A WIP meme...sort of
Since I write in verses rather than single stories, all my WIPs for a fandom would come from the same verse. Therefore, I shall post little sections from the stories that make up the main verse in the three fandoms I sort of kick around in writing-wise.
Everything is obvs. unbeat'ed, unfinished, and hi, I am a big fan of passive voice.
Up first, Tolkien World
“Having second thoughts?” Cirdan asked, standing beside him. The ancient elf seemed transformed out here, young and yet more powerful in a way Thranduil had never seen.
“My wife in is Aman, my children, my citizens, perhaps my father is even running about there,” he replied. “I lived in Arda for so long, I do think I am allowed some worry for my Woods, but it was never a question of me taking this journey if duty allowed.”
Cirdan gripped his shoulder. “It has been a long and trying journey for you, my young friend.”
“Not so long as yours,” Thranduil said.
Cirdan nodded his head in sad acknowledgment. “I do miss my family, but the sea has always been my home. As long as it is there for me, I know my cares will be soothed.”
“You really are as married to the sea as your wife,” Thranduil said.
“It is true that one has been with me much longer than the other,” Cirdan carefully replied.
Thranduil looked back over the sea. “How much longer?” he asked.
“We should see land by the morn,” Cirdan answered, turning to leave.
“No,” he said, placing a hand on Cirdan’s arm to stop his retreat. “How much longer until your duty is finished?”
Cirdan closed his eyes, listening to a voice Thranduil could not hear. He opened his eyes, his voice laced with more authority than the Elvenking had any hope to gain. “A few more years yet,” Cirdan said. “As such as it is, my duty shall never be finished, but there will be a time to rest.”
“I thought the way is to be closed,” he mused.
Cirdan smiled, mysterious as always. “Bridges and seaways go more than one way,” he said, walking down the ship back to his post.
~~**~~
“As long as both Minuialeth and Glorfindel are away from this world, I do not think Ecthelion will feel complete,” Artanis lamented.
“I fear the wait for Glorfindel will be much longer than the wait for Minuialeth,” Vanima said. “Glorfindel seemed certain that he would be in Arda for a very long time.” She dropped her gaze to her lap, where her hands had tightened on the fabric of her dress. “How could I let him go to such death and despair again?” she whispered.
Artanis embraced her. “Because you are a good mother, and a strong elf. You know that in times of need elves are called to duty and must sacrifice everything for the safety and protection of us all. No other elves but you and Artuo could raised your child again with such love, and such care and let him go off to follow his destiny.”
“He was all alone,” Vanima murmured. “We sent him off there again all on his own.”
“Glorfindel has a marvelous way of endearing himself to others,” Artanis soothed her. “He will not lack in companionship.”
~~**~~
“Did you know I felt it when Ecthelion died? I thought I had been run through. I couldn’t breathe, there was not enough air getting to my lungs. At the time I thought it was the ash and the fire, I thought perhaps my sense was abandoning me in the midst of the battle. It was only upon my re-birth I found out that was the exact moment of Ecthelion’s death.” Glorfindel paused then gave a harsh laugh. “I have met many a formidable and stubborn elf, but no elf have I met more so than him. You have to understand, by the time Ecthelion took on that last balrog he had already fainted three times from pain, his body was weary, he was half dead. Both of his arms were wounded, his ribs were broken and it was all he could do to swallow the healing waters of his beloved fountains. He knew he was going to die. He knew there was no way he could successfully fight off that balrog when all he had was stubbornness of spirit to fight, and he faced his death like a true warrior. When he went into that water, in full armor with a balrog crashing down on him, he had to have known he could not swim out, that he would be weighed down and drown. Out of all of us that died that day he was the only one who was not killed solely by one of our foes.”
“You all chose your deaths that day,” she remarked. “But I daresay he earned the right to have his name forever be a war cry.”
“I cannot tell you how much it would shock him if he knew that to this day his name still sends a shiver down the spine of an orc. He’d much rather have a legacy for music. And to look at him outside of his armor you would never guess how great a warrior he was. As a child he was just a wisp of a thing and all knobby knees and pointy elbows."
~~**~~
“Well, he is a tiny little thing, isn’t he,” Claurion said, watching the hobbit dart around the camp.
“Careful, Claurion, he may bite or kick or both,” Tirnion said. He put the curtain back and returned to Thranduil’s side.
“I happen to find our little thief quite enjoyable,” Thranduil said.
Tirnion snorted, leaning against Thranduil’s make-shift throne. “He brought a large jewel with him, of course you find him enjoyable.”
Thranduil regarded him with a gaze often meant for solicitors and members of the court. “Tirnion,” he said in his stately tone, “only your mother is allowed to speak of me with that much derision.”
“Of course, Your Highness, it shan’t happen again.”
“I should have fed you to the bears long ago,” he sighed.
“With all due respect, Elvenking on High, if we escaped an enraged dragon, I do think the bears would be little trouble,” Claurion said, doing his best to be helpful.
