It’s not that he’s never taken a life before; he has, and plenty of them. It’s just that…
Well, before, killing wasn’t for the money. It wasn’t for anything but the flag of the United States of America. He was an extension of the nation; he was the hand holding the gun that was fired by the country.
But now?
If he pulls that trigger now, he’ll be killing for himself. For money (even if it is an awful lot of money). It would be murder.
And Mama and Daddy had taught him that murder is wronger than wrong, and damnable to boot.
Now Eliot don’t do everything that Mama and Daddy tell him to do – he is twenty-three after all – but when it comes to life-or-death things like this, it’s good sense to just shut up and listen.
Mama said, all those years ago, “Don’t play with that gun, Eliot.”
So he puts that gun down and runs.
He runs all the way home to Kentucky and the horse farm and right into Aimee’s arms.
She’d waited for him, see. Kept her promise, so he buys her a real ring. They’re married by Christmas and their first baby’s here by Thanksgiving.
He’ll always say that it was the best damn choice he ever made to put that gun down.
Until.
The barn burns down, set on fire by that bastard Alan Foss, and Willie finds some people who say that they can help.
Eliot don’t need help…
…but for the horses? He’ll take help, for the horses that died in that fire, screaming. He’ll take help for Baltimore.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Ford drinks too much. Watches him too much, too. It’s uncanny, the way those piercing blue eyes follow him around.
The kid would talk an ear off of an apple if it had one.
That Kitty lady, or Sophie, or whatever the hell her name is – she’s downright scary, smilin’ that much all the time.
And the blonde? Somethin’ wrong with her, too.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
After the job, Ford walks up to him, asks him, “Army? Ranger?”
“None of your damn business,” he snarls back at the drunk. Eliot doesn’t like to think about those days when he’d almost pulled that trigger, almost become a different man.
“Ah,” Ford nods, as if he’d actually given a real answer, “Special Ops then?”
Eliot grunts. Not yes, not no.
“You didn’t startle when Parker turned up behind you. Not many people can do that.”
Eliot sighs, turns to the man. “That’s all a part of my past. I paid my dues to my country and now I wanna live in peace with my family without people nosin’ around my business.”
Ford takes the hint. Leaves. Leaves with his fancy team and fancy gadgets and gets the hell out of his life.
And Eliot…thinks. Admits that he’s never let his guard down, not even when he’s got babies crawling all over him and pulling at his hair, not when he’s at the grill barbecuing up enough grub to feed thirty people, not in bed with his wife. He doesn’t let his guard down, and he’ll never be able to. The past is always there, in the shadows, in the periphery of his vision.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The past catches up.
The farm burns. The horses scream. And Aimee, the children…All gone.
Gone.
He calls Ford. Asks for help. This time for himself.
“Mr. Ford? This is Eliot Spencer. I need your help.”
The Walking Dead, any, coffee-shop AU: shambling hordes of city workers, desperate for caffeine; Rick, who's trying to keep this coffee shop alive and independent, despite the interest of ruthless larger businesses...take this prompt anywhere you'd like.
Hope this is ok. I haven't written Walking Ded for a while ...
It's one am. About the time any civilised person should be sleeping. Or at least, cuddled up in their lovers arms. Isn't that the way those songs put it? Fast asleep, or satisfied, at home, in bed, with everything wonderful.
Instead, he's here. At this stupid little cafe, at the corner of whatever and whatjimacallit, trying to pull a sensible order out of some stoned, drunk redneck and his little brother. And trying, desperately, not to throw them both out.
Not that he minds. Hell, this is quiet. He could be next door, with the bored, kinda hot blonde lady, who's name he's never asked, trying to tell people they really can't have that last drink. Or down the street, with the old guy, trying to stop kids vandalizing his van.
Hell, he could be Shane, tending bar down the street to pay rent. Shane, coming home with bruises and cuts, and one time bite, from rowdy customers.
But he's Rick. With a girlfriend at home, and a baby on the way, praying to God he'll have the money to support them all.
He's Rick, with a shitty job and no prospects and the drunk or tired or both ordering coffee off him at stupid'0'clock to make them feel alive.
