Shutterbug_12

Psych fic: Fighting To Be Warm (Shawn/Juliet - NC-17)

shutterbug_12 — Sun, 28 Apr 2013 23:06:45 GMT

Title: Fighting To Be Warm
Characters: Shawn/Juliet
Rating: NC-17
Words: 1,878
Summary: After Shawn and Juliet make up, boundaries break down and lingering emotions find their way to the surface.
Notes: Set S7, currently AU (technically).

( Sure, she’d forgiven him. She’d helped him tote his clothes back to the house, unpacked boxes. But her smiles had been half-hearted, as if she still harbored doubts.

And he was distracted by boundary walls that still seemed to tower over him. Walls that Jules seemed reluctant to break down. )

Links to AO3.

Psych fic: On the Third Day (Shawn/Juliet - R)

shutterbug_12 — Mon, 22 Apr 2013 15:04:49 GMT

Title: On the Third Day
Characters: Shawn/Juliet
Rating: R
Words: 479
Summary: After Juliet had returned to the States, three days had passed before she saw Shawn alone.
Notes: Set post-Extradition II (S5).

( After Juliet had returned to the States, three days had passed before she saw Shawn alone. On the first day, Carlton had practically ordered him to the interrogation room as soon as Shawn’s toe had crossed the station’s threshold. Henry had roped Shawn into a barbecue on the second day, tying up Shawn’s afternoon, evening, and night, despite his best efforts to escape.

On the third day, she called him from the station and directed him to wait for her outside the Psych office, where she picked him up and sped away toward her apartment before he could fasten his seatbelt.)

Clearly I can't stop writing Psych fics. I'm not even sorry. It's been pretty great therapy. Links to AO3.

Psych fic: Surprise Rescue (Shawn/Juliet - PG)

shutterbug_12 — Sun, 21 Apr 2013 18:55:33 GMT

Title: Surprise Rescue
Characters: Shawn/Juliet
Rating: PG
Words: 1,106
Summary: After the conclusion of a case, Juliet surprises Shawn with a special, fluffy present.
Notes: Set S6.

( 'Okay,' she said, slowly turning him around. She trusted him to keep his eyes closed as she took his hand and guided him forward, bringing him to a stop beside his desk.

Shawn had done this first, when he’d led her by the hand through an inky-dark laboratory, through a hallway and into a quarantined, secure room masquerading as a supply closet.)

Links to AO3

Psych fic: No Man Is Too Good for a Little Umbrella (Gus & Lassiter - G)

shutterbug_12 — Sun, 21 Apr 2013 18:47:37 GMT

Title: No Man Is Too Good for a Little Umbrella
Characters: Gus & Lassiter
Rating: G
Words: 523
Summary: Gus inspires Lassiter to order an unlikely drink.
Notes: Set S5-S6.

( Lassiter pointed a straight finger at his drink. 'This has a little umbrella in it.' )

Links to AO3

Psych Fic: Night Thirty-Nine

shutterbug_12 — Sat, 13 Apr 2013 02:08:53 GMT

Title: Night Thirty-Nine
Pairing: Shawn/Juliet
Rating: PG-13
Words: 461
Summary: Thirty-eight: nights they’d slept beside each other in the bed they bought together. Nights when she'd wanted him.
Notes: Post-ep for "Deez Nups" (S7E7)

( Now, with his eyes turned toward Gus’s ceiling, he wondered if his wardrobe would survive the night, or if Jules would throw open their closet, tear all of his clothes off their hangers, and set them on fire in the backyard. )

Links to AO3

TWW Fic: Pictures of You (Josh/Donna)

shutterbug_12 — Mon, 25 Mar 2013 18:21:40 GMT

Whoa, ladies, I wrote West Wing fic. I blame magisterequitum's Great Writers Steal Ficathon! (It's awesome. Check it out.)

Fic is here: Pictures of You, Josh/Donna

It's just a shot away

shutterbug_12 — Fri, 01 Mar 2013 13:42:00 GMT

My Note is nearly done! Last day working on it and then it will be over forever! Probably. Unless I'm selected for publication. Anyway, I wish I could have spent more time on it, because I loved the topic (Creative Interests of Female Fan Fiction Writers and the Fair Use Doctrine). Learned a lot about copyright, got to write about the creative process, and gush about the legitimacy and awesomeness of fandom. Not bad for law school related work.

After this is over, it's Spring Break time! Whaaaaaaaaaat? Hells yeah.

I plan to:

- Take a couple baths
- Write fic (as much as possible, pretty much)
- Get a massage
- Do my taxes and other financial things
- Go to the gym again, yay!
- Write letters

And that might be it. Before the home stretch of 2L year (thanks be-jesus, because I'll be happy to see this year end).

Also: how awesome was Psych? So awesome.

Back to work with me.

shutterbug_12 — Mon, 25 Feb 2013 21:55:26 GMT

Oh, my God, S6E2 of Psych is the best ever. Best. Ever. I just can't.

Sherlock Fic: Five Beers and a Fruit Drink (Gen: Sherlock, John; G)

shutterbug_12 — Sat, 07 Jul 2012 04:19:30 GMT

Title: Five Beers and a Fruit Drink
Fandom: Sherlock
Characters: Sherlock & John
Rating: PG
Summary: After several years and several thousands of miles across the surface of the planet, John finally discovered the circumstances in which Sherlock could voluntarily, and without an ulterior motive, be genuinely polite (or close enough to it) to another human being.

After several years and several thousands of miles across the surface of the planet, John finally discovered the circumstances in which Sherlock could voluntarily, and without an ulterior motive, be genuinely polite (or close enough to it) to another human being.

It had nothing to do with the alignment of celestial bodies. It had nothing to do with a nutritious diet or an adequate amount of sleep. No. It had everything to do with America, fireworks, and a six-pack of Southern Tier.

John had anticipated the need for cajoling. Some sort of persuasion (undoubtedly doomed to fail). But after dragging Sherlock to the park to experience a slice of "spectacular American nonsense," John repressed a smile as Sherlock fell onto the blanket in a tense heap of crossed arms and legs and, with his face stubbornly turned toward the horizon, reached for the first bottle.

Strong stuff, it was. This Southern Tier. IPA.

"India Pale Ale," said Sherlock as he opened the bottle. "The UK and US versions differ substantially, the UK being 'low-gravity' and the US, much stronger."

John raised an eyebrow. "Do you even drink? I've never seen you drink. Patches, yes. Smoke, sure, when you think--"

"I drink. Occasionally."

John reached for his own bottle and looked to the sky, arguments forgotten, the case forgotten, as the fireworks began to explode one after another.

By the end of the show, John had finished one bottle. Sherlock, five.

"Did you see?" Sherlock asked, eyes alert yet unfocused, fingers tight around John's jacket collar. "Did you see that, that drink?"

"Drink, Sherlock? I think you've had enough--"

"No, not that drink! John, come on." Sherlock hauled him up, managing to grab hold of the blanket as they stood. "Come on." And with a lurch, he pulled them toward what John could only imagine was the parking lot. Smoke lingered in the sky above them.

"Sherlock. Sherlock, where--"

"The drink, John! The drink!" Sherlock exclaimed, all his energy dedicated to spitting out the words, lunging unmistakably toward their rental car. "Did you see? It was red! Red, like a sunset, John! Like a Mediterranean sunset! Like, like a Macintosh apple! That's American, isn't it?"

"I...I don't know." John glanced around, confused, searching for a red drink, a red apple, anything to verify that his friend hadn't just gone 'round and 'round the bend.

"Joe. His name was Joe. So plain. So American, don't you think?"

Recognizing their car, John wrestled to free himself from Sherlock's grip, rushing to the driver's side door, just in case Sherlock entertained the notion of driving in pursuit of this red drink. Or apple.

