NanceFics

Dollhouse fic: Maybe they're hiring at Wok n'Roll (PG-13, Ivy, Topher)

nancefics — Sat, 20 Sep 2014 21:55:01 GMT

Written for serialbathera for the 2014 Low-Key Summer Exchange. AO3 post is here.

Apparently, Ivy sucks at foam and vanilla crystals.

This wasn’t a deficit that particularly bothered her before, since she kind of figured that graduating third in her class at MIT with a dual masters in computer science and engineering meant she’d actually be expected to, you know, do science and engineering when they hired her at Rossum. It’s not even like LA isn’t overrun by competing Starbucks on every corner -- she’s pretty sure she’s seen Boyd sneaking in a caramel macchiato or two when he drops Echo off to get one of her treatments, although granted that might be because they’re on their way back from one of her weirder assignments and he needs the caffeine and sugar to distract himself from the fact that she’s half-naked and in sky-high dominatrix boots. Ivy’s seen Echo’s appointment book for the rest of the month, and she figures Boyd will be up two pants sizes by Christmas.

The point being that, seriously, there are alternatives available to Topher Brink. Ivy is fluent in multiple programming languages and already has a dozen first-author publications in the most prominent trade journals and was hand-picked by Rossum to come to their LA office –

“Ivy, I can literally feel myself dying on a cellular level while I’m waiting for that cappuccino.”

--and somehow she stepped into an alternate universe where she’s hanging out in the employee kitchen, nary a computer in sight, playing the part of high-paid barista to a young, brilliant, intensely annoying scientist with questionable taste in brewed beverages. Who is consistently disappointed with the way she applies the sprinkles to the foam, and is it even appropriate for cappuccino to be combined with vanilla?

Oh, fuck her life, now she’s thinking like a barista.

“Here it is, Topher. Extra vanilla, as loudly demanded.” She hands him the steaming mug, and no, she’s not hoping it’s hot enough to burn his vocal cords shut for a couple of hours.

“Oh, thank god, finally. Lack of caffeination and a deadline on a trapeze-artist imprint is a bad combination.” Topher settles back in his chair, and Ivy takes the opportunity to glance over his shoulder at the lines of code running across the screen in front of him. “I’m pretty sure DeWitt would be pissed if Victor tries for the triple-somersault and lands on his – oh my god, oh my god! Ivy, what did you do?”

“I – what? Nothing – what?”

Topher’s clutching his chest and his eyes are bugging out of his head, and Ivy would find this almost comical if she weren’t concerned that she was watching her boss have a heart attack in front of her. Or wondering if someone had mixed meth into the vanilla crystals, because Dominick would totally take that kind of revenge for Topher’s whoopee-cushion joke at yesterday’s staff meeting.

“The mug, Ivy, the mug,” Topher wheezes, gesturing with the item in question and sending little flecks of foam scattering across his coat. “You used the Boba Fett mug – why would you use the Boba Fett mug for coffee?”

Ivy blinks and looks around, but nope, she’s still in that alternate universe. “Because…it’s a coffee mug?”

Apparently this is the wrong answer.

“This – this is not a coffee mug, Ivy!” Topher’s expression is one-half outraged professor defending his thesis against some inferior intellect and one-half little boy who just watched his balloon sail away over the roof of the local mall. “This is Boba Fett. This is a signed, original, limited-edition, heretofore mint-condition mug that I purchased when I was ten, after a blood-thirsty bidding war I might add. It’s a symbol of my childhood, Ivy, of my goals and my aspirations, it’s filled to the brim with Brink! Boba Fett is not meant to be used for coffee!” If possible, he suddenly looks even more distraught. “Oh god – what did you do with the box it came in?”

“It’s safe and sound,” Ivy lies through a bright smile. She sends up a silent prayer that nobody’s emptied the trash in the kitchen. Coffee grounds don’t stain permanently, right? “Sorry about that, I’ll find another mug.”

“Never mind, I’ve lost my appetite now. Let me just get back to this crap imprint.” Topher sighs and drags his hand over his head until his hair’s more unruly than usual.

If she were forced at gunpoint, Ivy might grudgingly admit that he looks almost cute. Almost being the key word, because she’s not sure she should admit to having a little crush on a boss with a Boba fetish.

“What’s crap about the imprint?” She half-expects him to shush her and send her off to buy screen-cleaner, but he gestures for her to come closer to his desk.

“I can’t get the right combinations,” he says, pulling up a series of graphs. “The client needs a trapeze artist who actually functions on a trapeze. I have templates for the athleticism and the strength and the balance, but it’s not adding up to allow the safety margin that DeWitt wants. Every time I tweak the recipe there’s still an unacceptable probability that Victor goes splat.”

Ivy squints at the graphs. “You need to add someone with meditation skills – no, hear me out,” she adds, plowing on quickly before he can interrupt. “Sure you need the strength and athleticism, but you need someone who can channel all that energy and keep their focus when they’re in a high-risk situation. Maybe combine your current template with an imprint of a psychiatrist or a classical musician or even a senior fire-fighter if you have one of those lying around? It’s just a thought,” she winds down with a shrug.

Topher’s looking at her strangely, and Ivy braces herself for the patented Brink eyeroll/scoff combination that usually accompanies her attempts at the espresso machine. She’s not prepared for the surprised smile that breaks over her boss’ face.

“Ivy, that’s – kind of brilliant, like why-didn’t-I-think-of-it level brilliant.” He looks at her with something that maybe, possibly, could contain a bit of admiration.

And Ivy’s not blushing, really, it’s just warm in here. “I – thanks, Topher. I’m glad you think it’ll work.”

“It’ll work fine, I just have to search for the right adjustments.” Topher turns back to the screen, firmly back in optimistic-creator mode. “Want to make this a joint project, Ivy?”

“Of course!” Ivy settles in the chair beside him, eager to dust off her degrees and get to work --

“Excellent – I need a cappuccino. Double up the vanilla this time, OK?”

-- or maybe she’ll just go find Dominick and see what poison goes best with vanilla crystals. At this point she’s pretty sure she can bribe him with caffeine.

Les Mis fic: "Beware of Falling Objects" (3/3)

nancefics — Mon, 01 Jul 2013 06:04:28 GMT

Beware of Falling Objects (3/3)

Author: empty_marrow

Rating: Mature (some language and mild sexual situations)

Characters/Pairings: Cosette/Javert

Word Count: 11,055

Warnings: somewhat irreverent discussions of suicide and religion

Summary: In which Cosette and Javert discover it’s not so easy to burn your bridges, especially if you happen to be standing on one at the time.

part one

part two

Life-lessons learned this evening: suicide’s not the answer, she has a latent uniform kink, and her daddy issues apparently have daddy issues of their own.

It’s entirely possible they would have ended up violating several public decency ordinances if they’d turned right instead of left at the dry-cleaners at the corner of Rue de l’Homme Arme, or if Cosette hadn’t remembered to bring her apartment keys with her (coincidentally, the very last item on her check-list, because a girl never knows when she’ll need one final bathroom break en route to the river). Or if Javert had figured out that her bra hooked in the front instead of the back while they were still on the bridge.

The Inspector seems to think it’s extremely important to explain each of those laws to her in detail right as they occur to him, but somehow his tongue ends up back in her mouth while she’s pulling him down the street and up the stairs to No. 7, so Cosette never does learn the specifics of Penal-Code-286.3-subsection-A-it-unhooks-right-here-Javert.

“Kitchen’s over there, the living room’s off to the right, and here’s the dining room,” she gasps between kisses, because evidently you can take the girl out of her convent school but she’ll still kick into proper-hostess mode even when she’s trying to get her guest naked. Speaking of which, whoever designed the Parisian police uniforms used way too many buttons, and she’s pretty sure that epaulet wasn’t supposed to come off in her hands. Perhaps Javert ought to put that in his next report to his superiors.

More to the point, exactly how big of a ho does it make her that she’s actively engaged in trying to get the man’s pants off and she has no idea if “Javert” is his first or his last name?

…Right, digressing. Where was she?

Oh yes, stepping out of her dress and trying not to trip over her shoes while the Inspector propels her backwards toward the dining room table.

“Lovely,” he murmurs, although she’s not sure if that’s meant for her interior-design skills or for her color-coordinated hot-pink undies. She’s going to assume it’s the latter.

She jumps when Javert licks a wet stripe down her throat and inadvertently kicks him in the shin, because that’s the just the kind of graceful seductress she is. She pulls him back into an apologetic kiss and ends up perched on the edge of the dining room table with her legs wrapped around his thighs.

If what she can feel through the fabric is any indication, the Inspector has a lot to live for.

She’s not sure if she just said that out loud or if it’s the heat of the moment, but all at once he’s shifting to pull her flush against him with a sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a moan.

“Nice shoes, by the way,” he breathes into her ear.

Now that he mentions it, this is the first position she’s been in all night where her feet have actually felt comfortable enough to –

--oh, that’s what these shoes are made for.

“Glad you approve,” she pants, coming up for air between kisses as she fumbles at his belt. “Bedrooms are upstairs to the right if you want to relocate.”

“Later.”

“L-later?”

“Round two,” he growls as he invades her personal space all the way down to the tablecloth.

“OK,” Cosette squeaks, and Javert sends the contents of the table crashing onto the floor with a sweep of his arm.

Right before her brain announces its impending shut-down and transfer of control to other body parts, she makes a final mental note to get them both into a bed sometime before the night’s over. Because it’s one thing to go from jumping into the Seine to jumping the Inspector, but doing the morning walk of shame from the floor of her own dining room is one step too far into Bizzarro World for her comfort level.

And she really hopes nothing broke when Javert cleared the table, because her father totally loves those fugly candlesticks.

Morning-after Hangover Fairy tap-dancing in golf cleats behind her eyeballs: check. Beard-burn in areas she’d never even thought were accessible before: check. Smug-looking, obscenely awake half-dressed police inspector with bite marks on his neck sitting at her kitchen table and –

- oh, the hell with the checklist.

“Good morning,” she says, stifling a yawn as she stumbles blearily down the stairs. She starts to re-think her wardrobe choices as soon as she catches a glimpse of herself in the hallway mirror. The shirt’s one of her favorites, a soft old thing she’d borrowed from her father and never returned; she knows she’s not exactly rocking the sexy look this morning, but she’s kind of hoping to avoid scare-the-hell-out-of-the-dude-you-just-slept-with hideous.

“Good morning.” Not only is Javert looking at her as though he still likes what he sees, he’s actually pushing a steaming cup across the table toward her. “I hope you don’t mind that I used your coffee-maker.”

She’s reasonably certain the sound she just heard was her ovaries jumping up and breaking into a rousing rendition of the Halleluiah Chorus.

“Mind someone having my coffee ready for me, are you kidding? I may have to handcuff you to the nearest piece of furniture to keep you here.”

…Oh wait, they already did that last night. The tips of Javert’s ears are turning an impressive shade of red and Cosette suddenly finds the cup extremely interesting.

“The phone went off a few minutes ago,” the Inspector says as the caffeine starts working its blissful way into her system. “There’s a message on the machine from your father about things going well in the country and that he’ll see you tonight. I assumed you didn’t want me to pick up.”

“Good assumption,” Cosette says, and has to choke back a totally inappropriate laugh. “Should I find that hypothetical conversation funny? I shouldn’t find that funny. I’m a bad daughter and a horrible person, aren’t I?”

“I can only judge by the company you keep.” Javert gives her a look that’s somewhere between teasing and pensive. “You know, if I wanted to follow the letter of the law I’d still arrest him.”

“Actually, please do that. I’m having trouble coming up with an innocent explanation for how we broke his headboard, and the distraction could only be helpful.”

“Shit, that was his bed?”

“It…seemed like the roomier alternative at the time for round two?”

“I wondered why there were so many rosaries hanging off the mirror. Damn it.” Javert drops his head onto his arms and groans into the tablecloth. “I suppose he can add that to his laundry-list of reasons to hate me.”

“Honestly, I doubt that he hates you at all – no, really,” she adds at his disbelieving snort. “I mean, chasing him was kind of your job, right? I’m not saying he enjoyed looking over his shoulder all those years, but I suspect that ultimately he resented the hunt a lot more than the hunter.” She looks back up from her coffee cup and smiles knowingly at the surprise she sees flickering across Javert’s face. “He told you that when you let him go to help Marius, didn’t he?”

“Something like that, yes.”

“See? I may not know anything about my father’s past, but I’ve gotten pretty good at deciphering the way he thinks. I’d lay odds that he doesn’t even take the whole dangerous-criminal-at-large thing as personally as you do.”

As opposed to the whole banging-his-daughter thing, which she suspects would get personal to the point of dental records being necessary to identify the remains. But now’s probably not a good time to mention that, so she settles for perching on the kitchen table next to Javert’s chair.

“Oh, he took it plenty personally for awhile, trust me. More evidence as to how he’s changed, I suppose.” The Inspector frowns as though he’s still not sure that he completely approves of this whole shades-of-grey phenomenon.

“I guess I’ll have to. Trust you on that, I mean – unless you’d care to finally share those details you’d hinted at telling me if I stopped being so annoying?” Cosette places one bare foot on his thigh and shoves at him. “For your information, this is me being less annoying.”

“This is you being less annoying?” He grins and runs a hand up her leg to tug at her shirt. “Sorry, but no. It wouldn’t be right. This is your father’s story to tell, not mine.”

“I was afraid you were going to say that.” She sighs in resignation but decides not to push the issue. “You do realize that means it’s a story I’m never going to hear, right?”

“No, it means that you have to talk to him.”

“Now who wasn’t listening last night?” She curls her toes against his thigh. “He’ll be down the hall and out the door before I finish the first sentence.”

“Then you’d better make sure it’s a good sentence.” He starts to rub small circles on her calf with his thumb in time with the curling of her toes. “You don’t seem to have any trouble spewing words out all over the place at a moment’s notice. I’m sure you can come up with something to say to him that’s either convincingly reasonable and mature enough to put him at ease or horrifyingly confusing enough to stop him in his tracks.”

“…Why thank you, Inspector, I’m pretty sure you just told me you have faith in me because I talk too much.”

“That’s one way to put it.” He smirks when she shoves harder at his thigh.

They’re interrupted by the incongruous sound of a rooster crowing loudly somewhere in the vicinity of the kitchen window. Javert swivels in his chair with a startled frown.

“What the hell was that?”

“Our stupid kitchen clock.” Cosette rolls her eyes and drops her feet back to the floor. “You can program it to coincide with the exact times of daybreak and sunset to mimic life in the country. My father finds it soothing – don’t ask.”

“I could be persuaded to shoot it.”

“So very tempting, but probably even harder to explain than the broken bed.” She nods toward the first slivers of light passing through the curtains and raises her coffee cup to him in a toast. “Well, here’s to another sunrise. Who knew, right?”

“To one more day.” Javert touches his cup to hers. “Here we both are, still breathing. I suppose we might have to actually make good on some of those future expectations we tossed around last night.”

“I think between the two of us we possess enough awesome organizational skills to actually accomplish that.” She grins at him over her coffee. “I’ll start: expectation number one, you’ll be nicer to girls you meet on bridges.”

He raises an eyebrow and gives her a mock glare. “Mademoiselle, if I recall correctly you ended up thinking I was very nice.”

“Well, eventually. I suppose.”

Damn that eyebrow. That eyebrow is entirely too smug and too hot and too aware of its effect on her. She very much wants to pull that eyebrow back upstairs and do depraved things with it that involve nudity and the rest of the spray-can of whipped cream that’s still sitting on the top step (note to self: at the end of the day that evidence is getting destroyed). And if the eyebrow asks nicely she’ll extend the invitation to the snarky mouth with the lips and the collarbone and the shoulders and…wait, what’s Javert saying now?

Honestly, remarkable concentration used to be part of her skill-set.

“Very well, expectation number two: if you decide to wander around the city at night by yourself you’ll wear shoes you can actually walk in. No matter how good you look in those designer devices they’re not worth a broken ankle.”

“Trust me, that’s not going down as an expectation so much as the First Law of Fauchelevent. My feet are still hurting.” And she’s not going to analyze the little flip her stomach and sundry parts south just did when he said she looked good. “Expectation number three: you’ll accept that it won’t kill you to go to the occasional Happy Hour with your colleagues, and notice how I didn’t use the word ‘idiot’ anywhere in that sentence, if only to expand your horizons and remind them of what a superbly bad-ass officer you are.”

“Inspector, you little ninny.”

“Whatever, you ass, just take the compliment.”

“Fine.” He executes an eye-roll that does her proud. “Expectation number four: it’s not safe to wander around the city at night by yourself, so you won’t do it without a police escort.”

“Expectation number –” She stumbles for a second as she registers what he just said. Odd, it usually takes at least three cups of coffee for her heart to start thumping like this. “Um, expectation number next: you’ll give yourself a break for once in your life, you ridiculous control-freak, and keep living.”

“Agreed only if you’ll give yourself a break for once in your life, you irksome perfectionist, and keep living.”

“Agreed. You’ll keep doing this until you become Prefect of Police for this fair city, which will in fact happen in spite of how generally annoying you are, because you’re also fearless and intelligent and scarily good at what you do, and they’d be crazy not to want you.”

“Well, my arrest record could be better,” he says, but the grey eyes seem a little less weary and there’s a softness to his smile when he looks at her. “You’ll sit down with your father tonight and have an honest discussion with him, adult to adult, preferably with the omission of some details of the last twelve hours that he really doesn’t ever need to know. And you’ll take the word of someone who’s known him much longer than you have that he’s gallingly good at exceeding other people’s expectations, and he will continue to be his kind, saintly self and smother you with love and concern for years to come. Even if you end up moving out and becoming a rock-star astronaut who only drinks awful pink cocktails.”

“You’re pretty pushy with your expectations, Inspector.”

“So I’ve been told.”

She puts her coffee down and reaches over to tug at the spiky tips of his salt-and-pepper hair. “Don’t arrest my dad.”

“Wasn’t going to.” He grabs her hands and pulls her down until she’s straddling his lap. “Don’t settle for your pyromaniac college boy.”

“Wasn’t going to. Tragically, he’s just not my type.”

“And what is your type, Mademoiselle?”

“Hmm…looks good in a uniform. Looks better out of it. To be honest, he’s kind of an aggravating, unhealthily obsessive bridge-poaching pain in my ass.” She settles more comfortably in his lap, grinning at the rather obvious response that provokes. “Hopefully he thinks I’m his type too.”

“It’s not your damned bridge.” He groans into her hair and pulls her closer. “Shit, at my age you’ll kill me within a month.”

“This is where I restrain myself from saying something terribly cliché like ‘there are worse ways to die.’”

“Oh good, because out of everything that can go wrong here what I’d really hate is to be cliché.” The last word ends on a hitch as she licks the shell of his ear.

“That still didn’t sound like you telling me no.”

“Does telling you no ever actually work?”

“Who knows? It’s probably safest not to tempt fate.” She leans down and captures his mouth in a long kiss, dragging her teeth against his lower lip before she pulls away with a contemplative expression. “Full disclosure, though? I’ll probably end up doing something that annoys you into wanting to arrest me long before the end of a whole month.”

“My bet would be by noon today.” Javert laughs at the face she makes in response and pulls her into another kiss, then begins to gently extricate himself from the chair. “Fortunately for your police record, I have to leave in twenty minutes. There’s a letter I have to retrieve at the station before my chief gets in and thinks I’ve actually resigned. Or died.”

Cosette starts to stand up, then pauses with a devious smile as that little cartoon light-bulb pops back on over her head.

“Actually, I was hoping you could enlighten me on one more law before you leave, Monsieur le Inspecteur,” she says, shimmying slowly down his lap until she’s kneeling in front of him and her hands are traveling purposefully up his thighs. “Rumor has it that this is both illegal and requires less than twenty minutes to perform. Thoughts?”

“I – no, it’s not technically – that is –” The Inspector’s brain-to-mouth filter seems to have jumped off the bridge without him. She could kind of get used to him like this. “There’s an historical ordinance prohibiting first cousins – possibly livestock or – ahh, Cosette, fuck!”

It’s nice to know she can still pull off some plans perfectly.

Her father pushes open the front door later that evening and stops in surprise when he sees her sitting at the kitchen table with a large pot of coffee and two cups.

“Cosette, you startled me! I didn’t think you’d still be awake.”

“I figured I’d wait up for you.” Cosette stretches up to kiss his cheek. “Welcome home, Papa. How’s Marius?”

“Fine, fine.” He makes a production of picking up a cup and fussing with the sugar while completely avoiding all eye contact. “I might have neglected to mention that he had a slight injury, but it’s nothing to worry about.”

“Good to know. And how about the rest of your barricade boys?”

“I. Um. Pardon me?” Her father just barely misses pouring the coffee onto his shoes. He ends up staring anxiously back at her, shifting from foot to foot and looking very much like a cross between a particularly awkward statue and a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming bus.

Cosette laughs fondly, shaking her head. She should probably feel guilty for being so amused, but it’s such a rarity to actually know more about a situation than he does that she figures she can be forgiven for toying with him just a little bit.

“Breathe, Papa. I’m not angry – well, not anymore. Some little kid stopped by this afternoon to tell you thanks for bailing out his friends and paying his sister’s emergency-room bill. He left this.” She points toward a large fruit-basket that’s spilling over the sideboard. “I’m kind of doubtful he actually paid for it, but he gets points for presentation.”

“I, er, well. Yes. As it so happens, I was at the barricades yesterday.”

“You don’t say.”

He shrugs and gives her a guilty smile. “It turns out that Marius was there, and then I met his friends, and I couldn’t just leave them there to get arrested and rot in jail, could I? They’re good kids – their idealism just got a little misdirected and they needed guidance.”

“Guidance and bail money, apparently.”

“Well, yes, but they promised me they'll be revising their protesting methods. I think they’d prefer to avoid being in any more police stations.” Her father seems momentarily uncomfortable at that thought, but then looks over at her with a bright smile. “They were so appreciative they ended up making me their honorary Righteous Bro – I’m not sure exactly what that is, but it was a real bonding experience for Marius and me.”

It speaks volumes that out of all the crazy things that have happened in the last twenty-four hours, the phrases “bonding experience” and “Righteous Bro” coming out of her father’s mouth don’t even crack her top-ten list.

“Um, about Marius, Papa –”

“It’s OK, sweetheart. I genuinely like him and I know he’ll be a loving husband to you, so consider this an old man’s official blessing. It’s time you start your life with him, and it’s only fitting that – why does it smell like whipped cream in here?”

“Um, must be the fruit basket? Papa, come sit down. We need to clear up a few things.”

Cosette gestures to one of the chairs and waits for him to take his seat. Once he’s settled in she takes a long sip of her coffee, sighs in determination, and plunges ahead.

“First off, I’m glad you like Marius, but I’m not going to start a life with him, as a wife or a girlfriend or anything else. I’m in school, I’m still trying to figure out how to start a life with myself. And second, there’s already a man in that life who’s very important to me. Problem is, he’s always been kind of a mystery.” She reaches across the table to lay her hand over his. “I think it’s time I learn more about my dad.”

As predicted, her father smiles sadly at her and pats her hand as he stands back up. “It’s time to get some sleep, Cosette. Those are words and stories for another day.”

“No, Papa, they’re not.” She grabs his hand before he can pull away. “They’re words meant to be spoken while we’re still able to speak them. Because life is short and unpredictable and bizarre sometimes, and you never know when we’ll lose the chance. Either one of us could drop dead, or not wake up, or end up floating face-down in the Seine with alcohol poisoning and mutilated feet.”

…OK then, apparently her brain decided to skip past the reasonable-and-mature scenario and go right to horrifyingly-confusing. She kind of hates that Javert was right about that.

On the plus side, her father’s still in the room, albeit staring at her with a mildly disturbed expression on his face.

“Cosette, why on earth would you use an example like –”

“Sorry, digressing, it’s kind of a thing that I – um. What I’m trying to say, Papa, is you need to realize that I’ll always love you very much, no matter how old I get or what I do, and no matter what you tell me about yourself.” She gives his hand a final squeeze and lets go, sitting back and looking up at him expectantly. “And you have to start breaking down your own barricades so you can get to know your daughter. After all this time, I think we both deserve that.”

Her father just stands there for a minute, looking alarmed and confused and maybe a bit wistful, as if he’s saying his good-byes to a little girl from years past. Then he nods somberly and sits down beside her.

One month and several tentative but heartfelt talks later, her still-adoring-and-no-longer-quite-so-annoyingly-mysterious father gives her an affectionate peck on the cheek, wishes her a good day in school, and heads off to spend a little quality time with his new BFF Marius and the other Righteous Bros from the barricade, who seem to have unofficially adopted him ever since the night he bailed them out. She can’t say it wasn’t a little startling the first time she saw him wearing the official sweatshirt of the Amis de Alpha Beta Chi fraternity, but it’s gratifying to see him throwing himself into a cause that actually allows him to be happy for a change.

Sewage was apparently involved in this transformation somehow, but if the past month has taught her anything, it’s that some things between father and daughter are better left a mystery.

Marius was a bit put out by her rejection at first, but he seems to have decided that he got the fun Fauchelevent out of the deal – not to mention the cute brunette sister of that little messenger boy from the barricade – so she figures all’s well that ends well.

It’s strange to think that things actually can end well without her being responsible for planning out all the little details, and yet somehow the lack of control feels less alarming and more freeing these days. It’s possible she’s growing up.

Or perhaps even the most black-and-white world-view can be comfortably shaded into grey as long as it has the right company to help with the shading.

Later that evening, Cosette celebrates the end of a particularly challenging exam week at Happy Hour in a police bar in downtown Paris, broadening her horizons with locally-crafted ales and betting a bunch of rookies that they can’t pound down a pitcher of cosmopolitans in one sitting (she wins).

Then she celebrates life in general by sitting with her boyfriend on her (OK, their) favorite bridge, watching the stars, and violating public decency as defined by Penal Code 286.3, subsections A and B, twice.

Les Mis fic: "Beware of Falling Objects" (2/3)

nancefics — Mon, 01 Jul 2013 05:54:31 GMT

Beware of Falling Objects (2/3)

Author: empty_marrow

Rating: Mature (some language and mild sexual situations)

Characters/Pairings: Cosette/Javert

Word Count: 11,055

Warnings: somewhat irreverent discussions of suicide and religion

Summary: In which Cosette and Javert discover it’s not so easy to burn your bridges, especially if you happen to be standing on one at the time.

part one

She can’t help thinking that if her father were here to witness this he’d have a massive guiltgasm and spend the rest of his days trying to atone for every single sin against every living creature in the history of ever.

Either that or he’d piss himself laughing at both of them.

To be fair, Cosette’s still not sure which of the two she feels more like doing.

“Of course I knew about you, or at least that you existed,” Javert tells her. “The last time I saw 2 – Val – your father he was trying to convince me to hold off on arresting him until he could go collect you. Evidently you were his hopeless-case prototype.”

“Thanks.” She leaves the “you asshole” part of the sentence unspoken, but by the expression on his face she’s pretty sure he figured it out anyway. “And did he convince you?”

“Certainly not. I still had my priorities straight back then. He escaped, again, and by the time I tracked him he’d already acquired you and headed to the city. I caught up with the two of you briefly, but the old bastard disappeared into thin air on me. Again. And here we are – you know the rest.”

“No, I think we’ve established that I very much don’t know the rest.” Cosette ponders that for a moment, frowning. “So you were the one chasing us? I remember wanting to peek over the edge of the roof to see what was going on. Papa kept telling me I had to stay still.”

“Damn it all, I almost looked on the roofs that night!”

The man is honest-to-God pouting. Cosette just manages to keep a straight face.

“Excuse me if I don’t feel too bad about your failure. From the little bits and pieces I can recall from that time of my life, I was in a pretty bad place until he pulled me out. So you could argue that something positive came of it all – you know, if that’s any consolation to you.”

“It really isn’t. And this is disgusting.” Javert glowers at the pitcher of pink liquid as though it personally offended him in a past life.

“Says the man who just inhaled two full glasses of my alcohol. Hand it over, it’s my turn.” She makes grabby-hands at him until he grumbles and fills up the glass they’re sharing.

True to form, Cosette had check-listed her way through multiple mental what-comes-next scenarios when she was making her final preparations for the night. Some of them had given her a sense of peace and relief. Others were resentful and angry. A few were imbued with a healthy dose of paternal Catholic guilt that must’ve rubbed off despite her best intentions to the contrary.

Somehow amid all the what-ifs, she hadn’t envisioned a single scenario that ended up with her sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on the same bridge with her father’s long-time adversary, dangling their feet off the ledge and getting comfortably drunk together.

Well, Cosette’s getting comfortably drunk.

Apparently the Inspector needs something to obsess over at all times or he just can’t function.

“But why exactly is it so pink?”

“Because I wanted a completely color-coordinated suicide.” Cosette rolls her eyes in exasperation. “I don’t know, OK? I personally like the flavor and the girly color and I didn’t think this was going to be a co-ed bridge tonight. What do fearsome police inspectors prefer as their beverage of choice?”

“Blood of the guilty and tears of the unjust.” The side of his mouth quirks up slightly, and she snorts in surprise – Javert can crack a joke, who knew? “Black coffee, mostly. Occasionally something stronger if I’m forced into celebrating Happy Hour with my colleagues. Although I really don’t know what’s supposed to be especially happy about that hour, because my colleagues are all idiots.”

“And here I was so sure you’d be the social butterfly of the prefecture.”

He raises an eyebrow at her sarcasm. “Unlike some of my so-called peers, Mademoiselle, I’ve been a bit preoccupied with trying to bring criminals to justice. Val – 2 – shit, your father hasn’t made it easy for me to prop my feet up and relax.”

“Apparently not.” She eyes him appraisingly over the top of the glass. “You realize I’m eventually going to ask you about all those names you’re almost using for him, right?”

“Be less annoying and eventually I might tell you.”

Javert reaches behind her to grab the pitcher and replenish what she just drank. Given who raised her, Cosette’s pretty expert at recognizing when someone’s trying to distract her and change the subject, but the Inspector is being halfway tolerable for the first time all night so she figures she’ll let it pass for now.

He also smells kind of nice up close.

…Hmm, maybe she’ll slow down a little bit on the cosmos.

“I’m a bit surprised you knew who I was,” he says as he pours. “I assume I wasn’t exactly a household name when you were growing up.”

“I put two and two together from something that happened last week,” she says, swirling her glass and watching the small pink whirlpool she’s creating. “Papa and I were volunteering at one of the soup kitchens downtown and someone made this half-assed robbery attempt when we were leaving the place. Next thing I knew people were yelling ‘run, it’s Javert,’ and everyone just scattered. Including us.”

“Ah, the mysterious well-dressed couple who disappeared before I could question them. That explains that.”

The Inspector nods, looking oddly satisfied as though he just solved a puzzle, and Cosette has to admit to some grudging admiration for anyone who retains such a good memory for details in the middle of an interrupted suicide attempt. He must have some pretty kick-ass mental check-listing skills of his own.

