Crack Sunday: Short and Sweet (Or Not)
I am officially declaring this day Crack Sunday. Please have four overgrown drabbles for X-Men, X-Files, Grimm and the up and coming fandom of The Dubious Dentists Meet The Thing!
For synecdoche_and
Prompt: X-Men, Charles/Erik; Erik is getting out of prison, and Charles is waiting for him.
Charles is waiting for him just outside the prison gate, a lone figure in an impeccable grey suit. The sun backlights him at the perfect angle to bring out his cheekbones and the line of his jaw, and he casts a dramatic shadow across the tarmac. Erik knows him too well to think this is coincidence; Charles has always been very careful about how he presents himself.
Erik resists the urge to run a hand through his no-doubt dishevelled hair, and instead merely shifts the backpack on his shoulder to a more comfortable position. He isn't surprised to see Charles. He just hadn't expected him to be alone. "Here to give me a ride?"
It isn't meant to be suggestive, but Charles' face changes, every line of his previously neutral expression tightening subtly.
Right, then. They're off to a brilliant start.
Cellblock B blows up right on schedule. Erik courteously expands his magnetic shield, tucking it around Charles, as well. Neither of them moves or speaks until the wave of heat and pressure has abated. When a large piece of debris bounces off the shield just above Charles' head, he doesn't even look up. Too busy trying to bore his gaze straight into Erik's soul, evidently.
It's starting to grate on Erik's nerves a bit, actually. Charles has always been one for pregnant silences and meaningful pauses, but complete silence? Not his usual style. Maybe he's finally decided Erik is a lost cause.
The thought congeals in Erik's gut like ice, chilling him from the inside out. For all intents and purposes, Charles has been his enemy for years. But even so…
He shakes his head once, sharply, to chase away these useless musings. Erik is a realist. He doesn't have time to waste on might-have-beens.
But even so, he slips off his backpack to pull out the files he took from the secret lab in the prison basement. He's already photographed them all, anyway. He has no use for the hardcopy.
"For you." Erik drops them unceremoniously in Charles' lap. "Don't say I never gave you anything. Oh, and by the way, I wouldn't eat anything before I looked at them, if I were you."
"Erik," Charles calls, when Erik has already begun to walk away.
Erik turns to find Charles glaring at him, beetling his brows forebodingly. "I will never approve of your methods."
What else is new. Erik doesn't say anything - there is nothing to say.
"Nothing is to be gained by violence and by spreading fear. You're only exacerbating the problem."
This is nothing new either, and Erik doesn't need to hear this speech again. "Charles." If the name comes out more softly than he intends, what of it? There's nobody here to call him on it. Nobody except Charles, who won't tell, and might not even notice. "Go home to your students. You have your role in this war, and I have mine."
He gets halfway across the yard this time. By the time Charles speaks again, he's already reaching out for the natural magnetic fields all around, weaving them together and taking hold.
"I check up on all of the reports you send me, you know."
No. No, Erik hadn't known. He'd thought Charles might assume he was framing the poor, innocent and well-meaning humans for atrocities they hadn't actually committed.
He takes a second to force down the bitter echo of betrayed anger and disbelief, tuck all the memories back where they belong. He's shaping his people's future now, and has no time to waste by lingering in the past.
But Charles is not solely in his past. He is also here, right now, sitting in his wheelchair in front of a burning prison, incongruously alone. Why is he here, if not to apprehend Erik in the service of humankind, hoping against hope to buy mercy through submission and sacrifice?
So Erik turns again, scowling. Charles is looking down to where his hands rest lightly on the cover of the topmost file. He looks tired, almost brittle… as though he might break under the weight of his own beliefs.
Silence stretches between them. Erik lacks the words to break it. He has spoken all of the ones he might use many times before, and they have never reached Charles.
"Get something proper to eat," Charles says at last, abruptly. He looks up with a rueful smile. "You're too thin. You should take better care of yourself."
The segue catches Erik off guard, rendering him temporarily speechless.
"Not that you don't look…" Charles trails off in a way that would have to be called awkward in anyone with slightly less dignity. "It's good to see you without that, uhm. Costume."
The topics of this conversation are changing so fast they're going to give Erik whiplash in another moment. "I was undercover as a prisoner for two weeks. I thought the cape might be the slightest bit conspicuous."