John stared Sherlock down over the hood of the car. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Joe? Oh! The drink! Joe and the drink! I happened to notice it. And said, 'Joe'--after he introduced himself, of course. 'Joe, I have to admit that I fancy--"

"Fancy? What is this? The Queen's fucking court?"

"--a drink like that. Where did you get it?"

John searched his pocket for the car keys.

"And he said..." Sherlock paused. "I forgot what he said. Dripping Doughnuts? Divine Dippings? No."

John sighed as he opened the door. "Dunkin' Donuts?"

"Yes! Yes! Exactly, John! Exactly!" Sherlock dived into the car as soon as the door lock clicked open. "Dunkin' Donuts! Yes. Let's go!"

"Let's go?"

"To Dunkin' Donuts, let's go!" Sherlock said, gesturing as if to heave the car along in the proper direction.

John didn't bother arguing and was, in ten minutes, pulling up to the Dunkin' Donuts drive-through menu--a giant gleaming, colorful display of baked goods and beverages.

A broken female voice crackled out of the speaker beside the car. "Welcome to Dunkin' Donuts." She didn't sound welcoming at all. "How can I help you?"

John glanced at Sherlock, who wore a frighteningly wild grin, then back at the speaker. "Uh, yes. Hello. Um, we'd--well, uh, friend, would--"

Sherlock hurled himself across John's lap, gripping the edge of the open window and smiled at the speaker. "Hello. How are you?"

Static filled the heavy pause before the voice replied, "I'm...okay? How can I help you?"

"Well, miss, I'm a visitor, actually. From London," said Sherlock, all pleasantry and manners. "And I was hoping that you could help me. You see, I met a man at the fireworks--we were just at the fireworks. Lovely fireworks, really."

"Uh. Yeah. They're cool, I guess."

"Yes, extremely cool."

Stiff in his seat, John strained his neck to cast a quizzical eye at Sherlock, who was now practically purring at he speaker.

"--and he had a great, red drink in a plastic cup. With a dome--a dome sort of lid? On top?"

"Well," said the voice, "the only red drink we have is a Strawberry Coolatta. I mean, it's kind of pinkish, reddish--"

"Yes! That's it!" Sherlock slapped the door. "A Strawberry Coolatta! That is it! That sounds absolutely marvelous. Can I have one of those, please?"

John stared. Please?

"Yeah, what size?"

"Oh, what size? What size? How big is a large? How large is a large?" At his last question, Sherlock collapsed into repressed giggles, leaning his head against the steering wheel.

"It's pretty big. Like, I don't know? Probably about nine or ten inches?"

"Oh, great! Yes, that's perfect! Absolutely perfect!" Sherlock said, nearly shouting with glee. "The more gigantic the better!"

"Okay, so one large Strawberry Coolatta?" the voice asked.

"Make it two! Make it two!" Then, in a softer voice meant only for the confines of the car, Sherlock said. "You want one, right John?"

"Uh, sure. Why not?" John just wanted to move along and get back to the hotel room. Away from people. Where public embarrassment wasn't a possibility.

"Two Strawberry Coolattas, please! Thank you! With straws!"

"Yes, sir, they come with straws."

"Wonderful! Brilliant!"

John shoved Sherlock back into his seat when the voice instructed him to drive to the window. He couldn't help rolling hie eyes as Sherlock whispered to himself, "Straws! Can you imagine? You don't even have to ask for them."

When the face-voice, a university-aged student with a braid of light brown hair, handed over their Coolattas, Sherlock burst with enthusiasm.

"Yes! Those are exactly what I wanted! These Coolattas! Look at them, John! Look at how red they are."

Sherlock took a sip as John paid with cash.

"Mmm," he said, humming. "It's so good. So strawberry-y! You need to taste it, John," he said, shoving John's Coolatta inches from his face.

The girl leaned toward the car to give John his change. "Your change is--"

"No, no!" Sherlock said. "No, you keep it! You keep it. John put your straw in." Sherlock smiled at the girl. "Thank you, miss! Thank you, it's delicious. Exactly like strawberry!"

John stabbed the drink with his straw and brought it to his lips for a taste. It was nothing like strawberry.

"Exactly like strawberry! Well done!" Sherlock shot the girl another smile before he patted the steering wheel.

"Yes?" John asked, slightly irritated, mostly amused.

Sherlock sipped happily at his drink. "You're holding up the line, John. Can't keep everyone waiting. Didn't your mother ever teach you manners?"

John grinned to himself, pressing lightly on the accelerator to ease away from the window and toward the street.

Sherlock's hand shot past his line of vision, waving to the girl at the window. "Thank you!" he shouted. "Delicious...uh..."

"Coolatta."

"Coolatta!"

On the way to the hotel, John peeked at Sherlock, who was hunkered down in his seat, straw to his lips, nearly finished with his drink. His lips were unnaturally red. John grinned to himself, making a note to store a cabinet of alcohol at Baker Street for strategic use. There would be times when he would need Sherlock to be agreeable, uttering please and thank you, and he best be prepared to make the improbable probable.

He just never would have dreamed he'd discover the means through an American food chain.

Sherlock Fic: Periodically Elementary (Gen: Sherlock, John; G)

shutterbug_12 — Wed, 20 Jun 2012 04:41:01 GMT

It's been a while since I wrote fic, but I was inspired. No headings, because I'm too lazy to look them up or make one again. See subject for the basics.

Quick summary: Sherlock adds a wall decoration. John objects. At first.

Weary from a full day of flu-stricken patients, John noticed the addition to the flat only after he plodded out of the kitchen with his dinner in hand. He stopped short of his chair, abandoning his sandwich on the table, and wandered over to the poster taped to the wall. He pointed, half-turned toward Sherlock. ”Is this it?”

From his armchair, Sherlock raised only his eyes in John’s direction, barely a flicker of attention before he resumed his perusal of one of John’s medical journals. Interested in a new study regarding the effects of carbonated beverages on tooth decay, Sherlock had stolen it before John had known he’d received it.

“Mmm,” John hummed, letting his hand fall to his thigh with a soft thud. He glanced at the poster. Then back at Sherlock. ”Wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

“You asked me to decorate.”

“I asked for art. To balance out all of your morbid skulls.” John gestured to the skull on the mantle, the two dimensional version on the wall. His volume rose with his frustration. “A nice Van Gogh! Monet! Bridges! Lily pads!”

“That isn’t art,” Sherlock said, his voice dismissive, uninterested. Bored.

“And this is? The periodic table of elements?”

“Really, John, what could be more creative than the elements of the world itself?” Sherlock asked with grandeur worthy of a documentary voice-over. “The foundation—the very details of the matter around us?”

“All from the man who believes astrophysics is useless,” John muttered.

“It is useless,” Sherlock hissed, standing abruptly, slapping his journal on the arm of the chair. ”And Van Gogh. Monet. It’s all useless!”

“Some people appreciate it! It’s inspiring! It’s calming!”

Sherlock crossed the room in three hard, heavy steps. ”So is this!” he shouted, his knuckles locked as he jabbed the semi-glossy finish with his fingertips. ”So is this!”

John stared at Sherlock, into wide eyes that seemed to ask: Can’t you see? Don’t you know by now? John felt his shoulders drop. Yes, he knew. He saw.

Frustration lingered, hot and thorny in his chest, and he worked to dissipate it. He needs this. Sherlock needs this. With his eyes still fixed on Sherlock’s face, John blinked, then shouldered Sherlock out of the way, reaching for the poster.

Sherlock straightened up, squaring his shoulders, eyeing John with suspicion. “What are you doing?”

He carefully peeled away the tape, corner by corner. ”I’m taking this down.”

“Why?”