“I’ve never seen my dad go so pale at anything before. Of course, as soon as we got home he insisted he was just rattled by the robbery and he had no idea who this Javert person was. Then he told me to drop the subject and go think happy girlish thoughts. Or as we like to call it in the Fauchelevent household, a typical Tuesday night.” She shakes her head and sighs. “A few days later my university went into lock-down and my nice organized exam schedule went all to hell thanks to a bunch of revolutionary hipsters, and in the middle of that I managed to acquire the world’s most awkward stalker. I hope you can see why I kind of forgot about you until you poached my bridge tonight.”

“I told you this is not your –” the Inspector begins indignantly, then trails off when he sees her grinning at him. He looks like he’s caught somewhere between a laugh and a growl for a second, and he ends up smiling uneasily back at her as if the expression isn’t one he’s used to using very often. Based on the reaction she witnessed to just his name last week, she supposes most people are too scared of him to actually consider teasing him. Then again, most people aren’t swapping germs with him via an oversized plastic martini glass.

If pushed on the matter, Cosette might admit to thinking his blue eyes are almost pretty when they’re warmed up by an actual smile. (Or are they grey? The stupid stars are behind the clouds again. Apparently even the weather patterns are going off-plan on her.)

“You’re a real pain in my ass tonight,” he mutters, shaking his head and gesturing for the glass.

“I’m the pain? I expected to be a couple of miles downstream by now.”

“So did I.”

The sentiment sounds suddenly, surprisingly wrong when the words come out, and by the expression on Javert’s face he feels the same way. Cosette hands him the glass and shifts awkwardly where she sits, listening to the thrum of the river below her.

It’s ironic, she thinks, but under other circumstances this might actually be considered peaceful. The cool night air and the steady rush of the water is a pleasant change from all the smoke and noise of the last few days, especially after half the city was shut down by –

-- oh, hell.

“Um, where exactly was my father when you ran into him today?”

“With those revolutionary hipsters of yours at the barricades where he could get into the most trouble, where else?”

“Damn it, I knew he was going somewhere dangerous! His story sounded suspicious even for him – ‘don’t wait up sweetheart, I’ll be reading Bible verses to the blind at the nursing home all night.’ Insomniac little old religious ladies my ass.” Cosette groans into her hands. “Why do I keep falling for that crap when all the evidence is right there in front of my face?”

“Welcome, Mademoiselle Fauchelevent, to my life.” Javert knocks back a glassful of alcohol in a single swallow.

She thinks she hears him mumbling something about a “Monsieur le Maire,” followed by a string of expletives as he slams the empty glass back down on the ledge, but at the moment she’s too fixated on Ultime Fauchelevent and his Very Secret Adventures to pay much attention.

“I’m not sure I want to know this, but what exactly was he doing there?”

The Inspector looks like he’s still personally insulted by the memory. “I caught him trying to escape down a back alley with one of the injured demonstrators.”

“Of course you did.” Cosette pinches the bridge of her nose, thinking that bashing her head against the side of that big stone eagle is looking better by the minute. “And why exactly did you decide to let him go?”

He turns away from her with an unintelligible mumble.

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

“I said I owed him one,” Javert grits out, looking like he’d rather take a bullet than repeat the words. “When we approached the final barricade some idiot started waving a Molotov cocktail and a lighter in the air and threatening to blow the entire thing to hell if the cops came any closer. Seems he got a bit too excited with all the arm-waving and set his friend’s flag on fire, and then there was so much chaos that the whole thing fell down on its own. Your father pushed me out of the way of a pile of falling furniture and probably saved my life. In retrospect, I think I would’ve preferred death by a flaming futon to the head.” He sighs and stares morosely at the river. “Ex-convicts aren’t supposed to do that sort of thing for their former guards.”

OK, he said ex-convict, so apparently her father isn’t on some most-wanted list even with the whole parole-breaking thing, and since he actually made it to “ex” status he probably wasn’t in jail for being an axe-murderer – so far, so good, right?

Also, there must be some truth behind Javert’s bad-ass street cred for him to have climbed all the way up the career ladder from prison guard to Parisian police inspector. Cosette quietly fills in the boxes on two new mental checklists.

…wait, how did Javert manage to get his own checklist?

She’s totally blaming the man’s stupid possibly-blue-or-maybe-grey eyes for this.

“What can I tell you, Inspector? Oblivious self-sacrifice has kind of been my father’s M.O. for as long as I’ve known him. I doubt he can change his ways this late in life.”

“I told him something similar this morning.” Javert smirks unpleasantly as if he’s rehashing a private joke that isn’t very funny. “His response was to ask if I wanted to help him rescue his poor daughter’s true love. When I told him I wasn’t feeling all that generous toward the moron who almost blew us all up, he invited me to swing by Rue de l’Homme Arme later in the day and arrest him there.”

“I wonder exactly how he was planning to explain it to me when you showed up on our doorstep ready to – wait, what, true love – what?” Cosette swings around so quickly that she has to grab at him to keep her balance on the ledge. “Marius was the injured demonstrator he rescued?”

“I didn’t get his name, Mademoiselle, just a good look at his face when his friends were yelling at him. And a better look at his ass when your father was slinging him over his shoulder like a sack of potatos.” Javert gives her a withering look. “Your boyfriend has more bravery than brains.”

“No no no, he is not my boyfriend.”

“Your father seems to assume otherwise.”

“My father needs to stop making assumptions about my love life!”

Honestly, she still has no clue why, when or how her dad switched from thinking of Marius Pontmercy as the ultimate threat to father/daughter harmony to deciding he was ideal son-in-law material. Perhaps he’d had an epiphany last night when he wasn’t reading to fake blind old people in his fake damned nursing home.

And he wonders why she never introduces him to her dates?

Javert glances down at his arm with an inscrutable expression, and Cosette realizes she’s still holding onto him. She quickly releases his sleeve and smoothes down the wrinkles she’d made in his uniform.

What were they talking about again?

Oh, right, Marius.

“Want to know how I met this epic love interest, Inspector? I was out watering the garden one night last week and he just popped up at the gate and scared the living crap out of me. He told me he’d seen me walking with my dad in the park and he decided to follow me home, because apparently that’s not creepy at all, and then he started spouting poetry about how he doesn’t know my name but it’s OK because his heart is oh-so-full of love and song for me. Who even does that?”

“Perhaps someone who shouldn’t be unsupervised around flammable objects.” Javert looks suspiciously like he’s trying to choke back a laugh.

“I’m glad one of us is having fun with this,” she grumbles, reaching across him for the glass. She must still look like she’s at risk of wobbling off the ledge, because he places a hand at her waist and holds her there lightly. “At first Papa went into overprotective-father mode and started hovering around me like a bodyguard, which would have been a lot less irritating if Marius had actually taken the hint and gone away.”

“I gather taking a hint isn’t the young man’s strong suit.” Javert still sounds highly amused by the whole situation.

“I think he actually took it as a challenge to ramp up his many awkward annoying displays of affection. Within a couple of days my dad just got sort of melancholy and started moping around the house dropping little hints about how it was the natural course of things and he always knew he’d lose me to a young man one day.”

Which is a rather insulting assessment of both her daughterly devotion and her ability to multi-task. Although in all fairness, she does have to give her not-soulmate points for creative courting – so far he’d done everything short of hiring a skywriter to put ‘Marius + Cosette 4EVA’ over the Eiffel Tower.

God, she really hopes he isn’t planning that.

“Why didn’t you just talk to your father about how you actually felt?”

Cosette huffs in irritation. “You can’t talk with my father about anything important, because he never hangs around long enough to actually get to the talking part. As soon as a subject comes up that’s more serious than the weather or what’s for dinner that night, he gets uncomfortable and finds a reason to leave the room. It’s been that way as long as I can remember, I mean, you should’ve seen him when I had to talk to him about shopping for my first bra, not to mention when I got my first –” Great, now Javert looks like he wants to leave the room. “Never mind, you don’t need to know those details.”

“Thank you for that.” The Inspector plucks the glass from her hands and swallows a little too loudly.

“Anyway, it’s not like I didn’t try. I kept telling him that I was much too busy with school to worry about a boyfriend, and I tried to distract him with stories about my classes and all the things happening on campus. It’s probably my fault he learned about the barricades in the first place.”

If memory serves, she’d spent more than one evening complaining about the earnest young group that was fighting the System via their magical furniture fort (and yes, it’s possible she’s still a little bitter about her exam schedule going completely FUBAR thanks to them). Who’d’ve thought her father would find resisting authority such a big turn-on?

Right, ask a stupid question….

“Don’t blame yourself, Mademoiselle,” Javert says, handing her the glass. “Val – 2 – damn it, your father has always had a knack for stumbling into trouble. Chances are he’d have ended up there whether you’d mentioned it or not.”

“I’m probably still going to feel responsible for everything, but thanks.” Cosette takes a sip and leans against his shoulder. “In your own off-putting way you can actually be kind of sweet.”

“You’re delusional,” he scoffs, but the arm at her side tightens slightly, and she decides that Javert makes pretty comfortable bridge furniture.

“I’m allowed. It’s been a strange twenty-four hours.”

The Inspector makes a non-committal sound. “Do I dare ask where your father finally ended up tonight?”

“Marius has a grandfather with an estate in the country and they drove out there this afternoon. I suppose it’s a nice quiet place to recuperate, although naturally Papa never told me anything about anyone being injured. All I got was a generic text message.”

She pats at the front of her dress until she locates her smartphone, then pulls it out of its hiding place in her bra and hands it to Javert. For a moment the Inspector seems to be frozen in place staring in the vicinity of her cleavage with a raised eyebrow; then he clears his throat and starts to read the contents of the screen.

“‘He’s like the son I might have known, I am old and will be gone, call u later once I…bang him home?’” Javert’s eyebrows are on the verge of disappearing into his hairline. “What the hell was your father planning to do when he got Marius to the country?”

Cosette retrieves the phone and squints quizzically at the screen. “Oh, it’s supposed to be ‘bring him home.’ Papa really shouldn’t try to text, his thumbs are too big for the keyboard. When I called him back he was in the middle of driving, so all he could tell me was that he was officially giving me his blessing to be Mrs. Pontmercy and now he could die happy.” She sighs and tucks her phone back into her bra. “Five minutes after I hung up I started planning my big date with the Seine.”

“But I fail to see the lack of options here, Mademoiselle. If they’re already getting along as well as you say, why can’t you just give Marius to your father and take yourself out of the equation?”

“He’s not a scarf, Inspector, I can’t just re-gift him. He’s a nice enough guy under all the awkward and I’d feel bad about hurting his feelings, but Marius isn’t the one I’m worried about. If I get married Papa will think I don’t need him anymore and he’ll waste away from loneliness. If I don’t get married he’ll think I’m sacrificing my happiness out of a sense of obligation to stay with him, and he’ll waste away from guilt. Either way ends badly for him, and it’s all because of me. At the time, option C seemed to make the most sense.” She gestures vaguely toward the river.

“And did it ever occur to you that you aren’t responsible for guaranteeing your father’s happiness?”

“Not for the last twenty years or so, no.” She sips her drink, noting that it’s finally turning into lukewarm slush. “Did it ever occur to you that you aren’t responsible for guaranteeing that regular human beings do everything in black-and-white absolutes?”

“Not for the last fifty years or so.” Javert’s smile is sardonic and a little sheepish. “I never much cared for shades of grey.”

“Not my favorite color either.” Cosette shivers as a light breeze starts to roll in off the Seine. “I’m starting to think we share a few personality traits.”

“So it would seem.”

Javert must have removed his gloves sometime during their conversation; his fingers are surprisingly warm against hers when he accepts the proffered glass. Cosette shivers again and leans a little closer.

“For what it’s worth, though, I’m pretty sure I can be trusted to be unsupervised around flammable objects.”

“Good to know.” The Inspector takes a sudden interest in his fingernails. “Just to clarify, then, you’re not involved as an accomplice in any way, romantic or otherwise, with anyone engaging in illegal behavior including obstructing city streets without a permit and inciting public violence?”

If she were a little more sober she’d wonder if he’d just asked if she’s seeing anyone.

“Nope, sorry, apparently I make a pretty boring criminal. If you’re going to arrest me it’ll have to be for drinking alcohol in a public place and intending to pollute the river. Which would be pretty hypocritical right now, just so you know.”

"Point taken." Javert snorts softly. “I’m not sure it’s possible for this river to get any more polluted.”

“I read somewhere that the amount of fecal matter in parts per million is – well, really disgusting.” Cosette looks down at the water and wrinkles her nose in distaste. “It’s probably pretty cold tonight, too.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“I spent an obscene amount of money on these shoes and I haven’t even broken them in yet.”

“Technically, the city paid for my uniform. It would be a willful misuse of taxpayer funds to destroy it.”

They look over at one another for a long moment. Cosette thinks she sees a weird combination of guilt, embarrassment and dark humor flicker across Javert’s face; she guesses he’s seeing the same thing.

“We’re not going to do this, are we?”

"I...don't think so."

She swings her legs back onto the ground and starts to pace. Her feet are somewhere between numb and aching, and at the moment she doesn’t give a rat’s ass if they never feel normal again. “God, I can’t do this to my father, it’d kill him. What was I thinking?”

“I’m not sure thinking entered into my decision.” Javert stands back up and leans against the ledge as he watches her pace. “Or maybe you were right, I was over-thinking. I don’t even know anymore.”

“You know Papa would feel horribly responsible for you too, right? He’d never forgive himself for not letting you arrest him right away.”

“He’s about two decades late to start feeling guilty over that,” the Inspector retorts, but he looks almost amused when he says it. “I suppose it’s ironically fitting that I’d end up as one of his hopeless cases.”

“As the hopeless-case prototype, allow me to welcome you to the fold.” Cosette ends her pacing and comes over to lean against the ledge beside him. “I think we might’ve just had our first official board meeting.”

The Inspector gives a huff of laughter. “I might have been a little premature with my judgment when I called you that.”

“Hey, you’re seeing a shade of grey and it’s about me! I’m honored.” Cosette bumps his elbow teasingly. “I’d like to think I’m not always this hopeless. I was enjoying my first year at university before all of this crap happened. It was nice having interesting classes and thinking about future careers.”

“Let me guess, musical theatre and fashion design?”

“Introductory astrophysics.” She grins at his raised eyebrows. “I still think the stars are pretty, Inspector, I just like applying mathematical models to them. But thanks for giving me credit for an artistic side.”

“God knows you have more than enough flair for the dramatic.”

Wait, when did Javert figure out how to tease her back?

“Funny,” she says, rolling her eyes. “What about you? Are you on the fast track to Prefect, or are you still too young for that kind of desk job?”

Javert looks over at her appraisingly. “Pardon me, Mademoiselle, but weren’t you the one who thought I was creaking into a midlife crisis?”

“Yeah, well.” Damn it, she is not blushing in front of this man. “Perhaps we were both a little premature in our judgments.”

Javert rolls the empty glass between his hands with a look that could almost be called smug. “I’d probably have to become a bit more political to get to that level.”

“Political in the sense of not calling your colleagues idiots?” Cosette grins at the scowl that evokes. “Shades of grey, Inspector. I have expectations for you now. Who knows, in a few years you could be running the Paris police and I could be an astronaut. Or a rock star if I give in to my artistic side.”

“I suppose I could join my fellow officers for social events on occasion. Once a month would be tolerable. Maybe.”

“I could look into signing my dad up for some evening classes on campus. Preferably ones with lots of single people so he can find a nice woman to focus his attention on instead of me. Or maybe a man?” She frowns in frustration. “See, this is what I'm talking about, how the hell do I not know this kind of thing about him after two decades?”

“I could join a committee or two. It probably wouldn’t kill me to talk about the applications of criminal justice once in awhile instead of always being the one doing the actual arresting. My so-called superiors might even learn something."

“I could always get him a dog. Unconditional love and companionship with none of the hassles of dating. And then I could go be an astronaut. Or a rock star. Or just a typical university student, imagine that.”

“I could write a textbook.” Javert tosses the glass from one hand to the other as he warms to the subject. “A former guard’s perspective on the need for prison reform and the best ways to achieve it.”

“I could have intensely hot and inappropriate sex with my father’s nemesis.”

She watches as the glass drops out of Javert’s hand and bounces off the bridge into the river.

“Wow, did not mean to say that out loud. I should probably cut myself off now.”

The Inspector regards her with one raised eyebrow, then holds up the empty pitcher and upends it to make the point. His eyes are grey, she decides, and just maybe that could end up becoming one of her favorite colors after all, they’re grey and clear and very close and –-

Cosette swallows hard.

Then she very deliberately takes the pitcher from him and tosses it off the bridge. She’s already grabbing his lapels and pulling herself up to kiss him when it occurs to her that this wasn’t on any of her checklists.

Worry about that later: check.

part three

Les Mis fic: "Beware of Falling Objects" (1/3)

nancefics — Mon, 01 Jul 2013 05:34:56 GMT

So apparently when I get into a fandom I still manage to pick a 'ship that all of 10 people are into, if not actively appalled by. I'm so glad I'm consistent. ;)

Fic can also be found on AO3 here.

Title: Beware of Falling Objects (1/3)

Author: empty_marrow

Rating: Mature (some language and mild sexual situations)

Characters/Pairings: Cosette/Javert

Word Count: 11,055

Warnings: somewhat irreverent discussions of suicide and religion

Summary: In which Cosette and Javert discover it’s not so easy to burn your bridges, especially if you happen to be standing on one at the time.

Unlike many of her youthful Parisian contemporaries, Cosette Fauchelevent possesses a truly kick-ass set of organizational skills. You might think this was a by-product of spending her early years in a sketchy foster-care situation, or perhaps a remnant of a slightly later time in her life when she had to be prepared to blow town in the middle of the night with her adoring-yet-annoyingly-mysterious adoptive dad.

If you were to ask Cosette for the secret of her success, however, she’d tell you that this skill-set is almost certainly a result of strict adherence to the many meticulous mental checklists she keeps on every single detail of her day-to-day routine. Sure, it might not be sexy or exciting, but it generally gets the job done.

Take tonight, for example.

Adoring-yet-annoyingly-mysterious father conveniently out of town for the next twenty-four hours: check. Carefully chosen spot on a nice tall bridge over the Seine, right under a big stone eagle sculpture for a little extra historical ambience: check. Sexy dress and killer heels to make a fab final impression: check. Pitcher of ice-cold cosmopolitans and a frosty glass to complete the send-off: check.

“Damned if I’ll live in the debt of a thief! Damned if I’ll yield at the end of the chase! I am the Law and the Law is not mocked!”

…Oblivious uniformed dude a few feet away from her, leaning over the edge and muttering to himself: not on the checklist.

Crap.

Cosette isn’t a fan of going off-plan. She’d also really like to avoid standing back up again, because these stilettos are starting to pinch, but what’s a girl to do?

“I’ll spit his pity right back in his face, there is nothing on earth that we share! It is either Valjean or Jagaahh!”

Judging by the yelp and the little flaily dance when she taps him on the back, he wasn’t expecting an audience either. She has to give him credit for a fast recovery, though; in a matter of seconds he’s off the ledge and looking only slightly rattled as he’s invading her personal space.

“Assault on an officer of the Law is a criminal offense, girl! What the hell are you doing up here this time of night?”

“Sorry to interrupt you, Monsieur, but I was hoping to stop you before you – you know.” She puts her hands together and pantomimes a diving gesture.

He draws himself up to his full height – which she would say is impressive, but let’s face it, almost everyone over twelve years old in this city seems to be taller than she is, stilettos notwithstanding - and glares down at her with narrowed eyes that seem a little bit weary.

“Mademoiselle, if you’re trying to save my immortal soul let me assure you that more persistent people than you have made the attempt as recently as this morning, and you won’t be any more successful or any less annoying. That ship, as they say, has sailed, so be on your way.”

Seriously, why does everyone assume she’s some tender little angel with a salvation complex? Jimmy Choo was apparently going through a torture-porn phase when he designed these damned shoes, and her pitcher of frosty cosmos is getting warm as they speak. As far as she’s concerned this man’s immortal soul is on its own.

“Actually, Officer –”

“Inspector.”

“Inspector, I’m not trying to save your soul. I’m trying to tell you that this bridge is already taken. I was here first, and I’m on kind of a time-crunch, so you’ll just have to find another spot to jump.” She glances at her watch. “Or you can come back here in a couple of hours, with the way the current’s running tonight I should be pretty far downstream by then. OK? Thanks!”

She turns and starts hobbling back toward the stone eagle, only to be stopped by a gloved hand on her shoulder. The long arm of the law has a pretty firm grip.

“Wait.” The Inspector looks – what, confused? Constipated? (Probably confused. The stupid stars just went behind the clouds again and it’s dark on this bridge.) “You’re telling me you were about to jump?”

“Well, not technically about to jump,” Cosette explains. “First I plan to spend a little time enjoying the fact that tonight I can dress like my peer group without my father clutching his rosary beads and pitching a fit.” She gestures to her cute cleavage-y hot-pink dress. “Then I’m going to enjoy a last lovely starry night, weather permitting, while I consume this entire pitcher of alcohol. And then I’m going to haul my fabulous-looking drunk-ass self up onto that ledge and commence with the jumping.”

She considers mentioning that she’s hopeful her feet will be numb by then, but he really doesn’t look like the type who’s into the nuances of women’s footwear. For his part, her new bridge-buddy seems to be having a little trouble processing her explanation – perhaps he’s impressed to the point of speechlessness by her flawless planning?

“You – that – that’s totally unacceptable! This is my final warning, girl, leave now or I’ll arrest you on the spot.”

Or it could be that she forgot he’s a cop. Why is everything so difficult tonight?

Cosette resists the urge to smack her head repeatedly against the ledge – which would probably also result in her demise if she wants to get technical about it, but ew, messy, and damn it, she spent time on this plan.

“Officer –“

“Inspector.”

“Yes, right, Inspector, doesn’t that kind of defeat the whole purpose for both of us? If you arrest me we both end up in the police station for the rest of the night, which would be kind of a lose/lose situation, all things considered.”

“Mademoiselle, if the thought is rattling around in that vapid little blonde head of yours for one minute that you’re going to get away with such a mockery of the laws of God and country while I’m standing right here –“

Inspector Buzzkill is really starting to piss her off.

“Just so I’m clear, Inspector, that would be the same mockery of God and country that you were about to commit on my bridge?”

“It’s not your bridge!” the Inspector shouts.

“I was here first!” she shouts back.

Hand to God – not that she consistently believes in Him, and if He’s actually up there she’s probably on His shit-list at the moment – but if this man arrests her tonight she’s going to confess to being a serial killer as soon as they get to the station, if only to see him stuck with all the paperwork.

“One evening of peace, that’s all I wanted.” The Inspector seems to be addressing the stars as he starts to pace. “I’ve devoted years, decades to an ideal that turned out to be nothing but a lie. I don’t think exiting with a little dignity is too damned much to ask for. And yet apparently it is, because here I am wasting time arguing with some insipid twentysomething over her petty little problems.” He whirls around and points an accusing finger at her. “What’s the worst that could happen at your age, anyway? Did you fight with your boyfriend? Didn’t get invited to join the sorority of your choice? Oh no, let me guess, your parents just don’t understand you, how’s that for a tragedy?”

“You’ve got to be kidding, we’re turning this into a competition?” Cosette blinks in amazement. “Gee, Inspector, so sorry to intrude on your mid-life career crisis, but it just so happens that some of us are able to recognize the hopelessness of our situation and act on it before we creak into our late fifties.”

“How dare you, I’m not a day over – beside the point.” The Inspector takes a deep breath and looks down at her gravely. “Fine, Mademoiselle, since you’re already wasting my evening you can be my poor substitute for a confessor. Let’s compare hopelessness, shall we? Yours evidently necessitates matching your shoes to your dress. Mine revolves around losing a man that I’ve pursued for years.”

“Does he even know you have feelings for him, or are you all broody and irritating with him too?”

“What do you — for Christ’s sake, I didn’t mean that kind of pursuit!” The Inspector looks like he’s caught somewhere between blushing and having a stroke. “He’s a fugitive who broke parole, and I pursued him to bring him to justice. And I had the chance to do it today, to arrest him and close out an era that was decades in the making for both of us. Had him dead to rights, and I couldn't do it. He had to go ahead and do something ridiculous and self-sacrificing and not at all what a hardened criminal would do, and he got me to thinking differently, damn him, and now nothing makes sense anymore.”

“But if he acted better than you’d expected, isn’t that a good thing?”

“No!” He looks at her like she’s the stupidest thing on two feet, which may not be too far from the truth given how her feet are actually feeling at the moment. “Men like us can never change, and the Law trumps all – except he did, and it doesn’t, so where does that leave me but spending my entire life living a lie? I’m already as good as dead thanks to that man – no, not a man, he’s a devil. I’m here tonight to finish the job the devil started.”

Honestly, if she’s going to spend her final hours as some broody policeman’s confessor she would’ve much preferred a plot that involved hot gay sex. This unfiltered stream-of-consciousness thing is getting very confusing, and she hasn’t even broken open the booze yet.

And he’s still not getting her bridge.

“Oh please, so the guy’s not who you thought he was, so now you’re obligated to over-think your way into the Seine? At least he gave you a change of pace. You think living with a devil is bad, Inspector, try living with a saint.”

“I hardly see how that –"

“Hey, if I get to be your confessor tonight you get to be mine.” She hobbles closer until she can glare up at him. “For the past two decades I’ve grown up with a father who literally can’t think of himself. Somewhere along the line he decided that he had to atone for some horrible sins in his past, not that I’d know what they are because that would involve his actually talking to me like an adult. And now his only remaining goal in life is to slowly wither away while he sacrifices everything – for my ‘best interests,’ whatever the hell those are, for the entire indigent population of Paris, for some random dumb-ass college boy that he dragged home like a pony for me. And I can’t even get angry at him because he’s so damned noble that he’d probably just wander off and go die of a broken heart. Which, incidentally, I suspect he’s going to do anyway if I ever move out or get married or otherwise try to have a life, because that’s all he thinks he deserves. Try living up to that set of expectations on a daily basis and tell me you wouldn’t be jumping off the highest bridge you could find.”

She winds down with a sigh, guilty at even speaking the words out loud, and sees the Inspector looking at her skeptically.

“That’s a touching story, Mademoiselle,” he says with the slightest hint of a sneer. “But you need to work on making it more believable. Nobody on this earth could be as self-sacrificing as the man you describe.”

OK, she’s officially volunteering to push him off this bridge.

“Oh my God, you really are that much of an ass, aren’t you? You don’t believe me and yet you expect me to buy into some shadowy convict who conveniently escaped you yet again just this morning?”

“If you were listening, he didn’t escape. I let him go. And despite that, he still gave me his home address so I could arrest him as soon as he finished rescuing his hopeless idiot of the day.”

She makes sure he can see her eye-roll. “Sure he did. This guy sounds more over-the-top than my father. It’s probably not even a real address.”

“I’m an Inspector of the police, you ridiculous girl – don’t you think I confirmed what he told me? As opposed to you and this fairy-tale father you've pulled out of your ass."

“Oh, I'm sorry, do you want an address from me now? Fine, Inspector, but in that case I get to hear your stupid fake address.”

“Fine, you stubborn –“

“—Number 7, Rue de l’Homme Arme.”

They stare at one another in shock as the address rolls off their tongues simultaneously.

“What.”

“What.”

“You did say Number 7?”

“Rue de l’Homme Arme, Paris, right?”

“Several blocks away, turn left at the dry-cleaners and…”

“That’s…yes.”

Well, that was unexpected.

And yet...

Vague images are starting to coalesce in Cosette’s brain.

She remembers herself as a little girl running down narrow alleyways with her brand-new dad, thinking this was a pretty cool game of tag and wondering who those pursuing footsteps belonged to – and why was Papa so nervous all of a sudden?

And last week when they’d almost been robbed on the street…well, shit.

If Cosette were a cartoon character this would be right about the time the little light-bulb went off over her head.

“So…your criminal fugitive,” she begins tentatively.

“Your father...”

Scratch the little light-bulb -- this is more like the cartoon where the anvil flattens her into a Parisian pancake.

“I…guess that makes you Javert?”

“And you’re Cosette.”

One well-organized night that's gone way, way the hell off-plan: check.

Javert slouches back against the ledge, still staring at her in astonishment.

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance," he says hoarsely. "Did I hear you mention you brought alcohol?”

Cosette nods numbly and reaches for the pitcher.

“Have a seat, I’ll pour.”

part two

OUaT Fic: "somewhere east of Taliesen (can't get there from here)"

nancefics — Sun, 20 Jan 2013 09:01:56 GMT

Title: somewhere east of Taliesen (can't get there from here)

Author: empty_marrow

Rating: R (language, mentions of some violence and sexual situations)

Characters/Pairings: mainly Ruby and Granny; mentions of Ruby/OFC/OMC, Ruby/Billy and Ruby/Whale; appearances by most of the rest of the Storybrooke crowd

Word Count: 9,179

Warnings: spoilers up to and including season 2 episode 9, "Queen of Hearts"

Summary: She can still feel the longing of the little girl she never was as she fell in love at first sight with the skyline of a city she never set foot in. Irony, not!Ruby whispers in the back of her brain, can be a real bitch.

“The present is the ever moving shadow that divides yesterday from tomorrow. In that lies hope.”

--Frank Lloyd Wright

+

When she’s ten years old, Ruby Lucas falls into epic True Love with the city of Boston. She finds it beyond unfair when her grandmother tells her no, she can’t leave Storybrooke and move there.

"But it's so beautiful," she protests, squinting to get a better view of the jagged silver skyline glowing beacon-like in the distance as their old pickup truck shimmies down the Mass Turnpike.

"That's because you're looking at it from a distance, child.” Granny, ever the multi-tasker, manages to keep the truck steady in its lane as she pores over the Massachusetts map that’s spread across the dashboard. “You’re not close enough to see the gritty details. There’s crime, dirt, traffic – not to mention way too many people crowded together.”

“Can’t we at least drive through it? Just for a few minutes?”

“No, we’re late already. If we don’t make it to Doorbridge Farms before six the place’ll shut down for the season and I won’t be able to get those dried truffles for another year. The townsfolk will have my head if Granny’s Secret Soup is missing its secret ingredient this winter.”

“But Granny –”

“No buts.” There’s a familiar finality to Granny’s tone, something she knows all too well. “You’ll just have to believe me, Ruby, you’re not missing much. One day you’ll realize there’s no steel cage of a high-rise could ever compare to life in a town like Storybrooke.”

“That’s why I want to live in the cage,” Ruby mutters to herself. Granny merges onto the exit to Doorbridge and she twists in her seat, watching the gleaming glass and metal until it disappears behind them.

When they get home, she uses the last of her allowance money to buy a picture book of Boston.

