Works-in-Progress Meme, Part Two
All in all, Jamie had decided long ago, the future was a confusing sort of place. Or was that time? Grand, yes, that too-it had all sorts of fine, mad things, starting with hot showers and comfortable shirts that were easy to clean and watches that fastened round the wrist and shoes that were warm and didn’t pinch and ending with the Doctor (or maybe that should have been the other way around, because it had all started with the Doctor in the first place). But as much as Jamie felt as if he understood life in the Doctor’s flying blue box well enough, there was no denying that the whole of it just plain didn’t make sense to him at times.
Right now would be a grand example of one of those times. He was sure Zoe or the Doctor could have had this door open in a flash, but as it was he was in here, and they were out there, and the people on this world-queer pale folk they were, too-had thought locking him up in here would do to keep him away from his friends, and that, well, it was just no good at all. The Doctor and Zoe were in danger, and they needed him, he knew they did, and he was stuck in here behind a simple closed door that he was sure either of them would have had open in no time at all. Jamie knew that most of these doors opened whenever anyone got near them with no trouble at all, so this one must have been specially made not to-else it wouldn’t have been much good as a prison, and it was doing a fine job at the moment-but he didn’t even understand how they worked in the first place, let alone how it had been made to stay shut. But he had to get out of there, and that was all there was to it. He’d tried prising it open, but that had been no good and had made his fingers bleed-tried knocking it down, but that had only bruised his shoulders and it still hadn’t budged. But there was no way he was going to sit around here for the Doctor and Zoe to rescue him, especially when he knew as sure as his name was James Robert MacCrimmon that they needed his help. Jamie stood in the center of the small, plain room they’d used as a cell, put his aching hands on his hips, and stared the door down.
There's also an unfinished Nine/Rose fic around here someplace, but I can't seem to find it.
Hetalia
Unfinished US/UK relationship troubles fic
England leaned his chin on his hand and looked unwilling toward America, feeling uncomfortable at the direction of his own eyes. America was speaking with France, looking annoyed and a little confused, not precisely an unusual occurrence these days. England caught the word Chrysler as America snapped at France, his gestures even larger and more out of control than usual, and sighed. More about the global recession, then. He was frankly rather tired of talking about it, himself. Only so many times you could go over “well, we’ve all bollocksed it up but good, haven’t we, how do we fix it?” before you began feeling like committing bloody murder at the sound of the word “incentive.”
To be quite honest, his attention was nearly entirely taken up with other concerns at the moment.
Namely, that America hadn’t so much as kissed him for nearly a week.
An entire week, when he usually had to practically pry the younger nation off him. It was . . . all right, so it was rather awful. It wasn’t so much that he missed the sex-though it was terribly unfair, he thought, cruel, even, to get a bloke used to having it again, expecting it, and then force him back into buggering celibacy, or rather, not buggering, which was the entire issue.
But he was rather finding that he missed America. Which was ridiculous. They were round each other constantly, after all. They were still sharing a bed and a hotel room. They talked to each other every night.
Gen story about America's remembrances of growing up with England
The truth was, there had never even been once in his life when America had resented how England had raised him. Sure, he’d been gone a lot, but that was just how these things worked-if he’d been around all the time, America would have never turned out as tough and independent and awesome as he’d been even all the way back in the beginning, right? England, more than anyone, had taught him how to be strong.
He hadn’t been harsh about it. He’d been gruff, of course, and stern, but snap at America as he might, and give him punishments that had seemed to America at the time terribly horrific, like chopping wood or extra chores, all that had just taught America that sure, maybe you were going to shoot off your mouth, but you had to be ready to face what would happen afterward. England had never even laid a hand on him-there had been once he’d screwed up his face and raised his hand when America had admittedly been asking for it, since he’d set it up so a bucket of water had doused his least favorite servant, the one who made America sit still and have lessons and do things like sound out words on a slate-but then England had lowered his hand and taken America by the shoulders and told him why he should learn to read, all the great things he could learn about if he did, about natural science and history and all the adventures and great heroes he could read about in books, about how he could read the stories England told him by himself if he learned. And America thought about England’s husky, rounded voice warming over the words of the stories about King Arthur that he told him, and he thought that maybe if he could read them could hear England’s voice even when he wasn’t there. And England said there were even more wonderful things than stories about King Arthur in books-and England liked to read. That cemented America’s decision.
Phoenix Wright
This is Phoenix/Edgeworth established relationship stuff, for context
Wright shook his head, but took Edgeworth by both arms and tugged him into his apartment before shutting the door behind him. “You could at least have used an umbrella,” he added in an inexplicable tone that held an even more inexplicable depth of affection. “All right, stay there,” he said after a moment, and ducked away out of sight, leaving Edgeworth to stand, dripping, in the shabby entryway of Wright’s dilapidated apartment. The carpet was scuffed, and there was paint peeling on the wall just behind the door. Edgeworth lifted one hand to touch it, still feeling rather dazed. He’d been feeling that way ever since before leaving his office. Perhaps that was why he hadn’t taken shelter when it had begun to rain, he wasn’t sure. Just as he wasn’t sure why he’d followed the impulse that had led him in the direction of Wright’s run-down apartment building. It was frankly embarrassing that he knew not only the address but how to get there, even walking, from his office, even if he and Wright were in . . . well, whatever sort of relationship they were in. Thinking about it made his chest tighten in an uneasy combination of elation and tension that held more than a touch of dread, and he shook his head at himself.
Wright reappeared with a towel, blushing faintly. “Sorry it’s such a mess,” he said in a rather shamefaced tone, and raised the towel to wipe rain away from Edgeworth’s face.
“No more of a mess than one might expect,” Edgeworth said. He hadn’t really meant it as a criticism, but Wright reddened still further.
“Thanks a lot,” he muttered, and tossed the end of the towel over Edgeworth’s hair. “You mind if I do this?” he asked with a slight laugh. “You’re really soaked.”
Edgeworth felt his own cheeks heat and shrugged, looking away, which Wright of course, knowing him, took as permission to begin rubbing the towel over his hair. His touch was surprisingly gentle, one broad hand curving around the back of Edgeworth’s neck, strong and very warm even through the rough terrycloth. Edgeworth felt the flush over his cheeks deepen as Wright, seemingly with great concentration, toweled off his forehead, pushing dripping locks of hair gently away from his skin.
Different fic, more Edgeworth angsting--seems to be a theme with me
It was, as personal revelations went, rather in the pathetic vein, to say the least. Much to his shame, Miles Edgeworth had in fact spent most of his life hiding his more pathetic qualities from anyone who might catch a glimpse of them. Most of all, hiding them from Phoenix Wright, laughable proposition as that was. Wright could be so remarkably pathetic himself that Edgeworth occasionally wondered why he bothered, but so much as the thought of the other man discovering how weak and pitiable Edgeworth really could be beneath his public persona made him feel rather nauseated. After all, Wright was, somehow, someone whose opinion of him seemed to matter to Edgeworth to an absurd degree.
This particular revelation was simply more of the same, even if it did happen to concern Wright rather personally. That simply made it all the more frustrating, not to mention all the more pathetic. When it occurred to him, Edgeworth very nearly dropped the coffee cup in his hand, and managed to spill a bit over the side. Luckily it didn’t reach his clothing, but it did sting his hand rather badly. He had to put it down on the table and take a deep breath to steady himself as he wiped at his hand rather ineffectually with one of the paper napkins provided and stubbornly buried the urge to curse.
Lord of the Rings fic
Eowyn and Eomer fic focusing on their brother-sister relationship
When they were children, Éowyn would ride with Éomer over the green meadows and grasslands of the Mark, her laughter filling the air even as her mount fell far behind his horse and she urged the old pony fruitlessly onward to try and catch up. Éomer himself would laugh when she would take up the blunt practice sword he had been given (for Gúthwinë, the gift of his father, was yet too large for his arm, and not fit for the practice yards of the boys), or take one of the other boys’, oftentimes without their leave, and they would fight out the battles of Helm Hammerhand and Fréca or the deeds of Éorl between them in the yards surrounding their father’s hall, clothed in their minds in shining mail and the green cloaks of warriors. As a boy he was proud of her, of her boldness and the valor in her the equal of any of the boys, and in those days only his cousin Théodred seemed to him a better companion in the fields of his youth.
