Free-For-All-Friday
Sep. 17th, 2010 01:05 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
chibifukurou posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
comment_ficHey, guys! It's Friday, so of course it's time for the weekly Free-For-All! Feel free to post prompts to your heart's content, no limitations. Please just follow the rules, as always:
No more than 5 prompts in a row, or more than 3 prompts per fandom. If someone answers one of your prompts you can prompt again.
No spoilers in your prompts for at least 1 week after the original air or publication date. If there's spoilers in your response, please warn in bold and leave at least 3 spaces.
For the love of our diligent army of code monkeys and sorters, please format your prompts correctly. For example:
Zombieland, Tallahassee/ Columbus, Tallahassee has to choose between Columbus and the last Twinky
NCIS, Gibbs/Tim, two men and their dog
SG1/SGA, Rodney McKay/Jack O'neill, celebrating Rondey's first shore leave from Atlantis
Nothing strikes your fancy? Check out our lonely prompts!
No more than 5 prompts in a row, or more than 3 prompts per fandom. If someone answers one of your prompts you can prompt again.
No spoilers in your prompts for at least 1 week after the original air or publication date. If there's spoilers in your response, please warn in bold and leave at least 3 spaces.
For the love of our diligent army of code monkeys and sorters, please format your prompts correctly. For example:
Zombieland, Tallahassee/ Columbus, Tallahassee has to choose between Columbus and the last Twinky
NCIS, Gibbs/Tim, two men and their dog
SG1/SGA, Rodney McKay/Jack O'neill, celebrating Rondey's first shore leave from Atlantis
Nothing strikes your fancy? Check out our lonely prompts!
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no subject
Date: 2010-09-17 05:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-17 05:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-17 05:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-17 05:13 pm (UTC)watercooler - PG, gen
Date: 2010-09-22 02:46 am (UTC)Jackson Gibbs and Abby spent an entire hour talking about it, when they thought Tony's hero-worship and Gibbs' obession of protection slipped over into necking, and McGee took a good twenty minutes out of his day to explain to Ziva what she overheard in the ladies' room meant.
Fornell's had an ongoing discussion with Ducky for the past eight years, and every other team lead in the agency's told their various newbies in no-uncertain terms to never say anything in the building, because Gibbs has goddamned sonar for things involving him or DiNozzo.
So, yeah. Everyone knows beyond all doubt that they've been lovers since a couple months after Gibbs poached DiNozzo from Baltimore.
Everyone's wrong. They're more than friends, yeah, but that's the wrong kind of love. It's not exactly father/son or brothers, but somewhere between the two.
Gibbs would still kill for Tony and Tony would still die for Gibbs, and Tony thinks all the wondering over the years is hilarious. Secretly, Gibbs does, too.
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From:no subject
Date: 2010-09-17 05:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-17 05:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-17 05:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-17 05:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-17 06:02 pm (UTC)Fuck but he was glad to be home. He'd officially had A Bad Day - one of those days where nothing went right, nothing got done and it felt like he'd spent the whole day just... waiting around. He was exhausted and grumpy.
He ran a hand through his hair and scratched the back of his neck. Something didn't feel right. His apartment was too... quiet. Which was when he remembered it was Tuesday. And Steve had flown out that morning. He wasn't here.
Swearing, he fished his phone from his pocket and dialled Steve's number - if there was one thing that could make a shitty day better it was hearing Steve's voice, his laughter.
But Steve's phone went straight to voicemail. Christian growled and flung the phone across the room. It shattered against the wall and Christian kicked at the floor, swearing louder.
Today was not his day.
He hauled himself up from the couch, grabbing his ipod and earphones from the table. He stripped as he made his way to the bedroom, leaving a messy trail of clothes in his wake. Falling face down on the bed, he scrolled through the music on his ipod until he found what he was looking for. Grabbing Steve's pillow, he pulled it against his chest and wrapped his arms around it.
Closing his eyes, Christian let the scent and the music of his lover lull him into relaxation.
(no subject)
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Date: 2010-09-17 05:21 pm (UTC)(see icon as inspiration -grins-)
no subject
Date: 2010-09-17 05:21 pm (UTC)he's awake every night,
bags under his eyes and lines on his face,
hoping when you look at his face,
you'll want to try to fix him
no subject
Date: 2010-09-17 05:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-22 03:47 am (UTC)-
Eliot was cold as he slid back into bed in the early hours of the morning, and Nate was just about conscious enough to roll over and wrap him up in his arms, feeling Sophie's hand slide up his arm as she did the same on Eliot's other side.