“Yes, but perhaps you’d learn to heel just a little bit better.” Thranduil studied Tirnion. “Perhaps I should order your next visit to Imladris with strict instructions to stay by Chief Councilor Erestor’s side for a century.”
Tirnion bowed. “I am your most humble and noble servant, O Great and Wise King of Elvenhome.”
“Much better.”
“You are all mad,” Mithrandir stated, a smile fighting its way on his lips.
~~**~~
**************
The Bandom/Dresden-Files Book Verse AU
“The world is going to shit,” he said, ignoring the sputters and laughs of the crowd. “Everyone is scared and terrified right now, suspicious of their neighbors and freaking out whenever a loud sound passes over head. So many people are hurt, physically, mentally, and everywhere around us we’re told to be alert and be aware, to not trust anybody anymore because everyone is a threat. We’re closing in on ourselves, on each other, and while some of it is a whole ‘a house divided cannot stand’ bullshit, we all know it’s going to get worse. We can all feel it, the change, not just with the straight-liners but in our own world. Shit’s about to go down and get real and excepting a handful of us, no one knows what’s going to happen with the next dawn. I’ve sat on my ass, and I hid, and I’m not hiding anymore, not really. I can help people, I know I can, I can help make their lives better, find their lost loved ones, give them closure. I can try and help them to help themselves.
“ I am a wizard, I don’t need your title to tell me so, but I would like the benefits of what it offers. I can live without it though, I don’t need to justify my existence to your rules and I have a feeling even if I get accepted we’re going to disagree on a lot of things, but I also know that you guys know every institution needs its rebels. Balance, it’s the most important part of any world. The balance is tipping though, and you don’t know what to do about it, and you don’t know how to fix it, and suddenly you’re realizing all that New Age bullshit wasn’t a fad and that there are more people with the talent out there than you ever imagined. And if all those Wiccans, Witches, Practitioners, Stregas, and various others of our kind are out there practicing with good intentions, then that means there are just as many out there on the flipside, and that scares you shitless.
“Thousands upon thousands of people died in this country on a day of catastrophic events and you know how much of a scar that leaves on a place and on an era. That much pain, that much trauma, it all lets bad shit slip through the divide. But good can also come from it, people who want to help, and change, and heal, and fight, they come from it too. I’m ready now, I wasn’t before, but I woke up, I’m here, and with or without your blessing, I am going to do this. I’d just rather not run into the red tape when I’m trying to help and to get the word out, twilight bark style, when needed. So, that’s it, that’s all I have to say.”
~~**~~
“So, if you’re not here to take me on a time-traveling journey in a cab with a flux-capacitor, are you here to like, what, tell me the meaning of life?”
“You already know the answer to that one.”
“Forty-two,” they said in unison.
He smiled. “Good to know I haven’t forgotten my roots in my slick new Madison Avenue Ensemble.”
“Fuck you, at least I know how to bathe.”
~~**~~
“What the hell is that?” Schechter asked. He gestured to George, who rested in the baby carrier Frank wore strapped to his chest.
“Brian Schechter, George, George, Brian Schechter,” Frank said, waving one of George’s claws.
Brian’s jaw twitched before resuming its normal mask of frustration. “What is George when he’s at home, Iero?” he asked.
“A baby Jersey Devil,” Frank answered. He backed away from Schechter, “You’re not going to send him to Area 51 to be tested on are you?”
“That’s only for the aliens, Frank,” Mikey said, dragging a finger through the small desk Zen garden. “Besides, I think Schechter knows that if he tried to remove an animal from your clutches he’d be treating a few bite marks and none of those would be from George.”
Schechter shook his head. “Your brought a Jersey Devil into the Hoover Building. Only you three, only ever you three.”
~~**~~
Train in Vain Vinyl was Frank Iero’s second home. Located in New Brunswick, New Jersey it was your stereotypical old school record store, full of fading posters, peeling band stickers and yellowed newspaper clippings. The store always smelled like a mixture of pine tree air freshener (there was a whole collection hanging from the door), nag champa (even neo-hippies need love too), and old classroom (the chalkboard behind the register held a new message each day). Music was one of the few things that kept Frank sane, no matter which side of the dimensional divide he fell on, or whether he woke up as sidhe or human.
~~**~~
*********
The Modern!AU for the War Fandoms
“Andy.”
“Eddie.”
“So, you two obviously know each other,” Ralph said.
“It’s been what, five years?” Eddie asked.
“Yeah, about that,” Haldane agreed. His smile was genuinely warm as he studied Hillbilly. “How’re the kids?” he asked.
“Great, all of them are doing really well. Bobby’s a cop now, Angie’s gone and married some doctor, Mike’s teaching at some preschool in Pittsburgh. Let’s see, Timmy and Carrie hiked it off to New York City and are trying their hands at Broadway. Gabe’s decided he’s going to spend the next year following in Jack Kerouac’s footsteps. Kimmy’s just started school, art major, but you know, free spirit. Chris made it to the state team last year with his soccer skills and Alice just started high school.”
