A Journal Less Ordinary

We'll meet along the road I know

2017-07-30T12:53:41Z

Like many before me, I am relocating to Dreamwidth, and I am in the process of importing my account to that site. You can find me under Silverweave there too. I'm not deleting my LiveJournal, but I haven't decided yet whether I will be crossposting from Dreamwidth.

Crucially, as I jump into the new waters, I am not sure how many of my flist (if any) are over on dreamwidth and if they are using the same username there. Even though I know LJ is not the vibrant thriving community that once it was, I would hate to lose ties with the wonderful folk I've had the pleasure of interacting with over the past... *checks* .... holy, moly, 13 years, so if you're on dreamwidth (or elsewhere), please comment / message and let me know where I can find you and / or friend me.

LJ has been a big and important part of my life, it helped me feel comfortable with who I am, and I feel so lucky to have been a part of it and met some wonderful people, including some of my most treasured friends. I shall miss it, but I believe a creative community has a responsiblilty to make everyone feel welcome, equally, in a shared safe space, and unfortunately LJ no longer fulfils that criteria. So it's time to move on.

It's hard to know who to sign off a post like this with my own words, so instead I think I shall turn to the creative words of someone much more wise than me, the poet Rita Mae Brown. Take care, everyone, and thank you.

Sappho's Reply
My voice rings down through thousands of years
To coil around your body and give you strength,
You who have wept in direct sunlight,
Who have hungered in invisible chains,
Tremble to the cadence of my legacy:
An army of lovers shall not fail.

~ Rita Mae Brown ~

Snowflake Challenge Day 13: 'Til by turning, turning, we come round right

2017-03-16T18:07:56Z

Day 13: In your own space, post a rec for at least three fanworks that you did not create.

To the surprise of nobody who knows me, I never finished my Snowflake Challenge 2016 last year, you know the one I decided to start i December instead of January. An entire new Snowflake Challenge has come and gone since I last posted on the subject, which in meme terms is still having season-hiatus fics unfinished when the new TV season starts, or worse, the new season has started, finished, and indeed the whole darn series has ended. Not that that has ever happened to me. *looks sheepish*

Essentially, I hit the one decreeing "create a fanwork" and panicked. I'm skipping that one for now, for a later prompt and to recommend some of my favourite stories by our friend overnighter, who sadly passed away this month. She was a wonderful friend and a wonderful writer, and I thought this would be a nice way to remember some of her contributions to our little corner of the world.

Grace, Mercy and Peace (The O.C)

A beautiful post-series insight into Ryan and Trey's relationship. They're older, their father is sick, and Ryan reaches out to close the distance. A thoughtful look at forgiveness, maturing and family. (tw: terminal illness.)

Mustang Sally (The O.C)

Set between series three and four, Ryan's family and friends old and new come together to bring him back from his grief. Or, how a beautiful car can be a excellent substitute for cage-fighting. (tw: bereavement)

Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree (The O.C)

Another post-series fic, in happier times, this time exploring Ryan and Seth's brotherly relationship, and most delightfully that massive geek side of Ryan that we rarely got to see, but always enjoyed.

When revisiting Overnighter's back catalogue, I was struck by how eloquently she writes about grief and loss. But more than that, there's a big honking streak of kindness running right through the centre of her work; little thoughtful gestures and considerations, and the importance of telling people you care about them.

Thanks for the stories, Overnighter, we'll miss you.

(Bonus) Snowflake Challenge 3b: Do you hear what I hear?

2016-12-16T22:01:36Z

I survived the office Christmas party and the last of my shopping, so this weekend I can dedicate to sleeping, sofa-ing and putting up my tree. Actually to say I survived the Christmas party is disingenuous, as it was rather good fun, the food was pretty decent and a had a fabulous dance to Uptown Funk with just two other people for company and we didn’t give a damn.

Anyway, it’s been a long day and I’m stretching out the Snowflake Challenge with another bonus meme, this one gakked from a random LJ mod post. It's not the world's most inspiring meme, but I'm sleepy and it serves my purpose.

Pick a band/artist, and answer the questions using titles from their songs:

1. Choose a band/artist:
Kate Rusby

2. Are you male or female:
The Cobbler’s Daughter

3. Describe yourself:
Awkward Annie

4. How do some people feel about you:
Wandering Soul

5. How do you feel about yourself:
Baa Baa Black Sheep

6. Describe your ex boyfriend / girlfriend:
My Young Man

7. Describe current boyfriend / girlfriend:
The Wild Goose

8. Describe where you want to be:
Botany Bay

9. Describe how you live:
The Fairest of All Yarrow

10. Describe how you love:
Underneath the Stars

11. What would you ask for if you had just one wish:
Bring Me A Boat

12. Share a few words of Wisdom:
Who Knows Where the Time Goes

13. Now say goodbye:
Fare Thee Well

~~~

(Bonus) Snowflake Challenge Day 3a: It's pronounced hoo-ga

2016-12-15T19:06:44Z

So as I suspected, I'm not ready to post my current WiP. I don't want to skip any day, especially not one that requires me to write, so instead I'm adding an extra snowflake by dipping into an alternative seasonal meme, gakked from selenak and the Internet in general.

Bonus snowflake day: Your OTP in Winter Meme: The O.C.
Following on from yesterday's nostalgia, I've decided to pick Cohens +1 + 2, with a broad, post-series perspective.

1: Who makes the other hot chocolate?
Seth makes it for everyone. After picking up his studies, Seth segued into publishing and then specifically into designing graphics and layouts for a small but respected indie food publishing company. Working alongside various chefs he's picked up a thing or two, including half a dozen ways to make the "best hot chocolate". Unlike any of the chefs he's worked with, what Seth has realised is the best way to make the "best" hot chocolate is to make it bespoke for the person you're making it for. So for Ryan and Kirsten, it's creamy and rich with dark chocolate, for Summer it's a white hot chocolate with marshmallows, for Taylor it's a chocolate martini with a hint of espresso, and for Sandy it's a chocolate egg cream, just like Nana used to make. He gets it perfect every time.

2: Who knits the other a seasonal sweater?
Summer once declared that outside of babies, knitting is for people who haven't discovered internet shopping, and even then, the baby has to be seriously cute. Every single one of the extended Cohen family agreed with her.

3: Who’s family hosts a bigger holiday gathering? What’s the gathering like for your OTP?
Thanksgiving is at either Seth and Summer's or Ryan and Taylor's, but wherever it is, Taylor and Seth end up doing most of the cooking. This year Sophie Rose was in charge of the cranberry sauce and made sure that everybody had at least two spoonfuls on every bite of turkey. Chrismukkah is always at the Cohens in Berkeley, because even though there's not quite enough room for everyone and Seth, Ryan and Sandy sleep on air mattresses in the attic, where else would it be? As for New Year, well, no one throws a party like Julie Cooper. That's why her event management company is the most sought after in Orange County.

4: How would your OTP react to having a snow day?
With serious surprise, they live in Berkeley. Last winter they all had a great ski vacation away in Vermont, courtesy of Julie Cooper and her many contacts. Family, food snow, sledging, skiing incompetence. It was perfect.

5: Who offers the other one their jacket?
Ryan offers his to Taylor, and she takes it, and the accompanying close hug every time. Sandy is now convinced that she wears too few layers and he too few on purpose. It is, as Seth would say, totally adorkable.

6: Who makes a snowman that looks like the other member of your OTP, or do they both do this?
Seth again, with able assistance from Sophie Rose. That time in Vermont they got Ryan right down to the leather wrist cuff.

7: Does your OTP ever have snowball fights?
The only thing more perfect than an accurately rendered snowfamily is an accurately rendered snowfamily that can be used as strategical defences in the epic Cohens vs Coopers family great snowball war. Summer threw Sandy’s snowy head at Seth with such precision he fell over the water butt.

8: What gifts would they get each other for the holidays?
Following Seth’s lead from years ago, for her first Chrismukkah with the Cohens Taylor gave her “in everything but in-law in-laws“ a Taylor Townsend Starter Pack. It contained a subscription to the London Review of Books, a selection of her own line of Taylor-Made Cosmetics (for the sophisticate who likes to smell sophistiqué) and a cheese so obscure and ripe that the kitchen smelled of baked cow until New Year.

9: How do they spend their winter holiday? Do they even celebrate the same holiday?
Lately, the Coopers have scaled back their festivities. With all the parties Julie throws for other people, when it comes to her own celebrations she’s discovered she likes nothing better than spending time with her family. Though she eventually settled down with Frank, Bullit still joins them more years than not, and even Jimmy has been known to make the occasional appearance, but each year at least one meal is just Julie, Cooper, Kaitlin, and a toast raised to Marissa.

10: What sort of seasonal treats does your OTP like to eat?
Sandy has yet to meet a roast beast that he hasn’t enjoyed eating, with the possible exception of Kirsten’s last attempt to cook a brisket. As he said at the time, even for the finest chef, the line between rare and raw is a fine tightrope to walk. And as Kirsten acknowledged, she is not the finest chef. The respectful silence that followed spoke volumes.

11: How do they spend New Year’s Eve?
Two years ago, it was at the Orange County Museum of Art. Last year, it was on a yacht. This year Julie’s not telling them, but she’s told everyone to bring their passport. Kirsten hopes they’re not heading to Tijuana.

12: Who initiates the New Year’s kiss?
It’s a simultaneous outpouring of affection really. It would be almost nauseating if it hadn’t all been so hard-won.

13: Who tries to get a secret gift for the other one for Valentine’s Day?
Ryan. It’s Taylor’s favourite holiday and her planning of romantic surprises is legendary. He’s not to been able to surprise her in kind yet, but this year he’s got a week booked in Paris, and has enlisted several members of Taylor’s team in cahoots. If he manages it, then twelve hours after Ryan “flies to Austin to help bid on the Franklin Mall contract”, Summer will drop by to take Taylor for a Newpsie style lunch. Instead of the flowers Taylor’s expecting, Summer will present her plane tickets, a locked padlock bearing Taylor and Ryan’s initials, and a note that telling Taylor he’ll be waiting for her on Pont Neuf with the key.

14: Would your OTP take a walk together in the snow?
They all did, and it was wonderful. Let’s just say that the bedroom doors of all the Vermont lodge were all firmly closed that night.

15: Which one gets more excited over the first snow of winter?
By all rights it should be Sophie Rose and Cooper, but it’s Kirsten and Sandy. That first night in Vermont, when fresh snow begins to fall outside on the already thickly covered winter scene, they look around the table, at their family, their friends, and quietly join hands, marvelling in contentment at just how far they’ve come.
~~~

I think that's a close to writing a fic as one can get without actually writing a fic! It's work's Christmas party tomorrow, and I've a mountain of Christmas shopping to do afterwards, so I'm not sure I will be posting tomorrow. I will certainly try though, this has been a lot of fun!

Snowflake Challenge Day 3: O Chrismukkah tree, O Chrismukkah tree, how lovely are your spaceships

2016-12-14T23:55:34Z

Doing this latest entry in the snowflake challenge later this evening after a long day at work, but dammit, I'm doing it.

Day 3 - Self-recs

In your own space, post a rec for at least three fanworks that you have created. It can be your favorite fanworks that you've created, or fanworks you feel no one ever saw, or fanworks you say would define you as a creator.

Well, I picked these three fics because they are three Christmas themed stories, and they seemed seasonally appropriate, but upon reflection, they really do say something about me as a writer. Spending time with family, found families, sharing food, people taking time to listen to one another, people who not great at articulating themselves trying to articulate complicated emotions…

A working writer I know told our group once that one way or another, who we are will emerge in what we write. Looking back at these stories and their common thematic elements, and seeing those themes still present in my work twelve years later, he is quite right. And so to the stories:

i) Simple Gifts (also known as T’was the Night Before Chrismukkah), The O.C.
Missing scene, from The Best Chrismukkah Ever, also for the first OCMSC. Ryan opens his Chrismukkah gifts from Dawn and Trey.

This was one of my first stories for The O.C. fandom, written in 2004 for the Missing Scene Fic Challenge (just one of many great challenges in this lovely fandom). I can tell that I’m still finding my feet in prose, but I think I managed to capture something truthful.

ii) The Worst Chrismukkah Ever, The O.C.
Ryan's homesick, Seth's just sick and Sandy and Kirsten are determined to look after them both. Multi-chapter, set around the second Cohen Chrismukkah, but not canon.

This story was written for the Chrismukkah Fic challenge / community later that same year. I loved writing this fic, even though it was hard to get going initially. Certain scenes or sequences were quite clearly defined in my head; for instance, I knew that Seth and Sandy would be home together, while Kirsten took Ryan for a late night drive. It was joining all those sequences together that took the work. I still write best like this to be honest; writing a beginning with blood sweat and tears, to justify skipping on to the big juicy scenes scattered throughout the narrative, then knitting up the seams.

It was also around this time that The O.C fandom was opening up outside the confines of the Internet. We were starting to go and meet each other in person, which in turn opened up London to me, and later even took me to America to meet flisters I’m still friends with now. Fandom really is amazing.

iii) More Things In Heaven And Earth, Supernatural / Doctor Who
Crossover set after The Christmas Invasion (Doctor Who, Ten and Rose) and 1.16 Shadow (Supernatural). A long one shot, originally intended to be funny that somehow became the most angstastic story I've ever written. All the best protagonists have daddy issues.

This story was written in 2007, and for written for me. I can’t recall precisely why now, but I remember finding writing this story very cathartic. Perhaps it was because I’d moved from away from London, perhaps it was because The O.C. had finished that spring and the fandom was scattered on the wing, not knowing yet where to land. Some of us landed in Supernatural, I definitely landed, a least for a while, in Doctor Who, where the notion of being swept off on adventure from a life gone unexpectedly awry was certainly an appealing one. Whatever the reason, for my writing this story, I’m certainly glad I did. And oh look! It’s Christmas time again!

I enjoyed writing all three of these stories; the ideas formed easily and unlike most things I write these days, it wasn’t a struggle to get the words down on paper. Perhaps that says something about what I write these days, or perhaps I just need to work harder.

On that note, tomorrow is supposed to be "create a fanwork" but I simply don't have the time to complete any of many, many WiPs by then, so I think I shall have to have a bit of a re-shuffle. And so to bed.

Snowflake Challenge Day 2: Fannish wish list (it's not just about me anymore)

2016-12-13T18:34:32Z

Day 2 - Create a fannish wish list.

Okay, so I'm going to have get creative and cheat a little with this one. The original prompt for day 2 was:

In your own space, create a list of at least three fannish things you'd love to receive, something you've wanted but were afraid to ask for - a fannish wish-list of sorts. Leave a comment in this post saying you did it. Include a link to your wish-list if you feel comfortable doing so. Maybe someone will grant a wish. Check out other people's posts. Maybe you will grant a wish. If any wishes are granted, we'd love it if you link them to this post.

As this challenge actually took place in January 2016, the good ship Request Things of Other People has well and truly sailed. Instead, I'm going do a quick run through of some of my favourite shows, and what I hope to see coming up.

Doctor Who
i) For Peter Capaldi to stay when Chris Chibnell takes the healm, at least for a little while. He's funky, and I'd like to see the darker side of this character, there's been too much random "cool" guitar playing for me. When you've got an actor who can pull off a one-man episode like the one set in the creepy castle, then that's what I want to see more of!
ii) With Chibnell coming back, maybe we'll get some other RTD era characters returning too. Namely, Martha! I'd love to see an episode with Martha, Mickey, Osgood and Kate teaming up to save the planet.iii) Oh, just lots of people in the Tardis at once please. It makes it more dynamic and fun. If some of them could not be from / residing in London too, that would be swell.

Teen Wolf
I'm a few episodes behind the new (and last) season, so this may already be happening, but I would love it if Malia could turn into a full coyote by series' end. Keep Scott single, also until the very end, it'd be great to see what he's like flying solo. And, can we please have more of Lydia and Scott being buddies? That would be awesome. And no more Theo, as he was a boring, whiney douche.

Supergirl
Keep the happy Kara vibe, show, it's brilliant. I really dislike it when showrunners think that "dark" automatically equals better drama. Actually, emotionally complex and relateable characters equals better drama. So few shows do optimism well, and with the end of Parks and Recreation, Supergirl is definitely filling this quota for me.

The Magicians
One of the reasons I found Doctor Strange disappointing, was the quirky innovation of this show, which covered much of the same material first, did it better, and featured a lead character who I actually wanted to spend time with despite his flaws. Really interesting characters, all of whom are multi-layered, a brilliantly realised and visually interesting system of magic, and bold storytellers who are not afraid to deviate from their source material.

W1A
Apparently the cast will be filming the third season in late winter / early spring, and plotlines will including looking at the BBC charter. This show is comedy gold, and the performances are superb; the Hughs Skinner and Bonneville are amazing, as is Ophelia Lovibond, Nina Sosanya and Sarah Parrish, and Jessica Hynes is so good at playing the horrific Siobhan you want to lock her in a stationary cupboard without her phone. W1A is on Netflix in the UK, it's definitely worth watching if it's available to stream internationally.

The O.C.
Speking of Netflix, please, no post series reboot / continuation of The O.C. After the mess of season three we got what we wanted, which was a return to form, more emotionally believable characters, a delightful new romance for Ryan with someone we actually liked, the mutual and individual growing up of Seth and Summer, and a happy ending. We don't need more. We loved The O.C., it had its moment, let it sail off to Catalina at sunset in peace.

I think that's suitably demanding for now. Tomorrow is:

Day 3 - Self-recs.

Oh lordy.