As time passed and they aged, things changed, so gradually at first that Éomer was hardly aware of it, like the slowness of chill seeping into the days as they drew ever closer to the first frost.
Aragorn-Legolas first meeting fic (turning out to be good fight scene writing practice)
“And therein lies your answer,” the elf said shortly. “But if you have not spied it yet, I will not give it to you.”
“Surely it is best to tell us all of what you know,” Aragorn said, “if we are to fight together.”
The elf dropped his eyes and turned to bow his head, but to Aragorn’s eye it seemed as if the chill of his anger was undiminished. Whence had that rage come, he wondered, for the folk of Mirkwood had seemed to him ever light of heart, and quick to forgive. What sorrows and pains had this elf seen in this place? “I do not trust you, who claim to be of the Dúnedain,” the elf said shortly. “But if you would aid me, I would not deny you.”
“Surely our speech marks us as true Men of the West,” Aragorn said, his anger returning like a flame. “Do we not converse as those of your own kindred?”
“Even our speech can be learnt,” came the elf’s response. “I am in haste. Come, if you would aid me, and if not then take your leave.” He turned away from them and started again down the passage.
Swordspoint
A sequel to the other Swordspoint fic I wrote
He discovered immediately that Richard had, in fact, still been asleep, because he woke at that, and while Alec’s eyes were still attempting to manage the business of opening again at such short notice, Richard was bolt upright in bed and the sword was in his hand, lying negligently across his lap at an angle Alec thought would be immediately unhealthy should he sit up.
Alec blinked, and then slid one hand down against the bed and pushed himself upward. The speed with which Richard removed the sword from the general vicinity of his throat was honestly enough to make him blush again. Richard himself swore, quite fervently. “Hell, Alec,” he finished, “I could have killed you.”
Alec stared at him a moment, something about hearing that name on Richard’s lips again this morning striking him, then smiled at him. “Nicked me, maybe,” he said. “I don’t know much, if anything, about fighting, but surely it would take a bit more force in the wrist to kill a man.” He reached out and ran his fingers over Richard’s wrist. More than enough strength there, at the right angle, of course. He curled his fingers around Richard’s pulse.
Richard stared at him in return, then blinked. “Yes,” he said. “Well, I’d rather not hurt you. What kind of a greeting is that? Yes, you were amazing last night, now let me cut your throat.” He sheathed the sword and set it aside, then ran his thumb carefully down Alec’s throat. The warm brush of the callus of Richard’s thumb made him swallow despite himself.
Fullmetal Alchemist
Havoc backstory fic, first anime-based
His mother was standing on the front steps, her hands on her hips and her graying golden-brown hair coming loose from its practical bun in wisps all around her face. Her mouth was set in a thin, rigid line. Jean swallowed hard, balled his hands up into fists, and stepped out of the barn.
“Jean! There you are,” Maman said at the sight of him. Jean nodded meekly, keeping his head down as he carefully picked his way across the farmyard toward her. A moment later, he heard the words he'd been expecting, “What have you done to your clothes, young man? I don't dress you like some beggar in the town square! You look like you've been rolling in pig slops; do you have no regard for your own dignity? What about our family? You're an absolute mess! What kind of an example for your cousins do you think you set like this? What about your own sisters?”
Jean doubted his cousins would model themselves after what he did, let alone if he chose to roll around in the mud or not, and his sisters were either too little to care or not much inclined to that kind of behavior anyway, but somehow Maman made it sound like he'd done something horribly, terribly, earth-shatteringly wrong that would reflect on the name and spiritual development of his relatives forever. “Sorry,” Jean mumbled, coming to a stop in front of her, still looking fixedly down at his shoes. He rubbed one hand nervously against the cloth of his trousers. “I didn't mean to . . . sorry.”
“I certainly hope you're sorry,” his mother snapped. He nodded, keeping his gaze downcast. He knew what was coming, and felt a sort of vindicated misery when he heard it. “Jean Pietr! Look at me when I'm talking to you!”
Roy introspection fic
In all likelihood, none of it would have happened except for the unprecedented occurrence of the late-night express bound for Central getting in far earlier than expected. It left Roy Mustang standing in the train station with an aimlessness of purpose that he hadn’t expected and didn’t particularly like, especially considering the frantic clarity of intent he had boarded with hours ago. But he’d anticipated reaching Central at some unholy hour the next morning at the earliest, with just enough time to straighten himself up before heading to Headquarters. In order to reach the city in time to do that even that much, he had split up with Riza in New Hiessgart to catch the faster train while she followed on the slower with the majority of their things. After all, it was common knowledge throughout Amestris that the night train was always late.
Roy sighed, rolled his eyes at the irony of a world where public transportation being on schedule was more troublesome than the alternative, and resigned himself to hailing a cab. He hadn’t had to resort to that expedient in quite a few years, a perk of having achieved a modicum of rank and respectability in the military he had made his career, but there was no point in contacting Central Headquarters and demanding a driver at this hour, even for the boost to his ego, for he wouldn’t have gotten one. He was only a Colonel as yet, he reminded himself, the thought flavored with the dryness of scorn, not a General to be paraded around at any hour he chose with pomp and ceremony.
And he wasn’t being honest with himself. Not that that was anything new. The idea of putting himself on public display like that for no better reason than that of ego and self-gratification made him feel vaguely ill. Roy felt his lips curl up into a soft, self-mocking smile as he ran the fingers of his right hand, for once not encased in the stiff cloth of his gloves, over the surface of the silver watch lying buried in his pocket where it usually remained, hard and cold and solid through the loose folds of the uniform against the curve of his thigh, invisible to any but him.
Memories of the past flooded his mind without his invitation at the feel of it beneath his hands-Mäes lifting the watch from where he’d tossed it against the wall and folding Roy’s own limp fingers back around it, leaving warm hands clasped around his, “Don’t through away everything you’ve worked for, Roy, just don’t, all right?”-and Roy forced his fingers to unclench from around the smooth metal and banish the images back to where they belonged. Where that was he wasn’t entirely sure and never had been, but it was not at the forefront of his thoughts, where they could flicker to taunt him as they pleased. Why tonight of all nights his mind seemed determined to dredge up every flutter and snatch of old pain and dream and hope and anguish he wasn’t certain. Perhaps it was the stress and worry he felt-what was going on up here while he’d whiled away his time down in Eastern, oblivious, foolishly imagining that if anything important happened he would know, damn it?-perhaps it was merely the strange melancholy that had fallen over him on the train ride up. Too much time alone, Mustang, he thought, and gave a slight laugh at his own expense, letting it shake him into movement.
Roy + Hughes backstory fic (first anime-based)
“I don’t cook, but I don’t snore, either. I don’t have any heinously irritating personal habits, unless you count my alchemical research, but then, I know you’re not afraid of fire. I stay up until ridiculous hours of the morning, but I’m not loud. I don’t often go to parties and I am not in the habit of inviting boisterous guests over to my quarters.” Roy Mustang’s voice was grave as it resounded tinnily along the phone line, just as if he hadn’t just opened a conversation from out of nowhere.
“I agree, you don’t have anything that remotely resembles a social life these days,” Maes Hughes answered easily. He leaned back against the wall of his apartment, still a bit bemused. “Some reason I suddenly need to know all the details of your personal habits, Roy?”
“All in all, I’m a perfect flatmate,” Roy continued as if he hadn’t heard.
Hughes grinned at the wall across from him. He was starting to have an idea of the reasons for this particular phone call. “How’s the research going, Mr. Future-State-Alchemist?”