In John’s hand, the poster curled. Its bottom edge bobbed just above the floor as he swiveled to face Sherlock. ”Because if I have to look at this poster every day, it’s going in a damn frame,” John said between gritted teeth.

He stalked toward the door, rolling up the poster before he could absorb Sherlock’s expression—a sort of bewilderment, John guessed. The look Sherlock wore when he unexpectedly faced the curious habits of the average person.

Tucking the poster under his arm, John started down the stairs. ”Could have been worse.”

Drunk Wednesday 8/10/11

shutterbug_12 — Wed, 10 Aug 2011 23:40:21 GMT

Welcome to
Drunk Wednesday
August 10th, 7:30- 'til our heads hit the pillows

Who says you can't drink in the middle of the week? I say: Party time! There's no official end time, but the fun starts now! What kind of fun, you ask? Whatever you'd like (as long as it's fun)! So bring on the .gifs, silly comments, fandom flail--pretty much whatever you'd like! Drinking isn't necessary--there are virgin daiquiris standing by!--but it's nice to have the excuse sometimes. ;)

To new friends: Don't be shy! Stop by, say hello--this is a nice time to get to know each other! So come on over! Get some comment chats a-goin'! Pour some drinks and have a great time! ♥

Invitation: Drunk Wednesday

shutterbug_12 — Wed, 10 Aug 2011 15:18:13 GMT

You're cordially invited to:

Drunk Wednesday!
Tonight (Aug. 10)
7:30 p.m. EDT - bed time, whenever that may be

This is the last Drunk Night before I leave for law school and, after that, there probably won't be another (at least at this LJ; others are always welcome to borrow the idea, of course) until my fall break in October. So join in for a night of revelry and merriment. It will be what we make it. ♥

The obligatory post

shutterbug_12 — Tue, 19 Jul 2011 02:51:56 GMT

I mentioned a little while back that I was going to do a friends cut (reference the post here if you'd like; I made it temporarily public).

I needed to slim it down in preparation for law school, to make sure I had a better chance of keeping up with it, so I decided to cut people who:
[.] I grew apart from or lost connection with.
[.] I interact with or see much more on other platforms.
[.] Don't really engage in regular contact with me or I with them (for various reasons).
[.] I didn't feel like I had much in common with.
[.] (If you were a new friend) I didn't click very well with.

I'm really sorry. =\ But if there's no hard feelings, I'd love to stay in contact through Twitter or Tumblr (whether we already follow each other there or I need to add you).

My Twitter: shutterbug012
My Tumblr: badgersable

You're all lovelies. ♥

TWW FIC: The Man You'll Become

shutterbug_12 — Thu, 14 Jul 2011 15:41:38 GMT

Title: The Man You'll Become
Author: shutterbug_12
Characters: Leo and Josh
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Only borrowing.
Summary: When Leo meets Josh, he unknowingly catches a glimpse of the future.
Author's Note: Pre-series. 620 words. Written for bullet2 for helpthesouth. Many thanks to my betas, daisykatherine and fromiftowhen. Feedback and concrit is love.

Leo hadn’t worn a tie, a normal necktie, in months. His time away--day after day of missions over black, lush jungles in standard-issue fatigues--had stolen that piece of his previous life, but he decided, when he booked an appointment to meet an old friend, he’d wear an old uniform.

The assistant, on her way out of the office for the day, motioned toward a closed, polished door, and with a glance at the placard beside the frame, Leo rolled his shoulders, raised his fist, and knocked.

In an instant, he heard footsteps on the other side of the door. Quick, pounding steps, as if someone were barreling across the room. Leo leaned back for another look at the placard to double-check the name as the door opened wide to reveal a spacious office lit by the low afternoon sun.

"Mr. McGarry?"

An unfamiliar voice drew his attention down; a boy--no older than six--peered up at him with raised eyebrows and a tuft of brown hair piled on his head like an oversize cotton ball.

“My dad’s still on the phone, but he said to let you in when you knocked. He said he was expecting you.”

Leo raised his head to see Noah at his desk with the phone to his ear. Even as he spoke, Noah nodded with flash of a smile and waved him inside.

Noah’s boy turned and rushed to offer a chair near the windows. “Here’s where you sit, Mr. McGarry.”

Leo followed, unable to suppress a smirk at the boy’s enthusiasm. "Well, thank you very much," he said, leaning down and reaching out to squeeze his narrow shoulder before easing into the chair. "You can call me Leo, okay?"

"Okay, Mr. McGarry. Um, sorry. Leo," he said, a lopsided smile on his face. "I'm Josh. This chair--” He paused to climb onto the room's second armchair. “--is mine."

Leo returned Josh's wide, toothy smile and waited as he settled in the chair. Josh slid a glossy magazine off the end table and onto his lap and, for a silent minute, busied himself as he flipped its pages. When Leo stole a second to turn his head for a sweep of the room, Josh asked, "Are you a soldier? Dad said you were in a war."

“Yes, I was," he answered, matter-of-fact. He met Josh’s eyes, burying the memories threatening to resurface, and added, “I’m an airman. I fly planes. Big planes.”

Josh considered this information for a moment, then shook his head, his nose crinkling. “I don’t think I’d want to do that.”

“No?” Leo asked, leaning on the soft leather arm of his chair. “You think you know what you want to do?” Across the room, Noah ended his phone call and abandoned his seat. They exchanged amused grins before Noah fetched two tumblers and a bottle of Glenlivet from a small cabinet beside the desk.

Leo looked back at Josh, who had lowered his head and turned the magazine for Leo to see. He pointed at a color photograph of the White House and said, “I want to work there.”

A broad smile spread across Leo’s face. “Well, kid.” He paused to accept the scotch from Noah as he returned to his desk. “My bet is that you’d do a better job than most of the people over there right now. They’d be lucky to have you.”

Almost thirty years later in a deserted storefront, Leo introduced Josh to the rest of the campaign’s staff. Afterwards, he recalled the boy who opened his father’s door and reached up to squeeze Josh’s broad, solid shoulder. “Glad you’re on board,” he said, the hint of a smirk on his face. “We’re lucky to have you.”

shutterbug_12 — Mon, 11 Jul 2011 19:09:55 GMT

After that last post, I said to myself, "Self, you're whining. The day is still new. So make it what you want." And so far it's been all right! Sam makes me somewhat blue whenever he hovers nearby, apparently trying his best to project his misery. And it's not that I'm not sympathetic. I am. But I'm not going to wallow with him. So. I've run six miles, finished Return of the King, finished the Half-Blood Prince, had a lovely, lovely bath, and now it's time for my haircut. Take that, life.

Posted via LiveJournal app for iPhone.

The future of the internet

shutterbug_12 — Fri, 08 Jul 2011 18:06:22 GMT

It is 1:30. I have vodka on my watermelon. What's that? Too early for that, you say? ...Nah.

Big bang story is...still not completely outlined, but I made a lot of progress with last night. A lot. Though, I had this moment where I sat back and thought, "Ugh, this is lame. What a lame story. It's awful. Maybe it seems that way because I've been staring at it for a while. Maybe it'll be better in actual story form." I hope people like it. Oh, and I don't know how to wrap it up. I have nearly all the pieces, except for how to let it end. I have the climax, most of the end, but not the very-very-very end. I have the...thematic end? If that makes sense. Just not the last chapter. I need a "new beginning" kind of chapter. I just don't know exactly how it'll be. Not exactly. But, yeah, I hope people like it.