Snowflake Challenge: Day 1 (or; if you're happy and you know it, clap your hands)

2016-12-12T09:23:34Z

Hello! If you're reading this than you it's either because we know each other in rl to the extent you know about my fic life, and / or once upon a time we used to hang out in a shared space called fandom. Either way, hello, it's nice to be back and see you again. Look how we've all grown!

For reasons that will shortly become clear, I have decided to belatedly participate in this year's Snowflake Challenge. If you're not familiar with it, this challenge is fandom centric, and takes place in the first few weeks of January each year. Each day, participants are given a fandom related topic to respond to, through writing, through fanart, through recs, etc. I may be seeing out the year with this challenge, rather than welcoming it in, but from now until 2017 I'll be following the original 2016 list. Starting with:

Day 1 - Talk about why you're participating in Snowflake.

First, a little backstory.

If you have been around on LiveJournal this year, and let's face it, most of us (uncluding largely me) haven't, you'll know that as is the case for so many others, I've had a fairly rubbish year. Having made it through 35 years unscathed for someone who spent much of her childhood outside, up trees and on bikes, I spectacularly broke my upper arm in February in a classic "falling on my bum while ice skating" incident.

Looking back now, I have spent much of the past ten months feeling tired and fed up, and at times actually depressed. Mostly, what I have felt is inert. The deaths of one creative person after another, has not helped any, nor did the horrifying Brexit and American election results.

2016 has been filled with hospital appointments, where we tried to decide for six months whether or not there was any improvement, until in August we determined, no there really wasn't and it needed operating on. A few false starts, wherein I was put on the wrong (non-urgent) surgical list, and one horrible (on the day) cancellation, I finally got put back together again at the beginning of October. I am delighted to report that as of now, my arm is rapidly approaching the point where it could be described as "healed".

I am back at work full time, I am not in constant pain, I can play with my nephews, cook, bake, knit, play the guitar, play the violin (though I have slid back down the ladder a bit!), write longhand sentences longer than eight words, type for long periods, drive and live a normal life without feeling like I constantly need a nap. I am attending regular physiotherapy to strengthen all the muscles in my arm and shoulder that have withered away, but that too is improving immensely.

In short, I am reclaiming my life in as many spheres as possible. This includes writing again, both fic and attending a monthly screenwriting course on adaptation. I write better in my long-form original work when I'm also doing short bursts of creative writing elsewhere, including fic and other fannish activities. And I miss fandom. I miss you. Many of us are friends on other social media, but LiveJournal is where it started and fandom, the act of sharing creatively, is what made us start to share personally. For that reason, I'm also unlocking my journal for this challenge.

As akamine_chan, the creator and mod of the Snowflake Challenge writes in her introductory post,

"Part of this challenge is about fandom and the awesome the people in it. The other part of this challenge, just as important, is about getting us to interact with each other. Fandom is what weaves us together, friendship and love and laughter and life. It's the fabric of our lives. Come share it with us.

And share it with others."

After a year spent in hibernation, I want to share again. The snowflake challenge seemed the perfect place to start.I'll be continuing tomorrow with:

Day 2 - Create a fannish wish list.

I hope to see you there.

The West Wing Fic: Semper Fidelis (AU)

2012-09-26T20:28:26Z

Title: Semper Fidelis
Fandom: The West Wing
Rating / Genre: PG-13, Gen
Words: 825
Spoilers: I'm not sure how you spoiler-rate a College Band AU, but let's just say it's loosely based off events in series 6 and a comment made by Donna in series 2 and hope for the best.
Disclaimer: The West Wing is the property of NBC and was created by Aaron Sorkin. As ever, I'm a beta-less writer, so any mistakes are my own.

Author's Notes: Well, I'm really not sure how this happened. I asked for fic prompts in this meme, the next thing you know, goshemily is asking for a West Wing College band AU and the rest is history. Or, more accurately, the rest is a comment fic that got slightly out of control and turned into a one-shot and it was only when I got halfway through that I realised perhaps goshemily had a different kind of band in mind.

Summary: The West Wing. If the characters were in a high school marching band and had been watching a lot of Dawson's Creek.

~~~

Josh paused in the hallway, taken aback by Donna's answer and even more by the bite behind it.

"What do you mean, no?"

"I, mean, 'no'. It's a negative, Josh; I know that you don't hear it very often, but it's pretty simple for the rest of us."

"I know what 'no' means, Donna, I was just asking you-"

"- Actually, you were telling me. 'See you at practice!'" Donna said sarcastically mimicking Josh's tone, "Statement. Not a question."

"I wasn't-," Josh said trying his best to keep up with Donna's determined march towards the practice rooms. "Look, would you stop for a second?"

Donna stopped abruptly, turning to face Josh. "What?!"

Josh grunted as he tried and failed to accommodate Donna's sudden change of pace, dropping his armful of music stands in a metallic clatter. "Well, that was predictable."

Josh crouched to retrieve the scattered load, trying to arrange them into a neatly tessellating pile again. Donna watched, her expression softening as her anger faded. She sighed and reached down for the last pair of stands, placing them gently on top of Josh's reassembled burden.

"I've been asked to join the orchestra. I'm leaving marching band," she said softly.

"What?" Josh said, his surprise sounding almost like indignation. "When did this happen?"

"Will Bailey heard my piccolo at last Saturday's game, told Mr Russell, and he asked me to try out. They're down on flutes."

"And you're going? Just like that?"

"I've got the most experience, I'm going to start as first desk and move up to leader of the Woodwind section when CJ Cregg leaves for Berkeley in the fall."

Josh stared at her, his mouth half-dropped open like a river trout. "Since when did Will Bailey like sports?"

Donna's face fell, almost as if Josh had slapped her. "Really, Josh? That's what you take from that?"

"You don't even like classical music!" Josh exclaimed as Donna resumed striding down the hallway, trying to keep pace and control of the music stands in his arms.

"Says who?"

"You do! You said, the Tchaikovsky / Sousa medley sucked."

"It does suck," Donna replied, as she rounded the corner, "But that's because the arrangement's awful, not the original pieces. The 1812's got plenty enough going on without having Liberty Bell folded in there like an artichoke in an apple strudel."

Josh frowned, his frustration and confusion apparently joining forces to make him sound even more stupid, "Seriously, what was Will Bailey doing at a football game?"

"Scouting the band."

"For flutes?!"

"For talent." Donna replied brusquely, finally coming to a halt outside the practice rooms and turning to face Josh once more. Piano music, mournful and lonely drifted out into the hallway, filling the silence that fell between them.

Josh stopped with her, looking for the right words. "Donna.... You know, I think you're talented."

"No. I didn't."

Josh smiled warmly. "Of course I do, you always lead off in the right direction, you're timing is terrific, you never get nervous, I know I can rely on you to keep the pace going on Thursday night rehearsals, even when I know you'd rather be hanging out with Carole and Margaret."

Flattered by the compliments, Donna glanced down at her feet self-consciously. "Look, this isn't about you, or Thursday nights, or the ridiculous spiral formations you keep insisting will work even though it never, ever has."

Taking a deep breath, Donna stood up straight, and forced herself to look Josh in the eye .

"I told you I wanted to play more challenging pieces, that I could play more challenging pieces. You've been assisting Mr McGarry with the orchestrations for a year now and you know he always gives Toby's brass section the melody, no matter what. You said you'd talk to him about spreading the love to the flutes and clarinets but every season it's the same old tunes with the same old harmonies and I can't do it anymore. It would be so easy just to keep showing up each week and fall in line, but I need to be pushed, I need to do more than play embellishing trills at the end of everyone else's tunes. In orchestra, I'm going to get to do that. Do you understand?"

Josh blinked. "I guess."

Donna smiled sadly at him, "It's what I need right now."

Josh swallowed, his mouth dry as if Donna had somehow sucked all the words from him. "But you'll still come to the games, right?"

"I don't know. Maybe it's better if I take a break for a while." Gently, she reached out and took a music stand from his arms. "I'll see you Thursday though."

"One last practice for old times' sake?" Josh asked, his voice brightening.

"No," Donna said softly, and turning away to open the door of the practice room, not wanting to see Josh's disappointment as she answered, "I have to turn in my uniform."

~~~

The West Wing fIc: Acta Non Verba

2010-12-02T18:51:11Z

Title: Acta Non Verba
Fandom: The West Wing
Rating / Genre: PG-13, Gen
Words: 2752
Spoilers: Set just before the events of the final episode, Tomorrow. So the entire show, really.
Disclaimer: The West Wing is the property of NBC and was created by Aaron Sorkin. As ever, I'm a beta-less writer, so any mistakes are my own. This is my first story for The West Wing and my first fic here for over a year, be gentle with me.

Summary: What they undertook to do / They brought to pass; / All things hang like a drop of dew / Upon a blade of grass (W.B. Yeats)

~~~~~

In situations such as this, Jed knew, it would always be down to the President to speak first.

"What fascinates me about this, Ms Schott,” he pronounced in affected crotchety tones, “What really blows me away, is that our current predicament will now be considered news."

"I imagine so, Sir, yes." Annabeth glanced to her right where President Bartlett was doing his best impression of casual looking man. Hands in pockets, suit jacket unbuttoned, his laid-back demeanour was only slightly undermined by the straight-backed alertness of the Secret Service bodyguard by his side.

The President looked to his guardian. "What do you imagine, Ron?"

"That there are a great many people currently heading towards us with crowbars, Mr President."

"No doubt." The President concurred, his fingers twitching in his pockets as the urge for a cigarette grew, “I keep telling them, that alien spaceship on top of the Seattle space needle, that’s news, but will they listen? No, they will not.”

“Not a fan of the National Enquirer, I’m guessing, Sir,” Annabeth said, amused.

“Or the Fox News Channel, come to that, but Toby once informed me I have to, and I quote, “Suck it up, Mr President.” Annabeth smiled. “One would hope that my Director of Communications would be a little more eloquent, but one would also hope that he wouldn’t pass state secrets to the media either, so I guess that makes me 0 for 2.”

“Mr President, how many Presidential Elections have you won?”

“Two.”

“Out of a possible-?”

“Two. Your point?”

“I believe that would be, 'Suck it up, Mr President'.”

“Getting a little sassy in our post-election glow, are we now?”

“I’ve always been sassy, Sir, this is gumption.”

“In that case, I shall let it slide,” Jed said, loosening his tie. “I am, however, resolute in my dislike of a news media which fixates on the ridiculous rather than the sublime."

Annabeth smiled politely, sensing she was about to be audience to either a communications or sociology address. Knowing the President, probably a little of both. Not that she minded, she could count the number of occasions she'd been alone in a room with him on one hand and the first time she'd been so nervous she'd actually broken slightly into song.

Bartlet leaned back against the wall, surrendering to his mild vexation. "It’s the worst part of running for office," he sighed. "Not the fact that the press has a right to report on anything it likes; of course it does and so it should and not just here, but anywhere in the world. Nevertheless, the First Amendment is a law designed to prevent abuse of power. The great paradox being that only a truly free society would enact such a law and yet no truly free society should need it.”

"There's the rub," Annabeth agreed with a nod, "But all the same, I'm glad we have it."

“As am I. But what vexes me is that given the opportunity, the privilege of being free to choose who or what it writes about, what the press actually chooses to report is the most trivial, unimportant details about a candidate. What religion do they practice? Did they ever smoke pot in college? Do they drive a hybrid? Did they ever skip out on football practice? What colour underwear does their wife wear?”

The President’s eyes narrowed as he stood up straight, the tone of his voice sharpening.

“The nerve! And they call themselves journalists? The utter nerve of these people, Annabeth. If the media had invaded Abbey’s privacy the way they did Mrs Santos's, I’d have never made it to the Oval Office, I’d be in prison for punching a paparazzo. These questions shouldn’t make it anywhere near the press, but no, there they are, front page centre, when there are so many vastly more important things to report; China and Russia, Education, Health Care, San Andreas. Dammit, it shouldn't take a nuclear plant going into to near-meltdown to remind people of that!”

Fuming, Jed brought his carved cane down with an emphatic thump, which echoed dully on the carpeted elevator floor. Discreet and professional, Ron acknowledged his protectee's tirade with only the slightest considered nod.

“Not that I don’t agree with you, Mr President,” Annabeth spoke softly, “And you know that I do. But like it or not we both know that there's a correlation between a positive presentation of any politician or political candidate as a member of the everyday community and their electoral success. Being one of the masses myself, I’m mostly offended because so often these news stories are just plain dumb and yet they claim that's what I want. Believe me, I’d much rather read about the US providing foreign aid to countries suffering famine than what Arnold Vinick eats for breakfast on the campaign trail.”

“That would be mostly Democrats, the old son of gun.”

"With grapefruit on the side, I hear." Annabeth quipped, her smile widening as it was matched by the President's own. "Public figures used to comment on the news. Now they are the news. I'm not saying it's always right, but it doesn't always have to be wrong, either."

"There's still a difference between being the news and actually being newsworthy, Annabeth."

"Of course there is. But it's not like it never works in your favour. You know as well as I do that every time you unveil a new Education policy in an elementary school it gets twice amount of the positive press then if Will announces it from behind a podium. But, luckily for America, you also know that there's a difference between being President and being Presidential."

"Care to elaborate?" Jed asked, appreciating the chance to chew the political fat without a camera in his face.

"Meaning, everyone who's elected Commander-in-Chief has been the former; a great deal fewer of those men have been the latter."

The President raised a scholarly eyebrow, "I like this so far. Do I make the latter list?"

"Oh, like you don't know it," Annabeth teased. "Woodrow Wilson, FDR, Kennedy, we remember those Presidents not just because of their politics and intellect, but because they, like you, were quirky. Woodrow Wilson got stuck on a train in the mud, FDR commissioned a lot of murals, but he was absolutely nuts over building highways and bridges. JFK stood up in Berlin and announced he was a doughnut.”

“Taft,” Jed corrected amiably.

“Taft?”

“President Woodrow Wilson federalised the railroads, it was President Taft who got stuck on them.”

Annabeth didn’t miss a beat. “- For example, one of your quirks is an obsession with American history. And National Parks. I’ve heard rumours about turkey basting and the Butterball hotline, but I don’t think even you’re that crazy. With respect, Sir,” she added for good measure.

“Nice catch.”

“It’s these stories that make our Presidents human, Sir, you know that. And us voting folk place a lot of trust in our Congress, our Senators and our Presidents. Of course I don't want to know what kind of underwear anyone in politics is wearing, but I do want to know that our representatives appreciate they could be affecting the price of our delicates when they're re-negotiating the price of cotton. In other words, we want to know that when we pull that lever, we don’t just get a carbon copy kid, fresh off the line from Ivy League school that the rest of us are smart enough to attend but couldn’t necessarily afford.”

The President smiled wryly, enjoying Annabeth's ability to work education, agricultural policy and the nation's choice of underwear into one salient argument. “You sound like the First Lady.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You do that.” The President turned to his former colleague. “I do know you’re right. And the points you make are excellent, Annabeth. Helen Santos will be very fortunate to have you on her staff.”

“CJ, Will and Toby taught me a lot, Sir. And Leo, of course. And so did you.” Annabeth replied, enjoying the rare opportunity to speak candidly with the President. “Forgive me if I’m overstepping my bounds, Mr President-”

“- I have two days left in office, and my best friend adored you as much as you baffled him. You know where the line is and you’re not overstepping anything.”

"Thank you." Annabeth blushed. “Sir, I believe you know that I worked with Taylor Reid before coming to the White House?”

“I do.”

“I was in the room with the higher ups when Zoey was taken. When they were trying to decide what to make of it all, how to present the story. Some of the discussions I heard during that week…” Annabeth, looked down momentarily, checking she hadn’t crossed the boundaries of informality, as blurred as they currently were. The President was regarding her attentively.

“…I want to confirm that Taylor was never part of these discussions, Sir, but people I respected were. Or at least I thought I respected them. I realised as the story progressed that the person I respected most of all was you. The way you handled things. The love and loyalty you showed to your family and country in those awful days? I’m not afraid to say it made me a little teary-eyed, Sir.” Annabeth looked at the President with respect, humbled by the memory. “I made up my mind right there and then that one day I would work for you.”

“Really?” Jed replied softly, genuinely touched. “I didn’t know that.”

“No-one does, actually. Except Donna. She also taught me a lot. And she never went to an Ivy League school either.”

“Nor did I, come to that, Mr President," Ron added, stepping out of his professional skin for the first time in Annabeth's recollection.

“There isn’t a school, Ivy League or otherwise that can teach the qualities you have, Ron. If we had knighthoods in this country, I'd have dubbed thee Sir Ron Butterfield long, long ago."

"That's very generous of you Sir, thank you," Ron answered humbly and Annabeth could have sworn for the tiniest of moments his cheeks blushed.

"What it comes down to the end, folks, is I would just like to be remembered not for the style, but for the substance. And let's all marvel at the ironic egotism of that sentence for a while."

"Let's not, Sir." Annabeth said bluntly, her tone abrupt even in the informal context of the past thirty minutes.

“I’m not here to tell you things you want to hear or already know. We're all aware that on the one to ten scale of pulling the schedules, the President stuck in a defective elevator with his dashing Secret Service agent and a perky former Deputy Press Secretary is no Capitol Beat special. But it sure beats the borderline, if not openly sexist questions you were going to get on Mrs Bartlett’s intention to resume full-time medical practice and turn you into a stay at home ex-president.”

"You said that what it comes down to is not style, but substance, but it's so much more than that. The most important thing of all, what it really comes down to in the end, is this: Some Presidents we remember because of what they did or didn’t do in the Oval Office. Some Presidents we remember because of what they did out of it. And if we’re lucky, once in a generation, we get a President who does something memorable every day.”

Annabeth turned to her former boss and smiled at him.

“President Josiah Bartlet, you don’t have to be the first Latino President to be once in a generation. Your work. Your mind. Your ideals. We’ll remember you, Sir, and not because you once got stuck in an elevator.”

Jed breathed in, quietly moved. “Thank you, Annabeth.”

“You’re welcome. Besides," She added sassily, as she turned back to face the front of the elevator, "You also once road your bike into a tree.”

The President laughed. “Okay, now you really sound like Abbey.”

Annabeth's answer was halted as the elevator shunted back into life and resumed its ascent once again.

"Full function returned, Sir," Ron said, relaying information as he received it through his earpiece. "The floor's been cleared of press and Will Bailey's waiting for you."

"Thank you, Ron."

"So, Ms Schott," The President asked, "Just out of interest, do you think there’s a way we could make this less of a story?”

“You could make out with Ron, Mr. President,” Annabeth smiled sweetly.

Jed’s eyebrow rose as he considered his options.

“You’re a nice guy, Ron and you’ve seen me half-dressed more than once, but I have a horrible ego and could never date someone taller than me.”

“I understand, Sir.”

“I’m 4’11, Mr President.”

“In a 5 foot bag.”

Finally, the elevator came to a halt. With a welcoming ping, the doors opened to the expectant face of Will Bailey, flanked discreetly in the background by a double helping of Secret Service agents. Behind them, were two tired looking maintenance workers trying to appear inconspicuous, despite the large crowbars they still held in their hands.

"Mr Bailey!"

"Mr President," Will replied, slightly surprised by the notably upbeat mood of the elevator's former occupants. "Is everything alright, Sir?

“Everything is quite alright, thank you Will. There were Martian spaceships, but Ron took care of it. Gentlemen!" He exclaimed, walking directly to the two maintenance workers, shaking them each warmly by the hand and subtlety reading their embroidered name-tags as he did so. "Thank you very much for your efforts, today, I hope Mr Bailey here and Mrs Bartlet didn't put you under too much scrutiny."

"No, Sir."

"Are you sure? I like them, but I've still got two days in office and I could have them exiled."

The elder of the two chuckled, his companion somewhat overwhelmed, "We're just glad you're all okay, Sir."

The President nodded. "We're fine thank you, though, André, Kevin, if I were you, I'd call your mothers, ask them to TiVo C-SPAN this afternoon; their sons are about to get a big shout-out from the President of the United States on national television."

"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir."

"Where are we, Will?" Jed asked, allowing his Communications Director to lead him away down the hall.

"We've pushed the press meet and greet until 3pm, Mrs Bartlet is waiting in the suite and, please excuse the direct nature of this quote, which I was ordered to deliver verbatim, "Don't even think of marching your ass into that media jungle without joining me for lunch first."

"Well, looks like there's gumption all round today."

"Sir?"

"Don't worry about it, Will, you had to be there."

"Due respect, Mr President, but I'm quite glad I wasn't." Will stopped at the doors of President's hotel suite. "This is you, Sir."

"Thanks Will. Annabeth, let me repeat what I said earlier; Mrs Santos is very lucky to have you. Don't let anyone on Josh's team try and tell you how they think you should think; what you know and who you are is what got you here and we could all do with a little more of that in the world. To thine own self be true, understand?"

"Yes, Sir," Annabeth nodded with gratitude, the tiniest crack in her voice, "Thank you, Mr President."

The President turned to address his ever-constant bodyguard. "And as for you, Ron, who is your deputy right now?"

"Sanders, Sir," he replied, indicating the agent close behind him.

"Sanders, you need to arrange cover for Ron for the next couple of hours."

"Mr President-" Ron began, before being swiftly cut off.

"- I can't offer you a knighthood, but I can offer you cake."

"Sir-"

Jed stepped towards Ron, his voice softening. "- Ron Butterfield, you have spent the past eight years of your life placing my needs before your own. I am your Commander-in-Chief and I could order you to dine with me, but what I would really like is if you would accept the offer of a friend, and please do my wife and I the honour of joining for lunch."

Ron looked to his colleague, "Sanders?"

"I can have Morris and Becket join me in less than minute, Sir."

Annabeth and Will watched as Ron and the President regarded one another thoughtfully.

"Give them three," Ron answered finally, unbuttoning his jacket and taking his earpiece out. "They'll want to take the stairs."