He breathed in deeply. Eliot had been on the allotment again, smelling of dirt and things growing. Easy and slow, he fell back asleep. (http://lmx-v3point3.livejournal.com/35837.html)
no subject
Date: 2010-09-17 05:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-17 05:22 pm (UTC)Another Piece of the Puzzle, Sherlock, Mycroft and John Watson gen
Date: 2010-10-15 09:59 pm (UTC)Spoiler warnings: None for the show, some for the Sherlock Holmes stories.
Content: Character death
~~~~
John tries to say no. He doesn't want the money, he doesn't really need the money and he most certainly doesn't need Mycroft's pity. Just because he can't get a job at the moment, and he can't actually keep 221B Baker Street, because central London rents are what they are and Sherlock's case fees were the only thing enabling them to pay for it and he doesn't have that anymore, none of that means he needs money.
He hates the way people look at him, like he's some non-functional, half-mad cripple, which he's not, in any way, and Sherlock was the one person who understood that. No, he really doesn't need to see another psychiatrist, because that wouldn't bring Sherlock back and that is the major problem in his life. No, as the third of the bloody people he had to see on Mycroft's suggestions, which for suggestion read order with threats, he doesn't have some sort of survivor's guilt. Sherlock knew what he was doing. He's had some funny looks over that statement, and that's when he loses it. Which doesn't help with his claim that John Watson is okay.
Mycroft couches his offers of charity nicely. He has a friend who owns a surgery, who is going on an extended holiday and needs a new partner. Or he has a friend who is taking a career break after her maternity leave and needs someone to take over her surgery. If the pattern amongst Mycroft's friends is repeated throughout the NHS, it's a miracle that there are any staffed surgeries whatsoever.
It doesn't matter how nicely Mycroft asks, it's the principle of the thing that's stopping him. If he moves out, people will touch Sherlock's things. That was the worst thing about coming home day after day, finding the remnants of fingerprint powder everywhere in the flat. Someone had been in there, touching Sherlock's stuff, disturbing the precise lack of order, Anderson's horrid bony fingers running over Sherlock's stuff, infecting it with stupidity (oh God, he has to stop hearing what he thinks would be Sherlock's opinion on the matter). If the circumstances had been different, he would have left Sherlock a note. No more killers in the sitting room, it only means police visits and having to explain where you got the fresh eyes from this time.
He had no reason to leave notes like that anymore.
A better man would be kinder to Mycroft, but Mycroft takes to kindness even less well that John does. Mycroft hates euphemisms; it's something he shares ... shared with his brother. They were so similar, even if neither of them would have admitted it.
"I don't need any money."
"I know. Of course you don't *need* it." There was a pause. "No one needs to know that you've taken it."
"I don't want to take your money."
"It's mine to give." Mycroft was halfway through the door. "Sherlock had three friends in all of his life. That makes you important to me, whether you like it or not."
Of course, the other thing they shared was the ability to understand how people's minds worked. John couldn't let a carrot of information like that go without chasing after it. "Who were the other two?"
"William Trevor and ... I'll tell you the other name if you take the partnership with Stevenson."
John needed to know, wanted to know more about Sherlock's past, to see if it explained anything about him. Something had to explain him. "I'll take it."
"I thought you might." John knew that now that Mycroft had found out that throwing breadcrumbs of information would get John to agree to his plans, he would keep doing that. And yet John didn't care, this was as close as he could get to getting Sherlock back. He needed to know whether this William Trevor had the same urge to throttle Sherlock when he was so superior and yet couldn't remember to buy the bread, and then he'd do something amazing, so incredible that you'd forgive him for the unspeakably annoying thing he was about to do three seconds later. John would do anything to find out more, this wasn't accepting charity, this was investigation.
Re: Another Piece of the Puzzle, Sherlock, Mycroft and John Watson gen
From:Re: Another Piece of the Puzzle, Sherlock, Mycroft and John Watson gen
From:no subject
Date: 2010-09-17 05:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-17 05:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-17 05:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-17 05:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-17 05:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-26 06:27 pm (UTC)The smile only got wider. "Oh yeah?"
"Yeah." Eliot let his glare up its intensity right back. "Whatever you're up to, I don't want anything to do with it. This is too fucking weird."
