WIP Meme Redux
When you see this, post a little weensy excerpt from as many random works-in-progress as you can find lying around. Who knows? Maybe inspiration will burst forth and do something, um, inspiration-y.
Yeah, I know I've done this one before, but I've started new WIPs since then! *facpalm* If you didn't see it, here is my original WIP Meme piece.
If anyone particularly wants to cheerlead/harrass me about a particular fic, go ahead.
i- Untitled Lie to Me/Reservoir Dogs Crossover
Oh god, this is such utter crack. I blame whoever posted this on fandomsecrets. It was harmlessly entertaining at the time, but now I CAN'T UNSEE IT.
Excerpt:
"We've been after this character for years, but we've never been able to get close enough to pin anything on him. He's a slippery bastard and paranoid as hell. We've sent a few men in, and they've either been caught or not made it in at all."
"And you want me to...?"
"Observe him and watch for possible weaknesses. Perhaps go in yourself if you're willing. Here's the file." Lightman took it and flipped it open.
His eyes landed on the photograph clipped to the front page and all the colour drained from his face. For a moment his guard was completely down: anger, shame, fear, and remembered pain chased each other across his features, his free hand jerking almost convulsively to rest against his stomach.
And then the moment was gone as if it had never been.
"None of your men are going to get in," he said bluntly, setting the file down on the table.
ii- 'Lies of Omission' - Airheads fic
Airheads doesn't seem to have much of a fandom (which is a tragedy, because it's an AMAZING film...featuring a surprisingly young- and hot-looking Steve Buscemi). I started writing this inspired by an lgbtfest prompt: "#124 Any musical fandom, any character, a musician comes out (author's choice as to how). How does it impact their career, particularly given the scene they're in (e.g. metal or emo or pop, but again, author's choice.)" It's already meandering away from the prompt The vague plan I have is Chazz/Rex - Rex is sick of hiding, but Chazz is worried about what coming out would do to the band's image.
Excerpt:
IS IT CURTAINS FOR THE LONE RANGERS?
Fans were shocked today by rumoured
split in chart-topping rock group the
Lone Rangers. Attendees at the MTV
Music Video Awards were witness to a
furious argument between lead singer
Chazz Darvey and bassist Eddie "Rex"
Brown at the award show's afterparty.
The band's manager, ex-DJ Ian "the
Shark" Santelli assured fans that
there was no problem "that couldn't
be solved by the idiots sobering up
and calming the **** down". However,
other members of the band and their
entourage were heard to comment that
they were "not surprised" and that
the fight was "a long time coming".
iii- 'Ever After' - House MD futurefic
Yet another fic in the seemingly interminable More Things Change 'Verse.
Excerpt:
It was a rare thing these days, but nevertheless it had happened - the Diagnostics department was silent. No patients. Nothing to do. Time to rest, regroup, and generally take advantage of the lull in caseload: in theory it was a good thing.
Except that Chase was bored. His ducklings seemed quite content to lounge around doing nothing... those of them that were left, anyway. Parker had 'moved on to better things' - apparently that was a British code for resigning before you were fired - and Jackson was consulting for the cardiology department at some fancy hospital in Los Angeles.
That left Brannigan, who'd disappeared to hunt for lunch, and Saunders, who was unashamedly sleeping face-down on a stack of files. She wasn't much fun to bait any more anyway. Fortunately he was spared the effort of finding a way to entertain himself by the door swinging open. Cameron walked in and handed him a file, sitting on the edge of his desk.
"Twenty-eight year old female," she said without preamble; "At first it seemed like a straightforward case of lupus, but there were some odd glandular abnormalities..."
"I'll get the minions on it," Chase replied, leafing through the medical history.
"Oh, and are you free Saturday?"
"Maybe. Why?"
"We're having a barbecue at my place," Cameron said, idly brushing a crease out of her sleeve. "To celebrate Cuddy's retirement."
"Who's coming?"
"Well, Cuddy and Wilson, obviously. The children - Rachel's back for the summer, and apparently she's brought her boyfriend - Foreman and his wife, and you. I'd tell you to bring a date if I thought there was a hope of it actually happening."
"You make it sound as if I'm living like a monk!" he objected. "I'm not-"
"I'm talking about a relationship, Chase," she said sternly. "One-night stands don't count."
"I-"
"And if you even think the word 'hooker' loudly..."