~~~

Endnote: Those of you who were around in the early days of The O.C. will recognise the invokation of a familiar premise, namely the good old "look who's stuck in a lift" trope. My original intention was to revisit the premise, writing a drabble for each of my fandoms, but this particular story rapidly developed a life of its own and turned into a full length one-shot. It just took the whole of November failing at wrisomifu and three and half days of being snowed in to actually complete it.

Crossover Fic: Band of Buggered, Or; The Team Least Likely To

2009-11-09T23:42:51Z

Title: Band of Buggered, Or; The Team Least Likely To
Fandom: Torchwood. With some very special guests, including some characteres from Spooks (aka MI-5, American peeps), Gavin and Stacey and How I Met Your Mother. Look, I said this was crack!fic, alright. Wait, I didn't? Hang on...
Rating / Genre: PG-13, Gen. Crossover crack!fic. There. Are you happy now?
Words: 1075.
Spoilers: Torchwood season two, pre-Children of Earth. Season one in its level of maturity.
Disclaimer/ Schmoopy Dedication: Torchwood belongs to the BBC and the good people of Cardiff. For my fellow wrisomisfu miserable fucks, whether they want it or not. And also for ignipes, because I missed her birthday yesterday and have no excuse. *irons hands*
Note: I have no clue where this came from. None. It's a gen / crack! fic featuring four fandoms I've never written for before, one show I've stopped watching, all held together with a Torchwood biscuit-y base. You have been warned.

Summary: Five people who never worked for Torchwood Three. And for very good reason.

~~~

Barney:
Barney Stinson is surprisingly upbeat, for a man who keeps running at the solid force field that seems to have not only brought him to the Hub but confined him there. He's told Robin, Marshall and Lilly that he was transferred to the Tunguska office for the foreseeable future and no, he doesn't know when he'll be able to come home from Freezerville. He jokes, almost daily, that living in the strange hollowed cavern in central Cardiff seems to relate to pretty much the same thing.

The definition of insanity, Jack delights in reminding him, "is performing the same action over and over and expecting different results." Barney tells Jack that this is also defines the sex life of a singleton in New York.

When the Doctor next comes knocking on Torchwood's door for a cup of Tardis sugar, he fixes Barney's space-time lockdown and offers him a lift home. After nine months living underground, hearing tales of Saturday nights in Cardiff Bay and the hen nights that stalk them, suddenly Barney seems a lot less keen for an immediate return the Big Apple and respectfully declines. He claims it's going to be legen- wait for it- dary.

~~~

Peter:
Like Barney, Peter Petrelli turned up without notice. Unlike Barney, Peter is absolutely no fun to be around. At all. Furthermore, he claims to be expecting a delivery from the rift. A girl called Caitlin, he tells them all morosely, as often as he can work into the conversation.

"As if," says Ianto.

"Stranger things have happened," reckons Jack.

"He's a twat," states Gwen.

To be honest, the only reason they haven't retconnned him yet is because last month Peter fell through the ceiling, broke his neck and then pulled a Jack, working his bones back into alignment with a sound that actually makes Gwen gag. Since the loss of Owen and Toshiko, immortality is a trait that all three remaining members of Torchwood have come to value more highly and making fun of Peter seems a lot less entertaining then it once would have, even if he is a big old drama queen. After a lot of cajoling, the truth finally comes out over a pint and it starts off a good story, but goes seriously downhill when Peter starts moaning on about his daddy issues and the moral pliability of his frankly megalomaniacal brother.

No one's quite sure what to do with him, but Peter seems determined to stay, so they let him on the condition he mopes less and they put him to work. Although none of them really buy this "delivery" story, given that Peter is indestructible, can fly and stop time (even if round the rift it gives him a migraine), he is a pretty damn useful guy to have around. Besides, up until now getting out the ladders to clean up Myfanwy's nest every month had been a real pain in the arse.

~~~

Fox Mulder:
There are few issues on which any branch of Torchwood has ever reached a consensus, but all team members of Torchwood Three circa 2009 agree it was highly unfortunate that a man who had dedicated his life to proving aliens' existence had it conclusively proved to him on the same day he was killed by small group of abandoned Adipose gone feral.

~~~

Lucas:
Life in Torchwood Three hasn't been nearly as much fun since Barney returned to New York after shagging Charlotte Church, but having Lucas North smoulder about the place on secondment from MI-5 does make up for it a little. Jack thinks he's sexy. Gwen thinks he's only some mascara and three deliberately obscure diminished ninth chords away from starting his own emo band, but she's quite content with that. Ianto is beginning to wonder if his personal, "It's only Jack" mantra is something that might be worth considering expansion. Even Rhys thinks he's a bit of alright.

Lucas is only with Torchwood for a month, to co-ordinate government and Torchwood activities for the same old, "rift due to flare and possibly take out Western civilisation with a temporal EMP," shenanigans that rolls round every fifty years or so. Predictably, the sky doesn't fall and Lucas returns to London, taking his long legs and potent sexual magnetism with him. Torchwood Three lives to fight another day.

Still; they all shagged him, just in case.

~~~

Nessa:
There are few things in life that scare Gwen Cooper these days, but Vanessa Shanessa Jenkins comes pretty high up the list. She's not employed by any government agency. UNIT has no record of her. Her name doesn't mean a thing to Sarah-Jane. This has been thoroughly checked.

She is not a spy. She is not an alien. She is not a past lover of any of them, or a random Torchwood groupie.

What Nessa is, however, is the only person ever to put a Weevil in a headlock.

"I'm not being funny, like," Nessa says, "But I's got better things to do than clean up a caravan park for a secret alien taskforce, alright?"

"Yes," replies Ianto, trying hard to maintain his well-practiced poker face. "Absolutely." The weevil is staring at him. Ianto almost feels sorry for it.

Once Nessa has delivered the Weevil to a nice cosy cell of its very own, she introduces herself to Jack and Gwen. It's bracing.

"You ever need a hand with this alien malarkey, give us a call; I'm handy with a wide range of heavy duty industrial machinery and my rates are reasonable."

"You don't say," says Jack, taking the card she offers and studying it. His eyes widen and he hands it silently to Gwen.

"I do, as it happens," Nessa responds, as she sees herself out. "I makes no claim to be an expert in the field of all forms of extra-terrestrial life, but let's just say there's a few of those Cybermen bastards who wished they hadn't come round the Barry scrapyard and leave it at that."

"Yes, let's." Ianto blinks. Jack and Gwen remain non-verbal.

"I'll say nos da then," she says with a nod, leaving the usually composed team slightly shell-shocked and oddly, a little turned on.

Years later, Nessa's card is still stuck to Jack's small office fridge. On the back, the world's most terrifyingly specific testimonial; a smattering of circular symbols and a single line of type-

"Jack: March 9th, 2014. Call her." The Doctor.

~~~

Psych Fic: Do You Remember The First Time?

2009-09-29T22:51:11Z

Title: Do You Remember The First Time?
Fandom: Psych
Rating / Genre: PG, Gen.
Words: 933.
Spoilers: Non-specific, pre-season.
Disclaimer: Psych is property of USA Network.
Author's Note / Schmoopy Dedication: My first Psych fic, eek! Not quite as giddy as I intended and all mistakes are my own. A fic for the, oh three whole people on my flist who share my love for this witty, intelligent, silly-daft, original gem of a show. The rest of you, get a clue already, it's brilliant and has Dulé Hill in it being hilarious- what more do you want from a television show?!

Summary: "In which Shawn does not get a personal CD player for his birthday"

~~~

Though he hasn't learned the word yet, Shawn has come to appreciate that his dad is meticulous by the time he turns six. It's something about the way he makes him learn multiplication tables by police code that gives it away.

By the time Shawn is ten, he's stopped thinking of his father as meticulous and prefers to think of him as a little OCD; a term that he's picked up from Gus and explains a lot about most people he knows.

By his thirteenth birthday, Shawn's long since come to the conclusion that Henry is just plain nuts. This latest excursion? Just goes to prove it.

"Now Shawn," says his dad, his hand resting on Shawn's shoulder with an underlying firmness that should be comforting yet somehow is really not, "This is not a place for joking around. Some people might say you're too young for this, but you're thirteen today and that practically makes you a man."

Shawn frowns, trying to work out if this is a compliment or a test. "It does?"

"Sure it does. And sometimes a man has to man up and do things that other people might not think you're ready for."

"Like Mom?" Shawn asks, recalling the raised voices he couldn't help but hear from downstairs last night when he was supposed to be sleeping.

"Maybe sometimes," his father replies diplomatically. "But Shawn, not too long from now, you're gonna find yourself coming down here for all kinds of reasons and most of them won't be pretty. You need to be prepared for that. And I think you're ready. So what do you say?"

Shawn blinks and looks again through the glass window of the city morgue. The corridor they're standing in smells of antiseptic, feels as serious as a cemetery and the room on the other side of the door looks even less inviting. He feels cold just thinking about going in there. Cold and confused and a little resentful. After all, all Shawn had wanted for his birthday was a Discman.

"Shawn?"

"Yes, Sir?"

"You ready to be a man?"

Not knowing the answer yet, Shawn doesn't offer a verbal response and just nods nervously at his dad. After all, he kind of has the feeling he's going to have be a man anyway. Might as well pretend like he feels like one.

~~~

Thirty seconds later, Shawn finds himself inside the morgue standing in front of a metal table bearing a conspicuously elongated hump concealed beneath an off-white sheet. It's all happening far too fast for Shawn's liking and though the morgue attendant who pulled the body out of the locker seemed nice enough, Shawn can't help but wonder what kind of a person would want to spend their days with dead people. Even Gus, with his recently developed fascination for all things pharmaceutical isn't that much of a Weirdo McGinty.

But before he knows it, the sheet is pulled reverently down from the shape on the table, the morgue attendant is stepping back into the background again and suddenly Shawn is face to face with his first corpse.

The body is a man; fifty-something, flabby arms, waxy skin, thinning hair, not quite in a full comb over but definitely reaching crisis point. His eyes are closed and sunken and Shawn's glad that he can't see the back of the man's head, where his dad says the tyre iron struck; the mis-shaped suggestion of the injury behind the right ear is plenty enough.

The man doesn't look like he's sleeping. He doesn't look peaceful. He's just there. A long shaped object where a person used to be. It's fascinating and creepy and Shawn can't take his eyes off him.

"What's his name?"

"His name doesn't matter, Shawn," Henry replies pragmatically, his hand resting on Shawn's shoulder again. "What matters is that there's a man in jail now who's not going to hurt anybody else. There's one less thug on the streets tonight, because of guys like Johnson and Rook, just two ordinary beat cops. That's what it means to be a police officer. Helping people. Even if you can't save them."

Shawn studies the man's face and comes to his own conclusion. "I think he looks like a Gordy."

As if the loaded silence wasn't enough, it's the way that his dad's hands lift from his shoulders that lets Shawn know he's said the wrong thing, again.

"You know Shawn," Henry says, letting out a sigh quietly laden with disappointment, "I really hoped you understand this. Just this once. Maybe you weren't ready after all."

Shawn doesn't try to explain what he's feeling to his father, instead he just lets himself be led from the room, while somewhere inside him, he mentally waves another part of his childhood goodbye. There's not a lot left.

~~~

By the time he hits thirty, Shawn's seen more corpses than he's had birthdays and he's kind of okay with that, but he still remembers his first. He still thinks of Gordy every time he sees a fresh body, still wonders what his real name was, if he liked tic-tacs or lifesavers, if he was a nice guy, what his laugh might have sounded like. There's a lot of things Shawn won't or can't forgive his dad for; not being able to walk into a restaurant without automatically clocking the number of people wearing hats being the prime example, but sometimes, he still thinks giving him a corpse for his birthday was one of the worst.

And he never did get that Discman.

~~~

Fic Rec: Welcome back to the O.C., bitch

2009-09-27T11:18:12Z

Way back in the when, for The O.C. Sentence Fic Challenge, I requested a Seth fic, which te lovely chazper provided and for reasons not entirely known to my brain, I completely missed. Actually, I think it was when I moved and didn't have the Internet for the best of two months. Whatever.

mel39, who happens to be an awesome friend, wondered if I'd missed the one written for me and gave me a hearty prod in the fic's direction. chazper has captured season one, the Cohens and most importantly, Seth in a brilliant one-shot, which I rec now for your pleasure.

Seth’s No-Good, Rotten, Unfreakingfair, Sucktastic, Miserable, Lousy Day.

And don't give me any of that, "Seth? Meh. I'm a Ryan fan," marlarky. Good fic is good fic and this is a great one.

*nods*

Doctor Who Fic: Point Me To The Skies

2009-09-19T19:51:52Z

Title: Point Me To The Skies
Fandom: Doctor Who
Rating / Genre: PG, Gen.
Words: 1166
Spoilers: Doctor Who (Tenth Doctor): Up to, and including 3.03 Gridlocked.
Disclaimer: Doctor Who is property of BBC.
Author's Note / Schmoopy Dedication: All mistakes are my own. A Tenth Doctor one-shot for cheekymice, as a tonic against idiot bankers and also for secrethappiness as a tonic against flu and exams.