(One of the ironies of the curse, she thinks now, is that even today, even now that she’s Red-not-Ruby, she still retains so many of these memories of things that never happened, and none so sharp as that one hopeful day, where she can feel the longing of the little girl she never was as she fell in love at first sight with the skyline of a city she never set foot in.

Irony, not!Ruby whispers in the back of her brain, can be a real bitch.)

+

By the time she’s fifteen she can sketch out all of the buildings of the Boston skyline to scale, as well as the skylines of New York, Chicago and San Francisco. Her old Boston picture book and The Big Book of Buildings for Children have given way to beginner’s architecture texts and anything she can read about the architects themselves. Ruby finds the creators almost as eccentric and fascinating as their creations – Frank Lloyd Wright makes her look at nature in a new, different light; Howard Roark is kind of an asshole and she’s glad he’s a work of fiction, but she wishes his skyscrapers were real.

Granny tries to be supportive, but she just doesn’t get it.

“It’s impractical,” she pronounces when Ruby tries to explain Wright’s Fallingwater to her. “All those open spaces right next to so much rock and water – you’d never be able to keep the mold out. And it doesn’t even look like a proper house.”

“But that’s the whole point, Granny.” Ruby launches into an impassioned explanation of Wright’s philosophy of nature and his use of cantilevers, complete with visual aids sketched quickly in the corner of one of the paper placemats. She winds down to see Granny taking it all in with a bemused smile.

“The only point I see here, Missy, is that this diner would be a whole lot cleaner if you paid as much attention to floor wax and silver polish in Storybrooke as you do to brick and mortar hanging over some cliff in God-knows-where. Now come join me in my philosophy of unloading the dishwasher.”

"Why are you so interested in building skyscrapers, anyway?" Ashley asks her one day as they're sitting behind the high school sneaking a shared cigarette.

"I don't know, I just am." Ruby pauses with the cigarette halfway to her lips, frowning in thought. "You start with the most basic elements of nature, you know, like wood and ore and sand? And then you change them into steel and glass, and you end up with something that's totally different from where you started. It's like you've taken something wild and given it a structure."

"I always knew you were a control freak," Ashley laughs. "Don't you think a big building would be kind of out of place in a little town like this one that's surrounded by woods?"

"Who says I'm spending the rest of my life in Storybrooke?"

"Seriously, you'd leave?" Ashley's blue eyes widen in shock. "I can't imagine why anyone would ever want to live anywhere else."

"Yeah, but you can't imagine why anyone would ever want to go anywhere they couldn't ogle Sean Herman's ass in his football uniform," Ruby says affectionately, smirking at the squeak and the blush that provokes in her friend. Not for the first time, she ponders that her life would probably be a lot less complicated if her dreams revolved around keeping house with a handsome quarterback.

She takes to carrying a small drafting notebook with her at all times, tucked into her purse or the pocket of her waitress' apron to pull out whenever inspiration strikes. Mr. Gold catches her that way one morning as he comes to collect the rent during one unusually slow Saturday breakfast shift. Ruby’s perched on a stool at the far end of the lunch counter, so caught up in sketching the crown of the Chrysler Building that she doesn’t even hear the tap of his cane until he’s beside her.

“You have some real talent, Ruby,” he comments at her ear, causing her to jump and bisect the crown with an inadvertent pencil stroke. “It would be a shame if you don’t put it to use one day.”

“Land sakes, don’t encourage her, Gold.” Granny hands him a thick envelope stuffed with the month’s rent, hovering nervously between them. “She’s got enough silly notions rattling around in her head already. Don’t just stand there, Ruby, get the man some coffee.”

Ruby watches the patterns in the cup as she pours, black liquid pooling over white ceramic, and realizes that she feels it daily now: Storybrooke pulling at her like a weight around her ankles, its flat little cottages and flat little people with their unbroken routines growing ever more suffocating as the years go by.

+

Granny hits the roof when Ruby drives up in the bright-red Camaro. Literally – she’s so busy standing in front of the diner screaming about how Ruby’s going to get herself killed in that scarlet-colored death-machine that her Four-Alarm Chili bubbles up to a violent boil and splatters all over the ceiling. That starts a second round of screaming, but by now Ruby’s had eighteen years of pushing her grandmother’s buttons with her lifestyle choices; she merely rolls her eyes, locks the car and heads for the cleaning-supply closet.

It’s later that night, when it’s just the two of them at home and she admits she needs the car to drive to Boston and the college that just accepted her into its architecture program, that Granny freaks the fuck out on a whole new, scary level.

“Ruby Lucas, what the hell were you thinking to go running away to Boston? Are you trying to get yourself killed and drive me insane?”

And Ruby’s pretty sure this will be the talk of the town tomorrow, because there’s no way that didn’t just get heard by every single tenant in the rooming house.

“Granny, I’ve done a lot of research –”

“Research on where all the best parties are held, I’m sure,” Granny retorts sharply. “And where do you expect to live, hm? How do you expect to eat?”

Ruby doesn’t even try to conceal the eye-roll, because, really? This is the impression the woman has of her own granddaughter?

“Gee, Granny, if I don't make enough money walking the streets I guess I’ll just have to live on campus with the rest of those freaky party animals who’re trying to get an education. There are dozens of restaurants and diners in the neighborhood, so what I don’t get in scholarship money I’ll make up for by waitressing. And I did get a scholarship, by the way,” she says, and can’t help adding, “Somebody out there apparently thinks I have a future that doesn’t involve rotting in Storybrooke.”

“And the damned fools’d get the business end of my frying pan if I could lay my hands on them!” Granny halts her pacing around the living room floor to pantomime exactly what she’d do with the pan. “It’s not right, filling a young girl’s mind up with such folly and fantasy, fooling her into thinking she could even survive in a place like that. Well, you can forget your road trip, young lady. I forbid it.”

She didn’t exactly expect a rousing send-off, hardly thought Granny would start believing she had any potential this late in the game, but the words still sting. By the end of the evening, any tenant listening in has determined that Ruby’s eighteen and will do whatever the hell she wants, thank you, including driving her car all the way to Boston stark naked if she damn well feels like it, and that Granny isn’t about to pick up the pieces when Ruby inevitably screws up and gets arrested or killed by an axe-murderer or comes down with an STD, and don’t think all three couldn’t happen to her in that godforsaken city.

And then they hear nothing at all, because the two don’t speak to one another for the final two weeks of the summer.

+

She’s packing the car with her last suitcase when she gets the call. It’s Mary Margaret Blanchard phoning from the hospital, and when Storybrooke’s ultimate optimist sounds this rattled she knows whatever comes next is going to be bad.

“It’s your grandmother, they think she had a heart attack. Ruby – you really need to come right now.”

Granny looks – deflated, she thinks. Like one of her soufflés that wasn’t handled properly and just folded in on itself until it was nothing more than a small ruined thing. She’s pale even against the hospital sheets, and there are tubes and needles going into places Ruby doesn’t even want to contemplate. For the first time in the eighteen years she’s known her, her grandmother looks old and scared and incredibly mortal.

Granny glances up past the throng of white coats hovering around her and catches a glimpse of Ruby’s face as she rushes into the room.

“Land sakes, child, I’m sorry about this. Are you alright?” she croaks out, and Ruby loses it on the fucking spot.

Somewhere amidst the hugs and the “I love yous” and the blinking through tears and wrecked eye makeup, she hears Dr. Whale informing Granny that she dodged a bullet.

“As much as an infarction can be called minor, this was it,” he says as he flips through the bedside chart. “You’ll need cardiac rehab and a month or two off work to recover, but you should end up good as new.”

“I can’t take that much time off from the diner,” Granny says, struggling to sit up without pulling her IV tubing. “I’ll be bankrupt! You have to give me the all-clear to go back to work tomorrow, Whale.”

“It’s OK, Granny,” Ruby cuts in. “I’ll be there to pick up the slack – you can be more of a supervisor until you’re back on your feet again.”

“But Boston –"

“—will still be there,” Ruby finishes, squeezing her hand. “This is more important.”

“You’re a good girl, Ruby,” Granny smiles up at her through hazy eyes as Whale’s prescribed sedatives start to take effect. “And you made a good choice. Believe me, you’ll see that things work out for the best.”

“I’m going to hold you to that ‘good-girl’ thing once the morphine wears off,” Ruby snarks at her fondly, but Granny’s snoring peacefully before she even finishes the sentence.

By mid-afternoon the diner staff knows they’ll be working on a smaller modified menu for the rest of the week while Ruby figures out how to manage things until Granny gets home, and the college staff knows she won’t be coming to Boston in September. Ruby unpacks her car and throws away her admissions material; the Fundamentals of Architecture texts go to the back of her closet, but she leaves her drafting notebook on her bedside table.

Boston will still be there when life settles down again, she tells herself that night. And just because she's staying in Storybrooke for now, it doesn’t mean she has to fade away into the background.

The next day she buys the brightest shade of lipstick she can find and dyes long red streaks in her hair that perfectly match the Camaro.

+

“This will not end well,” Emma sighs over her cosmopolitan as they watch Mary Margaret and David awkwardly orbiting one another on the corner of Main Street. “This star-crossed lovers crap is way over-rated.”

“Everything remotely related to Valentine’s Day is over-rated,” Ruby agrees, sipping her own drink. The Fairy Dust Lounge is filled with an assortment of couples celebrating the holiday and single people clustered at the bar trying to avoid it. Perched in front of the large front window as they are, she and Emma have a ringside view of the Main Street lovebirds, whether they want to or not.

“I wish Mary Margaret could've fallen for someone without a wife," Emma complains. "I think the only one having a good night is Ashley."

"Oh yeah, if I know my girl, Ashley’s having a quickie in her true love’s truck before he has to go back to work." Ruby grins over her drink. "So here we are, at the ass-end of the Holiday of Love, and only one out of our four girls’-night-out gang seems to be getting lucky.”

“’Welcome to Storybrooke, where the odds suck.’” Emma smirks and clinks her glass against Ruby’s, then glances down quizzically. “Hey, is that supposed to be San Francisco?”

“What? Oh, yeah.” Ruby follows her gaze and realizes she’s been doodling on the paper napkin that had been under Ashley’s drink, where the San Francisco skyline now frames out the “Storybrooke’s Own Fairy Dust Lounge” logo. “Yeah, it’s kind of a hobby. I always liked buildings.”

“That is scarily good,” Emma says, visibly impressed. “Did you ever travel there?”

“Haven’t been there, haven’t been anywhere.” She hopes she sounded more drunk than bitter with that comment, decides she’d better order another cosmo just in case. “I have a lot of shit on my bucket list.”

“You should go there. I spent time in San Fran a few years ago and it was amazing. Of all the places I’ve been – oh hell, look at that.” Emma gestures toward the window and Main Street, where David's throwing anguished gestures toward Mary Margaret's back as she walks briskly away from him in tears. "Way to go, Loverboy. I swear the last person who celebrated this damned holiday right was Al Capone. Do you mind horribly if I abandon you? I think Mary Margaret’s odds just started to suck more than the average. Tonight might require ice cream and chick flicks.”

“Make sure it’s good ice cream,” Ruby says, and Emma quickly drains her drink and heads out to do a little heartbreak damage control.

The bartender sets her new cosmopolitan down on the napkin she’d sketched over, and she plays with the stem for a moment, watching the drops of condensation roll slowly down the base of the glass until they seep into the paper. The little buildings melt away one by one, until all that’s left is a nondescript smudge of ink bleeding into “Storybrooke’s Own.”

She feels herself being watched, and looks up to meet two sets of eyes at the far end of the bar. Holiday hold-outs like herself, she figures, straddling the lines between drunk, bored, and waiting for it to finally be February fucking fifteenth. The man is tall and dark-haired with surprisingly pale blue eyes; the woman is petite, Asian, and wearing a shade of brick-red lipstick that perfectly matches Ruby’s dress. Ruby smiles slowly, plays with the stem of her glass in a very deliberate manner, and takes note of the responses. Interested, she thinks, and interesting.

She slides unhurriedly off the stool and peels her drink away from the ruined napkin, moving to join her new-found friends. She watches them watching her and gets a sudden burst of sensation (rush of cold air crunch of the snow her heart beating with the hunt and the prey so close she can feel the blood pumping) -- then just as quickly it’s gone. Bizarre, she thinks, but probably just a little too much alcohol in her system. And definitely not enough to prevent her from getting up close and personal with those blue eyes and brick lips tonight.

Maybe girls’-night-out won’t be a total wash after all.

+

“You’re not drawing much anymore,” Billy mentions casually one day as he’s grappling with the undercarriage of the Camaro.

“Yeah, well, there’s not really much to draw in Storybrooke, is there?” Ruby flips a page of the fashion magazine she’s not reading and settles a little more comfortably onto the workbench. It’s not strictly within the occupational safety codes for her to be sitting out here surrounded by automotive equipment, but Billy’s pretty consistent about bending the rules where she’s concerned, and they both seem to like the company.

“So don’t draw Storybrooke,” Billy says as he rolls out from under the car. “You should keep up with that foreign landscape thing you were doing. Something that good –” he gestures to the wall behind her with one grimy glove “—you could really go places with that kind of talent, Ruby.”

She glances up and over her shoulder at the drafting paper taped to the cinderblock, eyes flicking over the repeating triangles of the Bank of China Building. She’d been on a Hong Kong kick earlier that year, and she’d obsessed over getting each element of the skyline over Victoria Harbour perfectly rendered; Pei’s iconic landmark had been a real mother to get right. When she finished she gave it to Billy as a token of gratitude for hanging out on so many lunch shifts and listening to her bitching over all the revisions she’d slogged through. He’d put it up in his work area the same afternoon.

These days the urge to rip it down and tear it to pieces is so strong that the only thing holding her back is the reaction she knows she’d get from him.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Billy,” she sighs, smoothing her skirt as she climbs up off the bench, “but I’m afraid the only place I’m going these days is back to the diner.”

“Hey.” Billy pulls his gloves off and gives one red-streaked strand a gentle tug before tucking it behind her ear. “You won’t be stuck in Storybrooke forever, Ruby. Don’t stop doing what you love.”

“What are you now, my cheerleader and my mechanic?”

Billy grins and gives her a chaste kiss on the cheek as he hands her the car keys. “It’s easy to cheer for someone you believe in.”

Billy is cute and sweet and funny and gainfully employed and head over heels for her – a solid Storybrooke citizen and someone even Granny would be hard-pressed to disapprove of. Perfect boyfriend material, basically.

And that’s why she’ll never sleep with him, she decides then and there.

Billy deserves someone whose happily-ever-after resides right beside him in Storybrooke. He doesn’t need some stupid girl who flirts and snarks and dreams of jagged skylines and drags through her days thinking of all the places she’ll never see.

Because really, who’d cheer for that?

+

The straw that breaks the proverbial camel’s back is, oddly enough, a lemur.

August W. Booth is as close to a man of mystery as you can get in a place like Storybrooke, and if he hasn’t exactly been forthcoming about why he’s here now, he has no trouble sharing stories of where he’s been. Ruby finds him attractive in a stoic, stubbly kind of way.

She decides he’s less attractive and more of an asshole a few days later, when he clearly figures she’s stupid enough to believe a tall tale of how he went to Nepal to study a colony of lemurs – she just manages to stop herself from asking where he found all those little lemur-sized parkas to zip them into so they wouldn’t freeze their little lemur asses off that far from Madagascar. Instead she smiles winningly and bats her eyes, leaning into him just enough to give him a glimpse of the red lace bra framing her cleavage. She gets a five dollar tip on a three dollar coffee-and-bagel order, and decides playing dumb has its advantages.

Granny is less than amused, and lets her know it by screaming at her in the middle of the breakfast crowd.

And somewhere in the midst of the resultant hail of verbal bullets and loudly lobbed references to drag queens and slave-drivers and loose women and Norman Bates’ mother, Ruby decides she’s done.

Maybe she can’t afford to leave Storybrooke right now, but she can sure as hell escape from the diner and Granny and the blue-plate-special suck-fest that her life’s turned into. It’s time to make her own adventures with her own damned lemurs. The slam of the diner’s door behind her is like a benediction, and so what if she feels a little twinge of guilt over abandoning Granny to the lunch shift? She’s put her life on hold long enough.

She figures Emma initially offers her the job as sheriff’s assistant out of a sense of sympathy and friendship, but she ends up being surprisingly good at it.

She has no idea how she managed to find and rescue David Nolan before he died of exposure in the Storybrooke woods, figures it must have been a combination of dumb luck and good timing; but the fact remains that she helped save someone’s life, and it feels amazing. For the first time in ages, she feels useful and talented and, to quote Henry, bad-ass, and it beats the hell out of slinging hash browns while customers ogle her rack. Ruby thinks this bad-ass thing could have a future.

The bad-assery lasts right up until she unearths a human heart in a box. Then all the praise and self-confidence and rainbows and puppies in the world won’t convince her to develop that particular skill-set any further, because Kathryn Nolan’s probably dead and David’s definitely devastated and Mary Margaret’s in jail and Ruby just found a human heart in a fucking box.

She wants to do important things, feel accomplished at the end of the day, but not in a field where a good day means that somebody’s life just got ruined. She’s not cut out for chasing down that kind of lemur.

She says as much to Granny at the diner that evening, expecting at least some degree of mockery and an “I told you so” or three. The warm welcome home makes her feel oddly worse, like a spoiled child who didn’t realize she had a good deal until it was gone.

“I’m hard on you because I want you to reach your potential, Ruby,” Granny says as she hands back her apron. “After all, who else am I going to leave this place to? I want you to be able to run it without any worries when I’m gone.”

Visions of hospitals and heart attacks fill her head at her grandmother's words. “You’re not allowed to go anywhere anytime soon,” Ruby admonishes.

“Neither are you,” Granny shoots back, a smile and a wink softening her words as she turns back to planning tomorrow’s menu.

Ruby shoos Granny home to bed early and spends a couple of extra hours alone in the diner after closing time, straightening out the pantry and doing some general prep for tomorrow’s breakfast shift. As she’s pulling off her apron she feels a bulge in the pocket, and she retrieves her old drafting notebook, forgotten in the chaos of the past few days. She stands there in the dark for a moment, thumb running down the spiral spine and along the worn cover, making the decision.

Dreams are nice, she thinks, but they’re just dreams. People grow up, life goes on.

She straightens the pile of menus one more time, then drops the notebook in the trash on her way out the door.

+

There was a curse, and then there’s not.

In the span of a handful of seconds, Ruby Lucas pauses sweeping the leaves off the threshold of Granny’s Diner to stare at the wave of purple smoke flowing over Storybrooke, admires the way the swirls of color frame the old clock-tower in the town square, and ceases to exist.

Red shakes her head slowly from side to side, blinks a few times, and briefly wonders where she is and why she’s staring at an old clock-tower so intently.

Then she’s too busy to care, because she’s hugging Granny and Snow and she’s half-laughing, half-sobbing and running into the town square with them because they have to set things right, because there was a curse and now there’s not and she remembers.

+

Charming – David – says they’re all different now, that their original selves are all mixed up in their Storybrooke selves and that’s a good thing.

Red’s not so sure.

She’s still obsessed and a little paranoid over her ability to control her impulses after they were locked away from her for twenty-eight years, and who could blame her after she was almost framed for murder the first full moon after the curse?

It doesn’t mean she’s lost affection for the wolf. She still loves the sharp mix of pleasure/pain as her skin and bones mold across their animal scaffolding, still runs through the woods until it feels like her heart will burst, just because she can. The wolf senses return to her a little more each day, bringing back memories of all those past moons and the rush of emotions they inspired. She remembers those first feelings of vague, fuzzy confusion early in her teens, then terror at her loss of control, and finally the joy at accepting a last, vital piece of herself. She hadn’t been lying when she’d told Snow how good it felt to have the closure of finally being able to choose her own path.

What she doesn’t remember is feeling such emptiness and anger before the curse, and it’s the emptiness that scares the shit out of her.

She gets the anger. She wants to hunt Spencer down, one predator to another, and leave him scattered in bloody pieces across the forest floor for what he did to Billy (Gus, she reminds herself, although it’s really Billy she’s mourning because Gus died almost as soon as she met him).

Granny notices, merely shakes her head at her over the breakfast counter one morning with a terse warning: “David doesn’t need to be dealing with more blood on anyone’s hands right now, child.”

Red drops the matter and puts her plans on the back burner, because Granny’s right, the last thing David needs is another distraction pulling him away from his efforts to get his wife and daughter back from wherever the hell they’ve gone. She puts her faith in her Prince and the plans he’s putting together to save his family and the town, and forces her anger down to a dull simmer as she focuses on trying to fill up the emptiness.

Ruby always had lots to do in her down-time, but Red finds herself at a loss when she’s not working at the diner. With Emma and Snow gone, she really doesn’t have much of a social life; as welcoming as Belle is, Red feels awkward and in the way at the library, and she still doesn’t have the heart to go to her old Main Street haunts because the route takes her past Billy’s garage.

Ruby’s red lips and mini-skirts feel wrong on her now, a costume designed for some random stranger, and she takes pains to tone down her appearance into something quieter. She strips the red from her hair one weekend and wakes up that night in a panic, clutching at thin air like a lifeline that’s slipping away. The next day she puts the red streaks back in, hidden a bit more subtly under the brunette but still visible if she combs her fingers through the layers. She feels like some ridiculous damaged thing when she’s able to sleep straight through the next night.

She takes to walking the trails in the woods at the Storybrooke border, hoping to recapture the sense of wonder of the teenage girl who escaped her diner shifts to sit and read about Frank Lloyd Wright equating God with Nature, who watched the sunlight slanting over rocks and trees and dreamed about staking her own claim in the world with wood and glass and metal. The woods are the same, but the hopeful teenager is long gone/never was, just another fragment of another false memory.

She feels Ruby Lucas’ absence with an ache that’s almost physical.

She runs into Mr. Gold on one such early winter afternoon, looking very much Gold and not at all Rumpelstiltskin as he leans heavily on his cane and stares past the “Leaving Storybrooke” sign. He’s smoking, she notices in surprise, and there’s a kind of resigned weariness to his posture that she’s never seen before. He seems irritated by the disruption of his solitude.

“Red,” he greets her curtly. “You know it’s still not safe for anyone to cross the border.”

“I know,” she says with a nod. “It doesn’t hurt to look, though.”

“And what is it you're looking for all the way out here?” he asks around an exhale of smoke, eyes back on the horizon.

She shrugs, at a loss. “I don’t know. Just…answers, maybe.”

The laugh that earns from him is a lost, hollow little sound that echoes through the woods. “You can’t get there from here, dearie.”

“No,” she concedes, “I suppose you can’t.”

She accepts the proffered cigarette, a holdover addiction she’ll blame Ruby for later, and they stand side by side in silence, watching the smoke trails curl up into the sky past the bare grey branches until they disappear.

+

She’s not the only one who feels the disconnect.

Sometimes the tells are subtle – Archie Hopper pauses in the middle of a sentence as he grasps to recall a psychiatric term he used to rattle off without a second thought; Leroy hesitates over ordering a second drink when he would’ve been on his fifth and not giving a rat’s ass about it just a few short weeks ago.

And then there’s Dr. Whale, slouched at the dark end of the bar at the Fairy Dust Lounge, wearing a leather coat and wrinkled scrubs and drinking straight vodka, who’s a sight less than subtle. He’s also sitting in her spot.

Red slides onto the stool next to him, eyeing him skeptically. “I hope you’re not due back at the hospital any time soon.”

Whale makes a dismissive gesture. “They can all survive without me for one night. After a day like today, I deserve a little recuperation time.”

“Recuperation?” She watches him pour himself another shot – apparently he’d decided to save time and just buy the entire bottle of Stoly. “What, did you bruise your ego trying to pick up one of the nuns?”

He clearly still has enough coordination to roll his eyes at the sarcasm. “Funny, and no. This was more of an on-the–job thing.”

As he speaks he flexes his neck, shrugging his left shoulder as if he’s working the stiffness out of it. The movement causes his coat to drop open enough for her to see the dried red stains coursing down the left side of his scrub top. The blood’s several hours old, her wolf senses supply, it belongs to the man sitting beside her, and there’s a lot of it.

“Holy shit, Whale!” Red doesn’t curse as a rule, but the sight is enough to kick her into Ruby mode for a moment and leave her swallowing against a wave of nausea as the memories of bloody hearts in boxes come sailing back. “Are you crazy? What the hell are you doing sitting in a bar? Get up, I’ll drive you to the hospital.”

Whale rolls his eyes again. “And as fun as it would be to try to operate on myself, seeing as I’m the only one who could do it in this godforsaken hole, it’s already been taken care of. See?” He rotates his arm for her benefit. “Good as new, and all I had to do was renounce everything I ever stood for. Fun times. Fucking magic.” He pauses to knock back half of the contents of the shot glass, then glances over at her appraisingly. “But thank you for your concern. I should buy you a drink.”

“It’s not necessary,” Red says, but he’s already waving the bartender over, so she commandeers a second shot glass and reaches for the bottle of Stoly.

He makes a surprised “hmm” sound as she pours for both of them. “And here I was thinking you’d order something pink and frothy.”

“Well, that’s the thing about me, Dr. Whale,” she notes blandly. “Scratch the surface and I’m just full of surprises.”

“Victor,” he says quietly after he swallows the vodka.

“What?”

“My name. You can call me Victor.”

“You know, I was never even sure that you had a first name, Victor Whale.” She rolls it around on her tongue experimentally.

“The last name isn’t – never mind. So you’re going by Red these days?”

“That’s who I am, after all,” Red replies, and she really has to learn to put a little more conviction behind those words.

“You always struck me as more of a Ruby.” She expects him to leer at her after a line like that, is somewhat surprised to find him studying her quizzically instead. “So tell me, Red, is your friend Prince Charming really going to find a way to fix this town so we can all get the hell out of it someday?”

Of course he will, she wants to answer. He’ll find his true love and they’ll fix everything and it’ll all work out in the end, because good always triumphs over evil.

“I don’t know,” she hears herself saying. “He’s trying his best.”

“’Trying his best’ isn’t a lot of data to hang a hypothesis on, my dear.”

“Sorry, it’s all the data I’ve got,” she snaps, annoyed at his condescending tone. “You’re supposed to be the scientist here, do you have any brilliant advice?”

“Advice on how to leave Storybrooke? I've got nothing.” Victor peers into the dwindling bottle of Stoly as though it holds all the answers. “Pertinent life lesson of the day? Yes – don’t reanimate corpses if you want to keep both your arms.”

She blinks a couple of times at that proclamation, then downs her second shot. “You know, when I was Ruby I used to want to be an architect. I think I picked a much less dangerous field than you did.”

Victor nods seriously, and suddenly they’re both bursting into boozy laughter. They pause to find the bartender and half the lounge staring at them, and they wind up snickering behind their hands like guilty schoolchildren. Knowing Whale’s reputation, they just provided fodder for the Storybrooke rumor mill - at least they would have when he was Whale and not Victor, and clearly the alcohol's messing with her mind tonight because this is getting confusing - but it feels so exotic and good to laugh again that Red can’t bring herself to care all that much.

Victor blinks blearily at his watch. “I should probably stagger home while I’m still upright. Thanks for the company. It made my shitty day end on a much better note.”

“Good luck with your arm,” Red offers.

“Good luck with your hypothesis of a happy ending,” he responds with a small smile. “Goodnight, Ruby.”

“It’s Red,” she reminds him. “Ruby doesn’t exist anymore.”

“Are you so sure about that?” He looks at her pointedly for a second, then nods a final farewell and takes his leave.

She contemplates the set of his shoulders and the sway of the leather coat as he retreats, rotating slowly on her barstool. The cold, dry winter air has turned her hair soft and staticky, and as she smoothes it back she tugs one of the red strands between her fingers, looping it around and around and watching the colors shift in the light.

A few feet away from her, Leroy and Astrid are sitting at a tiny table, holding hands and smiling shyly at one another like two kids on their first date, which she supposes they kind of are. At the other end of the lounge Marco and Archie are doing a little male bonding beside the dart-board, laughing at something Doc just said and raising their beer bottles to him in a humorous salute. They’re all trying, Red thinks, they’re all stumbling toward normal as best they can, finding their comfort in darts and dates and other safe, familiar things.

And she gets it – she does – but she’s getting a little sick of playing it safe.

She catches up to him as he’s stepping off the curb in front of the lounge.

Victor turns toward her as she loops her arm through his (the right arm – magic fix or not, she’s still a little freaked out about the left one). Backlit against the dim streetlights and the Fairy Dust neon, he looks strikingly monochromatic, a collection of sharply-sketched variations in grey and black as he stares back at her. His expression is equal parts want and amusement, an unspoken I-told-you-so.

She manages to bite the last trace of the smirk off his lips before they even make it to his place, and once there he proves he has two healthy arms by using them to slam her up against the wall, holding her in place as she wrecks his hair with her fingers and wraps her legs around his hips. They end up on his bed, a canopied monstrosity that looks more like it belongs in some Victorian novel than an upscale apartment in Maine. He makes sure he gets her off twice before he comes himself, and she decides that in the balance of pros and cons to life in post-curse Storybrooke, Victor is one of the upgrades.

At 5 AM she untangles herself from the sheets, pulls her clothes on as quietly as she can, and creeps out without waking him. Comfort’s a temporary thing, she thinks as she shivers in the cold winter air, and life and the breakfast shift go on.

+

The good news: David comes through as always, and Storybrooke has its Princess and its Savior back again. The bad news: magic is still different here, and they’re still stuck within the town boundaries.

The worse news: there’s a war coming, something evil that threatens to make their old curse look like a minor inconvenience. Red realizes how serious it is when she sees Emma and her parents sitting at the same table with Regina and Rumpelstiltskin, conferring together quietly without anyone throwing a single spell or sharp object at anyone else.

The citizens of Storybrooke take the cue from their leaders. They do their best to settle old grievances and make uneasy truces with one another, the results of which are mostly successful and occasionally bizarre – Red’s pretty sure she’ll never forget the “please kill me now” look on Belle’s face when she’s sitting at the counter between Gold and her father. They all prepare as best they can, no easy feat when nobody knows exactly what they’re preparing for, and then they wait.

And wait some more.

As the days roll by Red starts to wonder if this isn’t part of the curse itself, this vague sense of impending doom that leaves everyone anxious and jittery and stuck.

“I wish whoever or whatever it is would just get here already,” she seethes one afternoon, punctuating the words with a few vicious swipes of her cleaning rag over the counter. “At least then maybe we’d have an answer, we’d have something meaningful to do!”

“There’s plenty to do right now, child,” Granny admonishes her. “It’s called going on and living our lives the best we can in the meantime.”

“Then somebody please tell me how to do that!” Red snaps, throwing the rag on the counter. “Tell me how to start doing that in the first place!”

She runs through the woods at the next full moon, heart bursting and legs pumping, ecstatic to finally let the animal part of her brain take over and do the living for her. She wakes up huddled at the Storybrooke border, and she doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry that even the wolf knows she doesn’t belong in this place.

