Fic: The Suspiration, G (meta-fic) by inkscribe
Title: The Suspiration
Author: inkscribe
Pairings: none
Warnings: Crackfic? You be the judge.
Rating: G
Words: ~700
Spoilers: S3.14 or .17 (depending on whom you believe and why) Sunday
Locations: sgaauwtptbdfu, my LJ
Feedback: yes, please!
Summary: Expected visitors show up.
A sequel to:
The Visitation
The Imposition
The Confabulation
Author's Notes: I swear this really happened. Well, it may as well have. :-(
Thanks to TPTB for making this crackfic possible. (And really, folks, you can tell the certain-somebodies that it’s perfectly fine to drop by here before the pub - really! I mean, drinking with breakfast cereal? It’s undignified. Sheesh.)
Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is not mine; please don’t sue, we’ll both regret it in the morning.
The writer stood in her kitchen, thinking. I need to set out some plates. She sighed, turned to the dining room, and began to set out three place settings.
A sound interrupted her quiet activity. What was that? Hesitant, irregular banging on the back door. Opening the door, she was not especially surprised to see two shadowy figures. Oh dear, she thought, a knot already starting to form in the pit of her stomach.
She narrowed her eyes. They were a familiar sight - expected, even - but despite believing they would arrive this morning, she was still shocked at their appearance.
“Erm,” she said. “You two don’t look so good.”
They stared at her, silent, not entirely menacing but more than a little strange, with their matching dark suits and serious mien.
Oh! she thought, adding: “I think you both really need to sit down.” She was about to usher them through the door when she stopped as if held by an invisible Force.
Good grief, she thought. Why can this never be easy?. She stood rooted to the spot, waiting for the proclamation that inevitably followed at this point, only to find she waited in vain. She narrowed her eyes as she looked at the two shadowy figures more closely.
“You two look wrecked,” the writer said. “Erm -” she began. “What did you -”
The second shadowy figure stepped forward. She was clutching an an almost-empty bottle of Scotch and trying to both wave her hands and avoid falling to the ground.
That one definitely has a drinking problem, the writer thought.
The writer suddenly smiled.
“Why don’t you two step inside here for a moment? I’ve got oatcakes, and the scones will be done in another five minutes,” she said, indicating the oven.
The shadowy figures dropped their hands, the waving motion stopped, though in their inebriation this resulted in their entire bodies swaying unsteadily as they stood in the doorway.
“Come sit down,” the writer said, gently disengaging the bottle of Scotch from the second shadowy figure’s hand. “Just take a few minutes to have some oatcakes and scones.”
The shadowy figures staggered and stumbled over to the kitchen table. The first shadowy figure began to sob while the second began to sing a sad song in broken Gaelic.
She considered whether she should interrupt, but their unkempt, ragged appearance prompted her to offer quietly, “Have you two ever considered that the people writing out there - those who love and treasure the characters and the settings within which they play out their stories - have you ever considered that those writers might choose to ignore contrived plot devices and continue to write without regard to so-called canon?”
“Wha -” the second shadowy figure began, and then slumped insensate, her head resting on the tabletop.
The first shadowy figure hiccoughed, followed rapidly by a scotch-tinged belch. The timer chimed and the writer turned to retrieve the scones from the oven.
The first shadowy figure looked at her blearily, “Indeed. One must do what one must do.”
“Pardon me?” the writer said, trying to remember whether they were having a conversation or not.
“One must ignore the foolish in favour of those who are not,” the first shadowy figure elaborated.
The writer smiled. “That’s a girl,” she said. She offered a fresh scone to the first shadowy figure, who dove on it like a fangirl at a kilt convention.
“Bwhtitstllastpdscheese!” the second shadowy figure mumbled, her face still resting against the kitchen table.
“What was that?” the writer asked, surprised to hear anything at all from the second shadowy figure in her apparently fainted-away state.
“Butitwasstillastupidchoice,” the first shadowy figure explained, her own slightly-less intense inebriation clearly getting the better of her diction.
The writer could only nod in agreement. “Yes, well - that’s TPTB for you.” She shrugged. “Profit over plot any day, I suppose. Another scone?” she offered, passing the plate again to the first shadowy figure, passing their morning wake by sipping tea and munching on oatcakes and scones.
