the WIP meme
When I do this, I like to add more commentary on them, but maybe it'll be more fun to just post the bits and not comment further. *g* (I did this a while back; I've since finished Cairo Is Burning (it's in edits), #4 untitled (posted as " All Men Will Be Sailors Until The Sea Shall Free Them"), and #6 (retitled and posted as " Valley of Dry Bones") -- so if you want the context, some of them are in there.)
Some of these are almost finished and just need a nudge; some of them are kind of hanging out in limbo; some of them need a hell of a lot of work. Grab bag: mostly SG-1, some Supernatural. In no particular order other than where I found them in my filing system. And this is just the list of stuff I have actual writing done on -- the mental WIP list is about twice as long ...
Eurydiceverse, Sam/Cam, first time
So much skin. He rests reverent fingertips in the curve between trunk and thigh, and she hums again and surges up against his touch. "Your mouth," she says. "On me."
She shouldn't be talking like this. She was right; he always did think of her as the good girl. Fifteen goddamn years she's been his sweet little innocent Sam; was she hiding this the whole time?
How many languages has Jackson taught her to say "fuck me" in?
He's hardly one to talk. And she's given him an order. He starts with the inside of her thigh, the spot he'd put his mouth on before. It draws him upwards, his tongue following the length of muscle, until he reaches damp, tangled curls. She murmurs approval cut with a hiss as he closes his mouth over her and presses the flat of his tongue against her clit.
Some women taste sharp; some women taste sweet. The taste of Sam is like blueberries just before ripening: late spring breezes, tart and tender with hints of sunshine just beneath. He closes his eyes -- easier to concentrate that way -- and lets the tip of his tongue slide downward. He's back on familiar ground, here. Never been here with her before, but from here on out it's all variations on a theme.
Samuel Carter and Cameron Mitchell (I blame ivorygates)
That's when he started asking questions. Lieutenant Spit-And-Polish was apparently Lieutenant Samuel Carter, "call-me-Sam" to everybody he encounters, and his daddy's some bigshot general somewhere. Explains it. Explains a lot. But somewhere underneath the obnoxious assumption that everyone in earshot wants to hear his voice, underneath the absolute assurance that the world revolves around him, Carter's actually a decent enough guy. Says it straight out, does what he says, never breaks a promise. Shares his M&Ms. Lends Cam a spare pair of socks when he needs 'em. Hands over the magazines that come in his care packages without protest.
Takes a few weeks before Cam realizes that he's just about the only one Carter ever bothers being that human to, and the rest of the guys are looking at him funny over it, but by then he's convinced of one thing: he's the first damn friend Carter's ever had.
Sam Carter and John Sheppard, anonymous wartime sex
She's seen this one around a few times, in the showers, in the canteen, in the TV room. Decent height, but a little too scrawny, and she's still not sure how he manages to get away with that hair. He's adorable, in that charming-little-puppy sort of way, but she can tell he knows it; there's something deliberate to him, something calculated. Doesn't matter; she's not interested in him for conversation. Desert sand breeds a lot of itches; she's ready to scratch this one, and he's here and available. She makes sure she catches his eye and holds it just long enough, loosens the towel she's wearing and lets it pool down around the middle of her spine, the curve of her back, as she continues past him and into the showers.
He's confident enough, cocky enough, that he takes it as an invitation. Which is good, since that's what she meant it as.
Sam's not interested in his name, or his rank, or his hometown or his life story or anything other than his hands and his mouth and his dick. He's smart enough to spot that. He's naked and in the shower with her before she can even finish sluicing sweat and grit from her skin.
Cairo Is Burning
Ba'al froze. It was only for the most fleeting of seconds; if Sam had blinked at the wrong time, she would have missed it. Something had changed in the room between them. Something she couldn't name. Then he smiled too, and Sam felt like her heart might stop, because it was the closest thing to genuine she'd ever seen on his face. "King to A2," he said, after a minute.
"Queen to C5. Capturing knight. We aren't going to let him go, you know."
"My dear colonel," Ba'al said, "I would expect no less of you. Any of you. Knight to A4."
The colonel sat back in his chair. Sam could see his fingers tighten against Daniel's; after years of playing poker with him, she had learned to watch his hands. They were his only tell. Right now, they were saying that his casual air was an act, that he was just on the verge of putting something together. Something important. "That's what you wanted to know, isn't it."