“Your mom still doing well?”
“She is. Even met a new guy from her bowling nights. I don’t quite like him, but Momma’s happy. What about you? What happened to the cabin in Maine and all that?”
“Oh, built that cabin about two years ago, I’m quite proud of it. Just, you know, got out of the Corps and still felt the need to serve. Teach for America brought me here.”
“I’m honestly surprised you’re not still active duty.”
“I just don’t quite like where I felt it was all heading. That, and my best Gunny left me, so what was I going to do?”
“You’d have survived.”
“Nah, Eddie, I don’t think I would have.”
Hillbilly dropped his gaze, not wanting to think of the past right now. Of humid nights in Melbourne, Andy pressed up against his back, muffling his laughter as fingertips spread over sensitive skin. Not of Afghanistan and Iraq and words passed, promises made half a world away.
“So, you really did decide to go with the teaching thing?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I like teaching kids about history and hell, you know how much I always loved playing a game of football when I got the chance. It’s great to coach some kids again.”
~~**~~
Burgie slapped him upside the head. “I didn’t take you to be a coward, Snafu,” he said. He settled down on the steps, laughing at the glare thrown his way. “I’ve faced down scarier things than you, Snafu Shelton. Tell your Uncle Romus what’s got you running scared.”
“It ain’t being a coward if you know you don’t belong somewhere, Burgie.” He blew the smoke of his cigarette out, watching it dissipate in the night air. “He ain’t like you and me, his folks are rich, all cultured and shit. They have servants and artifacts kept under glass and like, the type of place where you don’t feel comfortable walking into, much less trying to sit down and have dinner.”
“Defeated by the salad fork again?” he asked
“Who needs that many forks to eat a dinner?” Snafu bitched. “One fork, one spoon, one knife unless you got some steak, that’s all you need. Anything else is just a waste. And tell me, Burgie, who today eats with actual goddamned silverware? They have servants just to polish what they eat off of. They ain’t the type of people to drop by Popeye’s for dinner.”
He felt his shoulders start to turn in on himself. If it was Gene-Baptiste beside him, he’d be in a hug right now. Renée, she’d entice him with chocolate. Babe would goad him into distraction, Spina would bitch about the clinic, Anna with one of her rare and precious tales from her life before Belgium. But Burgie, Burgie was tough-love and quiet calm. R. V. Burgin didn’t let his men turn themselves from the truth, he brought no pretty words, just truth.
“Ah, shit, Snafu,” Burgie said on the exhale of a sigh, “you know how those folks are. He’s from a proud family who go back to the Civil War.”
“I’m from a proud family who go back to the Exile, you don’t see me eating with no real silver spoon.”
“Merriell, just because they’re rich, doesn’t mean they’re better than you. God doesn’t give a damn about your bank account.”
~~**~~
A young man sat on the wrap-around porch, sweat glistening on his thin but toned arms. The stranger eyed Babe and Spina like they were criminals. Or prey. Or something to be brought down. After a flare of red, a puff of smoke, a flicked cigarette landed in the dry grass at Babe’s feet. He hurried to stomp it out before a fire started.
“Merriell Francis Shelton, show our guests the type of manners I know your Grandma raised you with,” Gene yelled as he locked the car.
Ralph leaned against Babe’s shoulder. “Do you know that one?” he asked.
“I’ve only head the stories,” Babe admitted.
“Yeah?” Ralph asked. “You think if we run we can make it back to the airport before nighttime?”
“I think they’d send alligators or crocodiles or whatever the fuck after us.”
“Shit, Babe,” Ralph muttered. He pulled his hat down more, as if he tried hard enough he could hide under it. “Luz is going to have to hire someone to drag the bayous for our body parts.”
“What makes you think we’d want to punish our poor gators with you two?” Merriell asked.
Gene shook his head. “Babe, Spina, please meet Merriell Shelton. Merl-Francis, this is Edward Heffron and Ralph Spina. They’re staying here for the Summer.”
“Doc Thibodaux know that?”
“It was his idea.”
“Uh-huh,” Merriell said. He swaggered down the steps, bare feet slapping against the dirt. He circled around them, leaning in and studying them close. Babe tried not to flinch and he saw Ralph’s jaw clench.
“Merriell, stop that,” Gene said, unbothered by his friend’s actions. “Don’t you have a home to go to?”
“I think I’m gonna stay with you for the next few months.”
“That’s a long commute,” Gene said.
Merriell shrugged. “Not like a sleep much anyway,” he drawled.
~~**~~
Sometimes D.C. could feel like a fishbowl. For one of the busiest cities in the world, the six degrees of separation game could usually be pared down to three. It was some sort of a joke, a reporter, a member of the Pentagon, and two NCIS agents walk into a bar, wait for the punch line. It could’ve been the small world of working for and reporting on the federal government that brought them all to this same bar, twice a week, but it was more memories of huddling down together while shamal storms battered through the desert, half a world and a lifetime away. Pleasant nights, like tonight, meant cheap beer out on the patio, talking loud over the sounds of the city.