It's strange beyond measure - completely inexplicable - that speaking these harmless words is what finally gets to him. He's been steady as a rock these last twenty days, with nothing shaking his resolve, nothing breaking through his steely determination. Mystique had implored him not to go on this mission himself, but he'd been the one best suited to survive, and so there had never even been a question in his mind.
"Erik? Are you -"
And he finds, suddenly, that he doesn't want to turn his back on Charles. Can't bear the thought of it. Charles came to wait for him here, alone. Charles hasn't tried to stop him - and he might have succeeded, with Erik's helmet out of the equation. It has to mean that there is still hope.
At least, right now, Erik has to believe that there is.
Erik finds his tongue again, clears his throat. "Shouldn't the friend coming to pick up the ex-convict treat him to dinner, too?"
"Oh," Charles says softly, and blinks at him for a moment before smiling slowly, almost hesitantly. "Well. I suppose that is the proper thing to do, isn't it. I'm sure I can fit it into the budget somehow."
For without_me
Prompt: X-Files, Mulder/Krycek; Krycek runs a coffee house, and Mulder is there day after day with his laptop.
Every day, from the minute Alex unlocks the door to the moment he gets the broom to start cleaning up, Mulder sits in the same chair. Every day, he spends the entire time staring at Alex. There's always an open laptop on the table in front of him, next to endless cups of coffee. He never looks at the screen.
Alex was worried at first. Then, he was annoyed. Then, he was impatient, and after that, he was angry. Now, a month into his new career as the owner of a coffee house, he's settled on amused.
"Have some more coffee, Mulder," he says sweetly as he sets down the latest cup, collecting the previous one carefully. It's untouched, of course. "I'll put it on your tab."
"Still not that stupid," Mulder mutters resentfully.
Alex rolls his eyes. It's not that he hasn't considered spiking Mulder's beverage with something extra. It's just that it'd be a waste of expensive drugs, what with the man's paranoia being what it is.
"Don't you have to go chasing after glittery vampires or something? Blow up some secret government lab?"
"Vacation," Mulder says, and smiles in a slightly deranged way that Alex really shouldn't find anything but disturbing. "Gotta lot of vacation days saved up, Krycek."
"This is what they call police harassment, you know," Alex says. He only just manages not to wince at the near-playfulness in his tone.
"Not the police." Mulder's smile widens, eyes gleaming maniacally.
Alex takes himself off behind the counter before he does something he will not regret, but that might lead to his arrest on charges of sexual harassment of a government agent. He has a business to run - he can't be getting bogged down with that kind of thing right now.
He'll have to wait until his contacts show up with the last batch of data. After that… all bets are off.
For glitterburn
Prompt: The Dubious Dentists meet The Thing.
This one requires a bit of background, so: Meet The Original Dubious Dentist, shudder at The Return of the Dubious Dentists - and, if you dare, steal a look at The Thing. (The Thing's Tale of Origin is also known, but must remain under friendslock to protect the innocent guilty.)
"It has no teeth," Dario hisses, incensed. "How exactly do you expect me to work with It when It has no teeth?"
His Girls share a Look. (His Girls still haven't acknowledged their sidekick status, but it's only a matter of time. Nobody can resist Dario. One heated look from his baby blues, and people fall all over themselves to let him demonstrate his prowess with his awesome Portable Device.)
Dario hates those Looks. They tend to lead to him tied up and covered in disinfectant lotion. Not that that doesn't have a certain kind of charm, but really. He can't x-ray anybody properly when he's tied up.
The golden Thing turns its dead shark-eyes on Dario. For a moment, the frozen smirk on its lips almost moves him to reconsider, but no. No matter how sexy It may be, there are lines Dario will not cross. No teeth? No way.
The blue crest on The Thing's head pulses once, almost lazily, and begins to inflate. It spreads out, wavering searchingly as though scenting the air, and then folds open like a flower, revealing -
Revealing a gaping maw of the darkest purple, lined with row after row of needle-sharp, shark-like fangs.
"Well hello, baby," Dario breathes, entranced. One expert touch and his Device is powering up in his hands, eager to get started. "Why didn't you say so in the first place?"