Star Trek: The Original Series
It would have been illogical and without purpose to deny to himself that he had experienced a degree of wariness at the change in the Enterprise’s commanding officer. Under Christopher Pike he had been fortunate enough to encounter a patient and liberal immediate superior despite his alien nature. Pike had always been supportive of difference, welcoming of perspectives not his own and not originating from a similar way of thinking, whether he ultimately acted on those views or not. With Pike, Spock had felt that he was nothing more or less than Science Officer Spock, not Spock the Vulcan, not Spock the half-breed. He had not been cognizant of the relief such an atmosphere would afford him until he was in the midst of experiencing it. If he had been of a fanciful nature similar to the one so often exhibited by Doctor McCoy and, at times, Captain Kirk himself, he would have termed it a . . . safe haven of sorts. When Pike had left the Enterprise and Spock had remained behind to serve the ship’s new captain, he had fully expected the phenomenon to depart along with Pike. Starfleet was still a predominately human organization, the composition of its governing body notwithstanding, and non-humans such as himself, trusted allies and Federation co-founders nonetheless, were often distrusted, regarded with flat-out suspicion, at the very least avoided by the many humans who found them too difficult to understand or even to interact with. Spock had considered it both unlikely and illogical to hope that his next captain would be as open-minded and tolerant as Pike had been and had resigned himself to face that same mistrust and suspicion for the next five years.
Yet Kirk had surprised him, shocked him, neatly and quickly overturned his preconceived (and quite logical) expectations. Not only had he seemed equally as fair and open-minded as Pike had been, he had exhibited a certain curiosity in Spock-his thoughts, his background, his opinions, the reasoning behind his recommendations. Yet unlike so many simplistic curiosity-seekers Spock had encountered over the years, he did not pry, did not press Spock for information he found . . . uncomfortable to speak of. Kirk was easily informal without sacrificing courtesy, and his ease of manner did not entirely disguise the steel and focused discipline hidden beneath what even Spock recognized as golden, almost effortless, charm, nor did it hide the same discipline and respect he demanded of the others around him. And more than that. Kirk was not just open-minded, not just curious and respectful. He was . . . warm. Even to Spock, who did little to invite or reciprocate that warmth. Captain Pike had also treated him with respect, even with a certain restrained fondness, but he had never been warm. Pike was a kind man, a compassionate man, in many ways a thoughtful man, but he had always been cool. Aside from his mother, Spock had never experienced such an attitude directed specifically at him before in his life, and his mother had always seemed to want something from him, something he did not know how to give or even how to define. Captain Kirk seemed to want nothing from him except his company from time to time and the fulfillment of his duties to the best of his ability, something he had already been prepared to give whether Kirk asked it of him or not. It was . . . disconcerting.
Pirates of the Caribbean
This particular scene takes place after the third film and some serious reality altering shenanigans, as you'll no doubt notice, as Norrington is alive and the Interceptor is not at the bottom of the ocean
“Oi!” Jack burst out. “You’re wasting the rum.” Bloody outrage, that was. He scrambled to his feet and over to the side of the deck to search for it, poking his fingers into the various nooks and crannies created by the rope, tackle, and barrels.
He thought he saw Norrington rolling his eyes out of the corner of his own, but he couldn’t be entirely sure. Either way, the man continued as if he hadn’t said a thing. “Amiss?” he repeated. “Could there possibly be anything more amiss?”
“Hate to bring up bad memories and all that,” Jack said, still trying to locate the rum bottle, “but you’ve taken to piracy once already, you know.”
Even with his back turned to the man, Norrington’s wince was obvious. “Do you imagine I am proud of it?” That voice was scathing, but Jack at that very moment spotted the bottle, still nearly a quarter full, and reached down to grab it with a noise of triumph.
“Ah,” he said as he took a long swallow and turned to settle himself against the side of the Interceptor with a flourish, propping himself against the barrel. “You were saying?”
“Piracy,” Norrington spat, his eyes flashing as if by anger and fervor alone he could bring Jack to understand the fundamental truth of his words, “is a wretched, parasitic practice that leads strong, experienced, able men, even occasionally good men-” and he flung the word at Jack like it was shot from the Interceptor’s cannon “-to prey upon the weak and helpless whom it is their duty to protect, to take for themselves what they have not earned and is rightly meant for others. It is debased and criminal and violently, supremely selfish, it leads to murder and rape and pillage, it shatters lives and livelihoods, and because of that, Captain Sparrow, it is wrong.”
Jack looked down at the rum bottle and tossed back most of the rest of it, relishing the sweet burn at the back of his throat. “Supremely selfish, eh, mate?” he asked.
Apparently Norrington had reached the limit of what he could approach with even a desperate attempt at calm rationality. “What else could it possibly be?” he burst out. “By its very definition there is nothing more selfish than piracy-taking the possessions of another for oneself, on the sea, where the other can have no valid escape or recourse, and doing so at the point of a sword or the barrel of a pistol! What else can you possibly claim it to be, Captain Sparrow?”
“Oh, aye, it’s selfish, Norrington, no denying that,” Jack said easily. “I’ve never claimed to be aught but a selfish man. But I was just thinkin’, if we’re going to define piracy in those particular terms, how d’ye classify your very actions concerning the heart of Davy Jones? Because they seem an awful lot like your wretched piracy, wouldn’t you say? It certainly didn’t belong to you-” he began to count his points off on his fingers “-and though you didn’t remove it from its original owner-” he grimaced at the grisly thought “-there was certainly a prior claim to the thing, several, in fact, which you ignored when you took it for yourself, the act of which did take place on the sea, and I seem to remember the point of a sword being involved. Rather vividly, actually.”
Final Fantasy VII
Reno and Rude discuss how confusing the plot is
“Cloud Strife,” Reno said, and pushed his chair back away from the computer, spinning around in his desk chair before he let both boots thunk onto the desktop, stretching as he leaned back in the chair. “You know, Rude, there’s something screwy going on here. The records back me up on this one, too. There was never a Cloud Strife in SOLDIER-not 1st class, not diddly-fucking-squat-from Nibelheim or anywhere else.”
Rude grunted.
“Thanks, man,” Reno said. He narrowed his eyes at the screen. “I want to know what’s going on here. There’s no way he’s never worked for the company. How else would he get eyes like that?”
“Might be better not to find out,” Rude said after a moment of silence in the room except for his measured typing on the report he was entering and Reno’s fingers drumming on the side of the desk.
“If this Strife kid has records above our security clearance,” Reno said with a laugh, “then we’d better find out about him, as fast as we damn well can. Before he gets to be a real big problem.”
Cloud and Zack centric prequel fic
A heavy arm settled around his shoulders, and that time he really did jump. Zack’s hand settled on his head and roughly tousled his hair. “H-hey!” Cloud burst out. He tried to shove Zack off him, but Zack’s superhuman SOLDIER strength wasn’t going to be affected by a little thing like MP Cloud Strife shoving at him, no matter how much MP Strife might work out.
Zack just laughed and tousled Cloud’s hair even more ruthlessly for a moment before finally letting him go. Cloud sputtered and shoved his arm off his shoulders, and Zack staggered back and pretended to clutch at his arm.
It wasn’t fucking funny. Cloud glared and hunched his shoulders, staring down at the beer. He knew he couldn’t put a dent in Zack, or in any other SOLDIER, not in a million years. He knew that, and . . . .
Zack plopped himself right back down on the barstool next to Cloud. “Just drink it!” he said. “Not going to bite.”
Cloud could feel himself flush, even as he reached up to check the damage done by Zack’s aggressive idea of a head pat. “No kidding,” he muttered. “Not like it has teeth.”
Star Wars
Atton/Exile post-KotOR II fic, based on the deleted content from the game that had Atton accompanying the Exile into the Unknown Regions
He knew that. Of course he knew. Just like how he knew he couldn’t do anything else. Be cool, he told himself. Don’t say anything mushy and stupid. Don’t let on, idiot. “Yeah,” he said after a moment. “I know. But hey, I figured I’d already signed up. Might as well get the full experience out of the deal.”
She laughed that time, a low chuckle that was still somehow warm. Her hand settled over his-she had strong hands, but slender ones, small in comparison to their strength-and squeezed, curling her fingers over his. “This isn’t the normal Jedi experience, Atton,” she said. “So far as I know what that is, anyway. And it isn’t going to be. I think we both know that.”