I've spent a portion of the day figuring out how to sort out of my online, erm, components. How to balance LJ, Twitter, Tumblr, etc. Mostly those three. I've realized that I will probably have little time for LJ once school starts. I'm almost positive that the pace of my life will lend me smaller slices of time, which is better suited to Twitter and Tumblr. So I imagine my online presence during school playing out like this:

1. I'll spend most of my time on Twitter and Tumblr. These are easy to update from my phone, and they require time here and there, not blocks of time. I will post a Twitter/Tumblr exchange entry within the next month to make sure I have handles to stay in touch.
2. I'll reserve some updates for LJ, as it will remain my safest online place. Personal things, significant things--they'll still go here. I just don't think the updates will be as frequent. Probably a couple times a week. Oh, and fic of course. I'll always post that to LJ first. (And yes, I'll make time to write it, even if they're small drabbles, because, hello, I'll need to stay sane.)
3. Despite the fact that I recently added a lot of new friends, I'll probably trim my f-list shortly before school. Not a huge one, but I'll probably let go of some people I just haven't connected to or lost a connection to. However. I'll have more time for Twitter and Tumblr, and would still keep in touch there--it's just easier to do there--as long as there are no hard feelings. Even so, I'll still probably have a pretty large f-list, so I'll just ask now for your patience with me. I will read as much of my list as I can, but my comments will probably decrease (but that won't mean I love any of you less).

So, to sum up, my LJ posts will become less frequent, as will my commenting. I'll probably tidy the f-list so I can still read all the posts on my f-list and keep up, comment when I can. But you'll be able to find me and talk to me and keep up our awesome friendships and fun times on Twitter and Tumblr.

I'll probably start this transition within the next couple weeks. That way, I can see how it's going. Plus it won't be this weird, sudden thing for me or for any of you. Anyway, I just wanted to keep everyone updated, because I think that's the courteous thing to do. =)

And now! More outlining.

HIMYM FIC: How the West Was Awesome

shutterbug_12 — Sun, 03 Jul 2011 02:36:25 GMT

Title: How the West Was Awesome
Author: shutterbug_12
Characters: Ensemble
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Only borrowing. Make love, not lawsuits.
Summary: A routine day in the Old West is derailed when a stranger challenges Barney to a high-noon showdown.
Author's Note: Old West crack!AU that has been two years in the making--true story, earlwyn and I first chatted/flailed about it in June of 2009. (And now that it has finally surfaced, I regret nothing!) Thanks to my betas, slybrunette and earlwyn. For tosca1390! Happy Birthday, lady! ILU! ♥

“They’re ugly.”

“No, they’re not!”

“Ted, they look like you stepped in an enormous vat of ketchup.” With her back to the bar, Lily raised her beer for a sip. Her mouth stretched into a crimped line as she swallowed. “Face it. They’re ketchup boots.”

“They’re--” Ted glanced down at his new boots. His buffed red boots--beauties. Absolute beauts. “Come on, Lily. They’re stylin’.”

“Really?” she asked, eyebrows raised as she made a show of scanning the weekend crowd. “If they’re so stylin’, how come I don’t see anyone else wearing them? I’d think such a bitchin’ pair of boots would be more popular.”

He peered across the room, his eyes leaping from one pair of feet to another. Table after table, boots touched the dusty wooden floorboards. Black boots. Brown. Tan. But no red. Not even maroon.

“Yeah, well,” he said, slipping one hand in the front pocket of his jeans, striking his best macho pose. He tapped his foot loudly on the floor. “I’m setting a trend. That’s me. A trend setter. Trend-setting Ted.”

Lily looked as though she had a retort ready on her tongue, but the swinging double doors of the saloon drew her attention, and she stood on her tiptoes to look over Ted’s shoulder at MacLaren's newest patron.

He approached them both with a steady stride. With a tip of his wide-brimmed hat, he nodded at her. “Miss Lily,” he said. His silver badge flashed on his chest.

Ted downed the rest of his beer and watched as Lily beamed.

“Sheriff Marshall,” she cooed, reaching out to straighten his badge. “You want a cold one, baby?”

“Thanks,” he said, kissing her cheek before taking a seat at the corner bar stool. As Lily bustled toward the center of the bar to catch Carl’s attention, Ted caught Marshall’s scrutinizing head-tilt, eyes on his boots, and anticipated his jibe before it even left his mouth: “Dude, you’re still wearing those?”

Ted huffed, annoyed and flustered. Lily returned to their corner and--unintentionally, he thought--saved him from the necessity of defending his boots. No, his honor, his dignity. His boots were, he considered, more than just a choice of footwear; they were a statement. A statement that he totally pulled off. Totally. They’d see--Marshall and Lily. One day they’d see what he saw. He raised his hand, signalling for another beer.

After throwing back his first mouthful, Marshall blurted, “So, good news or bad news?” He glanced at both of them. “Which one do you want first?”

“Oh! The good news!” Lily said.

“Okay, the good news. The city council approved the new room for the schoolhouse.”

“Oh, yay! That’s great, sweetie!” she said, her face brightening. “Can you imagine? Two whole rooms? Now I’ll be able to keep the sixth graders away from the rest of the kids. There was an incident with spitballs last week, and it was not pretty.”

Ted grinned, pulling his fresh beer towards himself. “So what’s the bad news, Marshall? Marshal Marshall.”

“Okay, come on,” Marshall said, his voice sliding with a weary tone. “You have to stop calling me that or nobody in this town is going to take me seriously.”

“Whatever you say, Marshal.” Ted paused, meeting Marshall’s eyes before he smiled and quickly added, “Marshall.”

“Ted, seriously.”

“Okay, seriously, what’s the bad news?”

“So, Mr. Hobbs? Arthur? He handed over a petition saying that everyone in town is demanding--” He paused for a long drink. “A clock tower. They want a giant clock tower.”

Ted sputtered so violently that he nearly sprayed his beer all over the bar. “Really? Oh, my God, can I design it? Think about how great that would be!” He swept his hand through the air, painting an invisible picture above their heads. “There, a majestic, practical, yet architecturally distinctive addition to the skyline. A beacon on the desert horizon.”

Marshall sighed. A doubtful expression rolled across his face as he glanced at Lily, then looked down into his beer and said, “I don’t know, Ted. I already have enough to deal with. There was that bank robbery the other day. I just heard about a northern gunslinger who’s on the loose. And now there’s the schoolhouse. And as soon as I see Barney, I’m going to stuff him full of his own stupid ‘wanted’ posters and mount him on the wall like a prairie dog. If people, and ‘people,’ of course, being Barney, are going to post ‘wanted’ signs all over the feed store, they should at least be real.”

As if the words had summoned him, Barney pushed open the doors, his shadow stretching across the floor as he ambled toward them. His spurs jangled over the din of the saloon as he eyed patrons from under his black hat, pausing to wink at a blushing barmaid. When he stopped in front of them, he cocked his head and tugged on the lapels of his suit, straightened his tie and smoothed his shirt--everything black--as if he were trying to extend the silence for dramatic effect.

Ted rolled his eyes.

“So,” said Marshall, sitting tall on his stool. “So, look who it is--”

Barney raised his hands in mock-surrender. “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he said. “Relax, Marshall. Everything’s cool.” He nodded at the shy barmaid. “Glass of whiskey for me, baby doll. Thanks.”

“No, Barney, I don’t think I will relax. Do you know what I’ve been doing all--”

“Come on, Marshall. How many times have I told you? It’s Black Tie Barney.” He scooped up his whiskey and took a generous sip. “Just wait. It’s going to be a thing.”

“A thing?” Marshall said. “So is that why you’re wallpapering the town with your ‘wanted’ posters, so you can make it a thing?”

Barney threw back the rest of his whiskey and signalled for another. “No.” His face scrunched with a mask of repulsed disbelief. “I did that because they look good. Check it out.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a roll of paper. Wedging himself between Lily and Ted, he unrolled it and smiled. “How awesome is that? I printed them myself,” he said, unmistakably proud.

Barney’s image beamed at them, framed by block-letter words that included the promise of a very pleasurable reward.

“Ah, my best suit,” he swooned. “Great for the glamor shot.”

