you are not a bond girl

FIC: ABC LISTERS

herbalistic — Mon, 02 Sep 2013 23:27:40 GMT

ABC LISTERS
rpf; amy poehler/george clooney; hardish r.
the picture of amy poehler giggling on george clooney’s lap goes kind of viral. set post the glory that was gg2013.
nb; for winebitch. who understands the importance of alcohol in this world.

“I can see your tits from here.”

She squirms on his lap, and it only makes the dress gape wider, “You can see like, a third of the total tittiage. Shut up.”

“There’s definitely a hint of nipple.”

A voice in Amy’s ear. She grabs her glass, turns tight towards his face and smiles wide. “You ass.”

The picture of Amy Poehler giggling on George Clooney’s lap goes kind of viral. There are gifs, inventive cropping and an abundance of exclamation marks. Journalists and teenage girls alike mention Will Arnett as though her ex-husband is even vaguely relevant to this totally scripted and completely fake situation.

“It’s funny,” George had said as the camera cut back to Tina, “I always imagined your nipples would be—“

At this Amy had gone to stand but George’s arm around her waist had held her down. “No.” He had said simply, downed his drink and leaned in to kiss her neck. His mouth was wet with Moet, and the suction will leave a mark but at least he had stopped talking about her nipples in a room crowded with cameras and c-listers.

This is what Amy thinks after the fact. The carefully staged fact.

Two weeks later George succeeds in taking her out for a drink. “My youthful bravado hides a tortured soul.” He tells her.

“Dude, you’re fifty two.”

“Life begins at forty.”

“You’re dating a thirty three year old.”

“She is also the legs of WWE.” He says by way of explanation, tipping the remains of his wine down his throat and sloshing the bottle towards her glass and then his. It splashes off the table and onto her knees.

“Good one,” she says drily as she dabs at her lap with a napkin. It’s made of paper, a sure sign that this bar is cheap by everyone’s standards. He explains it away: no-one expects to find George Clooney in the kind of place where you have to pay for peanuts and a fat woman tries to sell cologne in the restroom. At least, this is how she lets him justify it and she’ll grant him that the beer was good and the martini was good and the wine he’s just tipped all over her was, too.

It strikes Amy as kind of ironic that the sexiest guy on Earth is called George, which is like number one on her and Tina’s exhaustive ranking of unsexy names.

She tells him this and it makes him laugh. They’re in the same bar, a different night, and there’s two excited underage drinkers sitting across the room from them. “They’re pointing at you, not me.” George observes.

“Must be your unsexy name.”

“Yeah,” he buys himself some time with a smirk, “Amy.”

She shoots him an uncharacteristically sharp look, “What the fuck isn’t sexy about Amy?”

George seems to wilt under her gaze, “Nothing.” He says into his drink and she grins wide in triumph to the flash of an iPhone camera.

The pictures hit Twitter the following day, followed by Gawker, that weird-ass Livejournal place and Tumblr not long after that and really, this is not about Will Arnett so what the fuck, guys?

She goes for coffee with Tina. “You sly, sly, sexy cow.” Tina says over her latte. Her glasses have slipped far enough down to make her look like a school marm and it makes Amy grin despite herself.

“You have a moustache.” Amy says, and that is all she says. The corners of her mouth twitch.

“You minx,” Tina continues, “You shady lady.”

“We’re not actually-- you know.”

“What are you doing then, girl?” Tina places her cup deliberately on the table and pulls a face. “Amy,” she says, “As a sister. As a fellow human female. Please take the opportunity, and fuck George Clooney.”

George texts her. We need to find somewhere new to drink.

Comes her reply, courtesy of one Elizabeth Stamatina Fey:

Your place or mine? ;)

“It was Tina.” She says, the moment he opens the door.

“I know,” he says with that easy smile of his and she stops and turns.

“How?”

His smile only widens, creasing in the corners of his eyes, and it’s only right about now, standing in his hallway on a rainy Tuesday night that Amy really comes to appreciate the George Clooney thing. Half a second passes and Amy figures he must have noticed the momentary twitch because his grin evolves into a beam in that time. “Call it a sixth sense.” He says and his voice is pitched lower than usual.

She throws him the best look she can in the circumstances. “Really?”

“Remember the Globes?” George says, when she’s settled at one end of his sofa. His fingers brush hers when he passes her a glass of wine, and her feet graze his through tights and striped socks.

“No,” she deadpans, “Not at all.”

“I could see your tits.”

“You could see a bit of my tits.”

He holds her gaze, “They’re nothing to be ashamed of.”

Her hand clenches, but she keeps looking at him. He’s waiting for the satisfaction of her giving in and ducking her gaze and he knows that she knows it. “You don’t get to tell me that.”

“You’re fucking sexy, you know that?”

She lets the grin play around her lips. “Yes.”

George shifts closer to her, “You’re supposed to reciprocate.” He says, in that same low voice as earlier. There’s an edge of danger to it, perhaps, but Amy stands, or rather sits, her ground.

Indeed, Amy leans in and smiles. “Yes.”

It’s been three months since he kissed her neck at the Globes, and now his lips finally make contact with hers it is clumsy and stuttering. They both tilt one way and then the other until she giggles and holds his head still. Even then there’s a clink of teeth and an awkward jolt when her knees slip and her pelvis hits hard against his as she goes to straddle him. George groans and she smiles as he moves his lips to their old spot, the curve of tendon on her neck.

He’s more insistent this time, using his teeth and his tongue until she gasps and wraps her fingers through his hair to push him down.

George responds to this in earnest, settling slowly between her legs. He strips her of her jeans, her pants and finally her dignity as he curls three fingers of one hand inside her.

They fuck in that spot, with Amy on top grappling for purchase. Her hair falls over her face and she bites her lip in concentration but she does not close her eyes and neither does he. “George,” she breathes when he slips a hand between them, bucks when he runs it over her clit, his forefinger still wet from their earlier ministrations. His spare hands gropes for her: her hair, her tits, her waist and her thighs each in turn. Her thrusts against him grow erratic and he settles his hand on her hips, then, the guidance he wants but she does not need.

He comes with a stutter of her name, her soon after with a deliberate omission of his.

“Someone must have noticed.” George says. Amy’s hairs splayed across his chest, still heaving slightly.

“Noticed what?”

Her eyes flick up in time to see and return his smirk. “That I could see inside your dress.”

END.

fic: MISREMEMBERED

herbalistic — Tue, 06 Aug 2013 20:02:11 GMT

MISREMEMBERED
the newsroom; mac/jerry; r.
"i'll get you better facts."
nb; as requested by popculturecray. so yeah this happened. notionally set post unintended consequence but no spoilers past first thing we do let's kill all the lawyers.

“This is bullshit.”

Mac pauses, looks at Jerry. Up, down, up and down. Her gaze is steady in its intensity as it rakes across him. She lets her glasses slide down her nose and returns to her reading. When she’s finished she looks up at him, expectant.

“This is bullshit.” He says again.

There’s silence, just for a second. “Let’s get a drink.”

He hedges, looks to the door. “I have a bottle in my desk.”

“A bottle of what?”

“Wine,” he says, as though the answer was obvious. He frowns again. “Objection?”

Mackenzie scoffs, “It’ll do.” She says. “Go and get it, then.”

A bottle of wine split between journalists hardly counts as drinking, so goes the received wisdom. And to an extent, it’s true – neither Mackenzie nor Jerry feel drunk. Their vowels are sharp, even as he drains the dregs.

“Will has scotch.”

“I don’t—“

“Go to Will’s office,” she instructs, slowly, “and get his scotch.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“What?” He says. It’s out of the blue, he’s only just come back, with the half empty (never half full) bottle hanging from his right hand and two glasses held in the fingers of his left. His shoulders slump when he stills in the doorway, but his eyes are bright and alert. “What?” He says again.

“Genoa. It’s not true.” Mac leans over her desk for the bottle, twists the cork out and pours two measures apiece. She shrugs simply. “It can’t be true.”

“What do I have to do to convince you?” There’s a shade of pleading in his voice. He downs half his drink, and swills the other round the glass.

“I need facts, Jerry.”

“I’ve given you the facts.”

“Better facts.”

A sigh, “Jerry,” she says in a low voice. And then she stands and rounds the desk.

“I’ll get you better facts.”

“Give it up, man!” She says, her voice raising again. Her hands fly up and an empty wine glass bounces to the floor. “It’s a good story,” she says, “but I can’t risk it. We just can’t.”

He has his throw back ready, “Don’t patronise me, Mackenzie.”

“I’m not--”

This is when he moves to kiss her, hard on the mouth. Her teeth chink against his, and she flinches. She goes to pull back but he’s braced against her, holding her into the embrace.

Her lips stay parted when he finally lets her go. She stumbles back, goes to speak and then stops. She moves towards him again, kissing him with a murmured fuck it. Her hands hook in his belt loops, pulling his hips flush to hers. In return his fingers twist into her hair and into her shirt and across her waist and down and down again until she lets out a small sound.

She breaks the contact to sit up on the desk, rucks up her skirt so he can stand between her legs. Her gaze is straight and still, and just a little distant. He’s gone quiet, too, his face buried in her neck as he drives into her once, twice, three times.

And then she says it. “This is a bad idea.”

“The worst,” he agrees. And then he comes too quickly, and he knows it’s too quickly and so does she and they both find it hard to care. His face screws up with the effort, and she holds him away from her body just a little while he stiffens and shakes.

He steps back almost immediately, turning himself at an angle so she can’t see him rearrange himself. “Mackenzie,” he says, quietly.

Mac’s standing, now, her skirt smoothed and shirt rebuttoned. A glass has smashed on the floor by her feet.

She doesn’t say anything.

The next morning he pauses in the door of her office. Mackenzie follows his gaze to the spot on her desk where they, well, yeah.

“I don’t think I wanted to do that.” He says, limply.

Her eyebrow quirks, “Shouldn’t have done it then, smuck.” Her smile’s strained at the edges of her lips and when she stands she braces herself with her feet set wide. “But it’s usually worth the risk.”

“You’re giving me Genoa because I slept with you?”

Mac’s smile loosens, the shadowed movement of tongue in cheek, “I’m giving you Genoa because you had the guts to sleep with me.” She pauses, "And also because I am your boss and the new HR rep down here's kind of, you know--"

He shakes his head, “I don’t—“

“Well I do, and the last time I checked I was your EP so you can suck it up, Sherlock.”

A beat. She is looking at him but he is looking at the floor. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

end.

herbalistic — Sun, 21 Jul 2013 00:31:38 GMT

INTO THE MYSTIC
the newsroom comment ficathon.

I can see this becoming tradition? This season is a massive improvement, in my opinion, so go mad and indulge me with dirty naughty fanfiction my darling pyjama people!

RULES:

1. Don’t be a jerk. As always.
2. Prompt as much as you want! The more prompts the better! One prompt per comment, but feel free to prompt whatever it is you want -- AU, RPF, and so on.
3. Fill the prompts!! Please include a rating, plus any warnings for spoilers etc. I trust you all to use your discretion. If your fill is super long a) go you! and b) feel free to link to your journal/ao3/ff.net/whatever. I’m flexible.
4. Anon is a privilege I don’t want to have to take away.
5. HAVE FUN!

fic: ELASTIC

herbalistic — Thu, 27 Jun 2013 23:07:37 GMT

ELASTIC
mad men; peggy olson (peggy/stan; peggy/ted); pg-13.
post 'in care of': hidden depths beneath the turtle necks?
note: spoilers for season six finale.

she had not known the weight until she felt the freedom
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

There’s a party for Ted, a big banner strung up across the stairs and enough booze to slay six hundred laid out on the conference room table, with a small splatter of vomit underneath it by eight o’clock. Peggy’s settled for the red dress and smiles sweet when Ted blanches, his hand bracing around his wife’s waist.

“I heard the weather in California’s lovely this time of year,” Peggy says to Nan. Her cheeks are flushed with something, be it guilt or alcohol.

“Yes,” Nan gushes, the wide open smile she seems to reserve only for her. Ted eyes her warily and she ignores him with equal caution.

The silence hangs, “I’m gonna go get another drink.”

“Oh yes, sure.”

“What’s the deal with you and Chaough? Hidden depths beneath the turtle necks?” Stan says, shutting the door to Don’s office. It’s easy enough to avoid Ted, but Stan sticks like glue.

Her eyes track his path to Don’s whiskey and then to the edge of her desk. “You wear turtle necks.” She says, takes the glass from his hand.

“Yeah but you only ever fuck with me.”

Peggy snorts, “I have offered to sleep with you on several occasions.”

“Only when you want something.” He reminds her. His laugh is low and gentle and kind of kicks her in the ribs.

She scoffs, “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You can’t call me ridiculous.”

“I’m not the one who owns a jacket with bangs.”

He laughs properly now, from the belly and Peggy laughs too. Her eyes fix on the door as she hears the sound carry. She’s half expecting Ted to burst in at any moment with some half-assed declaration of love, or worse still Nan with tears running down her cheeks. How could you?—I don’t know, ask him.

Stan fumbles for a joint to her left. He’s frowning at her, “What’s up, buttercup?”

“Don’t call me that.”

He takes a drag and passes it to her, “Don’t do this, don’t do that,” he intones shrilly, “Are we married already?”

She shrugs and takes a pull. “Steady there cowboy.”

Ted leaves for California the following lunchtime. Before that, though, he stands outside her apartment and leans his forehead against the door. When she opens it, half-dressed and unmade-up, his arms hang at his sides and his hands fist unoccupied. He moves towards her, as though to touch her and then stops, seems to think better of it.

She waits for him to still, “You have a flight—“

“I came to say sorry.”

“You’re really good at saying that like you mean it.”

He looks slightly broken when she closes the door.

Stan wears a turtleneck to work and Peggy doesn’t know whether she should laugh or cry. His smirk stretches when he catches her eye, “Turtlenecks,” he says, “That’s some kinky shit there, Olson.”

“Stop.” She says, but she’s grinning.