“Sure,” Atton said easily. “Besides, I figured the normal experiences wasn’t for me. You know. ‘Yes, Master,’ and levitating rocks and all of it. Not my thing.”
“Does that mean I don’t get to hear you call me master?” she asked, her eyes sparkling at him again, at least for a brief moment, for the first time since she’d left them all for Malachor. She winked, and she didn’t move her hand.
Atton swallowed again, hard, and thought frantically about the hyperspace route from Onderon to Coruscant.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said in his most suggestive tone. “Depends on the situation, I guess.”
She laughed. “I can see I’ll just have to persuade you,” she said. “At least, if I wanted to have the experience of being a real master. Whatever that is. But I think I’ll pass. I never did want your average Padawan, anyway.” She squeezed his hand once more, then gently pulled hers away. She took a deep breath. “Well,” she said. “Punch it. Let’s get ourselves away from this rock.”
Wedge Antilles and Wes Janson friendship fic
“And try to swallow my ale with Tainer shooting blaster bolts at me out of his eyes? No, I’d rather avoid the man who’s going to blow me up.”
“He’s not going to blow you up, Wes.”
Janson looked at him out of the corner of his eye. “Wanna bet?”
“He won’t.” Wedge grinned, the old smile Janson remembered from the days when Luke was still Rogue Leader. “But if he does, I’ll vape him.”
“I’m sure the cold lifeless shreds of my body will thank you, Commander,” Janson said gravely. Sith, it was good to see that smile again.
“Are you trying to tell me that a simple bomb would be enough to kill you, Janson?” Wedge asked. “Because I’m not convinced.”
“Ah, caught!” Janson said with mock dismay. “At last you have discovered my secret.”
“Which secret would that be?” Wedge asked, and Janson grinned. He really had missed kidding around like this with Wedge.
“That I’m immortal, what else?”
“I knew it.”
“Don’t tell Tainer, I’m sure he’ll try to think of a way to end me anyway.”
Wedge sighed. “Are you getting paranoid, or is it just me?”
This was supposed to be an atmospheric Jaina and Zekk centric fic about the intersection of the New Jedi Order and the Old . . . so yeah?
The ruin is ancient. It’s hard to imagine that it stood here for millennia before the troops of the Empire came and reduced it to what it is now, a ruin that seems to echo with dust and Jedi ghosts. The wind that whispers around it is almost a voice that she can hear in her ears, whistling through cracked and broken spires, tugging at her hair and the edges of her clothing.
More, Academy-era, Jaina/Zekk
Jaina mimed knocking on the doorway of the small stone room of Yavin 4’s Great Temple. “Mind if I come in?” she asked.
The small room had an exterior window that let in the warm, humid air of the jungle moon. The trickle of water from the cistern Jaina had installed was a soft echo under the ambient noise from the jungle, and made the room feel a bit cooler. Other than that, the room was largely bare. Jaina had grown used to the clutter of salvaged parts and other useful detritus Zekk had found that filled the rooms Zekk had shared with Peckhum on Coruscant, but there was none of that here, except for a basic toolkit on a workbench in the corner and a two small storage containers, one with a blaster lying on top of it. It seemed oddly impersonal.
Zekk looked up at her as if startled from where he was sitting cross-legged on his form bed, a quick smile crossing his features at the sight of her. “Jaina!” he said. “Sure. I mean, feel free.”
Jaina smiled back and stepped inside. “Kind of bare, don’t you think?” she asked, making a show of scanning the naked walls of the room.
Zekk shrugged, setting down the datapad in his hand. “I don’t have that much,” he said, “and half of it’s in the Lightning Rod, anyway.” He grinned at Jaina. “C’mon, Jay, you know me-I wouldn’t know what to do with a lot of stuff, anyway.”
Dragon Age
I was doing a series of first person, character centric practice shorts, this is from Alistair's perspective.
So, funny story. Tell me if you’ve heard this one.
So there’s this boy, right? And he’s raised without a father, or a mother. And he doesn’t think anything of it at first. I mean, why would he? But he’s not that stupid; eventually he does notice that the other boys have parents. Other people tend to helpfully point it out, anyway. “Oh, Alistair, have you noticed you have no parents? And no last name? Isn’t that just terrible?”
So eventually he asks the man who’s taken him in about it. And will you look at that-he’s the illegitimate son of the king, or so he says!
To be totally honest, he was hoping that what they’d said before was true. That he was the son of that man who had raised him. Or . . . sort of raised him. Gave him a home, anyway. But the king-that’s almost as good, right? Kings are important. Even if it was made quite clear to him that he shouldn’t get any big ideas about becoming king himself. Not that he wants to. Oh, Maker, he doesn’t want to.
Ah, not the point. Getting sidetracked.
The point being that after that, well . . . the reason he’d asked was to see if he had a family. And at first this boy is excited that his father is the king. But after a while it starts to sink in what that really means. His father wasn’t married to his mother, after all; kings don't marry servant girls. So, no family after all, really.
He saw his father twice in his whole life. Once in Denerim, at some public event where he was . . . being kingly. Or something. He wasn’t really paying attention. But his father . . . well, you pay attention to the king. Even when you don’t know he’s your father. And he looked pretty . . . well, impressive, in his silverite armor and all of it. Very . . . blond.
And this is from Sten's--
The people of this land are stranger even than I at first thought. They see their deaths approaching and do nothing. Some of them flee, but not enough. They are too disorganized. Many of them will die. Their priests do not lead them. Their warriors do not lead them. No one leads, and so they will suffer. It is a . . . strange way to live. And to die. Deaths without honor. Surely they cannot wish this.
I did not wish it, either, however. Perhaps it is simply too late for them, as it is for me. However, they cannot seem to recognize it. It is not a pleasant thing to recognize, I will admit, but what use is there in denying it? It gets them nowhere, just as it would get me nowhere. Cage or no cage, it matters little. Asala is gone, and a death with honor is far beyond my reach, just as is my soul. Either these people should act, or realize that their deaths approach as surely as mine does.
I never thought it would come to this. I remember waking up in the farmer’s hovel. Remember strange, concerned faces, soft and . . . pale and . . . wrong. Not my brothers. My brothers are dead. I recall their deaths, one by one, at the hands of the darkspawn creatures. I was their sten, meant to lead them, and I could do nothing. The arishok asked, “What is the Blight?” Perhaps my answer for him is simply, “death.”
And this is from Leliana's.
It’s from Transfigurations 10, but you probably knew that, didn’t you? Yes? You did-well, there you have it, no? Don’t you think it’s beautiful, though? I always have, myself. It would be wrong to have a preference for one part of the Chant over another, I suppose, but I have to admit I’ve always been a bit partial to the Canticles of Andraste and Transfigurations. There is a quality in them that seems to resonate with the beauty of the Maker’s creation. Do you not think so? When I first joined the Chantry, I would spend hours reading over them, in particular. They were very comforting, I think. For me, at least. When I first arrived there, I feared that I would never find beauty in anything, ever again, and yet the verses of the Chant were so clear and simple. Beautiful in their simplicity. I had forgotten, I think, that things could be like that, possessing such beauty in their plainness. Things are not like that in Orlais, they are ever more elaborate and ornate, and beauty there comes from complexity.
This one is a DA II fic.
“I take joy in the simple things,” Varric said. “You should try it sometime.”
“I did too, once,” Anders said, his face losing the smile. “I could be happy just with a mug of bad ale and the taste of freedom, once.”
“What changed?” Varric asked.
“I realized that most other mages would never be that lucky,” Anders said. “You can’t know . . . you can’t realize how lucky you are, how lucky you’ve been, just to have your freedom. Not unless you’ve had to live without it, with some templar breathing down your neck and following you to the privy and back, just in case taking a piss brings a demon out of the woodwork.”
“Sounds like how I imagine Orzammar,” Varric admitted, “but with more demons and less stiff-necked self-congratulation.”
“So maybe you do know how lucky you are,” Anders said. “I have to say, Orzammar never struck me as being the greatest place in Thedas.” He sighed. “I just-it kills me to think that I’m one of the lucky ones.”