"Yeah, I know. I'm to stop corrupting your kids."
Chase grinned; now they were back on comfortable territory. He hated it when she harassed him about his lack of a real personal life. He supposed it was only natural for her to want to get him safely tied down. After all, the rest of them had neatly paired off: Cuddy and Wilson, Cameron and her husband David, Foreman and his wife whatshername. He was the only one left over. Her eldest children were creeping up on dating age...maybe it was practice.
Anyway, she always stopped before she hit full steam. She'd get as far as you haven't had a real relationship since... and he'd just look her and an uncomfortable silence would descend. And then, softly, it's been ten years, Chase.
He was aware of this. He could count. He just didn't feel the pressing need to do anything about it. It wasn't as though he was avoiding getting a personal life. If one were to be handed to him ready-made he'd be quite happy, but he couldn't quite make himself care enough to go out and get one.
Cameron made her excuses and left - after all, she had a department of her own to run. Chase lifted the file and wandered through to wake Saunders up.
iv- 'Hypocritic Oath' - Lie to Me fic
The summary I've put on it is: "The Group is hired by a hospital to find which of their staff is responsible for the death of a patient. Meanwhile, some unusual behaviour from Loker peaks Lightman's curiosity."
Excerpt:
It was the unusually subdued entrance that threw her. Generally speaking, Loker was a morning person, and his arrival normally signalled an upswing in the noise around the office. Not today though. There was a certain zombie-like shuffle to his gait as he made a beeline for the coffeepot, bloodshot eyes and an unhealthy-looking pallor. He drained his first cup in one grateful swallow, and only after refilling and taking another long drink did he look around and finally seem to register her presence.
"You look like crap," Torres said.
"I feel like crap," he responded, clutching the coffee like a small child with a stuffed animal.
"Showing up for work hungover probably isn't the best way to get back into Lightman's good books," she pointed out. He just glared blearily at her and got up to pour himself another cup of coffee.
It took another twenty minutes for Loker to pull himself together enough to manage some semblance of coherency. Which was lucky, because not long afterward Lightman - who was emphatically not a morning person, and therefore suspiciously chipper - put his head round the door and said cheerfully, "Rise and shine, boys and girls, we've got a case."
"What kind of case?" Torres asked.
"Hospital wants us to find out which one of their doctors killed a patient."
"Sounds fun," Loker said. He sounded like crap too.
"Rough night?" Lightman asked, wearing a look of faintly bemused interest that Torres found markedly less irritating when it wasn't being directed at her.
"You have no idea."
"Well, go get some more coffee then. Can't have you falling asleep on the job." As he walked away he tossed over his shoulder; "Briefing in five - try not to be late."
v- 'Smoke on the Water' - Supernatural AU
Pre-series AU - when a teenage Dean is badly injured on a hunt, it forces the family Winchester to rethink their lifestyle a little.
Excerpt:
John Winchester had never been squeamish about the sight of blood - and even if he had've been, life as a soldier and later as a hunter would have crushed it for good. Blood was another part of the job, like fire and salt and rotted corpses; unpleasant, but unavoidable.
At that moment, however, the blood caking and drying under his nails and on the front of his shirt commanded his complete attention.
"You need some sleep," Bobby said, prudently doing so from the other side of the corridor. A sane man didn't stand too close to a wounded animal or a shell-shocked Winchester.
"No," John said. He made a valiant effort to pull himself together. "I need to sort out the insurance...and come up with some sort of story to tell them..."
"Taken care of," Bobby replied patiently, "We were out camping and got attacked by a bear. And if anyone asks, your name's John Elroy and I'm your brother-in-law." There was a long pause. "It wasn't your fault, John."
"Wasn't it? I was right there and I couldn't do a damn thing."
"You killed the son of a bitch."
"Not fast enough."
There was a squeak of hinges at the far end of the hallway as Sam came through the doors, bearing coffee and donuts. He opened his mouth as though to speak, but hesitated, looking between his father and Bobby. Apparently he thought better of whatever he had been going to say and passed out the styrofoam cups in silence.
All three of them tensed as the door of the operating theatre swung open and a hassled-looking nurse emerged. He hurried past them without a word; as one man they slumped dejectedly.
It was hours later that a tiny black woman in blood-stained scrubs emerged from the theatre and looked around expectantly. Her eyes settled on the little group in the corridor: Sam curled into a teary ball in a chair, John hollowed-eyed and distant, Bobby leaning exhausted against the wall.
