Dialogue

Context: SGA

“Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn,” Rodney said, keeping his voice as calm and patronizing as he could manage.

“Darling,” Elizabeth said through gritted teeth, “you’d best start giving a damn soon, or our guests may think us inhospitable.”

No one had expected some crazed conspiracy theorist nuts to explode into Rodney’s living room while Atlantis’s senior command was having a planning session - and very nice dinner party at Major Lorne’s hand - but now there was pretending to be done.

“Where is he?” the lead gunman asked. He had pale skin and pale eyes and looked like he didn’t see nearly enough sun.

“The person you’re looking for, Dr. Daniel Jackson, has never been to this house, and I doubt he ever will be here in the future,” Elizabeth said, and Rodney snorted derisively.

For a man who was terrified of rats offworld, his ability to be snarky when guns were in play was astounding.

“Then give us Dr. Meredith McKay. Where is she?” the second gunman asked. By contrast, his face was tanned and weatherbeaten from many long hours in the sun.

John looked at Rodney. Rodney shook his head minutely.

The second gunman turned his weapon on Teyla. “You. You’re Meredith McKay?”

“I am not as brilliant as Dr. McKay,” Teyla said, serenely.

“But you know who she is? Where she is?”

“I do not know where she is,” Teyla said, which was not exactly a lie.

“Do you know how to reach her?”

“I do not have her telephone number,” Teyla said, which was the truth.

“Wow,” one of the other gunmen said, forking up a mouthful of the garlic mashed potatoes. “These are really good.”

“Please,” Elizabeth said. “We’re just having a dinner party. We aren’t the people who can get you what you want.”

Lorne said, “They’re real mashed potatoes, not out of a box.”

The gunman actually set is gun down and sat down at the table - in Lorne’s seat - and started serving himself dinner.

Elizabeth raised her eyebrows at Rodney. What now?

Ronon punched the first gunman in the head, and chaos exploded. Teyla, Ronon, John, Lorne, and Elizabeth managed to overpower the gunmen, disarm them. Ronon, Teyla, and Lorne got them all backed into a corner, hands raised in surrender, while John put in a call to the SGC. They needed backup immediately.

“Next time,” Elizabeth said to Rodney, “please do try to give a damn when armed gunmen crash into your house.”

“Their demands were stupid, and I didn’t give a damn about those,” Rodney said, and he handed Elizabeth her plate of food and a fork. “But I did give a damn about, you know, maintaining our cover.”

Which was that they were having a nice dinner party and nothing more.

“Gone with the Wind? Really?” John asked once his phone call was done.

“I was improvising,” Rodney protested. “Improv is harder than people think it is.”

“Totally,” one of the gunmen said. He sounded young.

Rodney rolled his eyes. “Shut up.”

Everyday Dagaz: Chemists

"Well, I'll be."

Michael heard surprise, anger, and a hint of fear in Fiona's voice. He turned, followed her gaze. "What?"

"Keith O'Connor, in the flesh."

Irish name. Michael scanned the crowd. He didn't see anyone who looked like a former IRA compatriot of Fiona's, but she didn't look like a former IRA figther herself. No one looked particularly combat-ready, either. Fiona was always combat ready. Even in bed.

"He hasn't aged a day."

Michael scanned the crowd again. There, at the shaved ice shack, were two teenage boys. One had light brown skin and tightly-curled back hair, a guitar slung over his back. The other hand pale, freckled skin, glossy red hair, and an electric five-string bass slung over his back. He threw his head back, laughed at something the other boy said, and he had classic Irish features, the high cheekbones and thin lips. 

"The wannabe emo rockers?"

Fiona nodded. She reached up, tugged her shades down to perch on her nose to cover her opportunity to stare. "The ginger. I'd know him anywhere."

The kid was slender, wearing a faded punk-rock t-shirt, with the sort of wiriness Michael associated with running or swimming. "What was he?"

"A chemistry student," Fiona said.

Improvised explosives expert, she meant. 

"What's he doing in Miami?"

"I have no idea. Last I checked, he was dead."

The teenage girl at the shaved ice shack handed both boys their treats, and they pocketed their change, turned to go. Fiona had stared too long and too hard. The redhead turned toward them and paused. Recognition crossed his face, and he caught his friend's shoulder, shoved, hurried him toward the sidewalk where a couple of skateboards were propped up against the low wall of a planter.