Ba'al arched a brow. "Is it?"
"How far we'd keep fighting for him. Knight to C2. Figure it out yet? Your answer?"
Ba'al smiled again. Smirked, really. It held the faintest hint of satisfaction, and it made Sam's skin crawl. "Yes. King to B1."
"Queen to A3," the colonel said, and Sam had lost the sense of the board -- had never been able to build it, really, coming in halfway through the game and never being a strong enough player to visualize in the first place. But she knew the colonel's body language from game after game: the way his shoulders eased, the way his fierce concentration slackened ever-so-slightly. He had won.
Or they both had.
"Well played, colonel," Ba'al said. "And have you found what you wished to learn?"
"Yes," the colonel said, exact echo of Ba'al's agreement, and finally turned to look at Sam. "Go to bed, Carter. I'll call you if he wakes up."
Sam nodded, and didn't look too closely into the colonel's eyes.
Jack/Daniel, first season, early early:
So when the story of Carter getting kidnapped by those Mongols started going around -- and no, I don't know how it got out, because I sure as hell didn't tell anyone and I know Daniel and Teal'c wouldn't have either -- and they forgot to include the part where she kicked whatsisname's ass in hand-to-hand, well, I lost it. Base gossip made it out like Carter was some shrinking violet, and that's about as far from the truth as you can get and still be in the same country.
So I hit back. Bronson from SG-4 was the worst of 'em, mouthing off left and right to anyone who'd listen about how I might be just fine, and Teal'c was probably all right, but any one of his boys could beat Carter or Daniel with one hand tied behind their backs. And, well, Bronson's team's good enough, but Carter's got guts and Daniel's got pride, and I wasn't going to leave it at that.
That's how we wound up with a "friendly" bet. Bronson's team against mine, standard three-pistol bulls-eye, fifty-foot range. Highest cumulative score wins.
All of Bronson's team hold Master or above. Half my team hadn't touched a pistol until a month or so ago. Okay, I'm exaggerating -- Daniel's competent enough with small arms, fumbled his way through his quals with no problem but nothing particularly distinguished, and Teal'c's gotten comfortable enough with Earth weapons, even though he's probably always going to rely on his staff in a pinch. But I wasn't going to let Bronson keep spreading his shit without at least giving my kids a chance to defend themselves.
Yeah, it was stupid. Yeah, we had better things to do. Yeah, we couldn't afford the time to drill. But Carter's a damn good shot, and nobody who hasn't seen her file knows she's rated High Master; she doesn't show off until she has to. Teal'c does well in practice, enough that I was pretty sure he'd do fine in competition. Which left Daniel.
"The Only Winning Move", season 7, training games
4. General Hammond is the only individual permitted to place the training scenario on hold or stop it entirely. Any attempt by any other member of base command to broadcast such a ruling shall be considered interference in the scenario.
("Ah," Sam said. "The O'Neill Rule."
"Please," Daniel said, looking hurt. "The O'Neill/Jackson Rule. That tactic was my idea."
"I am still not convinced it was an honorable method of achieving victory," Teal'c said.
"Got everyone to put their weapons down and come running out of cover, didn't it?" Jack asked. "And we won. Again. Wasn't that our third in a row?"
"This is why," Daniel said, "they don't let any of us be on the same team anymore.")
"Fear of Falling", Cam and the X-302 program
He could ask, on the air, what he couldn't ask face to face. Barring a few sticklers for the rules, Ground Control was generally used to a certain level of irreverence from their boys, as long as they weren't in the middle of an op. And he could tell from the laughter that followed that Control, whoever he might be, had enough of a sense of humor to be trusted not to be one of the sticklers. "I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you," Control said. Cam had the uncomfortable feeling he wasn't kidding. "They tell me you'll get the rundown soon enough. In the meantime, they want to make sure you won't go crazy while you're flying our new bird."
"Crazy?" Cam asked. There was something wrong with the control board; the stick was right where it should be, but everything else was a little too close or a little too far, and there were switches and toggles he couldn't figure out at all.
"Aw, don't worry," Control said, dismissively. "Only half the guys in the last class actually went nuts. And they've gotten better at picking you boys. I don't think you have much to worry about."
"That doesn't make me feel any better," Cam muttered, and Control laughed in his ear again.