+

As time goes on she finds what little peace she can under the shadow of the “Leaving Storybrooke” sign. The border becomes a sort of sanctuary for her, a place to escape to for a few minutes or a few hours when she can’t pretend she’s OK anymore. Sometimes she brings lunch and a book, settles against one of the trees and has a solitary picnic. More often she just sits and stares into the horizon, down the road she can’t travel.

The day Granny joins her that’s exactly what she’s doing. Red turns at the sounds of footfalls and snapping twigs, and her eyes widen in surprise at the unexpected company.

“Granny, what’s wrong?” she asks, hurriedly jumping to her feet. “Is the diner—”

“The diner’s just fine,” Granny says, depositing the basket she’d been carrying with a huff. “Diego’s been whining at me to give him more responsibility for months now so I figured I’d let him take the lunch shift while I share some hot cocoa with my granddaughter. Now help an old lady sit down, child, I don’t bend as well as I used to.”

Red helps her settle against one of the softer spots on the side of the road, and Granny starts fussing with the contents of the basket.

“So this is where you’ve been coming all these months,” she says, pouring liberally from a thermos and handing Red a filled plastic cup. “The view’s nice enough, I suppose. Can’t say much for the seating arrangements.”

Red smiles wanly over the cocoa's steam trails. “You get used to them if you sit here long enough,” she says. “Granny, I’m sorry if I worried you.”

“You don’t have anything to apologize for, Red.” Granny sighs. “Seems more like I'm the one who should be apologizing to you. We’re all a little crazy nowadays, running around trying to remember things that happened twenty-eight years ago and worrying about something that might not happen for another twenty-eight. Before long a body forgets the things she ought to be focusing on here and now. It finally got me to thinking and...well, I've been holding on to something for you."

She reaches into the basket and hands over a small package wrapped in brown paper. Red frowns in confusion at the familiar size and heft.

“What is it?”

Granny rolls her eyes in mock exasperation. “The wrapping’s meant to be opened, girl.”

She opens it wrong-side-up, the brown paper tearing to reveal the back of a drafting notebook. Red’s frown turns hesitant; then her breath catches in her throat when she turns it over and sees the battered cover.

“I…” She swallows against a dry throat, tries again. “I threw this out a long time ago.”

“I know. I found it there in the trash the next day." Granny looks a little uncomfortable at the admission. "I’m sorry if I was wrong to keep it, and if you want to toss it out again I won’t interfere. It just seemed to me that a time could come when you might regret getting rid of it.”

Red flips the cover open, thumb running over the spirals as she looks at Ruby Lucas' renderings, some still crisply inked and others faded and coffee-stained. Her eyes mist over when she comes to the pages of drawings of the Hong Kong skyline.

“So, Emma and Henry have been teaching me all about the Internet," Granny continues. "It has its uses, I suppose. I still don't get the appeal of all those cat videos, but I was finally able to look up that Frank Lloyd Wright fellow you were so wild over. I have to admit, he was quite the character - his girlfriend was murdered, his house was burned down, and he still went on to make a name for himself with all those buildings. Quite the survivor, that one. Nice head of hair, too. It's a pity he's dead, we could use a man like that in Storybrooke."

“Granny, I still don’t understand,” Red tears her gaze from the notebook and regards her grandmother in pure confusion. “You never wanted me to be an architect in the first place."

“That was the other thing that got me to thinking. I never told you the back-story that the curse gave me, did I?” Granny asks lightly, looking beyond Red at the horizon as she sips her cocoa.

"No, it never came up," Red says, and she wonders again at the oddities of a curse that had left everyone so oblivious to those kind of details for so long.

“Seems I came up in the world at a time when little girls were expected to look pretty, get their chores done and not make any waves. I had a nice enough husband who expected the same thing. It didn’t bother me, it was just what our generation did. He got me as far as Storybrooke and died too young – seems there wasn’t much you could do about bad hearts in those days either. Before he died we had a daughter."

"Anita," breathes Red, her own set of painful memories flooding back at the name.

"Amelia was her name in this land," Granny responds. "She was the prettiest thing, looked just like you at your age. She didn’t have a whole lot of use for this town. She used to say she couldn’t breathe here, that she had to go spread her wings and see the world. Only she took herself off with some drug addict and ended up with the same bad habits." She pauses and frowns into her cocoa as if she's trying to shake off the bad memories. "She came home once or twice, managed to bring me a beautiful granddaughter,” she regards Red with a smile, “but it always ended up the same way. She'd start feeling all suffocated again and she'd have to hit the road to go find herself."

Red concentrates, tries to dig through Ruby’s memories, but nothing’s there. “I don’t remember her.”

“You wouldn’t,” Granny says. “She left one day when you were about a year old and never came back. Died of an overdose somewhere in California. And from that day on I vowed that history would never repeat itself in this family. I was hell-bent on protecting you from all of the evils in this world, no matter if you didn’t understand it was for your own good. Now I think of it, it wasn't all that different from how I raised you before the curse. I was going to turn you into a smart, strong woman who wouldn't make her mother's mistakes and who'd grow up to be able to do whatever she wanted. Problem was, I didn’t know what to do when you ended up not wanting the same things I did."

Red shifts where she sits, feels a sudden need to grab hold of something to keep from falling as the words sink in. "I...didn't know. I didn't know any of this."

"How could you, Red? I never told you, and look what it's done to you. Please forgive me for that." Granny turns back toward her then, eyes bright with emotion and unshed tears. "I’m sorry, child, but I was so afraid to go through it again. I was sure if you spread your wings you’d end up like your mother, and I was too much of a coward to open my eyes and see that you were a completely different person.”

The thought of her grandmother ever being labeled a coward, in Ruby’s life or her own, is beyond her ability to grasp. “Am I, Granny? I don’t even know what kind of a person I am anymore.”

“Then let this old lady tell you. You’re my pride and joy, Red, and you're a survivor.” Granny reaches over and grabs her hand, squeezing tight with work-roughened fingers. “You have brains and a good heart and so much talent, as Red and as Ruby, and when we’re able to leave this place – and we will one of these days, you mark my words – you’re going to go out and light up this world. If you only listen to me one more time in your life, you listen now. Don’t you dare lose those dreams, little girl. They’re one of the things I love best about you, and you're going to make them reality one day."

Red looks at the notebook, where drops of water are splashing onto the Boston skyline, and realizes they’re her tears. "Thank you for believing in me, Granny," she whispers.

"Always, child," says Granny, and they barely miss spilling cocoa all over the place as they pull one another into a fierce hug.

"I'm almost afraid to say this now," Red admits as they're pulling apart and wiping their eyes, "but I'm not sure I could just walk away from Storybrooke forever, Granny. For all the ways I don't fit in here there's still a lot about this place I love -- starting with you."

“Land sakes, child, there’s nothing that says you can’t come back!” Granny looks affronted at the thought. “My door will always be open to you."

"What about the diner?" Red feels a pang of renewed guilt. "I know how much it means to you to keep the business going."

"And it'll keep going as long as I feel like it," Granny says. "When I'm ready to rest on my laurels I'll sell it to Diego - well, Remy's his real name, did he ever tell you that? Seems he owned a restaurant in Paris before the curse, and he remembers how to do a whole lot of fancy French cooking. I didn't know they let rats do that sort of thing in France, but there you go. I figure I'll take him on as a partner and between us we can concoct a menu the likes of which Storybrooke has never seen, so don't you go worrying about Granny's diner, missy. And we'll always need someone to cover the breakfast shift, so don't think you're getting out of that just because you get your name on a skyscraper someplace."

"I wouldn't dream of weaseling out of my obligations." Red rolls her eyes and grins. "I guess we should probably go back and see how your new partner is handling the lunch shift?"

“I suppose we'd better, at least before he blows the place up or installs one of those stupid cappuccino machines Gold's been pestering me about." Granny packs up the basket and lets Red help her up. “Truth be told, I’ve been thinking that with all of the changes coming to Storybrooke we’re going to need more space soon. The old place next door has been vacant for ages now – if I can talk Gold into the deal what do you think about designing an addition to the diner?”

“Sounds good,” Red agrees, and then the words hit her. “Wait, what? You want me to design it?”

“Why not? You’re the architect in the family, after all.”

“Granny, I haven’t even gone to school yet!" Red stammers. "I don’t know how to take something on paper and actually turn it into wood and bricks and – we’ll need zoning papers, contractors, structural engineers…”

“In case you haven’t noticed, the Mayor’s trying to get on everyone’s good side these days,” Granny says with a crafty smile. “So I don’t think zoning’s going to be a problem. As for the contractors, I have six bored fairy-dust miners who don’t have anything to mine at the moment and who’ll jump at the chance to work with you. Hell, child, throw on one of your mini-skirts and they’ll be willing to turn Granny’s into the Taj Mahal.”

“Granny!” Red laughs. “Come on, I’m taking you back to the diner before I fall over in shock.”

“You young people are way too easily scandalized nowadays,” Granny says with a smirk, and Red links arms with her as they begin the trek back toward Main Street.

A light breeze ruffles her hair and creaks through the tree branches as they walk, and she thinks a hot cup of Granny’s Secret Soup will taste really good by the time they get back. She looks once over her shoulder as the town boundary fades out of sight over the horizon, and feels something newer and lighter start to take the place of the old emptiness. She’s leaving the road less traveled to return to Main Street for awhile, but it’s OK.

She and Ruby will be back.

Holiday Exchange Pimping Post

nancefics — Thu, 27 Dec 2012 06:52:26 GMT

Hope everyone's having a good holiday and able to sneak in a little downtime!

I haven't even started to look at all of the Yuletide rec posts - I'm becoming aware of how very few of those tiny fandoms I've even heard of! - but if anyone wants to point me in the direction of a fic I absolutely positively can't miss out on, please drop me a comment and I'll happily go check it out.

I wanted to give a shout-out to a couple of less-publicized holiday exchanges that I'm having fun participating in this year:

*the annual Secret Santa exchange is ongoing at profiler_fans - I've completely lost track of how long it's been up and running but I'm pretty sure we're scarily close to pushing the 10-year point. 0_o Participation is dwindling down a bit now, as it does with older fandoms, but there was a small but lovely collection of marvelous things to read and listen to and look at this year, and it's definitely worth going over to check out.

*the first (I think!) annual Once Upon a Time holiday exchange fest at ouat_exchange is ongoing and posting as I type. There's quite a nice collection of excellent fics, fanmixes, art/icons and vids, including something by me, a.k.a. Anon Elf until the reveal in early January. *G*

Pimpage Post : Profiler Fans Secret Santa Exchange 2011

nancefics — Sat, 05 Nov 2011 23:12:29 GMT

It's a little bit mind-boggling to me that it's holiday time again already, although if I'm to believe all the marketing and the commercials and such November is basically getting smushed together with December for one big Christmassy lead-in. 0_o

Happily, though, that means it's time for the 2011 Profiler Fans Secret Santa exchange! \0/ m_ravensblood has been her usual awesome self doing all the promotional/organizational stuff, and participants will have a good month-plus to get creative. I know there are some former Believers and SABERS and Skewers on this flist, so what about getting nostalgic and festive and joining in? *poke*

Fic: Things to do in Atlanta when you're undead 3/5 (Profiler: Frances, Jack, R)

nancefics — Sun, 04 Sep 2011 15:40:41 GMT

Things to do in Atlanta when you’re undead (3/5)

Author: Robin Nance

Characters: Frances Malone, Jack of all Trades

Story Type: A little drama, a little humor, and a whole lot of crack

Summary: A student and a serial killer walk into a Zombie Apocalypse. No, really.

Rating/Warnings: R-ish for language, violence and character (un)death

AN & Disclaimer: Not my characters, not my sandbox - I'll tidy up and return them unharmed as soon as I'm done playing. This was started as part of the 2010 Secret Santa Exchange at profiler_fans and is dedicated to my fabulous friend and fellow zombiephile serialbathera. Check out the fabulous iconage she made for this series too! *points*

part 1

part 2

"The current theory is that it’s some kind of a virus, but there are other ideas floating around out there. Like, maybe all the toxins dumped into the soil and water for so many years finally combined in exactly the wrong way, and instead of Godzilla we got this. And of course there are the groups that insist God is pissed off at us and this is just a really fucked-up version of Judgment Day.”

“When did it all begin?”

“The timeline’s fuzzy, but it started hitting the news four or five months ago. Nothing major at first, just sound-bites about cases of ‘flesh-eating bacteria’ and mystery medical syndromes, that kind of thing. Then there were more cases, then whole clusters of events, and so on. Even now that whole cities are being wiped out they’re still calling it a bad flu. I guess no one’s going to believe the alternative, right?”

One cigarette had turned to two, the guns and heavy jackets were on the floor, and they were perched together on the loveseat/barricade as Jack did his best to integrate the salvo of bizarre information.

Apparently going to Otis had been a mixed blessing. He’d intentionally cut himself off from most technology for the better part of last year, figuring it would help him blend in better with the locals and also knowing that the ability to electronically drop in on Samantha was too great a temptation, especially while everyone believed that “Jack” was occupying a Georgia prison cell under the name Donald Lucas. In some ways that ploy had worked spectacularly.

On the other hand, while he was sending coded directions to Lucas and improving his score in the Otis Otters’ Tuesday night bowling league he seemed to have overlooked the birth of an entire zombie nation.

“How the hell did I miss this?” He ran his hands through his hair in frustration, wincing when he brushed his bandaged forehead a little too roughly.

“Well, where exactly is ‘Otis’ anyway?” Frances motioned to the lettering embroidered on his shirt, then rolled her eyes at his hesitation. “Dude, seriously. We were just attacked by a dozen undead government workers – do you really think my knowing your zip code is going to put a bigger kink in your plans than that?”

Jack sighed; she probably had a point. “It’s in northern California, near the border with Oregon.”

Frances nodded. “Mountainous terrain, right? The major infestation started on both coasts and moved into the plains, but they don’t tolerate the mountains for some reason, so it’s still relatively untouched territory. I didn’t see or hear a thing until I came down out of the Catskills.”

The words stirred a vague memory of a judge’s pardon and Bailey Malone proudly decamping for upstate New York with his college-bound daughter. “What about your family?”

She shrugged dismissively. “I assume Mother Dearest was too hung up on her boy-toy of the moment to give a rat’s ass about urban legends. Last I heard she was in Europe getting back in touch with her inner Zen child or some shit – which should be interesting, because the infestation’s supposedly even worse over there. She did do one smart thing and packed my sister off on a ski trip to Colorado before she left, so at least Arianna’s safe and bored in the Rockies last I checked. Go figure, right? Even shitty parenting pays off now and then.”

“And Bailey? He didn’t try to at least call you?”

He caught the tiniest twitch, a quick jaw-clench before she turned indifferent eyes on him again. “And tell me what, exactly?”

Jack huffed in irritation. “How the fuck should I know, maybe something along the lines of ‘study hard, honey, brush your teeth, practice safe sex and oh, by the way, you should know that my minions are all rising from the dead?’”

“Shockingly enough, regular father-daughter phone calls tended to fall outside his M.O.” Frances took a sudden interest in examining her fingernails. “It wouldn’t have mattered – you don’t plan for something like this. All people can do is react and hopefully survive.”

Something about that response bothered him, but damned if he was focused enough to figure it out at the moment. “So how have you managed to do both so far?”

“The same way all college kids discover they’re good at doing the alternative-lifestyle thing – it started with spring break.” Frances sighed and sank back against the loveseat, dragging hard on her cigarette. “I was going to drive to New York City to spend a week with friends and then head down to Atlanta. I couldn’t figure out why they were setting up police roadblocks at all the off-ramps and the tunnels, because it was just people getting freaked out about a bad flu, you know?” She snorted mirthlessly, shaking her head. “I remember getting through the checkpoint really easily because the guard just didn’t seem right, like he didn’t care what was happening. Later on when I actually knew what to look for I realized that he wasn’t right, and what I’d seen that day was a person in the early stages of the disease. It basically rots you from the inside out, makes you not care that you’re rotting.”

Jack felt an involuntary shiver skitter up his spine. “That doesn’t sound pretty.”

“It’s not. I’ve never seen anything like it, before or since. The whole city was like a war zone, except the buildings and the streets and the animals were all untouched and only the people were affected. I mean, there were pigeons fluttering around and rats in the alleys and they were completely unfazed, but the people – they were lying dead on the street in pieces, or they were shuffling around looking like they should be dead, just like John and George.”

“And you were the only unaffected person in the whole place?”

“I saw a couple of other normal people down at the edge of Canal Street when I first drove in.” Frances leaned into the loveseat, grimacing as she stared at the ceiling. “They were touristy types, you know, backpacks and cameras, ‘I Heart NY’ shirts, that kind of thing? They were so shell-shocked by everything that they just froze up. And the creatures knew. You know that movie cliché where the zombies just kind of shuffle around aimlessly until they smell blood or something? Well, that’s crap – these things are total predators. They pay attention and they plan. Those people were targeted right away, hunted down on the street and separated from one another within five minutes – and then they were instant zombie chow. They never had a chance in hell of even – fuck!”

Jack jumped at the sudden epithet, then grabbed her wrist and brushed away the hot ashy remnants of her forgotten cigarette.

“The key to successful smoking is to dispose of the evidence before the final puff, Malone.”

“No shit, Sherlock.” Frances’ attempt at a sarcastic grin fell a little short. “What can I say, I get a little distracted when my stroll down Memory Lane takes me past a city full of corpses.”

“Understandable. How the hell did you manage to get out of there, anyway?”

“Philip J. Nichols, big daddy of the East Coast zombie resistance movement.” Frances rolled her eyes, but this time she managed to smile. “It was pure luck, basically – his team was on a recon mission for supplies and weapons, and I happened to be in the back of the same store fighting off three decomposing Boy Scouts who’d tracked me in there. I wasn’t doing a very good job of it. He saved my life.”

Jack frowned at the spark of a memory. “Philip Nichols…why do I know that name?”

“Probably because the two of you share a file-drawer in my dad’s office.”

That little bombshell was enough to make him choke in mid-inhale. “The VCTF was after him too?”

“The VCTF considered him hot stuff back in the day. Although technically I think they devoted an entire cataloguing system just to you, so don’t get all insecure about sharing or anything.”

Jack glared as the girl didn’t even attempt to hide her smirk. “And…?”

“And, a few years ago Philip was the head of this anti-government survivalist group. I think officially they were considered a cult, but by all accounts he wasn’t so much about preaching flower-power and loving the one you’re with. He was more into gun-running and bomb-building and the usual heavy shit that didn’t endear him to the Feds. The VCTF was part of the team charged with bringing him in.”

Jack nodded as the details came back to him. “He blew up the entire compound right before they got him.”

“Yep. Took himself and his entire crew out rather than face justice. The reports said the incendiaries burned too hot for the good guys to recover a single body – but hey, it’s not like a bunch of munitions experts and black-ops types would’ve had a contingency plan, right?” Frances shook her head, playing with the cigarette lighter in her hand. “Pretty damned naïve assumption for Quantico’s best and brightest – no wonder they never even came close to getting you.”

His right leg ironically chose that moment to start throbbing in protest, and Jack grunted as he shifted position to massage the scar from the long-ago bullet wound. “They came closer than you might imagine, kiddo. So Nichols survived and changed careers from cult mastermind to zombie slayer. I suppose stranger things have happened.”

“Please, stranger things just happened thirty minutes ago in the lobby,” Frances pointed out, and Jack had to admit he couldn’t argue with that sentiment. “He’s not the only one leading the resistance cells, but he sort of started the whole thing and he’s still got more followers than anyone else on this side of the country.”

“So you can take the cultist out of the cult…”

“…but when you hit the critical mass of brain-eating undead dudes on your doorstep you’re kind of happy to get him back,” Frances finished. “Anyway, Philip patched me up and got me the hell out of the city and back to the compound. First he had to convince me I wasn’t crazy or hallucinating the whole New York situation. Then he convinced me I’d be much more useful to my family and all the other survivors out there if I learned everything he could teach me about zombies, including how to take the fuckers out. It’s kind of a work in progress.”

“I think you’ve got that taking-out part down pretty well,” Jack conceded with a bit of grudging admiration.

“And I think I should be disturbed that coming from you that means a lot.” Frances’ lips twisted in a brief smirk before she returned her attention to the lighter in her hand. “I remember my dad being so pissed off that they’d lost their chance at bringing Philip in. I wonder if he would’ve been happy to know that I’m here thanks to a VCTF mishap or if he would’ve still just been pissed off and disappointed at the company I’m keeping?”

The words finally sank in at the same time that Jack took a good look at the battered jacket at her feet. The leather was soft and cracked from years of use, and he recognized the Marine Corps insignia stitched into the patch on one arm.

“Bailey’s dead too, isn’t he? I’m sorry,” he added awkwardly at the girl’s curt nod.

“C’mon, Jack, you wanted him dead for years. Don’t get all polite and insincere on me now.” Frances shrugged tightly and stood up, deliberately avoiding his eyes as she smoothed out the front of her shirt. “If it’s any consolation, he wanted you dead just as much. He’s the reason I figured out who you were, by the way – there were files scattered all over his house about this oddball Sherriff Boast who was just a little too stupid to be real. I saw you on the security cameras when I was up in the command center, and as soon as you took out George on the first shot I put two and two together. I figured you’d come back for Sam Waters.”

“I’m not surprised Bailey was the one to catch on. Your father was a pretty sharp guy.” A spike of adrenaline had coursed through him at mention of Samantha, and Jack hauled himself to his feet. “Well, this has been enlightening, but I have to go check out the morgue.”

Frances bent to retrieve her jacket. “Roger that, give me a sec to reload and I’ll come with.”

“Not necessary. I don’t need you for backup.”

“Like you didn’t need me before?” Frances had clearly perfected the exact smart-ass raised-eyebrow smirk that guaranteed he’d go from zero to pissed-off in two seconds. “Don’t flatter yourself, Sherriff. I’m not going along for the pleasure of your company. I was headed there anyway before you crashed the party in the lobby. I need to replenish my medical supplies before I haul ass out of Atlanta. Here you go.” She tossed the Glock at him. “I put a new clip in it for you. Lucky for me the feds are all into semiautomatic protection – I won’t have to restock on ammo for weeks.”

Jack shook his head as she tucked a Beretta M9 into her webbed gun belt, just to the side of a Marine-issue K-BAR tactical knife, and pondered that he’d quite possibly settled for apprenticing Sharon Lesher a bit prematurely.

“Have you looked for her anywhere else?” Frances was asking, and Jack had to break himself out of his reverie to realize she was asking him a question about Samantha.

“I checked every camera at the firehouse – it was empty, locked up tight. She’s here.” Something about the look she was giving him made him bristle. “Look, kid, I don’t have to justify a damned thing to you. I know what I know. Just go do your thing and stay out of my way.”

He pushed the loveseat away from the door and was about to turn the handle when she stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“Jack.” Her tone was surprisingly snark-free and dead serious. “You need to keep one other thing in mind before you go out there. Whatever’s causing this – it’s not curable. Once the process starts, the person’s effectively a zombie – no matter what they look like or sound like, no matter what they say to you, they’re not the person you knew. When – if – that happens, you have to remember you’re the one who’s living. And then you do what you have to do.”

“Then I’ll have to save Samantha quickly, because there’s no damned way I’d ever –” Jack trailed off at the look on her face, pale and haunted and flinty-eyed over the collar of Bailey’s jacket, and suddenly found himself struggling to breathe past the lump in his throat. “Oh, hell, Frances – you mean – did you have to --?”

Frances hefted the shotgun and chambered a round, sliding the action bolt home with a clack that reverberated off the tile walls and competed with the sound of his heartbeat hammering in his ears.

“It’s like you said, Jack – my aim has improved. Let’s go.”

part 4

nancefics — Sun, 21 Nov 2010 01:38:19 GMT

* Just as a reminder to any flisters lurking out there, the Profiler Secret Santa sign-ups are still open for business! Sign-ups will close tomorrow, Sunday November 21st. If you're a former fan who'd like to revisit a little of the holiday fun in a nice friendly setting, please drop in and sign up!

* My Dear Yuletide Author letter is polished up and ready to be read. And I'm ready to go off in search of my recipient! As soon as, you know, the matching is done and I have a recipient. *drums fingers* Is is Yuletide yet?

* It's one of those rare years where I think I can actually spend time doing additional fun holiday stuff *says this quietly with crossed fingers*, so I'm thinking of signing up for fandom_stocking. Is anyone else doing it this year?

The Darkship Prompt Challenge

nancefics — Thu, 21 Oct 2010 13:23:47 GMT

Yeesh, this is my first post in this journal since January. Clearly, I need to get my fangirl on again.

It's fall, holiday fic exchanges are starting to bring the squee and (hopefully) the creative juices - and the Darkship Prompt Challenge looks like it could be kind of fun in a non-deadline-y, up-my-twisted-little alley kind of way:

you just burn	you're bleeding	sick of you
what a mess you made	we're in this together	tie me up, take me down
too much / too rough	wait your turn	it's just skin
second choice	drink up, baby	take everything you've got

I already have a couple of Profiler and Good Wife ideas floating around...any prompts/inspirations, flisters?

Fic: I Have Not Conquered Everest (Point Pleasant, Christina/Boyd, R)

nancefics — Sat, 02 Jan 2010 18:46:07 GMT

Written for m_ravensblood for the 2009 yuletide exchange, and with thanks to sinaddict for wading through my first couple of paragraphs o'crap - this finally turned into something I'm quite happy with, but it was a battle!

The original post at AO3 is here.

I Have Not Conquered Everest

****

"We're going to sail to the top this time, and God with us – or stamp to the top with our teeth in the wind."

– G. L. Mallory, diary entry from 3^rd expedition to Mt. Everest, 1924

"I have not conquered Everest; it has merely tolerated me."

– Peter Habeler

****

Right from the beginning – their beginning – he tells her the truth.

"You're a scrawny little thing, aren't you?" He struggles to reach a happy medium somewhere between dropping the squirming, squalling bundle and crushing her against his chest, all the while feeling ham-fisted and awkward. "I always figured the key to the Apocalypse would be a little more impressive."

"Oh, come now, Lucas, cut her some slack – she's still fresh out of the oven, after all!"

Boyd rolls his eyes at the sight before him. Over time and across many religions, his employer has been variably depicted with wings, horns, a pitchfork and (always good for a laugh) hairy hoofed goat legs. He'd wager that not one church-sanctioned artist would've ever thought to paint Lucifer in a dove-grey Armani suit and a straw boater with "It's a Girl" printed all over the brim in big pink letters.

"What?" Lucifer's eyebrows flutter upward as he follows Boyd's gaze. "Hat's too over-the-top? It's a day of celebration, old friend. My daughter has taken the very important first step of being born. Now it's up to us to ensure the success of her subsequent steps."

Boyd shifts his weight as the baby quiets against his chest. "And you still think Kingston is the right man for the job?"

Lucifer leans over and sniffs at the tiny blonde head. "You know, I don't get that whole 'wonderful baby smell' thing, all I'm picking up is cheap powder. I'm sure Kingston's our man. I chose him, after all." He glances appraisingly at Boyd, all levity vanished. "Clearly, you still have misgivings."

Boyd sighs, well aware of how this discussion always ends. "I don't question his qualifications, I just have concerns about his ability to prioritize his loyalties. He's already attached enough that he wanted to keep the mother involved. I don't see him going quietly when it's time to step aside."

"So? We'll deal with that when the time comes," Lucifer replies dismissively (which Boyd translates as "you'll deal with it for me, Lucas," because this is hardly the first time they've discussed this, and after eighty years Boyd speaks a pretty fluent Lucifer). "Let Kingston be as much of a father to her as he wants for now. She might as well thrive in the lap of luxury while she's getting an education in the ways of the world. I never did understand how avoidance of material goods supposedly equates to righteousness."

Boyd snorts at that, the "no kidding" clearly implied. For someone bent on destroying mankind, his boss is almost obsessively attached to some of mankind's more luxurious creations. Boyd would lay odds that the coming Hellfire will spare Lucifer's favorite Lamborghini dealership, several Parisian nightclubs, and the entirety of Worth Avenue and South Beach.

"Scoff if you must," Lucifer mock-sighs as he slouches against the wall. "I don't believe I've seen any off-the-rack items adorning your person in the last decade or six. Face it, Lucas, I've corrupted you entirely. Which was pretty much the idea from the get-go, of course. Now, what about Anne?"

A lesser man would get whiplash at the quick-fire transition from friendly banter to no-bullshit business, but Boyd is no one's lesser man. "En route to the Havenwood psychiatric facility as we speak. The physicians have already confirmed the diagnosis of post-partum psychosis with extensive religious delusions. By the time she's out of there Christina and Kingston will be far away and very legally bound as father and daughter."

"Excellent. Let's get on with it, then, shall we?" Christina gurgles against Boyd's shoulder, and Lucifer smirks at Boyd's obvious discomfort. "I think she likes you, Lucas. Be careful, or you might end up being the one bonding with her and getting your loyalties tested."

Boyd stills the hand that had been administering small pats seemingly of its own volition. "I don't do bonding. And I have no illusions about where my loyalties lie."

Lucifer's intense gaze is half-hidden by the ridiculous hat. "Just make sure you can say the same thing a few years from now. You're going to be crucial to her progress, Lucas. Everything she needs to know she'll learn from you."

"And she'll hate me for it, if I do my job right." Boyd spares a final look at the small blonde head against his neck. "Do you want to hold her before we hand her over?"

Lucifer shrugs, already having moved on to his plans for the rest of the afternoon. "Why would I? I'll spend time with her later when she's more interesting. You can take it from here. Oh, and there's a new club in the Village that has a bar set up in a converted meat-locker. I'll send you the details - meet me at eleven and wear something warm."

II.

Christina won't speak to him for an entire week after the debacle in Point Pleasant.

He follows the small, angry figure as she walks down the main road that leads out of town, his limousine traveling at a discreet distance behind her. When she finally stops to sit on one of the jersey barriers, he signals the driver to pull up, and she gets into the car without looking at him.

"We're going to New York," Boyd tells her. Christina nods silently and stares out the window for the rest of the trip. Once in his Manhattan penthouse, she goes into the room designated as hers, shuts the door, and doesn't come back out for the rest of the night.

Boyd decides to give her some space for a few days – the kid just had her heart broken by her long-lost mother, the Kramers, and her first serious (now seriously dead) boyfriend, all in the course of a few hours. He figures she deserves a little down-time.

By the seventh day of the silent treatment, he decides they've procrastinated enough. He walks unannounced into her room to find her sitting on a loveseat and staring listlessly out the window.

"Morning, Christina. Now that you've had a chance to settle in, we need to start your training."

"Evil has a training camp? So do I work out on Satan's ab machine or something?" She sounds unimpressed.

"It's something like that, only with less sweat and more studying."

"When do I get to meet my real dad?"

Boyd hesitates – Lucifer hasn't been particularly interested in a meet-up with his progeny. "When he thinks you're ready, he'll call for you."