“Will you sleep with me now? You can call me Ted if you like.”

Her arms cross, “Don’t push it.”

Stan only laughs, “You’re pretty fucking cliché, you know that?”

“Gee,” she replies, “Just what every girl wants to hear.”

This makes him laugh, and she smiles too, despite herself. He puffs himself up, “I will wine and dine you, then.” He says, gestures to the door.

“Can we skip the dine and go straight to the wine?”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

They settle in a booth, a smiley southern waitress recommending the martinis. “Two bourbons,” Stan says, holding up the index and middle fingers of his right hand with his elbow propped on the table. He uses his sexy voice and pretends not to notice Peggy’s wry smile.

“Comin’ right up!” The waitress chirps.

“You’re a doll.”

“Really?” Peggy says, when his gaze returns to hers from the waitress’ ass. “Is this some amateur attempt to make me jealous?”

Stan grins, “Is it working?”

“No!” She laughs incredulously. “Should it be?”

“Andddd there’s your answer.”

She smiles weakly, lets her knee bump his under the table. He reaches for it instinctively, his hand landing heavily on her thigh. She cocks an eyebrow. “Is that your answer?”

“I won’t be your rebound bitch.”

Her laugh stinks of whiskey, and so do his lips against hers.

They go back to his, mainly because it’s closer but also because Stan doesn’t want to fuck her on the same sheets Ted fucked her on first.

“I changed them,” she protests weakly.

He laughs against her neck, “No you haven’t.”

“No,” she laughs now, “I haven’t.”

His beard slides against her collar bone and down her body. “Such a fucking cliché.”

end.

fic: SPIRITS

herbalistic — Fri, 17 May 2013 20:40:19 GMT

SPIRITS
asoiaf; sansa stark (sansa/petyr, sansa/margaery, others too probably); pg-13.
jazz age au.
note:set sort of maybe around the beginning of ASOS? or roughly two or three episodes ago if you’re only watching the series.

“New York’s a big city for a little bird like you.”

These are his first words to her. She’s sitting in a speakeasy somewhere unfamiliar downtown – 1924, with Margaery Tyrell tapping her toes across the bar. Sansa is wearing one of her dresses tonight, like she does most nights, since all of her own grow dowdy and old. Marg comes from the South, any fool knows that, but she hides it well with New York vowels and New York manners and New York clothes, all the while funded by Southern money. Sansa is no fool, and so she understands. The lay of the land is this: Joffrey was once hers, until he turned out not to be. Sansa is a quick learner, she has learnt.

“I am a long way from my hometown,” she says, measured for all the martinis. “But this is my home now.”

His eyes flicker. “Say that enough and you’ll begin to believe it, too.”

She ducks her head the way she’s learned that men like him like ladies to. “I know you.” She says.

“Forgive me, I forget our introduction.”

She laughs husky as she can muster, the way Margaery taught her – “I mean, Sir, that I know of you.”

It is his turn to chuckle, gesture to the barman, “A world of difference in one syllable, there.”

She raises the new glass to her lips. Her lipstick leaves a stain, “There’s a world of difference in many syllables.”

“All it needs is one.”

Her eyes snap to his when she retorts, “Only to those too proud to ask for clarification.”

True to his reputation his eyes crease into a grin, “That’d be the entire human race then?”

Sansa came to New York with her father and her sister. Her father is dead now, for this reason or for that, whoever is responsible for what is done hardly matters to her. It is her sister who echoes in her dreams – she’s gone west or south or north or even east across the ocean. She cares. She does not care. She just wants to know. It took her a year to meet Margaery and her brother, Loras, and before that she lived off the Lannisters scraps and residual obligations. She’s a pretty girl, of course, and she could make her own way if there wasn’t so goddamn much to lose – call it cowardice if you like but let her call it survival. All the same, for now Margaery’s grandmother sends money every month and every month Margaery slips her some. For the rest, Sansa is the guest of Cersei Lannister, whose son Sansa was supposed to marry back when the name Stark meant something this side of the great lakes.

So she buys soap and shoes and cigarettes with Marg’s money, lets Petyr gift her nylons and lipstick and pearls. She keeps Cersei’s keep in a gilded box beneath her bed, for rent and very special occasions.

She receives an invitation to the Baelish residence on a Monday morning, ignores it until five pm on the Tuesday.

“Humour him,” Marg says when she finally brings it up, wringing her hands in front of the wardrobe in their room in a boarding house somewhere off Broadway. “He has money. And he wants to spend it on you.”

“What does he expect in return?”

Margaery’s older than her by perhaps a year, maybe two, but she laughs like an eldest sister – “What does any man expect, Sansa?”

Sansa lets her lips tug upwards, reaches into the wardrobe to pull out on of Marg’s dresses, yellow and feathered around the hem. Someone once told her that Petyr loved her mother, but she never believed them. “They call him the mockingbird. Why?”

“No idea,” she shrugs. “Guess we’ll find out.”

Petyr Baelish lives in an imposing brownstone about five blocks from her residence. His house is decorated in the new money style, effortless only in the way she sees on the centre pages of snatched copies of Vogue and Vanity Fair. Everything is ostentatiously fashionable, black and white and cream all over. He offers a choice, whiskey or wine? She plumps for whiskey.

“Hard day?” He inquires gently.

Her legs curl to the side, ankle under ankle and hands nestled into her lap. The seat is overstuffed, so even her toes barely brush the ground. “As hard as any other,” her tone is light regardless, “are we expecting company?”

“I rather fancied we’d get to know one another more—intimately.” He says. He’s chosen his words carefully, but not carefully enough. Sansa tenses. “Forgive me,” he says immediately, “I only meant as friends. Hard to come by, you’ll agree.”

“And even harder to keep.”

She accepts another drink, and he stays perched on the opposite couch to hers. Perhaps he knows that she is nervous, or maybe he is nervous too. Sansa dismisses the second possibility when he shifts forward to speak. “You share a room with Margaery Tyrell, I’ve been lead to believe.”

“I do. Have you met her?”

“No,” he concedes, and stands to top her glass up a third time, “I have heard a lot of her though. Joffrey Lannister is smitten, by every account.”

Her eyebrows flash, “The boy has eyes.”

A soft laugh that doesn’t reach his, trained unflinchingly on hers. “I suppose he does.”

She takes Marg’s advice, now, and studies him. Her gaze roams across all of him except his eyes, which continue to seek hers. He’s short, for a man, perhaps, but handsomely built with dark hair and a slightly darker brow sitting heavy on his head. He’s clean shaven, as is the fashion to which his clothes also adhere in their shades of dark brown and charcoal. He’s sans jacket, revealing a waistcoat lined in crimson and a heavy pocket watch etched with a mockingbird. “The mockingbird?” She says, suddenly emboldened, “Why?”

This time the smile creases his face, and if she was Margaery she’d know why, “Who’s afraid of the big bad bird?”

She arrives back well after curfew, sneaks to the room she shares with Marg and finds Loras there too. “Well?” They say, the way only the closest of siblings can.

It seems easiest to play coy. The whiskey is making her grin, “Well what?”

They look to one another, and then to her, “Did you?”

She shakes her head in earnest, and Loras huffs before hands a dollar bill to his sister. Sansa frowns, “Was I supposed to?”

“No.” Marg says, and Loras says “Yes,” at the same time. Sansa understands. Sansa is learning.

When she wakes she’s still in the yellow feathered flapper dress. Sansa’s mind clouds, unclouds, then clouds again and all she really wants is to not have to move.

“Mornin’,” Marg says, draws the curtains open wide.

Sansa groans and slides deeper beneath her duvet.

Petyr summons her again that evening. “You can say you’re busy,” Loras says, when he sees the bags beneath her eyes.

Sansa glares at him and remembers when she loved him. Or rather, she thought she loved him and then she learnt that he can never love her and well – Sansa knows enough to know to learn to not love that. “He won’t believe me.”

“You’re a pretty girl.” He ventures, “Pretty girls are often busy.”

She sees Marg smile at him indulgently. “And so are pretty boys,” his sister teases and even Sansa laughs at this.

“I should go,” she says, finally.

Margaery nods, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.” She says, presses a deep blue gown into her arms. A little long for her, it comes up a shade too short on Sansa, and so she makes a point of wearing flats whenever she borrows it to wear. Sansa’s eyes meet the older woman’s and she understands – flat shoes are flattering for a short man.

She reads the evening paper in the taxi on her way over. The ink rubs off on her fingers, and then on her face when she reaches up to rub her temple before she notices. Shit, she breathes.

“Bless you, Ma’am.” Says the driver.

Petyr greets her as Miss Stark, and she excuses herself to the lavatory immediately, scrubbing her nose and then her fingers until they are red rather than black before meeting the remaining guests – Varys, a camp European sort who reaches up immediately to wipe the ink smudge off her face, Ros, a beautiful women whose accent she recognises but can’t quite place and, most strikingly, Tywin Lannister, the man whose grandson she was supposed to marry so many moons ago. He acts as though he has forgotten her, bowing and kissing her still-damp hand like any gentleman. “A wondrous acquaintance, to be sure.” He says, and Sansa’s halfway to believing him when she remembers his family. It’s easy enough to reinvent yourself in New York, but even here there’s mud that sticks.

Their host knows this too, and so he just pours the champagne and stands back to spectate.

Sansa notes this, and if she’s honest she expected nothing less, “Keep up, Sir.” She teases, raises a laugh from Ros.

“Anyone would’ve thought he wanted us off our rockers,” Ros stage-whispers to her conspiratorially. She does not notice Varys’ or Tywin’s gaze, or if she does she ignores them. “What secrets doesn’t he know that he wants us to tell?”

“I have no secrets.”

Ros cocks her head, looks at Sansa with something approaching kindness but is probably closer to disbelief, “Of course you don’t, little dove.”

The gentlemen have retired to the balcony for a smoke when Ros pulls her aside. There’s a lilt to her accent that Sansa places, then loses again. “Where did you say you were from?”

“Somewhere very far away,” she says, scoops her hair over her shoulder. It’s a brighter red than Sansa’s, and she fancies that it’s been hennaed to make it shine brighter in the Manhattan sun. “It doesn’t matter where you come from anymore, Sansa. We make ourselves and we break ourselves, and no one cares about the before or the after.”

“I’m not sure I believe that.”

Ros’ takes her hand. “You’re young and pretty in New York City. You don’t have to—“ her eyes flick towards the billowing curtains, the voices beyond, “-- but you will. Soon enough you will.”

The other girls words haunt her all the way home. She considers a taxi, decides to walk instead, tucking her bag into the inside pocket of her coat and pulling it tight around her. Her heels clack on the cobbles, and by the time she rounds the block to the boarding house rain’s beginning to spit. There’s an all-night café three doors down that she slips into, ordering a strong coffee and three slices of toast.

She sees Loras before he sees her. “You’re out late.” She says. It’s a school night, after all and while it’s true that there are more responsible employees in New York than Loras she ventures that he does actually care, if only occasionally and with practised nonchalence.

He only shrugs and stares into his cup. “Lost track of time.” He says, “And you’re hardly one to talk. This’ll be, what, the third night this week you’ve snuck in through the window?”

Her smile’s sheepish. “I don’t have anywhere to be in the morning.”

There’s a silence when the waitress hands her the toast and turns to fetch jam and marmalade. Sansa adds three sugars to her coffee, then a splash of milk. “Tywin Lannister was at Petyr’s party,” she says, keeps her tone conversational.

If Margaery was here Loras would act interested, but she’s not and he doesn’t. “Baelish likes powerful men and pretty girls. Same as everyone.”

“Not the same as you.” She replies, meaning for it to sound deep. Instead it sounds sharp and Loras shifts in his seat, drains his coffee.

He sits a little straighter, eyes wider for the caffeine. “I’ll walk you home.”

“It’s three doors.”

“I’ll walk you.”

Once, her heart would’ve leapt at the prospect.

Ros calls by the boarding house to invite Sansa to lunch the following day. It’s Margaery who greets her, and Sansa stands back to observe her marvel at the silk of her dress, and the tone of her hair and watches as Ros in turn praises Marg’s figure and slash of bright red lipstick. Every compliment is echoed by another, far superior, and it’s almost enough to make Sansa laugh.

They buy bagels from the Jewish place three blocks from hers, then wander up to Central Park to eat them. All the way, Ros chatters, about the weather, about the clothes of passers-by, about how charmed she was by Sansa last night. Sansa, for her part, lets it wash over her.

Eventually they settle on a bench. A companionable silence falls for a few moments. “Why did you invite me to lunch?” Sansa asks.

“I wanted to get to know you a little better.” Ros says, “Petyr’s fascinated by you, and what fascinates him fascinates me.”

“Why?”

Ros’ smile is opaque, “I told you that we make ourselves. Sometime we need a little help. Petyr helped me, and now I help him.”

It takes another invitation from Petyr for Sansa to understand what Ros meant.

He drinks to much wine with dinner and slumps beside her, now. “Sansa,” he says, slurring it, “Sansa?” He says again, and she knows he means to say, Cat?

Even in the land of the free everyone belongs to somebody.

Not her, though, not now – she has flown the nest.

end.

fic: THE BIG RED BUTTON

herbalistic — Thu, 25 Apr 2013 00:19:31 GMT

THE BIG RED BUTTON
veep, selina meyer/kent davison, r.
he knows her just a shade too well.
note: spoilers for 2.01

look at the wonderful mess that we made
we pick ourselves undone
BASTILLE

“POTUS is bringing Kent back in,” Amy tells her the day after it happens because, well, Selina’s got no time to worry about what’s wrong with Amy right now, “Head of Strategy.”

“Really? I was hoping POTUS would realise his potential as a fucking bell boy.”

Amy eyes her. “Maybe he’s mellowed with age.” She ventures, when they are alone. She’s insisted in meeting in the ladies to avoid Dan or something, and Selina can’t quite believe that she’s having this conversation now, perched on a lowered toilet seat.

“He’s not fucking chardonnay, Amy.”