Summary: "When other helpers fail and comforts flee, Help of the helpless, O abide with me."

~~~

There wasn't much to say after he stopped talking. The city sang above them and they listened quietly together to the voices hanging in the new skies.

Martha wanted to tell him she was sorry, that she wished that she could bring back everything that had been torn away from him. Tell him she'd do anything he asked if it would make it better, because already she knew that she would. But those weren't the right words. Not for this.

"Thank you," she said finally.

The Doctor looked up at her, as if he'd forgotten she was there, a wide expression of bewildered amusement momentarily on his face. "Thank me? What do you want to do that for? "

"- For trusting me. Telling me the truth."

"Oh." He sighed. "Oh. Well. Better out than in, I suppose."

"Can I ask you something?"

The Doctor shrugged softly. He'd told Martha more than he'd ever told anyone before about his home, his family. Oh, he'd dropped hints or answered questions in a roundabout sort of way, even let a few things slip out without thinking every once in a while-

- I was a dad, once-

- But this was different. And he knew what was coming. "Ask away."

"Rose;" Martha said, confirming the Doctor's thoughts. "Who was she?"

"She was-" The Doctor sighed and looked down, trying to find the right words. Rose was… a nineteen year old girl who wore the same oversized earrings as Martha did, braver than brave, an unsung hero, a moody teenager, his raison d'être, so full of life, kindness and sorrow, Bad Wolf, a family, the world he'd lost made anew- gone.

Rose was gone.

But Martha was here. Not replacing her, but here all the same, and listening.

Abruptly, the Doctor stood up and held out his hand.

"Come with me. I'll show you."

~~~

Martha didn't know what she'd expected Rose to look like, but she was fairly certain that the still image of the screen of a young blond girl surrounded by an aura of brilliant gold-white light wasn't it. All the same, there was an unearthly quality about Rose that seems to fit so exactly into the Doctor puzzle it's almost eerie.

"Was she on Gallifrey when it happened?"

"Gallifrey? No, of course not." The Doctor frowned. "Why would she be?"

"But you said-"

"- I met her afterwards. Actually, she was the first person I met afterwards, there were Autons- I blew up her job and she saved me from a close encounter with the Nestene Consciousness. The rest, as they say, is history."

"Oh," said Martha, surprised and a little lost. "I just thought-"

"-What?"

"I don't know. That she was a Time Lord too."

"Just a girl. Human, like you."

"But the light-" Martha said, gesturing to the screen.

"It's not light, it's time. Time runs through a vortex held in the heart of every TARDIS. Rose looked into it."

"Right," Martha laughed a little, more thoughtful words failing to find her. "Like you do."

"Not the cleverest thing she ever did and it almost turned the spacetime continuum inside-out, but she saved lives. And nearly ended others, including her own." The Doctor smiled and pressed a few keys on the console, Rose's picture fading away from the monitor. "Promise me, you won't ever touch it, I think the TARDIS is still a little disgruntled."

Martha grinned and traced her finger across her chest, "Cross my heart."

The Doctor nodded. "Good."

"Besides," Martha continued, sitting down on the battered jump seat, her legs dangling, "I wouldn't know where to begin."

"Well, for starters, you need a gobby mother, a stubborn friend and an enormous truck."

"Then the universe is definitely safe; my mum's a lot of things, but gobby isn't one of them."

"Thank goodness for that," the Doctor replied with a smile as Martha stifled a yawn. "Tired?"

"Do you have a spare sofa squirreled away somewhere in here?" Martha asked hopefully, looking around with doubt at the closed walls of the console room.

"A sofa? I think I can do a little better than that."

~~~

Given that she was in an alien spaceship that's bigger on the inside, Martha shouldn't have been surprised that there was a field with a scattering of hammocks under warm open starry skies within a blink of the console room, but nevertheless there she was, mouth open wide in wonder despite her increasing tiredness. She glanced at the Doctor, not at all surprised to see that he was a enjoying her confusion far too much.

"Okay, this is definitely better than a sofa."

"You'll be safe in here. I'll be around."

"What about you? After all your adventures today, you must be exhausted."

"I'm fine," the Doctor shrugged. "Alien."

"Right. Okay then. Handy."

"Sleep as long you like. Wonderful thing about time machines- you never need an alarm clock," he said, before turning back the way they'd come, "'Night Martha."

Dead on her feet, Martha looked sadly at the lost and lonely man walking away from her.

"Doctor?"

The figure stopped, not turning back, as if he knew what was coming.

"About Rose," Martha continued. The Doctor looked at her, his eyes sadder than ever.

"I know I'm not replacing her," she pressed him gently, "and I know it’s only been a few days since I thought you were some crazy patient running round London taking his clothes off in front of strangers when the nurses weren't looking, but I can tell how much Rose meant to you. I can tell you loved her. And I can tell you need a friend."

"- Martha-"

"- Wonderful thing about time machines," Martha interrupted quickly, careful not to step further over the Doctor's boundaries, "You can visit your friends whenever you want to."

~~~~

Alone under the half-moon, the Doctor walked across the fields until he came to a cliff top, the sound of the sea below him as real as the one it imitated in Bad Wolf Bay. Between Rose and Donna and Donna and Martha, he'd spent so much time here, looking out, trying to come to terms with the loss of his friend, his home. It was only now that was beginning to realise that he wasn't going to be lost forever. Already, the weight of grief had begun to lift and until Martha had sat him down on New Earth, he hadn't even noticed. Too much time alone.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the scene before the Doctor shifted, the bay began to curve around to a lakeshore, the waves melting into ripples. On the horizon, mountains shimmered under the moonlight, the faintest suggestion of a forest at their feet. It felt familiar and comforting, like a memory of home.

The Doctor looked out peacefully at the renewed aspect. The wonderful thing about time machines, he thought, was the possibilities it added to the definition of one trip; new adventures, new eras and maybe, a new hand to hold.

~~~

The O.C. Fic: Perspective

2009-07-06T09:07:21Z

Title: Perspective
Fandom: The O.C.
Rating / Genre: PG / Gen
Words: 1485.
Spoilers: Season One, set sometime between The Outsider and The Countdown.
Disclaimer / Note: The O.C. is property of Fox. I write without a beta, any mistakes are my own.
Schmoopy Dedication: Written for sailblazer, for the Fifth O.C. Sentence Fic Challenge; both prompter and prompt provided much needed inspiration for me in my beloved original fandom. Also for ctoan, on her birthday. It's a small token of appreciation for all the hard work you put in to keep this fandom going, but it is heartfelt token nonetheless. I'm going to be Internet deprived for the next few weeks, so my apologies in advance for not responding to comments.

Summary: Ryan should have seen this conversation coming, but he'd forgotten all about this particular secret.

~~~

"New times demand new measures and new men."
- Lowell, A Glance Behind the Curtain.

~~~

What Ryan wanted to say was, "I'm sorry," but the look of disappointment on Sandy and Kirsten's faces was too deeply embedded for that. After all, if he'd taken in a fifteen year old on the verge of making criminality a career, he'd be disappointed in him too right now.

What concerned Ryan more, however, was the slight trace of fear barely nestling below the disappointment. It didn't matter that his guardians were both trying so hard to suppress it; the idea that anyone, particularly Sandy, Kirsten or Seth were scared of him, actually made him feel physically sick inside.

He could almost understand it. Ryan imagined that having your housekeeper tell you she'd found a switchblade in your recently acquired teenager's bedroom had got to be a hell of lot worse than finding the standard pornography collection lingering under the majority of adolescent mattresses. But still, these past years and in particular these past few months living with A.J. Ryan had been the one frightened often enough to know that he never wanted to be the cause of it.

Still, here they were, Ryan on one side of the table, Kirsten and Sandy on the other and two inches of steel as conspicuous as the proverbial metaphorical elephant in between them.

It was curious; in Chino, Ryan had carried the knife out of habit, and small as it was on the scale of street blades, it looked so out of place on the Cohen's kitchen table, radiating a silence as sharp as its edge.

Finally, just when the stilted atmosphere was becoming unbearable, Sandy spoke for them all. "You know we have to talk about this."

"I know".

"I mean, as much as we'd all like to pretend Rosa found something else when she turned your mattress, she found this." Sandy frowned, his expression genuinely darkening as Ryan half-smiled at Sandy's coincidental phrasing. "This isn't funny, Ryan."

Ryan straightened up in his chair, his expression already gone, "I know, I'm sorry. I was just- I'm sorry, I don't think this is funny." He looked over at Kirsten, caught her nervous gaze. "I know you're disappointed."

"It's not just that," Kirsten replied, confirming Ryan's suspicions, "I just don't understand why you'd have something like this."

"Honestly? I forgot I had."

"You forgot?" Sandy said, his eyebrows rising sceptically.

Ryan shrugged. "I put it under the mattress when I first got here. I'm not used to not changing my own sheets."

"Oh," Kirsten said softly, before the silence fell again.

Sandy picked up the knife and turned it over in his hands, stowing the blade before flicking it open with a fast swish-click. Even though it belonged to him, even though Ryan knew its comforting weight in his pocket, its worn heaviness under his hand, seeing Sandy handle the tough thin pointed edge made him uncomfortable.

"Where did you even get it?" Sandy asked, still staring at the blade, "What kind of idiot sells this kind of a knife to a teenager?"

"Sold it? No-one sold it to me."

"Then where?- "

"- Trey gave it to me."

"Trey? Your brother gave you this?" Kirsten asked incredulously, as she placed her hand over her husband's, prompting him to lay the switchblade down. "What an earth for?"

"Protection." Ryan said with a simple shrug, wishing there was a better word for the sad-kind twisted concern of Trey's rationale.

"You're fifteen, Ryan, who could you need this type of protection from?"

"Who do you think?" Ryan snapped, the well-intentioned naïveté of Kirsten's words irritating him. Seeing her flinch, Ryan tried again, hating this, the same conversation inevitably unfolding before him. Teachers, guardians, social workers, whoever it was, somehow, it always came back to this.

Sensing his unease, Kirsten's tone softened. "Ryan?"

"Look- I just, mom's last boyfriend wasn't exactly friendly when he was sober, which was hardly ever, and he was an ass when he was drunk, which was pretty much always. The ones before him weren't so hot either. Trey was just looking out for me."

"So he gave you a knife?" Sandy asked, knowing that the last thing the weary boy in front of him needed was to dwell on his mother's past and present romantic mistakes. "Just in case?"

"Yes."

"Did you ever use it?"

"Jesus, no, alright? I couldn't," Ryan said, continuing pointedly, "Not just couldn't, I wouldn't, ever."

"How about threaten anybody with it?"

"No."

"Never?"

"Never." Ryan asserted levelly. Knowing that wasn't the full truth, he sighed quietly. "Once, nearly."

"What stopped you?"

"I wasn't quick enough." Ryan flexed his fingers on his left hand, remembering the way they had twisted and broken under the grind of A.J.'s grip. "Probably a good thing for me that I wasn't."

Sandy semi-smiled in empathy. "I think I'd have to agree with you on that one, kid."

Ryan sat back in his chair, relaxing a little. As much as he'd hated where this conversation with the Cohens had started and the reasons for it, all things considered it hadn't gone too badly. Now, he just wanted it to be finished. There was too much running through his head, too many emotions swirling inside him to keep going for much longer.

"Look," he said, trying to make a move towards closure. "I get why you're angry, I do, especially after what happened with Donnie, and honestly, if I'd have remembered I had the knife I would have tossed it or maybe hidden it somewhere else, instead of giving it to you. But please trust me when I say, I don't like knives. I don't want to be somebody who thinks they're okay, like I need to carry one to feel safe."

"Good. That's good," said Sandy in tempered relief. "We don’t want that for you either."

"So we're okay?" Ryan asked him tentatively.

The Cohens exchanged a subtle glance of wordless discussion. "I think we've said pretty much everything there is to say."

"I agree." Kirsten sighed, releasing the almost the last of her tension, before frowning suddenly. "Sandy, this won't affect Ryan's parole, will it?"

A cold chill dropped through Ryan and the nervous nausea that had calmed flared up once more. The thought of ramifications outside of his new family hadn't even occurred to him; now they had, he felt himself begin to panic.

Sandy looked at the knife, then back at Ryan, his gaze stern and piercing, "This is the only one?"

"Yes."

"And there's nothing else? Not even pepper spray?"

"Nothing. I swear." Ryan said, deliberately and sincerely making eye contact, "And there won't ever be."

"Then I think we should leave here, don't you?"

Kirsten nodded in agreement. "But no more surprises, Ryan."

"I promise," he answered honestly with conviction. "I'll be nothing but predictable and transparent from here on out."

"Oh good grief, don't do that," Kirsten laughed, as she stood up from the table and the two men followed suit. "Seth will be so disappointed, we'll never hear the end of it."

"Does he know?"

"No, he doesn't."

"But you are gonna tell him?" Ryan stated almost rhetorically.

"Some way or another," Sandy replied, taking the switchblade and folding it closed once more. "We haven't got that far yet."

"He'll work it out if you don't. And get it wrong."

"Probably."

"So… would you let me tell him?"

This time Kirsten was first to answer, "No. I'm sorry, Ryan, I can see why you'd want to, but I think that's one for us."

"Will you tell him why I had it?"

"Not if you don't want us to."

"Good, 'cause I don't."

"Understood," Sandy said, with understated compassion.

Ryan frowned for a moment, working things out in his head. "I'll tell him sometime. About that stuff. Just, not yet. I'm not ready."

"That's okay. You've got time. All you need."

"And anything else besides," Kirsten added.

"Really?" Ryan grinned as he made his way across the kitchen to the back door, "Does that include doing my algebra homework for me?"

"Ha!" Kirsten and Sandy exclaimed, laughing in unison. Sandy placed his hands on Ryan's shoulders, ushering him jovially on his way, "Not a chance, kid, not a chance."

Laughing, Ryan shrugged out from Sandy's grip, his thoughts finally crystallising into what he'd wanted to say from the very beginning but hadn't known how to until now. Taking his chance, he stopped at the door and turned back to his guardians. "Can I say one more thing?"

Kirsten spoke first, her gentle tones as measured as always, "Of course."

"I just wanted to tell you; there's a reason I forgot about the knife, you know? Why I wasn't carrying it."

"What was it, Ryan?"

Ryan shrugged as he smiled at the people he called family, in the place he called home, "I felt safe already."

~~~

* For sailblazer's original prompt, which I wantonly and wilfully mutated, "In Chino Ryan had carried the knife out of habit, it looked so out of place on the Cohen's kitchen table, and from the looks on his guardian's faces, Ryan knew this was going to be a long conversation." .

Me!Me! Ficlet: Ten Words Later

2009-03-24T11:53:15Z

Quote from colleague, on hearing the Pizzicati from Delibes' Sylvia (aka the "hippo dancing" bit):

"It's not very realistic, is it, Fantasia?"

~~~

In an effort to get my "stop whining, start writing" campaign for self-improvement, I did the ten words genre ficlet me!me!:

Write a ten word ficlet around each of the fic genres. Try not to cheat. Fail a bit.

Angst (The O.C.)
Before he hits fifteen, Seth can't remember ever liking himself.

AU (Veronica Mars)
After Veronica drowned, Lilly nightswam each year to remember her.

Crack!fic (Heroes)
Talking to Nixon, Peter really wishes he hadn't absorbed necromancy.

Crossover (BSG / Doctor Who)
Starbuck loves Daleks; they scream so much better than Cylons.

Death (Veronica Mars)
Bleeding by the pool, Lilly discovers dying young is overrated.

Episode-Related (Torchwood)
Jack gives Owen and Toshiko's belongings to Oxfam. Gwen cries.

First Time (The O.C.)
Luke grunts and pulls clumsily away. Marrisa regrets it already.

Fluff (Supernatural)
Drunk Bobby is a rare event, but worth every hangover.

Humor (Torchwood)
Turns out, Jack will do anything to anything. Even pterodactyls.

Hurt/Comfort (Torchwood)
Rhys knows he can't make it better. He tries anyway.

Smut (Supernatural)
To begin with, Sam thought Dean growing an extra dick was funny.

UST (Heroes)
Nathan's forgotten how to love someone like that. Peter hasn't.

~~~

That was fun. I should do more of this writing lark.

The O.C. Fic: East Coast, West Coast

2008-12-16T16:48:06Z

Title: East Coast, West Coast
Fandom: The O.C.
Rating / Genre: PG/ Gen
Words: 883
Spoilers: All seasons.
Disclaimer / Schmoopy Dedication: The O.C. is property of Fox. For mel39, who asked for "Ryan misses Seth", and who also happens to be quite brilliant, patient and wise.

