens a little, becomes subdued into a quiet smile.
“I admit,” he said, “on occasion, I do seek out the company of a female. Just for a little intelligent conversation, you know. And you are really the only one around, at the moment.”
Natasha looks at the floor for a moment, then back up at him with a curt nod.
“Well, I'm not a horse,” she says, “but I guess I'll do.”
“They've decided to let her live?”
Hatter sinks down on the couch beside her, one arm stretching automatically around her shoulders. He gives an exaggerated yawn; he always claims to be exhausted when he returns from Wonderland, but she knows this is patently ridiculous. She's made the trip herself, once or twice; the looking glass isn't that strenuous. Running for your life after you get to Wonderland, yeah, sure, but the actual journey, not so much. And there's got to be considerably less running for one's life, these days, with Jack on the throne, instead of his corrupt and patently ridiculous mother.
One of the biggest changes to her life since that odd little adventure through the looking glass, she reflects, is her tendency to use the phrase “patently ridiculous” several times a day. It must be that the world has changed her.
Another of the biggest changes is scooching a little closer to her, now, and preparing to bury his face in between her neck and shoulder.
“Don't change the subject,” Alice grumbles lightly, shifting as Hatter rests his mouth on her collarbone. “I thought you were going to tell me about the trial.”
“Hung jury,” says Hatter promptly. “So they tried her again. 'Nother hung jury. So they tried her again. You'll never guess what happened next.”
“Hung jury?”
“Yep.” He beams at her, a wide all-encompassing grin. “So they tried her again.”
“Not another hung jury,” she says, lacing her fingers through his. “Because this is getting ridiculous.”
“Nope,” says Hatter. “They ran out of rope.”
Alice says, “Tchuh!” and shoves him, but that only makes him laugh and hold onto her all the tighter.
“Joking,” he murmurs in her hair. Then, “They're letting her live, Alice. She'll never hold power again. She has to live with her mistakes. Don't begrudge her what little she's got left.”
She settles into him, so warm and familiar and comforting; the best thing that's ever happened to her, bar none. Even with all the trips through the looking glass. Even with all the running for their lives.
“Well,” she says, “alright, I guess.”
The way his arms tighten around her is recompense enough for her forgiveness.
Molly has never believed in ghosts. She always leaves the light on for when she gets home, but that's practicality for a woman living alone in modern London. A modern woman in a modern city. A modern city that doesn't care about the modern women who inhabit it. She could think herself in circles, if she let herself think.
She doesn't think.
She comes home, she turns on all the light switches, she makes herself tea, she steps out of her shoes. She pulls the ponytail out of her hair, and slips the elastic over her wrist. She does the things she always does. She hums a little, mindlessly.
She thinks of bodies, cooling, eyes open, waiting. Life. What she knows of it, she covets and hoards; what she doesn't know, not yet, she dissects with a scalpel. It's all tricks. That's all there is to it. Tricks, and fools with wool over their eyes.
She moves to the bedroom. Reaches for the light switch.
There's a magician on her coverlet, a trickster god on her bed amongst the stuffed animals. Lounging. Legs crossed in his neat suit. Small, handsome. A slight trickle of blood smeared on his chin, just below the left corner of his mouth.
“I've decided to live,” says Jim, and he spreads his arms wide, Ta-da! and smiles, and smiles.
Title: See I've Been Brave In Crazy Weather
Fandoms: Battlestar Galactica, Once Upon a Time, The Avengers, SyFy's Alice, BBC's Sherlock
Pairings: Kara/Leoben, Emma/Jefferson, Natasha/Loki (say whaaaaaat), Alice/Hatter, Molly/Jim
Rating: Pg-13 ish
Summary: We've decided to let you live: interpretations.
A pale face, lined and weather-beaten, blue eyes like death, hovers into her blurred vision, resolves itself into something a little too familiar.
“We've decided to let you live,” says Leoben, kindly, and both his hands are open, as though this is a gift she has not earned. Something beyond recognition. Something beyond her.
Kara turns her face away, licks her dry and bloody lips, misshapen from the swelling.
“Is that a good thing?” she says.
Leoben's eyes are steady on her face. She can feel them, though she can't see them now.
“Yes,” he says. He believes it. What doesn't he believe?
“I'm supposed to thank you?” she says.
“This time,” he tells her, and he puts one palm on her forehead, like a blessing. “Last time, you said you loved me. Next time, maybe you'll put my eye out. This time, be grateful.”
She closes her eyes, breathes in. Her lips tremble, and press together, a firm solid soundless line. Leoben's fingers tighten briefly on her forehead, then release, though the slight dry pressure of his palm remains. His fingers move a bit, upwards, into her hair.
“I can hear you, you know,” he says, quietly. “Praying. Maybe not to the same person, but on the same frequency.”
And she says nothing, and the nothing echoes, echoes around her empty mind; and flips through channels, to find static, only static, till it's an answer in a language she can understand.