“You don’t seem all that lucky to me, Blondie,” Varric muttered.
And there we go. I have a lot more, in fact, but that's either mostly in the idea stage, or I couldn't find it, or I'm just not happy enough with it to show parts of it to anyone yet, and thus I will keep it hidden in the depths of my computer for the time being.
Right now would be a grand example of one of those times. He was sure Zoe or the Doctor could have had this door open in a flash, but as it was he was in here, and they were out there, and the people on this world-queer pale folk they were, too-had thought locking him up in here would do to keep him away from his friends, and that, well, it was just no good at all. The Doctor and Zoe were in danger, and they needed him, he knew they did, and he was stuck in here behind a simple closed door that he was sure either of them would have had open in no time at all. Jamie knew that most of these doors opened whenever anyone got near them with no trouble at all, so this one must have been specially made not to-else it wouldn’t have been much good as a prison, and it was doing a fine job at the moment-but he didn’t even understand how they worked in the first place, let alone how it had been made to stay shut. But he had to get out of there, and that was all there was to it. He’d tried prising it open, but that had been no good and had made his fingers bleed-tried knocking it down, but that had only bruised his shoulders and it still hadn’t budged. But there was no way he was going to sit around here for the Doctor and Zoe to rescue him, especially when he knew as sure as his name was James Robert MacCrimmon that they needed his help. Jamie stood in the center of the small, plain room they’d used as a cell, put his aching hands on his hips, and stared the door down.
There's also an unfinished Nine/Rose fic around here someplace, but I can't seem to find it.
Hetalia
Unfinished US/UK relationship troubles fic
England leaned his chin on his hand and looked unwilling toward America, feeling uncomfortable at the direction of his own eyes. America was speaking with France, looking annoyed and a little confused, not precisely an unusual occurrence these days. England caught the word Chrysler as America snapped at France, his gestures even larger and more out of control than usual, and sighed. More about the global recession, then. He was frankly rather tired of talking about it, himself. Only so many times you could go over “well, we’ve all bollocksed it up but good, haven’t we, how do we fix it?” before you began feeling like committing bloody murder at the sound of the word “incentive.”
To be quite honest, his attention was nearly entirely taken up with other concerns at the moment.
Namely, that America hadn’t so much as kissed him for nearly a week.
An entire week, when he usually had to practically pry the younger nation off him. It was . . . all right, so it was rather awful. It wasn’t so much that he missed the sex-though it was terribly unfair, he thought, cruel, even, to get a bloke used to having it again, expecting it, and then force him back into buggering celibacy, or rather, not buggering, which was the entire issue.
But he was rather finding that he missed America. Which was ridiculous. They were round each other constantly, after all. They were still sharing a bed and a hotel room. They talked to each other every night.
Gen story about America's remembrances of growing up with England
The truth was, there had never even been once in his life when America had resented how England had raised him. Sure, he’d been gone a lot, but that was just how these things worked-if he’d been around all the time, America would have never turned out as tough and independent and awesome as he’d been even all the way back in the beginning, right? England, more than anyone, had taught him how to be strong.
He hadn’t been harsh about it. He’d been gruff, of course, and stern, but snap at America as he might, and give him punishments that had seemed to America at the time terribly horrific, like chopping wood or extra chores, all that had just taught America that sure, maybe you were going to shoot off your mouth, but you had to be ready to face what would happen afterward. England had never even laid a hand on him-there had been once he’d screwed up his face and raised his hand when America had admittedly been asking for it, since he’d set it up so a bucket of water had doused his least favorite servant, the one who made America sit still and have lessons and do things like sound out words on a slate-but then England had lowered his hand and taken America by the shoulders and told him why he should learn to read, all the great things he could learn about if he did, about natural science and history and all the adventures and great heroes he could read about in books, about how he could read the stories England told him by himself if he learned. And America thought about England’s husky, rounded voice warming over the words of the stories about King Arthur that he told him, and he thought that maybe if he could read them could hear England’s voice even when he wasn’t there. And England said there were even more wonderful things than stories about King Arthur in books-and England liked to read. That cemented America’s decision.
Phoenix Wright
This is Phoenix/Edgeworth established relationship stuff, for context
Wright shook his head, but took Edgeworth by both arms and tugged him into his apartment before shutting the door behind him. “You could at least have used an umbrella,” he added in an inexplicable tone that held an even more inexplicable depth of affection. “All right, stay there,” he said after a moment, and ducked away out of sight, leaving Edgeworth to stand, dripping, in the shabby entryway of Wright’s dilapidated apartment. The carpet was scuffed, and there was paint peeling on the wall just behind the door. Edgeworth lifted one hand to touch it, still feeling rather dazed. He’d been feeling that way ever since before leaving his office. Perhaps that was why he hadn’t taken shelter when it had begun to rain, he wasn’t sure. Just as he wasn’t sure why he’d followed the impulse that had led him in the direction of Wright’s run-down apartment building. It was frankly embarrassing that he knew not only the address but how to get there, even walking, from his office, even if he and Wright were in . . . well, whatever sort of relationship they were in. Thinking about it made his chest tighten in an uneasy combination of elation and tension that held more than a touch of dread, and he shook his head at himself.
Wright reappeared with a towel, blushing faintly. “Sorry it’s such a mess,” he said in a rather shamefaced tone, and raised the towel to wipe rain away from Edgeworth’s face.
“No more of a mess than one might expect,” Edgeworth said. He hadn’t really meant it as a criticism, but Wright reddened still further.
“Thanks a lot,” he muttered, and tossed the end of the towel over Edgeworth’s hair. “You mind if I do this?” he asked with a slight laugh. “You’re really soaked.”
Edgeworth felt his own cheeks heat and shrugged, looking away, which Wright of course, knowing him, took as permission to begin rubbing the towel over his hair. His touch was surprisingly gentle, one broad hand curving around the back of Edgeworth’s neck, strong and very warm even through the rough terrycloth. Edgeworth felt the flush over his cheeks deepen as Wright, seemingly with great concentration, toweled off his forehead, pushing dripping locks of hair gently away from his skin.
Different fic, more Edgeworth angsting--seems to be a theme with me
It was, as personal revelations went, rather in the pathetic vein, to say the least. Much to his shame, Miles Edgeworth had in fact spent most of his life hiding his more pathetic qualities from anyone who might catch a glimpse of them. Most of all, hiding them from Phoenix Wright, laughable proposition as that was. Wright could be so remarkably pathetic himself that Edgeworth occasionally wondered why he bothered, but so much as the thought of the other man discovering how weak and pitiable Edgeworth really could be beneath his public persona made him feel rather nauseated. After all, Wright was, somehow, someone whose opinion of him seemed to matter to Edgeworth to an absurd degree.
This particular revelation was simply more of the same, even if it did happen to concern Wright rather personally. That simply made it all the more frustrating, not to mention all the more pathetic. When it occurred to him, Edgeworth very nearly dropped the coffee cup in his hand, and managed to spill a bit over the side. Luckily it didn’t reach his clothing, but it did sting his hand rather badly. He had to put it down on the table and take a deep breath to steady himself as he wiped at his hand rather ineffectually with one of the paper napkins provided and stubbornly buried the urge to curse.
Lord of the Rings fic
Eowyn and Eomer fic focusing on their brother-sister relationship
When they were children, Éowyn would ride with Éomer over the green meadows and grasslands of the Mark, her laughter filling the air even as her mount fell far behind his horse and she urged the old pony fruitlessly onward to try and catch up. Éomer himself would laugh when she would take up the blunt practice sword he had been given (for Gúthwinë, the gift of his father, was yet too large for his arm, and not fit for the practice yards of the boys), or take one of the other boys’, oftentimes without their leave, and they would fight out the battles of Helm Hammerhand and Fréca or the deeds of Éorl between them in the yards surrounding their father’s hall, clothed in their minds in shining mail and the green cloaks of warriors. As a boy he was proud of her, of her boldness and the valor in her the equal of any of the boys, and in those days only his cousin Théodred seemed to him a better companion in the fields of his youth.
