[prompt me] ficcish things | "simmer down and pucker up..."
Hands up if you'd figured I'd forgotten all about these?
My characters were:
[1] Jesse Pinkman | Breaking Bad
[2] Katherine Pierce | The Vampire Diaries
[3] Izzie Stevens | Grey's Anatomy
[4] Skyler White | Breaking Bad
[5] Erin Lindsay | Chicago PD
[6] Arya Stark | Game of Thrones
[7] Walter White | Breaking Bad
[8] Alex Karev | Grey's Anatomy
[9] Gail Peck | Rookie Blue
[10] Luke Callaghan | Rookie Blue
[11] Molly Solveson | Fargo
[12] Felix Dawkins | Orphan Black
[13] Sarah Manning | Orphan Black
[14] Peter Hale | Teen Wolf
[15] Alison Hendrix | Orphan Black
For mrsfjl66 | 2, 5 and 9 are stuck in an elevator…
Gail’s heels tap out an uneven beat on the tiles as she jogs the last few steps towards the bank of elevators and shoves one arm out, catching the still closing doors just in time to have them sliding open once more.
She offers the two women already occupying the space a sheepish smile and a small shrug as she jabs one gloved finger against the already lit button for level eight in a bid to encourage the doors to close behind her.
She’d apologise but she’s not entirely sure she’s sorry. She’s also convinced Chicago snow is at least twenty degrees colder than the snow that falls in Toronto.
They’re just beyond the fourth floor, headed to their first stop at six, when the lights flicker and the mechanical whir of the hydraulics hauling the elevator skyward fades quickly to silent.
Gail solicits a quick canvas of opinions by way of an eye-brow raise. Gets two more sets in return.
Right then.
She listens as the woman on her left speaks calmly into the emergency microphone. “My name’s Erin Lindsay…” she says, and Gail finally has a face for the name she’s been collaborating with for weeks now.
“Detective Erin Lindsay?”
There’s a pause, the silence interrupted only by the third woman shuffling irritably through what’s quite possibly the largest handbag Gail’s ever seen.
Then;
“Don’t tell me, you’re Detective Peck?”
Gail nods and sticks one hand out, has it shaken enthusiastically as the handbag shuffling comes to a sudden stop.
“Wait, you’re both cops?”
Fifteen minutes later and they’re still exactly where they were fifteen minutes ago. Just beyond the fourth floor and in an elevator that’s still not moving.
Although the third woman does have a name now at least; Katherine.
Katherine Pierce.
Gail’s not entirely convinced it’s the truth, but she’s taken to using it anyway.
***
For inglevine | 2, 9, 4, 7 and 13 are assigned to run a space station together, but the world ends and they are left to repopulate humanity on their own. Are they successful?
When the giant elephant that’s been taking up most of the space and nearly all of the air in the room for the past three weeks is finally addressed, Gail’s the first to respond.
“Hell no. Not happening…”
She doesn’t bother to elaborate and nor do the other four need her to.
Skyler’s been there, done that. She has no real inclination to revisit the memories she still carries around like battle wounds, let alone to create new ones. So she lies and says she’s post-menopausal. Takes herself out of the equation seamlessly and with barely a flutter out of place beneath her ribcage.
Shrugs her shoulders loosely and with a sad smile, safe in the knowledge that she’s still got it.
Sarah says biology’s against her. That her particular genetic recipe has already been replicated a dozen or so times and that it pretty much never ends well.
“Like, ever…”
Katherine’s infertile. So she claims. And the tone of her voice means her admission isn’t questioned.
Or maybe that’s the blink-and-you’d-miss-it flash of fangs she offers the group as she tops up their tumblers with the last of the Grey Goose they’d smuggled on board all those months ago.
Yeah, actually, maybe it’s that.
To be honest, though, Walt’s tired. And while being in charge of repopulating the entire planet one ejaculation at a time is probably the closest to playing God he’s ever likely to get, Heisenberg hat or otherwise, it’s no broad-daylight train robbery, you know? The science, in the grand scheme of things, is pretty basic. The most challenging part would be finding the raw ingredients he’d need to synthesise enough Viagra to get the job done.
But no.
Walt has a different plan.