It didn't take him long to figure out what Control had meant, though. The gauges and dials in the cockpit were wrong somehow. Nothing overt, nothing showy, but something was off. The sim was the same as any sim he'd ever flown. He hated them down to his toes; the disparity between what his eyes were telling him and what his body was telling him was always enough to make him clumsy. But this one was worse than most.
"Fortunate Daughter", Sha're/Daniel season one AU
She has never seen Dan'yel afraid of anything, neither man nor god, and he is not afraid now. But the set of his shoulders and the cast of his face remind her of Skaara facing down Kasuf-their-father after the time Skaara had had to be rescued from the bottom of the well he had fallen down, in the abandoned parts of Nagada he was not permitted to explore, and that tells her who this man must be. The head of Oneel's clan, who had sent Oneel to fetch Dan'yel and bring him home, so that he might help Oneel's clan find their missing child who had also been taken by the gods.
Which means that she and this man share a common purpose. And he is speaking to Dan'yel as though he has the authority to chastize him, and Dan'yel is reacting as though this is the truth, which means that she is standing before the head of Dan'yel's former line, and -- oh, gods, she is filthy and terrified and clinging to her husband like a yalara vine instead of behaving in a way fitting a daughter of the line of Kasuf which is the Line of Lines and for all her fine fierce talk about guarding her own honor, she is certainly doing a poor job of it in her first test.
She releases her hold on Dan'yel -- he stops talking, looks at her, his surprise written across his face -- and pulls herself up to her full height. She tries to remember how her father looks when receiving visitors of other clans, tries to remember the words and phrases he uses. She has never been given the training Skaara has been given, for she will not inherit their father's position -- she is but a woman -- but Dan'yel has told her that in his world women may rule in their own right. If this is true, she knows -- deep down where she knows all the things she cannot put into words -- that she must never let Dan'yel's people doubt, by word or by deed, that she is of the blood.
"Sha're?" Dan'yel asks, but she is stepping forward and facing the man who is the head of Dan'yel's former line and bowing deeply before him. The sound Dan'yel makes behind her is soft and choked. It is the bow her father uses, respect to one who is the head of a Line not his own. It is not a bow a woman is ever permitted to use.
She straightens, and the man has stopped speaking but his mouth is still open. She meets his eyes -- oh, may I not be wrong, may I not be shaming Dan'yel before his people, may they not be thinking how shameful and brazen I am -- and says, softly, "Tell him that I am honored and joyful to meet the head of the clan who has given such a fine husband to the line of Kasuf."
year three in the Cam/Sam Christmas series
He settles himself down on her front stoop. It's more than a little cold out, but she shoveled her walkway from the last snow, at least -- or had it shoveled for her -- and he remembered to pack his heavy coat and gloves, so he's not too miserable. Something tells him he won't have long to wait, and sure enough, he sees the first unmarked dark car, driven by serious-looking young men, make the first cruise within an hour. They don't noticeably slow, but Cam's aware of being watched anyway.
He checks his watch and starts counting again. Sure enough, half an hour later, they're pulling over in front of Sam's house; they both get out of the car, but one of them stays at the curb, watching as the other walks up the walkway.
"Mornin'," Cam calls, free and easy, squinting down over the tops of his sunglasses (it's always easier if they can see your eyes). He holds up his hands, slowly, and waits until he can see the kid's eyes track him and actively decide he's not a threat. "Just gonna reach for my ID nice and slow."
It confuses the kid, he can tell, but, well, he'll take being confusing over being shot any day. If whatever Sam's up to is as big as he thinks it is, they probably don't worry too much about jurisdiction, especially if it involves something they see as a threat.
The kid's spine grows an extra inch or two when he hands over his ID, and he introduces himself as Lt. Anderson and calls Cam "sir". "I was worried," Cam explains, "because Major Carter missed Christmas without calling, and I can't get a hold of her. I figured I'd come out here and see how bad she was hurt."
Eurydiceverse, Sam/Daniel, season 4, first time
Daniel gives her a look from underneath his lashes. "It's good for you. Enough?"
"Too much," she says, and closes her eyes. The world's beginning to spin. Once upon a time, she would have had someone to take her home and tuck her in after a tequila drunk, but all the boys who used to take care of her have disappeared or been taken away or turned out to be lying or losers after all, and she's already home anyway.