Ted blinked, fixing his face with a deadpan expression as he looked from Barney to the poster. He was about to let an unimpressed remark slide out of him, but he snapped his mouth shut, his eyebrows furrowing. The paper jerked, not once, not twice, but three times. Again, and again. He glanced back at Barney, expecting a dramatic outpouring of emotion over the latest styles from the east coast. But before he could get a good read, Lily stole his attention.

“Barney?” she said, her voice loaded with suspicion. She pointed at his hand. “Your hand’s shaking.”

Ted nearly stepped in to brush it off, but Barney faltered, hurrying to drop his hand to his side. “What? No, it’s not.” With his other hand, he downed his second glass of whiskey like a shot.

“Yes, it is!” she said, grabbing his hand and holding tightly. “I can feel it!”

“It’s not shaking,” he said, wrenching his hand back to recollect his poster. “It’s vibrating with the power of how--how awesome I truly am. The power of my awesomeness, which is in constant danger of bursting out of me, unrestrained, and melting your all of your less awesome minds. Like the power of God, but mightier.”

“Oh, really?” Lily pressed.

Ted exchanged curious glances with Marshall, raising his eyebrows and waiting.

Under her gaze, Barney’s smooth veneer cracked, his face wilting with panic before he finally exploded. “Oh, all right! You got me! I can’t help it!”

The three of them stared at him.

Barney hesitated, peering around the saloon. “I was minding my own business--”

Ted leaned on the bar. “You never mind your own business.”

“--outside Sandy Rivers--”

“The news stand?”

“Yeah, and just as I was browsing the latest issue of Desert Rose--sidebar, I hooked up with Miss June behind the stables last--” Suddenly Barney’s eyes widened when he looked toward the doors, and he scampered behind Marshall, ducking low. “Oh, my God, it’s him. That’s the guy!”

They all swiveled and found a man strutting past the doors. A stranger. Unkempt, shaggy hair, one hand curled around a pistol at his hip.

Barney ducked even lower. “That’s the guy, that’s the guy!”

Lily lowered her voice to a whisper, “The guy?”

“He cornered me at the news stand with one of my posters and challenged me to a duel. A duel. Like a showdown. A high noon showdown. Seriously, who does this guy think he is, Dirty Harry? You have to stop him, Marshall. You have to arrest him. I’m too young to die. My suit is too young to die,” Barney rambled into Marshall’s shoulder.

“I hate to point this out, Black Tie Barney,” Lily said. “But you kind of invited it.”

Barney stared, aghast. “What?” he asked, his voice leaping a few octaves. “No-o-o.”

She shrugged. “Your poster says you’ve never lost a showdown. That’s practically a dare.”

Barney’s face twisted with pained frustration. “Lily, really, have I taught you nothing? A ‘wanted’ poster is like your resume. You can fill it with all the ego-fluffing catch phrases you want, but nobody expects you to back it up with proof.”

Marshall turned his head in Barney’s direction. “Okay, calm down, buddy. Just--”

“How can you expect me to be calm at a time like this? I’ve got to get out of here,” Barney hissed, starting to creep around them.

Ted lunged and tried to reach him, but he’d already dashed to the end of the bar. With a healthy amount of momentum behind him, Ted had to catch himself on a bar stool, forcing it to scrape across the floor. The scruffy cowboy’s head jerked toward the noise, then to Barney, who had broken out into a mad scramble toward the doors. Ted mustered a weak smile.

The man caught up with Barney, grabbing a fistful of his suit.

“Ugh, no,” Barney said, his tone meek but disgusted, “you’re wrinkling--the wrinkles--I just had this steamed.” He tried to pry the fingers away, managing to keep his feet under him as the man hauled him out of the saloon. Help!, he mouthed, pointing at himself before he disappeared into the street.

For a second, they all sat dumbfounded, but simultaneously burst into motion, rushing outside ahead of the rest of the saloon’s customers.

“Do you think this guy’s for real?” Ted asked, hurrying alongside Lily and Marshall. When he saw the stranger deposit Barney at the end of the block, lean inches away from his face and snarl at him, Ted answered his own question. “Yeah, I’d say he looks pretty serious.”

Beside him, Lily tapped Marshall’s arm. “Get in there, baby,” she urged.

To Marshall’s credit, he didn’t show a millisecond’s hesitation before he propelled himself into the street and headed toward the unfamiliar man.

“Excuse me! Excuse me! Hi,” Marshall shouted, waving at the stranger who had taken his place opposite Barney, a few dozen feet away. “I’m Marshall, the Sheriff. Hi.”

The stranger glowered. At the other end of the block, Barney stood, unmoving, like a trunk of petrified wood.

“You know, it’s a hot sun out here, and I know how people can overreact when the sun’s beating down like this. So what do you say we all come over here into the shade and work out our differences like mature adults?”

And what happened next became the stuff of local legend.

All at once, the cowboy’s hand moved for his pistol and a loud shot echoed between the buildings. The next moment, the cowboy dove for the dirt and every head of every onlooker turned to stare at the tall woman who stood several feet behind Barney, pistol still aimed and smoke swirling from the barrel.

When Marshall darted over to the stranger, the woman lowered her weapon, heading for the cluster of onlookers, her dark hair and red skirt fluttering in the wind. She singled out Ted and Lily, who stood apart from the rest of the crowd.

“Is he a friend of yours?” the woman asked, gesturing to Barney.

“Friend is a relative term,” Ted said.

“But yeah, he’s with us,” Lily added. “How did you--”

“Oh, I could sense a showdown a mile away,” she said with an air of nonchalance. “All the dust in the air, the way it sounds so still, you know?”

Ted nodded, clueless but awed.

“Anyway,” she continued. “I came over to check it out. Took two seconds for me to see he was a goner.”

As they talked, the crowd dispersed, shuffling back into the saloon or making their way down the street.

Barney stood frozen, his eyes squeezed shut. “Am I dead? Am I dead?” he asked, opening one eye to peek down the street. He must have seen the commotion at the other end, because he snapped back to himself as if the last five minutes had never happened.

“Oh, yeah!” Barney shouted. “Jail-suit up!” He pointed at the stranger as Marshall pulled him off the ground led him away, then turned back towards them, his eyes falling to their new acquaintance. “Whoa, and who is this fine lady?”

She holstered her pistol, stepping forward. “I’m Robin. From up north.”

“Black Tie Barney,” he said, adopting a deeper tone of voice, sidling closer to her.

“Robin, this is Barney,” Ted interjected. “Lily--” He gestured at her. “--and I’m Ted. Oh, and Marshall’s over there.” He pointed up the street. “You could meet him later.”

“Well,” she said, a smile spreading across her face for the first time. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Did you--I mean, did you shoot that guy?” Lily asked, nodding to the opposite end of the street where, until a moment ago, Marshall had been wrangling the cowboy.

“Nah. I made sure the bullet whizzed right past his ear. No harm done. Well, except to his ego, but it looked like he could stand to be taken down a peg.”

Barney brushed dust off his sleeve. “I could have taken him. I was just biding my time for the suspense. Black Tie Barney, fastest gun in the west, if you know what I mean.” With a quick hip pump, he winked at Robin. “You know what I’m talking about. High noon five.” He raised his hand, offering it to each of them with no success.

Lily rolled her eyes and glanced at Robin. “You’ll get used to him,” she said, then turned back to Barney. “But you know, fastest gun in the west? Not something you want to brag about, there, fella.” She shared a smirk with Robin. “Oh, and speaking of--Robin, what do you think of Ted’s boots?”

Robin looked down before her eyes flickered up to Ted’s face with a grimace. “Oh,” she said. “Yeah, those don’t even belong on a rodeo clown.”