He's the walking dead, dealing with the walking dead, and the money ain't even all that great. But if the drunk, stoned redneck and his little brother would just go home, and if Lori is still there when he gets home, he can deal with it.
Harry Potter, author’s choice, the world where Sirius Black escaped sooner, wasn’t quite so mad, hid in plain sight (magically, of course), and became Harry’s favorite professor
Almost as soon as Harry pushed open the door, his roommate spoke.
"What do you think?"
"Er," said Harry, "it's bigger than I'm used to."
"Really?" said his roommate, voice disbelieving. "Did you live in a cupboard? This place has to be less than a quarter of the size of my old room - and now I have to share it with someone, too."
Even though he'd spent much of his childhood meeting people who weren't aware of their own luxuries, Harry was gritting his teeth. He'd be stuck with this guy (Malfoy, D., the room list had said) for the next few years, and he was looking forward to it less with every second that passed.
"The view's alright, though," Harry said, grasping.
Malfoy looked up from his book, looked Harry up and down, and raised an eyebrow.
"You can say that again. I'm Draco Malfoy," he said. "And you must be the famous Harry Potter. The Evans Scholarship, right? I'm so glad our college holds dear to the nepotistic traditions of old."
Haven, Evi, she and Duke didn't split up (or just haven't yet) and he brought her back to Haven with him. (Would love to see a focus on Nathan trying to deal with her.)
no subject
Date: 2013-05-20 10:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-05-20 10:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-05-20 10:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-05-20 10:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-05-20 10:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-05-20 10:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-05-20 10:29 pm (UTC)Leverage fill: Past
Date: 2013-05-23 04:33 am (UTC)Well, before, killing wasn’t for the money. It wasn’t for anything but the flag of the United States of America. He was an extension of the nation; he was the hand holding the gun that was fired by the country.
But now?
If he pulls that trigger now, he’ll be killing for himself. For money (even if it is an awful lot of money). It would be murder.
And Mama and Daddy had taught him that murder is wronger than wrong, and damnable to boot.
Now Eliot don’t do everything that Mama and Daddy tell him to do – he is twenty-three after all – but when it comes to life-or-death things like this, it’s good sense to just shut up and listen.
Mama said, all those years ago, “Don’t play with that gun, Eliot.”
So he puts that gun down and runs.
He runs all the way home to Kentucky and the horse farm and right into Aimee’s arms.
She’d waited for him, see. Kept her promise, so he buys her a real ring. They’re married by Christmas and their first baby’s here by Thanksgiving.
He’ll always say that it was the best damn choice he ever made to put that gun down.
Until.
The barn burns down, set on fire by that bastard Alan Foss, and Willie finds some people who say that they can help.
Eliot don’t need help…
…but for the horses? He’ll take help, for the horses that died in that fire, screaming. He’ll take help for Baltimore.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Ford drinks too much. Watches him too much, too. It’s uncanny, the way those piercing blue eyes follow him around.
The kid would talk an ear off of an apple if it had one.
That Kitty lady, or Sophie, or whatever the hell her name is – she’s downright scary, smilin’ that much all the time.
And the blonde? Somethin’ wrong with her, too.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
After the job, Ford walks up to him, asks him, “Army? Ranger?”
“None of your damn business,” he snarls back at the drunk. Eliot doesn’t like to think about those days when he’d almost pulled that trigger, almost become a different man.
“Ah,” Ford nods, as if he’d actually given a real answer, “Special Ops then?”
Eliot grunts. Not yes, not no.
“You didn’t startle when Parker turned up behind you. Not many people can do that.”
Eliot sighs, turns to the man. “That’s all a part of my past. I paid my dues to my country and now I wanna live in peace with my family without people nosin’ around my business.”
Ford takes the hint. Leaves. Leaves with his fancy team and fancy gadgets and gets the hell out of his life.
And Eliot…thinks. Admits that he’s never let his guard down, not even when he’s got babies crawling all over him and pulling at his hair, not when he’s at the grill barbecuing up enough grub to feed thirty people, not in bed with his wife. He doesn’t let his guard down, and he’ll never be able to. The past is always there, in the shadows, in the periphery of his vision.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The past catches up.