As time passed and they aged, things changed, so gradually at first that Éomer was hardly aware of it, like the slowness of chill seeping into the days as they drew ever closer to the first frost.
Aragorn-Legolas first meeting fic (turning out to be good fight scene writing practice)
“And therein lies your answer,” the elf said shortly. “But if you have not spied it yet, I will not give it to you.”
“Surely it is best to tell us all of what you know,” Aragorn said, “if we are to fight together.”
The elf dropped his eyes and turned to bow his head, but to Aragorn’s eye it seemed as if the chill of his anger was undiminished. Whence had that rage come, he wondered, for the folk of Mirkwood had seemed to him ever light of heart, and quick to forgive. What sorrows and pains had this elf seen in this place? “I do not trust you, who claim to be of the Dúnedain,” the elf said shortly. “But if you would aid me, I would not deny you.”
“Surely our speech marks us as true Men of the West,” Aragorn said, his anger returning like a flame. “Do we not converse as those of your own kindred?”
“Even our speech can be learnt,” came the elf’s response. “I am in haste. Come, if you would aid me, and if not then take your leave.” He turned away from them and started again down the passage.
Swordspoint
A sequel to the other Swordspoint fic I wrote
He discovered immediately that Richard had, in fact, still been asleep, because he woke at that, and while Alec’s eyes were still attempting to manage the business of opening again at such short notice, Richard was bolt upright in bed and the sword was in his hand, lying negligently across his lap at an angle Alec thought would be immediately unhealthy should he sit up.
Alec blinked, and then slid one hand down against the bed and pushed himself upward. The speed with which Richard removed the sword from the general vicinity of his throat was honestly enough to make him blush again. Richard himself swore, quite fervently. “Hell, Alec,” he finished, “I could have killed you.”
Alec stared at him a moment, something about hearing that name on Richard’s lips again this morning striking him, then smiled at him. “Nicked me, maybe,” he said. “I don’t know much, if anything, about fighting, but surely it would take a bit more force in the wrist to kill a man.” He reached out and ran his fingers over Richard’s wrist. More than enough strength there, at the right angle, of course. He curled his fingers around Richard’s pulse.
Richard stared at him in return, then blinked. “Yes,” he said. “Well, I’d rather not hurt you. What kind of a greeting is that? Yes, you were amazing last night, now let me cut your throat.” He sheathed the sword and set it aside, then ran his thumb carefully down Alec’s throat. The warm brush of the callus of Richard’s thumb made him swallow despite himself.
Fullmetal Alchemist
Havoc backstory fic, first anime-based
His mother was standing on the front steps, her hands on her hips and her graying golden-brown hair coming loose from its practical bun in wisps all around her face. Her mouth was set in a thin, rigid line. Jean swallowed hard, balled his hands up into fists, and stepped out of the barn.
“Jean! There you are,” Maman said at the sight of him. Jean nodded meekly, keeping his head down as he carefully picked his way across the farmyard toward her. A moment later, he heard the words he'd been expecting, “What have you done to your clothes, young man? I don't dress you like some beggar in the town square! You look like you've been rolling in pig slops; do you have no regard for your own dignity? What about our family? You're an absolute mess! What kind of an example for your cousins do you think you set like this? What about your own sisters?”
Jean doubted his cousins would model themselves after what he did, let alone if he chose to roll around in the mud or not, and his sisters were either too little to care or not much inclined to that kind of behavior anyway, but somehow Maman made it sound like he'd done something horribly, terribly, earth-shatteringly wrong that would reflect on the name and spiritual development of his relatives forever. “Sorry,” Jean mumbled, coming to a stop in front of her, still looking fixedly down at his shoes. He rubbed one hand nervously against the cloth of his trousers. “I didn't mean to . . . sorry.”
“I certainly hope you're sorry,” his mother snapped. He nodded, keeping his gaze downcast. He knew what was coming, and felt a sort of vindicated misery when he heard it. “Jean Pietr! Look at me when I'm talking to you!”
Roy introspection fic
In all likelihood, none of it would have happened except for the unprecedented occurrence of the late-night express bound for Central getting in far earlier than expected. It left Roy Mustang standing in the train station with an aimlessness of purpose that he hadn’t expected and didn’t particularly like, especially considering the frantic clarity of intent he had boarded with hours ago. But he’d anticipated reaching Central at some unholy hour the next morning at the earliest, with just enough time to straighten himself up before heading to Headquarters. In order to reach the city in time to do that even that much, he had split up with Riza in New Hiessgart to catch the faster train while she followed on the slower with the majority of their things. After all, it was common knowledge throughout Amestris that the night train was always late.
Roy sighed, rolled his eyes at the irony of a world where public transportation being on schedule was more troublesome than the alternative, and resigned himself to hailing a cab. He hadn’t had to resort to that expedient in quite a few years, a perk of having achieved a modicum of rank and respectability in the military he had made his career, but there was no point in contacting Central Headquarters and demanding a driver at this hour, even for the boost to his ego, for he wouldn’t have gotten one. He was only a Colonel as yet, he reminded himself, the thought flavored with the dryness of scorn, not a General to be paraded around at any hour he chose with pomp and ceremony.
And he wasn’t being honest with himself. Not that that was anything new. The idea of putting himself on public display like that for no better reason than that of ego and self-gratification made him feel vaguely ill. Roy felt his lips curl up into a soft, self-mocking smile as he ran the fingers of his right hand, for once not encased in the stiff cloth of his gloves, over the surface of the silver watch lying buried in his pocket where it usually remained, hard and cold and solid through the loose folds of the uniform against the curve of his thigh, invisible to any but him.
Memories of the past flooded his mind without his invitation at the feel of it beneath his hands-Mäes lifting the watch from where he’d tossed it against the wall and folding Roy’s own limp fingers back around it, leaving warm hands clasped around his, “Don’t through away everything you’ve worked for, Roy, just don’t, all right?”-and Roy forced his fingers to unclench from around the smooth metal and banish the images back to where they belonged. Where that was he wasn’t entirely sure and never had been, but it was not at the forefront of his thoughts, where they could flicker to taunt him as they pleased. Why tonight of all nights his mind seemed determined to dredge up every flutter and snatch of old pain and dream and hope and anguish he wasn’t certain. Perhaps it was the stress and worry he felt-what was going on up here while he’d whiled away his time down in Eastern, oblivious, foolishly imagining that if anything important happened he would know, damn it?-perhaps it was merely the strange melancholy that had fallen over him on the train ride up. Too much time alone, Mustang, he thought, and gave a slight laugh at his own expense, letting it shake him into movement.
Roy + Hughes backstory fic (first anime-based)
“I don’t cook, but I don’t snore, either. I don’t have any heinously irritating personal habits, unless you count my alchemical research, but then, I know you’re not afraid of fire. I stay up until ridiculous hours of the morning, but I’m not loud. I don’t often go to parties and I am not in the habit of inviting boisterous guests over to my quarters.” Roy Mustang’s voice was grave as it resounded tinnily along the phone line, just as if he hadn’t just opened a conversation from out of nowhere.
“I agree, you don’t have anything that remotely resembles a social life these days,” Maes Hughes answered easily. He leaned back against the wall of his apartment, still a bit bemused. “Some reason I suddenly need to know all the details of your personal habits, Roy?”
“All in all, I’m a perfect flatmate,” Roy continued as if he hadn’t heard.
Hughes grinned at the wall across from him. He was starting to have an idea of the reasons for this particular phone call. “How’s the research going, Mr. Future-State-Alchemist?”