"And in the meantime you're, what, my babysitter?" Christina turns to regard him with a look of mild suspicion.

"That depends on you." He stops in front of her chair, forcing her to look up to meet his eyes. "I'd rather approach this as student and teacher, maybe as partners."

That actually provokes a bitter laugh. "What are you going to teach me, Boyd, how to drop statues on priests and kill boys with holy knives before they kill me? Because I'm pretty sure I'm at the been-there, done-that stage already."

"The first lessons are always the expensive ones, Chris." Boyd drops onto the loveseat beside her. "The key is to learn from them and move on. You think there won't be a second Jesse Parker out there professing his undying love and waiting to shove a knife between your ribs, or a third or a fourth? And those will just be the ones who work on our side and want to get in your pants – you don't want to know what the Vatican contingent will do if they get to you."

"Are you trying to scare me into being an obedient little student?"

"I'm just telling you the truth, kid, same as always. You've graduated to a whole new playing field - the only difference is now you know it. Of course it's scary, but my job is to get you through it. Now get up and let's get this show on the road."

***

Boyd smirks down at her as Christina writhes beneath him, pissed off and pinned to the floor.

"You didn't anticipate," he admonishes, breaking the hold and rolling off her. "You never want to let them use the element of surprise to their advantage."

"No shit, you cocky bastard." Clearly, Christina doesn't have to be taught how to hate to lose. "I wasn't expecting you to use a disarming spell on me. What kind of priest is going to use a demonic incantation anyway?"

"The same kind of priest who knows how to spell up a knife to take out the Antichrist." Boyd springs up into a standing position, arching his back to relieve the ache caused by an hour of intensive practice. "You think their prayers are any different from our incantations? Same shit, different day, kid – you need to be prepared for anything to be used against you, including any excess self-confidence. And don't get so pissy at the messenger," he adds as he extends his hand to help her up off the padded mat. "If I'm not knocking you into shape I'm not doing my job."

All things considered, it's been a productive summer.

Despite her lack of warm and fuzzy feelings where Boyd's concerned, Christina has demonstrated an impressive willingness to be taught by him. She devours the books he gives her and trains with him late into the night without complaint. She doesn't hesitate to challenge him if she disagrees with something, and her confidence secretly pleases him even when it's irritating the crap out of him. Best of all, she's finally mentally moved out of Point Pleasant. Now that she's no longer fixating on the stupid Kramers or her dead surfer boy, Boyd thinks he could actually start to enjoy Christina Nickson.

His ponderings are rudely interrupted when his proffered hand is sucked into a vortex of pure demonic power, right along with the rest of him. An instant later Boyd finds himself flat on his back with Christina straddling him.

Far be it from him to say the kid isn't a quick study.

"Element of surprise, check." She presses teasingly against him as she nips at the edge of his jaw. "Now, I wonder if there are any other powers I could use against you?"

Her first kiss is coy and hesitant, a technique she probably learned from the Parker kid and something that Boyd never had a particular use for. She startles momentarily as he pulls her tight against him; then his hands begin to trace a slow stroking deliberate path across her ribs and down her spine, and she melts like wax, fitting to him completely. Boyd sweeps his tongue across her bottom lip and she opens for him willingly, deepening the kiss as her tongue slides across his. Oh yeah, his girl is definitely a quick study in this department.

He waits until she pulls back from his lips with a soft moan, then shifts his hands at the small of her back.

The disarming spell detonates with another wave of pure power, and Christina yelps in shock as she's flipped over his shoulder. She hits the mat with a thud, and Boyd is smirking down at her once again.

"And that, kiddo, is why there's such a thing as too much self-confidence."

The walls echo with his laughter intermixed with a string of epithets hurled from her swollen lips, and Boyd ends the lesson early to head off to a very cold shower.

III.

She moves into his bedroom without an invitation. He simply returns home from a late meeting one evening and finds her sprawled on her stomach across the grey silk comforter, ankles crossed and swinging gently as she thumbs through one of his books. Boyd isn't sure if he's more surprised by the fact that she's naked (except for the red satin platform pumps – Antichrist or not, he's discovered, Christina has a decidedly girly obsession with footwear) or that she's reading a biography of George Mallory.

"I never figured you for the mountaineering type," he comments casually as he pulls off his tie.

"Dear old fake Daddy shipped me off to ski camp most winters." Christina shrugs and stretches, and his eyes reflexively follow the trajectory of the slim pale legs. "I hung out in Vail and Gstaad and St. Moritz. There were mountains. I was never allowed to do anything on them, but I liked them."

"So now you've graduated to Himalayan expeditions?"

"I have a big to-do list." She sits up, unselfconsciously watching him as he strips down to his shirt and boxers. "Who wouldn't want to see Everest, or Annapurna or Lhotse? It's practically the last place left that humans haven't fucked up. It's like the anti-Point Pleasant, all ice and rock and atoms – it's pure, clean."

"And deadly – or did you not get to the chapter about what actually happens to Mallory?"

Christina turns the book to a marked page. "'There were only two possibilities – accident or beknightment. It is terrible. But there are few better deaths than to die in high endeavor –'"

"-'and Everest is the finest cenotaph in the world,'" Boyd finishes the quote for her as he perches on the edge of the bed. "That's a deceptively romantic spin on the fact that old George ended up the equivalent of a Tibetan popsicle."

"Did you ever meet him?" Christina leans closer, her bare thigh brushing against his knee.

Boyd huffs softly. "I'm not in the habit of hanging around English celebrities, kid, and even if I were I was a dumb-ass nobody in South Jersey when he died. I remember it made the papers, but that's about it."

"Oh." He could swear she seems disappointed. "I hadn't really figured you for the mountaineering type either."

"You mean you didn't realize I read anything besides the Wall Street Journal and Satanic Rituals for Dummies?" He laughs at the expression on her face, a mix of shock and gullibility another man might call endearing. "Chris, if there were how-to manuals for this line of work I'd've bought you the entire series and saved us both some time. Once in awhile I like to take a break from reality too. Ninety-nine percent of human beings are useless wastes of space. When someone from that other one percent breaks from the herd and follows his own convictions, it merits attention."

"Too bad the interesting one percent always seems to end up dead."

"True," Boyd concedes as he unbuttons his shirt. "Although you could argue that part of what makes them special is their ability to realize some things are worth dying for."

"Wow." Christina sets the book down and clutches melodramatically at her heart. "I think you just admitted to admiring someone besides yourself and my father. It must be the Apocalypse."

"Oh, now, that's unfair. I'm admiring you at the moment too. Of course, you're giving me a great deal to admire here." Boyd trails a finger slowly up one satin heel and beyond to the smooth expanse of her calf, eyes never leaving her face. "Are you planning an expedition into unknown territory?"

"Maybe." She stares right back at him without a flinch or blush, well aware that he's testing her. "It's not exactly unknown, though. Dead lifeguard with a Jesus complex, et cetera."

"Boyd's rules of mountaineering, number one: never assume that all expeditions are identical." Boyd breathes the words against the shell of her ear as his finger trails higher up her thigh. "Especially when the trail looks familiar. Things can get dangerous quickly."

"The danger is what makes them worth doing, right?" She's breathing a little harder as he strokes her inner thigh, knees dropping open to give him more access.

"The danger is what makes them end badly."

"Is this your way of saying we shouldn't be doing this?" Her hand is at the edge of his boxers, the fabric doing a poor job at concealing how hard he is for her.

Boyd could swear there used to be a very cold, rational part of his brain (he's not going to call it a conscience) that would regularly provide useful tips and tricks in tough situations, things like this is a bad bad horrible fucking idea that will lead to no good and if you fall for one of her little games you'll never live it down and getting it on with the boss' daughter is really pretty cliché even when it doesn't run the risk of getting your ass slung over a fire-pit. Clearly, that rational part is on indefinite sabbatical.

And damned if he doesn't want to see her beneath him, flushed and begging and at his mercy, blonde hair tangled in grey silk as he fucks those stupid shoes right off her feet.

But the real bitch of the whole thing? Is that he never has been able to lie to her.

"Stop, Chris. Shit. I'm saying that this doesn't change anything." He stills her hand before she can distract him further. "I'm not Jesse Parker, kid, and this isn't Point Pleasant. You're still in training and under my care. No matter what happens in here, I'm still going to push you and challenge you and piss you off, and I'll do it until my orders are to do otherwise. I don't care if it's fair and I don't care if you don't like it - it's just the reality of the situation."

"I figured that out awhile ago. Seems the learning curve finally kicked in." She leans back on the bed in a pose that's more contemplative than seductive. "Maybe we can call this another temporary break from reality? You know, when neither one of us feels like reading about dead explorers?"

There is very little left in the world, Boyd thinks, that can surprise him. Christina occasionally manages to re-write that list.

When he fucks her that night her shoes stay on, but she shatters every mirror in the room when she comes.

IV.

"You know, I think Mallory made the summit."

Boyd would be a little more irritated by Christina's random 3 AM talking jags if they weren't usually accompanied by foreplay.

"Is this turning into some kind of mountaineer kink I should know about? You aren't going to expect me to come to bed wearing crampons and swinging an ice-axe, are you?"

"Your thousand-thread-count sheets would never survive the trauma." Christina presses against his back, sliding a warm hand over his hip and between his thighs. "Although 'ice-axe' might make a nice euphemism for other swinging things."

Boyd half-laughs, half-sighs as her hand closes around its intended target. "It doesn't if you've ever seen what they're used for. Hate to break it to you, kid, but most experts think he died before he ever saw the top of Everest."

"Well, I say they're wrong."

He rolls on his back to give her better access, humming appreciatively as she begins a slow stroke. "And you've reached this conclusion because…?"

"He wanted it too badly." Christina's hand moves in time to the cadence of her voice. "Remember his vow that he'd stamp to the top with his teeth in the wind? He wasn't going to fail a third time. And he had Sandy Irvine with him the whole way."

"Some would say that partnership was his biggest mistake."

Christina huffs in irritation, her strokes speeding slightly. "Because Irvine was younger and less experienced? I bet Mallory didn't mind that so much once he saw Irvine overhaul their oxygen system. Good partners anticipate each other's needs" - a twist of her hand surprises a low moan out of him – "and offset one another's weaknesses. They wanted the summit too much to let a stupid obstacle like death get in the way."

There are times that Boyd is all too painfully reminded of the gulf of years and experience that separates them. "That's the romantic voice of youth talking, kiddo. Making the summit doesn't mean a whole hell of a lot if you don't survive the descent."

"And that's the voice of old age forgetting how to enjoy itself." Christina licks a slow stripe up the path her hand had traveled, then resumes a steady stroking. "Why does everything have to be that complicated? Why can't it be enough to just stand on top of the world and enjoy the view together?"

None of this, Boyd knows, has a damned thing to do with Mallory or Irvine.

"What do you want me to say, Chris?" He sighs, pulling her up until she's straddling him. "Do you want me to tell you that's how this is all going to turn out?"

"No." She closes her eyes and rocks against him as he slides easily inside her. "You'd be lying if you did, and that's not your style."

Six months to the day it all started, Lucifer changes his mind.

"Don't consider it a failure, Lucas." It's an odd day indeed when his boss is the one trying to put a positive spin on things. "Every attempt is a learning experience, and this one taught us a lot about our adversaries."

Things aren't proceeding badly so much as slowly. The merry marauding Vatican bastards have been hot on Christina's trail ever since she left Point Pleasant. Jesse Parker's death was the turning point, apparently – the righteous fight has turned into a down-and-dirty vendetta waged by some seriously pissed-off priests. Boyd can count at least ten of his mid-level managers who've met the same fate as Wesley, and even though their side has exacted as much if not more damage, far too many minor skirmishes are turning into major battles.

To make matters worse, some of the locals are getting in on the action. The End of Days has always been meant to start with subtlety. It was to everyone's benefit (Lucifer's benefit, certainly) to have the ignorant masses stay ignorant right up to the point of no return, their herd mentality making it all too easy to explain away the random episodes of destruction to coincidence, global warming, or the pop-culture catch-phrase du jour. Now, however, there are people popping up on websites and at community meetings, arranging interviews with local news stations, and they're suggesting that something more sinister is going on. They're still being largely dismissed as whack-jobs, but the Vatican gang knows better – they're building a support group.

Boyd would lay odds the Kramers are behind the grass-roots action. He's lost count of the number of times he's called himself a fucking idiot for not gutting that little bitch Judy when he had the chance.

The other side simply wants to win a little too much, and Christina is, well, not evil enough for the job.

Lucifer, in short, has moved on to other distractions.

"She's learning," Boyd argues, fists clenched and white-knuckled beneath the mahogany conference table. "She had almost seventeen years of thinking she was just a normal girl – you can't expect her to grasp the enormity of her talents all at once."

"She's had time enough to decide if she's going to embrace those talents." Lucifer stares sharply at Boyd before resuming an evaluation of his flawless manicure. "She's still vacillating, still afraid. She has too much of her mother in her after all."

"I can step up the training, alter the approach a bit."

"No, don't bother, no need to waste any more effort on a failed project." Lucifer looks pensive. "I suppose we ought to throw the papal hounds a bone. Eye for an eye and all that - let them think it ends with her and settle into a nice false sense of security while we plan for the new improved Antichrist of the next generation. It'll be another fifty years before the holy idiots even catch on."

Boyd goes still and counts to ten silently, making sure he really just heard the words that came from across the table.

Counts to twenty, and there's still no happy way to spin this.

"You want to let them kill Christina."

"Kill her, banish her immortal soul, whatever." His boss waves a hand dismissively. "I can't imagine it will be anything but a ritual death with that group, especially after she took out their golden boy. It doesn't really matter, though, does it, Lucas? They get to think they saved the world and we get our mess cleaned up. They're happy, I'm happy - it's really a win/win situation, yes?"

It's just business. Men like Lucas Boyd don't react viscerally to business decisions.

"Boss, come on – all that work, all those years just to throw her away? It took time for Christina to adjust to life after Point Pleasant, I know, but we're working well together now. I can push her harder, teach her more."

"Are you saying that you take responsibility for Christina's failure, Lucas?"

He's treading on thin ice now, and he knows it. "I'm saying that she and I can both do better. Give us a chance to make a real run at it."

"You've had six months already."

"So give me a few more to make our investment pay off."

"I don't share your confidence in her, Lucas."

"Then come meet her some day, watch us train, and you'll see she's the real thing."

"Not necessary. It's time to move on to the next Antichrist."

"I'm not ready to give up on this one."

Lucifer leans back in his overstuffed leather chair, all hard eyes and feral smile, and as the statement hangs heavy between them Boyd gets a sense of déjà vu. He recalls a time of high expectations, happy banter and subtle warnings hidden behind ridiculous theme hats, and he gets the odd, cold feeling of just having lost a battle he hadn't realized he'd been fighting.

"Yes, Lucas, I can see you're not ready to give her up. The thing is, I am, and I'm the one who gets to make that call. Or have those unswerving loyalties of yours taken a detour?"

Boyd feels himself deflate against the back of his chair. "Of course not. I'm your man."

"I certainly hope so, old friend. It would be a shame to throw away such a long and profitable relationship. Tell you what – take care of the situation and then take off for a few weeks. You deserve a vacation."

Boyd manages a nod and a "thank you" that sounds acceptably sincere.

"You're quite welcome, of course." Lucifer stretches and rises out of his chair, signaling the end of their meeting. "I'm not entirely without compassion, you know, Lucas. Hell won't fall apart if you take a breather now and then – and it will always be here waiting for your return."

Boyd is smart enough to hear the threat behind the repartee.

***

He spends a long hour stuck in the limousine in cross-town gridlock, unmoving and silent as he reviews the meeting and finalizes his plans.

Seventeen years gone by, and he'd nailed the role perfectly: gadfly and cheerleader and personal trainer/tormentor, the one who pushed the golden child to accept her true potential and abandon her comfort zone. She crawled out of the ashes of Point Pleasant and finally grew up, and she did it all, for better or worse, because of him. No one could have done it better.

How easy it had been to lie to Christina after all – he hadn't even realized he'd been lying to himself the whole time.

***

She's curled up on the sofa reading a book when he gets home. Her smile falters as soon as she sees the look on his face.

"Boyd? What's wrong?"

"Long story, kid, I'll explain later. Think you can pack your suitcase in ten minutes?"

"…Yes?"

"Good. Meet me back in here as soon as you're done." He's already pushing past her and heading toward his own closets. "Wear something warm."

VI.

"I never thought the Northern Lights would actually, you know, light things this much."

Boyd watches in amusement as Christina, wide-eyed and fascinated, stares out across the still, half-frozen waters of Glacier Lake. Night falls quickly in the Northwest Territories in autumn, and the Aurora unfurls as the hour progresses, painting the dark Canadian skies with otherworldly waves of green and gold and reflecting off the peaks of the Ragged Range beyond.

The old hunting lodge had started out as a whim, an impulse buy back in the early 'Fifties when Lucifer was occupied elsewhere and Boyd happened to have both an excess of funds and a burning need to escape from one of Holly's particularly idiotic capers. Over the years he'd upgraded and refurbished, adding layers of protective spells and invisibility sigils until the expanse of lakeside property all but ceased to exist to the rest of the world. It amused him to possess his own secret hideout, even if he never had the time or motivation to use it.

Time has been at a premium ever since, but clearly, he thinks, motivation is a relative concept.

It's quiet enough to hear the subtle chatter of Christina's teeth; Boyd pulls off his parka and wraps it around her before she can protest. "You know, Chris, survival was kind of the concept here. I'd just as soon not have you die of pneumonia now."

She grins and rests back against his chest. "I know, I'll go back inside in a minute. I just want to memorize how beautiful this is."

"I'm pretty sure the lights last more than one night. It's in the brochure and everything."

He expects a laugh or a sarcastic comeback, not the downcast eyes and the sad, resigned smile.

"Hey." He gives her a gentle shake. "Chris. We'll last for more than one night too, OK? Things are going to work out."

"Don't start lying to me this late in the game, Boyd." Her flat, serious gaze is sparked with gold from the reflected borealis. "They're going to come for us, aren't they?"

"They'll have to find us first."

"They don't have to find you." She picks at the material of his parka, choosing her words. "It'll be so much worse for you than for me, Lucas. At least I just have the priests to worry about - all I have to do is die. You know I won't hate you if you leave me and go back, right?"

"Forget it, kid, it's not happening." Boyd takes a deep breath and continues in a milder tone. "You're stuck with me for as long as it takes, so you might as well get used to it. If they do find us we'll get our bad-ass on and make them regret that they ever underestimated you. Until then, consider this an adventure vacation – just you, me and the Unclimbables." He nods in the direction of the glaciers.

"Too bad I don't know the first thing about changing out oxygen cylinders." Christina smiles ruefully. "I'm afraid I don't make a very good Sandy Irvine."

"No worries, kid." Boyd pulls the parka hood close around her, his hands lingering on her face. "You were always my Mallory anyway."

The look Christina gives him is completely open and full of an emotion that scares him too much to put a name to it. "Teeth in the wind, then?"

"Always. Go warm up the bed, I'll be up."

She hesitates at the threshold. "Lucas."

"Hm?"

"Thank you – for being one of the one-percenters."

Boyd lingers on the deck for another ten minutes, smoking a cigar and gazing out at the shimmering lake and the ragged rocks beyond. The sense of peace that overtakes him is foreign and fleeting, as ephemeral as the Aurora above them.

It's enough.

***end***

Fic: Boxing Day (Profiler, George/Rich, PG-13)

nancefics — Sat, 02 Jan 2010 18:19:29 GMT

Written for bittersweet325 as part of the profiler_fans 2009 Secret Santa Exchange - the original post can be found
here.

It was a good year for George & Rich, who finally got lots of love in a fic exchange!

Boxing Day

author: Robin Nance

pairing / story type: George/Rich, Humor/Romance/Holiday

rating / warnings: PG-13 for language, otherwise this is pretty warning-free

"The next person who volunteers me as official holiday event planner 'because gay men do the best parties, George' is getting his ass kicked."

Richard Warren poked his head out of the kitchen at the utterance, then made a spectacular effort not to choke on a combination of eggnog and hysterical laughter.

"Oh, babe, you look like Frontgate and Pottery Barn just had an orgy all over your head."

George Fraley, FBI computer guru extraordinaire and one-time good little Jewish boy, sat in a large circle of Christmas...paraphernalia was the only thing to call it.

Boxes were scattered all over the living room, bursting with Santas, snowmen, reindeer and one three-foot mechanical Yukon Cornelius who had a creepy tendency to shake his hips and sing "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" whether or not his hand was squeezed. An artificial tree lay half-dismembered in front of the bay window, bendable wire branches trailing across the floor like body parts at a crime scene.

George looked like he'd much rather be at that kind of crime scene. Taking pity, Rich stepped carefully over an open package of glass ornaments with a steaming mug.

"It's spiked - I figured you could use a seasonal Hot Toddy right about now."

"I knew I loved you for a reason." George clinked his cup to Rich's glass with a tired sigh. "God, I'm glad this season is over. There's so much hype and wasted energy and angsting over creating this perfect scene that doesn't even exist."

"Pot, kettle, hello? You were the one who wanted to do the great Christmas coming-out party with your office gang." Rich shook his head as he perused the littered floor. "I've had enough years of vacuuming up tinsel droppings to know that the fun always gives way to exhaustion on the twenty-sixth. I was the one who tried to talk you into starting our own little Christma-Hanu-Kwaanzakah tradition in Hawaii, remember?"

"Believe me, I'm kicking myself over that one." George sighed and stretched, then jumped as his foot hit a box and set off another loud round of "let nothing ye dismay." "Holy shit, why the hell did Grace buy me that damned thing? I'm going to hide it under a sheet in the morgue and see how she likes it. And by the way, Richard, I did not throw a 'coming-out' party. Everyone at work knows you exist already."

Rich kicked the box, but Yukon Cornelius kept shaking his groove thing and singing. "Well, it was worth a shot. They're all pretty nice, actually. I figured they'd all be as uptight as your boss."

George grinned. "Bailey's OK, he just runs on his own schedule. He loosened up pretty well by the end of the night."

"He loosened up as soon as his little blonde hottie came anywhere near him." Rich waggled his eyebrows comically. "I sense intra-office shenanigans."

This provoked an actual snort. "There are no shenanigans with Sam and Bailey. Or Sam and John for that matter. I think she's got too much on her plate to even think about anything like that."

"Yeah, it kind of sucks to be her, adorable daughter or not," Rich condeded. "So what was with the room-mate sneaking off with her girlfriend every fifteen minutes? That was more hot lesbian action than this place has seen since before we moved in."

"Hot -- oh, no, babe, that wasn't it at all, Angel and Frances were sneaking cigarette breaks." George frowned at a glitter-covered styrofoam snowman. "At least I think that's what they were doing. Did they smell smoky to you?"

"Sweetie, I forgot to sniff them." Rich rolled his eyes. "OK, look, you take a box and I'll take a box, and we'll just keep loading up until we meet in the middle."

"Or we just could sit here and snuggle in a big pile of crap." George dropped his head onto Rich's shoulder and grinned encouragingly.

"Nice thought, but that's a no." Rich leaned down for a quick kiss, then pushed his partner playfully. "Grace and her husband are coming over to celebrate Christmas Leftover Night so we need to get presentable."

"We have a Christmas Leftover Night now?"

Rich shrugged. "I figured we might as well add one more holiday ritual to the pile. If that includes feeding the friends of the man I love, so be it."

"I love you too, babe." George leaned back in for another kiss. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go figure out how to hide Yukon Cornelius behind the toilet in the guest bathroom." He waggled his eyebrows. "There will be shenanigans."

Rich snorted and shook his head. He loved the man dearly, but they were so doing Hawaii next year.

Profiler Fic & Mix: Creepiness in the Key of Grace & Jack

nancefics — Sat, 02 Jan 2010 18:11:40 GMT

Written for velvetwhip as part of the profiler_fans 2009 Secret Santa Exchange - the original post can be found here.

Drug-addled!fragmented!Grace was kind of fun to write, but this also poked at me to try a longer, more straight-forward Grace/Jack. I already have a few pages...we'll see if this gets done sometime between now and 2011. ;)

Cardia

author: Robin Nance

pairing / story type: Grace/Jack, angst/romance

rating / warnings: R (violence, language, character death)

Summary: The human heart can withstand many things.

01.

This isn’t happening, she thinks.

“Good morning, Gracie.”

She has to be dreaming. It’s Friday night, her official date night with her husband. Morgan is opening a bottle of wine and making caramel popcorn, and they’re going to sit in front of the television and watch B-movies and laugh at what an old domesticated couple they’ve become.

“Sleep well?”

They’ll drink the wine and laugh at the corny dialog onscreen, and then they’ll drink more wine. They’ll end up making love on the living room floor, happy and hopeful as they try for that baby they’ve decided they’re ready for.

“Sorry about the headache, it’s a side-effect of the tranquilizers. Necessary precaution and such. Sit up and I’ll get you some ibuprofen.”

Grace opens her eyes to a plain white room and dimmed lights, a white-sheeted narrow bed that isn’t hers, and a man with an angelic smile and dead eyes.

“We have a busy day ahead of us, Grace. What do you want to do first?”

This isn’t happening, she thinks as she watches the cigarette smoke curl in spirals around Jack’s head. I’m not Samantha. It was supposed to be Samantha.

02.

“You really need to eat, Grace.”

“You really need to fuck off, Jack.”

She pushes the tray away and gets up from the table. She was a little too quick, she realizes belatedly – the room spins woozily beneath her feet and she has to make a grab for her vacated chair. She hears Jack’s huff of laughter as she sinks back into the padded seat.

“You’re dehydrated and orthostatic, Doctor, but I shouldn’t have to tell you that. You haven’t eaten in forty-eight hours.”

“Why should I prolong the agony? You’re going to kill me anyway.”

“Have I laid a hand on you yet?”

Jack sits across from her with his chin in his hands. For a surreal moment, Grace is reminded of her father trying to sweet-talk her into taking cough medicine when she was ten years old and suffering from bronchitis.

“Why am I here, then?”

“Do you know that the human heart beats approximately two-and-a-half billion times during the lifespan of an average person, Grace?” Jack slides the tray of food back toward her. “I’m sure you’re not average, but you still need nutrition. It can be through soup or an IV – make your choice and then we’ll chat.”

Grace picks up the spoon with a shaky hand, half-horrified at whatever subject matter he wants to share with her.

03.

She thinks she’s been here for a couple of weeks. It’s hard to maintain a sense of time in the absence of windows and clocks and calendars.

She’s graduated from the small white room to being allowed to roam the place more or less at will. Jack still won’t let her into his bedroom, not that she’d want to see it anyway, and he prefers to be nearby when she’s in the kitchen.

“Are you afraid I’m going to steal a steak knife and gut you in your sleep?”

“I’m afraid you’re going to burn the place down without supervision. I’ve never met anyone with an advanced degree who can fuck up Pop-Tarts.”

She thinks Morgan might have said something like that once or twice. It should probably bother her that she’s focused less on the memory and more on her laughter mingled with Jack’s as she throws a piece of over-crispy toaster pastry at him.

04.

“You’re doing something to me, aren’t you?”

Jack throws her a puzzled look over the tops of his reading glasses. “I’m all the way across the room, Grace.”

“You’re using drugs on me. Low-dose tranquilizers, antipsychotics maybe. It’s the only way to explain it.” She looks down at her hands, spread across the pages of a first-edition Netter’s Anatomy text.

"What are you trying to explain?"

"Why I'm still here." Her hand curls around a photo of the human heart, life-sized and splayed open to expose the inner muscles of the ventricles. "I was so scared when I got here. Why don't you scare me anymore?"

Jack sets down his newspaper and sits beside her, too far away to touch. "Maybe you belong here."

"No." Grace shakes her head, concentrating. "No. I was...I belonged someplace else."

"That's right." Jack's smile is encouraging. "You belonged. And now you belong again."

It's still not right, she wants to say, but she can't finish the thought. She settles for running her fingers over the text, outlining the wide-open heart again and again.

05.

The scream wakes her in the middle of the night.

She's lived here long enough now to know her way in the dark, and she runs unimpeded down the hallway to Jack's bedroom. Before she has time to wonder at the intelligence of his sleeping behind an unlocked door (hadn't she said something once about a steak knife?) he screams again, and she rushes in.

"Jack?"

"It hurts." He's sitting bolt upright, his hair sweat-soaked and his eyes glazed, unfocused. "Mom, I don't like this doctor, I don't like this disease."

He's somewhere long ago, Grace realizes.

"Jack, shh. You're dreaming."

Her attempt at a gentle touch on his arm goes completely wrong.

"No! Don't, the bone will break again! Get off me!"

She struggles, pinned beneath him with his hands around her neck, for two terrifying minutes; then the dead gaze suddenly breaks and he's back, staring down at her.

"Sorry." His voice is still raspy from the screams as he slides his hands from her neck down her shoulders. "Another golden childhood memory."

She nods silently, arms going around his neck and pulling him down. "I want to stay," she whispers, and she feels the tension leave his body as he closes the rest of the distance to kiss her.

06.

It's funny that the roses are the key to restoring her memory.

It's winter now, and Jack bundles up in layers whenever he leaves the house. She has full run of the place, although she still makes him nervous around the kitchen appliances and he still teases her about using the table more for sex than for dinner.

Hearts have become a theme with them. He leaves heart-shaped candy on her pillow and glittery stickers on her mirror, and she retaliates by leaving him perfect free-hand copies of anatomic hearts on his newspapers. She sees the roses in his office while she's wandering around trying to locate one of her discarded anatomy atlases, and a picture of a blonde woman taped to his computer screen.

Samantha...her name is Samantha, and he is her Jack and she is his heart.

And Grace doesn't matter.

This isn't happening, she thinks. It was always supposed to be Samantha.

She's sitting in bed when Jack comes home. Torn pages surround her, hearts dissected and left dry and open and useless.

"The human heart can pump seven liters of blood per day," she tells Jack tonelessly as she holds up her wrists. She sees his face drain white at the sight of the cuts, so surgically precise, and she hears his scream right before she blacks out.

07.

She awakens to pain and bright lights in the middle of the small white room.

"You could have asked." Jack's voice is raw like a wound. "I would have told you everything."

"Samantha." Grace swallows around a dry throat. "It was always going to be her, wasn't it?"

Jack drops his head into his hands as his shoulders start to shake. He doesn't cry, she thinks, why would he?

"Idiot."

He looks back up at her now, eyes red-streaked and wild and alive - why had she ever thought of him with dead eyes?

"Beautiful stubborn stupid Grace. Samantha was a means to an end." He places something warm and wet in her hands. "It was never anyone but you - how could it be? You understand me. You belong."

He closes her hands around his slippery gift, squeezing her wrists just hard enough that she winces around the suture lines he'd created. Grace looks down at the sticky mound of muscle, blood and rose petals.