One of Daniel's arms comes to settle around her shoulders, and she turns her face and rests it against his chest. "Do you ever think," she says, with the patient clear diction of someone who knows she has to stretch to sound reasonably sober, "that the SGC would be far better off if we all just went out and got laid more often?"
The minute she hears herself say it, she remembers that tequila makes her both maudlin and uninhibited. She never remembers why she shouldn't drink tequila until after she's already put away half the bottle.
"all your pale shallow demons", supernatural
They adapt.
It doesn't take long, and they don't need to talk about it. As each new piece comes clear, they deal with it. Sam starts letting Dean carry the keys in Oklahoma after they have to break into the fifth hotel room in a row. Dean starts letting Sam order dinner for them both in the little diner in Iowa after the third case of food poisoning in a week. They both keep their showers short enough so they don't run out the hot water, and they've both switched to button-fly jeans -- the damn zipper teeth hurt when they get caught in things -- and they both keep time in their head enough to be able to set themselves wake-up calls, so it doesn't matter when the alarm fails in the middle of the night.
"angels in the architecture", supernatural
When it happens, it happens quickly.
It's a pack of fucking tamawo, and they've taken prey by the time Sam and Dean manage to track down the nest, and the poor fucker's chained to a wall and looking like she's already started to transform. Sam's busy drawing them away from her, circling around and waiting for the right moment to start shooting, and Dean is trying to get the woman loose, and then Dean's screaming and there's a thing attached to his face and Sam's got his feet wide and his hips back and he's shooting, shooting, shooting.
There's blood dripping from Dean's face, and something that isn't blood at all -- thick and viscous and congealed like jelly, and Sam realizes, fuck, his eyes, but Dean isn't screaming, just breathing hard. Dean closes his eyelids and fumbles the lockpicks, working by touch, and then the chains spring open and the tamawo's victim has Dean's face clamped firmly between her hands before Sam can make it across the room. She forces Dean's head back, and Dean opens his blank and ragged eyes and fixes them on the ceiling with an empty stare, and the tamawo's victim lifts her wrist, rubbed raw and bloody by the irons, and lets a drop of blood fall into each of Dean's ruined eye sockets.
By the time Dean stops screaming, the woman is gone. Sam's still standing, shell-shocked, in front of the only door. Nobody and nothing got by him.
Dean's eyes look back at him, whole and perfect, glimmering golden in the grey and dusty light.
That's when Sam starts thinking something might be wrong.
Some of these are almost finished and just need a nudge; some of them are kind of hanging out in limbo; some of them need a hell of a lot of work. Grab bag: mostly SG-1, some Supernatural. In no particular order other than where I found them in my filing system. And this is just the list of stuff I have actual writing done on -- the mental WIP list is about twice as long ...
Eurydiceverse, Sam/Cam, first time
So much skin. He rests reverent fingertips in the curve between trunk and thigh, and she hums again and surges up against his touch. "Your mouth," she says. "On me."
She shouldn't be talking like this. She was right; he always did think of her as the good girl. Fifteen goddamn years she's been his sweet little innocent Sam; was she hiding this the whole time?
How many languages has Jackson taught her to say "fuck me" in?
He's hardly one to talk. And she's given him an order. He starts with the inside of her thigh, the spot he'd put his mouth on before. It draws him upwards, his tongue following the length of muscle, until he reaches damp, tangled curls. She murmurs approval cut with a hiss as he closes his mouth over her and presses the flat of his tongue against her clit.
Some women taste sharp; some women taste sweet. The taste of Sam is like blueberries just before ripening: late spring breezes, tart and tender with hints of sunshine just beneath. He closes his eyes -- easier to concentrate that way -- and lets the tip of his tongue slide downward. He's back on familiar ground, here. Never been here with her before, but from here on out it's all variations on a theme.
Samuel Carter and Cameron Mitchell (I blame ivorygates)
That's when he started asking questions. Lieutenant Spit-And-Polish was apparently Lieutenant Samuel Carter, "call-me-Sam" to everybody he encounters, and his daddy's some bigshot general somewhere. Explains it. Explains a lot. But somewhere underneath the obnoxious assumption that everyone in earshot wants to hear his voice, underneath the absolute assurance that the world revolves around him, Carter's actually a decent enough guy. Says it straight out, does what he says, never breaks a promise. Shares his M&Ms. Lends Cam a spare pair of socks when he needs 'em. Hands over the magazines that come in his care packages without protest.
