reposting tiny fics here
I'm reposting some tiny fic from Tumblr, written from requests. First up, something from BSG. I know, I was shocked at writing it as well. The prompt asked for Kara and Jean, which is like dangling catnip in front of a cat.
Cally had never been a lightweight, but she couldn’t even take a sip now. Kara wasn’t sure what the point was of hen night if you couldn’t consume large amounts of alcohol while there, but it had been Cally’s idea to revive the tradition, so who was Kara to judge?
Of course, Cally hadn’t realized how tired she would get from carrying around that unborn baby. (The kid was gonna be huge, if Cally’s belly was any indication.) And then Racetrack had to leave early because she had the late night patrol shift leaving from Galactica, and Showboat wanted to get back to Pegasus because she had “something to do.” Which sounded suspiciously like “I’d rather have sex with my hot boyfriend than stick around here” to Kara.
Again, not that she could judge, considering her own hot husband who was probably drunk off his ass with Galen and whoever else they’d rounded up for their own spite-formed knockoff men’s group. If she knew that Sam would be back at the tent and not too drunk for some fun, she might bail as well.
Instead she was here talking to Barolay, of all people. And it was… well, like most hen nights: it ended up better than her low expectations. They talked about Pyramid, and Sam and resistance fighting on Caprica, and then a long chat about artists and composition. Barolay said she’d put the word out that Kara was looking for more paints, and didn’t even ask for anything in return.
They had a mostly-wordless conversation about parents-her mom, Barolay’s dad. Neither one of them had much to say; mutual understanding sufficed for now. And then they went outside and put a blanket on the ground, because for once the damn clouds had disappeared and they could see the stars.
Maybe it made Kara a lightweight too, watching the stars and thinking that it was nice here because she had someone to talk to for a few minutes who wasn’t Sam.
Person of Interest, Carter POV about Fusco and the other 'boys'
Her partner Fusco is a mess, but he loves his kid. Boys, they say when they talk about their sons, and grin at each other in mutual understanding. Lee likes street hockey while Taylor prefers his chess club over soccer. Taylor reads sci-fi and fantasy books with elaborate plots that Joss could never track; Lee would rather watch TV.
Both boys have a thing for some cartoon about a girl who does martial arts with magic. The two kids talked about her in a brief, mono-syllabic conversation the one time they met, after which they both separately told their respective parents that the other kid “wasn’t so bad.” Boy code for “If we’re forced to hang out again, it’ll be okay.”
Boys, indeed. She’s surrounded by them and their secret codes: John’s overboard teasing of Fusco, Finch’s properly starched indignation at Fusco’s deliberately casual sloppiness, Fusco’s own sarcasm calculated for maximum irritation of Suit and Specs.
Sometimes she bites the inside of her cheek so as not to laugh when she hears one end of those conversations. Boys.
Another for PoI, Zoe Morgan interacting with Carter.
Zoe couldn’t decide if this was an example of greater trust-letting her know about Detective Carter’s role in the Batsquad-or less trust, considering that the detective was supposed to give her the information verbally rather than leaving a digital trail.
The question of trust didn’t really matter, she supposed, considering that she’d already figured out that both Carter and her police partner were helping ‘Harold’ and ‘John’. Really, Zoe should be asking herself exactly why she was involved in one of their schemes. Again. Even though she’d told herself to stay away after the last time, when Harold had been taken by that fake psychologist. Bad for her health to have acquaintances like these.
Yet here she was, walking into a mid-town coffee shop, where Detective Carter was already waiting. Like John, the detective had a habit of keeping an eye on the exits, automatically scanning the room for threats. Another reminder why Zoe didn’t need company like this.
“Ms. Morgan.” The woman gave her a look that was mostly-but not completely-stripped of irony.
She had to respect the detective’s control. ”Detective Carter.”