It takes three attempts to finally get him properly alone. Since Clinton there’s always interns sniffing round the Oval Office, dreaming of being the next Deep Throat, in either sense of the word. So Selina has to wait until its gone fucking three am, and he’s still holed up in his ex-toilet with his graphs. “So spill, what the fuck are you doing back here? Truthfully." She says, and she’s trying to sound threatening but it’s coming out all husky and raw and wrong.

“I’ve got a mortgage to pay, just the same as you. Truthfully.”

“Don’t you dare brush me off.”

“Why? Cause you’re busy playing little miss Veep now, think that gives you the right to demand I come over all George fucking Darcy in your presence, Tess of the Brontes?”

She pulls her lip up, “Not a single one of those was correct.”

“Do I look like I give a fucking shit?” She starts, slightly, and he takes a breath, “I don’t have time to play. I want to go to bed. Go do your job, Selina.”

“It’s Ma’am to you.” She turns on her heel and then stops abruptly. “You stand when the President comes in here?”

“That’s different.”

“Only to you. Only ever to fucking you.”

He shouts after her, “Always had to have the last fucking scream.”

“Fuck you!”

Somehow Jonah's still around, and he sidles up to her when she’s making her way back through the White House. Her shoes are pinching and she’s half tempted to ask him for a piggyback when he pipes up, “So, what’s the deal with you and Kent, then?”

“Mutually assured destruction,” she deadpans, and it strikes her as a surprising truth. She’s too fucking exhausted to give a crap, though. “Stop fishing Jonah.”

“Part of my job involves fishing Ma’am. I am the West Wing’s chief fisherman. I am their Moby Dick.”

“That was the whale’s name, Jonah.”

“Right.”

He’s in her office the next day, sitting at her desk with a nasty green bruise above his eye.

“My, Madame Vice President, you do look beautiful today.” She says, with a smile that stays fixed at her lips.

He stands, slowly, and rounds the desk. “I’m booked with NBC tonight. I need you to go instead.”

Sue’s voice floats through the open door, “They specifically asked for you.” She shouts, and Selina finds herself wondering how big, exactly, that woman’s advance for her memoirs will be.

Kent’s gaze stays fixed on hers, though, “Some of us have busy schedules. I have work to do.”

“Well, you never were any good at finishing the job on time.”

“Whereas you always got it done?”

Amy clears her throat gently and Selina’s suddenly aware that everyone’s there. “Do you guys want us to wait outside?”

“Stay!” They both say simultaneously.

“That’s jinx,” Jonah takes a break from his banana to offer, “Neither of you can talk now.”

She sees Amy murmur under her breath out of the corner of her eye: “Well thank fuck for that.”

Later she’ll slip into his office. “Selina,” he gruffs. “Can I – Am I? What can I do for you?”

“You could apologise for the endless stream of pain and misery your conception has caused me, but that would be boring and twee and too fucking Aaron Sorkin for you, wouldn’t it?” She spits, then bites her lip. That always was her tell, with him, and she wonders if he can remember. “You used to come to see me not just because you wanted a favour.”

“I kinda did, if I remember.”

“Shut up.” She raises a hand. “You valued my opinion, even if you pretended you didn’t. You used to not humiliate me in front of my staff. And then you go and put me up on stage dressed like the girl on fucking fire with my ex-husband. Was it all just to spite me or did the once-great Kent Davison actually have a plan?”

Kent’s head ducks, and he suddenly looks a lot older with his face cast in shadow. “If I told you I did you’re still gonna tell me to go fuck myself, aren’t you?”

This was always Selina’s trouble with Kent: he knows her just a shade too well.

And so she says, “Go fuck yourself.”

And he laughs, “There’s the money shot.”

Later again she’s back in his office, emboldened by three whiskeys while she’s been working. “Not like you to be up for a reprise so soon.” Kent drawls. He’s been drinking, too.

“Fuck you,” she says.

And then she does, true to her word, pushed up against the flimsy partition wall between him and the President with his hand knotted in her hair and half their clothes still on like fucking teenagers. Almost literally.

“How do sharks mate?” He breathes against her neck. His beard grazes, and she pushes his head down to beneath her shirtline. “Carefully.”

She pulls back a second to look him in the eye. “That’s porcupines you half-wit.”

“I’m distracted.”

“Oh, grow a pair.” She says, and his free hand shifts under her thighs to lift her slightly so he can hit her where she likes it. Her stockings snag on his watch, and she comes swearing harshly in the vague direction of fat wolverine.

“I heard you were at the White House last night,” Amy says lightly.

“I’m a fucking heartbeat from the presidency. I’m not going to sit at home and marathon Real Housewives, Amy.”

What she was saying about the Oval Office interns? Totally true. CNN have it, but sit on it until FOX somehow get wind and really, she should’ve fired Mike around the time they crucified Jesus. Come to think of it, maybe she'll crucify him and call it poetic justice.

The President summons her and Kent to the Oval Office at the same time. Outside she looks up at him and he looks down at her.

“Can we just enter at the same time, maybe?”

Jonah snorts in the background, “That’s what she said.”

“No, Jonah,” Selina sighs, turns back to Kent.

“Mutually assured destruction,” he says and she can only laugh.

end.

fic: CH-CH-CHANGES

herbalistic — Sat, 20 Apr 2013 23:59:57 GMT

CH-CH-CHANGES
the newsroom, mackenzie mchale/brian brenner; pg-13.
“you’re a creature of habit, mchale.”

1.

“How did you get my address?”

He grins, taps his nose. “You’re a creature of habit, McHale.”

His lips land on hers before she can scoff.

2.

Summer in New York is a terrible, terrible thing. Her office faces the sun, and her thighs stick together with sweat.

He sidles in, knuckles so light across the door she barely hears him enter.

“You.” She says. Her surprise is well hidden, she’ll flatter herself later. All the same – he’s still him.

His head ducks. “Me.” He acquiesces when her head flicks up. He’s lost weight since the last time she saw him, seems a touch sallower for it. He’s grown the shadow of a beard too, stubble where once he was clean shaven. There are new wrinkles around his eyes too, marking laughter and sorrow she never got to see.

She catches herself appraising him and turns back to her work. “Can I do something for you?” She says levelly.

She’s phrased it carefully, but he still snorts. “Ask not what American can do for you –”

“– shut up.”

“OK.”

He sits down, now, positioning himself so that his torso is tipped towards her. His glasses slide down his nose a fraction.

Mackenzie swallows. “Leave me alone.”

“I’m here to observe.” He replies lightly, “I am observing.” He says. She knows that he knows that she’s uncomfortable right now – it’s hot and it’s Friday and it’s him. Basically, it’s everything she doesn’t want right now.

“Get out of my office,” she says.

3.

The funny thing about New York is that, for such a big city, it’s impossible to hide in.

Mackenzie avoids Hang Chew’s so she can avoid him, and she’s pretty certain that Brian’s done the same when they wind up in the same downtown wine bar. “What a happy coincidence,” he says when he places his glass beside hers.

She picks up her glass immediately. “Happy?”

He considers this for a moment, eyeing her sideways. “It’s Friday,” he finally settles on, “You can’t drink alone on a Friday.”

She bristles, “What makes you think I’m alone.”

“You’re sitting by yourself.”

“I could be waiting for someone.” She retorts immediately. Wade, or Sloan, or maybe even Will.

This raises a chuckle. “You’re not.”

“How can you tell?”

He leans in close, and she finds herself wondering where he’s been and who he’s been with before coming here. “Because you’re still in love with me.”

She recoils immediately, tries to sigh and look melancholy. “Brian. I – I was never in love with you.”

4.

It’s true: Mackenzie was never in love with Brian. She fucked him for a while, and then he traded her in for an intern, then came crawling back and she was fool enough to take him.

She didn’t take him back for love, though, let her make this clear.

No, she took him back for fear.

5.

She’s almost laughing when she stumbles out of the bar, her heels catching in the cracks in the pavement.

He runs after her – “Mackenzie!” He yells, “Wait!”

She wheels around to face him, almost losing her balance in the process. “Wait for what?”

The distance between them closes quickly, and his lips are warm and wine-soaked on her own. She kisses him back, with an urgency that surprises even him and he has to take a step back. She follows his lead, the way she always has and his chuckle is soft through the embrace. He doesn’t stop kissing her, though, holding onto her like she’s falling, A bunch of kids wolf-whistle in the distance, but he’s raking his fingers through her hair and she barely registers the sound.

“Yours,” she breathes when he finally surfaces for air.

His voice comes raspy when he hails a cab and gives her address in place of his own.

She frowns, succeeds only in looking petulant.

“You’re a creature of habit, McHale.”

end.

fic: FLAMMABLE

herbalistic — Wed, 03 Apr 2013 00:25:59 GMT

FLAMMABLE
ASOIAF; ygritte (ygritte/tormund); NO SPOILERS PAST ASOS/S3. pg-13.
fire is a blessing and a curse.

“Well, the hottest fires burn out quickest.” – GEORGE RR MARTIN, A STORM OF SWORDS.

Ygritte is blessed by the fire.

Ygritte doesn’t believe in gods, old or new.

Ygritte never had time for devils, neither.

He is her commander. She calls him the Ginger Giant to his face and he gruffs.

“Call me Tormund.” He says, slumping down on the bench opposite her and scowling. His hand reaches up and his fingers twist in the coarse hair of his beard.

She smirks, takes a slug of ale, “I’m a free woman. I’ll call you what I want.”

The first day of her training, she ties her red hair high up on her head.

“Let it down,” he says. “It is blessed,” he says.

“It gets in my eyes,” she replies. Her chin rises to level with his gaze – he stands a head of so above her, so that the sun gets into her eyes instead. He catches her hand when she raises it for shade and it wraps almost twice around her wrist. “I can’t fight with my hair in my eyes, however blessed it may be.” She says, calmly.

He sits beside her by the fire, that evening. Heat rises, her father told her once, so she stills tall. If she squints, Tormund reminds her of him, all furs and bright orange beard that sparkled in the firelight. “There are rules here,” he, Tormund, begins. “The gods have kissed us.”

She shrugs. “I don’t believe in the gods.”

“You ought, girl.”

Her eyes flick to his. “Don’t call me girl.”

And now, he smirks, “I’m a free man. I’ll call you what I fucking want.”

They keep the watch, late into the evening and then the morning. “What are we watching for?” She asks, as the sun finally creeps back over the horizon and her comrades lie sleeping around the embers of the nights light.

“The black and the white,” comes the coarse response. When she looks at him, his eyes are tired eyes. “Fire is a blessing and a curse.”

“You always talk in riddle and rhyme?”

She sees his weary smile break in the dawning light, his gaze staying set on the horizon. “Keeping you awake, ain’t it?”

She grins now, coy. “I s’pose.”

He only mutters to himself and kicks the others awake. “You’d best be prepared, Ygritte.”

It is the first time he calls her by her name.

He calls her by it again, not long later, shouts it as a Crowe lunges for her long hair, flying free in the wind.

After the fight they are two men down and she glowers at him across the cave they find shelter in. A steady beat of water falls between them. Drop. Drop.

Drop. “Tie it up.” He says.

Again, they sit by the fire. They are back now, in Mance Rayder’s court. Home, they call it, though neither of them has any. The beer in her hands is close to freezing, and she shivers beneath her furs. “They say winter’s coming.”

He scoffs, “Winter’s here. It’s been here all along.”

“I mean south,” she says, “beyond The Wall. You hear them talking. Hear it on the wind.”

He’s amused, but she’s piqued his interest. “Do you now?” He swigs at his drink. It spills down his furs, and he glares at her when she giggles. “I haven’t heard this.”

“Perhaps you don’t listen hard enough.” She offers, and he laughs. It’s hearty, half a hiccup that fills the night around him with misty beer-soaked breath.

“If I’m blessed,” she says, an hour or so later if the stars are worth believing, “then so are you.”

His eyes are glazed, now, and she doesn’t doubt that hers are too. “Aye,” he says, pulls his furs tighter. Mance eyes the pair from the shadows. “I am blessed. You don’t see me bad-mouthing the gods, do you?”

“I don’t,” she concedes. “But I don’t see you believing in them a great deal, neither.”

He guffaws, “Oh I believe in them alright, lass. I am blessed by them and so are you.”

“I’m not,” comes her shoot-back. “We’re not. Not by the gods. Not by the fucking fire.” She stands, “We’re just fucking ginger.”

His smile shows teeth. “Now who’s talking in riddles and rhymes?”

“Fuck you.”

“If it pleases you.”

Her furs have slipped and his smile widens. “It does not.”

The next morning, she wears her hair loose.

“I told you to tie that up,” he says.

“And you told me I was blessed.” She replies. Her smile is tinged with spite. “You trust in the gods, aye?”

And his head bends, “Aye.”

He calls her to his quarters, and she comes. The sun only just sets, two glasses standing full on the table and a goose for two. “I’ve eaten.”

“Eat again.” And then he says the word he saves only for special occasions, “Ygritte.”

“If it pleases you,” she say, carefully letting her hair fall over her eyes.

His eyes snap to hers in response. “It does please me.” He says, bluntly, and Ygritte almost laughs, lets the furs slide off her shoulders as they shake.

“Ygritte is blessed by the fire,” he breathes into her throat.

“And Tormund believes in the gods,” she mouths against his ear.

The devil? Aye, he’ll come, but well after these two.

end.

fic: GLORIANA

herbalistic — Sun, 31 Mar 2013 02:07:51 GMT

GLORIANA
the hour, ensemble; pg-13
this country is at war with germany.

Now may God bless you all. May he defend the right. It is the evil things that we shall be fighting against - brute force, bad faith, injustice, oppression and persecution - and against them I am certain that the right will prevail. – NEVILLE CHAMBERLAIN, 11.15am 3rd September 1939.

PROLOGUE.

To be at war: to be between: to be lost.

Eventually, every character herein will be found. This though, is not certain. Nothing is certain.

Hear the wireless crackle –

This country is at war with Germany.