Takes a few weeks before Cam realizes that he's just about the only one Carter ever bothers being that human to, and the rest of the guys are looking at him funny over it, but by then he's convinced of one thing: he's the first damn friend Carter's ever had.
Sam Carter and John Sheppard, anonymous wartime sex
She's seen this one around a few times, in the showers, in the canteen, in the TV room. Decent height, but a little too scrawny, and she's still not sure how he manages to get away with that hair. He's adorable, in that charming-little-puppy sort of way, but she can tell he knows it; there's something deliberate to him, something calculated. Doesn't matter; she's not interested in him for conversation. Desert sand breeds a lot of itches; she's ready to scratch this one, and he's here and available. She makes sure she catches his eye and holds it just long enough, loosens the towel she's wearing and lets it pool down around the middle of her spine, the curve of her back, as she continues past him and into the showers.
He's confident enough, cocky enough, that he takes it as an invitation. Which is good, since that's what she meant it as.
Sam's not interested in his name, or his rank, or his hometown or his life story or anything other than his hands and his mouth and his dick. He's smart enough to spot that. He's naked and in the shower with her before she can even finish sluicing sweat and grit from her skin.
Cairo Is Burning
Ba'al froze. It was only for the most fleeting of seconds; if Sam had blinked at the wrong time, she would have missed it. Something had changed in the room between them. Something she couldn't name. Then he smiled too, and Sam felt like her heart might stop, because it was the closest thing to genuine she'd ever seen on his face. "King to A2," he said, after a minute.
"Queen to C5. Capturing knight. We aren't going to let him go, you know."
"My dear colonel," Ba'al said, "I would expect no less of you. Any of you. Knight to A4."
The colonel sat back in his chair. Sam could see his fingers tighten against Daniel's; after years of playing poker with him, she had learned to watch his hands. They were his only tell. Right now, they were saying that his casual air was an act, that he was just on the verge of putting something together. Something important. "That's what you wanted to know, isn't it."
Ba'al arched a brow. "Is it?"
"How far we'd keep fighting for him. Knight to C2. Figure it out yet? Your answer?"
Ba'al smiled again. Smirked, really. It held the faintest hint of satisfaction, and it made Sam's skin crawl. "Yes. King to B1."
"Queen to A3," the colonel said, and Sam had lost the sense of the board -- had never been able to build it, really, coming in halfway through the game and never being a strong enough player to visualize in the first place. But she knew the colonel's body language from game after game: the way his shoulders eased, the way his fierce concentration slackened ever-so-slightly. He had won.
Or they both had.
"Well played, colonel," Ba'al said. "And have you found what you wished to learn?"
"Yes," the colonel said, exact echo of Ba'al's agreement, and finally turned to look at Sam. "Go to bed, Carter. I'll call you if he wakes up."
Sam nodded, and didn't look too closely into the colonel's eyes.
Jack/Daniel, first season, early early:
So when the story of Carter getting kidnapped by those Mongols started going around -- and no, I don't know how it got out, because I sure as hell didn't tell anyone and I know Daniel and Teal'c wouldn't have either -- and they forgot to include the part where she kicked whatsisname's ass in hand-to-hand, well, I lost it. Base gossip made it out like Carter was some shrinking violet, and that's about as far from the truth as you can get and still be in the same country.
So I hit back. Bronson from SG-4 was the worst of 'em, mouthing off left and right to anyone who'd listen about how I might be just fine, and Teal'c was probably all right, but any one of his boys could beat Carter or Daniel with one hand tied behind their backs. And, well, Bronson's team's good enough, but Carter's got guts and Daniel's got pride, and I wasn't going to leave it at that.
That's how we wound up with a "friendly" bet. Bronson's team against mine, standard three-pistol bulls-eye, fifty-foot range. Highest cumulative score wins.
All of Bronson's team hold Master or above. Half my team hadn't touched a pistol until a month or so ago. Okay, I'm exaggerating -- Daniel's competent enough with small arms, fumbled his way through his quals with no problem but nothing particularly distinguished, and Teal'c's gotten comfortable enough with Earth weapons, even though he's probably always going to rely on his staff in a pinch. But I wasn't going to let Bronson keep spreading his shit without at least giving my kids a chance to defend themselves.