Summary: Ryan misses Seth. Seth misses Ryan. This is occasionally more literal than either of them intended.

~~~

January, Ryan
It's New Year's Eve and a guy from Ryan's boxing team gets arrested for bringing a gun to the party. Turns out it's a replica, but it looks real enough. The guy's last name's Oliver. Ryan doesn't know what Seth would have said about it, but he'd sure have liked to hear his voice that night.

February, Seth
11:00am the morning after the night before and Seth is pretty sure that he's vomited up the kitchen sink. So Ryan might not have stopped him drowning his sorrows while Summer saves the dolphins, the otters, or whatever on the other side of the world- but he'd know the best way to stop the hangover.

March, Ryan
There's a mix-up at Spring Break and somehow the West Coast branch of the Cohen family end up in Providence and Seth comes home to an empty house. It's funny for the first few hours. But then Ryan thinks about his other, less related to him brother rattling around the Berkeley house waiting for his family to get in and somehow, he's never missed him more.

April, Seth
He gets a little bit arrested. The sit-in made the university stand-up and take notice, but somehow, without Ryan to laugh at Seth for sacrificing his liberty to save a kid's playground, it's not as much fun as he thought would be. But his dad's never been prouder.

May, Ryan
Seth has a final on Sophie's birthday and he's stuck cramming calculus at the library instead of talking lunacy on the telephone. It's nothing that Kirsten or Sandy have said or done, but the first time in a long time, Ryan feels like the plus one at someone else's celebration. Later, while he's giving her a bath, Sophie extends a sticky, cake covered finger at him and shouts, "Ba!" with such big-hearted glee that he decides he couldn't care less about semantics; he's just as much as her brother as he is Seth's.

June, Summer, Seth, Ryan
A week and a half later, Summer and Ryan rock up outside Seth's place in a classic blue Firebird, ready for their month-long cross-country road trip.

"I know," says Ryan, as Seth stares at the car with his jaw in the dust. "Don't worry, I promise I didn't steal her."

"What'd you think Seth?" asks Summer, wrapping her legs around him and kissing him deeply, "Like Thelma and Louise, right, baby?"

"I’ll say," Seth kisses her back, more in love than ever.

Ryan picks up Seth's bag and throws it into the trunk. "So who's Brad Pitt?"

"You are," the kissing couple say in unison.

Laughing, they smile and the three of them slide into the Firebird's front seat, Summer curled into Seth's lap, Ryan behind the wheel and the road before them.

Ryan grins. "So which one of you broads is Louise?"

July, Summer, Seth, Ryan
The Grand Canyon turns out to be pretty damn grand. They've seen a lot together these past few thousand miles, but the open scar of the earth below and the first scrape of sunset across the sky is something else.

They look out at the world and feel like adults.

"How long til we have to have the car back in San Diego?"

"Three days."

"Let's keep going."

Years later, even when there's only two of them left, they still go back there.

August, Seth
They're alone in Tahiti, just the two of them for a week and though he's talked to Ryan about it, talking about it and doing it is something else. Summer says yes. The ring fits beautifully, close as a heartbeat. The eventual phone bill is worth every last cent.

September, Ryan
On a night out in the city, Ryan sees a guy who looks like Trey. Like, really looks like him, even down to the walk. He knows it's Sandy he should tell, but it's Seth he calls. This time, when Seth asks about what things were like for Ryan before Newport, Ryan tells him everything. About what his dad was like back then, about all the clichéd awfulness that he and Trey grew up with. Everything. Ryan doesn't know if it's the time that's gone by, or if his dad's changed, or if he has, or this summer's road trip, but Seth gets it now. And it helps.

October, Seth
"So, come on, man," Seth persists, "It's Halloween, there's a party, what you gonna go as?"

The photos come through to his i-Phone the next day while Seth's in his Intro to Western Philosophy class. It's hard to take Nietzche seriously when he see Ryan dressed up as Kid Chino.

November, Ryan
Ryan isn't paying attention when he should be and gets hit by a car on his way home from work. It hurts, his bike's bent beyond repair and he feels like an idiot, but it's not the worst off he's ever been. Still, one thing's for certain; bleeding on the sidewalk is a lot less fun without Seth making lists.

December, Ryan
The best thing about Christmukkah, Ryan decides as the five of them all sit round the table together in more or less one piece; there's no need to miss anybody when all his family are right here.

~~~

Supernatural Fic: Conversations With Dead People

2008-11-13T11:00:12Z

Title: Conversations With Dead People
Fandom: Supernatural.
Rating / Genre: PG-13, Gen
Words: 334
Spoilers: Episode tag / missing scene for 4.01, Lazarus Rising.
Disclaimer/ Notes: Supernatural is the property of The CW. Possibly Eric Kripke. For all of my flist who once showed their love for Supernatural with much writing of truly excellent fic, but have been lured away by the bandom; come back to the fold! Mostly for ignipes as a belated birthday present.

Summmary: Sleep like the dead used to just be a metaphors for the Winchesters.

~~~

The fan whirrs with a slow whum over the bed and Dean wonders if this is how Martin Sheen felt when he filmed Apocalypse Now. Alive, and not.

Everything sounds different. Everything looks different. Not better, not worse, just different. Detached somehow. It's making him crazy.

"Sam," he says into the darkness, without thinking what he's going to say next.

"Yeah?"

"You still snore?"

"You still fart?"

"Uh, don't know," Dean replies, then grins. "Haven't yet. Get me some chilli dogs for breakfast, we'll find out."

Dean hears Sam snort and smiles at the thought of Sam laughing again. Then the quiet comes back.

"Dean?"

"Yeah."

"You really don't remember?"

"I really don't," Dean says, dismissing the flash of dark chasm and cacophony that assaulted his senses earlier. "Do you?"

"Just remember waking up in the middle of nowhere. Felt like I'd been asleep for a week. I remember dying though."

"Me too."

The silence falls again, as it has to, because what light fraternal banter can compete with that? Predictably, it's Sam that breaks it.

"Dean?" he asks again, like he's checking he's really there, not some revenant or a figment of his increasingly bleak imagination.

"I'm here." Dean grunts.

"Promise you'll never do that again."

Dean starts to say, "Sure thing," or, "Wasn't planning on it," but for once in his life, his mind works faster than his mouth and he figures out what Sam's really asking. Remembers holding the deadweight of his brother in the mud and the rain. The look on Sam's face a year later when Dean heard the scratching and howls at the door.

"I promise, Sammy. No more deals."

Dean feels the almost unconscious sigh of relief in the bed across from him and before he's counted a hundred Sam's breathing has lengthened into the low dark patterns of sleep.

Dean listens to the rhythmic half-snoring, the whirr-hum of the fan above him and before long he's deep down under. He doesn't dream.

But he does remember.

~~~

The O.C. Fic: Five Places Ryan Atwood Never Had Sex (Or maybe he did)

2008-09-10T11:40:31Z

Title: Five Places Ryan Atwood Never Had Sex (or maybe he did)
Fandom: The O.C.
Rating / Genre: PG-13+ / Gen / Smut-lite.
Words: 558
Spoilers: All seasons.
Schmoopy Dedication: For elzed, with much affection on her birthday.

Summary: Does exactly what it says on the tin.

~~~

1. Backseat of a car, such a cliché.

But he's under fourteen and Tamara isn't the first girl he's slept with, so he could give a damn. Tamara is the first girl he's kissed with a tongue piercing though and if Ryan thought things were hot at third base, by the time they’ve moved on to what he considers a home run, he imagines this must be how great those eighty year old guys feel when they bang a supermodel.

"You know," Tamara says spitting the last of Ryan out the side of the car with a swig of Gatorade. "I don't just have my tongue pierced."

She grins wickedly as Ryan's eyebrows rise in what he hopes is a casually sexy expression.

Ryan learns that night you get what you give and what goes around comes around.

Literally.

~~~

2. Two years later, another girl, another backseat, but this time it's the empty studio theater at his junior school.

He liked Theresa enough to want to do things her way, not because he thought they'd get into bed quicker, because for the first time in his life, what he really wants more than anything is to make it special.

He's turning into such a girl.

As it happens, where it happens is the theater on wrap night of Charlie Brown. There's nothing but the two of them in the darkened auditorium; no wine, no candles, no flowers, no slow music, but Ryan's beginning to get that the where, when, what and how don't matter nearly as much as the who.

~~~

3. Ryan has to admit, he's always wanted ball busting, can't walk straight for a week sex.

Up until the first night he sleeps with Marissa, he thinks maybe he's going to have resign himself to the old adage; if you want something doing properly, you got to do it yourself.

Turns out what she lacks in spontaneity (three years? Three years?!), Marissa more than makes up for in stamina and he wouldn't be surprised if three weeks from now if he was still finding sand in all sorts of places.

It's so terrific Ryan keeps his hands to himself in the shower for a whole three days.

Also, he's fairly certain if tried to knock one out his dick might drop off.

~~~

4. There's a night that he's never told anyone about.

After the crash, before he left, he slept with Julie.

They weren't even drunk.

~~~

5. The best night, the best night, is this one.

Logistically, it's quite definitely the worst sex either of them has ever had; Ryan keeps crying and Taylor who normally grips him like a human pressure vice, is exhausted. It's messy, over so fast they're in danger of setting a new world record and so clumsy Ryan actually falls off the bed.

When he looks up at the two women in his life, Ryan realizes the passion or pleasure of all previous orgasms aside, this is what he's been wanting all along.

There's not a lot of women in the world who would want to have sex the same night they've just delivered their first baby, but Taylor has never been one to conform to normality.

What the hell, Ryan figures. After all, normal is relative. Right?

~~~

The O.C. Fic: Fairground Rides and Cockleshells (1/?)

2008-08-11T15:39:24Z

Title: Fairground Rides and Cockleshells
Fandom: The O.C.
Rating / Genre: PG-13+ / Gen / AU.
Words: 2177.
Spoilers: Season One, The Pilot.
Note: The story is all mapped out and much of it written, so I'm going to do my darnedest to update this regularly. I'm walking the fic rope wihout a beta-net so any mistakes are, alas, mine.
Schmoopy Dedication: For all my O.C. flisters, particularly elzed and tarteaucitron who I shared a season two sofa with way back when, mel39 whose ongoing love for the old school seasons made me want to write this story and most of all for cheekymice to help pick her pluck up during a rotten summer. You're all brilliant.

Summary: Two roads of Ryan's future diverged the day he called Sandy from Chino; this time, Ryan walks the other one, with repercussions for all.

~~~ ~~~ ~~~

Charlie Brown Says-
No-one promised me this when I was a kid
When my days were filled with carousels
fairground rides and cockleshells

Ocean Colour Scene, Charlie Brown Says

~~~ ~~~ ~~~

One.

Nobody answers after one. Not unless they're at work, anyways.

Two.

Two was fine. Only someone who always knew where their cell phone would answer after two rings and somehow the slightly shambolic figure he'd met across a scuffed table in juvie didn't seem the type.

Three.

But three. Three was time enough.

Four.

Yeah. Time enough for someone to see the caller ID and opt out of taking a 909 number.

Five.

Five was enough to hang a hope out to dry.

With a defeated clunk, Ryan dropped the phone back in its cradle. He stuffed the lawyer's card back in his pocket, reached for his bike and pushed off into the fading light.

If he'd waited for six rings, his life would have been different.

~~~

The orange tinted clouds rippled smoothly as Sandy moved the net back and forwards across the surface of the pool, the resistance varying as he twisted to catch the scattered leaves. The rhythm was comforting, a moment of Zen tranquillity after the stresses of his day. He had no intention of giving up a life of Public Defending, but he could see how easily days like today could add up to a burn out; even though he knew he'd done his job and done it well, watching that smart kid Ryan get into the car with someone he doubted was in a fit state to be behind the wheel, he knew hadn't done enough.

And from the sounds of disharmony spilling out across the backyard from inside the house, it looked like the day wasn't over yet.

Moments later, the sound of Seth's door slamming shot through Sandy's wearying body and added another hundredweight of exhaustion to his ever-wearying heart. Hearing the pat of flip flops on the steps, Sandy looked up from the pool to see the same world tired expression on his wife's face.

"Is everything-" Sandy started, "- I was going to say alright, but given the door-"

"Right," said Kirsten as she joined Sandy by the poolside. "He's just- I don't know what he is. He's just-"

"- Seth." Sandy finished.

"When did he get so sad?" Kirsten asked Sandy as he slipped an arm round her side, "I know he's always lived in his own little shell, but lately, it's like nothing brings him out of it. He just seems so… down."

"What were you talking about?"

"Only school. Harbor sent through the reading lists for the AP classes and I suggested going book shopping. And I know school's not exactly Seth's favourite place to be, but still-"

"-He was less than enthused."

"Hence the slamming." Kirsten sighed and glanced up towards where the acoustic hum of Seth's music had begun to emanate. "I don't know, Sandy. It sounds like such a terrible thing to wish for your child to be any different than he is, I just, I don't know…"

"What?" Sandy asked gently.

Kirsten sighed. "I just wish that he liked himself more."

"Yeah," Sandy agreed wistfully. "Me too." He kissed Kirsten on her head. "I guess we'll have to like him enough for the three of us for a while."

"We can do that."

"And there's always plan B."

"I don't know Sandy, shipping him off somewhere-"

"-Hey, I'm not talking brat camp, or a retreat or anything, we're not Jimmy and Julie, okay-"

"-I know, I'm not saying we are, I just don't know if New York's a good place for him to be at the moment, I don't think he's ready to take that kind of trip alone yet."

"We're talking about staying with my mother for a few weeks, Kirsten, not sending him off to make his fortune. And it's not like she lives on 54th and Mean, the neighbourhood's fine."

"I know, I know. I just think that Seth, all of us, we have to figure out how to solve things together and I don't see how we're going to do that if he's on the other side of the country."

The conversation stalling, Kirsten found her gaze falling to a disconsolate glint at bottom of the pool. "Sandy Cohen, is that your cell phone?"

"It just might be." Sandy looked at his wife sheepishly. "I was aiming to answer it, it didn't go too well."

Kirsten raised a gently mocking eyebrow at him. "So I see. Never mind, you could do with a new one."

"No, no, no," Sandy protested, sensing a plan formulating in Kirsten's mind, "I've told you before, I am not getting a BlackBerry. As if owning a communications device named after a fruit wasn't ridiculous enough, it's just one step from that to being your father and that's one path I'm not willing to explore."

"Okay, okay! No to a BlackBerry," Kirsten acquiesced good-naturedly. "But maybe something that can save more than say, three voicemails? It's not like you're so great at answering your phone even when you're not sending it to a watery grave."

"Fine, fine. As long as it’s still a phone." Sandy smiled as an idea hit him, "Hey, maybe Seth could pick it out sometime this week? And if the two of you happen to pick up a few textbooks while you were at the mall…"

"… It wouldn't be the worst thing in the world."

"See how beautifully this works? Could be fate."

"Could be."

The evening air cooling, Sandy pulled Kirsten closer and they stood in almost contented silence, moving the net across the pool in unison, each of them wishing secretly that everything could be this simple.

~~~ ~~~ ~~~

"Ryan, you know I can't, man." Travis looked at his friend with guilty sympathy.

"Come on, Travis, I've got no place to go."

"I told you on the phone, alright? Don't make this harder. My mom doesn't want us hanging round you guys anymore."

"Lot of that going around," Ryan snarked bitterly. "Look, Trey's in jail now, so it's just me, 'kay? I’ll be gone before morning and I don't even need the sofa, just let me crash on the floor. One night. I'm just looking for a roof over my head."

"Seriously, she'll kill me. It's not down to me, she won't have you in the house," Travis said, pulling a pack of cigarettes out and lighting up two of them. "It's not like I agree with her."

"Like it's my fault my brother's a moron."

"You know my mom. What she lacks up in logic, she makes up for in principles." Travis passed a cigarette over to Ryan and took a long drag on his own. "It's not like I agree with her, okay, but it's not going to happen. Hey, you're lucky she's not here, you'd be hearing this straight from her."

"Yeah, I'm lucky alright," Ryan said, enjoying the warmth of his cigarette as the nicotine and tobacco filed through him. "I should buy a lottery ticket."

Travis offered his friend the smallest of smiles, knowing it wasn't enough. "Least he wasn't drunk this time."

Ryan shrugged. It wasn't that Travis wasn't right, but right now knowing that he'd gotten off lightly this time from A.J. didn't make his face or any other part of him feel better. And neither did guilting out his friend; wherever he ended up sleeping tonight he could tell it wasn't going to be here.

"What about Theresa, there's no shifting her?" Travis asked, interrupting his thoughts.

"Nah, she's still pissed at me. I called, but she hung up."

"Because of what you said about Eddie?"

"I guess."

"Yeah, well someone had to. Guy's a serious asshole. The shit he talks, half the time he speaks you can't tell which way is up."

"Half the time?" Ryan smiled sarcastically.

"More than. Still, hanging up? That's harsh."

Ryan shifted back and forth on his feet, trying to stave off the waves of tiredness increasingly washing through his bones. "I should head off."

"You gonna be okay tonight? You'll find somewhere?"

"Yeah, no worries. Diego owes me."

"Diego? Just don't breathe in. Don't want to be stoned for your hearing, trust me, goes down really badly with judges."

"I got some time before then, I'll be okay," Ryan said, dropping the butt of his cigarette and twisting the stub into the dirt with his boot.

"And your mom will come down before then," Travis said, unaware of his Freudian slip.

"Or she'll run out of money. Either way, she'll take me back." Ryan swung his bag over his shoulder before taking the guilt ridden hug that was offered.

"It'll be right."

"Always is." Ryan punched his friend lightly on the shoulder. "Give my love to your mom."

Travis returned the sarcastic grin, punched him back. "Get out of here."