The average female human heart weighs 250 grams.

I belong, she thinks as she leans up to kiss him.

Sacred Hearts: A Grace/Jack Mix

01 :: O Death :: Jen Titus
when god is gone and the devil takes hold / who'll have mercy upon your soul

02 :: Guiltless :: Martin Grech
i can taste you on my fingers / you kissed me and the wounds bled / just the way you had predicted

03 :: Afraid :: Sarah Fimm
i'd like to know you more / tell you you're fine even though you're not

04 :: Magdalena :: A Perfect Circle
and i'd sell my soul, my self-esteem / a dollar at a time for one chance, one kiss / one taste of you

05 :: Sacre Couer :: Tina Dico
poison racing through my veins / a sordid pull to the insane / a constant gravity to change / and i don't know where to go

06 :: Stumble and Pain :: Joseph Arthur
all your gifts come out of hell / you bring them back for love / throw a bucket down into your well / you fill it with your blood

07 :: Never Be Mine :: Kate Bush
i look at you and see my life that might have been / your face just ghostly in the smoke

[download .zip with songs & cover art]

Yuletide Reveal!

nancefics — Fri, 01 Jan 2010 23:06:29 GMT

*cross-posted to empty_marrow*

Now that I have a name to go with my fabulous yuletide gift, I have to send a special thanks out to tetsubinatu! She wrote Three Times That Hannah Penhallow got the better of Gabrielle Penhallow and One Time that she didn't", a marvelous take on L M Montgomery's "A Tangled Web" and a re-telling of a "frienemy" relationship that takes a rare sympathetic look at the complexities of Hannah "Nan" Penhallow. I really lucked out with a wonderful Yultide Santa!

And in case anyone's interested in Point Pleasant Christina/Boyd fic, my Yuletide gift for m_ravensblood is I Have Not Conquered Everest. Special thanks to sinaddict for reading over my first crappy paragraphs, and m_ravensblood, it will be nice not to have to hide from you and watch what I say/type anymore! ;)

If anyone wants to pimp their own fics or gifts, please comment away - I'd love to read your recs, and I might even find a new fandom or two to obsess over. *G*

Holiday Pimping Post: Profiler Secret Santa 2009

nancefics — Wed, 04 Nov 2009 06:13:49 GMT

...wow, the sad thing? Is that my last entry to this journal was for the 2008 Holiday Exchange. 0_o Clearly, I haven't exactly been prolific in the fic department this year.

The awesome m_ravensblood is doing another fabulous job organizing this year's exchange - the sign-up is located in this post, and I really want to encourage anyone with even a passing, nostalgic interest in the show to go poke around and see what people are requesting. The requirements aren't horribly strenuous (500 words minimum for fic), and there are a lot of fun, supportive, talented people in the group.

There's a particular need for SABER, Believer, and gen fan participation, and crossovers are allowed, so you can ask for or offer fics and art of that show/character you always thought would be fantastic mixed up with the VCTF gang.

I'm also happy to offer myself up as a beta and partner-in-deadline-angst for anyone who hasn't played in the Profiler sandbox for awhile (or at all). I'm doing this and yuletide myself this year, so trust me, I'll angst right back and it'll be one big party! *G*

Holiday Pimping Post, part 1: Profiler Secret Santa 2008, baby!

nancefics — Mon, 03 Nov 2008 08:06:16 GMT

Wow, wasn't it just summer a few days ago?? It's (unbelievably!) time for Secret Santa sign-ups again, so prepare to be pimped at. *G*

Due to general life/work craziness I wasn't able to run the Profiler Secret Santa Exchange this year, but the lurvely m_ravensblood has picked it up and is running strong with eleven participants signed up so far - not bad for a relatively obscure/older fandom, but I know there are more people out there who used to play in this sandbox. On this very f-list, even! *meaningful glances*

From the profiler_fans site:

Only one week left to sign-up for the 2008 Profiler Fans Secret Santa Exchange!

Brighten your holidays and give back to the community by taking part!!!

The Secret Santa Exchange has been a staple of the profiler_fans community for many years now. It's easy to participate. You simply fill out a wishlist of what you'd like to get and what you in turn can give. Then with a bit of holiday magic, names are drawn from a festive mug and Secret Santas are matched.

Gifts can be anything from fic to icons to wallpaper to fanvids and music mixes. Feel like your favorite ship doesn't get enough attention? Sign-up and put it on your wishlist. Request certain lyrics or settings. Ask for a holiday romance or an angsty summer in Paris - this is a chance to make your wishes known and to brighten someone's holiday as well! It doesn't matter if you're an active member or a lurker - everyone who loves Profiler is welcome!!!

Sign-ups are here - please pimp this out to anyone/any comm you can think of, and come play!

Obscurity!Mix #2: and everything you love will break - Profiler, Jack/Samantha

nancefics — Sun, 25 May 2008 16:11:14 GMT

After much interference from pesky RL I've finally finished my Obscurity!Mix for Sam/Jack, wherein their lives are chronicled via the obscure crap on my iTunes as requested by the lurvely m_ravensblood.

All lead-in quotes are from episodes of "Profiler" and, IMO, most of the songs and lyrics can be as skewed or non-skewed as the listener chooses to make them. Except for the decidedly-skewed cracky ficlet that leads in to the bonus track, because "Into the Dark" is just too damned angsty to end with, even for me. ;)

Drop a comment if you want a) any song uploaded individually off the .zip or b) an obscurity!mix for your own character/ship/whatnot...I have tons of weird-ass music that hasn't been touched yet!

and everything you love will break :: a samantha/jack mix

.01.

[Sam You’ve Come Back To Me]

for the restless :: tom mcrae
she comes to me in dreams, a train wreck beauty queen / now i remember her / and everything you love will break / you’re running out of things to make you feel alive

.02.

[“I will not get on my knees for you. I will never get on my knees for you.”]

alive :: michal
the sun may climb the hill but it cannot break the dune / despite the common will, your spite ensures i’m doomed // hey i’m alive, here in this fishbowl

.03.

[“Part of me likes the fact that I help get these maniacs off the street, right? But there’s another part of me, you know? And I’m starting to feel that I’m fading away…I’m scared.”]

drift :: devlins
and somewhere along the thin white line / i’m spending my days and nights waiting for you to show

.04.

[“You'll never leave. Don't you remember? You left your first love to be with me.”]

caged :: bocca

you see I’ve got this disease which i just can’t disguise / i’m not gonna hurt you, i’m only gonna wait outside / wherever you go i will always be behind

.05.

[“Is that what you want? You want to be close to me? Well then, why don’t you take my hand, huh? …Give me your hand!”]

I don’t need you :: jen trynin
i don’t care if you never conquer the killers who keep you such good company / or if you can’t seem to break and enter yourself

.06.

[It Could Have Been You Sam...It Should Have Been You Sam]

feel the same :: lygia ferra
why did i have to hear about your new friend / go on and tell it to me slowly, why it isn’t me / it really doesn’t matter

.07.

["And I realized that he doesn't feel his life. He only feels the pain that he inflicts on his victims. But Bailey, I don't feel my life either...I think that he knows this."]

the two sides of monsieur valentine :: spoon

he kidnaps the queen / and you think the score's set but you can't truly see / 'till you know the two sides of monsieur valentine

.08.

["Tom is dead because of me. So is Coop. So are a lot of people....I provided the list."]

past, present and future :: abby travis

you know, i used to sing 'a tisket, a tasket, a green and yellow basket, i'm all packed up and i'm on my way and i'm gonna fall in love' // i don't think it will ever happen again

.09.

["For the last five years of my life, my family and I have been stalked by a serial killer. I am the center of his fantasy, his main attraction....I look over my shoulder every day of my life."]

walk this earth alone :: lauren christy

you're in the water that i'm drinking, the sound of 911 / the walls that protect me from the damage that you've done / in this world you are with me / but i walk this earth alone

.10.

["Nothing else matters. We're together now."]

landing :: the gandharvas

you on your back and i was on my knees / let's turn it around, try over again // all these limits are coming to an end once you say 'it sounds all right by me'

.11.

["Feels good...doesn't it?"]

i will follow you into the dark :: amanda palmer

if there's no one beside you when your soul embarks / i'll follow you into the dark

**********

.(Skewed) Bonus Track (with ficlet).

"Took you long enough. Body-bag plastic isn't exactly designed for comfort or breathability."

"That's because the chief consumer demographic is actually dead." Samantha grinned affectionately as she finished unzipping the heavy material and helped pull the rumpled, grumbling man up and out of the narrow metal container. "Careful with that first step, they put you in one of the upper-level drawers."

"I'm surprised the bastards didn't post happy-face stickers all over me to celebrate their stunning victory." Jack stretched and flexed his neck, wincing at the audible cracks. "Ahh. Much better. Figured I'd feel colder after twelve hours in a morgue."

"Trust me, you were cold and pulseless enough to convince everyone that you'd become the late Jack of All Trades. Including me if I hadn't known the plan." Sam frowned at the memory.

"Designer death-drugs a la Newquay, my dear." Jack smirked cockily as he began to strip off his torn clothing. "You have no idea the number of prototypes I had to tear through until I achieved the right mix of bio-stasis and minimal residual side-effects. The effort was practically -- ew."

Sam glanced up at his change in tone and had to bite back a loud bark of laughter. The sight of the vicious, infamous serial killer looking utterly appalled as he tried to pull a burst dye-pack off his chest without getting his fingers sticky was...a bit of a disconnect.

Jack caught her look and shrugged grumpily. "You know my MO -- I never catch any spatter."

"Think of it as a messy necessity." Sam handed him a clean black sweater and pair of jeans as he stuffed the old clothes into a nearby bio-hazard bag. "If there hadn't been a big bleeding hole in your chest I think Bailey would've put one there out of general principle. As it is I'm amazed Grace hasn't been down here pushing to do the autopsy."

Jack poured the contents of a small glass bottle into the biohazard bag and nodded in satisfaction at the bubbling sound that emanated from the contents. "Ruined evidence, check. So how did you manage to keep the Federal Scooby Gang out of here?"

"An anonymous tip to the press that the alleged Public Enemy Number One had been gunned down unarmed and that the FBI was about to scramble to cover their tracks. It was like blood in the water -- everyone from CNN to YouTube converged on the VCTF to get the real story. The only one who escaped the scrutiny so far is the poor, victimized profiler who needed to hide and rest." Sam sighed dramatically and gave her most pitiable pout.

"And yet you were able to pull yourself together enough to make that anonymous call." Jack kissed the tip of her nose. "I'm touched, really."

"Actually, our mystery tipster is parked in the loading zone waiting to drive us to the airport." Sam handed him a small manila envelope. "Two first-class tickets to London under the names of...well, whoever's on our new passports. I told you Angel was trustworthy."

Jack shook his head with a bemused grin. "I probably owe her an apology for trying to kill her."

"It would be a start, yes." Sam glanced around the morgue one final time and motioned for him to follow her to the loading bay. "Although I suspect she's already forgiven you. After she found out you only gave Denzel a short-acting reversible poison she admitted that you probably couldn't be all bad and still be a pet person." She wisely decided not to mention that Denzel hadn't been as forgiving, as evidenced by the multiple episodes of shredding and/or peeing on everything in the house that remotely smelled like roses or cigarettes. "I think our tracks are as covered as they're going to be. It's not perfect, but it should buy us enough time to disappear overseas."

"Samantha, wait." Jack grabbed her arm before she could open the loading bay door. "You're sure about this -- about coming with me?"

"As sure as I've ever been about anything." Sam threw her arms about his neck and drew him in close.

"You know there's no turning back, ever, if we do this? Chloe --"

"--will be much better off growing up with Angel and Bailey and the others than she ever would be with me." Samantha finished. "It's the best thing I could do for her. I love you, Jack -- the only time I'm alive is when you're around."

"And I love you too, Samantha. My Samantha." Jack kissed the top of her head with an awestruck smile. "I can really say that now, can't I?"

"I hope you never stop saying it."

Sam leaned up to kiss him but jumped back with a guilty laugh as a horn broke the silence. "I think Angel's trying to tell us to get on with it."

Jack groaned. "And now I can't even kill her because she's our accomplice and your BFF...what's with the look? I watched a lot of the CW when I was stuck in Otis."

"I suppose it's no worse than the killing thing. Which we'll need to talk about, by the way. I'm not sure I can live with any more blood and violence."

"I'm all about the flexibility, my love. So which obscure paradise shall we head to after London? I hear that Easter Island is lovely this time of year. And possibly isolated enough to be clothing-optional." Jack waggled his eyebrows with a leer.

"Such a one-track mind." Sam silenced the leer with a firm kiss. "I don't care where we go. I'm with you -- I'm home."

Jack opened the loading door. "So let's go home."

"Race you there."

.end.

over the hill :: polly paulusma

and i said darling, over the hill there's a place where time stands still / let's have a race there, come on boy, i'll chase you up over the hill

[download .zip with all songs & cover art]

Obscurity!Mix #1: Misery Loves Company - Profiler, Grace/Jack

nancefics — Sun, 13 Apr 2008 23:57:43 GMT

This is the first of my Obscurity!Mixes, wherein I challenge people to challenge me to compile a fanmix based upon the random bits of obscure musical crap on my playlists. *G* If anyone wants to join in the challenge, drop a comment here so I can spread more of the unknown-tunes lurve.

velvetwhip requested a mix for Grace/Jack, one of her favorite 'ships in the Profilerverse and one that's beginning to strike me as having lots of shiny train-wrecky potential. When I listened to this mix my first thought was "wow, Grace sounds pretty pissed off through this whole thing," but really, if a girl has to put up with a mopey serial killer who messes up her lab and obsesses over her blonde office-mate, she can be as pissy as she wants on my iPod. ;)

Let me know if you want any individual songs uploaded, and enjoy!

misery loves company :: a grace / jack mix

01:: roisin murphy :: ramalama (bang bang)
could a body close the mind out, stitch a seam across the eye / if you can be good you’ll live forever, if you’re bad you’ll die when you die

02:: rotary downs :: vulgar ways
talking 'bout the troubles of a well-known criminal / his friends won’t touch him but he knows his women will not complain

03:: emilie autumn :: misery loves company
you’re not a prince, you’re not a friend / you’re just a child, and in the end / you’re one more selfish lover / do I need you (yes and no) / do I want you (maybe so)

04:: pinky beecroft and the white russians :: make your selection press ok
if you had your life once more would you live it like before / or would you turn and lock your door if you could see me coming?

05:: bird york:: wicked little high
you’re the reason for therapy, why i should go back / hey mr. wrong, you’re the tingle in my jeans / you’re everything i want and everything i don’t need

06:: jackie blue :: jackie
and i try so hard to refrain / oh but jackie just won’t let me be

07:: carina round :: stolen car
well i didn’t mean to be looking for you, but it’s cold in the alley and my life’s a mess / there’s a room on fire in the back of my brain

[download .zip with all songs & artwork]"

Fic: The Alpha Male (part 1) - Heroes, Sylar/Claire, Mr. Muggles, PG-13

nancefics — Mon, 03 Dec 2007 04:41:04 GMT

So, apparently there's this pretty awesome show out there called "Heroes," and I'm only finding out a year or so after the fact. Obscure Fandom Girl is nothing if not consistently dense. ;)

Erm, what is it with me and my kink for hooking up serial killers and mouthy teens?? I think Claire and Sylar could have an interesting dynamic together if their paths ever crossed again. The way I envision it, things would be hot and angsty and bittersweet.

...the way I actually wrote it is, of course, a whole different little kind of crack-monkey. *G*

The Alpha Male (part 1)

Author: Robin Nance

Fandom/Characters: Heroes, Claire/Sylar, Mr. Muggles

Story Type: Humor/Romance

Rating: PG-13 (language, little bit of violence and suggestive situations)

Summary: Six months after Kirby Plaza, Claire’s had enough of the boredom that comes with being normal. Sylar’s goal is to avoid being ordinary at all costs. Be careful what you wish for….

Spoilers: Erm, all of season one and bits and pieces of the first three episodes of season two. After that it all goes to hell in the proverbial AU-handbasket. *G*

Disclaimer: Pfft, do you remember an episode where this even came close to happening? Obviously, they’re still not my toys. ;)

******

Somewhere along the line, her life had become all about Mr. Muggles’ back end.

Claire Bennet stooped and scooped as the family dog ran around her feet in circles, barking at her with what she suspected was equal parts reproach and relief.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry I made you wait so long for a bathroom break,” she grumbled as she deposited the used plastic baggie in the garbage can at the side of the garage. “Cut me some slack, OK? It’s not my fault I had to contend with cheer practice and West in the same afternoon.”

Mr. Muggles cocked his head at her in an obvious Pomeranian version of “bitch, please,” then trotted up the steps and into the house without a backward glance.

“Fine, you can be mad at me too, join the club!” Claire called to the retreating fluffy tail, then realized that standing in the backyard arguing with a dog in full view of the neighbors probably didn’t fall under the guidelines of keeping a low profile.

Perfect. Just the way she wanted to start the weekend. Sighing, she headed back into the house, slamming the door for good measure.

It was a classic case of be-careful-what-you-wish-for, really.

Ever since she’d discovered she was Indestructible Girl, all she’d wanted was to feel a little bit normal again, to actually fit in and belong somewhere. Unfortunately, Primatech (or The Company or whatever the hell they were calling themselves nowadays) thought she belonged in a lab strapped to a gurney. Sylar thought she belonged dead minus one brain, and her father thought she belonged in a glass bubble like some delicate little doll that had to be protected from air and daylight and life in general. Sure, that last one was the best out of three, but it didn’t change the fact that Noah Bennet’s well-intentioned paranoia made normal teenage life pretty damned impossible.

And yet, in the end, the fact that her dad was paranoid actually hadn’t meant that people weren’t out to get her. It had only taken one nuked Odessa homestead, one vaguely sinister grandmother, and one almost-wiped-out major metropolitan area to drive the point home and ensure that Claire finally got it – “normal” was something that had to be cultivated carefully (translation: faked) under deep, deep cover.

So here she was, six months past that night in Kirby Plaza and six days past her seventeenth birthday, which she’d celebrated quietly as Claire Butler of Costa Verde, California.

Peter was still missing, his absence an immense gaping hole in her gut that hurt too much to even think about for too long. Nathan was still scouring the ends of the earth for him last she’d heard – not that he’d told her directly, of course, or even contacted her at all since that night. She supposed she couldn’t really blame him, since what could she ever be to him but a living reminder of unprotected sex and exploding siblings?

Claire Butler, on the other hand, was having a pretty good time of it. She went to an average high school where she got average grades and hung out with her average classmates. She donned the Costa Verde High blue each week and cheered for their average football team. She had your average teenaged drama-studded relationship with a boy who, though sweet and supportive and special in his own right, would never be that kind of special, the heart-pounding, weak-in-the-knees kind that she apparently was to him, no matter how high he flew or how well he kissed, and this filled her with an average amount of guilt.

In short, Claire Butler had reached near-perfect levels of normal beyond Claire Bennet’s wildest, fondest dreams.

Claire Bennet was bored beyond shitless.

It wasn’t that she’d enjoyed the past year, exactly – she could have gone an entire lifetime without seeing her father shot or Jackie with the top of her head sliced open. It was just that, ironically enough, in the midst of all the danger and chaos and pain, she’d finally had the sense that she was doing something important. She’d been looked up to, confided in, depended upon. She had been useful for the first time in her life.

Her current utility consisted of hanging around the house on dog-sitting duty for the next three days, while her parents took Lyle to computer camp in San Francisco.

Be careful what you wish for, indeed.

She couldn’t really complain too much – she’d be the first to admit that Lyle had been through tons of upheaval on her account over the past year, and he’d handled it with far less resentment and whining than she would’ve done in his shoes. He deserved a whole lot more than one weekend of ‘Net surfing and parental bonding, when you got right down to it. And the mere fact that her dad was actually allowing her to spend a weekend at home alone was testimony to exactly how much safer and saner the lives of the Bennet/Butler clan had become – six months ago he’d never even have considered the concept. Now it was just another way she got to be normal.

It was a way that involved a whole lot of poop-scooping, but still. Normal.

Something soft brushed against her ankle, and she broke into a laugh when she saw Mr. Muggles staring up at her, wagging his tail as he chewed on a stuffed purple teddy bear twice the size of his head.

“Sure, dog, just go ahead and eat my few remaining childhood memories, no problem. I guess you’ve forgiven me for now? Well, that makes you one up on a certain stupid boy I know.”

She scooped the little dog up in her arms, bear and all, and carried him into the family room in the back of the house. Mr. Muggles contented himself with curling up on the sofa, still shredding the toy, while Claire sat beside him and flipped through a large pile of the day’s mail.

“Well, we’ll just have Friday Netflix Night without any stupid boys, won’t we, Mr. Muggles?” she muttered as she sorted out magazines and flyers. “We can have lots of fun without West.”

Beside her, Mr. Muggles perked up and barked sharply.

“OK, sorry for mentioning him, there’s no need for you to get snippy. I’d really like to know why you hate him so much.”

…and God help her, she was chatting up a canine. Apparently today was the day she officially turned into her mom. Claire shook her head with a grimace and glanced through the latest movie deliveries.

“Geez, Mom, retro ‘80’s mood much? I can’t believe these are the — hey, watch it!”

She yelped in alarm as Mr. Muggles suddenly launched himself over her lap and off the couch. He landed with a skid on a small throw-rug on the far side of the room and leapt in circles, barking and wagging his tail furiously.

Claire frowned and rolled her eyes. “Shush! We’ll spend the rest of the evening together and I promise you’ll get lots of attention, OK? C’mon, get back here.”

The dog reluctantly trotted back, stopping several times to turn, bark and wag in the general direction of the empty wall. His human companion shook her head, bemused and more than a little irritated.

“I think the move to Cali fried your brains, dog. Now, on to the important question: do we do ‘Beaches’ and female-bonding angst, ‘Sixteen Candles’ and teen angst, or ‘St. Elmo’s Fire’ and yuppie angst?”

“Got anything where stuff blows up?”

Her first thought was that Mr. Muggles had a surprisingly deep voice.

Her second thought would have probably focused on the sheer absurdity of that first thought, but it was rapidly quashed by thought number three, an amalgam of “Sylar,” “can’t breathe,” and “ouch” as she was yanked up off the couch and slammed against the far wall with enough force to shatter every glass picture frame in the vicinity. She hovered there three feet off the ground, sneakers kicking ineffectually at thin air while she gasped and clawed at the invisible band that was tightening around her throat.

Something started to materialize in her peripheral vision, and she was able to twist her head enough to see him take form like so many grains of sand coming together, all smirks and angles and black, right down to the baseball cap pulled low over the mocking eyes.

“You’re – you – d-dead!” She could barely croak out the words around his telekinetic grip.

“Yeah, I’ve been getting that a lot. I think those rumors were a little exaggerated. Nice to see you again, Claire-bear.” Sylar stepped closer, head tilted critically as he surveyed her. “I think I preferred the red uniform. Blue doesn’t really do much for you.”

“Go to hell!” Really, she thought it was pretty impressive that she could manage so much bravado when it felt like her lungs were about to pop.

Sylar laughed. “No thanks, sweets, I’ll leave that to your exploding uncle. Hey, incidentally, did you ever recover any pieces of him? Or did he just create a big bunch of Petrelli confetti when he went boom?”

Her limbs were going numb from oxygen deprivation, but she managed to get the point across with a single middle finger extended in his general direction.

“Well, now, that’s just rude…oh, hi there, Fluffy.” Sylar bent to scratch the ears of one very excited Pomeranian, who was leaping up at him and wagging his tail as if he’d just found a long-lost friend – and who’d obviously figured out said “friend” was in the house before Claire had, if his earlier weird antics were any indication.

Turncoat little furball bastard.

Deliberately or not, Sylar let himself get distracted enough by the dog to break the telekinesis, and Claire landed on the family room floor in an inelegant heap, gasping as she waited for her windpipe to snap back into shape.

“At least one member of the family knows how to greet a guest – don’t you, Mr. Muggles? And after all the trouble I went through to find you, too.” Sylar picked up a bone-shaped squeaky toy and tossed it across the room, smirking as Mr. Muggles turned in several excited circles before taking off after it. “I mean, they really relocated you to the ass-end of the country, didn’t they, Claire? Must be a far cry from Manhattan for someone who’s so young and full of life.” The sinister emphasis placed on the last word promised that Claire wouldn’t be feeling that way much longer.

She’d fallen beside an overturned end-table and a big brass lamp. With a groan and a stretch, Claire sidled in front of the table in what she hoped was a subtle manner. “Costa Verde’s not so different from Odessa. And that was a good place to live, until you showed up and ruined things.”

“Oh please, it’s a good place as long as you’re not the poor schmuck getting electrodes stuck in the back of his head in the Paper Outlet from Hell. And I’m not the one who blew up the family homestead. That was Radioactive Boy, remember?”

Her right hand closed around the heavy brass base. “Could you at least have the decency to try to remember the names of the people you’ve killed? His name was Ted.”

“Whatever. He was whiny. Whiny pisses me off. Aw, good boy!”

Mr. Muggles had trotted back with his prize and was prancing around Sylar’s shoes, barking for attention. Sylar bent down to throw the toy again, turning his back completely and giving Claire her chance – he certainly wouldn’t be the first guy to underestimate a little blonde cheerleader, she mused grimly.

With reflexes honed from many a cheer-tower dismount, she quickly rolled to one side, scrambled to her feet, and swung the brass lamp base as hard as she could.

“What the --?” Sylar turned at the last moment, and the blow meant for the back of his head connected with his left shoulder, hard enough to elicit a grunt of pain and send him sprawling onto the floor. The black baseball cap went flying off his head at the impact and almost landed on Mr. Muggles, who was yelping in alarm at the sudden flurry of violent activity.

Claire raised the lamp base and swung again, this time aiming for the killer’s head – only to gasp as his head, and the rest of him, melted away into the same grain-like particles. In an instant he’d re-materialized and slammed her back into the wall, this time foregoing telekinesis for a large hand wrapped around her throat.

And if whiny pissed him off, she didn’t really want to think about what attempted skull-crushing-by-lamp did to him.

“I’ll give you credit for guts, princess, but that was a bad move.” Sylar ground the words out viciously; his face was inches from her own and his eyes were almost black with fury. “I’m not a bad guy. I could’ve made it quick. Now it’s going to hurt.”

Claire watched, squirming and choking helplessly, as his right index finger came up in what felt like slow motion. This is the part where my life is supposed to flash in front of my eyes, she thought. But all she could focus on was the increasing hum of blood rushing in her ears and the near-hysterical sound of Mr. Muggles barking somewhere near their feet.

Sylar flicked a quick glance toward the agitated dog. “Sorry, Fluff, no time for you right now.”

The lethal finger waved gently, and Mr. Muggles went surfing across the room on one of the throw rugs, yelping in outrage as he traveled all the way into the guest bathroom. As the door slammed shut on his offended howls, Sylar turned his attention back to the task at hand.

“I’d ask if you have any last words, but no one ever seems to come up with anything interesting.” God, she wanted to punch that stupid smirk right off his stupid face. “Feel free to scream, though.”

Raised finger, sharp sting and a sick ripping sound a second later, and damn it she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of reacting but it hurt, oh God, and he was taking his time and she couldn’t breathe and –

-- she wasn’t sure what came first, the explosion or the shock wave; but suddenly Sylar’s hand was off her throat and they were bouncing against the wall and one another like two of Mr. Muggles’ rubber squeaky toys, ears ringing and eyes stinging from a slurry of dust and splintered wood as the bathroom door blew right off its hinges.

******

Claire shifted and groaned. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been stretched out on the family room floor, but she’d landed on something soft and surprisingly comfortable, and her first impulse was to catch a quick nap while her poor abused head healed up.

Reality intruded in the form of something fuzzy and damp landing right on her face, and it took a few seconds of squinting to realize she was staring up at a pair of bright canine eyes.

Mr. Muggles barked a happy greeting, swooping in to lick her nose and pawing at the drool-covered purple teddy bear he’d deposited on her chin in an unsubtle invitation to play. Sawdust was still wafting through the air and creating an interesting halo effect over his fluffy beige fur. Claire sneezed, grimacing at the dull ache that coursed down the back of her skull with the sudden movement.

“Nice trick,” Sylar wheezed in her ear, and she realized the soft comfortable thing she was sprawled over was him. With a yelp of alarm, Claire bolted up and back.

“W-wasn’t me,” she coughed, settling against the wall out of reach of those long lethal arms. “I thought blowing things up was your talent.”

“Why the hell would I blow up your house? It’s not like I wasn’t already in the middle of killing you.” Sylar sat up and flexed his neck irritably, causing a fine coating of dust to detach from his dark hair and flutter down over his shoulders.

“I don’t know, maybe because you’re a raving brain-stealing psycho?” Getting the last word in probably wasn’t top priority at the moment, but Claire got a nice amount of satisfaction from the dig.

Sylar opened his mouth to snipe back, then just shrugged tetchily and raised his index finger. Claire squeaked and pressed tighter against the wall, bracing herself for the slicing pain and the spill of blood that would wash the dust from her eyes.

But there wasn’t any slicing or telekinetic shoving. And the only thing she saw was Sylar’s smug expression morphing into confusion and then into something like alarm when his powers failed to activate. He waved his finger again, then his entire arm, then both arms – nothing.

“Son of a bitch, I just got those back!”

He slammed a fist into the wall in frustration, and Claire took the opportunity to lob the toy bear at him as hard as she could. Sylar’s instinctual telekinetic hand-wave failed like the rest of his attempts, and the toy left a gratifying smear of dog-drool as it bounced off his forehead.

Mr. Muggles yipped in excitement and scurried off to fetch his soggy prize. Claire bolted right behind the dog, only to pitch forward onto her knees as Sylar grabbed her right ankle and yanked hard.

“I don’t know what the hell is going on here, Claire, but you know the one redeeming thing about this situation?” He pinned her to the ground, one knee pressing into the small of her back. “I’m pretty sure I can kill a little thing like you even without the powers.”

Claire gritted her teeth against the pain of his full weight. The back of her head felt scarily exposed in her current position, and she had no doubt he could easily make good on the threat. “Under the circumstances, wouldn’t that be kind of a waste of a good brain?”

“Who knows? Maybe your brain will fix me right up again. Or maybe my normal powers are still there and this is all just another big illusion dreamed up by Daddy’s company.”

“There’s nothing normal about you or your powers.”

Sylar stood, yanking Claire up by the hair and spinning her around to face him. “Or maybe,” he ground out, pressing her back against the wall with a nasty grin, “I’ll just kill you to shut you the hell up. You know, right now that option kind of works for me.”

Mr. Muggles barked sharply, and Claire glanced past Sylar’s shoulder to watch him drop the purple teddy bear at their feet. Sometime during their confrontation, the little dog had actually collected an entire pile of toys – obviously, he’d figured the two humans weren’t getting the hint that he wanted to play.