Bob Leckie twirled a business card between his fingers. He still marveled, sometimes, over the twists in life which brought him here. He came back from Afghanistan to find out his job at The New York Times was gone and the urban sprawl of the concrete jungle wouldn’t let him sleep. No one seemed eager to hire newspaper journalists anymore, and those who did wanted him to report on Operation Enduring Freedom, Iraqi Freedom, and any other mess they got into. No one seemed to get that his war wasn’t everyone’s war and he didn’t want to report on it. Not now, not yet.
So he came to D.C., crashed on the couch of his old friend, Runner Conley, and spent two weeks getting fat on Ethiopian take-out and sending out resumes to any job opening that seemed Liberal Arts Degree friendly. A week later came a call from one “David Kenyon Webster, M.A.” and an offer to work at a paper a step above the Weekly World News. It was a job, and there were only so many times he was willing to stumble across Runner and Chuckler sharing their own private, personal, bonding time before he went insane.
Hoosier offered his couch but Bob could barely handle one dog, much less the 5-10 Hoosier fostered. Plus, something about his roommate Ray set Bob’s teeth on edge.
~~**~~
He purposely made his break-in obvious, not wanting his first sight of Carwood in five months to be accompanied by a gunshot. He relaxed into the couch as he watched the doorknob turn.
“It’s a little early for Halloween,” Carwood said, throwing down the plastic sign Ron put on the door this afternoon. “And I don’t know how I feel about you equating my home with The Divine Comedy.”
Ron looked at the snarling gargoyle whose claws clung to a sign which said, “All Hope Abandon, Ye Who Enter Here.” He shrugged. “One could construe it as a warning for you.”
“That I am sure of,” Carwood said. He dropped his briefcase on the table, along with his suit jacket. “You’re usually more subtle.”
“O’Keefe is still learning about acquiring items.”
“Maybe you should give him better direction,” Carwood said. He sat down on the couch, hesitating for only a moment before he curled into Ron’s side.
“I don’t coddle them like you do,” Ron murmured, massaging the nape of Carwood’s neck.
“I don’t coddle them,” he mumbled, voice muffled by Ron’s shirt.
“Carwood, they all toddle after you like little ducklings. You’re lucky they remember how to sharpen their pencils and tie their own shoes.”
“Like you’ve never been confused on which why a mechanical pencil works. They’re all different, you know.” He pulled back, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “And the only shoelaces I have to worry about are Dike’s.”
Ron didn’t bother to hide his snort. Norman Dike got his job through his family name and power and ever since then Ron had ordered Chuck and Janovec to find a way to bring the man down. Someone was going to get killed under Dike’s orders and Carwood would get the blame. Ron was not above creating a false scandal, much like the CIA, he knew that you did what you had to do in order to get the job done.
“If you wanted to find a different source of income-"
“I like working for the government, Ron.”
Carwood sounded tired and it was an old argument, but he still held onto the speck of hope that one day his extended job offer would be accepted. Right now, with the deep lines on Carwood’s forehead and the signs of a migraine coming on, was not the time for old battles.
“All that red-tape and bullshit,” he said instead
“With no pin the tail on the newbie, days, I know. I know you hate it, but you take their money.”
“And put it back into the economy and charities of the people they are screwing over.”
“Funny, I didn’t think you came from Locksley.”
“Chuck’s real name is Will Scarlett, don’t tell anyone.”
“Is Janovec Little John?”
“Nah, he’s Maid Marion. Kitty’s Little John.”
Carwood laughed. “God, I’ve missed this.”
“It’s the way it has to be.”
“Is it?”
“Can you understand that I love you too much to see you killed for something I did.”
“Of course. Can you understand I love you too much to quietly sit back while you go off doing god knows what for god knows who?”
~~**~~
When he first met John Janovec, he was a scrawny boy of 17, getting ready for his first taste of military life. Then 9/11 happened, and he wasn’t just an 18 year old, trudging through the red clay of Fort Bragg and getting ready to fight a war. In the passing years he filled out, muscled up, faced death, watched his friends die, and grew up. He fell on Ron’s doorstep with a sneer on his lips and fury banked his eyes and Ron knew at once he both had to save the bit of the young boy still in there and train the truly talented man before him.
A lot of people thought spies lived some charmed life, and Janovec was much the same. He soon learned most of it was paperwork and waiting, especially when you were self-contracted and more apt to work for international agencies rather than one specific branch of one specific government. Ron already did his time as a lapdog for the Feds and had no desire to fall completely under that yoke again.
Janovec was eager and Ron, Chuck, and Kitty were all doing their best not to get him killed.
“What’s this?” Janovec asked, picking up the book Ron dropped in his lap.
“Your homework. Chuck expects a report in a week. Be a good little boy while I’m gone.”
“I read The Iliad in high school, Speirs,” he said.