1939.
HECTOR.

Hector sleeps through the proclamation. He awakens to Marnie rapping on his bedroom door. It’s September, three weeks yet ‘til he returns to Cambridge.

Maybe he’ll go shooting.

“Hector,” his fiancé’s voice permeates the wood. “Hector, are you awake?”

He grunts his ascent, buries himself beneath his duvet when he hears the door click open. “Hector,” Marnie rolls his name around her mouth again, as though she is trying to tire of it. “We’re at war.”

Hector rolls onto his other side. “Is that so?”

Hector: the greatest warrior of Troy, his grandmother reminds him when he waits in line to enlist. He looks at her and wonders what his mother would look like in her place: would she, who named him for a soldier, crease her face with the same worry lines?

He straightens, “Let me not die ingloriously and without a struggle, but let me first do some great thing that shall be told among men hereafter,” he recites.

“Let you not die at all,” his grandmother frowns.

“Forget your toy soldiers, lad,” his Corporal tells him and he does. They lie forgotten in a box underneath his bed, rickety and small beneath his and Marnie’s weight when he returns on leave.

“I love you,” she breathes into the skin on his face, his neck, his arms and he can just about bring himself to say it into her hair in return.

Afterwards she lights a cigarette, dangling it above the ashtray on his bedside table. “What’s it like?” She asks, earnest, “to fight?” Her shoulder digs into his ribcage and when he shifts away from the pressure she only moves closer.

He shrugs, again attempts to move away from her over-warm body. “I’m only in training, darling.”

Marnie smiles. “Do tell me, when you find out.”

He’s knee deep in mud and blood and Christ knows what else on the border of Germany when he remembers that conversation.

It’s Laurie he turns to – Laurie the faithful man over his right shoulder. Sergeant Lawrence Stern who goes by Laurie now Hector has christened him so. “My fiancé wants to know what this feels like.”

“Does she want to come and find out for herself?” Comes the dark reply, and Hector finds himself chuckling for the first time in days.

“You’d be a terrible influence on her, I’m afraid, old pal.”

Laurie grins. “Then she definitely ought to enlist.”

It’s Christmas when he next returns to dear Blighty – two weeks of leave, try not to get bladdered every night of it, Captain.

Marnie catches him when he enters the house. She’s been waiting for him, with rouged lips and kohl around her eyes. “You’re home.” She mews, her hand settling over his heart and her kiss landing on his cheek rather than her lips.

“I’ll always come home.” He says, more to his grandmother than to her.

1940.
FREDDIE.

It is Freddie alone who stands at the railway station. “I don’t want to go,” he says, by parts petulant and by the rest wise. “I want to stay.”

His mother sighs and smooths his hair. “I want you to stay too,” she whispers, conspiratorial. “But the clever men have decided that you need to go to the countryside, just to be safe.”

“They’re not clever, Mummy.” He retorts, and she laughs.

“No, darling. They’re not.”

Freddie doesn’t notice the tears in her eyes when he finally boards the train. His mother doesn’t either, until they begin to fall. “Stay safe, Freddie!” She shouts.

He doesn’t hear her.

Ruth’s funny, in the girl sort of way. She’s bright and blonde and smiles too wide. “Ruth Elms,” she introduces herself as, a hand thrust his way.

“Frederick Lyon.” He says, clumsy. “Call me Freddie.”

Her smile grows toothier. “Alright, Freddie Lyon.”

He tags behind her on the walk up to his new bedroom. “Mummy says you’re from London,” Ruth chatters, “We have a house in London but I’ve never been to it. I think Daddy uses it when he’s away on business. Are you alright? Would you like me to carry anything?”

“It’s fine.” He says, too quickly, and stumbles over his shoelace. “Sorry.”

Little Ruth frowns through her fringe, “What’s to be sorry about?” Her voice is earnest and precise. “You’re family now.”

He sits opposite Ruth at dinner. “It’s OK if you don’t have the foggiest, I’ll help. Though I’m no guide, of course.” She explains, plaiting her hair without even looking, “I only eat with the ‘rents at the weekend.”

“Why?”

Ruth eyeballs him, “What a queer thing to ask, Freddie Lyon.” And then she pauses, drops her hair. “Though come to think of it, I don’t think I know the answer.”

Lord and Lady Elms are nice people, Freddie finally decides. His mother coos over the china when she visits in the autumn, and they are kinder to her still.

“Can I come home?” He asks her, when he readies herself to leave.

“Soon, Freddie.” And then, “Ruth seems nice.”

Freddie smiles despite himself. He’s lost his front tooth, you see, and though the tooth fairy left him three shillings he prefers to keep it hidden until the new one’s grown in. He shrugs, “She’s alright, I suppose.”

The familiar touch of lips on his hair, “I bet you she is, little man.”

1941.
BEL.

There’s a barracks now, at Brasenose College. It takes Bel three weeks to woo the General to bed, another month to have three Corporal’s lapping at her every word.

How do you do it, the other girls ask, and Bel taps her nose and says: why, that would be telling.

That’s not it at all, and everyone knows it. She sings to the soldiers one evening, and the next they await her siren song.

In the meantime, Bel studies English. She reads Hugo and Flaubert, Orwell’s essays and Huxley’s treaties and all along she applies her lipstick just so.

Her cheek rests in her hand, “When do you return to the front line?” She asks. It’s a feigned interest, at best. At least: there is no front line in this dirty, filthy war.

“Three weeks,” the American replies. His lips curl when she sidles closer to him and he gestures to the barman for another. Beer is not rationed, and for that Bel is certain this gentleman is thankful.

“So soon?” She exclaims and if it’s mocking he doesn’t notice. And so she adds, “You must be careful, “ for nothing more than sport.

The setting sun dapples in her hair as they stumble home, him calling her petal and she calling him leaf in return. He buys her nylons and Vogue and in return she affords him her time and his hand around her waist. “Steady there, sailor,” she breathes as it slides lower.

“I’m a soldier, darling,” he replies.

Bel steps back. “Punching above your weight then, aren’t you Sir?” She teases and the girls in the rooms above giggle. She’ll recount the tale to them later, over a warm bottle of wine and boot-legged crimson nail varnish.

Of course, this is how they come to know her. She is Bel Rowley: Head Girl, Captain of the Hockey A-Team. Or maybe, Bel Rowley: First Class English (Honours). Or if you’re in possession of a penis, Bel Rowley: the one and only.

1942.
LIX.

It’s three years to the day since war was declared. Not that Lix is counting: nobody ever bothered to pretend that this one would be over by Christmas.

She roams Vichy France with her camera and her Christian nose and only sometimes thinks of her daughter.

A Nazi captain greets her as Mademoiselle and she can’t help but smile before she turns it into a sneer. “Your business in France.” He says. It’s not quite a question, despite demanding an answer.

“I am French.” She replies. Her accent is pure and even enough to settle the man, and she sets about resuming her vigil at the bar until he pulls up a stool.

“Oh? Where from?” He asks, with broken French and a drunken, cracked, grin.

“You wish to see my papers?” Her hands shake as she pulls them out of her trenchcoat. He notices. “Forgive me, Monsieur, I find myself nervous.”

“Why so?”

Her back arches against the mattress when he comes inside her, shouting a name that is not hers. She understands, of course, and stifles her own cry.

She photographs him while he is sleeping. The marker on the negatives reads unnamed nazi soldier, september 1942.

1943.
MARNIE.

Marnie spends her days waiting for a telegram –killed in battle. stop. her majesty’s condolences. stop. – she’s seen it enough times to dream of it.

Once, not a long time ago, she dreamt herself a widow, leaving poppies on her husbands grave, and it was only when she woke that she recalled she was not yet married.

She struggles to decide if that’s for better or for worse, until the irony catches.

Hector returns on leave twice a year: once at Easter and again at Christmas. It is his Easter week when she smiles into his embrace. “We should get married,” she says.

He shrugs in his favourite noncommittal way. “We will.” He murmurs, deepens the kiss. He has missed her this time, it would seem.

She breaks off. “No.” She says, “What is a widow if not a wife?”

1944.
RANDALL.

Randall once said, to Lix nonetheless, that war was the making of a man.

As he reports from Russia, he finds he is wrong.

Russia is cold and unforgiving, so the cliché goes. He lives in isolation, in Moscow, far from the Eastern front and part of him is glad for it. He remembers the last time he lived on a battle line, the intensity of emotion and he remembers most of all how he lives with the consequences of that fact.

Most of the time, he feels like a fraud. He can hear her in his ear: you are a reporter, for god's sake, go and report.

His desk is tidier than ever of late.

A Russian soldier offers him a vodka. “It is good for you,” he explains. St Peter’s square shimmers: Moscow does not care for a blackout.

“It isn’t,” he assures the younger man.

He takes the shot anyway. Russia is not forgiving.

A prostitute stands outside the Kremlin walls, a bowler on the floor to collect change. “You look cold.” He says, offers her his coat.

Her hair is brown and curly, cut short and his chest pangs. “Please,” he says, and the wind carries the sound until her eyes meet in his.

He fucks her against the wall there and then, her fingers braced against the back of his neck and the dip in the curve of his spine. His own hands press into the brick either side of her head, staining his fingers red and rubbing the tips of them raw.

Her lips find his earlobe. “What shall I call you, Sir?” She breathes in accented English.

“Call me nothing at all, my dear.”

1945.
EPILOGUE.

To be at peace: to be sure: to be found.

On the Eighth of May the Year of Our Lord Nineteen Forty-Five Germany signed a treaty of unconditional surrender and so a victory in Europe was won.

Hear the wireless crackle –

Advance Britannia.

end.

FICATHON: TOPSY TURVY DAY

herbalistic — Fri, 29 Mar 2013 23:21:11 GMT

TOPSY TURVY DAY
an anything-goes comment ficathon.

ONCE A YEAR WE THROW A PARTY HERE IN TOWN - the weather here is awful, and there's revision to be doing which can only mean one thing: FICATHON TIME.

RULES:

1. ANYTHING GOES ON TOPSY TURVY DAY. Prompt whatever you want - AU's, RPF, whatever! Any fandom is welcome.
2. It goes without saying: don’t be a dick. If you wouldn’t say it in real life, don’t say it on the internet. You’ll only embarrass yourself.
3. Prompt as much as you want! The more prompts the better! One prompt per comment, mind.
4. Fill the prompts! Please include a rating, plus any warnings for spoilers etc. I trust you all to use your discretion. If your fill is super long a) go you! and b) feel free to link to your journal/ff.net/AO3/whatever. I’m flexible.
5. Anon is a privilege I don’t want to have to take away.
6. HAVE FUN!

herbalistic — Mon, 21 Jan 2013 23:15:28 GMT

F I C

A S O I A F

SPIRITS ; asoiaf; sansa stark (various); pg-13. -- jazz age au.

FLAMMABLE ; ygritte (ygritte/tormund); NO SPOILERS PAST ASOS/S3. pg-13. -- fire is a blessing and a curse.

T H E H O U R

GLORIANA ; ensemble; pg-13. -- this country is at war with germany.

ADDICTION ; bel rowley/hector madden, r. -- three times a habit. post 106 au.

METHOD OF DIFFERENCES ; lix storm/randall brown, pg-13. -- this is how he keeps his memories, always was, all lined up in a row.

WE'LL ALWAYS HAVE PARIS AND OTHER SELECTED BULLSHIT ; lix storm/randall brown, pg-13.

T H E H U N G E R G A M E S

WEAPON OF CHOICE ; boggs, pg-13. -- what he means is this: he understands death.

THE UNDERDOG ; foxface, pg-13. -- her flaming her does not burn bright enough.

THE SECRET AGE OF THE INFINITE ; coin, snow pg-13. -- saint peter is not as busy as you might think. do not forget: we are all sinners here.

FARSIGHTED ; foxface/thresh, pg-13. -- in her considered opinion, this really could not be any worse.

LAST CHANCE SALOON ; katniss, peter, haymitch, pg-13 -- catching fire au. the thing with fire is this: it burns out.

SUNSPOTS ; katniss/haymitch, r. -- this won't help, you know.

L O O P E R

THIEVERY ; kid blue/sara, r. -- I got a job to do. post-film au.

T H E N E W S R O O M

MISREMEMBERED ; the newsroom; mac/jerry; r. -- "i'll get you better facts."

CH-CH-CHANGES ; mackenzie mchale/brian brenner; pg-13. -- “you’re a creature of habit, mchale.”

PUNCTUALITY ; sloan sabbith/don keefer, r. -- she supposes that this is what people call intuition.

EQUITY TRADING ; mackenzie/reese, r. -- there’s a soft spot in hell for journalists.

BUFFERING ; mackenzie/wade, pg-13. -- there’s an art, to this television business.

CONVERGENCE ; will/mackenzie, light r. -- beginning, middle, end. one. two. three.

SANDWICH THEOREM ; will/mackenzie, r. -- it’s simple, unconsidered, neither a question nor a demand.

REGRESSION ; will/mackenzie, mackenzie/brian, r. -- and it’s almost as if the last five years never really happened.

THE CROWBAR CONMAN ; mackenzie, r. -- it’s an impulse, really, an old habit embedded hard and, she reasons, it can do no more harm.

LONG WALK HOME ; will/mackenzie, r. -- even in the land of the free there are debts to pay.

FINGERS CROSSED ; mackenzie/brian, r. -- there is only one person she truly hates: herself.

THE FREEZE-THAW EFFECT ; mackenzie, pg-13. -- because then you’d have to live with it.

PAROXYSMS ; mackenzie/brian, r. -- it’s not masochism, exactly, but it comes pretty close.

THE INTERPRETER ; mackenzie, pg-13. -- the reason is not simple.

FAST TALKERS ; sloan/don, pg. -- au in which will does not return to work after the greater fool.

TRAILBLAZERS (PART I.) (PART II.) ; mackenzie/will, pg-13. -- jazz age au!

LAST NIGHT'S TELEVISION ; will/mackenzie, pg-13 -- the past’s only a second away, when you think about it.