Behind his back, Celina and Jaqueline smile at each other. Their Guy is so easy when you know how to handle him.
For twelve_pastels
Prompt: Grimm, Hank/Nick.
"Incoming", Hank murmurs, pointedly not looking towards the door. Nick doesn't turn around, but arranges himself more strategically along the bar, nodding along seriously to Hank's suddenly emphatic explanation of just why the Portland Winterhawks suck this season.
Agent Paulson isn't daunted by Hank's quickly thrown-up wall of Serious Conversation Not To Butt In On, however. He just leans in right next to Hank and taps him on the shoulder, grin already in place. "Heya, Hank, Detective Bernard. Fancy meeting you guys here."
"Burkhardt," Hank snaps.
Hank's unfriendliness doesn't seem to daunt Paulson, though. "Of course - Detective Burkhardt, sorry. So, Hank, still a hockey fan? You used to be all about the Seattle Thunderbirds."
Hank shoots the guy a very cool look, restricting his response to kind of a wordless grunt.
What exactly is the deal with Hank and Paulson, anyway? All Nick knows is that they used to know each other in Seattle, but he's clearly missing an important piece of evidence here. It isn't like Hank to be so hostile, at least not without a very good reason.
"Think it's about time we were going," Hank says, as if to prove Nick's point. He even half-turns to give Paulson the side-eye as he slides off his bar-stool. "Gotta long day tomorrow catching those smugglers."
The moment when Nick tosses back the rest of his drink and moves to follow - that's the moment when he finally gets it.
He's grown better at reading people, with the Grimm thing. He's always been good, but these days there's almost something uncanny about how the smallest shifts of people's expression, the subtlest hints of body-language come together for him, shaping brilliant, inescapable technicolor facts.
Paulson's gaze sweeps over Hank and catches on his hand, which is casually settling on Nick's arm. Flicks up to Nick's face… and Nick knows that look from well before the Grimm thing.
"I see," Paulson says then, something new - and definitely derogatory - in his tone, the mockingly amused twist of his mouth.
And just like that, all of Hank's hackles are beyond up, way into the red zone, and he's rounding on Paulson. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"Hank," Nick says, quietly.
Hank blows out an angry stream of air, glares at Paulson one more time, and storms out.
Nick stays a moment longer, watching Paulson take a long, unhurried drink of beer. He waits until Paulson looks back at him; then, he smiles, slowly, and watches as Paulson's body language shifts again, from derisive dismissal to wary caution.
"I think your partner will make a great liaison with the police department," Nick says.
Maybe he should be worried at how easily quiet threat comes to him these days - but then again, it's simply one more tool in his arsenal. This is Nick's town. It's not just the supernatural creatures that need to be kept in line.
Paulson understands him very well. Nick is certain that they will not be seeing much more of him around the station.
"Fucking asshole," Hank grumbles when Nick catches up with him. "Unbelievable."
"So," Nick says. "The two of you used to be close…?"
Hank grunts something non-verbal and gives Nick a look. Nick just stares at him until he rolls his eyes and shrugs, the momentary hint of wariness bleeding out of his stance. "Yeah, what can I say. I used to have crap taste in guys."
"But - you've never mentioned him. I mean, why'd you never tell me?"
"Nick." Hank gives him a long, even stare. "You're kidding me, right? You are talking to me about the things I never told you?"
"Alright, alright." Nick flushes a little. "Just, you could have told me, you know? That's all I meant."
"I know." Hank's grip on his shoulder is reassuring, strong and friendly. "It wasn't that I thought you'd be weird about it."
"Then what…?"
Oh. Oh.
Nick finally gets it when Hank looks down and to the side for a moment, too casual, too cool.
"You really should tell me things," Nick hears himself saying. Hank gives him another really? you're seriously saying that to me? look, but Nick ignores it.
"Yeah, I know, I should tell you things, too, huh," he says. "So anyway, want to have dinner on Saturday?"
Hank shrugs and is about to agree when Nick realizes he's going to have to be less subtle here.
"You know, dinner and a movie. With or without the movie. Up to you. There's this restaurant I know… I think you'll like it." Ouch. He likes to think he's usually smoother than this, when the person he's asking out isn't his best friend, too, but… yeah. Maybe not.