No, that smile was clearly planning on staying a while. Bastard knew what he was working with. He was overestimating it pretty high, too, but that was Dean Winchester for you. "Eliot, there was a chick in a catsuit doing a handstand on your coffee table when I came in, and your coffeemaker asked me if I knew the password. Which, by the way, your girlfriend says to tell you the new password is 'death is my gift'."
Eliot wasn't going to make the crucial mistake of letting his irritation get spread too thin. He needed all his irritation right here with him, dealing with this. He did make a mental note of the fact that Hardison had much too little to do these days, and that Nate should probably be appraised of that, but then he left it behind. If he hadn't left it behind, though, he might have wondered which was a worse offense: the clearly-implied threat in Hardison putting locks on his caffeine intake, in his own kitchen (the man never seemed to consider the fact that Eliot was a retrieval specialist, information retrieval included, no bonus payment for happiness and comfort to the target), or that he clearly knew Eliot would get the reference.
"She isn't my girlfriend," he said, and god damned it if that smile didn't go just a little wider, "and your shit is a whole different world of weird, Winchester. I'm putting down the line right here."
"C'mon now," Dean said, and as Eliot watched him suspiciously, he started advancing on him, grin firmly in place. "It'll do you good to get out of the city."
"I like cities," Eliot said, which was only halfway true. But the alternative was taking a step back, and it'd take a lot more than one lunatic to make him do that.
"Well, nature can be fun too," Dean said, still advancing very slowly. "We'll even stop on the way back so you can buy some of those leaves you like or something, how about that."
Eliot snorted. "You wouldn't know nature if it bit you in the ass." And he had a perfectly good farmer's market right nearby, thank you very much.
"Fair enough," Dean said. "You can show me around." He was very close now, not that this fact was impressing Eliot too much. "And hey, this is tradition, right? Tradition's important."
"I helped you twice," Eliot said. "That's not tradition." Just idiocy. Then he couldn't help but add, "Not to mention it was, what, three years ago? I met one of your wacko friends a while back, by the way. Said you were dead."
That part had made for an interesting heart attack when he'd opened his front door and found the guy in his living room, that was for sure. It really helped with the speedy recovery that the next two clear details were that Dean's feet were kicked up on his table, and that he was happily eating the quinoa salad Eliot had made just that morning, right out of the container.
Dean leaned back a little, gesturing showily at himself and out, still looking far too fucking amused. "I look dead to you?"
Actually, with his arm out like that and his other shoulder a little back, Eliot could see about forty three different ways to get him that way in a hurry without taking more than two steps, half of them not even involving one of Dean's knives ending up somewhere unpleasant. Well, no, that was a lie; most of that half did involve Dean's knives ending up somewhere unpleasant, it was just somewhere unpleasant on Dean.
(no subject)
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From:no subject
Date: 2010-09-17 05:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-17 05:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-17 05:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-17 06:13 pm (UTC)"Sir?"
"You heard me Major. We're going on a road trip. Sheppard's going to start shooting up the Gate room and I can see the look of 'I'll help him' resting in your eyes. So, I'm rescuing you from Military imprisonment or chair duty up in Antarctica. You won't like it. It's very cold there and even if Sheppard thinks it's awesome, no one likes Antarctica," he said.
Even wonders if being on SG-1 makes you insane, because Mitchell clearly is. Although, Colonel Carter didn't seem completely insane. Maybe she hid it better. He opened his mouth to speak, wanting to make some comment about the snow then realized that yeah, of course Mitchell hated Antarctica. He sighed and nodded. "Yes, Sir. I'll get my things."
"Pack for a week. I already cleared it with the General," Cam told him and strode off.
Yup. They were all insane and he was going to take a road trip with one. Shit.
***
"Where's Colonel Sheppard?" Evan asked, surprised.
"McKay stole him. They're going to Canada or something," Cam told him.
"Oh. Well... Uh. Maybe we shouldn't do this... You don't have to babysit me, Sir. I promise I'm a big boy, wear big boy BDUs and everything," he joked, hoping that he wasn't crossing a line or something.
Cam chuckled. "It'll be fun. Don't worry, Major. I'm not going to hurt you..." he said with a roll of his eyes.
Evan looked at him and flushed. Damn IOA making them all take leave, taking them from the city, sending in other people to fill in. It's almost as bad as the Ancients kicking them out. Only difference is that they get to come back. He doesn't give a damn if they're all showing PSTD. Of course they are. Do these people even read the mission reports?