Yeah, it was stupid. Yeah, we had better things to do. Yeah, we couldn't afford the time to drill. But Carter's a damn good shot, and nobody who hasn't seen her file knows she's rated High Master; she doesn't show off until she has to. Teal'c does well in practice, enough that I was pretty sure he'd do fine in competition. Which left Daniel.
"The Only Winning Move", season 7, training games
4. General Hammond is the only individual permitted to place the training scenario on hold or stop it entirely. Any attempt by any other member of base command to broadcast such a ruling shall be considered interference in the scenario.
("Ah," Sam said. "The O'Neill Rule."
"Please," Daniel said, looking hurt. "The O'Neill/Jackson Rule. That tactic was my idea."
"I am still not convinced it was an honorable method of achieving victory," Teal'c said.
"Got everyone to put their weapons down and come running out of cover, didn't it?" Jack asked. "And we won. Again. Wasn't that our third in a row?"
"This is why," Daniel said, "they don't let any of us be on the same team anymore.")
"Fear of Falling", Cam and the X-302 program
He could ask, on the air, what he couldn't ask face to face. Barring a few sticklers for the rules, Ground Control was generally used to a certain level of irreverence from their boys, as long as they weren't in the middle of an op. And he could tell from the laughter that followed that Control, whoever he might be, had enough of a sense of humor to be trusted not to be one of the sticklers. "I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you," Control said. Cam had the uncomfortable feeling he wasn't kidding. "They tell me you'll get the rundown soon enough. In the meantime, they want to make sure you won't go crazy while you're flying our new bird."
"Crazy?" Cam asked. There was something wrong with the control board; the stick was right where it should be, but everything else was a little too close or a little too far, and there were switches and toggles he couldn't figure out at all.
"Aw, don't worry," Control said, dismissively. "Only half the guys in the last class actually went nuts. And they've gotten better at picking you boys. I don't think you have much to worry about."
"That doesn't make me feel any better," Cam muttered, and Control laughed in his ear again.
It didn't take him long to figure out what Control had meant, though. The gauges and dials in the cockpit were wrong somehow. Nothing overt, nothing showy, but something was off. The sim was the same as any sim he'd ever flown. He hated them down to his toes; the disparity between what his eyes were telling him and what his body was telling him was always enough to make him clumsy. But this one was worse than most.
"Fortunate Daughter", Sha're/Daniel season one AU
She has never seen Dan'yel afraid of anything, neither man nor god, and he is not afraid now. But the set of his shoulders and the cast of his face remind her of Skaara facing down Kasuf-their-father after the time Skaara had had to be rescued from the bottom of the well he had fallen down, in the abandoned parts of Nagada he was not permitted to explore, and that tells her who this man must be. The head of Oneel's clan, who had sent Oneel to fetch Dan'yel and bring him home, so that he might help Oneel's clan find their missing child who had also been taken by the gods.
Which means that she and this man share a common purpose. And he is speaking to Dan'yel as though he has the authority to chastize him, and Dan'yel is reacting as though this is the truth, which means that she is standing before the head of Dan'yel's former line, and -- oh, gods, she is filthy and terrified and clinging to her husband like a yalara vine instead of behaving in a way fitting a daughter of the line of Kasuf which is the Line of Lines and for all her fine fierce talk about guarding her own honor, she is certainly doing a poor job of it in her first test.
She releases her hold on Dan'yel -- he stops talking, looks at her, his surprise written across his face -- and pulls herself up to her full height. She tries to remember how her father looks when receiving visitors of other clans, tries to remember the words and phrases he uses. She has never been given the training Skaara has been given, for she will not inherit their father's position -- she is but a woman -- but Dan'yel has told her that in his world women may rule in their own right. If this is true, she knows -- deep down where she knows all the things she cannot put into words -- that she must never let Dan'yel's people doubt, by word or by deed, that she is of the blood.
"Sha're?" Dan'yel asks, but she is stepping forward and facing the man who is the head of Dan'yel's former line and bowing deeply before him. The sound Dan'yel makes behind her is soft and choked. It is the bow her father uses, respect to one who is the head of a Line not his own. It is not a bow a woman is ever permitted to use.