“I’m glad to know the Classics are still being taught in the public school system’s excuse for education. I want you to read it again. Who you were in high school is not who you are now. Your new knowledge will change its meaning.”
Everything is obvs. unbeat'ed, unfinished, and hi, I am a big fan of passive voice.
Up first, Tolkien World
“Having second thoughts?” Cirdan asked, standing beside him. The ancient elf seemed transformed out here, young and yet more powerful in a way Thranduil had never seen.
“My wife in is Aman, my children, my citizens, perhaps my father is even running about there,” he replied. “I lived in Arda for so long, I do think I am allowed some worry for my Woods, but it was never a question of me taking this journey if duty allowed.”
Cirdan gripped his shoulder. “It has been a long and trying journey for you, my young friend.”
“Not so long as yours,” Thranduil said.
Cirdan nodded his head in sad acknowledgment. “I do miss my family, but the sea has always been my home. As long as it is there for me, I know my cares will be soothed.”
“You really are as married to the sea as your wife,” Thranduil said.
“It is true that one has been with me much longer than the other,” Cirdan carefully replied.
Thranduil looked back over the sea. “How much longer?” he asked.
“We should see land by the morn,” Cirdan answered, turning to leave.
“No,” he said, placing a hand on Cirdan’s arm to stop his retreat. “How much longer until your duty is finished?”
Cirdan closed his eyes, listening to a voice Thranduil could not hear. He opened his eyes, his voice laced with more authority than the Elvenking had any hope to gain. “A few more years yet,” Cirdan said. “As such as it is, my duty shall never be finished, but there will be a time to rest.”
“I thought the way is to be closed,” he mused.
Cirdan smiled, mysterious as always. “Bridges and seaways go more than one way,” he said, walking down the ship back to his post.
~~**~~
“As long as both Minuialeth and Glorfindel are away from this world, I do not think Ecthelion will feel complete,” Artanis lamented.
“I fear the wait for Glorfindel will be much longer than the wait for Minuialeth,” Vanima said. “Glorfindel seemed certain that he would be in Arda for a very long time.” She dropped her gaze to her lap, where her hands had tightened on the fabric of her dress. “How could I let him go to such death and despair again?” she whispered.
Artanis embraced her. “Because you are a good mother, and a strong elf. You know that in times of need elves are called to duty and must sacrifice everything for the safety and protection of us all. No other elves but you and Artuo could raised your child again with such love, and such care and let him go off to follow his destiny.”
“He was all alone,” Vanima murmured. “We sent him off there again all on his own.”
“Glorfindel has a marvelous way of endearing himself to others,” Artanis soothed her. “He will not lack in companionship.”
~~**~~
“Did you know I felt it when Ecthelion died? I thought I had been run through. I couldn’t breathe, there was not enough air getting to my lungs. At the time I thought it was the ash and the fire, I thought perhaps my sense was abandoning me in the midst of the battle. It was only upon my re-birth I found out that was the exact moment of Ecthelion’s death.” Glorfindel paused then gave a harsh laugh. “I have met many a formidable and stubborn elf, but no elf have I met more so than him. You have to understand, by the time Ecthelion took on that last balrog he had already fainted three times from pain, his body was weary, he was half dead. Both of his arms were wounded, his ribs were broken and it was all he could do to swallow the healing waters of his beloved fountains. He knew he was going to die. He knew there was no way he could successfully fight off that balrog when all he had was stubbornness of spirit to fight, and he faced his death like a true warrior. When he went into that water, in full armor with a balrog crashing down on him, he had to have known he could not swim out, that he would be weighed down and drown. Out of all of us that died that day he was the only one who was not killed solely by one of our foes.”
“You all chose your deaths that day,” she remarked. “But I daresay he earned the right to have his name forever be a war cry.”
“I cannot tell you how much it would shock him if he knew that to this day his name still sends a shiver down the spine of an orc. He’d much rather have a legacy for music. And to look at him outside of his armor you would never guess how great a warrior he was. As a child he was just a wisp of a thing and all knobby knees and pointy elbows."
~~**~~
“Well, he is a tiny little thing, isn’t he,” Claurion said, watching the hobbit dart around the camp.
“Careful, Claurion, he may bite or kick or both,” Tirnion said. He put the curtain back and returned to Thranduil’s side.
“I happen to find our little thief quite enjoyable,” Thranduil said.
Tirnion snorted, leaning against Thranduil’s make-shift throne. “He brought a large jewel with him, of course you find him enjoyable.”
Thranduil regarded him with a gaze often meant for solicitors and members of the court. “Tirnion,” he said in his stately tone, “only your mother is allowed to speak of me with that much derision.”
“Of course, Your Highness, it shan’t happen again.”
“I should have fed you to the bears long ago,” he sighed.
“With all due respect, Elvenking on High, if we escaped an enraged dragon, I do think the bears would be little trouble,” Claurion said, doing his best to be helpful.
“Yes, but perhaps you’d learn to heel just a little bit better.” Thranduil studied Tirnion. “Perhaps I should order your next visit to Imladris with strict instructions to stay by Chief Councilor Erestor’s side for a century.”