With a nod of acknowledgement, Ryan headed down the weed strewn path to where his bike lay, slipping the keys he'd lifted from Travis into his jeans along the way. After all, he figured as he rode away, if everyone took him for a criminal already, he may as well start acting like it.

~~~

Kirsten knocked softly on Seth's door.

"Seth? You asleep?"

From inside, there came the sounds of a sixteen scuffling across his bedroom floor, followed by the snap of a bedside lamp.

"Not yet. I'm, uh, I think I'm just going now."

"Can I come in?"

"Uh, yeah."

Opening the door, Kirsten looked in on the darkened room. Seth was sneaking beneath the covers.

"It is the holidays, you know, I don't mind how late you stay up, just as long as you don't turn into a fruit bat."

"Check: no fruit bat."

"Just as long as you help out with the grocery shopping, wash the car with your father when he asks."

"Mom, that's almost never. You know how Dad considers the sand the last bastion of his hippy credentials."

"Then I guess it's just you me and the groceries."

"I guess so."

Sitting down next to the lengthy lump of Seth, Kirsten sat on the bed, leaned forward and kissed him gently on the forehead. As she brushed his cheek, she could feel the damp touch of tears hiding there. Embarrassed, he turned his head away, seeking refuge in the depth of his pillows.

"I'm sorry I shouted at you."

"Oh, I think you're forgiven."

"And the door."

"First offence. Clean slate."

"Thanks."

"We're going to sort things out, okay?" said Kirsten, touching at Seth's tear-trails with her thumb. "Me and your dad, we're going to make things better for you. I promise."

Kissing her son for a final time, Kirsten stood up and crossed to the room. "'Night, Seth."

"Mom?"

Kirsten stopped on the threshold, looking back in the direction of the tentative whisper.

"What is it, sweetie?"

"I think-" Seth turned his gaze back to her and then across at the wastepaper basket by his desk. In the half light of the hallway, Kirsten saw for the first time the now empty blister packets of pills abandoned there and her mouth was filled with the bitter adrenaline taste of comprehension.

"- I think I've made a mistake."

~~~

With the last of twilight now twisted into night, Ryan left the scrap of scrubland laughingly referred to as the neighbourhood park and headed down the last couple of blocks to where his bed for the night waited for him.

Friend or not, considering what he'd been arrested for less than twenty-four hours ago, Ryan didn't think it'd be a good idea to move Travis's battered Ford to somewhere less conspicuous. Instead, he'd used the last of his energy to fight off his tiredness and waited until the streets were quieter and the dark fully formed before heading to his friend's car. As a resting place, it wasn't perfect, but there was room for him and his bike and the sunroof didn't leak. He'd even lucked out and retrieved a couple of beach blankets from the back, shaking out the sand before locking the doors and snuggling down the best he could across the hard stretch of the station wagon's flat back seat and trunk.

He had absolutely no idea what he was going to do in the morning. Despite what he'd told Travis about heading back home in a day or two, Ryan couldn't help but feel that something big was stirring on the horizon. Something not good, with teeth, sharp and ready to bite.

Down the street, he heard the sounds of a gaggle of teenagers coming his way and he flipped the beach blanket over his head, checking the good parts of his bike, such as they were, were covered by the other.

Tomorrow could wait for tomorrow and whoever it belonged to. Even though Ryan couldn't remember when or why he'd restricted his life to such small goals, he decided that right here, right now, he'd settle for just being left alone.

~~~ ~~~ ~~~

Doctor Who Fic: Atonement

2008-05-14T13:36:51Z

I realised as I came to post this fic that I've only written completed four stories this year, which is somewhat of a shortfall on what I intended.

Title: Atonement
Fandom: Doctor Who
Rating / Genre: PG, Gen.
Words: 285
Spoilers: Doctor Who (Tenth Doctor): 3.13 Last of the Time Lords & Torchwood: 2.06 Reset (small).
Disclaimer: Doctor Who is property of BBC.
Author's Note / Schmoopy Dedication: Just a little short piece, but long overdue. For all the Whovians on my flist new and old.

Summary: Time will say nothing but I told you so, Time only knows the price we have to pay;

~~~

There are voices in her head.

She doesn't know why, exactly, but when she wakes from yet another nightmare of metal spheres with the cruel laugh of an unearthly child, she just feels that somehow, these violent images are real. A secret history folded away in another time or space, memories unasked for, stirring unbidden each night in her dreams; a warning, a punishment possibly, but real nonetheless.

And so is the girl. Martha Jones. Saving the world; alone, on foot, and frightened.

It takes her almost week to find her once she knows Martha's name and longer to get through the various encryptions on her student and banking records, even with her knowledge of universal IT backdoors, someone's been careful this time and she's not surprised. Once she finds her though, the pattern's not hard to spot; disappearances, sudden interest in Cardiff, being in two places at once, already excellent marks improving still further in an impossibly short space of time.

Despite her expertise with a computer and other sought after unique skills, her name carries a lot less weight than it once did. Fortunately, there's still a few old friends who will take her call. And she wants to help this girl, this Martha Jones. How else can she say thank you? How could anyone?

When she finishes telling Brigadier Sir Alastair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart, formally of UNIT, the story of Martha Jones, Harriet Jones, former Prime Minister of Great Britain, doesn't feel better the way she thought she would. There's no inner peace. The dreams don't stop.

But the world seems somehow safer. And no matter what the Doctor or anyone else may think, past or present, that's all she ever really wanted.

~~~

Heroes Fic: Ten Songs to the Same Theme

2008-04-04T16:27:59Z

Note: About a month or so ago, I stumbled on a me!me!, in which the author is supposed to listen to ten random tracks from their music collection and write a ficlet for each of them. The catch? You only have until your track finishes to write each piece, or at least the outline of each piece, with at polish the end. So here's my stab at it; ten random tracks inspired ten drabble-ish ficlets.

Title: Ten Songs to the Same Theme
Fandom: Heroes
Rating / Genre: PG-13, Gen. Bits of it are a bit violent.
Words: 2330
Spoilers: 2.11 Powerless (new Heroes characters, non-specific plot)
Disclaimer: Heroes belongs to Tim Kring and NBC.
Playlist: Ten Songs to the Same Theme: Music for Sharing

Summary: "Dance like nobody's watching; love like you've never been hurt. Sing like nobody's listening; live like it's heaven on earth."

~~~

1. Shine

One, two, buckle my shoe, three, four, knock on the door--

The sun is high as Monica runs through the park, the beat of the music playing from the Company's iPod so strong and determined she can forget for a time where it came from. For now, there's just the rhythm, her feet and the soft dirt path beneath them.

The baseline kicks up a notch as she runs under the shade of the trees, her pace and the rhymes in her head picking up with it.

- five, six, pick up sticks-

Monica ran fast as a child. Before Micah came to stay, she'd forgotten that running could be anything else than an act of fear, heading to a stadium, fleeing the howl of a storm; for all the good it did them.

- pick up sticks, pick up the pieces, piece of my heart, rest in peace-

Enough.

Without even looking, to see who might be watching her, Monica launches herself into a high and fierce gymnastic tumble of handsprings and back flips, forcing her newly awakened muscles to remember their new tricks, pushing the old memories back down into childhood.

Let the storms come, she thinks, as she lands the last twist and picks up her running without breaking stride; this time I'll howl back.

~~~

2. C'est Magnifique

Hiro can't dance.

To be blunt, he's the epic opposite of dance, every beat moved out of time, every spin making him dizzy. He hasn't stepped on her foot yet, but that's only because Charlie can dance.

They haven't had long together and Hiro knows even as Charlie laughs with delight as he twists her under his less than rhythmical arm that they haven't got a future. Tomorrow is promised to no-one, no matter how many paper cranes they can make or how hard they wish.

This will be his last attempt, he's decided. If he can't save her this time, then he will accept that maybe, the universe doesn't want her to be saved. Stupid universe.

In less than a minute the song will end. Hiro will take Charlie outside and ask her to go with him, not to Japan this time, or Austin for the Samurai film festival, or any of the other places he's suggested in the days and weeks he's been living this scene over and over again. This time, Charlie gets to pick. And then, wherever she chooses, he'll tell her to close her eyes, make a wish and he'll kiss her, hoping it's not goodbye.

It has to be the last time.

Probably.

They spin faster, closer, each precious second of time slipping by them like fine silk.

Next time. Next time will be the last.

~~~

3. Never Can Say Goodbye.

Years and years after that first fateful press conference, Nathan Petrelli finally steps into the White House as President of the United States.

It took the longest time for him to realise that it wasn't enough to want to be the man behind the desk. He had to need to be.

Still, even with the public's gradual acceptance that maybe, just maybe there could be something in Suresh's evolutionary theories, there wasn't a political party that would touch him. So he started his own. That's when they found out just how many of them there were.

Millions of people, everywhere. Just, everywhere; every city in every country on every continent. Healers, pyrokinetics, telekinetics, remote viewers, fliers like him and a whole host of new abilities that don't have neat names yet but which the comic book industry are trying their damnedest to create.

He's an old man now, and times have changed. The existence of people with abilities took a while to be acknowledged and even now the weird science behind it all is still not fully understood. But as far as Nathan's concerned, he's just glad it's out there and people aren't calling him crazy anymore.

"There are more of us than I could have ever imagined," he'd said back then. "And we're not a threat. And we're not superior. We're just lucky."

He looks around the Oval Office, still amazed at how much bigger the room seems now that it officially belongs to him, for the next four years, at least.

Whatever Monty and Simon are doing now, Nathan hopes that at least some small part of them is proud of their father. And as for his brother?

He just wishes Peter were alive to see it.

~~~

4. Nobody Does It Better.

When Sylar finally gets a second chance to draw his finger slowly across Peter's forehead, it's not through dominance, through a final battle lost or won, but because he volunteered.

After Sylar took Adam's power, the rules changed and after a more than a half century of fighting each other they found themselves, well, not. When everything in the world changes yet they stay the same, morality, good versus evil and all that stuff just seemed so… pointless.

So here they are; two guys and a girl. Peter, Claire and Gabriel (it's Gabriel again, Sylar died with Adam). Just the three of them, locked in an eternal game of chicken.

How many stories can you jump from and knit yourself back together?

How much blood can you lose?

How little food is too little? (They got bored of that one, Gabriel was taking forever to die and Claire was impatient for her turn again.)

How long with a knife in your cerebral cortex is too long?

There's a few they won't try- chemical burns are too painful and messy, decapitation seems to kind of be asking for it and radiation affects too many bystanders and the lingering sickness makes the worst hangover seem like a fresh summer's day.

"How you doing there, Peter?" Gabriel asks the blood begins to flow in a smooth trickle down his friend's forehead.

"You're milking it man," Peter says, struggling involuntarily as the slice moves through the bone and pain kicks up beyond excruciating and into the stratosphere, "Just take it already."

"Your wish is my command," Gabriel says with a sly smile and flicks his hand up.

There's a sudden rush of air and suddenly Peter can feel the light spots of rain falling on to his mind, each drop like the beat of a hammer assaulting his senses.

It's hard to concentrate with the inside of your skull exposed to the elements, but even through his clouding vision, Peter can definitely tell that Claire's staring at him with a grim curiosity the like of which he hasn't seen since Gabriel stepped out on to the third rail and the smell of their friend cooking put them both off hamburgers for months.

"Oh, gross," she says, reaching out to touch Peter's newly exposed brain.

"Don't even think about it," says Peter, staggering and falling to the floor. "God, the rush- I can feel everything-"

"-Should I put it back?" asks Gabriel, now looking more concerned than Peter can recall right now.

"… Jeez, don't look so worried, Gabriel," Peter says in a slur, "It's all okay."

"Maybe he should," Claire questions, looking down on him. "You don't look so good."

Peter just smiles up at her, as his body kicks into automatic pilot and he feels the comforting warmth of her power running through him, the slow itch of a new body part building itself.

"Trust me," he murmurs, even as his world goes from grey to white, "You're gonna love it."

~~~

5. Blister in the Sun

Nathan wakes up like does every night, frightened, eyes screaming at the radiant intensity of Peter as his brother burns bright, hot and fierce. In an ideal world or even just an overdramatic one, he'd sit bolt upright and heave for breath. Unfortunately he's living in this one, where his skin is ravaged and his lungs don't work like they used to, so he'll settle for lying on an unfriendly bed, listening to those lungs wheeze as they sicken and moulder in the blackened cavity of his chest instead.

Through photophobic eyes, he looks around the clinical quietness of the room, wishing there was someone to wake up to.

Claude watches Nathan from the shadows. If Peter's alive he'll come back here sooner or later. And if not, then this poor sod's been through enough to deserve having someone to watch out for him, and visitors for the newly elected and Congressman are surprisingly thin on the ground. He's not seen the wife in weeks. There's something about the Petrellis that makes him want to shake them furiously, but any man deserves better than that.

Nathan's eyes close again and he settles back into another fitful and lonely sleep.

"Don't worry mate," Claude whispers softly from the corner. "I'll wake you."

~~~

6. Casual Viewin'

The most ironic thing of all, is that Claire thinks as she watches her toe grows back, nail over skin over blood over bone, she might have done this to herself.

Twelve years old, before cheerleading replaced gymnastics as her after school activity of choice, she spent every day after school pushing her body to its limits until a mistimed leap on the asymmetric bars breaks her wrist, cracks her head and puts her out of the interstate finals.

Walking around with a bruised ego and an arm that was completely useless in its cast even though it didn't even hurt anymore goddamn it, Claire remembers wishing that she could never get hurt again.

Now as she sees West's face at the window, she can't help thinking she should have wished she could turn invisible instead.

Yeah. And hindsight is twenty twenty.

~~~

7. Near Wild Heaven

No matter what crazy things are going on in their life (and these days, there's always something crazy going on), there's always one thing they find the time for. This time it’s Peter who shows up outside Nathan's window. Literally shows up; he teleports into view right in front of Nathan watches the world go by from his tiniest of balconies.

"Hey, Wendy. Want a trip to Never Never Land?"

"Jeez, Pete, you nearly gave me a heart attack," Nathan says, looking forlornly at his half-eaten breakfast bagel that now lies cream cheese side down at his feet. "Crap, that was my last one."

"I'll buy you breakfast," Peter replies with a smile in his voice, as he shimmers in and out of sight. "In Nunavut."

Nathan smiles. "You're such a show off."

"Come on, it's a beautiful out. Sun's warm, sky's blue, what more could you want?"

"Right now, I want my bagel back." Nathan says, a smile spreading across his face as he glances up into the blue. "But I'll settle for whipping your butt," and he soars into the sky, Peter's indignant "Hey!" disappearing into echoes below him.

Peter might be able to bend himself into time and space, or hold a sunburst in the palm of his hand, but Nathan could always outrun him and in the straight out race to the stratosphere, older brother beats younger brother every time.

By the time Peter catches him up, Nathan is hanging there as if suspended in a sky hammock, his eyes closed, floating contentedly on the air tide.

"I'm never going to get tired of this," cries Peter to Nathan and he loops round and backwards, letting the thermals flutter across his skin.

"You say that now; wait until Matt Parkman asks you for a ride."

Peter laughs so hard he drops clear one hundred feet before Nathan has time to blink.

~~~

8. Lineman of the County

It occurs to Matt that these days he could make his cheating ex-scumbag of a partner decide he was gay. Or a cross dresser. Or make Janice think he smells like asparagus pee.

But he won't.

Matt's decided if he can't be a dad to Janice's child, he won't become like any father he ever had.

~~~

9. Pink Moon

Claude never has gone in search of a definitive scientific reason behind his ability to become invisible, but it doesn't take a genius to realise it's got something to do with light. Bending it, reflecting it, combined with something else, something different. Something wrong.

The most likely explanation he's drawn to lately is that his skin contains some kind of photophores, creating a unique kind of bioluminescence, like a deep sea jellyfish or horrific looking squid. Given that these days he keeps to the dark shadows and feels the weight of the world on his shoulders, the irony of the analogy is not lost on him.

Claude occasionally wonders if it's a psychic projection; that he's not invisible at all, he just convinces the world he can't be seen and so he is isn't. Freud would have a field day with that one, he reckons. With all the freaks and geeks like him.

Sometimes he can't remember if he's invisible or not and has to look down and check. Other times he wonders if it even matters.

One thing Claude does know; the sunset never feels so good when the sun can't see him back.

~~~

10. Wonderful World

Odessa, Texas doesn’t have a whole lot to recommend it to Noah Bennet, but this hidden patch of meadow just off the meteor crater nature trail is one of them.

There's every chance Claude's around here somewhere, he knows, keeping an eye on his new partner. Fine. That's just fine with him.

Come on then, friend, he thinks, as he lies down with Sandra in the long grass. Watch this.

~~~

The O.C. Fic: Ways of Seeing, Or; The Once and Future Cohen

2008-01-08T14:45:08Z

I can't quite believe that I've a) manage to post two posts in two days and more importantly b) my fic for The O.C. Dialogue Challenge is complete. I think I was bound to write a fic like this one day, and some of the basic plot has been bouncing around in my head since day one, so I hope you like it.

~~~

Title: Ways of Seeing; Or, The Once and Future Cohen
Fandom: The O.C.
Rating / Genre: PG-13, Gen, possible humour. It depends on how endearing you find me.
Words: 5381
Spoilers: The whole series.
Disclaimer/ Schmoopy Dedication: The O.C. is property of Fox. Written for 60schic's marvellously duplicitous prompt for The O.C. Dialogue Challenge 2007. It took the longest imaginable time to find the right way to tell this story, so I very, very much hope that you like it.

Summary: "How can one person make such an unbelievable mess?"

~~~

"It's just…This is just so strange for an old guy like me. Two years, ten years after, I never thought I'd be here."

"Yeah," Ryan said, glancing sideways for a second, "Tell me about it."

"Who I was, what I was, Ryan, I'm not that person anymore-"

"- I know, Dad."

"But sometimes, I get this feeling nesting in my gut and I can't shake it... What if after everything- What if I'm still not ready?"

~~~

Don't get excited, we're not going to kick off with a heart to heart between Frank and Ryan. I mean we never saw one before, least ways not the Big Talk we were all rooting for, so you know you don't get those scenes right out the gate, you have to earn these things. Bear with me, we'll get there. But first, let's set the scene.

It's Chrismukkah, 2008, our favourite fictional holiday (though apparently not Seth Cohen's. Who knew?). The snow's coming down, but only fake snow from cans, because this is Berkeley after all, blessed with a favourable climate and good people. This story is about the birth of one of them.