“What? No! They’re classic! I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m totally pulling these off!” Ted shouted, keeping up his defense all the way back into the saloon.

shutterbug_12 — Sun, 10 Apr 2011 00:22:48 GMT

Attention Dreamwidth users: If you can comment and let me know who you are over there, I'd appreciate it. =) Comments are screened.

(I have five invite codes if anyone's interested.)

Drunk Wednesday!

shutterbug_12 — Wed, 06 Apr 2011 22:34:51 GMT

Welcome to
Drunk Wednesday
April 6, 6:30- 'til we see the sunlight

Who says you can't drink in the middle of the week? I say: Party time! There's no official end time, but the fun starts now! What kind of fun, you ask? Whatever you'd like (as long as it's fun)! Tonight isn't for discussions about a government shutdown. Or important political issues. Because even though we all may care about these kinds of things, this is a fun time. So bring on the .gifs, silly comments, fandom flail, news about how beautifully your daffodils are coming up, gorgeous weather, how much you love your hockey team, the awesome sex you had last night, how much you're rocking your pajamas, picspams, photos. This is a positive night, a fun night, and I hope you're all ready to get your drink on, because I am. *g*

So come on over! Get some comment chats goin'! Pour some drinks and have a great time! ♥

(Don't forget to keep an eye out for new comments to the post!)

TWW FIC: McPherson Cupcakes

shutterbug_12 — Thu, 24 Mar 2011 03:41:01 GMT

Title: McPherson Cupcakes
Author: shutterbug_12
Characters: Ainsley & Sam
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Only borrowing. Make love, not lawsuits.
Summary: Sam is alarmed when Ainsley turns down an offer of food.
Author's Note: This is all magisterequitum's fault. Inspired by a very real D.C. food truck. Feedback and concrit is love.

From his seat in the cab, Sam spotted her on 15th Street just before one o'clock, at the edge of McPherson Square, tense and still. Ducks circled around her feet, but she ignored them, her eyes wide, scanning traffic. She looked like an alert cheetah on the Sahara, ready to explode into motion.

For a calm, relaxed afternoon, it seemed odd.

With a polite order to pull over, please and thank you included, he rolled down the window. Once the car rolled to a stop, he leaned out into the humid air. "Ainsley!" he shouted.

Her head jerked in his direction, but even as she waved at him she seemed distracted. Her eyes never settled on him for more than a second or two, and she wasn't one to have difficulty with eye contact.

"If you need a ride back to the office, you're more than welcome to hop in," Sam said.

"I don't need a ride, no," she said. Then, as if it were an afterthought, she added, "Thank you."

"I don't want you to get caught in the rain." A weak excuse, and he knew it. He could practically hear the blue sky snickering at him.

"It's not supposed to rain until--" She cut herself off with a sudden, fast movement--a step away from her corner--but she returned to her spot a moment later, same rigid posture as before. "It's not supposed to rain until later today."

He pressed his lips together, dismayed, and breathed a short exhale through his nose. Time for the big guns, the big kahuna weapon aimed right at her Achilles' heel. "I've got some croissant sandwiches back at the office. Come on, we could share the cab."

Her attention shifted back to the steady parade of cars. "Thanks, Sam. But I'm okay."

Bizarre. He squinted at her, his brow furrowing. He opened his mouth for a second attempt to coax her into the cab, but she darted away from her corner in a full high-heeled sprint before he could speak.

"I have to go, Sam!" she said over her shoulder, rushing toward a--

Sam tilted his head as a smile spread across his face. A food truck. She was headed straight for a petite pink food truck that had just set up shop on the corner of the square. A pink food truck with a cupcake painted on its side.

Ducking back into the car, he turned to the driver and said, "Excuse me. Can you just drop me off over there by the pink food truck?" He didn't want to miss this.

TWW FIC: Mistaken Identity

shutterbug_12 — Tue, 01 Mar 2011 04:23:40 GMT

Title: Mistaken Identity
Author: shutterbug_12
Characters: Josh/Donna
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Only borrowing. Make love, not lawsuits.
Summary: After her date, Donna approaches Josh with a pressing question.
Author's Note: The Portland Trip missing scene. 900 words. Many thanks to my fantastic betas, scullyseviltwin, damelola, and tosca1390. For magisterequitum. Happy very, very belated holidays! Feedback and concrit is love.

Donna took one step toward the exit before she stopped and turned back, spying Josh in the uneven light and shadow of the corridor. His compliment still echoed in her head-- You look really great in that dress tonight--and she smoothed the fabric over her hips as she called after him. “Josh?”

In the hall, he reversed course. “Yeah?” he asked, his eyebrows raised. He tapped the door frame as he shuffled toward her, focused and unusually attentive.

“Do you--” She interrupted herself with a shaky laugh, distracted by the surge of nervous heat across her face. Earlier, she had pushed her oyster crackers around the surface of her soup for a half-hour before she realized that Todd had abandoned ship. Her encounters with Leo and Ainsley had only fanned the disappointment that, despite Josh’s kindness, still stuck to her insides like overcooked oatmeal. “You have to promise not to laugh at me, Josh, because I know how you can be, and it’s hard enough under the best of circumstances.”

“Was there an actual question in there? Because, if there was, I missed it,” he said, tilting his head as he squinted at her.

“Do you--do you think I’d look good with red hair?”

Josh’s body relaxed, his shoulders curving into a natural line as he snorted and smiled, all at once. “Are you serious?”

“I was thinking, you know, maybe it’s time for a change,” she said, keeping her tone as light as possible. “Something to differentiate myself. God knows there are enough long-haired blondes around here, confusing everyone.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

She sighed, a soft bluster that lifted a lock of hair away from her cheek. “You know, Josh,” she said. “For someone who’s supposed to be one of the best and the brightest--”

“Donna, I’m about twenty minutes away from crashing on CJ’s couch, so if you have a real question--”

“Do you think Ainsley and I look alike?” she blurted, words and frustrations tumbling out with one breath.

He stared at her, shifting his weight as he rubbed his forehead with the pads of his fingers. “What?”

“Do Ainsley and I look alike?”

His brow furrowed. He shook his head, blinking at her. “No. No, she looks like--”

“What?”

“A Republican.”

“Josh.”

“Who thought you looked alike?”

“No one,” she said, dismissing the question with a flip of her hand.

The lines in his forehead deepened. He searched her eyes, studying her before he spoke. She could practically see his mind at work. “Did someone say you looked alike?”

“No. I only asked because”--she swept her hair away from her face and adjusted the straps of her purse-- “I was curious. I shouldn’t have brought it up.” Forcing a tight-lipped smile, she turned for the door. “I’m just going to call a cab and--”

“He did.”

Full of weight and certainty, his voice fell on her ears and froze her like a paralytic . She stood under the hot wash of light in the lobby, her muscles rigid, her fingers curled around the hem of her coat sleeves. As she met his eyes, another wave of heat crashed over her face, so warm that it made her wonder if her face were as red as her dress. “Josh,” she whispered, an obvious, undisguised plea.

“It was him. Whoever he was. Your date.”

“Todd.”

“When he asked you out, he thought he’d landed a date with Ainsley. Right?”

Glancing at the floor, she tried to laugh, but the sound came out like a breathless hiccup. “I guess if I’m going to be mistaken for anyone, the new White House superstar isn’t so bad.”

It was as if Josh hadn’t heard her. “And when he realized you were you,” he said, gesturing toward her, “he left.” He stepped closer to her, lowering his voice. “He walked out on you, didn’t he?”

Thorny, prickly shame bubbled up her throat and blocked her breath. A swell of tears stung her eyes, and she blinked against them, fending them off before she lifted her head. “I’m not sure if he was more disappointed that I’m not a Republican, or that I’m not an easy ticket for a photo op.”