Tirnion bowed. “I am your most humble and noble servant, O Great and Wise King of Elvenhome.”
“Much better.”
“You are all mad,” Mithrandir stated, a smile fighting its way on his lips.
~~**~~
**************
The Bandom/Dresden-Files Book Verse AU
“The world is going to shit,” he said, ignoring the sputters and laughs of the crowd. “Everyone is scared and terrified right now, suspicious of their neighbors and freaking out whenever a loud sound passes over head. So many people are hurt, physically, mentally, and everywhere around us we’re told to be alert and be aware, to not trust anybody anymore because everyone is a threat. We’re closing in on ourselves, on each other, and while some of it is a whole ‘a house divided cannot stand’ bullshit, we all know it’s going to get worse. We can all feel it, the change, not just with the straight-liners but in our own world. Shit’s about to go down and get real and excepting a handful of us, no one knows what’s going to happen with the next dawn. I’ve sat on my ass, and I hid, and I’m not hiding anymore, not really. I can help people, I know I can, I can help make their lives better, find their lost loved ones, give them closure. I can try and help them to help themselves.
“ I am a wizard, I don’t need your title to tell me so, but I would like the benefits of what it offers. I can live without it though, I don’t need to justify my existence to your rules and I have a feeling even if I get accepted we’re going to disagree on a lot of things, but I also know that you guys know every institution needs its rebels. Balance, it’s the most important part of any world. The balance is tipping though, and you don’t know what to do about it, and you don’t know how to fix it, and suddenly you’re realizing all that New Age bullshit wasn’t a fad and that there are more people with the talent out there than you ever imagined. And if all those Wiccans, Witches, Practitioners, Stregas, and various others of our kind are out there practicing with good intentions, then that means there are just as many out there on the flipside, and that scares you shitless.
“Thousands upon thousands of people died in this country on a day of catastrophic events and you know how much of a scar that leaves on a place and on an era. That much pain, that much trauma, it all lets bad shit slip through the divide. But good can also come from it, people who want to help, and change, and heal, and fight, they come from it too. I’m ready now, I wasn’t before, but I woke up, I’m here, and with or without your blessing, I am going to do this. I’d just rather not run into the red tape when I’m trying to help and to get the word out, twilight bark style, when needed. So, that’s it, that’s all I have to say.”
~~**~~
“So, if you’re not here to take me on a time-traveling journey in a cab with a flux-capacitor, are you here to like, what, tell me the meaning of life?”
“You already know the answer to that one.”
“Forty-two,” they said in unison.
He smiled. “Good to know I haven’t forgotten my roots in my slick new Madison Avenue Ensemble.”
“Fuck you, at least I know how to bathe.”
~~**~~
“What the hell is that?” Schechter asked. He gestured to George, who rested in the baby carrier Frank wore strapped to his chest.
“Brian Schechter, George, George, Brian Schechter,” Frank said, waving one of George’s claws.
Brian’s jaw twitched before resuming its normal mask of frustration. “What is George when he’s at home, Iero?” he asked.
“A baby Jersey Devil,” Frank answered. He backed away from Schechter, “You’re not going to send him to Area 51 to be tested on are you?”
“That’s only for the aliens, Frank,” Mikey said, dragging a finger through the small desk Zen garden. “Besides, I think Schechter knows that if he tried to remove an animal from your clutches he’d be treating a few bite marks and none of those would be from George.”
Schechter shook his head. “Your brought a Jersey Devil into the Hoover Building. Only you three, only ever you three.”
~~**~~
Train in Vain Vinyl was Frank Iero’s second home. Located in New Brunswick, New Jersey it was your stereotypical old school record store, full of fading posters, peeling band stickers and yellowed newspaper clippings. The store always smelled like a mixture of pine tree air freshener (there was a whole collection hanging from the door), nag champa (even neo-hippies need love too), and old classroom (the chalkboard behind the register held a new message each day). Music was one of the few things that kept Frank sane, no matter which side of the dimensional divide he fell on, or whether he woke up as sidhe or human.
~~**~~
*********
The Modern!AU for the War Fandoms
“Andy.”
“Eddie.”
“So, you two obviously know each other,” Ralph said.
“It’s been what, five years?” Eddie asked.
“Yeah, about that,” Haldane agreed. His smile was genuinely warm as he studied Hillbilly. “How’re the kids?” he asked.
“Great, all of them are doing really well. Bobby’s a cop now, Angie’s gone and married some doctor, Mike’s teaching at some preschool in Pittsburgh. Let’s see, Timmy and Carrie hiked it off to New York City and are trying their hands at Broadway. Gabe’s decided he’s going to spend the next year following in Jack Kerouac’s footsteps. Kimmy’s just started school, art major, but you know, free spirit. Chris made it to the state team last year with his soccer skills and Alice just started high school.”
“Your mom still doing well?”