Hank never lets him hear the end of how very not smooth he was, of course, but that's okay. Nick likes that Hank doesn't stop being his best friend, even after they turn into something else, too.
For synecdoche_and
Prompt: X-Men, Charles/Erik; Erik is getting out of prison, and Charles is waiting for him.
Charles is waiting for him just outside the prison gate, a lone figure in an impeccable grey suit. The sun backlights him at the perfect angle to bring out his cheekbones and the line of his jaw, and he casts a dramatic shadow across the tarmac. Erik knows him too well to think this is coincidence; Charles has always been very careful about how he presents himself.
Erik resists the urge to run a hand through his no-doubt dishevelled hair, and instead merely shifts the backpack on his shoulder to a more comfortable position. He isn't surprised to see Charles. He just hadn't expected him to be alone. "Here to give me a ride?"
It isn't meant to be suggestive, but Charles' face changes, every line of his previously neutral expression tightening subtly.
Right, then. They're off to a brilliant start.
Cellblock B blows up right on schedule. Erik courteously expands his magnetic shield, tucking it around Charles, as well. Neither of them moves or speaks until the wave of heat and pressure has abated. When a large piece of debris bounces off the shield just above Charles' head, he doesn't even look up. Too busy trying to bore his gaze straight into Erik's soul, evidently.
It's starting to grate on Erik's nerves a bit, actually. Charles has always been one for pregnant silences and meaningful pauses, but complete silence? Not his usual style. Maybe he's finally decided Erik is a lost cause.
The thought congeals in Erik's gut like ice, chilling him from the inside out. For all intents and purposes, Charles has been his enemy for years. But even so…
He shakes his head once, sharply, to chase away these useless musings. Erik is a realist. He doesn't have time to waste on might-have-beens.
But even so, he slips off his backpack to pull out the files he took from the secret lab in the prison basement. He's already photographed them all, anyway. He has no use for the hardcopy.
"For you." Erik drops them unceremoniously in Charles' lap. "Don't say I never gave you anything. Oh, and by the way, I wouldn't eat anything before I looked at them, if I were you."
"Erik," Charles calls, when Erik has already begun to walk away.
Erik turns to find Charles glaring at him, beetling his brows forebodingly. "I will never approve of your methods."
What else is new. Erik doesn't say anything - there is nothing to say.
"Nothing is to be gained by violence and by spreading fear. You're only exacerbating the problem."
This is nothing new either, and Erik doesn't need to hear this speech again. "Charles." If the name comes out more softly than he intends, what of it? There's nobody here to call him on it. Nobody except Charles, who won't tell, and might not even notice. "Go home to your students. You have your role in this war, and I have mine."
He gets halfway across the yard this time. By the time Charles speaks again, he's already reaching out for the natural magnetic fields all around, weaving them together and taking hold.
"I check up on all of the reports you send me, you know."
No. No, Erik hadn't known. He'd thought Charles might assume he was framing the poor, innocent and well-meaning humans for atrocities they hadn't actually committed.
He takes a second to force down the bitter echo of betrayed anger and disbelief, tuck all the memories back where they belong. He's shaping his people's future now, and has no time to waste by lingering in the past.
But Charles is not solely in his past. He is also here, right now, sitting in his wheelchair in front of a burning prison, incongruously alone. Why is he here, if not to apprehend Erik in the service of humankind, hoping against hope to buy mercy through submission and sacrifice?
So Erik turns again, scowling. Charles is looking down to where his hands rest lightly on the cover of the topmost file. He looks tired, almost brittle… as though he might break under the weight of his own beliefs.
Silence stretches between them. Erik lacks the words to break it. He has spoken all of the ones he might use many times before, and they have never reached Charles.
"Get something proper to eat," Charles says at last, abruptly. He looks up with a rueful smile. "You're too thin. You should take better care of yourself."
The segue catches Erik off guard, rendering him temporarily speechless.
"Not that you don't look…" Charles trails off in a way that would have to be called awkward in anyone with slightly less dignity. "It's good to see you without that, uhm. Costume."
The topics of this conversation are changing so fast they're going to give Erik whiplash in another moment. "I was undercover as a prisoner for two weeks. I thought the cape might be the slightest bit conspicuous."
