Well, that happened
So apparently all I want to do right now is write short little Mag7 comment fics about everybody except my OTP. I'd be annoyed, but it's just so damn nice to be writing anything fun at all that I can't find it in me. I'd link to the appropriate fic prompts but, sadly, the tablet is fine for many things but it is terrible for selecting links and posting them. So you'll just have to read all the prompts here (or in the Mag7 ficlet work on my AO3 profile) instead.
Prompt: Nathan and any/all, of course healing is a vocation, but not all medicines grow on trees
"Steal away, steal away home," Nathan sings as he wipes the sweat from Chris's brow, his voice low and quiet as befits a man in a sickroom, "I ain't got long to stay here."
"You trying to tell me something, Nathan?" Chris asks, his voice just as low and quiet, but for entirely different reasons; his fever may have broken but there's still a hole in his side from Averal's gun and his breath comes fast and shallow. "Got a song for a dying man?"
"You ain't dying, Chris, though I can't say the same if you mess with those stitches again," Nathan says. He sits back in his chair and twists his back, trying to relieve the ache of a long night spent in a hard chair. He sighs, then stands and walks toward the small stove and the kettle he's kept warm through the night. "Think you can drink something now?"
"If it's whiskey."
Nathan snorts and pours a cup of tansy and chamomile tea. His hand hovers over the bottle of laudanum before he moves on and adds a generous splash of whiskey to the cup -- well, it might help Chris sleep, and they could both use the rest.
"Here," he says, handing Chris the cup as he settles back down. He stretches out his legs before him and leans back, folding his hands before him. "And that ain't a song for the dying," he adds, in the tones of one who has sung to many a dying man.
"Hmm," Chris says. He drinks the tea, grimacing at the taste, then shrugs as much as he's able to. "Well, better than that shit you were singing earlier -- what was it? Something about sinners?"
"Most of them are about sinners," Nathan says, as that's the simplest answer. He ain't in the mood to talk about coded meanings and the long road to Cannan, and Chris ain't in the mood to listen to the words he needs to start healing the wounds Ella's left in his soul. Still, Chris might be in the mood to listen to a song and Nathan has long known that music is a most powerful medicine indeed.
"Sarah used to sing to Adam when he couldn't sleep," Chris says around a yawn. "He liked Long, Long Ago best." He hums a few bars, off-key and sleepy. "Think sometimes he'd wake himself up just to have her sing."
Nathan nods and clears his throat and begins to sing.
Prompt: Josiah (or any), any, the devil on my shoulder has got my ear right now.
"Bless me Father, for I have sinned," Josiah says. "It has been three hours since my last confession."
"A new record, Josiah." Father Vasquez sighs and Josiah can hear the old priest's cassock rustle through the latticed screen of the confessional. "And what have you done in the past three hours that necessitates confession?"
"I have had impure thoughts about a woman. A burlesque singer," he says, and he closes his eyes, in part to hide his shame but mostly to see Caroline more clearly in his mind.
"The same one you had impure thoughts about last week?"
"Uh. No. No, a different one. But Father, she's so beautiful, and she agreed to walk with me along the Embarcadero and, uh." He hesitates, suddenly shy. "Uh, there was more than thinking, Father."
"I see."
"Twice."
Father Vasquez sighs and Josiah winces. He opened his eyes and stares down at his hands in the dim light of the confessional, and at the rosary he clutches like lifeline. He really hopes he hasn't gotten any blood on it.
"And is that all you wish to confess to, Josiah?" Father Vasquez asks, once the silence has stretched out long enough to be awkward.
"Uh."
"Oh Josiah." Father Vasquez slides back the screen separating them and Josiah squirms under the weight of his disappointed glare. "I thought we talked about obeying the better angels and resisting the temptations of the flesh."
"Yes Father," Josiah says, his gaze still firmly fixed upon his bleeding knuckles. "Only, sometimes it's hard to hear the better angels."
"This is your third year as a novitiate, Josiah. Surely your angels have learned to shout by now."
"They have, Father," Josiah says, and he raises his eyes to meet Father Vasquez's. "The devil is always louder."
Prompt: Maude, OW, her best advice to any new mother
Maude's just come from yet another trying meeting with her son when she sees the Dunne girl waddling down Main Street looking fit to burst from the child growing in her belly but still glowing with the pleased expectation of youthful motherhood. A part of her wants to just move on by, pretend she doesn't see the timid smile of friendship blooming on the girl's face; she ain't in no kind of a mood to deal with this child who still thinks motherhood is a blessing and a joy, not when the bitter taste of her own wretched boy's disdain lies rankling in her heart.