~~~

It was at the exact moment that he found himself looking up between the legs of a woman who had spent a good proportion of their early acquaintance trying to have him arrested, banished and possibly even publicly lynched, that Ryan Atwood decided to drop his philosophy minor. Existence was debatable, experience was random and life clearly had an over-developed sense of irony. As far as Ryan was concerned, if Wittgenstein, Nietzsche, Gettier and a whole other bunch of intelligent and articulate dead white guys hadn't managed to condense the whole shebang down to a set of non-conflicting bullet points by now, then he may as well quit while he was ahead and take French where at least the girls were hotter.

Fortunately, before Ryan's imagination had time to wander off inappropriately, Julie Cooper kicked him.

"Can you see anything yet?"

"I don't know," Ryan answered, understandably made nervous at the task at hand. "I'm not sure."

The air was suddenly thick with the weight of Julie's incredulity. "You don't know? Jeez, if you can't spot a baby down there, no wonder you can't keep a girlfriend."

"Hey!" Ryan snapped back, in ill-advised defensiveness. Julie stared at him and he softened his tone, shrugging. "It's dark."

Julie flopped back against the door, muttering to herself. "Oh my god."

But this is several hours from now. I think we should scroll back a bit.

…

Let's start…. Here.

"Phone!" Seth shouted from upstairs, steam pouring out from the bathroom behind him. "Ryan! I'm naked up here."

"Then stay up there, man," Ryan said, heading to the hall mirror where, for reasons unknown and probably terribly logical at the time, the cordless had been abandoned. "I got it."

(At this point, I'd just like to apologise for the advent of a loud screaming child in the background, but you have to remember Sophie Rose is a Cohen and, well, this is the way they do things.)

"Hello, Cohen residence."

"Ryan? It's Julie, is Kiki there?"

"Actually no, Sandy took her up Napa for the weekend," said Ryan, returning to where Sophie was crying in her playpen. "They'll be back late tomorrow."

"Well, isn't that sweet. Since when?"

"Uh, it was a surprise. Yeah, they're gonna visit a vineyard, get mud baths in Calistoga, Sandy even managed to swing reservations at the French Laundry. Seth's back for the holidays, we're looking after Sophie," said Ryan, tucking the phone under his ear and scooping Sophie up on to his hip.

"Sounds like you're doing a great job," replied Julie with cheerful sarcasm.

"She's teething."

"Oh. That."

"Is everything okay? You sound-

"What?"

Ryan floundered and groped for the nearest safe adjective. "… Busy."

"I'm looking for the Berkeley exit off the freeway; I know it's coming up here somewhere."

"You're driving? Here? Now? How?"

"Do you mean how does somebody as ridiculously pregnant as I am right now fit behind the wheel? Are you trying to say I'm fat, Ryan?"

"Wouldn't dream of it." Ryan replied without hesitation.

"Well, I am. I'm also rich and driving a 4 by 4 with an adjustable steering wheel, I'm good to go."

"I just meant because aren't you due any day now?"

"Three days." Julie stated nonchalantly.

"And that doesn't make you a little, I don’t know, apprehensive about driving all the way up here?"

"Please. Marissa was a week late, Kaitlin over two weeks late, and they punched and kicked my uterus every hour from the day they were due to the day they popped out. I am not going through that again. I've eaten curry, drank beet soup, chewed cloves, done Pilates, yogalates and, god help me, even salsasize. I've slept with Frank, flirted with every attractive young man in a fifty mile radius and some really unattractive ones. Nothing. Not even a twitch from Kid Chino. I'm desperate."

"So you drove to Berkeley?"

"Kirsten went to Berkeley, bun safely in the oven, next thing you know, there's another bird chirping in the nest and an early bird at that. I thought I'd drive up here, try and catch myself a worm."

"Okay. Sure, why not."

"I promise not to let my waters break on anything that needs dry-cleaning."

"Very considerate of you," said Ryan, wincing as Sophie's complaining kicked up several decibels, "Look Julie, I gotta go, you're welcome to stay over, just remember we don't have a midwife living here anymore, okay?"

"Fine, fine. Here's my exit, look out for me."

Ryan put the phone down and headed upstairs to where Seth was now blow-drying his hair in his ever futile quest to bring a little order to his wayward follicles.

I'd tell you his reaction but there are children present.

~~~

Well, I think we can all see that things are not going to go well from here. Absent parents, a teething baby and an unexpected not to mention exceptionally pregnant house guest.

You're right. They don't.

~~~

I could tell you how Julie showed up just as anticipated, declaring, "I know, I'm disgustingly huge," and how, not being without intelligence, Ryan opted for silence, but the distance his eyebrows raised spoke volumes.

I could tell you how Kaitlin called an hour later, near apoplectic at her mother's note of explanation and introduced Seth to some delightfully blue new turns of phrase.

I could tell you how they bought enough Chinese food for six people for lunch and ate it all, including the spiciest chicken ever to put the pow! in a fiery kung sauce.

I could tell you how the Sophie painted baby food first on Seth's face and then his carefully crafted hair.

I could tell you how Kirsten and Sandy phoned every two hours and were less than amused when an exasperated Seth eventually introduced them to Kaitlin's vocabulary.

I could tell you how after ne'er a twinge or a whisper, Julie finally gave up on her idea of a B-section and called home, telling them to expect her- still expectant- late in the evening.

I could tell you all that.

But I won't. These things are much more amusing in short-hand. You know when people recount a joke, realise it's not funny and then say lamely, "I guess you had to be there"? It's like that, but with prose.

~~~

This, however, is a juicy bit.

Several hours later and Seth, freshly re-laundered had headed downtown to meet Zach and his girlfriend Emma for coffee and geeking out, leaving Ryan and Julie to get along by themselves, something they now found surprisingly easy to do. The late afternoon was fresh and warm and Julie was happily ensconced on the porch swing over looking the back yard, finishing the first semi-decent decaf coffee she'd had in months.

(Sorry, that's juicy as in enticing, intriguing; engaging, if you will. Not a fruit-based beverage, just in case the sudden mention of coffee threw you. I'll be quiet now.)

"Is this imported?" she asked Ryan who sat on the back steps, absently bouncing Sophie on his knee.

"The coffee?"

"Yes."

"No."

"Oh."

"Well, no more than any other coffee, anyway," Ryan qualified, "It's fair-trade."

"Oh," said Julie, with wistful amusement. "Newport doesn't do that."

"Color me stunned."

"Maybe it's the pregnancy throwing me off, but that was almost funny."

"It has been known to happen," Ryan grinned.

"Like Halley's Comet."

"Exactly."

Julie drank the rest of her coffee, as Sophie bounced happily, smiling with adoration at Ryan. "You're really good with her, Seth is too."

"Thanks," said Ryan, "She's pretty easy to be good with."

"It's more than that. Look at her. She feels safe with you. You can always tell with kids."

"You know, if you ever need- I can come down to Newport, no problem."

"Thanks. I'll have to take you up on that," Julie said, looking down at her bump, "Won't we?" She sighed and fell silent, looking out at the garden and the mix of toys sprinkled about it like freckles. "Kirsten and Sandy; they've really got it worked out, haven’t they?"

"You okay, Julie?" Ryan asked, looking over at her and seeing her contemplative frown.

"I just… I really want to get it right this time."

"I don't think you ever really got it wrong."

"Oh really?" Julie snorted dryly.

"Hey, trust me. My mom, growing up, I know she loved us, but she's not what you'd call maternal."

"Ryan-"

"- Hey, even when you weren't getting along, you always put Marissa and Kaitlin first. At the end of the day, that's all that matters. And you've got Kaitlin, and the Bullit, and us guys. And my Dad." Ryan said, turning his attention back to Sophie, "He's different now, too."

"Ryan, you don't have to defend Frank to me."

"I know. Look, I'm not saying he was perfect, because he wasn't, but he was a hell of a lot better than any of the guys that came afterwards. And he really is different now. I trust him."

"Me too." Grateful for the reassurance, Julie smiled at him. "You know, you're really kinda smart, Ryan Atwood. I hope Kid Chino gets that gene."

"I just hope he gets a name. You can't call him Kid Chino his whole life."

"This is California," Julie said, smiling, "I could call him Kid Terminator and he'd still fit right in."

(Personally, I think Kid Chino is an awesome name. Who's with me?)

"You're not going to, though right?"

"No. No, I have a name in mind. But for that," she said, getting to her feet, the porch swing creaking with relief beneath her, "You're going to have wait and see, like everyone else. Thanks for the coffee, Ryan."

"You sure you don't want to stay?"

"No, thank you. It's been a nice to get out of the house, but I have to be getting back to Kaitlin. She gets cranky if she doesn't get the chance to make me breakfast in the morning. Honest to god, I am so full nutrients, this baby's going to pop out looking like a Garnier spokesmodel."

"Only with a lot less hair."

"Hey, that's two jokes in one day," Julie teased in pretend shock. "Keep this up, you've got yourself an act."

"You'll call when you get back?"

"Of course."

"And when things start to happen?" Ryan asked with a subtle nod at Julie's lovely round bump of a belly.

"Absolutely." Julie smiled at him. "I will."

And Julie kept her promise. Just a little sooner than either of then had intended.

Oh, come on. Don't act like you’re surprised.

~~~

"Ryan?"

"Julie?"

"You know you said to call you when things start to happen?"

Being a quick study, Ryan was able to deduce what Julie meant pretty darn fast. However, he still wasn't able to come up with a better response than, "You're kidding."

"I'm at a crappy rest stop twenty miles away, Ryan, I really wish I was kidding."

"What happened?"

"I stopped to pee, again, because this is how I spend most of my day now, and things just started happening. At first I thought it was the kung-pow chicken, now I'm fairly certain I'm in labour."

"Shouldn’t you, you know, call an ambulance?"

"It's not that bad, my waters haven't broken and I really, really don't want to end up giving birth in a hospital in Emeryville or Oakland or wherever. Please, can you and Seth just come get me?"

"Sure, sure, just, hang on, okay? We'll be there as soon as I can, okay. Just relax."

"Yeah, I've a person wanting to come out of me, so that's probably not going to happen."

"I'll be there. Keep your phone on."

Ryan hung up, grabbing his sneakers as he headed out towards where Seth was unwinding with a new book.

- You might want to put your fingers in your ears for this bit –

"SETH!!" Ryan hollered at the top of his lungs.

"Jesus, Ryan, do you want to wake Sophie?" Seth said, nearly dropping off the porch swing in fright, before seeing the worried look on his best friend's face, "What is it, what's going on?"

"Julie's in labour."

"Julie's in what now?"

"Labour! That thing that happens right before my kid brother gets dropped on the freeway tarmac. It’s happening, right now, at a rest stop twenty miles from here."

"Okay, okay," said Seth, snapping into grown up mode with ease. "I'll get Sophie, you call the Bullit, tell him he needs to do whatever he has to do to get your dad and Kaitlin on a plane up here right now. And then get some towels, and the first aid kit, and some hot water, and I don't know, like some swaddling clothes, or something."

"Seth, she's giving birth in a car, not a frontier novel," said Ryan reaching for the phone again. "And she's not going to do that unless we're really unfortunate, either; just get Sophie, I'll take care of the rest."

Let's leave aside the issue of how on earth Seth thought they were going to transport a ready supply of hot water in a range rover, or the fact that if indeed Julie does indeed give birth in the back of a car, Sophie's going to be getting a big jump start on her education and focus on Ryan's choice of words there:

"… And she's not going to do that unless we're really unfortunate, either."

Two words for you: Atwood Luck.

~~~

I'm going to skip forward now, partly because Ryan's about to drop an f-bomb as he hits another red light, but also because it's a pretty dull drive to where Julie's waiting and there's only so interesting a person can make the journey. You can figure out what happens for the next few miles or so for yourself. After all, you're all on the Internet, so it's a reasonable assumption that you've all taken car rides at night, you know how they go.

Besides, there are only two interesting things about car journeys. The first is that the plural of journey is journeys eys and not journies ies, like babies, or daisies or stories, something for which I suspect there is a perfectly good, if slightly banal explanation, so perhaps this is only interesting to yours truly.

The second interesting thing is about to happen.

Any time…

Bear with me…

…

Now.

"Holy shit, my waters just broke."

Told you.

~~~

"Don't worry, we're almost there, the rest stop's coming up in less than a mile."

"What, what is it?" Seth asked Ryan, as he kept his eyes on the road.

"Julie says her waters just broke."

"Crap, really? We are so screwed."

"And she also says she can hear you, you jackass."

~~~

Ryan and Seth looked at the puddle on the floor and the backseat of Julie's otherwise pristinely valeted car. Whatever Sturm und Drang they'd been envisioning in their imagination, the prosaic sweatiness of a dishevelled Julie Cooper hadn't really occurred to them. Seth, being Seth, spoke first.

"What the hell is that?"

"Amniotic fluid."

"Gross."

"Tell me about it."

"How can one person make such an unbelievable mess?"

"Oh my God!" exclaimed Julie in exasperation, "Does Summer know you're this stupid? It's called childbirth you idiot, did you think it was self-cleaning?"

"Sorry," said Seth, genuinely. "Are you okay? We have towels."

"I've been better," Julie replied, not unkindly. "Could be worse. I'm really glad you're here. And there's a sentence I never thought I'd say about this situation. Although I'd be happier if Ryan didn't look catatonic."

"Sorry," said Ryan snapping out of it. "Okay. Okay, here's what we're going to do," he said, taking charge. "Bullit's rounding up Kaitlin and Dad as we speak and flying them up here. Kirsten and Sandy are headed back from Calistoga; everyone's going to meet us at the hospital. Julie, I don't know if it's even possible but, if there's any way you could not give birth until we get there, I think I speak for all of us when I say it's going to save a lot of money on therapy bills."

"Agreed," said Julie with good humour. "I think I can do that."

"That's great. Seth, you're driving, we'll put Sophie up front with you, I'll stay in the back with Julie. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Okay."

"Cool," said Ryan, wishing he felt as calm as he sounded. "And I don't think I've ever said that many words at once before."

He's exaggerating. It's only 83 words, but this is a dramatic moment, so we’ll let that slide.

~~~

Twenty minutes later and things were not going well.

Oh, don’t get worried. As Ryan correctly surmised, Julie was not giving birth in a frontier novel. What she was doing, however, was having contractions at regular and rapidly increasing intervals.

"I don't believe this," Julie grunted through gritted teeth, pushing her feet into the headrest hard enough to leave a dent.

"It's fine, everything's fine," Ryan replied. "It's not far now."

"Honestly, Ryan, right now I could give a crap where we are, but I'll tell you this for nothing, hell will freeze over before I give birth listening to Death Cab for frickin' Cutie- Seth! Put some decent music on, or so help me, I'll put my foot through your ear."

"Okay, okay," Seth said speedily, with an excellent sense of self-preservation. "We've got Emmylou Harris, Bob Dylan or the Best of Disney."

"No child of mine is being born to folk or country music."

"Disney it is."

It was at this point, and quite without warning, that Julie swung her legs around and Ryan found himself suddenly staring down the opening to the Dragon Lady's cave.

"Oh, man."

And it was here, where we first came in, at the exact moment that he found himself looking up between the legs of a woman who had spent a good proportion of their early acquaintance trying to have him arrested, banished and possibly even publicly lynched, that Ryan Atwood decided to drop his philosophy minor. Existence was debatable, experience was random and life clearly had an over-developed sense of irony. As far as Ryan was concerned, if Wittgenstein, Nietzsche, Gettier and a whole other bunch of intelligent and articulate dead white guys hadn't managed to condense the whole shebang down to a set of non-conflicting bullet points by now, then he may as well quit while he was ahead and take French where at least the girls were hotter.

Fortunately, before Ryan's imagination had time to wander off inappropriately, Julie Cooper kicked him.

"Can you see anything yet?"

"I don't know," Ryan answered, understandably made nervous at the task at hand. "I'm not sure."

The air was suddenly thick with the weight of Julie's incredulity. "You don't know? Jeez, Ryan, if you can't spot a baby down there, no wonder you can't keep a girlfriend."

"Hey!" Ryan snapped back, in a brief moment ill-advised defensiveness. Julie stared at him and he softened his tone, shrugging. "It's dark."

"Oh, good grief." Julie flopped back against the door, muttering to herself. "Why did I think this was a good thing to do to my cervix again?"

"That's between you and your god."

"And your dad. This is positively the last time I ever have sex."

Not for the first time that day, Ryan and Seth's eyebrows raised several centimetres in disbelief. If this were Lemony Snicket's A Series of Unfortunate Events, Sophie's would have been right up there along with them.

"Oh, who am I kidding," Julie continued, closing her eyes tightly as the pain of another contraction hit her. "This is the last time I have sex with a man who hasn't had a vasectomy."

"Ryan, talk to me," insisted Seth, as The Circle of Life began to hum rhythmically from the stereo, "What's going on back there? Can you see anything?"

"Everything's kind of… swollen." Ryan said, peering as tactfully as he could under the circumstances. "Wait, holy crap, Seth, pull over. There's something moving-"

"- What?! What?!"

"I can see the head! There's a head!"

"Really?" asked Julie and Seth in one voice as Seth flipped on the warning lights and looked for a gap in the traffic.

"It was bound to happen eventually," Ryan replied, fascinated and flummoxed by the bizarre sight in front of him in equal measure.