His doggy obliviousness would be amusing if she weren’t about to die messily at the hands of a lunatic.

“Chill, Fluffy, just as soon as I take care of…” Sylar trailed off, and Claire realized he was staring at her with a perplexed frown. "You have a mark."

“What?”

“You still have a slice on the side of your head,” Sylar clarified at her blank look. “It’s not supposed to work like that, is it?”

“That’s impossible, it never takes more than a few – ouch!” Sylar reached out and pressed a thumb just in front of her right ear, and Claire flinched at the surprising sting of pressure against cut flesh. “You asshole, that hurts!” Reflexively, she punched him in the midsection.

“Ow, hey, watch the stitches!” Sylar stepped back, releasing his grip. Claire dropped to her knees, grabbing one of the broken picture frames and angling the mirrored glass until she could see her reflection. She stared in amazement at the thin, angry red line that ran just in front of her right ear to the edge of her eyebrow. It was superficial, definitely an improvement over the deep nasty wound that had been carved into her, but it showed no sign of fading away in the immediate future.

Mr. Muggles pranced in front of her, delighted to be face to face and pointedly nosing at a squeaky toy. He whined in frustration when Claire ignored him and pulled herself back up to face Sylar.

“I don’t understand – I always heal right away. That wasn’t even the worst cut I’ve ever had.” All of a sudden the presence of the injury was scaring her more than the man who’d put it there. “What the hell’s going on, Sylar? What did you do?”

Sylar quirked an eyebrow. “What did I do? In case you haven’t noticed, I seem to be having the same issues here.”

“But everything was working fine until you showed up and started slicing and dicing and blowing things up!”

“I’m only copping to the slice and dice, princess – the explosion was all yours.”

“I don’t explode. All I do is heal – it had to be your fault!”

“Are your ears plugged, you little bimbo? I didn’t cause any explosion!”

“Well, I sure didn’t do it, and you’re the only other person here. And how dare you call me bimbo, you – you New York metrosexual!”

“…Do you realize that’s not even an insult, or did they not show ‘Sex and the City’ when you were growing up in Cowtown USA?”

“Better Cowtown than…Brain-Stealing-Stupid-Hair-Only-Color-He-Can-Coordinate-is-Black-Town!”

“My God, I thought I gave people headaches. Do you even have a brain in there?”

“Why yes, yes I do, and apparently there’s nothing you can do about it right now.”

“Oh, really? Is that a challenge?”

They were interrupted by a series of sharp staccato barks, followed by a second blast. It was smaller and less violent than its door-destroying predecessor, but it still knocked them against the wall and back onto the floor, this time into a pile of dog toys and various soft, well-chewed household items.

Claire pulled a hole-filled sock away from her eyes in time to see Mr. Muggles practically bouncing in place. Random papers and squeaky-toys and picture frames exploded into the air in perfect, disconcerting synchrony with his movements.

“M-M-Mr. Muggles?” She could barely squeak in shock and disbelief.

Excited at finally getting some attention, the little Pomeranian yelped and pounced on the abused purple teddy bear. He shook it vigorously, growling and wagging and sneaking looks at Claire to be sure she was watching his performance. One final shake and the head snapped off with a rip that Sylar would have admired, sending a spray of cotton stuffing all over Mr. Muggles’ face.

Mr. Muggles barked victoriously, and the entertainment center simultaneously imploded in a shower of glass, sparks, and splintered wood.

Well. Apparently there was another special Bennet in the house.

“Holy shit.”

Sylar sounded as shocked as she felt – Claire realized with a blush that she’d landed half on his lap again, and quickly re-located to her own piece of floor.

The dog yipped and wagged at Sylar – who cursed and did a quick nose-dive beside Claire as a picture frame went careening off the opposite wall and narrowly missed his head – then turned and galloped behind the sofa. It was the one remaining intact piece of furniture in the entire room, and Mr. Muggles’ two human companions watched in a daze as random objects blasted into the air from behind the cushions in time to the audible canine snuffles and grunts.

Really, Claire didn’t even know how to begin to wrap her mind around this.

“Oh, Claire,” Sylar began in a conversational tone, “exactly where did you get Mr. Muggles?”

“N-nowhere special,” Claire stammered. “My mom’s fussy about her show dogs, and she only ever uses one or two people. She got Mr. Muggles from a breeder outside of Dallas.”

“And was there anything particularly special about the breeder?” Sylar leaned back on his elbows casually, as if their conversation were taking place on the beach instead of in a decimated family room.

“No, she was just this normal woman, a housewife who bred dogs. She was married to a guy who used to work with my fath – oh.” The pieces of the puzzle fell into place, and Claire stared back at Sylar in shock.

“Oh,” Sylar parroted caustically. “So Mr. Muggles is a Primatech pup. Well, swell. What else does he do besides blow things up and steal people’s powers?”

“I don’t know – he’s never done anything like this before. He’s always been just a dog. He does dog things.”

As if on cue, Mr. Muggles reappeared, trotting out from behind the sofa with a long, floppy stuffed toy that most closely resembled a giant fuzzy blue weiner-dog. He proceeded to deposit it at Sylar’s feet, tail wagging as he alternately pawed at the toy and at Sylar’s legs.

Claire raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Mr. Bobo.”

“What? Isn't he Mr. Muggles?” Sylar flinched as the dog barked, obviously expecting something to explode at close range.

“Yeah, of course the dog is Mr. Muggles. The toy is Mr. Bobo. It’s Mr. Muggles’ all-time favorite toy. Mr. Muggles loves Mr. Bobo.”

“Is there a point to this story?” A small vein began to beat on Sylar’s forehead in time to each of the "Misters" in her explanation.

“Um, the point is that he doesn’t let anyone touch that toy but my mom. He freaks out when the rest of us do anything with it. He wants you to wiggle it and throw it to him – apparently, he finds you Mr. Bobo-worthy.” Claire rolled her eyes in disgust. “He likes you.”

Sylar grinned and reached to scratch behind the fuzzy ears. “Well, Fluff, I’ll give you credit for good taste. Now give me my powers back and we’ll call it even.” He waved a hand gently toward the stuffed toy, which continued to sit at his feet, unmoving and thoroughly untouched by telekinesis.

Sylar’s expression fell and he leaned back against the wall petulantly. “Come on, damn it! Do you know how many people I had to tear through to get back to where I am?”

“Hey, don’t yell at my dog!” Claire snapped. Mr. Muggles began to whine at the escalation of their voices, and she continued in a softer tone. “Look, I don’t think he even realizes he’s doing this. I might be figuring this out -- according to some of the things my mom’s told me about little dogs, this is a pretty normal reaction to stress.”

Sylar stared at her incredulously. “You think this is normal?”

“OK, not ‘this’ as in the explosions and the almost-getting-us-killed stuff, but the demands for attention and the acting out. I think he’s got separation anxiety.”

She waited for the expected mockery, but noted in surprise that Sylar didn’t contradict her. Taking a deep breath, she went with the train of thought.

“He’s a show dog, right? He’s used to being the center of attention. For the entire three years he’s been with us, he’s always either traveled with my mother wherever she went, or if that was impossible he went to a special kennel where he could play with other dogs. This is the first time he’s ever been home alone with me, and it hasn’t been going very well so far. I was at school all day and I got home late. And then you showed up and made things worse.”

Her friendly neighborhood killer looked unimpressed. “So if I’m hearing this correctly, the real tragedy here is that Mr. Muggles isn’t feeling the love and you had a hard day at school. Never mind that I have to re-collect my new powers and get the fucking telekinesis back for the third fucking time. Cry me a fucking river over your bad day, Claire.” Sylar banged his head back against the wall with a frustrated thump.

“Hey, language!” She was beginning to wonder if all sociopaths were so immature. “This isn’t the ‘All-About-Sylar Show,’ you know – nobody asked you to barge in here and try to steal anyone’s brain. As far as I’m concerned you got what was coming to you. That doesn’t mean I don’t want my power back.”

“You?” Sylar arched a brow skeptically. “That’s funny. I seem to remember someone a few months back who couldn't stop whining about how horrible it was to be such a big freak of nature.”

Claire felt a pang as she recalled the many times in Odessa that she’d wished her abilities away. “You're wrong, as usual. What I hated was always being afraid I'd stick out and not fit in anywhere. That's different from hating the power itself -- I actually always kind of liked the healing thing. It's useful.”

“Ah, so you secretly got into the whole walking-through-fire heroic routine.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, there’s that. And it does come in handy for surviving random nuclear blasts and New York psychos who just won’t die.”

Sylar grinned grudgingly at that comment, and Claire realized with a start that they were actually having a civil exchange of words. He must have been thinking the same thing, because he sighed and raised his hands in a mock gesture of surrender.

“OK, Claire-bear, we appear to be in the same boat here. It’s a burning, sinking, piece-of-shit boat – yeah, language – but here we are. What do we do to get out of this mess?”

Claire let her gaze travel around the ruined room, back to the fluffy dog waiting expectantly for his favorite killer to wiggle his favorite toy, and finally over to the disheveled man sitting beside her. Obviously, she was losing her mind (no disassembly by Sylar required) to even consider such a plan. On the other hand, maybe desperate times called for desperate measures.

Mr. Muggles shook his toy with a little half-growl, and the sofa fell over with a crash.

Oh yeah, the times they were a-changin’, and they were getting more desperate by the minute.

“Fine,” she sighed. “I propose a truce. My family’s gone until Sunday night. We have until then to make a nice pleasant environment where we’re civil to one another and Mr. Muggles gets all the attention he wants. Hopefully he’ll be happy enough to stop doing…whatever it is he’s doing, and we’ll get our powers back. Then I can try to come up with an excuse for what happened to this room, and you can leave before my father finds you and blows your head off. And stop calling me Claire-bear,” she added as an afterthought. “I hate that even coming from people I like.”

“Deal.”

Sylar looked about as happy with the situation as she was, but nevertheless he offered his hand, which she shook tentatively. Mr. Muggles jumped up to lick their joined hands, then nosed at his toy and started to bark impatiently at Sylar.

A shower of sparks erupted from two of the upended brass lamps in time to his barks. Claire yelped and huddled closer to Sylar despite herself.

“Suggestions would be appreciated here, Claire.” Sylar’s snark and sarcasm seemed to have left him in the impending electrical onslaught.

Claire stayed pressed tightly against the wall and Sylar, thinking that weirder words had never ever come out of her mouth:

“I suggest you start wiggling Mr. Bobo like your life depended on it.”

And everything had been so normal a few hours ago.

Oh yeah, be very very careful what you wish for.

**end part 1 // to be continued**

Pimpin' Out: Profiler_Fans 2007 Secret Santa!

nancefics — Tue, 23 Oct 2007 09:18:48 GMT

Because I think it's important that we all celebrate one the few instances that I actually organized something with time to spare! *G*

The Profiler_Fans 2007 Secret Santa Exchange

Sign-ups run through Sunday, November 4th. *poke*

Fic: "Seven Days : Prologue" R (Profiler, Sam/Jack)

nancefics — Sun, 09 Sep 2007 19:38:44 GMT

...wow. I think I started this sucker before the series actually ended. *boggles* It's amazing what you can find when cleaning out your .docs files.

This is basically a re-write of "Otis, CA," from a more skewed perspective. It's less romance than angst, I'd say, but it gets an "R" rating for smatterings of sex and violence.

...and because I'm such a big old music ho-bag, it gets its own oddball Otis-flavored roadhouse fanmix here. *G*

Seven Days: Prologue

Author: Robin Nance
Fandom: Profiler, Sam/Jack, Drama/Angst/Romance
Rating: R (sex/violence/language)

Feedback: Wanted, needed and appreciated - here or at digital_doc_01@yahoo.com

Synopsis: Perspectives, geography, and entire lives can change in seven days.

Prologue

*****

The waiting was the hard part.

He was patient because he had to be, but he hated it, every hour that passed apart from her, every day that had stretched into weeks and months while she drifted through her life, unaware. He'd monitored her movements, kept track of her as always, but it wasn't the same. He'd had to keep things impersonal, staying in the background while the bit players did their jobs. And all the while he'd felt strangely empty, like some vast essential piece of himself had melted away, leaving him more alone than ever even though his plans were working to perfection.

She felt the same loss -- he knew it, even if she didn't understand it yet. Or, more likely, wouldn't yet admit it to herself. It was one of the many things he loved about her, that determination, the flintiness of spirit that manifested in such a stubborn clinging to her beliefs in the shoulds and oughts, the rights and wrongs of life. But he could see it in her face, even through the filter of the surveillance cameras that had been his poor substitute for intimacy for so many months. A piece of her was gone, too, and she noticed, she mourned the absence that she wouldn't acknowledge. He trembled to think of how she would channel that beautiful energy once he'd opened her eyes and shown her all of her true potential.

How he'd missed her.

But it was finally time. The stage was set, and he could step out of the shadows at last.

*****

"You really should cut back on the visits, Sam -- people will say we’re in love."

Samantha Waters stared into the soft china blue eyes of the multiple murderer behind the Plexiglas wall. Donald Lucas gave as good as he got for the better part of five minutes, but finally lost the match; flinching under the steadiness of her gaze, he sat back down on the prison cot with hands primly folded.

"Much as I'm enjoying your company, Sam, I assume you came to do more than just stare at me."

"We know about these." She dangled a pair of thick black-framed reading glasses from one finger.

He shrugged. "So I'm near-sighted. Other than that, dear, you really have to admit I'm pure perfection."

She bit back an angry response. Behind her, Bailey Malone rested a calming hand on her arm, and she took a deep breath before continuing. "We know these allow you to see holographic images when you’re online. And we know you're communicating with someone on the outside."

"By the way, Sam, how's your dad these days?"

Sam faltered, taken off guard by the rapid subject shift. Malone stepped up beside her, still ready to protect her from the monster behind the Plexiglas even though he'd long ceased being a direct threat.

"Who are you communicating with over the Internet, Lucas?" he snapped.

Lucas turned the mockery of his blue eyes toward the other man. "What's wrong, Agent Malone? Jealous that I have a fan club and you don't?" He chuckled at the epithet thrown in his direction. "Oh, now that's a voice of reason and authority. I must say, Sam, that it took your little play group long enough to figure things out. What finally turned that switch? Did you decide I was spending an inordinate amount of time on filing the perfect appeal?"

"We're going to find out who you're communicating with, you know," growled Bailey.

"And what makes you so sure of that?"

"Because you want us to." Sam's voice was flat. "It's all part of the game, right? It's no fun without pawns to move about at your will."

Lucas shook his head in amusement. "Nice thought. But even with pawns -- and you all play that role so well -- a game is meaningless without a purpose. C'mon, Sam, tell me -- what purpose is served here? Why would I be trying to contact the outside world?"

She stepped closer to the wall, daring him to try to stare her down again. "Look around at what passes for the rest of your life. Maybe you're lonely."

She had the satisfaction of seeing the suave mask crumple in surprise for a moment. Then the expression quickly faded, to be replaced with the self-assured smugness that had greeted her regularly over the past months.

Lucas smiled tightly, obviously irked that she'd gotten to him even for that brief moment. "You know, Sam, if you were as good a daughter as you are a profiler, you'd forego the treasure hunt and spend a little more time with dear old Dad. I suspect he's feeling a bit of stress these days, and one never knows how long one's loved ones have left on this earth – do they?"

The words hurt her and he knew it; the smug smile widened, only to be replaced by an expression of mild alarm as Bailey smacked an open palm against the Plexiglas with a resounding crack.

"Shut up, you bastard!"

It was Sam's turn to be the voice of calm and reason. "Come on, he's not worth it," she muttered as she tugged Bailey back from the wall. Turning sharply, she walked out of the cell area, never looking back at the blue eyes that she knew were burning into her back.

"Miserable waste of time," Malone growled as they left the prison compound for the comparative warmth of an Atlanta February morning. "I'm sorry to have put you through that for nothing."

"I'm not sure it was altogether a waste." Sam sighed and stretched as they approached their cars. "He knows we're on to him, and it might affect how he deals with his contact. It might even help us flush the contact out."

"Somehow I was hoping we'd get more of a reaction from the cocky bastard. He took the news a little too well."

Sam shook her head. "Actually, it was more of a reaction than I thought he'd let us see, which is what's confusing me. He's still proud of playing his games and dangling information in front of us, just like always, only...." Her voice trailed off, and Malone glanced over to see her frowning into the distance.

"Only what, Sam?"

"It's just -- there was something else today. Something new." She paused as she tried to organize her thoughts into the appropriate words. "When he challenged me to discover the purpose of his actions, I got the feeling that he didn't quite know the purpose himself. It was almost like he was asking me in the hope of discovering the answer. And when I said he was lonely, he actually looked like he was."

"Maybe the reality of the situation is finally catching up to him. Hell, maybe he really is just using the Internet to find a chat room for some company."

“Yeah, but Bail, today was unusual for him. He used to revel in the fact that he didn't need anyone else, he flaunted that he was a solitary genius who could defeat all of us single-handedly. Even Sharon Lesher wasn't anything more than just an extension of himself, he never saw her as a separate person. Today it was almost like Ja -- like Lucas was revealing a whole new side of himself."

Malone smiled grimly. "Well, he's going to have a lot more quality time with that cell before his appointment with the gas chamber, he can try out a million new sides for all it matters." He turned toward his car, then glanced back. "Sam, I'm putting two agents on your father at all times until we find this Internet contact. I don't think Lucas can orchestrate anything that serious from behind bars, but given his history I don’t want to take chances."

She smiled gratefully and squeezed his arm. "Thanks, Bail. I appreciate the extra attention to Chloe and Angel too."

"Well, it made it convenient that Angel would be staying with Chloe in your house while we're in California. Otherwise I suspect she would’ve had some choice words for being under the FBI microscope again. Look, I'm going to head back to the office to do a last-minute wrap-up with George. Are you heading that way?"

Samantha hesitated. "I wasn't planning to, unless you need me. I'd like to pick up a couple of things at home and say good-bye to Chloe. Can I meet you at the airport?"

"No problem, John and I will be on board at two.” Bailey paused with his hand on the sedan’s door, fixing her with a steady gaze. “Sam, this is all going to be over soon, you know. The end is in sight."

She smiled tightly. "You and Paul keep saying the same thing to me, I swear you're rehearsing together. I know it's winding down -- I'll just be glad when it's actually finished."

She sat in her car with the motor idling, watching until Malone had pulled out of the prison parking lot. Once his sedan disappeared she pulled out herself, turning in a direction opposite to Buckhead and her new home. It was easier to do certain things without giving Bailey any details; he'd just worry, and that translated into more lengthy explanations required on her part.

Worrying about her was something that Malone had been doing a lot lately, even before they'd discovered Donald Lucas' newest little techno-toy. She could feel her friend's concern every time she'd insisted that she had to visit Lucas, that she was the only one who could profile him correctly, the only one who had a right to profile him after all she'd been through. So far Bailey had acquiesced, allowing her unlimited access to Lucas in the hope of putting together adequate information to achieve a conviction and put an official, if not a personal, end to the Jack Of All Trades saga that had dogged them for the past seven years.

A wan smile twitched at her mouth as she recalled the anxious look Malone had given her today when she'd almost called Lucas "Jack." He'd tried to break her of that habit right after the capture, insisting that the only way she could achieve true closure was by firmly attaching a name and face to the shadow man who was in the shadows no more. Paul Sterling was in full agreement; he’d prosecuted more than his share of high-profile cases, and he was convinced that repetition of the real name would remove any mystique and give a jury a stronger sense of the killer's identity. And stronger association equaled a much stronger chance of conviction.

So Sam went along with their demands. Every time she thought of Jack, she forced herself to say the name "Donald Lucas," to fix his face and voice firmly in her mind, even though they didn't quite fit with the face and voice in her dreams.

And she waited for that closure they spoke of, but it didn't come.

What she did feel was hard to describe, a vague sort of dissatisfaction that chafed at her. It made her feel silly at best, and guilty at worst when she thought of all she had to be thankful for in her new life. She couldn't explain the feelings to anyone at work for fear of worrying them even more; she didn't feel like listening to Melinda's lengthy professional interpretations, and she was afraid that Angel would consider her crazy or selfish for dwelling too much in a past that was better left behind.

So Samantha Waters presented a normal face to a normal world, day after day, resigning herself to a life where her most important feelings were buried in a deep, lonely little place. And buried they stayed, quietly simmering and patiently waiting, until she could finally talk to the one person who would understand. And even if it meant she’d be late to the airport, she absolutely had to see him before she hit the West Coast and the next chapter of Lucas’ little game.

*****

Dry, long-dead grass crunched under her feet as Samantha walked the grounds of the Ketterley Psychiatric Institute. The gardens were a focal point of color and group therapy gatherings in the summer, but this time of year found them largely deserted, with most of the residents and visitors preferring to stay inside rather than brave the February winds.

Of course, even by institutional standards Elliott Wyckoff wasn't like most people.

She traversed a small incline and caught sight of the large oblong koi pond in the center of the gardens. Some landscape architect had obviously been well paid to recreate a trendy feng shui environment that would appeal to Institute board members; Japanese grasses and lily pads dotted the water in the summertime, and ornate iron benches with matching Asian-motif lanterns were sprinkled around the pond's edge. On one bench, nearest the water and a next to a clump of spiky dead beach-grass, was perched a slender, fragile-appearing man in a battered brown coat and old felt hat. An open sketchbook lay forgotten in his lap as he peered intently into the depths of the half-frozen pond. He looked as if a strong enough gust of wind could send him toppling headfirst through the ice, but beneath the brim of his hat glittered eyes of almost fierce intelligence, hinting at the strength of spirit that inhabited the frail body. Samantha broke into a broad smile at the sight of him; it was the first time she'd felt truly happy in weeks.

"Elliott!"

Her voice punctured his ruminations; Elliott Wyckoff broke into a similar radiant smile and jumped up to embrace her tightly.

"Samantha! I missed you. I was beginning to worry something had happened."

"I'm sorry, Elliott. I should have called, at least. Things have been really busy."

"No matter, no matter," he responded, patting her hand. "Do you mind sitting outside with me? If you're cold we can brave the crowds indoors."

His nose wrinkled in the slightest gesture of distaste as he spoke, and Samantha chuckled. Elliott was a consummate gentleman, and they replayed the same conversation every time she visited him. While he'd gladly sacrifice his comfort for the sake of her own, he certainly hadn't lost the more reclusive aspects of his personality in the year and a half he'd lived at Ketterley; she knew how much he detested being around large groups of people and she'd rather shiver a little than watch him be miserable inside. Besides, Elliott was something of a minor celebrity at the institution; he tended to attract an audience during his rare public appearances, and she'd rather have her friend all to herself today.

"I wouldn't think of going in," she replied, sitting beside him on the bench. "It's lovely out here -- you can almost feel a little bit of spring in the air.” She indicated the sketchbook with a slight nod. “It looks like you've been busy this morning."

With a few deftly rendered charcoal scratches, Wyckoff had recreated the frozen koi pond. An observer's casual glance at the sketch revealed only a still winter landscape; a closer look, however, suggested something sinister and foreboding hovering just beneath the icy surface, as if some force of evil were waiting to lay claim to anyone who got too close. Sam hesitated, not sure whether to admire the work or be alarmed. It seemed that Elliott was still fascinated with his Abyss.

Wyckoff saw the concern flash across her face as she stared at the sketch. He grinned wryly. "My doctors think I have too much doom and gloom in my sketches. Personally, I've always believed that art should imitate life, but I'm thinking of pleasing them for once. Maybe I'll draw a fluffy bunny on one corner -- or better yet, I'll draw myself with a big smile. I'll call it 'Still Life with Mental Patient.'"

"Oh, stop that!" Sam scolded, swatting him affectionately on the arm. "How are things with you, really?"

"Better." He tested the word, rolling it around on his tongue with an introspective expression. "I'm really starting to feel better. They -- that ubiquitous 'they' -- think I've made significant progress over the past month. Rumors are even circulating that I'm to be allowed to go home for a weekend."

"And how do you feel about that prospect?"

"My, don't we sound like the proper professional psychologist?" He winked at her, then turned pensive. "I feel...like it's time. I know if I ever hope to have a life beyond these gardens that I have to rejoin the world. Of course, if you'll recall, joining the world is what got me in trouble in the first place, but I -- I'll never know unless I try, will I?"

His tone was light, but he deliberately looked away from her as he spoke, and Sam knew it was because he didn't want her to see the fear in his eyes. She squeezed his hand encouragingly, and they sat in silence for several minutes, lost in separate thoughts.

Of all the people that Samantha counted among her circle of friends, Elliott Wyckoff was the one who was closest to a comrade in arms. She had met him almost two years ago under the most somber of circumstances, when the well-known psychic ("empathic," he’d be quick to correct) who had devoted years to helping families of murder victims suddenly stood accused himself, suspected in the ritual murders of five people, including his own wife. The real killer had been apprehended by the VCTF and Elliott had been vindicated, but not before he’d been completely consumed by the immensity of the evil that surrounded him. He had fallen headfirst into the Abyss, the private inner hell about which he had written and painted and dreamed so much, and into a complete catatonia.

She’d visited him often at Ketterley over the past eighteen months. Initially it was out of a sense of guilt; one of the last things Wyckoff had done before his breakdown was discuss Jack with her, and she felt somehow responsible for pushing the final button, as though she'd once again delivered an unwitting victim to the evil presence that grinned up at her from her own private Abyss. Sometimes she would talk gently to the broken little man, reassuring him that the murders weren't his fault, reminding him that he had done good and meaningful things and he had to get better because he was needed and missed. Other times she would simply sit quietly and hold his hand to let him know he wasn't alone. One day Elliott had squeezed the fingers that clasped his; a few days later he'd turned his head and smiled at her. Within a week he was speaking in halting sentences. He had progressed from there, initially speaking only to her but gradually opening up to the other inhabitants of his sequestered environment. And somewhere along the way, the frail psychiatric patient had metamorphosed back into a warm, humorous, accepting man who came to mean the world to her.

She'd kept her visits a secret from the others. Part of her simply didn't feel like having to explain why she felt more in common with an institutionalized empathic author than with the people she lived and worked with on a daily basis; she could just imagine the concerned theories and hurt feelings that little revelation would generate.

But there was another, jealous part of her that wanted to protect her private time with Elliott from outside influences. Her life was one defined by barriers, some self-imposed, others forced on her by circumstances beyond her control. She could shed those barriers, mostly, when she spent time here; they might be waiting for her at the gates, but here and now, sitting in the feng shui garden with Elliott, she was safe, comfortable in her skin. She was almost Samantha again. And that was too precious to jeopardize.

“So, you’ve been busy,” Elliott began lightly. “It’s a good kind of busy, I hope? Your house, your daughter – everything’s fine?”

Sam nodded. “Chlo couldn’t be better. She loves her new school, she’s after me to have sleepover parties for her new friends every weekend. I’m still not used to Angel not being there, but she needed to take her life back. She deserved it after all this time. You should hear how excited she is when she talks about being back in the farmhouse, she just lights up. Paul’s newest theory is that hay and solitude are an artist’s best friends. I’m not so sure her dog would be happy with the comparison.”

Elliott chuckled, then looked at her pointedly. “You get a little glow when you mention this Paul – I’ve noticed it before. Is he someone special?”

She wasn’t sure about the glow, but his question definitely provoked a blush. “I’m – not sure yet, honestly. He’s a really great person, Elliott, he’s kind and he’s funny and Chloe thinks he’s great. But going beyond that to – more – it’s a huge step. I’m not sure I’m ready to risk that again, not with everything coming up.”

Wyckoff nodded in understanding. “The trial.”

Sam hesitated. “It starts in three months. Paul says it’s already an airtight case and we have nothing to worry about. He should know, I guess. It’s just….”

Elliott shook his head, twirling the charcoal pencil in his fingers as he’d once twirled Jack’s rose. “It’s been a long process for you, coming through these dark times.”

“God, yes. It’s still a hard concept to grasp – for him as well, actually, we’re on our way to California today to track down --” Elliott’s expression indicated that he’d understood exactly which “him” she was referring to, and Samantha bit back the rest of the words, mentally flogging herself. Her friend really didn’t need to have any more darkness foisted on him at this stage. “Well, anyway, it doesn’t matter. The point is it’s over, he’s in jail.” She tested the words carefully, just as Elliott had done earlier. “I’m almost afraid to say it too loudly, you know? Like I’ll wake myself up and realize it was all just a dream.”

“But it’s not a dream, Samantha.”

“I know, on some level I do realize it’s true. I guess I have my life back.”

“And if you’ll pardon my borrowing your phrase, how do you feel about that?”

Sam looked away. “I’ve thought about it a lot -- what that day will be like. When they sentence him to death and I’m not running anymore, when I’m the one walking out of there free, not him. I must have played it over in my mind a million times by now.”

“I’m sure you have, Samantha, but that didn’t really answer my question.”

“I know.” She blushed and laughed, guilty at being caught. “Damned empathics, you know just how to cut to the chase, don’t you?” Elliott smiled kindly and squeezed her hand, and she plunged on, quickly before she lost her nerve. “Oh God, I’m scared, Elliott. I finally have the chance to help Tom and Coop and all the others rest in peace, I can stop looking over my shoulder and worrying every time the phone rings that he finally got to Chloe or Angel. I can dump seven years of fear and second thoughts and learn how to just live again, and I’m scared to death because I don’t know if I can. Isn’t that silly?” Her voice caught on the last words and the little laugh she’d tried to add came out as a strangled sob. Elliott squeezed her hand harder.

“You’re preaching to the choir, my dear. I’d be the last person to deny the terrifying nature of everyday life, I’d worry if you weren’t a little scared. You have a lot to re-learn after seven years.”

“I think that’s the part that scares me most of all. What if I can’t adjust to normal life? What if I’m not normal enough to be normal again?” She ran a hand through her hair in frustration. “I guess I sound ridiculous.”

Wyckoff made a dismissive sound. “Not ridiculous – like someone who’s been through incomprehensible experiences. Evil marks us, you know. Once we’re exposed to it it changes us, leaves a scar that never really fades. It might not be visible, but it’s there, internal. And the evil that you’ve faced….” He broke off, shaking his head and gesturing at the koi pond as though searching for words. “Most people live in ignorance of the ugliness surrounding them, unless it draws them in and touches them. And for them, that ignorance is normal. For you and me, Samantha, normal changed a long time ago. If it ever does return to us, it will hold another meaning altogether.”

“The voice of reason in my life, as always.” Sam sighed and leaned in to rest her head on his shoulder. “I don’t suppose you have any brilliant ideas as to how we find out exactly what that meaning is?”

Elliott smiled and threw an arm around her, drawing her near in a fatherly hug. “All I can do is tell you what works for a half-crazed old man, my dear: hold tight to your friends, and take one little step at a time."

*****

Fanmix: Profiler - Otis, CA Residents - "Songs for Good Bowlers"

nancefics — Sun, 09 Sep 2007 18:42:24 GMT

Heh. Apparently I require a soundtrack before I can write fic, and then the soundtrack takes on a life of its own.