Emma hangs her hands over the bars of the cell, wrists flat against the cold metal. She makes a face at him, the by-now-classic Emma Swan grumpy face. He just can't get enough of it, which is, probably, why he keeps doing things to piss her off.
“I've decided to let you live,” she says.
“Oh good,” says Jefferson. “I was wondering.”
She narrows her eyes at him. “You had to know that knocking me out, abducting Mary Margaret, and trying to beat both of us up would catch up with you eventually, right?”
He shrugs, just a little. “Well,” he says, “I've been told that sanity isn't my strong suit.”
Emma snorts, which he likes almost as much as the grumpy face. He jump-starts a smile, though it takes a few tries to get it going, and holds up his handcuffed wrists.
“So. Gonna let me out, then?”
Emma smirks. He's undecided about how he feels about the smirk.
“I said I'd let you live,” she says. “I didn't say anything about where.”
“You've decided to let me live.”
Natasha purses her lips. “It wasn't up to me.”
Loki's at the bars, such as they are. How he ended up in restraints that look like plain old handcuffs, in a room that looks like a common jail cell, is unknown, though Natasha thinks it must have something to do with someone on the design team liking the retro look. Anyway, he's too close. She takes a step back, her expression guarded.
“Ah, but if it had been,” says the prisoner, and she finds herself wishing, not for the last time, that they had left the Lecter-mask on his mouth. Why hadn't they? And that they could have convinced him to wash his hair. Why hadn't they? And that she hadn't come here in the first place, really. Why has she? “What then?”
She shrugs.
“Diplomatic,” murmurs Loki. “Strong silent type. The brains in the outfit. The brains in an outfit.”
She walks towards him, arms folded.
“Is that why you asked me to come here? So you could try to get to me again? Because that worked so well the first time.”
The ferocious gleam of his wide, wide grin lessens a little, becomes subdued into a quiet smile.
“I admit,” he said, “on occasion, I do seek out the company of a female. Just for a little intelligent conversation, you know. And you are really the only one around, at the moment.”
Natasha looks at the floor for a moment, then back up at him with a curt nod.
“Well, I'm not a horse,” she says, “but I guess I'll do.”
“They've decided to let her live?”
Hatter sinks down on the couch beside her, one arm stretching automatically around her shoulders. He gives an exaggerated yawn; he always claims to be exhausted when he returns from Wonderland, but she knows this is patently ridiculous. She's made the trip herself, once or twice; the looking glass isn't that strenuous. Running for your life after you get to Wonderland, yeah, sure, but the actual journey, not so much. And there's got to be considerably less running for one's life, these days, with Jack on the throne, instead of his corrupt and patently ridiculous mother.
One of the biggest changes to her life since that odd little adventure through the looking glass, she reflects, is her tendency to use the phrase “patently ridiculous” several times a day. It must be that the world has changed her.
Another of the biggest changes is scooching a little closer to her, now, and preparing to bury his face in between her neck and shoulder.
“Don't change the subject,” Alice grumbles lightly, shifting as Hatter rests his mouth on her collarbone. “I thought you were going to tell me about the trial.”
“Hung jury,” says Hatter promptly. “So they tried her again. 'Nother hung jury. So they tried her again. You'll never guess what happened next.”
“Hung jury?”
“Yep.” He beams at her, a wide all-encompassing grin. “So they tried her again.”
“Not another hung jury,” she says, lacing her fingers through his. “Because this is getting ridiculous.”
“Nope,” says Hatter. “They ran out of rope.”
Alice says, “Tchuh!” and shoves him, but that only makes him laugh and hold onto her all the tighter.
“Joking,” he murmurs in her hair. Then, “They're letting her live, Alice. She'll never hold power again. She has to live with her mistakes. Don't begrudge her what little she's got left.”
She settles into him, so warm and familiar and comforting; the best thing that's ever happened to her, bar none. Even with all the trips through the looking glass. Even with all the running for their lives.
“Well,” she says, “alright, I guess.”
The way his arms tighten around her is recompense enough for her forgiveness.
Molly has never believed in ghosts. She always leaves the light on for when she gets home, but that's practicality for a woman living alone in modern London. A modern woman in a modern city. A modern city that doesn't care about the modern women who inhabit it. She could think herself in circles, if she let herself think.
She doesn't think.
She comes home, she turns on all the light switches, she makes herself tea, she steps out of her shoes. She pulls the ponytail out of her hair, and slips the elastic over her wrist. She does the things she always does. She hums a little, mindlessly.
She thinks of bodies, cooling, eyes open, waiting. Life. What she knows of it, she covets and hoards; what she doesn't know, not yet, she dissects with a scalpel. It's all tricks. That's all there is to it. Tricks, and fools with wool over their eyes.
She moves to the bedroom. Reaches for the light switch.
There's a magician on her coverlet, a trickster god on her bed amongst the stuffed animals. Lounging. Legs crossed in his neat suit. Small, handsome. A slight trickle of blood smeared on his chin, just below the left corner of his mouth.
“I've decided to live,” says Jim, and he spreads his arms wide, Ta-da! and smiles, and smiles.