"Quit raging. I'm not that bad. C'mon... It'll be ok. We've flown together before and we're pilots. Just put aside the rank thing and let's just be two guys on a road trip," Cam told him, almost pleading.
Evan exhales. "Stop reading my mind, Sir."
Cam grinned at him. "Stop being so transparent. And can the Sir. At least for the week."
"Is that an order?"
"Yes!" Cam told him as Evan grinned, chuckling as he put his duffel into Cam's Mustang and got settled into the front seat. Maybe he needed this more than he first thought.
(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2010-09-17 05:26 pm (UTC)Filled: The Love Of A Child 1/1
Date: 2010-09-18 12:27 pm (UTC)"Trade the baby for something in Hell. I'm not sure what, I didn't hear the entire conversation." Anael said, wrapping the infant in soft white robes.
Gabriel frowns, this doesn't sound like something Michael would do, but ever since casting Lucifer out, his oldest brother had changed, became darker somehow.
"You must take him, Gabriel. We cannot allow Hell to have an Angel. You understand?" Anael asks, pressing the tiny bundle into his arms.
Gabriel wants to protest, wants to tell Anael that he can't possibly take of a baby and can't someone else do it? Then Castiel looks up at him with those impossibly blue eyes and smiles softly, one hand reaching up for Gabriel. He touches Gabriel's cheek gently, and Gabriel feels Castiel's Grace, small as it is, brush against his own. There's no way he can say no now.
"Run, Gabriel, and don't come back." Anael tells him and Gabriel nods, making his way out of Heaven with Castiel in his arms.
"I'm not gonna let anything happen to you, Cas. Not a thing. I promise." Gabriel presses a kiss to the baby's forehead and feels their Graces touch once more.
Re: Filled: The Love Of A Child 1/1
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From:no subject
Date: 2010-09-17 05:26 pm (UTC)Doctor Who/Torchwood; Eleven/Owen; Owen really doesn't know why he still keeps expecting things to m
Date: 2010-09-17 08:14 pm (UTC)This is nuts, and he knows it's nuts. The worse part is that every time he starts to wonder what the hell is going on (or when, exactly, the Doctor is planning on taking him home), something else happens that makes even less sense and demands even more attention.
He'd met the Doctor as he was leaving the hospital one evening. This bloke – skinny, dressed like a professor, weird hair – had grabbed him and said that someone needed help, and Owen's medical instincts had kicked in and he hadn't looked back.
In retrospect, the fact that the Doctor had led him into a blue phone box should have been a dead giveaway. But hey, he was worrying about what might have happened and what he might need to do, he was too preoccupied to notice that the box was much, much bigger on the inside.
Inside the box, they found a really hot redhead crouched next to the patient, who seemed to have been slashed or gored by something. He wasn't sure exactly what, but the wound seemed to be foaming, so he made a mental note to ask.
He did get the patient (who turned out to be called Rory) patched up, and the redhead (who said her name was Amy) thanked him, and said “the Doctor will drop you off back home”, which turned out to be... well, not technically a lie, because he had said he was going to, but it just hadn't happened yet, and by Owen's count it had been weeks.
(It was OK, Amy said, because the box was a time machine, so the Doctor could drop him off right when he left. Before, even.)
Then there was the fact that the Doctor kept looking at him oddly. Once he heard him tell Amy “he's someone Jack knows,” which was puzzling because Owen didn't know anyone named Jack. When he tried to ask the Doctor what he had meant, he'd just dodged the question and muttered something about TARDIS maintenance.
And then there was this woman, River, who would swan into and out of the Doctor's life pretty much whenever she felt like it, bringing danger and mayhem and excitement with her. It had been exciting at first, but Owen was getting tired of mayhem and danger. Give him a nice dull night shift at the hospital any day...
Nothing here seems to make sense. The box ('The TARDIS', Amy reminded him, after the Doctor glared at him for saying 'box'), Amy, River, the Doctor, the fact that none of them can seem to stay out of trouble for more than thirty seconds... none of it makes sense, and he's not sure any more why he keeps expecting it to.
Re: Doctor Who/Torchwood; Eleven/Owen; Owen really doesn't know why he still keeps expecting things
From:no subject
Date: 2010-09-17 05:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-17 05:27 pm (UTC)“When you cried I'd wipe away all of your tears
When you'd scream I'd fight away all of your fears
I held your hand through all of these years”
(Evanescence, My Immortal)