It's strange beyond measure - completely inexplicable - that speaking these harmless words is what finally gets to him. He's been steady as a rock these last twenty days, with nothing shaking his resolve, nothing breaking through his steely determination. Mystique had implored him not to go on this mission himself, but he'd been the one best suited to survive, and so there had never even been a question in his mind.
"Erik? Are you -"
And he finds, suddenly, that he doesn't want to turn his back on Charles. Can't bear the thought of it. Charles came to wait for him here, alone. Charles hasn't tried to stop him - and he might have succeeded, with Erik's helmet out of the equation. It has to mean that there is still hope.
At least, right now, Erik has to believe that there is.
Erik finds his tongue again, clears his throat. "Shouldn't the friend coming to pick up the ex-convict treat him to dinner, too?"
"Oh," Charles says softly, and blinks at him for a moment before smiling slowly, almost hesitantly. "Well. I suppose that is the proper thing to do, isn't it. I'm sure I can fit it into the budget somehow."
For without_me
Prompt: X-Files, Mulder/Krycek; Krycek runs a coffee house, and Mulder is there day after day with his laptop.
Every day, from the minute Alex unlocks the door to the moment he gets the broom to start cleaning up, Mulder sits in the same chair. Every day, he spends the entire time staring at Alex. There's always an open laptop on the table in front of him, next to endless cups of coffee. He never looks at the screen.
Alex was worried at first. Then, he was annoyed. Then, he was impatient, and after that, he was angry. Now, a month into his new career as the owner of a coffee house, he's settled on amused.
"Have some more coffee, Mulder," he says sweetly as he sets down the latest cup, collecting the previous one carefully. It's untouched, of course. "I'll put it on your tab."
"Still not that stupid," Mulder mutters resentfully.
Alex rolls his eyes. It's not that he hasn't considered spiking Mulder's beverage with something extra. It's just that it'd be a waste of expensive drugs, what with the man's paranoia being what it is.
"Don't you have to go chasing after glittery vampires or something? Blow up some secret government lab?"
"Vacation," Mulder says, and smiles in a slightly deranged way that Alex really shouldn't find anything but disturbing. "Gotta lot of vacation days saved up, Krycek."
"This is what they call police harassment, you know," Alex says. He only just manages not to wince at the near-playfulness in his tone.
"Not the police." Mulder's smile widens, eyes gleaming maniacally.
Alex takes himself off behind the counter before he does something he will not regret, but that might lead to his arrest on charges of sexual harassment of a government agent. He has a business to run - he can't be getting bogged down with that kind of thing right now.
He'll have to wait until his contacts show up with the last batch of data. After that… all bets are off.
For glitterburn
Prompt: The Dubious Dentists meet The Thing.
This one requires a bit of background, so: Meet The Original Dubious Dentist, shudder at The Return of the Dubious Dentists - and, if you dare, steal a look at The Thing. (The Thing's Tale of Origin is also known, but must remain under friendslock to protect the innocent guilty.)
"It has no teeth," Dario hisses, incensed. "How exactly do you expect me to work with It when It has no teeth?"
His Girls share a Look. (His Girls still haven't acknowledged their sidekick status, but it's only a matter of time. Nobody can resist Dario. One heated look from his baby blues, and people fall all over themselves to let him demonstrate his prowess with his awesome Portable Device.)
Dario hates those Looks. They tend to lead to him tied up and covered in disinfectant lotion. Not that that doesn't have a certain kind of charm, but really. He can't x-ray anybody properly when he's tied up.
The golden Thing turns its dead shark-eyes on Dario. For a moment, the frozen smirk on its lips almost moves him to reconsider, but no. No matter how sexy It may be, there are lines Dario will not cross. No teeth? No way.
The blue crest on The Thing's head pulses once, almost lazily, and begins to inflate. It spreads out, wavering searchingly as though scenting the air, and then folds open like a flower, revealing -
Revealing a gaping maw of the darkest purple, lined with row after row of needle-sharp, shark-like fangs.
"Well hello, baby," Dario breathes, entranced. One expert touch and his Device is powering up in his hands, eager to get started. "Why didn't you say so in the first place?"
Behind his back, Celina and Jaqueline smile at each other. Their Guy is so easy when you know how to handle him.
For twelve_pastels
Prompt: Grimm, Hank/Nick.