GENERIC LIVE SHOT ; will/maggie, pg. -- and the lion says to the lamb -- I was a prosecutor, once.

M A D M E N

ELASTIC ; mad men; peggy olson (peggy/stan; peggy/ted); pg-13. -- post 'in care of': hidden depths beneath the turtle necks?

S T U D I O 6 0

THE JUDICIARY SYSTEM ; jack/jordan, r. -- you can’t always get what you want, as some wiseass once said.

UPFRONTS ; 30 rock crossover, r. -- tricks like that don’t work on me, donaghy.

V E E P

THE BIG RED BUTTON ; selina/kent, hard r. -- he knows her a shade too well.

R P F
(usually f-locked. feel free to give me a shout if you want to read.)

ABC LISTERS ; amy poehler/george clooney; hardish r. -- the picture of amy poehler giggling on george clooney’s lap goes kind of viral. set post the glory that was GG2013.

ODD DEBRIS ; ensemble (eddie redmayne/felicity jones etc) ; pg-13. -- it is early spring in los angeles, california and the sun is shining in the sunshine state.

EDUCATIONAL ; ensemble; pg-13. -- journalists!AU "this is history, jones"

DRINK AWARE ; amy poehler/george clooney, hardish r. -- play it cool, poehler.

CARDINAL SINS ; rachel weisz + ralph fiennes + naomie harris + daniel craig, r. -- SPIES!

UNTITLED ; ensemble (fey, poehler, hamm, redmayne, et al), pg13/r. -- dude. 3am-closed down the golden globe on the dance floor.

JET LAG ; malcolm tucker/rahm emmanuel, r. -- friends are rare things in washington.

HABITUAL ; romola garai/dominic west, r.

fic: DRINK AWARE!

herbalistic — Mon, 21 Jan 2013 02:11:17 GMT

DRINK AWARE!
rpf; amy poehler/george clooney; hardish r.
play it cool, poehler.

THE NIGHT BEFORE.

“So,” he starts, when Amy settles down next to him. This is nominally scripted, of course, but still, she laughs sincerely when he murmurs close to her ear, “how about a lap-dance? What would that score on the official drinking game?”

Her laugh is throaty with whiskey and adrenaline, “Drink responsibly!” She says, quirky.

“Fuck that.” He counters, and they’re both laughing now. The cameras train themselves too them, and yes, this was perhaps planned, but his hand was never supposed to be sliding between her legs as she raises him a toast.

She breathes his name through her smile, and he responds with ventriloquist flair. “Play it cool, Poehler.”

She does not play it cool.

She spends the first half-hour of the after-party actively seeking him out, and when she finds him she blushes a frankly alarming shade of pink. Tina asks her if she’s got this and she has, yes sweetie, she’ll be just fine here.

“What the fuck were you playing at?” She will ask, “We were live on international television.” She will inform him, “People saw!” In a stern voice with her hands planted on either side of her hips.

She will say none of this. She kisses him, instead, full on the mouth.

George gapes like a fish for a second or so when she pulls back. “Fuck,” he says, and she cocks her head.

“Only if you want to.”

He does want to, it transpires. They are in the bathroom, crammed into the cubicle next to someone who sounds suspiciously like Tina but she’s trying super-hard not to think about that right now because, well, George fucking Clooney’s head is between her thighs and her hands are curling in his hair and jesus christ.

“Amy,” he says against her clit, and she has to bite her own hand to keep from crying out.

“Just fucking fuck me, already.” She spits, pulling him up by his collar. Her legs fit neatly around his hips, the tips of his fingers pressing into her thighs harshly when he slides inside her. It’s awkward, for a moment, the cubicle tight and small around them and their rhythms a fraction out of sync. She laughs, feels him chuckle too and they finally figure it out. One of his hands braces beneath her leg, the other knotting itself in her hair and she finds purchase between his back and the starched white shirt.

She’s too busy kissing him to speak, but he manages to spit out a fuck me when he comes and she smiles against his chest.

THE MORNING AFTER.

George Clooney smokes. Only two people in the world knew this before now. Now there are three.

She wakes groggily, mouth dry and head beating. His free arm is holding her close to his chest, and it takes her a second or two to notice that she’s not been sleeping on a pillow.

“Oh,” she says, brushes her mussed hair out of her face. She’s naked, save for her jewellery, but her mascara’s smudged and there’s a smear of her lipstick on the hotel sheets. “Hello.”

He takes a drag. “Good morning.”

It’s been a long time since Amy’s smoked, and when she pulls a drag she splutters and coughs like a middle-schooler.

“Sorry,” she says, but he’s laughing.

“Fucking amateur hour over here.”

She kisses him just to shut him up.

They fuck the way lovers always do in the morning: slow and languid and without expectation. He hasn’t showered and neither has she, his cock taking on a bitter edge on her tongue when she sucks him off. She’s buried deep within the sheets, too hot and too hungover to do a good job. “Amy,” he breathes.

“Sorry,” she laughs, when he pulls her lips to his. “Off my game.”

She positions herself directly above him, and his lips are pressed flush to her earlobe when he pushes inside her. “Fucking can’t wait to see you on your game, then, Poehler.”

This is how it happens:

She begins on top, her hips rolling slow and her hands planted on his chest.

Then he rolls them, her hair catching in his hand and brief whimper. An apology follows. “No,” she breathes. “Don’t apologise.”

He bites down on her neck in response, moving to brace himself on his elbow and slides his right hand between their slick bodies. Her back arches up and he groans her name. “Amy Amy Amy…” he repeats, half a prayer.

Afterwards, she rolls off the bed. The search for her clothes is half-hearted, perhaps, and she can tell that he’s enjoying the view when she bends to pick up her jacket.

Her hair spills over when she leans to look at him. “Are you checking me out?”

He chuckles. “Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes. I am checking you out.” He laughs properly, now, the sound echoing through the room when she rifles a hand through her hair. “I’ve been checking you out for twelve straight hours now.”

She lets herself grin wide. “You’ve been asleep for at least five of those.”

“It’s a fucking talent, I tell you.”

“I’m gonna go now.” She says, gestures to the door. Her head ducks, “Ehhh…thank you, I guess? For a great night.”

He shifts up the bed, an expanse of chest and dark skin against white sheets. He raises her his glass of water. “Anytime, Poehler.”

end.

fic: PUNCTUALITY

herbalistic — Fri, 04 Jan 2013 15:43:27 GMT

PUNCTUALITY
the newsroom, sloan sabbith/don keefer, light r (language).
she supposes that this is what people call intuition.

“You’re avoiding me.”

She wheels around, her heel slipping on the vinyl. “Yes.” It’s short, clipped, the kind of statement of fact she’s grown comfortable with. It’s not that she finds men confusing, per se – their methods are usually embarrassingly transparent – or even easily confused. It’s just, well, she kind of said she was avoiding him and muddying the waters isn’t her style.

She says that like she has one.

His voice raises as she walks away, “It’s unprofessional.”

“Dating your intern is unprofessional.” It’s a bad throw-back, but she just can’t stop herself, sometimes.

“She’s not my intern.”

“Anymore.”

Ten to five, and he’s hiding in the shadows of her office. It’s that time of year, near enough, and if she tilts her head just right she can see the sun slide down between the skyscrapers. She’s nearly got it right when he speaks, “Sloan— ”

“I—fuck—you frightened me!”

He laughs, moves towards the door, “Elliot’s kid’s getting his appendix out. Need you to cover at ten.”

It is her turn to laugh, incredulity rather than amusement. “After what happened last time?” Her head ducks, and she finds herself looking at him for the first time in a month.

Fuck.

The show goes out without incident, Charlie keeping a level eye in the control room and Reese on the floor for her to glare at when they run the ads. Will arrives around the half-way mark.

“I don’t think I want any of your advice.” She says, draws herself taunt. Her glasses slip down her nose and rather ruin the effect.

“You’re doing a good job, kid.” He murmurs, hand heavy on her shoulder.

She fixes a scowl towards Reese.

For the love of god smile, Don whispers in her ear and please no, she should not be imagining that with five seconds to air.

She almost asks herself what Will McAvoy would do, realises he would be doing the very same.

“Welcome back, on tonight’s show so far—”

Charlie sits. Charlie smiles. Charlies slides a scotch in her direction.

She hates whiskey, but it’s rude to refuse, so she takes it and smiles right back.

“Good show tonight, girl.”

Her lips curl, “Don’t call me girl, Sir.”

There’s a pause before he chuckles, and she settles her stomach with the smoky liquid. It rasps down her throat. Charlie stands, still smiling. “Go and get drunk. Don’t end up in The Post.”

“Words to live by.”

He texts her. Hang Chews? And despite her better judgement she replies: Sounds good. She careful not to leave any kisses. One for Will. Two for Mackenzie. Three for her brother and her mother too.

They’re already a round in when she arrives, a martini waiting for her behind the bar. It itches at her. “How did you know what I drink?”

It’s more a statement than a question, and Don just smiles. She supposes that this is what people call intuition.

They’re on drink number four, perhaps five, with a sickly shot thrust at them by an intern punctuating that somewhere and he’s an even worse drinker than she is, it seems.

He is staring at her, glassy-eyed. “You’re really pretty.”

“I think it’s time you called it a night, Don.”

“We could if you like.”

She frowns, “I’m going to call Maggie now.”

She’s in his cell-phone as Margaret and, really, Sloan cannot say anything to that.

“Hey, Maggie. It’s Sloan. Yeah, yeah, he’s fine, more than fine. If anything he’s finer than usual. He’s just feeling very— zen.”

How’s the head? Her fingers slip on the keys of her Blackberry. Three kisses. Fuck.

It takes thirty seconds for her phone to buzz, the fucking resonate frequency of this hangover. Sore. Another minute. What did I say to you last night?

Oh the usual drunken shit. Smiley emoticon. No kisses. Let’s not get carried away.

Don breaks up with Maggie. Or maybe Maggie breaks up with Don. She’s not entirely clear on the details. ACN’s running short on Kleenex and it really speaks volumes that, of all people, it’s Will who winds up pontificating on the dangers of workplace relationships.

Amusingly, Jim seems the most heartbroken.

There’s a silver lining here: he now has to cross hostile territory to reach her office.

Flipside: he annoys her on the studio floor instead.

“You know, she comes down here to give Will notes occasionally,” she says wryly, and Barry the Boom Guy hisses at her like a particularly pissy librarian and anyway, all it’s achieving is reinforcing her belief that this place is some kind of high school reincarnate.

Thirty seconds to air, comes Mackenzie’s voice, and she cocks a triumphant eyebrow in Barry the Boom Guy’s direction.

“I’m nearly forty, not fourteen.”

She raises the other eyebrow. See her point?

Hang Chew’s is off limits for him these days, Mackenzie explains when he invites her for a drink at a new place downtown.

“He can’t go to a bar because his girlfriend goes there?”

“Ex-girlfriend.” Mac says, as though this explains everything.

“Hi,” she greets him, sheepish.

“Hey,” his voice is soft. The bar’s quiet, and she’d go so far as to describe it ‘hip’. She orders a beer, and the change she gets from a twenty confirms her suspicions.

They sit in silence, for a bit. He’s necking his beer straight from the bottle, she’s sipped from a thrift-store glass eerily similar to the kind her grandmother used to serve her cola in. It’s a cute nostalgic quirk – or at least it is until she realises that she’s easily a decade long of this bar’s target demographic.

“I don’t want to be your rebound girl.” She says, when he orders another round. She knows that there’s where this is going and, well, she’d rather not miss The Daily Show.

His head snaps round. “OK.” He says.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

It sort of slips out, and her eyes widen to watch his reaction.

Relax: it’s laughter. “It means I understand.” He says, slowly.

“I know what OK means.”

His grin turns sly, “So why did you ask?”

“Nobody likes a smartass. Trust me on this one.”

His hands slides warm around her wrist, and she’s pretty sure she’s supposed to find this seductive or sexy or something, “I trust you.”

You have got to be kidding.

They end up back at hers. “Nice digs,” he says, and she detects a hint of sarcasm in his voice, muffled by her neck.

“You wait ‘til you see the bedroom.”

See? She can flirt too.

He seems more surprised than seduced, mind. “I get to see the bedroom?”

“No,” she deapans. “I brought you back here for a Game of Thrones marathon.”

“For the record,” he says, afterwards, “I’m totally down with a Game of Thrones marathon sometime.”

end.

fic: addiction

herbalistic — Mon, 31 Dec 2012 01:21:35 GMT

addiction
the hour, bel rowley/hector madden, r.
three times a habit ; post 106 au

Habits are hard to break. She told him she’s tired of being somebody’s mistress.

She never said she wanted to stop.

The show suffers technical difficulties, Freddie’s fired and Clarence is escorted off the premises. She sighs.

He slips into her office. “Bel.”

“Don’t speak.” She says. Her eyes are shut tight, thumb and forefinger bridging her nose. He crosses the room and what happens next is what always happens: he drawing back the curtain her hair forms, and she tilting her head back. “I said don’t—“

“You said don’t talk,” he murmurs, “I wasn’t.”

Her laugh is weak, “Then by all means continue.”

They do. They continue on her desk and on his, and on her sofa and in her bed and, once, in his too.

Afterwards, he lights a cigarette. “Marnie never lets me smoke in bed,” he quips.

She stiffens.

“I—Bel—Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” She says, but she’s already swung her legs over the bed. The sheets are too pink against her skin, they wash her out.

“Do you want to stop?” He asks her, because it seems like the polite thing to do.

“What?—” She frowns, tucks her hair back. “What do you want me to say?”

A beat. “No.”

At least he’s honest, if only to her.

It’s something vaguely akin to common knowledge, now. The tabloids sneer at him as a family man, and Bill Kendal from Uncovered gives her a knowing smirk. “It’s awfully cliché.”

Her smile’s opaque. “Perhaps.”

“ITV want you to defect,” she says. Her bed’s too small for the two of them to lie comfortably, and her cigarette dangles dangerously close to his chest.

His smile is wistful, “Is that so?” His voice droops with sleep, “Should I?”