“She is. Even met a new guy from her bowling nights. I don’t quite like him, but Momma’s happy. What about you? What happened to the cabin in Maine and all that?”
“Oh, built that cabin about two years ago, I’m quite proud of it. Just, you know, got out of the Corps and still felt the need to serve. Teach for America brought me here.”
“I’m honestly surprised you’re not still active duty.”
“I just don’t quite like where I felt it was all heading. That, and my best Gunny left me, so what was I going to do?”
“You’d have survived.”
“Nah, Eddie, I don’t think I would have.”
Hillbilly dropped his gaze, not wanting to think of the past right now. Of humid nights in Melbourne, Andy pressed up against his back, muffling his laughter as fingertips spread over sensitive skin. Not of Afghanistan and Iraq and words passed, promises made half a world away.
“So, you really did decide to go with the teaching thing?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I like teaching kids about history and hell, you know how much I always loved playing a game of football when I got the chance. It’s great to coach some kids again.”
~~**~~
Burgie slapped him upside the head. “I didn’t take you to be a coward, Snafu,” he said. He settled down on the steps, laughing at the glare thrown his way. “I’ve faced down scarier things than you, Snafu Shelton. Tell your Uncle Romus what’s got you running scared.”
“It ain’t being a coward if you know you don’t belong somewhere, Burgie.” He blew the smoke of his cigarette out, watching it dissipate in the night air. “He ain’t like you and me, his folks are rich, all cultured and shit. They have servants and artifacts kept under glass and like, the type of place where you don’t feel comfortable walking into, much less trying to sit down and have dinner.”
“Defeated by the salad fork again?” he asked
“Who needs that many forks to eat a dinner?” Snafu bitched. “One fork, one spoon, one knife unless you got some steak, that’s all you need. Anything else is just a waste. And tell me, Burgie, who today eats with actual goddamned silverware? They have servants just to polish what they eat off of. They ain’t the type of people to drop by Popeye’s for dinner.”
He felt his shoulders start to turn in on himself. If it was Gene-Baptiste beside him, he’d be in a hug right now. Renée, she’d entice him with chocolate. Babe would goad him into distraction, Spina would bitch about the clinic, Anna with one of her rare and precious tales from her life before Belgium. But Burgie, Burgie was tough-love and quiet calm. R. V. Burgin didn’t let his men turn themselves from the truth, he brought no pretty words, just truth.
“Ah, shit, Snafu,” Burgie said on the exhale of a sigh, “you know how those folks are. He’s from a proud family who go back to the Civil War.”
“I’m from a proud family who go back to the Exile, you don’t see me eating with no real silver spoon.”
“Merriell, just because they’re rich, doesn’t mean they’re better than you. God doesn’t give a damn about your bank account.”
~~**~~
A young man sat on the wrap-around porch, sweat glistening on his thin but toned arms. The stranger eyed Babe and Spina like they were criminals. Or prey. Or something to be brought down. After a flare of red, a puff of smoke, a flicked cigarette landed in the dry grass at Babe’s feet. He hurried to stomp it out before a fire started.
“Merriell Francis Shelton, show our guests the type of manners I know your Grandma raised you with,” Gene yelled as he locked the car.
Ralph leaned against Babe’s shoulder. “Do you know that one?” he asked.
“I’ve only head the stories,” Babe admitted.
“Yeah?” Ralph asked. “You think if we run we can make it back to the airport before nighttime?”
“I think they’d send alligators or crocodiles or whatever the fuck after us.”
“Shit, Babe,” Ralph muttered. He pulled his hat down more, as if he tried hard enough he could hide under it. “Luz is going to have to hire someone to drag the bayous for our body parts.”
“What makes you think we’d want to punish our poor gators with you two?” Merriell asked.
Gene shook his head. “Babe, Spina, please meet Merriell Shelton. Merl-Francis, this is Edward Heffron and Ralph Spina. They’re staying here for the Summer.”
“Doc Thibodaux know that?”
“It was his idea.”
“Uh-huh,” Merriell said. He swaggered down the steps, bare feet slapping against the dirt. He circled around them, leaning in and studying them close. Babe tried not to flinch and he saw Ralph’s jaw clench.
“Merriell, stop that,” Gene said, unbothered by his friend’s actions. “Don’t you have a home to go to?”
“I think I’m gonna stay with you for the next few months.”
“That’s a long commute,” Gene said.
Merriell shrugged. “Not like a sleep much anyway,” he drawled.
~~**~~
Sometimes D.C. could feel like a fishbowl. For one of the busiest cities in the world, the six degrees of separation game could usually be pared down to three. It was some sort of a joke, a reporter, a member of the Pentagon, and two NCIS agents walk into a bar, wait for the punch line. It could’ve been the small world of working for and reporting on the federal government that brought them all to this same bar, twice a week, but it was more memories of huddling down together while shamal storms battered through the desert, half a world and a lifetime away. Pleasant nights, like tonight, meant cheap beer out on the patio, talking loud over the sounds of the city.