"Mr. Elroy?" she asked.
John was on his feet in an instant; "Yes?"
"My name is Dr. Summers. I'm pleased to tell you that your son is stable and looking likely to make a full recovery."
"Thank god," John breathed, closing his eyes in pure relief. He took a deep breath. "How bad is it?"
Summers pinched the bridge of her nose, looking...well, like she'd just spent the last few hours patching up some of the most godawful wounds she'd ever seen on a teenage boy. "He's lost a lot of blood. He's broken his right arm, his collarbone, left ankle, and six ribs. We've had to give him more than three hundred stitches in all and his left lung had collapsed."
"Mother of god," Bobby whispered.
"Can we see him?" Sam asked.
"We're transferring him to a recovery ward just now," Summers said; "I'll take you there."
She led them along a succession of immaculately clean hospital-smelling corridors to the inordinately cheery recovery ward. And there in the centre of one of the rooms, connected to a ridiculous number of IV tubes and beeping machinery, was Dean.
Sam was across the room and into one of the chairs so fast the adults barely saw him move. One moment he was standing by the door, the next, clutching his brother's hand. Bobby followed at a slower pace - John remained frozen in the doorway.
"This is all my fault," he muttered. Behind him, Summers made a tactful and prudent retreat.
"Don't be an idjit," Bobby said; "You couldn't have known this'd happen."
Time was a fickle thing under the circumstances: it could have been minutes or hours later that a faint moan jerked them out of their separate reveries. Dean's eyelids fluttered. He squinted blearily at the ceiling and mumbled something indistinct.
"Dean!" John said, leaning in. Dean blinked and, after a few attempts, managed to more or less focus on his father's face. He tried to speak, but only a hoarse croaking noise came out - he licked his lips and produced a faint, "...dad?"
"I'll get him some water," Sam said, jumping to his feet.
"Get a doctor while you're about it," Bobby told him. He nodded and darted out of the door.
Sam came back in a moment later, a cup in his hands and Dr. Summers following him. She smiled faintly at the sight of John leaning in close, murmuring low and urgent to his son: what she probably assumed were words of endearment and reassurance. Bobby had to smile tightly too, because he knew John was relaying the bare bones of their cover story to Dean.
"Hello," she said. "I'm Dr. Summers. How are you feeling?"
Dean stared at her for a moment and said deliberately; "Sore."
She passed a penlight across his eyes, looking intently at the pupils. "Can you tell me your name?"
"Dean. Dean Elroy."
"And do you know what day it is?"
"Depends how long I was out," Dean said. Summers laughed.
"You don't seem to have a concussion," she said, putting the penlight away. "Okay. Why don't you tell me how you got hurt?"
"I- I was camping with Dad and Sam and Uncle Bobby," Dean said obediently, conjuring up a moving air of 'poor injured little boy'. "There was a bear, a grizzly or something. It was pissed. It went for me and, uh..." He looked slightly confused. "Uh, I think Dad shot at it? Things get a bit fuzzy around there."
"That's right," Summers told him, "You have quite a few broken bones and a lot of stitches. We've got you on painkillers so you don't hurt too badly, but try not to move much - we don't want you pulling your stitches. Are you thirsty?"
"Yeah," Dean said gratefully.
Summers smiled at Sam; "Sam? Do you want to give your brother the ice chips?"
"Sure!" Sam pulled his chair in closer, almost visibly glowing with pride to be the one looking after Dean for once.
Summers cleared her throat. "Mr. Elroy, if I could have a word with you outside?"
John's hand tightened momentarily on Dean's arm just above the cast. He cast a look at Bobby, who gave an almost imperceptible nod - he would keep an eye on the boys.
John already knew what was coming. Mentally he mulled over which particular line of bullshit he was going to spin this time to explain away the number of scars Dean had.
"Mr. Elroy," Summers said. She paused as though unsure of how to phrase what she was about to say. "I- that is... your paperwork indicates that you spend a lot of time on the road?"
"Uh...yes," John replied, momentarily thrown. That wasn't how this conversation usually began.
"And your boys come with you?"
"Yes."
He continued to look blank. She sighed and cut straight to the chase. "Mr. Elroy, I have concerns about your ability to provide a suitable environment for Dean's recovery."
"I-" John stopped, momentarily derailed; "I'm sorry, what?"