She straightens, and the man has stopped speaking but his mouth is still open. She meets his eyes -- oh, may I not be wrong, may I not be shaming Dan'yel before his people, may they not be thinking how shameful and brazen I am -- and says, softly, "Tell him that I am honored and joyful to meet the head of the clan who has given such a fine husband to the line of Kasuf."
year three in the Cam/Sam Christmas series
He settles himself down on her front stoop. It's more than a little cold out, but she shoveled her walkway from the last snow, at least -- or had it shoveled for her -- and he remembered to pack his heavy coat and gloves, so he's not too miserable. Something tells him he won't have long to wait, and sure enough, he sees the first unmarked dark car, driven by serious-looking young men, make the first cruise within an hour. They don't noticeably slow, but Cam's aware of being watched anyway.
He checks his watch and starts counting again. Sure enough, half an hour later, they're pulling over in front of Sam's house; they both get out of the car, but one of them stays at the curb, watching as the other walks up the walkway.
"Mornin'," Cam calls, free and easy, squinting down over the tops of his sunglasses (it's always easier if they can see your eyes). He holds up his hands, slowly, and waits until he can see the kid's eyes track him and actively decide he's not a threat. "Just gonna reach for my ID nice and slow."
It confuses the kid, he can tell, but, well, he'll take being confusing over being shot any day. If whatever Sam's up to is as big as he thinks it is, they probably don't worry too much about jurisdiction, especially if it involves something they see as a threat.
The kid's spine grows an extra inch or two when he hands over his ID, and he introduces himself as Lt. Anderson and calls Cam "sir". "I was worried," Cam explains, "because Major Carter missed Christmas without calling, and I can't get a hold of her. I figured I'd come out here and see how bad she was hurt."
Eurydiceverse, Sam/Daniel, season 4, first time
Daniel gives her a look from underneath his lashes. "It's good for you. Enough?"
"Too much," she says, and closes her eyes. The world's beginning to spin. Once upon a time, she would have had someone to take her home and tuck her in after a tequila drunk, but all the boys who used to take care of her have disappeared or been taken away or turned out to be lying or losers after all, and she's already home anyway.
One of Daniel's arms comes to settle around her shoulders, and she turns her face and rests it against his chest. "Do you ever think," she says, with the patient clear diction of someone who knows she has to stretch to sound reasonably sober, "that the SGC would be far better off if we all just went out and got laid more often?"
The minute she hears herself say it, she remembers that tequila makes her both maudlin and uninhibited. She never remembers why she shouldn't drink tequila until after she's already put away half the bottle.
"all your pale shallow demons", supernatural
They adapt.
It doesn't take long, and they don't need to talk about it. As each new piece comes clear, they deal with it. Sam starts letting Dean carry the keys in Oklahoma after they have to break into the fifth hotel room in a row. Dean starts letting Sam order dinner for them both in the little diner in Iowa after the third case of food poisoning in a week. They both keep their showers short enough so they don't run out the hot water, and they've both switched to button-fly jeans -- the damn zipper teeth hurt when they get caught in things -- and they both keep time in their head enough to be able to set themselves wake-up calls, so it doesn't matter when the alarm fails in the middle of the night.
"angels in the architecture", supernatural
When it happens, it happens quickly.
It's a pack of fucking tamawo, and they've taken prey by the time Sam and Dean manage to track down the nest, and the poor fucker's chained to a wall and looking like she's already started to transform. Sam's busy drawing them away from her, circling around and waiting for the right moment to start shooting, and Dean is trying to get the woman loose, and then Dean's screaming and there's a thing attached to his face and Sam's got his feet wide and his hips back and he's shooting, shooting, shooting.
There's blood dripping from Dean's face, and something that isn't blood at all -- thick and viscous and congealed like jelly, and Sam realizes, fuck, his eyes, but Dean isn't screaming, just breathing hard. Dean closes his eyelids and fumbles the lockpicks, working by touch, and then the chains spring open and the tamawo's victim has Dean's face clamped firmly between her hands before Sam can make it across the room. She forces Dean's head back, and Dean opens his blank and ragged eyes and fixes them on the ceiling with an empty stare, and the tamawo's victim lifts her wrist, rubbed raw and bloody by the irons, and lets a drop of blood fall into each of Dean's ruined eye sockets.
By the time Dean stops screaming, the woman is gone. Sam's still standing, shell-shocked, in front of the only door. Nobody and nothing got by him.
Dean's eyes look back at him, whole and perfect, glimmering golden in the grey and dusty light.
That's when Sam starts thinking something might be wrong.