Neither referred to the previous time they’d met, during a murder investigation. Instead Carter got directly to business, passing along information that Zoe was certain hadn’t come from police files-at least not exclusively. It had Harold’s discreetly knowledgeable fingerprints all over it. A reminder that curiosity was part of why Zoe kept coming back to this; she wanted to know that man’s sources.
In order to acquire this level of knowledge, Zoe had what amounted to a stable of people who owed her various kinds of favors. Harold appeared to have himself, his attack dog John, and two police detectives. Not only that, but Harold himself apparently didn’t exist. Too interesting to leave the unanswered questions alone.
Someday Zoe would have to investigate her own previously-latent pushes toward benevolence, but for today she’d settle on curiosity as her motivation.
The detective looked at her questioningly; too long of a silence, she supposed. ”I’ll check into it,” Zoe told her. ”You’ll hear from me by this evening at the latest.”
Detective Carter nodded and pulled out some dollar bills to pay for the coffee. Glancing at Zoe, she narrowed her eyes before saying, “It was their choice to pull you in on this.”
“In other words, you’re not convinced I’m one of the white hats. You shouldn’t be.”
Carter’s lip twitched in an effort not to let any part of a smile show. Zoe added, “I won’t screw them over, though.” Not this time, she thought to herself. She would give fair warning if she ever found herself on the opposite side. Because betrayed attack dogs and tenacious police detectives made for more unhealthy company, and because she still didn’t know Harold’s sources. Zoe Morgan had no intention of finding them out the hard way.
She put her own large bill on the table and walked out after the detective. Maybe her hat was a lighter shade of gray today, Zoe reflected.
As for other stuff written lately, I posted chapter eight of "Nowhere Left to Run" just over a week ago. Currently about halfway through with chapter nine, and I need to get that finished this week. (I keep getting more ideas for what to do in chapter ten, which is great... but I sorta need to get nine done? Like, soonish? Okay, muse?)
Oh, LJ. Why are you italicizing the stuff in blockquotes and using a lighter gray font? It's not in the coding. Is this some new 'feature' of yours? *sigh*
Posted at Dreamwidth: http://rose-griffes.dreamwidth.org/258699.html. Comment where you wish.
Cally had never been a lightweight, but she couldn’t even take a sip now. Kara wasn’t sure what the point was of hen night if you couldn’t consume large amounts of alcohol while there, but it had been Cally’s idea to revive the tradition, so who was Kara to judge?
Of course, Cally hadn’t realized how tired she would get from carrying around that unborn baby. (The kid was gonna be huge, if Cally’s belly was any indication.) And then Racetrack had to leave early because she had the late night patrol shift leaving from Galactica, and Showboat wanted to get back to Pegasus because she had “something to do.” Which sounded suspiciously like “I’d rather have sex with my hot boyfriend than stick around here” to Kara.
Again, not that she could judge, considering her own hot husband who was probably drunk off his ass with Galen and whoever else they’d rounded up for their own spite-formed knockoff men’s group. If she knew that Sam would be back at the tent and not too drunk for some fun, she might bail as well.
Instead she was here talking to Barolay, of all people. And it was… well, like most hen nights: it ended up better than her low expectations. They talked about Pyramid, and Sam and resistance fighting on Caprica, and then a long chat about artists and composition. Barolay said she’d put the word out that Kara was looking for more paints, and didn’t even ask for anything in return.
They had a mostly-wordless conversation about parents-her mom, Barolay’s dad. Neither one of them had much to say; mutual understanding sufficed for now. And then they went outside and put a blanket on the ground, because for once the damn clouds had disappeared and they could see the stars.
Maybe it made Kara a lightweight too, watching the stars and thinking that it was nice here because she had someone to talk to for a few minutes who wasn’t Sam.
Person of Interest, Carter POV about Fusco and the other 'boys'
Her partner Fusco is a mess, but he loves his kid. Boys, they say when they talk about their sons, and grin at each other in mutual understanding. Lee likes street hockey while Taylor prefers his chess club over soccer. Taylor reads sci-fi and fantasy books with elaborate plots that Joss could never track; Lee would rather watch TV.