She explained. A lot of it was doctor-speak that winged its way right over his head, but mixed in with that was some pretty damn inarguable common sense. Medical terms were somehow easier to disregard than the blunt, plain English of internal bleeding and compound fracture and possible permanent damage. He was in a daze by the end - the gist of it was clear though.
Forget hunting. Forget training. The doctor had made it quite clear that for the next while, excessive walking was out of the question. And long periods of time in a moving vehicle would slow Dean's recovery even more...which, given that they live out of the Impala, is emphatically Not Good.
In summary: fuck. Just...fuck.
He has no idea what he's going to do.
vi- Chapter Six of 'Dark Side of the Sun' - Leon/Dark Knight crossover
Provisionally titled 'Fields of Fire-. Earlier chapters of DSotS can be found here
Excerpt:
No matter how big a problem was, it could always be broken down into its component parts, and each part dealt with individually. So instead of panicking - which, truth be told, he would have dearly loved to do - Gordon forced himself to calm down and consider the situation objectively.
"Go and deal with Fielding," he told Stevenson over the phone, pinching the bridge of his nose wearily. "I'll talk to you later." He set the phone down and stood still for a moment with his eyes closed, gathering his thoughts.
He opened the door and leaned out. "Laura?"
"Yes sir?"
"Is there a forensics team at Fielding's place?"
"Yes sir."
"Good. Get a hold of Doctor Jay and tell her I want a second team down at Arkham, to answer to Acting Director Lynch. Get a unit to track down Bruce Wayne - apparently he's next. I already cancelled leave, didn't I? I thought so. And have the officers working Quinzel's case report to me immediately." He ended up counting off on his fingers to make sure he remembered everything, causing him to finish with a wince; "And can you get one of the medics up here? I think I've broken a finger."
That left the manifold problems of what the hell he was going to do about the Joker, the most immediate being that he hadn't the faintest clue where to start. The last time was still painfully fresh in everyone's memory...how was he supposed to get up in front of the people and admit that they'd let him slip through their fingers?
Gordon dearly wished he had someone to talk this over with. But who? Dent was long gone, and it would be hours until it was dark enough to hope the Batman might show up. He settled for directing a frustrated monologue at the ceiling until he felt calm enough to sit down and think.
There was no time to panic. He had work to do.
Yeah, I know I've done this one before, but I've started new WIPs since then! *facpalm* If you didn't see it, here is my original WIP Meme piece.
If anyone particularly wants to cheerlead/harrass me about a particular fic, go ahead.
i- Untitled Lie to Me/Reservoir Dogs Crossover
Oh god, this is such utter crack. I blame whoever posted this on fandomsecrets. It was harmlessly entertaining at the time, but now I CAN'T UNSEE IT.
Excerpt:
"We've been after this character for years, but we've never been able to get close enough to pin anything on him. He's a slippery bastard and paranoid as hell. We've sent a few men in, and they've either been caught or not made it in at all."
"And you want me to...?"
"Observe him and watch for possible weaknesses. Perhaps go in yourself if you're willing. Here's the file." Lightman took it and flipped it open.
His eyes landed on the photograph clipped to the front page and all the colour drained from his face. For a moment his guard was completely down: anger, shame, fear, and remembered pain chased each other across his features, his free hand jerking almost convulsively to rest against his stomach.
And then the moment was gone as if it had never been.
"None of your men are going to get in," he said bluntly, setting the file down on the table.
ii- 'Lies of Omission' - Airheads fic
Airheads doesn't seem to have much of a fandom (which is a tragedy, because it's an AMAZING film...featuring a surprisingly young- and hot-looking Steve Buscemi). I started writing this inspired by an lgbtfest prompt: "#124 Any musical fandom, any character, a musician comes out (author's choice as to how). How does it impact their career, particularly given the scene they're in (e.g. metal or emo or pop, but again, author's choice.)" It's already meandering away from the prompt The vague plan I have is Chazz/Rex - Rex is sick of hiding, but Chazz is worried about what coming out would do to the band's image.
Excerpt:
IS IT CURTAINS FOR THE LONE RANGERS?
Fans were shocked today by rumoured
split in chart-topping rock group the
Lone Rangers. Attendees at the MTV
Music Video Awards were witness to a
furious argument between lead singer
Chazz Darvey and bassist Eddie "Rex"
Brown at the award show's afterparty.