...so, this is my shameful secret: I'm in dark, dirty luuurve with 1950's -1970's era country & western music. *G* Mind, I was born in the 1960s and I spent lots of time around relatives in a tiny Canadian Maritimes province that was very into the C&W scene, so I basically grew up on a steady diet of this music. And as you can see from my other fanmixes, I definitely play in lots of other musical sandboxes, but when I get tired of all things rock/pop/emo/classical/etc., I invariably wander back to my honky-tonk tunes.

Before you go "ick!" and hit the back button, I should mention that if you equate "country" with Faith Hill, Carrie Underwood, and "The Dukes of Hazzard," this is seriously different stuff.

My personal take on the classic honky-tonk genre is that it's much more of a spiritual cousin to Delta blues than to current country music. There's a despair and a darkness to the lyrics of some of the earlier songs that wouldn't be out of place in anything sung by Leadbelly or Muddy Waters: imagine "Folsom Prison Blues" or "I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry" without the guitar twang, notice the rawness in Ray Charles' voice during the chorus of "You Don't Know Me," and you'll see what I mean. Even offerings from the smoother-voiced, more "traditional" Nashville artists like Jim Reeves and Patsy Cline are best savored in a smoky room while nursing a beer and a broken, bitter heart.

Honky-tonk roughened its edges and hit its peak of popularity in the late '60s and early '70s, when Waylon Jennings, Willie Nelson, Kris Kristofferson and their contemporaries shocked proper Nashville society with their hippie clothes and up-yours, in-your-face lyrics that dealt with drug use ("Sunday Morning Comin' Down"), casual sex ("Help Me Make It Through The Night"), and disconnection with society in general ("Me and Bobby McGee," which is probably my all-time favorite song and which has been covered by a huge number of singers in many different genres, from Janis Joplin to The Grateful Dead to Jennifer Love Hewitt). The movement both inspired and took inspiration from many big names and big voices in the folk, rock and R&B genres -- Bob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen and the Pointer Sisters all recorded songs that fit surprisingly well with the likes of Merle Haggard and George Jones.

The honky-tonk style has been pretty much abandoned on today's airwaves in favor of the fluffy, pop-inspired kind of tunes that keep getting trotted out for "country theme night" on "American Idol." But the genre isn't dead by a long shot -- you have to dig around a little bit (Audiolunchbox.com is a veritable treasure trove), but you can still find current keepers-of-the-faith like Tom Dean, Shawn Mullins, Two Dollar Pistols and Grievous Angels. As long as there's a roadhouse with a jukebox and a bar, there'll be an audience to sing along with tales of whiskey, prison, lost love and the lure of the open road.

*cough*...Oh, yeah, fandom stuff, right.

C'mon, what doesn't say "Otis, California" here? We may not have seen it in the episode, but you know that right down Main Street, a few blocks south of Mabel's Diner and the police station and right next to the Sky-Top Lanes Bowl-o-Rama, there's a roadhouse with a big pine bar and perfectly-restored Wurlitzer, and it's cranking out exactly this playlist. On his quiet nights, even the Sherriff stops by. *G*

Tracklist:
01. Mama Tried - Merle Haggard
02. Don't Tell Me What To Do - Pam Tillis
03. Rose Colored Glasses - John Conlee
04. Lovesick Blues - Patsy Cline
05. She Thinks I Still Care - George Jones
06. Sad Eyes - Trisha Yearwood
07. Folsom Prison Blues - Johnny Cash
08. Tell Me About It - Delbert McClinton & Tanya Tucker
09. Don't Think Twice, It's Alright - Bob Dylan
10. My Heart Skips a Beat - Buck Owens
11. You Don't Know Me - Ray Charles
12. Modern Day Bonnie & Clyde - Travis Tritt
13. Sunday Morning Comin' Down - Shawn Mullins
14. Just Thinking - Lari White
15. City of New Orleans - John Prine & Steve Goodman
16. A Fool Such As I - Anne Murray
17. Play Guitar Play - Conway Twitty
18. I'm On Fire - Bruce Springsteen
19. On The Road - Tom Dean
20. Good Time Charlie's Got The Blues - Waylon Jennings
21. When Love Came Around - Grievous Angels
22. Whiskey River - Willie Nelson
23. He'll Have To Go - Jim Reeves
24. Help Me Make It Through The Night - Kris Kristofferson
25. Runnin' With The Fools - Two Dollar Pistols
26. I Know One - John Prine & Emmylou Harris
27. If You Belonged To Me - The Traveling Wilburys
28. Fairytale - The Pointer Sisters
29. I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry - Hank Williams
30. Me & Bobby McGee - Waylon Jennings

[.zip with all songs & artwork]

If the link is problematic or if anyone wants individual tunes, let me know and I'll whip 'em up!

Fanmix: The Firm (movieverse) - Avery Tolar - Cars & Girls

nancefics — Wed, 06 Jun 2007 19:48:11 GMT

And so we continue in my “who exactly the hell is this again?” series of obscure fanmixes for obscure characters. *G*

Avery, as imagined by John Grisham in his 1991 novel “The Firm,” is a senior partner at the Mafia-owned legal firm of Bendini, Lambert & Locke, and he’s given the task of mentoring/corrupting protagonist and new Harvard grad Mitchell McDeere while initiating him into his shadowy little brotherhood. Long story short, Mitch gets wise, the FBI gets involved, the firm is brought down, and drunk, womanizing, no-longer-useful Avery gets whacked by his bosses.

When I read the novel, I really couldn’t care less about any of this.

The 1993 movieverse!Avery is a different story altogether, probably in part because Gene Hackman breathed a lot of life and depth and humanity into the character. Movieverse!Avery is by turns funny, charming, sleazy and hot, served up with a Havana Club and all packaged up into a custom-tailored suit. He drinks too much, he takes lots of risks with other people’s money, and he sleeps with a lot of women who aren’t his wife. He’s sold his soul, he knows it, and he’s slowly collapsing into a mass of self-loathing and depression. He mocks Mitch for being an idealist, but in the end he’s able to call upon what’s left of his own integrity and sacrifice himself in order to do the right thing. As Mitch’s wife Abby says, “he was decent, and corrupt, and ruined, and so unhappy.”

He was also hella fun to make a fanmix for. *G*

Enjoy, and let me know if any links need fixing, re-uploading, etc.

The Firm (movieverse) – Avery Tolar – Cars & Girls

01: you’re so vain :: carly simon

well you’re where you should be all the time : and when you’re not you’re with some underworld spy or the wife of a close friend : and you’re so vain

[download]

02: dirty little secret :: the all-american rejects

who has to know : when we live such fragile lives : it’s the best way to survive : i go around a time or two : just to waste my time with you :: don’t tell anyone or you’ll be just another regret

download]

03: mean :: plight

you think you want to be loved but you think too much : you know you’ve had ambition but had no luck : and every put-down is another nail in your self-esteem : don’t say that you’re lonely, where have you been?

[download]

04 : when the blues catch up to you :: bettye levette

movin’ way too fast : one day you’ll pay for what you do : i might not be around when the blues catch up to you

[download]

05 : love is hell :: ryan adams

and she’s pretty, jesse’s spinning the tunes : eyelashes and some white leather boots : god, what have i been drinking? :: i could be anything, anything but stickin’ around

[download]

06 : better than sleeping alone :: amelia

a starlit night, a darkened door : desire that is only as old as a four-day week : pressed against the golden grain, they’re not feeling lonely : and not feeling moved to speak :: they likely know whatever comes, it comes and it goes: but it’s better than sleeping alone

[download]

07 : cars and girls :: prefab sprout

little boy got a hot rod, thinks it makes him some kind of new god : well this is one race he won’t win : cos life’s no cruise with a cool chick :: so look at us now : some things hurt more much more than cars and girls

[download]

08 : murder by millions :: get set go

i’m not a very nice guy : i’ve made so many women cry : and i know i am alone : and that’s the way it’s meant to be : i’ve been cruel, i’ve played the fool : and i’ve made a mess of everything :: i am shamed

[download]

09 : when your number isn’t up :: mark lanegan

no one needs to tell you : that there’s no use for you here anymore :: when the sun is finally going down : and you’re overdue to follow : but you’re still above the ground : what you’ve got coming is hard to swallow : like blood running warm

[download]

10 : narrow daylight :: diana krall

i walked the halls of reputation : among the infamous too : as the camera clings to the common thread : beyond all vanity into a gaze to shoot you through : is the kindness we count upon hidden in everyone?

[download]

[download .zip with all songs & artwork]

Fic: "He Said, She Said (in Primetime)" PG-13 (Profiler, John/Angel)

nancefics — Tue, 02 Jan 2007 02:08:34 GMT

Title: He Said, She Said (in Primetime)

Author: Robin Nance
Storyverse: Profiler, Angel/John, Humor/Romance
Setting/Spoilers: Season 3
Rating: PG-13 (language, sexual situations)

Summary: Somewhere between Lifetime and the NFL Network…are about a million miscommunications. Written as a very late Secret Santa gift for granttroyturner at profiler_fans…happy holidays, erm, New Year!

Disclaimer: John and Angel belong to the Profiler powers-that-be. Tom Brady and Michael Vick belong to themselves, much as I would love to claim them for my own. *G* I’m an avid fangirl of both Lifetime and the NFL Network, for what it’s worth…that might explain a lot.

1. Pre-Game Warm-Up (he says)

“Um.”

“This is…yeah.”

John perches on the edge of the sofa, Angel taps her foot against her chair, and the general theme of the night is Awk.Ward.

(At least that’s the way Frances spells it out in their random late-night IM chats – but then, Frances is twenty and in college, she frequents websites with names like Nerve.com and TelevisionWithoutPity, and she can still pull off the cutesy net-speak thing. In John’s preferred, depressingly-closer-to-midlife vocabulary, this is “awkward” and just fucking strange.)

“You know, I think this is some kind of karmic sign that Sam shouldn’t try to have Christmas parties ever again. At least not on Christmas Eve and not when we’re on the verge of a major winter event.” Angel sighs and settles back in her chair. “And I should probably start taking those travel advisories seriously and stay the hell home next time an ice storm hits Atlanta.”

“Yeah, I guess that makes two of us.” John nods toward the window where the ice is setting up a steady tap-tapping in time to the gusts hitting the house. “I don’t think anyone predicted things were going to get this bad this quickly.”

What he leaves unsaid, of course, is that every other person that was invited to Sam’s place had figured out that the slow-moving storm would slick down the highways for hours with walls of ice, completely freak out the throngs of Southerners who weren’t used to driving in this kind of weather, and shut down every major institution in the region. Including the airport, where Chloe had flown back home from visiting her grandparents on the very last plane allowed to land for the night.

Consequently, their hostess and her daughter will be spending Christmas Eve (and the foreseeable future) in the Delta terminal. And that kind of puts a damper on the annual Christmas Eve party a la Waters.

John supposes he should be grateful that Angel at least still has a key to Sam’s house, because the Porsche’s leather seats are probably getting pretty damned cold by now.

Not that the temperature in the living room isn’t a little frigid.

“I’m surprised Bailey didn’t try to make it over. I figured he’d be itching to play with his new Hummer in winter weather.” Angel shifts positions and starts tapping with her other foot.

John snorts. “Are you kidding? He’s only had it since September. He’s still at the stage where he’s afraid to get his new baby wet let alone covered in ice.”

That earns him a skeptical glance (and oh, yeah, he remembers that glance). “And exactly how long does it take in guy-land before cars get treated like cars?”

“Generally until you get the first scratch on the paint. After that all the mystery’s gone and it doesn’t matter so much anymore. It’s kind of like losing your automotive virginity.”

Angel rolls her eyes. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand boys and their toys.”

“Trust me, we’re not all that deep.” John gets up and walks to the window, craning his neck to look up and down the street. “Damn, I think all of Buckhead’s shut down. I don’t even see the sand trucks coming through anymore.” He has no doubt that the Porsche couldn’t even make it back down Sam’s driveway at this point.

“I think we’re pretty much stuck for the night.” Angel groans and stretches as she gets up out of the chair. “And so my Christmas of Suck commences.”

Okay, he’s pretty sure he was an insensitive ass back when they were dating, because that’s kind of a theme in his relationships, but ouch anyway.

“Look, Angel, I’m sorry.” John gestures helplessly. “I’m sure there are lots of other places you’d rather be right now.”

And given the general level of discomfort in the room he’d wager there are lots of other people she’d rather spend time with. Say, everyone in the world besides him and maybe Jack of all Trades.

(And at least Jack wouldn’t be getting the glare of death and the “holy Christ I can’t believe I actually slept with this asshole” vibes from a hot brunette in a slinky black dress. And John figures he probably needs to de-rail that slinky-dress train of thought right now.)

“Look, I’m sorry too, John, it’s really not about you. I’m just not much of a holiday person.”

Angel sighs and joins him by the window, watching as ice coats the bottom of the pane. “Just this morning I was congratulating myself on having avoided every single Christmas party I was invited to this year. But I don’t get many chances to see Sam or Chloe anymore so I promised to come tonight.”

John grins. “I hear you. Do you know I even managed to ditch the VCTF party this year? I’m only here because Chloe runs a hell of a guilt trip.”

“Yeah, she gets that from her mom. You know what they say about no good deed going unpunished.” Angel smoothes the front of her dress and then folds her arms with a dismissive sound. “Well, screw it. We’re not going anywhere tonight, we have twenty-four more hours of crass holiday commercialism poised to be shoved down our throats, and Denzel will have peed over every square inch of carpet by the time I can get home to walk him. I think it’s time to break out the wine and cookies.”

And John figures that if he’s in for a night full of awkward, at least there’s gingerbread.

2. First Quarter (she says)

“We don’t have to watch this if you’d rather flip channels.”

And this is actually John Grant who’s bending over backwards to be considerate to someone else – which is not only disconcerting but a sure indicator that he’s as weirded out by this evening as she is. Or that he’s finally growing up and making an effort to be accommodating.

Or it could be that bottle of merlot they’re killing.

“Really, you don’t mind?” Angel looks at him eagerly. “Because there’s this two-hour special on Lifetime about the cultural hurdles that women have to clear in order to fully express their feelings, and it’s getting amazing reviews.” She keeps a straight face for a full two seconds before she dissolves into laughter. “Oh my God, John, you should see your face. I’m kidding! Go ahead and watch football.”

John places a hand over his heart in mock terror. “Thank God. When you mentioned Lifetime I was ready to dig out Chloe’s sled and coast all the way back to my place.”

Angel giggles – and okay, that’s definitely getting blamed on the wine, because she’s not a giggler at all – because some things never change, and because despite his brilliance at police work John can be amazingly gullible, and because she might actually, sort of, be enjoying his company right now.

“Oh please, if I wanted to be scary I would’ve said I wanted to watch ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’ for the forty-seventh time. But see, I’m trying to be nice here, so you go ahead and do your male bonding with the Falcons.”

“Oh no, if I’m bonding it’s gonna be with Tom Brady and my boys in red-white-and-blue. And may I just say it’s a strange and screwed-up world when they’re getting gorgeous weather in Foxboro and we’re in the middle of the new ice age. And you are nice. So there.”

John nods with an air of finality, tosses back the last drops in his wine glass, and leans across her to snag another gingersnap.

Angel recalls that he’s originally a Boston boy, so of course he’s got a soft spot for the Patriots, since they’re from…somewhere around there. (And yeah, all kidding aside, she’s a lot more familiar with Lifetime than the NFL Network.)

And then as he’s leaning across her she remembers that he wears a very mildly spiced aftershave that smells wintry and festive and kind of wonderful.

…and she’s definitely cutting herself off after she finishes this glass.

3. Second Quarter (they say)

“Okay, so explain that to me again, it’s four conferences?”

“No, there are only two conferences, the AFC and the NFC, but within each of those you have your four divisions, North, South, East and West.”

“And they all play one another?”

“Well, kind of, but it’s according to a schedule. Each team plays the other three teams in its own division twice per season, every season. Each team also plays the four teams from another division in the same conference on a rotating basis every three years, and then there’s another schedule between teams from the two different conferences…I’m boring the hell out of you, aren’t I?”

“No, it’s just a little hard to follow. So Atlanta and New England don’t play each other on a regular basis because they’re in different conferences?”

“Exactly, it only happens every four years, technically, because of the schedule rotation between the divisions.”

“Okay. So there are two conferences and four divisions. And ten yards in a down, and four chances to make it.”

“Angel, I think you’ve been hiding your true colors from me. You’re a closet sports fan, aren’t you?”

“I swear, John, this game usually bores the hell out of me. Wine definitely improves it. And perhaps the company.”

“If you ask me, the company’s even better than the wine.”

“You’re sweet. Wait, so it’s legitimate for Michael Vick to run the ball in for a touchdown instead of throwing it?”

“Is it – aww, shit. Yeah, it’s legit.”

4. The Half-Time Report (he says)

“I have a feeling that by morning I’ll never look at desserts again without wanting to vomit.” John groans and leans his head back against the ottoman, making a face as Angel laughs over his discomfort.

Somewhere around the two-minute warning, they decided the floor was a superior location for multi-tasking over junk food and sports, and Angel declared that they needed to supplement the gingerbread cookies with peanut butter balls and coffee. Sam would probably go ballistic at the impromptu picnic that’s taking place on her designer rug.

Of course, Sam’s probably chowing down on a Big Mac in Terminal B right now, so he’s not going to spend too much time worrying about that.

Angel balances a tray with cups and a coffee pot on her knees, and John leans forward to help steady her as she lowers it to the floor. His right hand brushes her left calf in the process.

“Sorry.”

“No problem.”

And he might be imagining things, but she freezes for a split second at the contact, staring sharply at him. There’s a tiny hitch in her breath, not something that he hears so much as sees in the quick rise of her breasts and a slight strain against the black silk.

Then she’s looking away as she sets the tray on the floor between them, and John’s reminding himself that he doesn’t really have the right to do a running mental commentary on Angel Brown’s (soft silk-covered 34B) breasts anymore.

And that erection that’s starting to stir – well, that’s enough of that business right now, soldier. (Not that the soldier in question tends to pay much attention to John’s wishes – hell, he’s well aware that the standard joke at the office is how he thinks with that organ anyway.)

The local weatherman interrupts the half-time show to announce that traffic is still at a standstill in the greater Atlanta metropolitan area, and that it will be hours before things get back to any semblance of normal.

“Well thanks for that update, genius,” John grumbles at the screen. “There must be some extremely pissed-off last-minute shoppers out there tonight.”

“Serves them right for waiting so long. After all, isn’t the spirit of Christmas all about running right out and going broke as soon after Thanksgiving as possible?”

John watches as Angel stirs milk into her coffee zealously.

“You weren’t lying about not being much of a holiday person, were you?”

She looks up sharply at that comment, then catches his grin and gives him a rueful laugh. “I’m sorry, I’ll stop bitching now. I just get so sick of hearing how this is a magical time of goodness and light when any idiot can see that the world’s in a total shambles, December 25th or not. And I know I’m coming off as pretentious and artsy and all that bullshit, but it’s really just how I feel.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not a very Christmassy person myself.”

John shakes his head at the news footage of panicky holiday shoppers clogging the malls across the nation. Oh yeah, he can remember spending one or two Christmas Eves roaming the stores for the perfect perfume/earrings/lingerie (if you defined “perfect” as “still there on the shelf, no obvious damage, and accepted by American Express”). If memory serves him right, that night marked the beginning of the end of more than one of his relationships.

In retrospect, it’s probably a good thing Angel dumped him months before Christmas.

“So why aren’t you a fan of the holidays, John?” Angel leans back against the sofa and regards him through the steam trails of her coffee.

“I don’t hate them or anything. I suppose the whole families-drawing-near thing is nice enough, if you have a normal family.”

(And if your nice normal family isn’t old-school Irish mafia – but John figures that charming little personal tidbit might not do much for Angel’s comfort level around him, so it’s going back into the unsaid-for-now file.)

“Oh, don’t be too hasty with that judgment. Normal families can still drive you crazy.” Angel leans forward to pour him more coffee, and he glimpses a flash of cleavage and black lace, and hadn’t he already lectured himself about not going there? “They can ‘gently remind’ you that your artwork is a pleasant little hobby that doesn’t pay the bills half as well as your cousin’s accounting job, and that you’re getting awfully old to not have a husband and babies, and that maybe it’s time to ‘fess up about that awful secret lesbian relationship you’re having with that blonde FBI agent in the city.”

John laughs out loud at that one and earns himself a smack on the arm, but Angel’s laughing too so he figures it’s okay.

“I’m sorry, I just didn’t know normal families were that fucked-up.”

“You want fucked-up, Grant, you just spend Christmas dinner trying to live up to the expectations of a seventy-eight-year-old uncle who’s a presiding elder of his entire church district.” Sometime during her rant Angel ended up sitting next to him on the floor, close enough for her to elbow him in the ribs teasingly. “And don’t be so smug – Sam told me all about the way you grilled her over her ‘alternative relationship’ with me right after you met her.”

“Ouch, remind me to have a little chat with Sam about keeping my stupid mistakes to herself.” John groans and hides his head in his hands.

“Uh-uh, see, there’s that boy/girl dichotomy again. Women don’t see the value in keeping things all bottled up. If Sam’s concerned that her new co-worker is a sexist pig with a great ass, she’s going to tell me.”

And the theme for the night still seems to be ouch – because Angel’s obvious if unspoken addendum is that Sam got a reciprocal earful about how her sexist co-worker was also an insensitive asshole that sabotaged his own relationships.

“…wait, did you just say you talked about my ass?”

Angel shrugs lightly. “It might’ve come up. Probably just once, twice max.”

“My delicate sensibilities have been shocked, I tell you.”

“Yeah, Grant, you might want to look a little less conceited about your ass when you do that shocked-sensibilities thing.”

And in the midst of their laughter, John realizes this could be characterized as banter, or patter, or something similarly comfortable and natural and pleasing that he can’t remember ever having with a woman before, let alone one he’s slept with. And he ponders that he completely overlooked this facet of Angel Brown two years ago, when he was only focused on getting into her pants. Which means there are other facets to her, dozens probably – hundreds? – that he never discovered, and he’s missed his chance.

And over and above his generic relationship-based faults and fuck-ups, this is the thing he regrets the most tonight.

“Angel, hey, I’m sorry.”

And wow, Grant, he thinks, that was certainly eloquent, you dumbass, and of course she totally misses the point, because how many millions of things could he be sorry for at any given moment?

“What? Oh, don’t worry about that alternative lifestyle comment, John, we laughed over it.”

“No – I mean I’m sorry that I was such an ass back when we were dating. You deserved better.”

She smiles wryly, serious now but without the icy edge from earlier. “Yeah, I did. Look, we were at different places then, we obviously were after different things. There wasn’t really any harm done.”

“It still doesn’t excuse me for being a shitty boyfriend.”

Funny thing is, out of the dozens of break-ups that have come before and after, he actually remembers this one. She was being offered the out-of-state teaching position and she wanted to know if he’d visit her there. And he’d taken too long to answer, and he’d been annoyed anyway that she had to bring it up in one of those post-coital chat sessions when all he really wanted to do was sleep. And he’d let her walk out.

Yeah, “ass” pretty much sums it up.

Angel’s staring at him strangely. “Did you just say you were a shitty boyfriend?”

“Hey, I admit it, I don’t think there’s any other way to spin it.”

“You called yourself my boyfriend.” It’s less a question than a statement. “You considered yourself my boyfriend then.”

“Well, not a good one, obviously, but yes.”

She starts to smile at that, and for a second John wonders if she’s about to read him the riot act of all the bad shit he’d done to her – but her smile gets wider and more genuine.

“Wow. I don’t think I ever realized that. I always kind of figured I was taking things too seriously and that you only saw me as a fuck-buddy.”

And damn, no wonder she got so steamed and dumped him when he didn’t answer her right away. And, scary thought, maybe he’s actually starting to understand this he said/she said barrier in his old age.

“Angel, believe me. I may not have been very good at the relationship parts, but as mind-blowing as the sex was, you were never just a fuck-buddy.”

“Well, thank you for that…did you just say the sex was mind-blowing?”

“Definitely mind-blowing.”

“So we finally agree on something.”

And now her gaze is a little different, a little heated, and he’s pretty sure her breathing’s picked up in time to the press of her breasts against the silk. And John’s pretty much given up on controlling that erection, and he’s remembering how she has the most perfect sharp little nose, and how well it fits alongside his own as she leans up to kiss him.

They startle and jump apart as the phone rings, unnaturally loud against the drone of the announcers and the tapping of the ice.

“Sam – hi! Are you all right?” Angel’s voice is pleasant and benign, but she’s still fixing John with that unfocused stare. “Did Chloe get in? Good…no, it’s horrible out here, it makes sense to stay put tonight. No, everything’s okay here, John made it over but everyone else stayed home. Don’t worry, we’re fine, the house is fine, we’ll probably still be de-icing our cars when you get home in the morning. Merry Christmas, give my love to Chloe.”

“They’re safe?” Johns asks as she hangs up.

Angel nods. “They’re staying at the airport Sheraton for the night.”

“That’s good.”

“Yes, it is.” Angel kneels back down on the carpet beside him, running a hand up his arm.

“Angel. Look, maybe we shouldn’t do this.” God damn, he’s going to kill himself for this gallant bullshit in the morning (if various body parts don’t do the job for him by exploding long before then). “We’ve been drinking, it’s a weird time of year…maybe we should just cool down and watch TV.”

“John.” Angel straddles his lap and pushes him back against the ottoman in one smooth brain-melting movement. “Thank you for being a good friend and a gentleman. And even for being a somewhat shitty ex-boyfriend. But I’m thinking we should really explore that fuck-buddy thing.”

On the plasma screen across the room, Tom Brady’s back on the field and under pressure to throw before he gets sacked. And John wishes his boy well, but under the current surprising, delightful, holy-fuck-she’s-hot-in-those-black-lace-panties circumstances, old Tom’s going to be minus one twelfth man for a little while.

5. Third Quarter (they say)

“Christ, I’d forgotten how good you feel.”

“Mmm, you too, oh God, right there, so good…”

“Should we take this upstairs?”

“What, you don’t want to mix sex and football? I thought that was a male fantasy.”

“Suit yourself, baby. Oh, suit yourself right there.”

“Mmm, c’mon John, that’s right where I want your fingers.”

“And I want to watch your fingers…oh God, fuck, just like that…Angel, shit, I don’t have a condom.”

“No problem, Sam has some in the guest bathroom. Mmm, hold that thought, I’ll be right back.”

“…how exactly did you know that Sam keeps condoms in her guest bathroom?”

“Women talk, John, remember?”

“And I’m damned happy they do.”

6. Fourth Quarter (she says)

She’s pretty sure they both passed out for a few minutes, because she doesn’t remember either team’s score being so high last quarter.

If the sex hadn’t gotten in the way this probably would’ve been a pretty good game.

“So who’s going to win?” She looks over her shoulder at John, who’s lying behind her on the sofa with his eyes half-closed.

“Mmm. Don’t really know, don’t really care.” He tightens his arm around her waist and pulls her back against him. “I’m too comfortable.”

Angel snuggles down a little deeper into the blanket he’d thrown around them – the mohair’s warm enough if a little itchy against their naked skin, but the flannel sheets on the guest bed are starting to look really appealing as the temperature of the house drops in time to the evening. “I think the ice is slowing down.”

John nods against her neck. “They said it would stop completely around midnight. They’ll still be sanding all night.”

“Poor Denzel, he’ll be so pissed at me. I bet he’s chewed up my entire kitchen by now.”

“Or maybe he’s sleeping in a warm doggie bed. We should probably do that too – not the doggie bed, I mean, but a bed. Sam’s bed. Guest bed. Whatever.”

“You’re incredibly cute and incoherent when you’re half-asleep after sex.”

“See, if you’d figured that out two years ago things would’ve been much simpler.”

“They probably would have. It wouldn’t be my first or last mistake.” Angel laughs, then groans and pulls herself up to a sitting position. “Oh shit, John, I’m probably going to kick myself in the morning. What the hell did we just get ourselves into here?”

He regards her quietly for a second. “What do you want it to be?”

“Beats the hell out of me.”

Right here, right now, she doesn’t have clue one about the answer to that question, although knowing her, she’ll be freaking out and jumping to conclusions soon enough.

John clicks the remote and the television goes off with a soft pop.

“Come on, Angel, let’s go to bed for a few hours. We can get up early and straighten the house before Sam and Chloe get home for Christmas.” He takes her hand as she pulls him down the hall toward the guest room. “As for that question – let’s play it by ear and see what happens, okay?”

And it’s as simplistic and naïve and positive as waiting up for Santa on Christmas Eve.

And maybe, just maybe, Angel Brown could use a little more naïve positivity in her life right now, at least until reality comes crashing back with the daylight.

“Right, playing by ear it is. You know, after this evening I was expecting more of a football analogy there.”

“Sorry, after sex and chocolate my mind reverts to Lifetime mode.”

“You have hidden, scary depths, John Grant.”

“It’s kind of my calling in life. Merry Christmas, Angel.”

“Merry Christmas, John.”

And really, this time she means it.

**end**

The Year-End, Year-Beginning Fic Recs & Wrap-Up

nancefics — Tue, 02 Jan 2007 01:38:34 GMT

Happy New Year! I think one of my resolutions for 2007 should be to post in this journal more than once every 3-4 months. *G*

The Recs:

1. Congratulations and a big THANK YOU once again to all of the talented souls at profiler_fans, who came up with such creative goodies for the 2006 Secret Santa Exchange! Please go to the Big Wrap-Up Post at the PF site for links to all of the fics and mixes.

2. rustler gifted me with an absolutely amazing fic for Yuletide, Us: Four Moments in Time. It's "The Wire", it's Stringer Bell/Avon Barksdale, and it's bittersweet and heartbreaking and awesome.

3. I got two wonderful special fic gifts from my fellow fans of off-kilter "Profiler" pairings: Faded Memories by m_ravensblood is Sam/Jack skewed angst-fest about love that perseveres when the physical world fades, and Worst Case Scenario by sinaddict (welcome back!) is an intriguing Frannie/John future-fic scenario that I'll be pestering her to continue.

My Scribbles:

1. He Said, She Said (in Primetime) - my Secret Santa offering (which I'll post here in this LJ too, for the sake of my obsessive-compulsive need to categorize *G*)

2. Mr. Kelly Turns North - my yuletide fic for mscongeniality. The fandom is The Sting, the set-up is "Johnny Hooker, ten years later." I'm a little "meh" over this one at the moment. I'm in Rabid Editor Mode over the second and final part, but as I re-read part 1 I can see about ten different things that I want to fix/streamline/flesh out. I suspect I'll be writing, re-writing, and generally abusing the crap out of these characters for awhile until I'm satisfied that the plotlines work the way I want them to.

...so, flist, any recs to send my way?