Both boys have a thing for some cartoon about a girl who does martial arts with magic. The two kids talked about her in a brief, mono-syllabic conversation the one time they met, after which they both separately told their respective parents that the other kid “wasn’t so bad.” Boy code for “If we’re forced to hang out again, it’ll be okay.”
Boys, indeed. She’s surrounded by them and their secret codes: John’s overboard teasing of Fusco, Finch’s properly starched indignation at Fusco’s deliberately casual sloppiness, Fusco’s own sarcasm calculated for maximum irritation of Suit and Specs.
Sometimes she bites the inside of her cheek so as not to laugh when she hears one end of those conversations. Boys.
Another for PoI, Zoe Morgan interacting with Carter.
Zoe couldn’t decide if this was an example of greater trust-letting her know about Detective Carter’s role in the Batsquad-or less trust, considering that the detective was supposed to give her the information verbally rather than leaving a digital trail.
The question of trust didn’t really matter, she supposed, considering that she’d already figured out that both Carter and her police partner were helping ‘Harold’ and ‘John’. Really, Zoe should be asking herself exactly why she was involved in one of their schemes. Again. Even though she’d told herself to stay away after the last time, when Harold had been taken by that fake psychologist. Bad for her health to have acquaintances like these.
Yet here she was, walking into a mid-town coffee shop, where Detective Carter was already waiting. Like John, the detective had a habit of keeping an eye on the exits, automatically scanning the room for threats. Another reminder why Zoe didn’t need company like this.
“Ms. Morgan.” The woman gave her a look that was mostly-but not completely-stripped of irony.
She had to respect the detective’s control. ”Detective Carter.”
Neither referred to the previous time they’d met, during a murder investigation. Instead Carter got directly to business, passing along information that Zoe was certain hadn’t come from police files-at least not exclusively. It had Harold’s discreetly knowledgeable fingerprints all over it. A reminder that curiosity was part of why Zoe kept coming back to this; she wanted to know that man’s sources.
In order to acquire this level of knowledge, Zoe had what amounted to a stable of people who owed her various kinds of favors. Harold appeared to have himself, his attack dog John, and two police detectives. Not only that, but Harold himself apparently didn’t exist. Too interesting to leave the unanswered questions alone.
Someday Zoe would have to investigate her own previously-latent pushes toward benevolence, but for today she’d settle on curiosity as her motivation.
The detective looked at her questioningly; too long of a silence, she supposed. ”I’ll check into it,” Zoe told her. ”You’ll hear from me by this evening at the latest.”
Detective Carter nodded and pulled out some dollar bills to pay for the coffee. Glancing at Zoe, she narrowed her eyes before saying, “It was their choice to pull you in on this.”
“In other words, you’re not convinced I’m one of the white hats. You shouldn’t be.”
Carter’s lip twitched in an effort not to let any part of a smile show. Zoe added, “I won’t screw them over, though.” Not this time, she thought to herself. She would give fair warning if she ever found herself on the opposite side. Because betrayed attack dogs and tenacious police detectives made for more unhealthy company, and because she still didn’t know Harold’s sources. Zoe Morgan had no intention of finding them out the hard way.
She put her own large bill on the table and walked out after the detective. Maybe her hat was a lighter shade of gray today, Zoe reflected.
As for other stuff written lately, I posted chapter eight of "Nowhere Left to Run" just over a week ago. Currently about halfway through with chapter nine, and I need to get that finished this week. (I keep getting more ideas for what to do in chapter ten, which is great... but I sorta need to get nine done? Like, soonish? Okay, muse?)
Oh, LJ. Why are you italicizing the stuff in blockquotes and using a lighter gray font? It's not in the coding. Is this some new 'feature' of yours? *sigh*
Posted at Dreamwidth: http://rose-griffes.dreamwidth.org/258699.html. Comment where you wish.