Star Trek: The Original Series
It would have been illogical and without purpose to deny to himself that he had experienced a degree of wariness at the change in the Enterprise’s commanding officer. Under Christopher Pike he had been fortunate enough to encounter a patient and liberal immediate superior despite his alien nature. Pike had always been supportive of difference, welcoming of perspectives not his own and not originating from a similar way of thinking, whether he ultimately acted on those views or not. With Pike, Spock had felt that he was nothing more or less than Science Officer Spock, not Spock the Vulcan, not Spock the half-breed. He had not been cognizant of the relief such an atmosphere would afford him until he was in the midst of experiencing it. If he had been of a fanciful nature similar to the one so often exhibited by Doctor McCoy and, at times, Captain Kirk himself, he would have termed it a . . . safe haven of sorts. When Pike had left the Enterprise and Spock had remained behind to serve the ship’s new captain, he had fully expected the phenomenon to depart along with Pike. Starfleet was still a predominately human organization, the composition of its governing body notwithstanding, and non-humans such as himself, trusted allies and Federation co-founders nonetheless, were often distrusted, regarded with flat-out suspicion, at the very least avoided by the many humans who found them too difficult to understand or even to interact with. Spock had considered it both unlikely and illogical to hope that his next captain would be as open-minded and tolerant as Pike had been and had resigned himself to face that same mistrust and suspicion for the next five years.
Yet Kirk had surprised him, shocked him, neatly and quickly overturned his preconceived (and quite logical) expectations. Not only had he seemed equally as fair and open-minded as Pike had been, he had exhibited a certain curiosity in Spock-his thoughts, his background, his opinions, the reasoning behind his recommendations. Yet unlike so many simplistic curiosity-seekers Spock had encountered over the years, he did not pry, did not press Spock for information he found . . . uncomfortable to speak of. Kirk was easily informal without sacrificing courtesy, and his ease of manner did not entirely disguise the steel and focused discipline hidden beneath what even Spock recognized as golden, almost effortless, charm, nor did it hide the same discipline and respect he demanded of the others around him. And more than that. Kirk was not just open-minded, not just curious and respectful. He was . . . warm. Even to Spock, who did little to invite or reciprocate that warmth. Captain Pike had also treated him with respect, even with a certain restrained fondness, but he had never been warm. Pike was a kind man, a compassionate man, in many ways a thoughtful man, but he had always been cool. Aside from his mother, Spock had never experienced such an attitude directed specifically at him before in his life, and his mother had always seemed to want something from him, something he did not know how to give or even how to define. Captain Kirk seemed to want nothing from him except his company from time to time and the fulfillment of his duties to the best of his ability, something he had already been prepared to give whether Kirk asked it of him or not. It was . . . disconcerting.
Pirates of the Caribbean
This particular scene takes place after the third film and some serious reality altering shenanigans, as you'll no doubt notice, as Norrington is alive and the Interceptor is not at the bottom of the ocean
“Oi!” Jack burst out. “You’re wasting the rum.” Bloody outrage, that was. He scrambled to his feet and over to the side of the deck to search for it, poking his fingers into the various nooks and crannies created by the rope, tackle, and barrels.
He thought he saw Norrington rolling his eyes out of the corner of his own, but he couldn’t be entirely sure. Either way, the man continued as if he hadn’t said a thing. “Amiss?” he repeated. “Could there possibly be anything more amiss?”
“Hate to bring up bad memories and all that,” Jack said, still trying to locate the rum bottle, “but you’ve taken to piracy once already, you know.”
Even with his back turned to the man, Norrington’s wince was obvious. “Do you imagine I am proud of it?” That voice was scathing, but Jack at that very moment spotted the bottle, still nearly a quarter full, and reached down to grab it with a noise of triumph.
“Ah,” he said as he took a long swallow and turned to settle himself against the side of the Interceptor with a flourish, propping himself against the barrel. “You were saying?”
“Piracy,” Norrington spat, his eyes flashing as if by anger and fervor alone he could bring Jack to understand the fundamental truth of his words, “is a wretched, parasitic practice that leads strong, experienced, able men, even occasionally good men-” and he flung the word at Jack like it was shot from the Interceptor’s cannon “-to prey upon the weak and helpless whom it is their duty to protect, to take for themselves what they have not earned and is rightly meant for others. It is debased and criminal and violently, supremely selfish, it leads to murder and rape and pillage, it shatters lives and livelihoods, and because of that, Captain Sparrow, it is wrong.”
Jack looked down at the rum bottle and tossed back most of the rest of it, relishing the sweet burn at the back of his throat. “Supremely selfish, eh, mate?” he asked.
Apparently Norrington had reached the limit of what he could approach with even a desperate attempt at calm rationality. “What else could it possibly be?” he burst out. “By its very definition there is nothing more selfish than piracy-taking the possessions of another for oneself, on the sea, where the other can have no valid escape or recourse, and doing so at the point of a sword or the barrel of a pistol! What else can you possibly claim it to be, Captain Sparrow?”
“Oh, aye, it’s selfish, Norrington, no denying that,” Jack said easily. “I’ve never claimed to be aught but a selfish man. But I was just thinkin’, if we’re going to define piracy in those particular terms, how d’ye classify your very actions concerning the heart of Davy Jones? Because they seem an awful lot like your wretched piracy, wouldn’t you say? It certainly didn’t belong to you-” he began to count his points off on his fingers “-and though you didn’t remove it from its original owner-” he grimaced at the grisly thought “-there was certainly a prior claim to the thing, several, in fact, which you ignored when you took it for yourself, the act of which did take place on the sea, and I seem to remember the point of a sword being involved. Rather vividly, actually.”
Final Fantasy VII
Reno and Rude discuss how confusing the plot is
“Cloud Strife,” Reno said, and pushed his chair back away from the computer, spinning around in his desk chair before he let both boots thunk onto the desktop, stretching as he leaned back in the chair. “You know, Rude, there’s something screwy going on here. The records back me up on this one, too. There was never a Cloud Strife in SOLDIER-not 1st class, not diddly-fucking-squat-from Nibelheim or anywhere else.”
Rude grunted.
“Thanks, man,” Reno said. He narrowed his eyes at the screen. “I want to know what’s going on here. There’s no way he’s never worked for the company. How else would he get eyes like that?”
“Might be better not to find out,” Rude said after a moment of silence in the room except for his measured typing on the report he was entering and Reno’s fingers drumming on the side of the desk.
“If this Strife kid has records above our security clearance,” Reno said with a laugh, “then we’d better find out about him, as fast as we damn well can. Before he gets to be a real big problem.”
Cloud and Zack centric prequel fic
A heavy arm settled around his shoulders, and that time he really did jump. Zack’s hand settled on his head and roughly tousled his hair. “H-hey!” Cloud burst out. He tried to shove Zack off him, but Zack’s superhuman SOLDIER strength wasn’t going to be affected by a little thing like MP Cloud Strife shoving at him, no matter how much MP Strife might work out.
Zack just laughed and tousled Cloud’s hair even more ruthlessly for a moment before finally letting him go. Cloud sputtered and shoved his arm off his shoulders, and Zack staggered back and pretended to clutch at his arm.
It wasn’t fucking funny. Cloud glared and hunched his shoulders, staring down at the beer. He knew he couldn’t put a dent in Zack, or in any other SOLDIER, not in a million years. He knew that, and . . . .
Zack plopped himself right back down on the barstool next to Cloud. “Just drink it!” he said. “Not going to bite.”
Cloud could feel himself flush, even as he reached up to check the damage done by Zack’s aggressive idea of a head pat. “No kidding,” he muttered. “Not like it has teeth.”
Star Wars
Atton/Exile post-KotOR II fic, based on the deleted content from the game that had Atton accompanying the Exile into the Unknown Regions
He knew that. Of course he knew. Just like how he knew he couldn’t do anything else. Be cool, he told himself. Don’t say anything mushy and stupid. Don’t let on, idiot. “Yeah,” he said after a moment. “I know. But hey, I figured I’d already signed up. Might as well get the full experience out of the deal.”
She laughed that time, a low chuckle that was still somehow warm. Her hand settled over his-she had strong hands, but slender ones, small in comparison to their strength-and squeezed, curling her fingers over his. “This isn’t the normal Jedi experience, Atton,” she said. “So far as I know what that is, anyway. And it isn’t going to be. I think we both know that.”
“Sure,” Atton said easily. “Besides, I figured the normal experiences wasn’t for me. You know. ‘Yes, Master,’ and levitating rocks and all of it. Not my thing.”
“Does that mean I don’t get to hear you call me master?” she asked, her eyes sparkling at him again, at least for a brief moment, for the first time since she’d left them all for Malachor. She winked, and she didn’t move her hand.