The farm burns. The horses scream. And Aimee, the children…All gone.
Gone.
He calls Ford. Asks for help. This time for himself.
“Mr. Ford? This is Eliot Spencer. I need your help.”
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Re: Leverage fill: Past
From:Re: Leverage fill: Past
From:no subject
Date: 2013-05-20 10:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-05-20 10:50 pm (UTC)It's one am. About the time any civilised person should be sleeping. Or at least, cuddled up in their lovers arms. Isn't that the way those songs put it? Fast asleep, or satisfied, at home, in bed, with everything wonderful.
Instead, he's here. At this stupid little cafe, at the corner of whatever and whatjimacallit, trying to pull a sensible order out of some stoned, drunk redneck and his little brother. And trying, desperately, not to throw them both out.
Not that he minds. Hell, this is quiet. He could be next door, with the bored, kinda hot blonde lady, who's name he's never asked, trying to tell people they really can't have that last drink. Or down the street, with the old guy, trying to stop kids vandalizing his van.
Hell, he could be Shane, tending bar down the street to pay rent. Shane, coming home with bruises and cuts, and one time bite, from rowdy customers.
But he's Rick. With a girlfriend at home, and a baby on the way, praying to God he'll have the money to support them all.
He's Rick, with a shitty job and no prospects and the drunk or tired or both ordering coffee off him at stupid'0'clock to make them feel alive.
He's the walking dead, dealing with the walking dead, and the money ain't even all that great. But if the drunk, stoned redneck and his little brother would just go home, and if Lori is still there when he gets home, he can deal with it.
Hope, again, that it's ok ...
(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2013-05-20 10:37 pm (UTC)Star Trek reboot/Teen Wolf (TV), author’s choice, Stiles grew up on Tarsus IV
no subject
Date: 2013-05-20 10:38 pm (UTC)Star Trek reboot, author’s choice, Jim Kirk died on Tarsus IV.
no subject
Date: 2013-05-20 10:39 pm (UTC)Star Trek Into Darkness, John Harrison + Jim Kirk, they meet on Tarsus IV when the governor loses his mind and his greatest weapon
no subject
Date: 2013-05-20 10:39 pm (UTC)Harry Potter, author’s choice, the world where Sirius Black escaped sooner, wasn’t quite so mad, hid in plain sight (magically, of course), and became Harry’s favorite professor
no subject
Date: 2013-05-20 11:01 pm (UTC)I need this fic in my life!
Fill, Sirius cheers Harry up
From:Re: Fill, Sirius cheers Harry up
From:Re: Fill, Sirius cheers Harry up
From:no subject
Date: 2013-05-20 10:39 pm (UTC)Justice League Cartoon, Batman/Flash or gen, Rise of the Guardians AU where Flash is Jack Frost and everyone else is author’s choice
no subject
Date: 2013-05-20 10:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-05-20 11:04 pm (UTC)mini-fill
Date: 2013-05-21 12:02 am (UTC)"What do you think?"
"Er," said Harry, "it's bigger than I'm used to."
"Really?" said his roommate, voice disbelieving. "Did you live in a cupboard? This place has to be less than a quarter of the size of my old room - and now I have to share it with someone, too."
Even though he'd spent much of his childhood meeting people who weren't aware of their own luxuries, Harry was gritting his teeth. He'd be stuck with this guy (Malfoy, D., the room list had said) for the next few years, and he was looking forward to it less with every second that passed.
"The view's alright, though," Harry said, grasping.
Malfoy looked up from his book, looked Harry up and down, and raised an eyebrow.
"You can say that again. I'm Draco Malfoy," he said. "And you must be the famous Harry Potter. The Evans Scholarship, right? I'm so glad our college holds dear to the nepotistic traditions of old."
"Isn't your father Chairman of the Governors?"
"Point."
Re: mini-fill
From:no subject
Date: 2013-05-20 11:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-05-20 11:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-05-20 11:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-05-20 11:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-05-20 11:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-05-20 11:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-05-20 11:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-05-20 11:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-05-20 11:28 pm (UTC)Spoilers for Deathly Hallows end!
Date: 2013-05-20 11:30 pm (UTC)