But she can still feel Ezra's scornful gaze, and she will not give him the satisfaction that he was right about her, right that she has no understanding of compassion and that she suckled him on the milk of human avarice, so she plasters on her best smile and strolls out to the girl to spite the enemy at her back.
"My dear Mrs. Dunne," she says, taking the girl's hands in hers. "How lovely to see you."
"Mrs. Standish," the girl says, smiling shyly. "JD told me you was in town. I'm awful glad I ran into you."
"I'm so happy to oblige," Maude says airily. She tucks the girl's hand into the crook of her arm and matches her pace to the girl's slow steps. "Ezra's last letter told me you were in the family way and I'm so pleased for you and young Mr. Dunne. How long until the blessed occasion?"
"We reckon two weeks from last Thursday," she says, a faint blush dusting her cheeks. "Though I'm hoping it'll be sooner. I'm 'bout fed up to here with being pregnant."
"And have you thought of a name for the child?"
"Anne, if it's a girl, and Chris, if it's a boy." She casts her eyes down at that, shyly pleased with her choice in names, and Maude finds it hard not to roll her eyes at choices. She wonders, briefly, how Mr. Larabee would react to being a namesake, and she feels a genuine smile break loose at the image that arises in her mind.
"Fine names," Maude says, and they walk along in silence for a few more paces.
"Mrs. Standish," the girl says at last, having clearly screwed up her courage to ask the question that pressed her to seek Maude out in the first place, "I was wondering if...well, JD told me 'bout the last time you was here, and the reading you did for him. And I was hoping -- that is, JD and I were both hoping -- that you might do it again? For the babe?" Her hand clutches painfully tight to Maude's arm, and in that moment Maude can feel all of the girl's hopes and fears for the life she carries inside her.
Maude pauses, and she thinks of all the things she could say to the girl right now; thinks of telling her about the endless nights of colic and fretfulness, of fevers and broken bones, of anger and frustration and worry, of fear and despair, of the endless neediness and the hateful barbs, and the distant wall that she can never seem to breach.
Of the fiercely possessive love that overwhelms her, even now, and keeps her circling back to her only child again and again, unable to stop herself from protecting him, even from himself.
"Oh my dear," she says at last. "I don't need cards to tell you the future of your child. That babe is going to be like all children -- you will love it beyond all measure, and it will always break your heart."
This entry was originally posted at Dreamwidth where there are
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Prompt: Nathan and any/all, of course healing is a vocation, but not all medicines grow on trees
"Steal away, steal away home," Nathan sings as he wipes the sweat from Chris's brow, his voice low and quiet as befits a man in a sickroom, "I ain't got long to stay here."
"You trying to tell me something, Nathan?" Chris asks, his voice just as low and quiet, but for entirely different reasons; his fever may have broken but there's still a hole in his side from Averal's gun and his breath comes fast and shallow. "Got a song for a dying man?"
"You ain't dying, Chris, though I can't say the same if you mess with those stitches again," Nathan says. He sits back in his chair and twists his back, trying to relieve the ache of a long night spent in a hard chair. He sighs, then stands and walks toward the small stove and the kettle he's kept warm through the night. "Think you can drink something now?"
"If it's whiskey."
Nathan snorts and pours a cup of tansy and chamomile tea. His hand hovers over the bottle of laudanum before he moves on and adds a generous splash of whiskey to the cup -- well, it might help Chris sleep, and they could both use the rest.
"Here," he says, handing Chris the cup as he settles back down. He stretches out his legs before him and leans back, folding his hands before him. "And that ain't a song for the dying," he adds, in the tones of one who has sung to many a dying man.
"Hmm," Chris says. He drinks the tea, grimacing at the taste, then shrugs as much as he's able to. "Well, better than that shit you were singing earlier -- what was it? Something about sinners?"
"Most of them are about sinners," Nathan says, as that's the simplest answer. He ain't in the mood to talk about coded meanings and the long road to Cannan, and Chris ain't in the mood to listen to the words he needs to start healing the wounds Ella's left in his soul. Still, Chris might be in the mood to listen to a song and Nathan has long known that music is a most powerful medicine indeed.
"Sarah used to sing to Adam when he couldn't sleep," Chris says around a yawn. "He liked Long, Long Ago best." He hums a few bars, off-key and sleepy. "Think sometimes he'd wake himself up just to have her sing."
Nathan nods and clears his throat and begins to sing.