Atton swallowed again, hard, and thought frantically about the hyperspace route from Onderon to Coruscant.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said in his most suggestive tone. “Depends on the situation, I guess.”
She laughed. “I can see I’ll just have to persuade you,” she said. “At least, if I wanted to have the experience of being a real master. Whatever that is. But I think I’ll pass. I never did want your average Padawan, anyway.” She squeezed his hand once more, then gently pulled hers away. She took a deep breath. “Well,” she said. “Punch it. Let’s get ourselves away from this rock.”
Wedge Antilles and Wes Janson friendship fic
“And try to swallow my ale with Tainer shooting blaster bolts at me out of his eyes? No, I’d rather avoid the man who’s going to blow me up.”
“He’s not going to blow you up, Wes.”
Janson looked at him out of the corner of his eye. “Wanna bet?”
“He won’t.” Wedge grinned, the old smile Janson remembered from the days when Luke was still Rogue Leader. “But if he does, I’ll vape him.”
“I’m sure the cold lifeless shreds of my body will thank you, Commander,” Janson said gravely. Sith, it was good to see that smile again.
“Are you trying to tell me that a simple bomb would be enough to kill you, Janson?” Wedge asked. “Because I’m not convinced.”
“Ah, caught!” Janson said with mock dismay. “At last you have discovered my secret.”
“Which secret would that be?” Wedge asked, and Janson grinned. He really had missed kidding around like this with Wedge.
“That I’m immortal, what else?”
“I knew it.”
“Don’t tell Tainer, I’m sure he’ll try to think of a way to end me anyway.”
Wedge sighed. “Are you getting paranoid, or is it just me?”
This was supposed to be an atmospheric Jaina and Zekk centric fic about the intersection of the New Jedi Order and the Old . . . so yeah?
The ruin is ancient. It’s hard to imagine that it stood here for millennia before the troops of the Empire came and reduced it to what it is now, a ruin that seems to echo with dust and Jedi ghosts. The wind that whispers around it is almost a voice that she can hear in her ears, whistling through cracked and broken spires, tugging at her hair and the edges of her clothing.
More, Academy-era, Jaina/Zekk
Jaina mimed knocking on the doorway of the small stone room of Yavin 4’s Great Temple. “Mind if I come in?” she asked.
The small room had an exterior window that let in the warm, humid air of the jungle moon. The trickle of water from the cistern Jaina had installed was a soft echo under the ambient noise from the jungle, and made the room feel a bit cooler. Other than that, the room was largely bare. Jaina had grown used to the clutter of salvaged parts and other useful detritus Zekk had found that filled the rooms Zekk had shared with Peckhum on Coruscant, but there was none of that here, except for a basic toolkit on a workbench in the corner and a two small storage containers, one with a blaster lying on top of it. It seemed oddly impersonal.
Zekk looked up at her as if startled from where he was sitting cross-legged on his form bed, a quick smile crossing his features at the sight of her. “Jaina!” he said. “Sure. I mean, feel free.”
Jaina smiled back and stepped inside. “Kind of bare, don’t you think?” she asked, making a show of scanning the naked walls of the room.
Zekk shrugged, setting down the datapad in his hand. “I don’t have that much,” he said, “and half of it’s in the Lightning Rod, anyway.” He grinned at Jaina. “C’mon, Jay, you know me-I wouldn’t know what to do with a lot of stuff, anyway.”
Dragon Age
I was doing a series of first person, character centric practice shorts, this is from Alistair's perspective.
So, funny story. Tell me if you’ve heard this one.
So there’s this boy, right? And he’s raised without a father, or a mother. And he doesn’t think anything of it at first. I mean, why would he? But he’s not that stupid; eventually he does notice that the other boys have parents. Other people tend to helpfully point it out, anyway. “Oh, Alistair, have you noticed you have no parents? And no last name? Isn’t that just terrible?”
So eventually he asks the man who’s taken him in about it. And will you look at that-he’s the illegitimate son of the king, or so he says!
To be totally honest, he was hoping that what they’d said before was true. That he was the son of that man who had raised him. Or . . . sort of raised him. Gave him a home, anyway. But the king-that’s almost as good, right? Kings are important. Even if it was made quite clear to him that he shouldn’t get any big ideas about becoming king himself. Not that he wants to. Oh, Maker, he doesn’t want to.
Ah, not the point. Getting sidetracked.
The point being that after that, well . . . the reason he’d asked was to see if he had a family. And at first this boy is excited that his father is the king. But after a while it starts to sink in what that really means. His father wasn’t married to his mother, after all; kings don't marry servant girls. So, no family after all, really.
He saw his father twice in his whole life. Once in Denerim, at some public event where he was . . . being kingly. Or something. He wasn’t really paying attention. But his father . . . well, you pay attention to the king. Even when you don’t know he’s your father. And he looked pretty . . . well, impressive, in his silverite armor and all of it. Very . . . blond.
And this is from Sten's--
The people of this land are stranger even than I at first thought. They see their deaths approaching and do nothing. Some of them flee, but not enough. They are too disorganized. Many of them will die. Their priests do not lead them. Their warriors do not lead them. No one leads, and so they will suffer. It is a . . . strange way to live. And to die. Deaths without honor. Surely they cannot wish this.
I did not wish it, either, however. Perhaps it is simply too late for them, as it is for me. However, they cannot seem to recognize it. It is not a pleasant thing to recognize, I will admit, but what use is there in denying it? It gets them nowhere, just as it would get me nowhere. Cage or no cage, it matters little. Asala is gone, and a death with honor is far beyond my reach, just as is my soul. Either these people should act, or realize that their deaths approach as surely as mine does.
I never thought it would come to this. I remember waking up in the farmer’s hovel. Remember strange, concerned faces, soft and . . . pale and . . . wrong. Not my brothers. My brothers are dead. I recall their deaths, one by one, at the hands of the darkspawn creatures. I was their sten, meant to lead them, and I could do nothing. The arishok asked, “What is the Blight?” Perhaps my answer for him is simply, “death.”
And this is from Leliana's.
It’s from Transfigurations 10, but you probably knew that, didn’t you? Yes? You did-well, there you have it, no? Don’t you think it’s beautiful, though? I always have, myself. It would be wrong to have a preference for one part of the Chant over another, I suppose, but I have to admit I’ve always been a bit partial to the Canticles of Andraste and Transfigurations. There is a quality in them that seems to resonate with the beauty of the Maker’s creation. Do you not think so? When I first joined the Chantry, I would spend hours reading over them, in particular. They were very comforting, I think. For me, at least. When I first arrived there, I feared that I would never find beauty in anything, ever again, and yet the verses of the Chant were so clear and simple. Beautiful in their simplicity. I had forgotten, I think, that things could be like that, possessing such beauty in their plainness. Things are not like that in Orlais, they are ever more elaborate and ornate, and beauty there comes from complexity.
This one is a DA II fic.
“I take joy in the simple things,” Varric said. “You should try it sometime.”
“I did too, once,” Anders said, his face losing the smile. “I could be happy just with a mug of bad ale and the taste of freedom, once.”
“What changed?” Varric asked.
“I realized that most other mages would never be that lucky,” Anders said. “You can’t know . . . you can’t realize how lucky you are, how lucky you’ve been, just to have your freedom. Not unless you’ve had to live without it, with some templar breathing down your neck and following you to the privy and back, just in case taking a piss brings a demon out of the woodwork.”
“Sounds like how I imagine Orzammar,” Varric admitted, “but with more demons and less stiff-necked self-congratulation.”
“So maybe you do know how lucky you are,” Anders said. “I have to say, Orzammar never struck me as being the greatest place in Thedas.” He sighed. “I just-it kills me to think that I’m one of the lucky ones.”
“You don’t seem all that lucky to me, Blondie,” Varric muttered.
And there we go. I have a lot more, in fact, but that's either mostly in the idea stage, or I couldn't find it, or I'm just not happy enough with it to show parts of it to anyone yet, and thus I will keep it hidden in the depths of my computer for the time being.