Bob Leckie twirled a business card between his fingers. He still marveled, sometimes, over the twists in life which brought him here. He came back from Afghanistan to find out his job at The New York Times was gone and the urban sprawl of the concrete jungle wouldn’t let him sleep. No one seemed eager to hire newspaper journalists anymore, and those who did wanted him to report on Operation Enduring Freedom, Iraqi Freedom, and any other mess they got into. No one seemed to get that his war wasn’t everyone’s war and he didn’t want to report on it. Not now, not yet.
So he came to D.C., crashed on the couch of his old friend, Runner Conley, and spent two weeks getting fat on Ethiopian take-out and sending out resumes to any job opening that seemed Liberal Arts Degree friendly. A week later came a call from one “David Kenyon Webster, M.A.” and an offer to work at a paper a step above the Weekly World News. It was a job, and there were only so many times he was willing to stumble across Runner and Chuckler sharing their own private, personal, bonding time before he went insane.
Hoosier offered his couch but Bob could barely handle one dog, much less the 5-10 Hoosier fostered. Plus, something about his roommate Ray set Bob’s teeth on edge.
~~**~~
He purposely made his break-in obvious, not wanting his first sight of Carwood in five months to be accompanied by a gunshot. He relaxed into the couch as he watched the doorknob turn.
“It’s a little early for Halloween,” Carwood said, throwing down the plastic sign Ron put on the door this afternoon. “And I don’t know how I feel about you equating my home with The Divine Comedy.”
Ron looked at the snarling gargoyle whose claws clung to a sign which said, “All Hope Abandon, Ye Who Enter Here.” He shrugged. “One could construe it as a warning for you.”
“That I am sure of,” Carwood said. He dropped his briefcase on the table, along with his suit jacket. “You’re usually more subtle.”
“O’Keefe is still learning about acquiring items.”
“Maybe you should give him better direction,” Carwood said. He sat down on the couch, hesitating for only a moment before he curled into Ron’s side.
“I don’t coddle them like you do,” Ron murmured, massaging the nape of Carwood’s neck.
“I don’t coddle them,” he mumbled, voice muffled by Ron’s shirt.
“Carwood, they all toddle after you like little ducklings. You’re lucky they remember how to sharpen their pencils and tie their own shoes.”
“Like you’ve never been confused on which why a mechanical pencil works. They’re all different, you know.” He pulled back, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “And the only shoelaces I have to worry about are Dike’s.”
Ron didn’t bother to hide his snort. Norman Dike got his job through his family name and power and ever since then Ron had ordered Chuck and Janovec to find a way to bring the man down. Someone was going to get killed under Dike’s orders and Carwood would get the blame. Ron was not above creating a false scandal, much like the CIA, he knew that you did what you had to do in order to get the job done.
“If you wanted to find a different source of income-"
“I like working for the government, Ron.”
Carwood sounded tired and it was an old argument, but he still held onto the speck of hope that one day his extended job offer would be accepted. Right now, with the deep lines on Carwood’s forehead and the signs of a migraine coming on, was not the time for old battles.
“All that red-tape and bullshit,” he said instead
“With no pin the tail on the newbie, days, I know. I know you hate it, but you take their money.”
“And put it back into the economy and charities of the people they are screwing over.”
“Funny, I didn’t think you came from Locksley.”
“Chuck’s real name is Will Scarlett, don’t tell anyone.”
“Is Janovec Little John?”
“Nah, he’s Maid Marion. Kitty’s Little John.”
Carwood laughed. “God, I’ve missed this.”
“It’s the way it has to be.”
“Is it?”
“Can you understand that I love you too much to see you killed for something I did.”
“Of course. Can you understand I love you too much to quietly sit back while you go off doing god knows what for god knows who?”
~~**~~
When he first met John Janovec, he was a scrawny boy of 17, getting ready for his first taste of military life. Then 9/11 happened, and he wasn’t just an 18 year old, trudging through the red clay of Fort Bragg and getting ready to fight a war. In the passing years he filled out, muscled up, faced death, watched his friends die, and grew up. He fell on Ron’s doorstep with a sneer on his lips and fury banked his eyes and Ron knew at once he both had to save the bit of the young boy still in there and train the truly talented man before him.
A lot of people thought spies lived some charmed life, and Janovec was much the same. He soon learned most of it was paperwork and waiting, especially when you were self-contracted and more apt to work for international agencies rather than one specific branch of one specific government. Ron already did his time as a lapdog for the Feds and had no desire to fall completely under that yoke again.
Janovec was eager and Ron, Chuck, and Kitty were all doing their best not to get him killed.
“What’s this?” Janovec asked, picking up the book Ron dropped in his lap.
“Your homework. Chuck expects a report in a week. Be a good little boy while I’m gone.”
“I read The Iliad in high school, Speirs,” he said.
“I’m glad to know the Classics are still being taught in the public school system’s excuse for education. I want you to read it again. Who you were in high school is not who you are now. Your new knowledge will change its meaning.”