“Well,” he said, offering her a lopsided smile. “He obviously doesn’t know what he’s missing.”

She tried to ignore the pull of affection in her chest--not the first for him--and she crossed her arms over herself, struggling to squash the feeling. When her gaze drifted from his eyes to his mouth. His lips were still curved with a lazy smile, parted and relaxed, like they would be easy to kiss. Snapping her mouth closed, she blinked and rooted herself to the marble tile. She swallowed against words, inappropriate words, and grounded herself--righted herself.

She managed a genuine, grateful smile. “Thanks,” she whispered.

He held her gaze for a moment before he stepped away from her. As he backpedaled toward the hall, he pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. “I have to meet with Leo.”

She nodded. “Okay.”

“See you tomorrow.”

She stood silently and watched him until he turned the corner and disappeared from view. Later, with a soft smile and a steady exhale, she opened her fist above her kitchen trashcan and dropped the torn tag from her dress on top of the pile.

DVD Commentary for "Memory Aide"

shutterbug_12 — Sat, 19 Feb 2011 18:36:10 GMT

Originally posted HERE.

On the morning of the elections, CJ had received a message from Donna: He wants to see everyone. Come over tonight, no later than eleven. Don't let him fool you; he still needs a lot of rest. [First of all, I love this type of story, this theme. Josh's recovery from the shooting, how everyone else handled their own recovery. I'm not sure what it is, exactly, but I really enjoy recovery stories (not "hurt/comfort" stories, but actual recovery, and healing, and strengthened bonds between friends out of painful experiences), so I wanted to write one. I wasn't ready to tackle a story about Josh's recovery yet (a long one is still brewing/being outlines), but I wanted to include him and how it would relate to or affect another character, and CJ seemed to be a good fit. So she ended up as the filter for this story. Secondly, if it's true that Josh was in fact kept inside and Donna didn't really allow many visitors for about three months, I'd imagine that Josh would have missed everyone. These aren't people who really have many--if any--friends outside of their workplace and by this point they've grown into a closer group, so I think Josh would have wanted to see everyone (and they him). So I used that as the impetus to the rest of the action.]

Sam had left the White House an hour ago--nine o'clock. Election results still scrolled across the bottom of her television screen when Toby arrived in her office [I kept mentioning the election early in the story to set it as a missing scene for "The Midterms" without going on too much about it], wearing his coat and raising his eyebrows with an unspoken question. Ready to go? CJ nodded, and, fifteen minutes later, their taxi rolled to a stop in front of Josh's building. [Toby and CJ sometimes have a way of communicating without words, it seems to me.]

As Toby leaned forward to pay the driver, CJ looked past him to see Sam, Josh, and Donna sprawled on the front steps like a trio of lizards under heat lamps. [I'm kind of proud of that image. In the episode, they seem relaxed, sprawled there on the steps, under the glow of streetlamps. And I liked the image.] Affection for them twisted into a tight knot [I overuse this phrase, and that bugs me, but it's the only way I can think to describe that feeling sometimes. Still bugs me.] inside CJ's chest. She wished she could capture them that way, sneak a photograph and mount it in a frame on her end table. She owned so few photographs of any of them. The last few months--hell, the last few years--had triggered similar thoughts. Occasional phone calls with her father and more frequent ones with Josh had sparked the overdue realization that memory could fail--would fail, even without a degenerative disease. [This is a part of CJ that doesn't seem to come up a whole lot in the show, but an aspect of her that I think would weigh on her thoughts when she was presented with reminders of the nature of life/death/memories. As parents get older, you seem to consider these questions more than normal--at least in my life--and for someone like CJ, those issues would be inescapable. I think part of her recovery from this whole event would involve those thoughts, especially since someone who had become a part of her daily life was absent in a big way. So I wanted to give that some attention and show how Josh's recovery was affecting her own recovery.] She'd done her best to shove those thoughts down deep, bury them in her subconscious for another day. A day not so busy, not so full.

A day like today.

CJ let Toby exit first, taking advantage of the empty seconds to gather herself as she straightened her back, drew a full breath. [Even among friends, I think CJ covers herself and what she might see as weaknesses or vulnerabilities sometimes. So she needs to prepare.] By the time CJ stepped out of the car and onto the sidewalk, Josh had already bounded to the bottom of the steps to meet them. [Josh's first real appearance here is a contrast to CJ in that he's pretty energetic and cheerful.] As Toby extracted himself from Josh's quick embrace, CJ caught a glimpse of Josh's clothes; the set of blue pajamas peeked out from the part in his coat. They hung off him as though they were fluid, dripping down his arms and legs, beyond the cuffs of his coat sleeves and stretching toward the ground. [I liked the fluid image for the image itself, to emphasize how big the clothes are on him, but also to highlight how things have been changing from CJ's point of view. The idea that things could change and run away from her seems like it would be a very real concern in the back of CJ's mind.]

"Hey, CJ."

Josh's voice floated light and soft into her ears, and CJ snapped her eyes to Josh's face. Her heart stuttered as she noticed his smile; she'd forgotten the shape of it. She'd had no reminders. No reminders of his smile, his build, and she'd forgotten. She'd forgotten his smile--his face--and had chosen pajamas two sizes too large for him. [To continue with the memory/change idea, seeing Josh there just served as a reminder of what she'd forgotten when he wasn't there in front of her for reference. It sparks fear in her about what could happen in similar situations in the future, and I think, like here, she'd feel shame and berate herself for forgetting something that she thinks she knows so well, a friend that she sees every day. It's something she feels deeply and is brought out with this situation.] CJ sucked a scratchy breath down her throat and forced herself to smile [another cover], wrapping her arms around Josh's shoulders to pull him against her.

"Hey," she answered, turning her face into the curve of Josh's neck to hide her face and frustration. "How are you doing?"

"Good. I'm good," he said, curling one arm around her waist. "Glad you're here. I missed you guys." [More contrast between their moods, how they're responding to the same meeting. For the record, CJ always struck me as kind of reflective and quiet during that scene in the episode. And, in light of this fic, her request to see Josh's pajamas in the episode serves as another kind of cover, as if she hadn't noticed the pajamas when she first showed up.]

CJ squeezed her eyes shut, the barbed-wire frustration dulled for a moment by the cool relief that washed through her with Josh's voice, his warmth. [I'm a fan of contrasts like that.] She held him tighter, struggling to adopt an air of normalcy. Chatter drifted from the stairs and filled the silence when CJ couldn't reply, unable to push any words up her throat.

Josh stood within the circle of her arms until she loosened her hold and pulled away. "You want a beer? Donna could run back inside and get you one," he said, turning back toward the steps. [And Josh is either oblivious to CJ's emotion--which is a pretty realistic possibility, since sometimes he can be like that, but also because he's pretty happy to see everyone--or CJ's doing a better job than she thinks at covering herself. I think either way would be a good way to interpret that.]

CJ swallowed, pushed her hair away from her face, and managed a grin. "Sure. Thanks," she said and followed Josh.

Accepting a bottle of beer from Donna, CJ took a seat on a step beside Toby and watched her friends, listened to them, tried to commit them to her memory. The next day, she left the White House for lunch and returned with a new camera, hoping that someday its photographs, when she took them, might help her remember. [I think this is part of the reason why some people take photos, as memory aides. We never really see her with a camera, but I think, in the world of this fic, she'd keep one around for little moments like this. A small camera. Nothing fancy. A simple, pocket sized, point and shoot digital she could keep tucked in her purse and take along for times like this one.]

In terms of process, this one came out in one shot, more or less. The first batch of my Wing fics came pretty easily, but I have to credit the great prompts at West Wing Stockings. There were some great prompts, and I can't actually remember the prompt itself that inspired this fic, but all the stockings helped me write my first batch of Wing fics, including this one. Sometimes I wish fics that I'm this happy with came that easily now. Hee.