He drags a whiteboard marker from the front pocket of his apron and sketches carefully for several minutes. Adds some recently solved equations to the side that he knows they won’t understand but are important nonetheless and then steps back with a flourish.
“Robots,” he says, triumphant, revelling for just a moment in his own continued brilliance. “We’re going to build robots.”
Somewhere, somehow, in the deepest, darkest parts of him, a faint voice echoes…
Bitches…
***
For saucydiva | Who, of your 15 characters, is singing "Do I Wanna Know?" to whom?
Somewhere, lost in the middle of every set he caves for just long enough to belt out at Joe’s, Alex sings for Izzie. It’s never intentional, but it happens every single time, regardless. He’ll be half-way through a chorus, or about to start a second verse, and he’ll tune out for half a beat, the crowded bar replaced by the long since dusty image of her face.
Or what he remembers of it, at least. Blonde curls and brown eyes he still thinks he’d get lost in.
Given half a chance.
Tonight it’s The Arctic Monkeys who invite his inevitable undoing. Their ridiculously perfect lyrics and the way, suddenly, he’s not entirely unconvinced they didn’t write them all especially for him.
And her.
Maybe I’m too busy being yours to fall for somebody new, now I’ve thought it through…
His fingers fumble on the strings of his guitar for a strum or several, but if anyone notices they don’t react. They never react. Sometimes paranoia will momentarily convince him that Meredith can read his scattered thoughts, or that Cristina’s piercing gaze is triumphantly accusatory instead of just plain bored.
If either scenario is true, the subject is never raised.
Thank god.
He allows himself a moment to drag in a deep breath, shuts his eyes and finishes out the final chorus with his dignity intact for yet another evening.
Do you want me crawling back to you?
Well, mostly.
The bar is gone, and it’s just her face and her hands and his knees pressed tight between hers. For two people with a thousand pieces missing, chipped and broken away, they sure did fit together perfectly.
Once upon a time.
***
MORE COMING!! (And by that I mean, I have actual, scheduled, assigned fic due on the third of July that I haven't started yet. Obviously I am going to spend the afternoon procrastinating by writing more of these and watching the Fargo finale!)
My characters were:
[1] Jesse Pinkman | Breaking Bad
[2] Katherine Pierce | The Vampire Diaries
[3] Izzie Stevens | Grey's Anatomy
[4] Skyler White | Breaking Bad
[5] Erin Lindsay | Chicago PD
[6] Arya Stark | Game of Thrones
[7] Walter White | Breaking Bad
[8] Alex Karev | Grey's Anatomy
[9] Gail Peck | Rookie Blue
[10] Luke Callaghan | Rookie Blue
[11] Molly Solveson | Fargo
[12] Felix Dawkins | Orphan Black
[13] Sarah Manning | Orphan Black
[14] Peter Hale | Teen Wolf
[15] Alison Hendrix | Orphan Black
For mrsfjl66 | 2, 5 and 9 are stuck in an elevator…
Gail’s heels tap out an uneven beat on the tiles as she jogs the last few steps towards the bank of elevators and shoves one arm out, catching the still closing doors just in time to have them sliding open once more.
She offers the two women already occupying the space a sheepish smile and a small shrug as she jabs one gloved finger against the already lit button for level eight in a bid to encourage the doors to close behind her.
She’d apologise but she’s not entirely sure she’s sorry. She’s also convinced Chicago snow is at least twenty degrees colder than the snow that falls in Toronto.
They’re just beyond the fourth floor, headed to their first stop at six, when the lights flicker and the mechanical whir of the hydraulics hauling the elevator skyward fades quickly to silent.
Gail solicits a quick canvas of opinions by way of an eye-brow raise. Gets two more sets in return.
Right then.
She listens as the woman on her left speaks calmly into the emergency microphone. “My name’s Erin Lindsay…” she says, and Gail finally has a face for the name she’s been collaborating with for weeks now.
“Detective Erin Lindsay?”
There’s a pause, the silence interrupted only by the third woman shuffling irritably through what’s quite possibly the largest handbag Gail’s ever seen.
Then;
“Don’t tell me, you’re Detective Peck?”