"What can you see?" asked Seth, pulling the car to a stop.

"Sort of, it's like a ball."

"That's amazing. Gross, and weird, but amazing."

"yeah. Julie," said Ryan, giving into the moment, "I'm no expert, but I'm guessing this would be the time to push."

"I can't believe that after everything that's happened you're the person that's delivering my baby," said Julie, half crying, half grimacing from emotional and physical exertion. She looked at Ryan, and grabbed his hand fiercely. "Do you think everything happens for a reason Ryan? Is that why you're here now? Because you were with Marissa?"

"I don't know," he answered honestly. "Maybe. I hope so."

"Me too. It feels right, somehow. Like it's what she wanted."

With a small grateful smile, Ryan squeezed Julie's hand tighter. "Ready?"

Julie nodded and Seth, now holding his little sister in his arms, watched in silent awe as Ryan helped Julie deliver his own little brother.

Then, quite suddenly, there were five people in the car. All of them possessing of ten fingers, ten toes, and all of them, without exception and for their own personal and particular reasons, crying.

And now if you don't mind, I'm a bit of a softie, so you'll have to excuse me if I do the same.

At least here the ink won't run.

~~~

And so it came to pass that a police patrol came speeding up to the stalled car and asked what they thought they were doing pulling over on the hard shoulder of a busy freeway for no good reason. Then they saw the tiny figure wrapped in Sandy's surf towel and figured that this was the best reason they'd ever heard and gave them an escort all the way down the freeway, with full lights and music. Ten minutes ago, even Julie and Ryan would have agreed with Seth that an action movie style police escort would have been the coolest thing ever, but somehow, the scale for cool had just been decisively and definitively reset for good.

It's hard to disagree.

~~~

Now, I know what you're thinking. You're wondering when that conversation between Frank and Ryan is going to raise its angsty head.

Well, there was a little more to come before we get there, but honestly? I think we can skip it. This is, after all, what might otherwise be known as the good parts version and you already know my feelings on the boredom of car journeys. So, we'll just slip away from the action for a little bit; past the part where the police escort took the wrong exit off the freeway, past the part where Can You Feel The Love Tonight? came on the stereo and they all started crying so hard again Seth had to pull over for a full five minutes while he got it together again and finally past the frankly clumsy part where Ryan and tried to find a dignified way of manoeuvring Julie and her son out of the car and failed utterly.

Soon, the cord was cut, Julie was resting, Seth had gone with Sophie to look out for his parents et al in the main entrance and Ryan had fortunately found the opportunity to clean himself up a little, and was sitting outside Julie's room waiting for next act to begin.

~~~

Which it does, now:

~~~

The doors at the end of the hall banged back against the wall as Frank rushed through them in search of his family, new and old.

"Ryan?"

"Dad?"

"Ryan," Frank repeated, grabbing his son in the briefest of close hugs he never would have dreamt would have been reciprocated twelve months earlier. "Oh, I am so glad to see you."

"Yeah, me too."

"I thought I couldn't believe it when Julie said she'd gone to Berkeley, but this? This is just crazy."

"Tell me about it. Where are the others? Is Kaitlin with you?"

"She's coming down from the roof, with Bullit, there was only one spot free in the first elevator, they're waiting for the next one. We took a helicopter from the airfield can you believe it? Me, in a helicopter!"

"Up until tonight I'd have said no, but-" Ryan shrugged.

"Weird day, huh?"

"The weirdest."

Frank glanced across the hall at the half-closed door to Julie's room. "Are they?"

"Yeah. Both of them. The nurses are going to take him back to the nursery in a little while, they said they'd wait for you."

"And he's okay?"

"Little on the small side, but otherwise, yeah. He's great."

"Sounds like an Atwood. Small but perfectly formed. You were tiny. I could hold you with one hand, did you know that?"

Ryan shook his head.

"Fitted perfectly."

"Dad?" asked Ryan, a little thrown by seeing the start of tears forming in his father's eyes. "You okay?"

"Oh, I'm fine, I'll be fine. Don't worry." Frank said, giving Ryan a gentle shoulder squeeze of reassurance. He took a deep breath, as if trying to find the way to say it. "It's just… This is just so strange for an old guy like me. Two years, ten years after, I never thought I'd be here."

"Yeah," Ryan said, glancing sideways for a second, "Tell me about it."

"Who I was, what I was, Ryan, I'm not that person anymore-"

"- I know, Dad."

"But sometimes, I get this feeling nesting in my gut and I can't shake it... What if after everything- What if I'm still not ready?"

"You will be," Ryan replied honestly.

"I want so badly to believe that, Ryan, I really do."

"Well, I believe it."

"You do?"

"Yeah. You've changed, Dad," said Ryan, keen for his father to be the man they both knew he could be. "And I know you made mistakes, but I also know you've learned from them."

"I wasn't a good dad before."

"No, you weren't. But you are now and you will be tomorrow and that's all that matters."

"You're really smart, you know that?"

"So people keep telling me."

"I'm going to keep telling you. And all the other things I should have told you."

"You know," Ryan smiled, as the doors down the hall opened again and filled with sounds of eager relatives and he unselfconsciously reached out and hugged his dad properly for the first time in years. "I'm okay with that."

~~~

Okay, so it was short, but it's sweet don't you think? I for one never expected to find these two coming to a real understanding and I'm narrating this three-ringed circus. And you'd think that would be the perfect place to leave things. But we've got one last thing to do first.

Somebody still needs a name.

~~~

And lo, from all over the land (and by land I mean California), there came visitors to see the newborn child, each bringing gifts as befitting such an occasion.

From the child's soon-to-be godparents, there was a fine bottle of champagne for friends and family to share and a fine bottle of Carménère to keep until such time as the child was old enough to legally appreciate it for themselves.

From the honorary uncle and owner of the oil refinery or twenty, there was a corner of Texan sky that one day he could call his own.

From the child's big sister, there was a much loved and much worn bear, stolen from a big sister of her own a long, long time ago and now passed on freely so that the brother she had never lived to see had a part of her to hold and cherish.

And from the father, who had waited so long for his own chance to get it right, there was a promise, more heartfelt, and more humble than any he had ever uttered, that this time, no matter what happened, he would tell his son how much he meant to him, every time he saw him.

"So Ryan," asked Kaitlin, expertly defusing the emotional tension before everyone started crying again, "Was the Circle of Life really on the stereo, or is Seth just making that up?"

"Some stuff even Seth couldn’t have made up."

"That is so cool."

"You're a big sister now. How cool is that?"

"- Stop it," said Kaitlin, swatting at him as she welled up again.

"So Kaitlin, Ryan," said Frank from where he sat next to Julie and their new baby, "I think it's time you found out what your little brother's name is going to be."

"Finally!" exclaimed Kaitlin. "Do you know I've been making her breakfast in bed for a month and she still wouldn't tell me?"

"So," prompted Bullit, "What's the little firecracker's name?"

Julie cleared her throat and looked round at her friends.

"Well, I thought about it a lot. And the more I thought about it, the more I realised that whoever this kid grows up to be, he's not going to get there without the support of his family. And that's all of you. So we talked about it and we came up with something we think sums that up. Everyone," said Julie, beaming down at the tiny baby, "We'd like you to meet Cohen. Cohen Frank Gordon Cooper."

"Cohen? Seriously?" said Seth, his voice brimming with the same pride reflected on the smiles of his parents.

"What do you think?" asked Julie.

"I think Summer's going to have to start calling me Seth."

"I love it. But can I still call him Kid Chino?" asked Kaitlin, gently touching a finger to her brother's soft cheek.

"Only until he's big enough to stop you."

"Works for me."

"Kirsten? Sandy?" asked Frank, seeking not just an answer to his question but a silent affirmation of a new start.

Without hesitation, Sandy slipped a hand round Kirsten's waist and held out his other to Frank, shaking it warmly in his. "We’d be honoured."

"Absolutely," Kirsten consented, laughing. "But as long as you promise never to shorten it to Coco."

"I second that," agreed Ryan. Cohen Frank Gordon Cooper. He could think on it for a thousand years and not be able to be come up with another four words that said so much with so little.

Of the ten people in the room, there wasn't one who didn't deserve to be there, every single one was a piece of a brilliant jigsaw. And now as they laughed and shared in each others happiness, the puzzle was finally completed.

...Since the invention of lingering-looks between once estranged relations and now-unified families coming to an understanding, there have been five looks that were rated the most positive, the most pure.

This one? This one left them all behind.

~~~

Crossover fic: Veronica Mars / The O.C.: Brave New World

2007-12-04T16:57:40Z

Title: Brave New World
Fandom: Veronica Mars / The O.C.
Rating / Genre: PG+13. Again, this is most definitely a crack!gen crossover. Yeep. It's becoming a habit.
Words: 308
Spoilers: The O.C. / Veronica Mars: Complete series. Although since this is the most cracked!fic I've ever written (including Courage and Pluck), no spoilers at all really; it's AU and then some.
Disclaimer: Veronica Mars is property of The CW and The O.C. is the property of Fox.
Schmoopy Dedication: This started life as a drabble for maudgonne who requested Ryan and Weevil for the Self-Imposed Crossover Fic Challenge. I would like to emphasise the bit of the challenge that says, "Without justifying how the crossover would work, how their worlds clashed, or how they could even meet each other." The rest of it went like this:

Give me two characters from different fandoms you know I'm familiar with, and I'll give you a dialogue happening between the two of them. Without justifying how the crossover would work, how their worlds clashed, or how they could even meet each other. Just a silly crossover conversation with no backstory, for fun. Fandoms: Firefly, Buffyverse, Doctor Who, Torchwood, Sarah-Jane Adventures, Veronica Mars, The O.C., Dawson's Creek, Felicity, This Life, The Wire, Studio 60, The West Wing, Heroes (to the penultimate ep of season one), Supernatural, Discworld.

Summary: "O brave new world, that has such people in't!"

~~~

"Eli! Behind you!" Ryan yelled as he swung the chainsaw in a neat arc, taking off the zombie's head and a ragged hunk of one shoulder.

Without breaking a beat, Eli opened the throttle of the flamethrower, torching his adversary and sending him screaming into the final two trying to break through the barricade. "How you doing for gas, man?"

"I'm good, you?"

"For now."

"Day watch'll be here soon," Ryan said, powering down the chainsaw. He kicked the still twitching parts of his attacker from where they'd fallen, watching its legs spindle and twist as it bounced down the stronghold walls. "I'll radio the fuel crew; make sure they're good for their shift. Doesn't look like there's too much reinforcement to do, a few of the wire traps, maybe. Wall's pretty solid."

"Cool." Eli checked the neighbouring towers for signs of a spiralling fight. It seemed as it should; no smoke flares, no screaming. He took two cigarettes from his jacket, lit them with the flamethrower and passed one over to Ryan. He shut down his weapon and they stood shoulder to shoulder, the adrenaline finally fading from their veins. The world was falling quiet again.

"Thanks," Ryan looked out to the hills where the new citadel stood protected from the badlands, where Taylor and Veronica and a normal life would be waiting for them when their tour finished.

"You know what?" Eli said, switching taking a long drag of his cigarette, watching the smoke float away into the slowly pinking sky of dawn, "I'm sorry the world's gone to shit and all, but sometimes, this life?"

"- It ain't so bad?" Ryan asked, the faintest trace of a smile creasing his features.

"Yeah," The two soldiers looked out at the horizon, the sun emerging to bring a new, hopeful day. "Not so bad."

Crossover Fic: Firefly / Torchwood: Of All The Cargo Bays In All The 'Verse

2007-12-04T12:42:27Z

Title: Of All The Cargo Bays In All The 'Verse
Fandom: Firefly / Torchwood
Rating / Genre: PG+13. Again, this is most definitely a crack!gen crossover. Yeep. It's becoming a habit.
Words: 788
Spoilers: Torchwood / Doctor Who: 3.13 Last of the Time Lords (with confirmed season four companion) / Firefly: Serenity (I think).
Disclaimer: Doctor Who is property of BBC and Firefly is the property of Fox.
Schmoopy Dedication: This started life as a drabble for ignipes who requested Captain Jack Harkness meets Captain Malcolm Reynolds for the Self-Imposed Crossover Fic Challenge. It went like this:

Give me two characters from different fandoms you know I'm familiar with, and I'll give you a dialogue happening between the two of them. Without justifying how the crossover would work, how their worlds clashed, or how they could even meet each other. Just a silly crossover conversation with no backstory, for fun. Fandoms: Firefly, Buffyverse, Doctor Who, Torchwood, Sarah-Jane Adventures, Veronica Mars, The O.C., Dawson's Creek, Felicity, This Life, The Wire, Studio 60, The West Wing, Heroes (to the penultimate ep of season one), Supernatural, Discworld.

Summary: "There's worse things out here than a lucky man."

~~~

Captain Jack Harkness stood in the main cargo bay, waiting. It'd been hours since his small shuttle had been scooped out of the stars and in all that time, he'd not been left alone once, something he'd yet to determine a good or bad sign. Currently, the man guarding him was the very definition of "the muscle", an effect only slightly dampened by the fact that he was sporting what Jack could only describe as the world's worst tea-cosy on his head. He'd introduced himself as Jayne and his gun as Vera. Jack liked him already.

Finally, after many more minutes under the steely glare of Jayne's vigil, another man entered the bay, nodded at Jayne and jogged slowly down to where Jack was waiting.

"So, mystery man. You got a name?"

"Captain Jack Harkness. Nice ship you got here. These Fireflies may not the biggest ships in the skies, but those engines? Beautiful, just keep on running."

Jack's offered hand went unshaken and he slipped it back in his pocket. The other man regarded him critically, as if he'd been expecting someone else.

"Name's Captain Reynolds," he said eventually, "Mal to those who know me well enough, which you don't."

"Well then, Captain Reynolds, I'm much obliged to you." Jack sat down on one of the cargo crates, still just glad to be breathing in the free air again. Even free air that smelled slightly of cow.

"I ain't ever seen that uniform on an Alliance man before."

"And you won't ever either. It's what you might call vintage."

"Me? I'd just call it a coat. Kinda swanky, but just a coat."

"I'm guessing you prefer something in brown." Captain Reynolds eyebrows remained resolutely stationary. Jack was impressed. "Can't say as I blame you."

"You know what else I've never seen, Captain Jack Harness?"

"I can guess."

"A man floating round the black in an escape pod with no fuel, no light and what else? Oh, that's right- no air left in his cylinders."

"Yeah. I can see how that might make a man suspicious."

"A-feared, some might say."

"But not you, I'm guessing."

"There's worse things out here than a lucky man."

"You know about the Reavers?"

"I do. And I pity them." This time the other eyebrows moved just a fraction, the tiniest hint of approval. "What was done to those people, the whole Miranda project-"

"-Wasn't the only one. We know there were others. Other places. Me and my crew, we're going to find them too, shut 'em up and shut 'em down."

"And why are you telling me this?" Jack asked, genuinely intrigued by Mal's attitude. He'd had many of these confused conversations over his many millennia of years but none so candid. "I could be anyone."

"But you ain't. There's something of the other with you, Captain. Serenity might not be the fastest ship in the verse or even the fanciest, but there's a river of kindness running through her. And she's been expecting you."

"I gotta say Captain, I'm kinda confused," frowned Jack. "If you knew me better, you'd know that doesn't happen too often."

Mal just smiled and sat down next to Jack.

"River's one of my crew, a girl who also has something of the other running through her veins. She sees things, what you might call future-related. She found Miranda, now she's found you. Says you're a good man too, brave and loyal, with more than one party trick up his sleeve. That's good enough for me."

"Must be one hell of a girl."

"River? She's a firecracker. Other things too, but mostly a powder keg."

"Then I'm flattered."

"You should be. Not a lot of people piss off River. Least not twice, anyways."

"Noted."

"I know who you are, Captain Jack Harkness, and some about where you come from. You walked the earth as was, more than once I hear. And now I'm asking you to walk with us."

Jack tried not to let his surprise show and failed. If he hadn't been intrigued before, he sure as hell was now. "I'm guessing you don't like to take no for answer."

"You're sharp, Jack. I like that in a man." Mal got to his feet and offered his hand. "The pay's terrible and the food's worse, but the people are true and the ride sure is worth it."

"That Serenity or the people?" Jack asked flirtatiously.

"Both," said Mal without blinking. "But you treat 'em right, or I don’t care how good your party tricks are, I'm going to enjoy finding what else you can go without 'sides the air."

Jack stood and shook Mal's hand gratefully, smiling his best smile. "Captain Reynolds, you had me at hello."

Icon Spam: Doctor Who redux

2007-12-03T12:48:43Z

I've collated all of my 50+ Whoniverse icons in one place, chronologically ordered from Nine through to Time Crash, with a plentiful portion of Martha, a side of Torchwood and other tasty morsels.

Here's a teaser:

1. 2. 3.

Ninth Era
01. 02. 03. 04.

05. 06. 07. 08. 09.

Tenth Era: Series 2 (inc. Christmas Invasion to Runaway Bride)
10. 11. 12. 13.

14. 15. 16. 17. 18.

19. 20. 21. 22. 23.

24. 25. 26. 27.

Tenth Era: Series 3 (inc. Time Crash)
28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33.

34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39.

40. 41. 42. 43. 44.

45. 46. 47. 48. 49.

50. 51. 52. 53. 54. 55.

56. 57. 58.

Tardis
59. 60.

Torchwood: Series One
61. 62. 63. 64. 65. 66.

Fandom / Other
67. 68. 69.