Author: inkscribe
Pairings: none
Warnings: Crackfic? You be the judge.
Rating: G
Words: ~700
Spoilers: S3.14 or .17 (depending on whom you believe and why) Sunday
Locations: sgaauwtptbdfu, my LJ
Feedback: yes, please!
Summary: Expected visitors show up.
A sequel to:
The Visitation
The Imposition
The Confabulation
Author's Notes: I swear this really happened. Well, it may as well have. :-(
Thanks to TPTB for making this crackfic possible. (And really, folks, you can tell the certain-somebodies that it’s perfectly fine to drop by here before the pub - really! I mean, drinking with breakfast cereal? It’s undignified. Sheesh.)
Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is not mine; please don’t sue, we’ll both regret it in the morning.
The writer stood in her kitchen, thinking. I need to set out some plates. She sighed, turned to the dining room, and began to set out three place settings.
A sound interrupted her quiet activity. What was that? Hesitant, irregular banging on the back door. Opening the door, she was not especially surprised to see two shadowy figures. Oh dear, she thought, a knot already starting to form in the pit of her stomach.
She narrowed her eyes. They were a familiar sight - expected, even - but despite believing they would arrive this morning, she was still shocked at their appearance.
“Erm,” she said. “You two don’t look so good.”
They stared at her, silent, not entirely menacing but more than a little strange, with their matching dark suits and serious mien.
Oh! she thought, adding: “I think you both really need to sit down.” She was about to usher them through the door when she stopped as if held by an invisible Force.
Good grief, she thought. Why can this never be easy?. She stood rooted to the spot, waiting for the proclamation that inevitably followed at this point, only to find she waited in vain. She narrowed her eyes as she looked at the two shadowy figures more closely.
“You two look wrecked,” the writer said. “Erm -” she began. “What did you -”
The second shadowy figure stepped forward. She was clutching an an almost-empty bottle of Scotch and trying to both wave her hands and avoid falling to the ground.
That one definitely has a drinking problem, the writer thought.
The writer suddenly smiled.
“Why don’t you two step inside here for a moment? I’ve got oatcakes, and the scones will be done in another five minutes,” she said, indicating the oven.
The shadowy figures dropped their hands, the waving motion stopped, though in their inebriation this resulted in their entire bodies swaying unsteadily as they stood in the doorway.
“Come sit down,” the writer said, gently disengaging the bottle of Scotch from the second shadowy figure’s hand. “Just take a few minutes to have some oatcakes and scones.”
The shadowy figures staggered and stumbled over to the kitchen table. The first shadowy figure began to sob while the second began to sing a sad song in broken Gaelic.
She considered whether she should interrupt, but their unkempt, ragged appearance prompted her to offer quietly, “Have you two ever considered that the people writing out there - those who love and treasure the characters and the settings within which they play out their stories - have you ever considered that those writers might choose to ignore contrived plot devices and continue to write without regard to so-called canon?”
“Wha -” the second shadowy figure began, and then slumped insensate, her head resting on the tabletop.
The first shadowy figure hiccoughed, followed rapidly by a scotch-tinged belch. The timer chimed and the writer turned to retrieve the scones from the oven.
The first shadowy figure looked at her blearily, “Indeed. One must do what one must do.”
“Pardon me?” the writer said, trying to remember whether they were having a conversation or not.
“One must ignore the foolish in favour of those who are not,” the first shadowy figure elaborated.
The writer smiled. “That’s a girl,” she said. She offered a fresh scone to the first shadowy figure, who dove on it like a fangirl at a kilt convention.
“Bwhtitstllastpdscheese!” the second shadowy figure mumbled, her face still resting against the kitchen table.
“What was that?” the writer asked, surprised to hear anything at all from the second shadowy figure in her apparently fainted-away state.
“Butitwasstillastupidchoice,” the first shadowy figure explained, her own slightly-less intense inebriation clearly getting the better of her diction.
The writer could only nod in agreement. “Yes, well - that’s TPTB for you.” She shrugged. “Profit over plot any day, I suppose. Another scone?” she offered, passing the plate again to the first shadowy figure, passing their morning wake by sipping tea and munching on oatcakes and scones.