Gail nods and sticks one hand out, has it shaken enthusiastically as the handbag shuffling comes to a sudden stop.
“Wait, you’re both cops?”
Fifteen minutes later and they’re still exactly where they were fifteen minutes ago. Just beyond the fourth floor and in an elevator that’s still not moving.
Although the third woman does have a name now at least; Katherine.
Katherine Pierce.
Gail’s not entirely convinced it’s the truth, but she’s taken to using it anyway.
***
For inglevine | 2, 9, 4, 7 and 13 are assigned to run a space station together, but the world ends and they are left to repopulate humanity on their own. Are they successful?
When the giant elephant that’s been taking up most of the space and nearly all of the air in the room for the past three weeks is finally addressed, Gail’s the first to respond.
“Hell no. Not happening…”
She doesn’t bother to elaborate and nor do the other four need her to.
Skyler’s been there, done that. She has no real inclination to revisit the memories she still carries around like battle wounds, let alone to create new ones. So she lies and says she’s post-menopausal. Takes herself out of the equation seamlessly and with barely a flutter out of place beneath her ribcage.
Shrugs her shoulders loosely and with a sad smile, safe in the knowledge that she’s still got it.
Sarah says biology’s against her. That her particular genetic recipe has already been replicated a dozen or so times and that it pretty much never ends well.
“Like, ever…”
Katherine’s infertile. So she claims. And the tone of her voice means her admission isn’t questioned.
Or maybe that’s the blink-and-you’d-miss-it flash of fangs she offers the group as she tops up their tumblers with the last of the Grey Goose they’d smuggled on board all those months ago.
Yeah, actually, maybe it’s that.
To be honest, though, Walt’s tired. And while being in charge of repopulating the entire planet one ejaculation at a time is probably the closest to playing God he’s ever likely to get, Heisenberg hat or otherwise, it’s no broad-daylight train robbery, you know? The science, in the grand scheme of things, is pretty basic. The most challenging part would be finding the raw ingredients he’d need to synthesise enough Viagra to get the job done.
But no.
Walt has a different plan.
He drags a whiteboard marker from the front pocket of his apron and sketches carefully for several minutes. Adds some recently solved equations to the side that he knows they won’t understand but are important nonetheless and then steps back with a flourish.
“Robots,” he says, triumphant, revelling for just a moment in his own continued brilliance. “We’re going to build robots.”
Somewhere, somehow, in the deepest, darkest parts of him, a faint voice echoes…
Bitches…
***
For saucydiva | Who, of your 15 characters, is singing "Do I Wanna Know?" to whom?
Somewhere, lost in the middle of every set he caves for just long enough to belt out at Joe’s, Alex sings for Izzie. It’s never intentional, but it happens every single time, regardless. He’ll be half-way through a chorus, or about to start a second verse, and he’ll tune out for half a beat, the crowded bar replaced by the long since dusty image of her face.
Or what he remembers of it, at least. Blonde curls and brown eyes he still thinks he’d get lost in.
Given half a chance.
Tonight it’s The Arctic Monkeys who invite his inevitable undoing. Their ridiculously perfect lyrics and the way, suddenly, he’s not entirely unconvinced they didn’t write them all especially for him.
And her.
Maybe I’m too busy being yours to fall for somebody new, now I’ve thought it through…
His fingers fumble on the strings of his guitar for a strum or several, but if anyone notices they don’t react. They never react. Sometimes paranoia will momentarily convince him that Meredith can read his scattered thoughts, or that Cristina’s piercing gaze is triumphantly accusatory instead of just plain bored.
If either scenario is true, the subject is never raised.
Thank god.
He allows himself a moment to drag in a deep breath, shuts his eyes and finishes out the final chorus with his dignity intact for yet another evening.
Do you want me crawling back to you?
Well, mostly.
The bar is gone, and it’s just her face and her hands and his knees pressed tight between hers. For two people with a thousand pieces missing, chipped and broken away, they sure did fit together perfectly.
Once upon a time.
***
MORE COMING!! (And by that I mean, I have actual, scheduled, assigned fic due on the third of July that I haven't started yet. Obviously I am going to spend the afternoon procrastinating by writing more of these and watching the Fargo finale!)