The band's manager, ex-DJ Ian "the
Shark" Santelli assured fans that
there was no problem "that couldn't
be solved by the idiots sobering up
and calming the **** down". However,
other members of the band and their
entourage were heard to comment that
they were "not surprised" and that
the fight was "a long time coming".
iii- 'Ever After' - House MD futurefic
Yet another fic in the seemingly interminable More Things Change 'Verse.
Excerpt:
It was a rare thing these days, but nevertheless it had happened - the Diagnostics department was silent. No patients. Nothing to do. Time to rest, regroup, and generally take advantage of the lull in caseload: in theory it was a good thing.
Except that Chase was bored. His ducklings seemed quite content to lounge around doing nothing... those of them that were left, anyway. Parker had 'moved on to better things' - apparently that was a British code for resigning before you were fired - and Jackson was consulting for the cardiology department at some fancy hospital in Los Angeles.
That left Brannigan, who'd disappeared to hunt for lunch, and Saunders, who was unashamedly sleeping face-down on a stack of files. She wasn't much fun to bait any more anyway. Fortunately he was spared the effort of finding a way to entertain himself by the door swinging open. Cameron walked in and handed him a file, sitting on the edge of his desk.
"Twenty-eight year old female," she said without preamble; "At first it seemed like a straightforward case of lupus, but there were some odd glandular abnormalities..."
"I'll get the minions on it," Chase replied, leafing through the medical history.
"Oh, and are you free Saturday?"
"Maybe. Why?"
"We're having a barbecue at my place," Cameron said, idly brushing a crease out of her sleeve. "To celebrate Cuddy's retirement."
"Who's coming?"
"Well, Cuddy and Wilson, obviously. The children - Rachel's back for the summer, and apparently she's brought her boyfriend - Foreman and his wife, and you. I'd tell you to bring a date if I thought there was a hope of it actually happening."
"You make it sound as if I'm living like a monk!" he objected. "I'm not-"
"I'm talking about a relationship, Chase," she said sternly. "One-night stands don't count."
"I-"
"And if you even think the word 'hooker' loudly..."
"Yeah, I know. I'm to stop corrupting your kids."
Chase grinned; now they were back on comfortable territory. He hated it when she harassed him about his lack of a real personal life. He supposed it was only natural for her to want to get him safely tied down. After all, the rest of them had neatly paired off: Cuddy and Wilson, Cameron and her husband David, Foreman and his wife whatshername. He was the only one left over. Her eldest children were creeping up on dating age...maybe it was practice.
Anyway, she always stopped before she hit full steam. She'd get as far as you haven't had a real relationship since... and he'd just look her and an uncomfortable silence would descend. And then, softly, it's been ten years, Chase.
He was aware of this. He could count. He just didn't feel the pressing need to do anything about it. It wasn't as though he was avoiding getting a personal life. If one were to be handed to him ready-made he'd be quite happy, but he couldn't quite make himself care enough to go out and get one.
Cameron made her excuses and left - after all, she had a department of her own to run. Chase lifted the file and wandered through to wake Saunders up.
iv- 'Hypocritic Oath' - Lie to Me fic
The summary I've put on it is: "The Group is hired by a hospital to find which of their staff is responsible for the death of a patient. Meanwhile, some unusual behaviour from Loker peaks Lightman's curiosity."
Excerpt:
It was the unusually subdued entrance that threw her. Generally speaking, Loker was a morning person, and his arrival normally signalled an upswing in the noise around the office. Not today though. There was a certain zombie-like shuffle to his gait as he made a beeline for the coffeepot, bloodshot eyes and an unhealthy-looking pallor. He drained his first cup in one grateful swallow, and only after refilling and taking another long drink did he look around and finally seem to register her presence.
"You look like crap," Torres said.
"I feel like crap," he responded, clutching the coffee like a small child with a stuffed animal.
"Showing up for work hungover probably isn't the best way to get back into Lightman's good books," she pointed out. He just glared blearily at her and got up to pour himself another cup of coffee.
It took another twenty minutes for Loker to pull himself together enough to manage some semblance of coherency. Which was lucky, because not long afterward Lightman - who was emphatically not a morning person, and therefore suspiciously chipper - put his head round the door and said cheerfully, "Rise and shine, boys and girls, we've got a case."
"What kind of case?" Torres asked.
"Hospital wants us to find out which one of their doctors killed a patient."