Ash lands on her sheets, and she shifts to flick it off. “I don’t think it’s a decision for us to make together.”

“Not like you not to have an opinion, Miss Rowley.”

She chuckles, twists towards him. “Well, it’s not like you to wish to listen to it, Mr Madden.”

He paces. His tie’s loose and not for the right reasons. “Hector?”

He paces.

“Mr Madden!” His halt shudders and he won’t catch her eye. “Well,” she says, lightly, watches him try to read her reaction, “I’m sure Mr Wengrow will grow into a very fine frontman.” Her head ducks, and she makes a mental note to stock up on vodka. Maybe whiskey too.

“Hey,” his thumb runs across her jaw, and it is her turn not to meet his gaze. “We’ve never had it so good.”

She snorts. “Quite.”

end.

fic: EQUITY TRADING

herbalistic — Sun, 30 Dec 2012 02:01:57 GMT

equity trading
the newsroom, mac/reese, r.
there’s a soft spot in hell for journalists.

Her calls her Miss Mchale. She calls him a fuckwit. He laughs.

“Let me take you to dinner.”

A grin pulls across her face, “I want a pay-rise.”

His grin mirrors hers, only his has a shade of danger. “Done.”

“Someone once told me there’s a soft spot in hell for journalists.”

She snorts, “We have our own wing down there,” a quirk of her lip, rehearsed, “Next to the media executives who ride their mummy’s coattails to the top.”

“I get the impression you don’t really want to be here.” His head cocks, topping up her glass when she ducks her head.

“Oh?” His hand waves. A second bottle.

His smile is snake-like, “I’m not the villain of this piece, Miss McHale.”

“I write stories. Good stories. And all good stories have a villain.” She shoots back, “The way I tell it, the guy who said OK is even more culpable than the poor soul who pitched the idea.”

“You have no proof I said OK.”

“I don’t.” She concedes, a mocking defection, “that’s why this is a date and not an interview.”

He laughs. “So this is a date. How….informative.”

Her laugh is hollow in response. “What else would it be?” She can’t quite bring herself to call him Reese. Her lipstick marks her glass, “Unless you wish to blackmail me?”

“And how would I go about that?”

She laughs properly, now. “Now why would I tell you that?”

He invites her back. He has a penthouse, of course, with the kind of shagpile carpet and crystal glasses her mother would call naff, given half a chance.

He swallows her giggle with a kiss. His thigh slides between her legs and oh, that was unexpected.

“My,” she breathes, husky, “Mr Lancing,”

He presses her harder against the wall, “Miss McHale.”

He’s a biter, and she’s not exactly surprised as much as amused. “Ouch,” she breathes, waits for the reaction.

He bites harder. Her neck bruises and she’s going to be wearing scarves this week.

She exhales and he says fuck a lot when he slides into her, settling his chin into the hollow atop her clavicle. Her hand finds itself amongst his hair when he begins to move.

“Reese.”

His hand snakes between them, and her breaths labour harder, “Reese.”

“Ask me nicely.”

She almost laughs.

Instead she smiles, breathes please under her breath.

It does not last long. A charity dinner, her in a too-tight dress and breaking news down the wire. “I have to go.”

His lips rest fast against her neck. “I can make it go away.”

“I don’t think you can, Reese.”

The hickey blooms on her neck, and she doesn’t miss the look that Will gives her. “I didn’t realise ‘nothing’ came in couture.”

end.

fic: buffering

herbalistic — Fri, 28 Dec 2012 02:57:57 GMT

buffering
the newsroom, mackenzie/wade, pg-13
there’s an art, to this television business

leave, lose the election,
go to hell.

Call it a knack, but she’s getting used to them coming crawling back.

“I’m sorry.” He says, with flowers too. A dozen roses in her favourite hue.

It’s a start, she thinks, lets her phone run to voicemail.

Mac. I—

The noisy crackle of static and the clunk of a receiver, like something from a teen movie.

He catches her in Starbucks, of all places. “We’ve had fights before— “ he starts, and she can tell that it’s rehearsed.

“Save it.”

“Hear me out!”

“God,” the coffee burns her tongue, “Have you heard yourself?”

Will’s blustering and blundering, when she reaches the newsroom. “Do we have to do this now?” She sighs, lets the ensuing speech wash over her.

It’s a little early for a drink.

Wade comes to the office. Of course he does. “You’re hiding from me.”

She scoffs, best she can. There’s an art, to this television business, and she calls it acting. “I don’t hide from anything.”

“Bull. Shit.”

Some people call it that as well.

“One drink.” She relents, finally, her pick of downtown bar.

The most expensive, of course.

“Thank you,” Wade says, “for this.” He gropes across the table, vaguely in search of a hand but finds nothing but her bag.

Her hands remain folded in her lap, save for when one snakes up to lift her glass. Times like this she wishes it was acceptable to drink through a straw.

Someone once told her it gets you drunk quicker, to boot.

She gets drunk quickly enough as it is, and she’s giggling when she’s drained the second glass. “You’re witty.” She says, means it only as half a compliment.

Trouble is, it comes out whole.

“And you,” he grins, “cannot hold your drink.”

“It’s endearing.” She shoots back.

His hand is under the table now, enveloping her knee. “Is that so?”

She takes him home.

Call it pity. Or just a blatant lack of self control.

He’s gone before she wakes up, a flower plucked from the bouquet and placed on the pillow. It’s a nice touch, perhaps, but she can’t help but think it’s just so awfully bright against the stark white linen.

And this, children, is what you call a hangover.

She texts him, you left your tie. and your keys.

“Did you plan this?” She asks, when he comes to pick it up. It’s supposed to sound casual, but of course, it is nothing but accusing.

He grins. “What do you think?” Crosses the room to kiss her.

It’s dizzying, for a second. She smiles. “I don’t think that’s really an answer.”

“It’ll have to do for now.”

end.

fic: thievery

herbalistic — Wed, 26 Dec 2012 20:08:12 GMT

thievery
looper, kid blue/sara, r.
I got a job to do. post-film au.

this is your life and its ending one moment at a time.
chuck palahniuk

“Got a job for you, Kid.”

The details aren’t important. Abe’s calling him Kid again.

“I don’t like guns.” She says, short.

He follows her gaze to his gat. “Well for someone who doesn’t like ‘em you sure are holding a big one.”

She snorts, and he almost laughs too, remembers he’s pointing his gat square at her forehead, and she is staring right down the barrel. He’s impressed, for a second.

Remember, he is a coward.

“Put the gun down.” She says. He does.

He goes to lay it on the kitchen table, and she shoots him a look. “This is a family home.”

“Noted,” he says, holstering it. She has not put her rifle away, however.

“So,” she drawls, and he’s half-expecting her to light up. “What can I do for you- ?”

“Kid,” he offers. “They call me Kid Blue.”

Her gaze is fixed. Dangerous. “Is that so? Well, Kid Blue, what can I do for ya?” She stands, and he starts slightly. Two glasses and a dusty bottle of clear liquid.

Her pour is shaky, and his hand, when he takes the glass, is even shakier. “I got a job to do.” he says, waits for her to catch his gaze. “A- a friend of mine. He changed the future.”

“Did he now?” The front’s slipping, but she’s still game enough to keep it up.

“I have to put it right. I think you know what I mean, Sara.”

She blinks at the use of her name. “I think I might too, Kid.” She says, leans forward. “You lay a fucking finger on my son.”

“Understood.”

He sleeps in the barn, the first night. She is silhouetted against the sunset in her rocking chair, pulled fast to the door. Her gun rests in her palms.

She sleeps with a guard eye open.

“I was expecting you to fuck off.” She says, when she spots his shadow.

“I got a job to do.”

She sighs, and he watches her shoulders heave. “Well so have I, so run along now, there’s a good Kid.”

The second night, she leaves her bedroom light on and stands in the window. A beckoning finger and the chink of cheap glassware.

“It’s cold tonight.” She says, by way of explanation.

He grunts. “Gonna be a cold winter.”

“Yeah.” Is all she says, downs her drink, wipes her lips against his.

He almost cries when he fucks her, mainly because he hasn’t fucked anybody without paying for the privilege in so fucking long but also because he’s been sent here to kill her fucking kid. There’s something perverse in there, when she tightens, whispers kid into his hair like a prayer. He bites his tongue. She bites his neck. Round and around we go.

“I think I’d like you to go now.” She says, still panting slightly.

He bends his neck. “You gonna tell me why.”

She pulls the sheet up to her neck and fixes a glare, “You wanna kill my kid, Kid.”

“I— “ he pauses, and there’s no easy way for him to say this. “I don’t wanna kill your kid.”

A silence. It stretches, and he can feel her glare soften on his shoulder, and when he sneaks a look at her she’s frowning. He stays quiet. “You’re going to anyway.”

He shrugs, “I got a job to do.” He says, and flatters himself that she understands.

He does his job, soon enough, and he does it well. A clean shot from one temple through to the other, a look that morphs from sharp shock to sleep.

“He didn’t suffer.” He says.

The tears run streaks through the dirt on her face. “He didn’t. But you will.”

end.

fic: method of differences

herbalistic — Thu, 22 Nov 2012 00:56:19 GMT

METHOD OF DIFFERENCES
the hour, lix storm/randall brown, pg-13.
this is how he keeps his memories, always was, all lined up in a row.
nb; no spoilers for series two episode two

though the waters are rising
there’s still no surprising you
vanderlyle crybaby geeks; THE NATIONAL

They are not in love.

Remember this.

“You were in Paris, weren’t you?” Hector says, idly.

She hums in ascent, “For a spell.”

“I suppose you know Mr Brown, then?”

She shakes her head a little too quickly, but then again, Hector never was any good at reading her. “Not at all.”

Bel calls him a monster and it makes her chuckle, the way she scuttles around half a step behind him, Mr Brown this, and Mr Brown that. It reminds her of Paris, of her broken, prep school French and the way she too, used to follow hopeless in his wake.

He was angry, back then, he cared about things.

Once he even cared about her.

The years have not been kind to him. He walks hunched, his shoulders tight and his knees making audibly clicks when they bend. His rhythm is the same, though: the easy, regular tap of leather soles on vinyl floors. His knuckles scuttle across the door of her office.

“This place is a fucking mess,” he says, and she’s not sure if he’s talking about this place, in particular, or some abstract higher plane.

She hedges, “Budget cuts, I’m afraid. The cleaners haven’t been around for days.”

He pauses, halfway through pouring a scotch, “I had a tutor at Oxford,” he starts, stops, “told me that humour was a poor mechanism for defence.”

“What did he suggest as an alternative?”

“Artillery shells.” He deadpans.

She almost laughs out loud.

This is how they come to exist. Morning turns to afternoon and he finds himself in her office, a mug of whiskey and a half-smoked cigarette. They never talk of anything substantial; the underground and the weather and the cricket remain enough to entertain them indefinitely, it would seem.

She will never admit it, but she just likes to hear his voice.

There’s a last time, because she never knew that their previous last time was, well, going to be their last time, and she always was one to finish what she started.

He’s changed less than she’d imagined and she’s not sure which she’s less likely to admit to: that she was wrong, or that she was imagining.

This is where it is important to remember that they are not in love, and that goes both ways.

It’s a cliché, but a last time is never the last time, far from it. His hands bunch in her curls, pulling them tight across her scalp when she presses a hand against him. There’s a fine line between sadism and masochism, that she knows, and when he palms her breast harder than she likes it’s clear that he does too.

She lights a cigarette, a sly glance in his direction when he shrugs his slacks back on, sets about rearranging the talismans that litter his desk. This is how he keeps his memories, always was, all lined up in a row.

“This isn’t helping,” he says, abrupt.

“No,” she agrees, slowly frowning, “But did you really expect it to?”

He only shrugs, leans over for a light.

One day, she fears, he will find her out. She crafts a careful illusion, that she cares about nothing and no-one, never has and never will.

The trouble is this: she cares about him, always has and always will.

She does not love him. He does not love her.

They are not in love.

Eventually a last time is the last time, occurring by definition and it becomes clear to her that they cannot be in love.

Not anymore.

end.

herbalistic — Tue, 23 Oct 2012 23:58:32 GMT

<

THE GROUP
"fun fact: the liver is the only organ in the body that can repair itself"

A fast-talking comedy drama set in the mathematics department of a prestigious university in central London.

"I prefer to work alone."
"Don't let me stop you. I'll be in here if you need me."
"Here is my office."
"Oh, snap. I'm sorry, Bill, but I'm here to stay."

THE CHARACTERS

PROFESSOR BILL HADDER (dominic west) – Bill’s in trouble. He hasn’t published a paper for nearly two years, and after insulting a first year student in the middle of a crowded lecture theatre his teaching career looks to be on the rocks too. It’s a far cry from his glory days, and he’s finally facing up to the fact that his best days might be behind him.

PROFESSOR SLYVIA SKIPP (lena headey) – A wisecracking, whip-smart algebraist, on the surface Slyvia’s the best adjusted of the group, but underneath she’s just as neurotic and socially-inept as the very best of her colleagues.

DOCTOR EVA JOHNSON (rose byrne) – As the only other senior woman in the algebra group, Eva is Slyvia’s de facto best friend. A pensive woman, whose career in academia came as more of an accident than an intention with her discovery of a revolutionary proof in her last year of university. Eva has always felt a bit of an outsider – revered by her peers but sneered at by her superiors.

DOCTOR TOBY WALKER (tom hardy) – A poorly self-styled rebel without a cause, Toby tries hard to think of himself as a cad, when he is anything but. His class sets him apart from his peers, and cements a deep insecurity that his currently mediocre research output isn’t helping to improve.

PROFESSOR HENRY HEMSWORTH (gary oldman) – Henry has been there and done that. Ruggedly handsome, he is all the undergraduates favourite lecturer, and takes great amusement from playing into their fantasies. The wisest, and most productive, of the staff, he often finds himself becoming a sounding board for both their personal and professional troubles.