Prompt: Josiah (or any), any, the devil on my shoulder has got my ear right now.
"Bless me Father, for I have sinned," Josiah says. "It has been three hours since my last confession."
"A new record, Josiah." Father Vasquez sighs and Josiah can hear the old priest's cassock rustle through the latticed screen of the confessional. "And what have you done in the past three hours that necessitates confession?"
"I have had impure thoughts about a woman. A burlesque singer," he says, and he closes his eyes, in part to hide his shame but mostly to see Caroline more clearly in his mind.
"The same one you had impure thoughts about last week?"
"Uh. No. No, a different one. But Father, she's so beautiful, and she agreed to walk with me along the Embarcadero and, uh." He hesitates, suddenly shy. "Uh, there was more than thinking, Father."
"I see."
"Twice."
Father Vasquez sighs and Josiah winces. He opened his eyes and stares down at his hands in the dim light of the confessional, and at the rosary he clutches like lifeline. He really hopes he hasn't gotten any blood on it.
"And is that all you wish to confess to, Josiah?" Father Vasquez asks, once the silence has stretched out long enough to be awkward.
"Uh."
"Oh Josiah." Father Vasquez slides back the screen separating them and Josiah squirms under the weight of his disappointed glare. "I thought we talked about obeying the better angels and resisting the temptations of the flesh."
"Yes Father," Josiah says, his gaze still firmly fixed upon his bleeding knuckles. "Only, sometimes it's hard to hear the better angels."
"This is your third year as a novitiate, Josiah. Surely your angels have learned to shout by now."
"They have, Father," Josiah says, and he raises his eyes to meet Father Vasquez's. "The devil is always louder."
Prompt: Maude, OW, her best advice to any new mother
Maude's just come from yet another trying meeting with her son when she sees the Dunne girl waddling down Main Street looking fit to burst from the child growing in her belly but still glowing with the pleased expectation of youthful motherhood. A part of her wants to just move on by, pretend she doesn't see the timid smile of friendship blooming on the girl's face; she ain't in no kind of a mood to deal with this child who still thinks motherhood is a blessing and a joy, not when the bitter taste of her own wretched boy's disdain lies rankling in her heart.
But she can still feel Ezra's scornful gaze, and she will not give him the satisfaction that he was right about her, right that she has no understanding of compassion and that she suckled him on the milk of human avarice, so she plasters on her best smile and strolls out to the girl to spite the enemy at her back.
"My dear Mrs. Dunne," she says, taking the girl's hands in hers. "How lovely to see you."
"Mrs. Standish," the girl says, smiling shyly. "JD told me you was in town. I'm awful glad I ran into you."
"I'm so happy to oblige," Maude says airily. She tucks the girl's hand into the crook of her arm and matches her pace to the girl's slow steps. "Ezra's last letter told me you were in the family way and I'm so pleased for you and young Mr. Dunne. How long until the blessed occasion?"
"We reckon two weeks from last Thursday," she says, a faint blush dusting her cheeks. "Though I'm hoping it'll be sooner. I'm 'bout fed up to here with being pregnant."
"And have you thought of a name for the child?"
"Anne, if it's a girl, and Chris, if it's a boy." She casts her eyes down at that, shyly pleased with her choice in names, and Maude finds it hard not to roll her eyes at choices. She wonders, briefly, how Mr. Larabee would react to being a namesake, and she feels a genuine smile break loose at the image that arises in her mind.
"Fine names," Maude says, and they walk along in silence for a few more paces.
"Mrs. Standish," the girl says at last, having clearly screwed up her courage to ask the question that pressed her to seek Maude out in the first place, "I was wondering if...well, JD told me 'bout the last time you was here, and the reading you did for him. And I was hoping -- that is, JD and I were both hoping -- that you might do it again? For the babe?" Her hand clutches painfully tight to Maude's arm, and in that moment Maude can feel all of the girl's hopes and fears for the life she carries inside her.
Maude pauses, and she thinks of all the things she could say to the girl right now; thinks of telling her about the endless nights of colic and fretfulness, of fevers and broken bones, of anger and frustration and worry, of fear and despair, of the endless neediness and the hateful barbs, and the distant wall that she can never seem to breach.
Of the fiercely possessive love that overwhelms her, even now, and keeps her circling back to her only child again and again, unable to stop herself from protecting him, even from himself.
"Oh my dear," she says at last. "I don't need cards to tell you the future of your child. That babe is going to be like all children -- you will love it beyond all measure, and it will always break your heart."
This entry was originally posted at Dreamwidth where there are
comments