"Sounds fun," Loker said. He sounded like crap too.
"Rough night?" Lightman asked, wearing a look of faintly bemused interest that Torres found markedly less irritating when it wasn't being directed at her.
"You have no idea."
"Well, go get some more coffee then. Can't have you falling asleep on the job." As he walked away he tossed over his shoulder; "Briefing in five - try not to be late."
v- 'Smoke on the Water' - Supernatural AU
Pre-series AU - when a teenage Dean is badly injured on a hunt, it forces the family Winchester to rethink their lifestyle a little.
Excerpt:
John Winchester had never been squeamish about the sight of blood - and even if he had've been, life as a soldier and later as a hunter would have crushed it for good. Blood was another part of the job, like fire and salt and rotted corpses; unpleasant, but unavoidable.
At that moment, however, the blood caking and drying under his nails and on the front of his shirt commanded his complete attention.
"You need some sleep," Bobby said, prudently doing so from the other side of the corridor. A sane man didn't stand too close to a wounded animal or a shell-shocked Winchester.
"No," John said. He made a valiant effort to pull himself together. "I need to sort out the insurance...and come up with some sort of story to tell them..."
"Taken care of," Bobby replied patiently, "We were out camping and got attacked by a bear. And if anyone asks, your name's John Elroy and I'm your brother-in-law." There was a long pause. "It wasn't your fault, John."
"Wasn't it? I was right there and I couldn't do a damn thing."
"You killed the son of a bitch."
"Not fast enough."
There was a squeak of hinges at the far end of the hallway as Sam came through the doors, bearing coffee and donuts. He opened his mouth as though to speak, but hesitated, looking between his father and Bobby. Apparently he thought better of whatever he had been going to say and passed out the styrofoam cups in silence.
All three of them tensed as the door of the operating theatre swung open and a hassled-looking nurse emerged. He hurried past them without a word; as one man they slumped dejectedly.
It was hours later that a tiny black woman in blood-stained scrubs emerged from the theatre and looked around expectantly. Her eyes settled on the little group in the corridor: Sam curled into a teary ball in a chair, John hollowed-eyed and distant, Bobby leaning exhausted against the wall.
"Mr. Elroy?" she asked.
John was on his feet in an instant; "Yes?"
"My name is Dr. Summers. I'm pleased to tell you that your son is stable and looking likely to make a full recovery."
"Thank god," John breathed, closing his eyes in pure relief. He took a deep breath. "How bad is it?"
Summers pinched the bridge of her nose, looking...well, like she'd just spent the last few hours patching up some of the most godawful wounds she'd ever seen on a teenage boy. "He's lost a lot of blood. He's broken his right arm, his collarbone, left ankle, and six ribs. We've had to give him more than three hundred stitches in all and his left lung had collapsed."
"Mother of god," Bobby whispered.
"Can we see him?" Sam asked.
"We're transferring him to a recovery ward just now," Summers said; "I'll take you there."
She led them along a succession of immaculately clean hospital-smelling corridors to the inordinately cheery recovery ward. And there in the centre of one of the rooms, connected to a ridiculous number of IV tubes and beeping machinery, was Dean.
Sam was across the room and into one of the chairs so fast the adults barely saw him move. One moment he was standing by the door, the next, clutching his brother's hand. Bobby followed at a slower pace - John remained frozen in the doorway.
"This is all my fault," he muttered. Behind him, Summers made a tactful and prudent retreat.
"Don't be an idjit," Bobby said; "You couldn't have known this'd happen."
Time was a fickle thing under the circumstances: it could have been minutes or hours later that a faint moan jerked them out of their separate reveries. Dean's eyelids fluttered. He squinted blearily at the ceiling and mumbled something indistinct.
"Dean!" John said, leaning in. Dean blinked and, after a few attempts, managed to more or less focus on his father's face. He tried to speak, but only a hoarse croaking noise came out - he licked his lips and produced a faint, "...dad?"
"I'll get him some water," Sam said, jumping to his feet.
"Get a doctor while you're about it," Bobby told him. He nodded and darted out of the door.
Sam came back in a moment later, a cup in his hands and Dr. Summers following him. She smiled faintly at the sight of John leaning in close, murmuring low and urgent to his son: what she probably assumed were words of endearment and reassurance. Bobby had to smile tightly too, because he knew John was relaying the bare bones of their cover story to Dean.