NATALIE DREW (gugu mbatha-raw) – One of Toby’s PhD students, with whom he embarks upon an ill-advised relationship. Noisy and boisterous, she’s one of the few post grads who seems to genuinely enjoy her life and wants you to know it.

TED MCARTHUR (jake johnson) – The quiet, studious kind of chap, Ted’s relationship with his thesis supervisor, Eva, is fraught, at first, but softens as they bond our their shared heritage and ideology.

"How many cabinet ministers did you fuck at Oxford?"
"Enough to make me very comfortable if I ever decide to run to OK."
"You think they'll care?"
"You're right, maybe The Spectator."

THE EPISODES

1.01 After breaking down in spectacular style during a first year lecture the previous March, Bill Hadder is returning to work after an enforced sabbatical to a barrage of incredibly witty puns penned by the third years. That’s not all that’s changed though: budget constraints mean he now has to share his office with none other than his brilliant university contemporary Sylvia Skipp. When Sylvia points out a flaw in the proof Bill’s spent the last five months working on he blows a gasket, leading to Henry Hemsworth, the head of department, having to make an impassioned bid for Bill to stay, along the course of which we meet the rest of the cast.

1.02 It’s the beginning of term, and lecturing begins again. Eager to put his previous hiccups aside, Bill is keen to pick up the first year lecture course he used to preside over, the trouble is, the Department Student Rep (jenna louise coleman) is rather attached to Professor Hemsworth who has been 'looking after' the course rather too well. Meanwhile, Toby finds himself increasingly drawn to Natalie, one of his PhD students.

1.03 Toby and Natalie engage in an ill-advised affair, while Eva struggles to find common ground with Ted. Henry has to find a gentle way to break to Bill the fact that he’s about to lose his job, and Sylvia reconnects with an old flame (jon simm), the only trouble being: he's Bill's old room-mate and mathematical nemesis.

1.04 When Bill finds a half-sketched idea on Sylvia’s desk, temptation awaits. It’s the beginning of the spring term, and with it Eva’s first lecture course, only for her to discover that all but 6 of the attendees merely want her autograph. After confiding in Sylvia, Eva has an epiphany, and when Ted strikes gold it seems she is finally growing closer to her student. Elsewhere, Henry finds himself in a compromising situation with an undergrad (felicity jones), and Toby and Natalie consummate their affair.

1.05 Bill publishes his article, the idea for which was based on Slyvia’s idea. Only, it seems it wasn’t her idea at all, but that of an ex-boyfriend in the analysis group (adam scott). Vengeful, he accuses Bill of plagiarism, rocking the group to the core.

1.06 As Bill fights to clear his name, Sylvia comes up against a brick wall with no-one else to turn to. As Bill and Slyvia finally work through their differences and assemble a plan to save his reputation, Eva re-evaluates her relationship with Ted, and Toby finally tells Henry about his ongoing affair with Natalie.

VOILA SERIES 2.

(of course, it goes without saying: any resemblances to real people and places are completely coincidental.)

fic: CONVERGENCE

herbalistic — Sun, 21 Oct 2012 21:04:54 GMT

CONVERGENCE
the newsroom, will mcavoy (will/mackenzie), light r
beginning, middle, end. one. two. three.
nb; so now my fic comes with free maths lessons? this is what chardonnay does to a girl, clearly. this should, in principle, stand up to linear reading but it’s technically three separate stories told simultaneously, the presentation of which is inspired by this flawless piece of literature.

so here we are
again
BLOC PARTY

(when a mathematician says a permutation is even, he or she does not mean it is a multiple of two.

no, they instead refer to its direction of travel – is it going clockwise, or anti-clockwise? forwards or backwards? left or right?

there is a name to describe it, but that is only important in exam halls. for now it is sufficient to know this: sometimes, mathematicians know jack shit.)

2.

“I—there’s—Will. There’s something I have to tell you.”

He nods easily. Their breakfast plates lie unwashed on the work-top, and he picks up the milk in a half-hearted attempt to tidy up.

“I slept with Brian last night.” She says.

The milk bottle smashes. There’s a cliché in here, somewhere.

1.

“Will McAvoy,” he says, holds out a hand.

Her shake is a little harder than he expected, her fingers cold over his. “Mackenzie McHale.” She says, “How do you do?”

“You’re British.” He says, and it kind of just comes out of his mouth.

Her lips quirk and, yes, she’s laughing at him. “You’re supposed to say ‘how you do you’ back, you know.”

3.

Her voice is softly clipped in his ear, “We’re running short a minute. Shuffle your papers if you understand.”

The papers scatter across the desk, and we’ll be back soon with more coverage of the spill. He twists his earpiece, “Why the fuck are we short?”

“You talk too fast.”

He almost snorts, “I talk at the normal cadence for an intelligent human being.”

“You talk at the normal cadence for a jerk, Will.” An exasperated sigh, and it’s so fucking close it aches, a little, in his stomach. “Just push harder on the follow ups. You’re back in 10.”

(two one three.

this is an odd permutation. think of a clock and notice: we are tracking backwards. only, in time we travel forwards too.

you see? jack shit)

1.

It’s her first show as his EP, and he can almost hear her shaking down his earpiece. “10 seconds.”

“Break a leg, McHale.”

“Go to hell, McAvoy.” She says, and he turns to the cameras again. “And stop fucking smirking.”

2.

There’s a saying they’re fond of, over in LA: the show must go on! they exclaim, and Will never did like actors.

“Will—“ she begins and his earpiece is out before she finishes the syllable.

The show is horrendous, that evening, and when Charlie asks him what the fuck went wrong he can’t quite put it into words, just yet. Instead he grunts an apology and slumps onto the sofa with a bourbon and a cigarette.

It takes Mackenzie’s letter of resignation, with immediate effect, for the older man to piece together the puzzle.

1.

“Good show,” he says afterwards, a trademark grin.

She bites her lip when she smiles and she’s a lot younger than her position suggests, it would seem. “There’s room for improvement.” She says, tugging her hair out of its rough bun. It bounces down around her shoulders, frames her features perfectly.

“But for now there’s room for a drink, right?”

She nods, in mock subservience, settles her hand in the crook of his arm and a faux Cockney accent he shouldn’t find as attractive as he does. “Right you are, guv’nor.”

3.

The show still finishes short and he’s still left floundering like an idiot. It’s not a good look on him.

“Fuck it,” comes her disembodied voice, “Just roll the credits.”

2.

“You’re fucking kidding me.” He says, when Charlie tells him exactly what and where he’s driven her to.

“She’ll be good at it.”

He stands, fumbles for his lighter, “That’s not the fucking point.” He says, and he’s praying really, really, hard right now that there isn’t a god about to levy some fucking karma on her head.

“I know.” Charlie sighs, pours two drinks, “But it’s not yours to make, anymore.”

And that, he guesses, is the fucking point indeed.

(it is worth pointing out that not all permutations of three numbers change those same three.

for example: it is perfectly possible to switch one and two and for poor number three not to notice a thing. in social circles, this happens all the time. did you hear what x said? yes, but don’t tell y.

our lives are played out in this way, a sly smile here and an exchange of numbers there until we are all jumbled up and only a few stand stationery and unmoved.

now you are learning.)

1.

She giggles into her drink, and it’s been a long time since anyone’s found his jokes funny. Or maybe she’s just a bit tipsy. He’s fine with that too.

Still, he has to ask. “Are you just laughing just to be polite?”

There’s a brief lull, and it scares him for a second before she chuckles. “I’m your EP, Will. I don’t need to be polite to you.”

She has a very good point.

3.

They have a row, facing off across the newsroom. He’s yelling and she’s yelling and it’s almost like the last five years never happened. “I am the Managing Editor of News Night.”

“And I am your Executive Producer.” She screams, throws her hands up, “We do not chase ratings at ACN, Will. We chase the truth.”

It’s a saying she’s fond of, and usually he finds it endearing naïve. Not now. “Stop kidding yourself, Mackenzie. You’re not a fucking undergrad anymore.” And this is getting personal very quickly, even for them.

She scoffs, “No. But look on the bright side: at least I’m not Will McAvoy’s wife.”

Suddenly there is silence. Not the stuttering, passing, kind, but a true hush that settles and smothers the entire room. She catches his eye, just for a second, blinks rapidly before storming past him towards her office.

Sloan stills a second at his shoulder before she goes to follow. “Unbelievable.”

2.

She sends him another email and he still cannot bring himself to read it.

I don’t know what to say, reads the subject line and, well, he’s William McAvoy not William Gates but even he can tell this will not be a brief read.

He has a cigarette and a whiskey and a really sick part of him just wants to hear her suffer.

He deletes it. He is above that, at least.

3.

He enters her office whiskey first. Her eyes are red and initially she turns her face away. “Piss off.” She says, sharp.

The glasses chink when he sets them down. “I’m sorry.” He mutters. Apologies do not come naturally to him, it would seem.

She is still staring at the wall, but her shoulders have relaxed fractionally. “I didn’t mean it, you know.” She says, so quiet he can barely hear it. He does though, passes her a drink in response and she slowly shifts to face him.

Her nose crinkles when she takes a gulp. “My point still stands though.”

1.

Her lips are warm, in sharp contrast to her fingers sliding southward. He has to surface for air because they’re so firm against him but most of all they’re just really fucking cold.

“I’m sorry,“ She stumbles when he curses, slurred.

He catches her with his lips, biting gently at her pulse point and she gasps, throaty, when his own (warm, thank god) hand guides her to where he likes it.

2.

She calls him, and clearly she doesn’t have the first clue about timezones because it’s four in the fucking morning and his bed is still too cold and too big.

“Will— “ her accent’s harsher than he remembers, though maybe it’s just the phone line, “Will I know you’re there. God, please just pick up.”

His fist clenches beneath the sheets, and he rolls away from her voice, her please an echoing sound that cuts him to the core.

“I’m so sorry Will.” She says, a distant sob.

As if he didn’t already know.

3.

“I know,” he says, but his laugh is weak, because god yes, he knows. Things have changed, are moving forward, and he thinks he might be close to something like forgiveness.

The world marches on. He might as well keep in step.

(our lives come in stages, like a play in three acts.

most will follow a simple pattern, tried and tested by millennia: beginning, middle, end. one. two. three.

what people of the unambitious sort fail to realise that these can be permuted. move one to two, two to three and the end to the start and you won’t recognise what you began with. we’re happy to do this on a small scale: shuffle a deck of cards, for instance, but the truth is that most of us are too scared or too settled or too sensible to do this to our lives.

and that’s fine. because ultimately it’s not the numbers that matter, it’s the parity of their combination. it’s a matter of even and odd and the question is this:

which way do you want to travel?)

end.

fic: THE JUDICIARY SYSTEM

herbalistic — Sun, 21 Oct 2012 13:01:53 GMT

THE JUDICIARY SYSTEM
studio 60, jack rudolph (jack/jordan), light r.
you can’t always get what you want, as some wiseass once said.

and all the wine
it's all for me
THE NATIONAL

He pours himself a drink. It’s an old habit, one frustrated only slightly by Jordan McDeere with all her fucking spunk, but nonetheless, he’s determined to let it die hard.

“Have a drink, J-Mac.” He says.

She acquiesces, ducks an ironic curtsey, “Yes sir.”

It turns out that she cannot hold her liquor at all, and for once he finds that fact endearing. She stands at his side table, appraising each bottle in turn. “Do you have anything that cost less than a hundred bucks?”

His smile is a little looser than usual, too, “What kind of frat boy do you take me for, McDeere?”

His knees click when he moves to join her and she laughs at the sound, “An overgrown one,” she says, and when her eyes flick to his, a hazy blend of amusement and alcohol, it’s just a little too much for him to handle.

Her lips are pliant beneath his, the soft contrast of flesh on flesh and she’s saying something garbled about Danny and shitting fucking christ and if he’s totally honest? He’s not really listening.

“We shouldn’t do this,” she says, when his mouth wanders southwards.

He’ll chuckle against her collarbone, “No,” he agrees, “That’s what makes it such fun.”

“Jack—“ she begins, and it’s not her normal exhalation of his name but he doesn’t notice.

Still, it remains his job to enquire, “Yes, McDeere?” he asks, and he never expected her to become the girl to get.

“I—just, you’re married and I—“ She steps back, raises her hands in the space between them, “Let’s not do this.”

He fucks an anonymous girl. She’ll run to a paper and they will say Jack Who? and she’ll wish she’d taken Simon Stiles up on his offer instead. But hey, that’s life.

You can’t always get what you want, as some wiseass once said.

“You’re avoiding me.” It’s a statement of fact.

She is perky, this morning, and eating a little more cereal than normal. Cornflakes litter her morning papers, and she licks her lips when she looks up. “No I’m not.”

“I’m sorry, OK?” he says. Is it too early for him to have a drink?

She sighs, tilts her head. “You don’t need to apologise Jack. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Oh, he things, if only she knew. He pulls a smile. “I like your top.” He says, “It makes your boobs look great.”

She giggles and he can’t remember the last time his wife made his heart do that.

In LA the sun shines for three hundred days of the year, and Jack personally finds that to be a just a little unnatural.

He tells her this over lunch and she laughs, “It’s good for the soul,” she says, sing-song.

“This city is many things to many people, McDeere,” he grunts, “But that is not one of them.”

Her eyes catch his, “I’ll lend you my rose tinted Ray-Bans,” she quips, a shade too quiet for comedy and he’s struck, once again, by the incontrovertible and inevitable unattainability of Jordan McDeere. She’s close, so fucking close, and he twitches when her knees bump his beneath the table.

There’s something poetic about all of this.

She’s totally avoiding him, he decides. The lunches become less frequent and she stops drinking with him altogether about a month later.

“Long time, no see, eh?” He teases, more gently than he would like to have to.

Her smile is wistful, “Yeah,” is all she says in distant response.

She’s knocked up. Of course she is.