Hope this was at least somewhat interesting. ;) Feel free to ask any follow up questions.

TWW FIC: Heir to the Bowl

shutterbug_12 — Fri, 18 Feb 2011 03:26:09 GMT

Title: Heir to the Bowl
Author: shutterbug_12
Characters: CJ/Danny
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Only borrowing. Make love, not lawsuits.
Summary: All goldfish go to heaven.
Author's Note: Post-series. 425 words. Written for amy_119 at The Valentine's Day Ficathon. Feedback and concrit is love.

In a lazy, sleep-thick haze, Danny reached for the alarm clock. His hand found the button, and he pressed it to kill the screech.

It took several times--press, press, press-press-press--to realize it wasn't the alarm. It was CJ.

He kicked away the covers and bolted out of bed, hurrying toward CJ's voice. In the living room, CJ stood beside the end table, her hands curled into fists in front of her mouth. In her fishbowl, Gail floated belly-up on the surface of the water.

"She's dead," she croaked. "I don't know what happened."

He rushed to her side. "It's okay. Fish die. She had a good, long life," he whispered as he rubbed her back in slow, broad strokes.

"Yeah," she answered, quiet and distracted.

"She did. She lived in the White House. She's been a resident of two cities. That's not bad for a fish."

Her head fell as a soft chuckle slipped past her lips. When the sound faded, they stood in silence until he stepped forward and lifted the bowl from the table. "Come on," he said, leading her toward the front door.

Three hours later, they fell into a second round of silence as the tide drew away from the beach and took Gail with it. He carried Gail's bowl back to the car and carefully placed it in the backseat before he drove CJ home.

The next day, he set a fishbowl on the kitchen table as she browsed their copy of the Times. Before they finished their late breakfast, they decided on a name.

"Dale."

"This has to be the last one," she said. "Unless we want to name the next one Bail. Or Tail. Or Fail. Fail the fish. Fail fish."

He nodded, his cup of coffee at his lips. "Yeah, we can't have that," he replied. But, as he set the cup down on the table, he looked at her and allowed himself a moment to fantasize about their future. A future that included more breakfasts. More copies of the Times. Children, maybe, but definitely more fish. "We could name the next one Gail II."

"Like the plant?"

"Sure, like the plant. Minus the appetite for blood. Unless you want our next fish to be a shark."

She smiled and leaned back in her chair. "See, now that's a fantastic idea if I ever heard one."

He smiled. He made a mental note to buy a Bala Shark fish when Dale reached the end of his life in what Danny hoped would be many, many happy years.

TWW FIC: Love Letter

shutterbug_12 — Sat, 05 Feb 2011 00:59:05 GMT

Title: Love Letter
Author: shutterbug_12
Characters: Toby (Toby/Andy)
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Only borrowing. No infringement intended.
Summary: "The inaugural, Toby. If I win, I want you to write it."
Author's Note: Post-series. Involves my own personal canon. Written for the prompt: Toby, the last speech he writes, at fictorium. Feedback and concrit is love.

When Toby received the call two days after the election, he wasn't surprised. He hunched over his desk in his Columbia office, surrounded by an air of clairvoyance and bathed in the warm wash of his shaded lamp.

Over the phone, Amy Gardner relayed the request. "She wants you to do it. Can you fly in tomorrow?"

---

"I want you to do it."

With his mouth full of well-done ribeye, Toby raised his eyebrows at Andy, who hadn't yet touched her risotto. "Do what?"

"The inaugural, Toby. If I win, I want you to write it."

Toby let his eyes wander across the table. Half-formed phrases tumbled through his mind, a domino effect of words--an old habit. "Why?"

She waited to speak until he met her eyes. "Because you're still the best writer I know."

---

"We'll reimburse all your expenses," Amy said. "I need you here tomorrow for an initial meeting. This needs to start as soon as possible."

Toby bit the inside of his cheek. Amy didn't need to know that the speech was more than half-written, more than a year in progress. Policy, ambitions, cadence--all of it already a custom fit for Andy. For her presidency.

"I'll fly down tomorrow," he said before he ended the call, pulled out his wallet, and booked his plane tickets.

---

He returned to New York with details in tow, and a quarter of a draft already on paper.

More than once, a student saw the scribbles on his notepad and asked, "So what are you writing?"

Toby always tilted his head and tapped the pad with the top of his pen. "A love letter."

No one took it seriously. His answer never changed.

---

On January 13th, he sent the finished copy.

On January 20th, he watched from his office chair as Andy spoke his words with a clear, commanding voice.

As he held a warm cup of coffee, a soft smile pulled at his mouth and his chest expanded with pride and age-old love for her, still the best woman he knew.

TWW FIC: Flowers in the Dirt

shutterbug_12 — Sun, 16 Jan 2011 23:12:32 GMT

Title: Flowers in the Dirt
Author: shutterbug_12
Characters: Josh/Donna
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Only borrowing. No infringement intended.
Summary: For the past five minutes, the doctor’s voice looped in his mind.
Author's Note: AU for Memorial Day/NSF Thurmont (before Josh visits Donna in the OR). Written for tosca1390 at ww_secretsanta. Thank you so much to my beta magisterequitum. Feedback and concrit is love.

"Sir? Mr. Lyman?"

"Wh--what?" Dazed, Josh turned and swayed on his feet, throwing his arm out toward the wall. For the past five minutes, the doctor’s voice looped in his mind. Donna’s doctor. Unable to remove the clot--traveled--resuscitation was unsuccessful. Did everything--I’m sorry.

"I’m sorry?" he asked, barely able to focus on the nurse in front of him.

She extended a bouquet of roses. "You left these at the desk," she said, her voice soft.

When his eyes fell upon the bundle, he blinked, his mind suddenly blank. Unable to swallow. All the air punched out of him. His windpipe, his chest--his whole body--felt crushed, and he silently, mechanically, reached for the flowers. Sour acid rolled up his throat, and he forced it down. Oh, God. Oh, God. No, no. Stop. It’s not--she’s not--these were for her. They were for her.

His hand curled loosely around the flower stems as the nurse turned away. He tightened his fist. Thorns pressed into his palm.

I never should have left. I never should have left her. He squeezed a handful of his hair as he walked away from that corridor. From that wretched, unbearable space. From Donna’s mother. From Donna’s body. He shut his eyes and choked on a shallow breath, desperate to block that image of her body. God, her body.

Blame and doubt swirled in his brain as his feet carried him toward the exit. Be careful, she’d said. The last words he had heard from her as he’d turned in the doorway and offered her a soft smile. I’ll be back in a bit, he’d promised, certain she’d be asleep--and alive--in her bed when he came back to her. He’d been sure.

Outside, her name trailed into a whimper as he forced air past the sharp knots in his chest. When he unclenched his hand to scrub tears off his cheeks, her roses fell and bounced on the concrete. Soft and delicate. Beautiful. Dead.

A sudden explosion of fury drowned out the sounds of his wet, thick hiccups as he raised his foot and stomped on the bloom of a rose. Then a second. Then a third, until too many tears blurred his vision, and he blindly pounded the sidewalk. I sent her. I sent her there. I killed her. God damn it. God damn it.

"God damn it." His foot twisted over the last round bloom before he stumbled backwards and crashed into the wall of the hospital.

"I sent her," he breathed, his back to the wall as he collapsed to the pavement. He pulled his knees to his chest and slowly tilted his face to the black, starless sky. Between noisy, broken breaths, he whispered, "I loved her. I loved her. Oh, God, I loved her."

A month later, he sank to his knees beside her headstone. With his palm flat over her name, he murmured the words that he’d cried to the dark German sky--as true and desperate as they had ever been--before he carefully laid twelve red roses on the still-soft dirt.