"Incoming", Hank murmurs, pointedly not looking towards the door. Nick doesn't turn around, but arranges himself more strategically along the bar, nodding along seriously to Hank's suddenly emphatic explanation of just why the Portland Winterhawks suck this season.
Agent Paulson isn't daunted by Hank's quickly thrown-up wall of Serious Conversation Not To Butt In On, however. He just leans in right next to Hank and taps him on the shoulder, grin already in place. "Heya, Hank, Detective Bernard. Fancy meeting you guys here."
"Burkhardt," Hank snaps.
Hank's unfriendliness doesn't seem to daunt Paulson, though. "Of course - Detective Burkhardt, sorry. So, Hank, still a hockey fan? You used to be all about the Seattle Thunderbirds."
Hank shoots the guy a very cool look, restricting his response to kind of a wordless grunt.
What exactly is the deal with Hank and Paulson, anyway? All Nick knows is that they used to know each other in Seattle, but he's clearly missing an important piece of evidence here. It isn't like Hank to be so hostile, at least not without a very good reason.
"Think it's about time we were going," Hank says, as if to prove Nick's point. He even half-turns to give Paulson the side-eye as he slides off his bar-stool. "Gotta long day tomorrow catching those smugglers."
The moment when Nick tosses back the rest of his drink and moves to follow - that's the moment when he finally gets it.
He's grown better at reading people, with the Grimm thing. He's always been good, but these days there's almost something uncanny about how the smallest shifts of people's expression, the subtlest hints of body-language come together for him, shaping brilliant, inescapable technicolor facts.
Paulson's gaze sweeps over Hank and catches on his hand, which is casually settling on Nick's arm. Flicks up to Nick's face… and Nick knows that look from well before the Grimm thing.
"I see," Paulson says then, something new - and definitely derogatory - in his tone, the mockingly amused twist of his mouth.
And just like that, all of Hank's hackles are beyond up, way into the red zone, and he's rounding on Paulson. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"Hank," Nick says, quietly.
Hank blows out an angry stream of air, glares at Paulson one more time, and storms out.
Nick stays a moment longer, watching Paulson take a long, unhurried drink of beer. He waits until Paulson looks back at him; then, he smiles, slowly, and watches as Paulson's body language shifts again, from derisive dismissal to wary caution.
"I think your partner will make a great liaison with the police department," Nick says.
Maybe he should be worried at how easily quiet threat comes to him these days - but then again, it's simply one more tool in his arsenal. This is Nick's town. It's not just the supernatural creatures that need to be kept in line.
Paulson understands him very well. Nick is certain that they will not be seeing much more of him around the station.
"Fucking asshole," Hank grumbles when Nick catches up with him. "Unbelievable."
"So," Nick says. "The two of you used to be close…?"
Hank grunts something non-verbal and gives Nick a look. Nick just stares at him until he rolls his eyes and shrugs, the momentary hint of wariness bleeding out of his stance. "Yeah, what can I say. I used to have crap taste in guys."
"But - you've never mentioned him. I mean, why'd you never tell me?"
"Nick." Hank gives him a long, even stare. "You're kidding me, right? You are talking to me about the things I never told you?"
"Alright, alright." Nick flushes a little. "Just, you could have told me, you know? That's all I meant."
"I know." Hank's grip on his shoulder is reassuring, strong and friendly. "It wasn't that I thought you'd be weird about it."
"Then what…?"
Oh. Oh.
Nick finally gets it when Hank looks down and to the side for a moment, too casual, too cool.
"You really should tell me things," Nick hears himself saying. Hank gives him another really? you're seriously saying that to me? look, but Nick ignores it.
"Yeah, I know, I should tell you things, too, huh," he says. "So anyway, want to have dinner on Saturday?"
Hank shrugs and is about to agree when Nick realizes he's going to have to be less subtle here.
"You know, dinner and a movie. With or without the movie. Up to you. There's this restaurant I know… I think you'll like it." Ouch. He likes to think he's usually smoother than this, when the person he's asking out isn't his best friend, too, but… yeah. Maybe not.
Hank never lets him hear the end of how very not smooth he was, of course, but that's okay. Nick likes that Hank doesn't stop being his best friend, even after they turn into something else, too.