He sends his assistant out for more cognac.

end.

fic: sandwich theorem

herbalistic — Wed, 17 Oct 2012 21:54:51 GMT

SANDWICH THEOREM (the infinite art of analysis)
the newsroom, mackenzie mchale (will/mac), post 110, r.
it’s simple, unconsidered, neither a question nor a demand.
nb; for liz, who’s been a bit down recently, and I thought she might like a pick me up.

and if you fall into my arms
I will keep you falling
KYLA LA GRANGE

“I’m still in love with you.” He says. He’s in her office, five minutes after broadcast, tie pulled askew and cheeks puffed with exertion.

The silence settles.

“OK.” She says.

It’s a bit of an anti-climax, she’ll admit.

A weekend passes. She does not contact him and he returns the favour. No, she runs and reads and drinks a little too much red wine. After all, she is a journalist.

She’s in before him on Monday, and there’s nothing new to see here. “Do you want to– ?”

“No.”

“Were you—?” And it’s a question she hates having to ask. –high? She can’t quite finish, lets it hang.

He meets her gaze. “No.”

“OK,” she says, again, and it’s close to becoming her fucking catchphrase.

His hand ghosts across her back at the pitch meeting, and her head turns towards him instinctively. There’s a smile and a saying, old habits die hard. “See me after?” He murmurs.

She makes a small noise of assent, “Five minutes.”

Her stomach flutters when his knuckles rap on her office door. “Come in.” She says, tries hard not to look too pleased to see him.

“Mackenzie,” His voice is gruff, low and dangerous and it hits her in just the right spot, “We ought to talk.”

Her head ducks. “I know.” She says, quiet, when she stands and rounds the desk. They are close, closer than she should dare, but, she supposes, people call her reckless for a reason.

“So—” Will starts, stops. It’s not like him to be lost for words, though part of her’s glad this isn’t rehearsed, “—I don’t know how to do this.”

Her laugh is throaty. “Neither.” She says, draws her gaze up from the floor.

This is when he kisses her.

It’s harsh, certainly not as chaste as the occasion suggests. His hand braces in the space between her scalp and ponytail, her throat raising a keening noise when he deepens the embrace, a half-forgotten taste. She finally dares touch him, finds him a tangible being. Her nails dig into his flesh through the cotton of his shirt, lest he melt away.

“Will,” she breathes, when he pulls back a second.

His forehead rests against hers, so her nod rises with his. “It’s OK.” He says.

She knows that.

There is no sense in starting from scratch – they fuck on the first date, hard and fast and urgent. Her back arches into him, pressing herself flush against his body when he groans her name. She, too, groans, an octave above him, slams herself hard against the pillow. Yes, she gasps, there, as if he didn’t already know.

Her fingers knot in his when she comes, makes no effort to stifle the sound.

He is at work before her for the second time running. Eyebrows raise. “What are you doing in so early?” She asks, to a smirk, and she kind of just knows he’s imagining her topless.

“I’m making a good impression.” He says, watches her process it, “I’m a man of the people.”

She scoffs. “I’ll tell the interns that.”

He fucks her on his desk. His half-done script scatters on the floor, her teeth leaving harsh marks on his shoulder when he thrusts into her. She wants to sigh, to scream his name, and her eyes screw tight shut. His breath is warm on her skin. “Hush, Mackenzie.”

This: too much. “Will,” she shudders, her hands tightening their grip on his upper arms. “Please.”

He has never been one to refuse her.

They never talk about what came before, and she’s beginning to believe they do not need to. “I never make the same mistake twice,” she had said in her interview with Charlie.

The older man had grinned, “Would you like me to pass the message on?”

“Marry me.” He says. It’s simple, unconsidered, neither a question nor a demand.

“OK.” She smiles, nods, and if that’s not an anti-climax she’s not sure what is.

end.

fic: FAST TALKERS

herbalistic — Tue, 16 Oct 2012 23:27:05 GMT

fast talkers
the newsroom, sloan sabbith/don keefer, pg-13
There is no such thing as News Night Without Will McAvoy, Charlie Skinner decides.
nb; originally posted here. prompt: Don/Sloan + News Night is cancelled.

There is no such thing as News Night Without Will McAvoy, Charlie Skinner decides.

Please empty your desks and leave.

On the plus side: she has a job. On the minus: she’ll think of one in a second.

Mackenzie’s halfway to Syria already, Neal’s found himself a niche at CNN and she can begin to see things returning to normal when he appears by her desk.

She quirks an eyebrow. “It seems I am leaving after all.”

“You’re not leaving.”

“I don’t know which particular rock you’ve been underneath for the past week but it may have come to your attention that I no longer have a job at ACN.”

He opens and closes his mouth the way he only usually does when talking about Maggie. So you can imagine her surprise when he says, “You have a job at ACN, Sloan. It starts on Monday.”

She likes working with Elliot. He’s mellower than Will, less conflicted and generally just easier for her to read. He lends her his Gypsy DVD, and she half-wonders what the deal is with ACN anchors and musicals.

Elliot grins when she says this, “You and Don are made for each other.” He says.

It’s a joke. Except it’s not.

Three months pass. She gets her own office.

“I haven’t forgotten what you said, you know.” He murmurs in the doorway. It’s late, after the show and she really doesn’t want to have this conversation now. Or ever.

“Well please try to because these are not circumstances I foresaw and frankly if I had a TARDIS the whole thing would have been wiped from the universe by now.” It all comes out too quickly and she bites down hard on her lip to stem the flow.

He cracks a laugh, and she’s not sure if it’s at or with her. She’s trying hard not to care, either. “You can’t do that. Don’t you remember the episode with the flying time monsters?”

“I have 2 PhD’s, Don, I wouldn’t recommend trying to out-Who me.”

She also has a wicked right hook, but she likes to keep an element of surprise.

She finds herself in Hang Chew’s with Elliot. He’s a poor substitute for Mac, in that his personal life is so mind-numbingly boring they have to talk about hers instead, but otherwise he holds his liquor well and laughs in roughly the right places.

“What happened with you and Don?” He asks, when she finally runs out of Wall Street anecdotes.

“A mistake,” she replies, and it’s not until he smirks that she realises what she said. “Didn’t mean that kind of mistake.”

“You’re alright kiddo. I got you.”

It’s 2012 and she’s not entirely sure how. The ratings are up, and only 41% of Americans don’t know what the debt ceiling is, which she supposes counts as progress. There’s talk, too, of her own show, maybe Will’s old slot, bringing Mac back to head up production and yeah, she’d like that quite a lot.

Her point is: it’s 2012.

Her last show’s the end of March. There’s a cake and a standing ovation, a toast from Elliot to the cleverest fucking kid in town and more applause.

She lets the party flutter away around her, smiles and kisses and handshakes until it’s just Don left.

“Congratulations.” He says, voice low. She’s avoiding his gaze, and trying very hard not to make that fact obvious.

So she pulls a smile at the floor. “Good show tonight.”

A pause. “Sloan—“ He begins, stops.

She looks at him now, instantly wishes she hadn’t because shit the look in his eyes is not something she can rationalise.

She can rationalise what happens next even less. Let’s leave it at that.

end.

fic: regression

herbalistic — Sun, 14 Oct 2012 22:00:42 GMT

REGRESSION (the line of best fit)
the newsroom, mackenzie mchale (will/mac, brian/mac), post 110, r.
and it’s almost as if the last five years never really happened, as though they were simply a bad dream.

your face has followed me home
with unwanted grace I leave you lonely and
we would never make a perfect piece to fit
KYLA LA GRANGE

“What did the message say?” She asks, and finally, slowly, he tells her. He stutters and starts and she cocks her head to listen closer, finally places a kiss on his lips. It’s chaste, tentative, but he seems to understand.

“Mackenzie—“ he murmurs, pulls back.

She nods. “As long as it takes.”

It doesn’t take long at all. Six weeks later she sits on the side of his bed, her belongings falling out of his drawers and her toothbrush beside his. It’s domestic, and it’s almost as if the last five years never really happened, as though they were simply a bad dream.

She tells him this, and he grins, folds her hair back behind her ears, “They were.”

He’s determined to begin afresh, and she plays along. It’s misplaced guilt, perhaps, but she owes this to him at least.

So when he says, “I love you,” she smiles wide and sincere.

“I love you too.”

It’s just a bad dream, she thinks, when Brian calls her. He haunted her thoughts before, she reasons, so why not after as well?

Don’t act coy, Mackenzie. Look, just…call me when you’re free, OK?. The voicemail goes. Her eyes flick to Will, soundly asleep, and an echo: I not just saying this because I’m high—

“Message deleted.”

She flips her phone screen side down to avoid the flashing red light, lets her eyes flicker shut and Will pull her close. She’s warm, too warm, beside him and she’s determined not to let it bother her when he groans her name through his sleep.

The first time, of course, they are drunk, and deep down she knows that isn’t an excuse. It’s a reason though, and it’s good enough for now when he pushes into her with a pleasing, if passing, familiarity. Still, she turns her face away when he attempts to draw her lips into a kiss.

Her thighs slip wider all the same.

“Fuck,” she gasps when his fingers ghost across her clit, strains harder to stifle herself in the pillow.

He catches her jaw, turns her towards him, “Descriptive as ever,” He smirks, “The Peabody’s came naturally, eh?”

When she kisses him it’s mostly just to shut him the hell up.

There’s a second and a third time too. After all, they don’t call it a habit for nothing. “Brian,” she begins, twists her fingers together, “There’s something I need to tell you.”

“I know, I find me irresistible too.”

She remembers a conversation just like this one, half a decade ago.

She can’t quite meet Will’s gaze when she sits him down with a scotch and a cigarette and tells him, finally, the truth. And yes, there is a sense of déjà vu to this whole debacle. Thank you. Well observed.

It still hurts like a bitch when she sees the lights go out behind his eyes. “Just—get out.”

Her teachers used to sigh and say: the only person you’re cheating is yourself.

end.

fic: UPFRONTS

herbalistic — Wed, 10 Oct 2012 20:44:51 GMT

UPFRONTS
30 rock x studio 60, jordan mcdeere/jack donaghy, r.
tricks like that don’t work on me, donaghy.
nb; set reasonably early in the run of both shows. I can’t be arsed to work out the timelines so just idk..suspend your disbelief IT’S THE MAGIC OF TELEVISION OK. also, the chances of this having a sequel are almost embarrassingly high.

I wish that you were here with me to pass the dull weekend
I know it wouldn’t come to love my heroine pretend
BELLE & SEBASTIAN

Which came first, NBC or NBS?

It’s the chicken and the egg, only with more lawyers and less omelettes. C’est la vie, the saying goes.

She sends him an email: I got your post again.

Her phone rings twice. “When is that fine ass of yours next in New York, McDeere?”

She grins, settles the receiver into the crook of her shoulder. “How’s your mother?”

“Annoyingly healthy. How’s Jack?”

“Rudolph?”

It’s the old joke, and one he stopped finding amusing when Jack Rudolph got a seat on the board and Jack Donaghy did not. She still likes it, though, and he’s too much of a gentleman to do anything but play along. “No, Donaghy.” He says, a trace of weariness behind the punchline.

The corners of her mouth twitch. “I’ll be in New York some time next month.”

It’s beginning to snow when she lands, and she’s already pining for Los Angeles . He insists on getting Jonathan to take her bags, “They’re very heavy,” she says, hides her grin when the assistants shoulders sag. She turns to Jack, “He’s eager to please.”

“It’s the peacock way.” He says, deadpan, offers her his arm. “Just wait until you meet Kenneth.”

“Kenneth?”

Jack smiles, more to himself than at her. “Our newest page.”

“Oh,” she says, a flicker of recognition, “Sorry, I forgot that you lot still use slave labour.”

His laugh is throaty, a gentle and dry rasp that catches her where she’s not expecting. She ducks her head forward, laughs too.

“It’s your round,” she says when they reach their favourite bar, a smile that flashes teeth.

“How does the reindeer put up with you?” He says, tosses his card across the bar.

“Don’t call him that.” She says, but does a bad job at hiding her giggle. “And he’s my boss. It’s always his round.”

“You’ve got it made, McDeere.”

Her fingers curl around her scotch, and she cocks her head. It’s not as endearing as it used to be. “Oh, Jack.” She says, thinks idly that they really need to stop serving alcohol on aeroplanes, “If only you knew.”

It is fair to say: they are drunk.

She leans forward, steadies herself on his arm. “So,” she starts, “What do I have to do to get Liz Lemon over to Studio 60?”

“Never gonna happen, McDeere.”

She drains her drink, scoffs. “We get double TGS’ ratings. On a bad night.”

A shake of the head. “When was the last time you got any action?” He says, voice softly slurred.

She settles a hand on her hip, glares at him. “Don’t change the subject. And that is none of your goddamn business.”

“So it was the last time you were here.” He smirks, tips his drink down his neck, “Interesting.”

Her knees slip on the sheets, pushing her further onto him and she gasps, pulls her lower lip through her teeth. Her catches her, settling his hands on the curve between her waist and hips, lifting her a fraction.

“I understand. I am a lot to handle.”

“That’s a good line,” she says, ponders for a moment while he finds his rhythm. “My point still stands, you know: Studio 60 is fucking TGS up the ass in the ratings.”

“That may be so,” he says, broken by ragged breaths, “but I’m fucking you right now and that’s what really counts.”

Her laugh comes husky. “You are never fucking me up the ass Jack.”

“Not even if I say please?” He says, and her laugh turns into a gasp when he shifts just so and slides a hand around her pelvis.

When she catches her breath she grins down at him. “Tricks like that don’t work on me, Donaghy.” He ought to know that by now.

She stays for a week. They have fun. “You should come to LA sometime,” she says, standing at the departure gate. Jonathan stands redundant by the vending machine, trying hard not to look like he’s eavesdropping. It amuses her more than it should, or maybe that’s just what sketch comedy does to a person. She’s too far gone to tell.

“Some time,” he agrees, a sincere smile, for once. “Say hello to the reindeer from me.”

A laugh rises in her chest, and a familiar ache with it. “I’ll forward your post.”

They never do say goodbye. Life’s too circular for that kind of shit.

end.