"Hello," she said. "I'm Dr. Summers. How are you feeling?"
Dean stared at her for a moment and said deliberately; "Sore."
She passed a penlight across his eyes, looking intently at the pupils. "Can you tell me your name?"
"Dean. Dean Elroy."
"And do you know what day it is?"
"Depends how long I was out," Dean said. Summers laughed.
"You don't seem to have a concussion," she said, putting the penlight away. "Okay. Why don't you tell me how you got hurt?"
"I- I was camping with Dad and Sam and Uncle Bobby," Dean said obediently, conjuring up a moving air of 'poor injured little boy'. "There was a bear, a grizzly or something. It was pissed. It went for me and, uh..." He looked slightly confused. "Uh, I think Dad shot at it? Things get a bit fuzzy around there."
"That's right," Summers told him, "You have quite a few broken bones and a lot of stitches. We've got you on painkillers so you don't hurt too badly, but try not to move much - we don't want you pulling your stitches. Are you thirsty?"
"Yeah," Dean said gratefully.
Summers smiled at Sam; "Sam? Do you want to give your brother the ice chips?"
"Sure!" Sam pulled his chair in closer, almost visibly glowing with pride to be the one looking after Dean for once.
Summers cleared her throat. "Mr. Elroy, if I could have a word with you outside?"
John's hand tightened momentarily on Dean's arm just above the cast. He cast a look at Bobby, who gave an almost imperceptible nod - he would keep an eye on the boys.
John already knew what was coming. Mentally he mulled over which particular line of bullshit he was going to spin this time to explain away the number of scars Dean had.
"Mr. Elroy," Summers said. She paused as though unsure of how to phrase what she was about to say. "I- that is... your paperwork indicates that you spend a lot of time on the road?"
"Uh...yes," John replied, momentarily thrown. That wasn't how this conversation usually began.
"And your boys come with you?"
"Yes."
He continued to look blank. She sighed and cut straight to the chase. "Mr. Elroy, I have concerns about your ability to provide a suitable environment for Dean's recovery."
"I-" John stopped, momentarily derailed; "I'm sorry, what?"
She explained. A lot of it was doctor-speak that winged its way right over his head, but mixed in with that was some pretty damn inarguable common sense. Medical terms were somehow easier to disregard than the blunt, plain English of internal bleeding and compound fracture and possible permanent damage. He was in a daze by the end - the gist of it was clear though.
Forget hunting. Forget training. The doctor had made it quite clear that for the next while, excessive walking was out of the question. And long periods of time in a moving vehicle would slow Dean's recovery even more...which, given that they live out of the Impala, is emphatically Not Good.
In summary: fuck. Just...fuck.
He has no idea what he's going to do.
vi- Chapter Six of 'Dark Side of the Sun' - Leon/Dark Knight crossover
Provisionally titled 'Fields of Fire-. Earlier chapters of DSotS can be found here
Excerpt:
No matter how big a problem was, it could always be broken down into its component parts, and each part dealt with individually. So instead of panicking - which, truth be told, he would have dearly loved to do - Gordon forced himself to calm down and consider the situation objectively.
"Go and deal with Fielding," he told Stevenson over the phone, pinching the bridge of his nose wearily. "I'll talk to you later." He set the phone down and stood still for a moment with his eyes closed, gathering his thoughts.
He opened the door and leaned out. "Laura?"
"Yes sir?"
"Is there a forensics team at Fielding's place?"
"Yes sir."
"Good. Get a hold of Doctor Jay and tell her I want a second team down at Arkham, to answer to Acting Director Lynch. Get a unit to track down Bruce Wayne - apparently he's next. I already cancelled leave, didn't I? I thought so. And have the officers working Quinzel's case report to me immediately." He ended up counting off on his fingers to make sure he remembered everything, causing him to finish with a wince; "And can you get one of the medics up here? I think I've broken a finger."
That left the manifold problems of what the hell he was going to do about the Joker, the most immediate being that he hadn't the faintest clue where to start. The last time was still painfully fresh in everyone's memory...how was he supposed to get up in front of the people and admit that they'd let him slip through their fingers?
Gordon dearly wished he had someone to talk this over with. But who? Dent was long gone, and it would be hours until it was dark enough to hope the Batman might show up. He settled for directing a frustrated monologue at the ceiling until he felt calm enough to sit down and think.
There was no time to panic. He had work to do.