Michael called out, "Hey Keith, long time no see."

If looks could kill, Keith would have been dead, and his friend would have been a murderer.

But Keith bit his lip and sighed, shook out his shoulders, and started toward them.

"I don't know you, sir, but I do know you." He lifted his chin at Fiona.

"Keith," Fiona said. She looked him up and down, lip curled in disdain. "Still so...juvenile."

Keith winced. "Still so acrimonious."

"No one likes a traitor."

Keith lifted his chin. "Family first, wasn't that our motto? Turned out half of my family was on the other side of the barricade."

"Really," Fiona said, "you haven't aged a day."

"Aye. And neither have you."

Up close, Keith and his friend were definitely teenagers. 

Michael said, "What brings you to Miami?"

Keith tugged on the strap of his electric bass. "Battle of the bands."

"I didn't realize you liked music," Fiona said.

Keith shrugged. "There was a lot we didn't know about each other. I played cello in the school orchestra and me mam was a Prod. You fell in love with an undercover CIA agent."

Michael raised his eyebrows. "I thought you didn't know me."

"Knowing of someone isn't the same as knowing them." Keith shrugged. "So...we have to be at soundcheck. No snitching, ho foul, right?"

"Wrong," Fiona said. "My brother's dead because of you."

"On the contrary - your brother's dead because a British soldier shot him. My own brother is alive because of me - no thanks to you." Keith raised his snow cone in salute. "You had a gun at his head."

"He was a Prod."

"He was eleven," Keith said flatly. He leaned in, his voice low and dangerous. "If you want to play the 'who was worse game', I can defeat you roundly. Believe me." And he said something in rapid, rolling Irish.

Fiona went pale. "I didn't mean to. I was sorry. I didn't know --"

"And I did. You'd have done the same in my place." Keith straightened up. "So...enjoy your stroll along the beach. We're going to win a battle." He turned and walked away, toed his skateboard flat, and hopped on. His friend did the same, and they quickly vanished into the crowd.

"What was that about?" Michael said.

"I was wrong. He's not a teenager anymore." Fiona sighed, tossed her head. "Call Sam. I want mojitos."

Everyday Dagaz: Linguists

The thing about working in a close-knit community like Stargate Command was that people got to know each other. Jack recognized the faces of the low-level guards who kept an eye on the elevator on the first floor (they had no clearance and no clue what went on so far down below). Jack recognized the marines who came in and out, the scientists and support staff. He recognized them all because he was a nice guy, because he was observant, and because he wanted to be sure there wasn't a foothold situation going down in his base. Given how close-knit Stargate Command was, it wasn't uncommon to run into comrades while out on the streets in Colorado Springs. Admittedly, recognizing the girl in the fluffy white tennis skirt as the sergeant who always brought Jack his paperwork was a little difficult, but Jack learned to smile and wave. He was a commanding officer. It improved troop morale if the lower ranks felt known and recognized by their commanding officer. Jack was pretty sure he'd recognize that little white skirt anywhere.

 So when Jack was standing in line at a Starbucks trying to remember the name of that fruity concoction Sam liked, he wasn't too surprised when someone said, "Hey, surprise seeing you here." 

He turned around, ready with a morale-boosting smile and wave, and then he froze. He was pretty sure the supermodel pretty boy standing in front of him wasn't one of the troops at Stargate Command. In fact, the way he was wearing his platinum-blond hair long and parted down the middle like some throwback to a nineties boyband guaranteed he wasn't from Stargate Command, because that haircut certainly wasn't regulation. Jack liked to think he'd remember someone with such electric blue eyes, too.

 But then Daniel said, "Hey! Dylan! What brings you to Colorado Springs?"

 Dylan shrugged. "On my way to Fashion Week in LA. Just got done in New York. Thought I'd drive myself, take the scenic route." 

Hah. Jack was right. Kid was a supermodel. Or maybe a designer?

 Daniel's face lit up. "That's wonderful. Still modeling, huh?"

"Still working on my dissertation about functional Enochian." Dylan smiled.

 Several women in the vicinity sighed. Jack resisted the urge to sigh for an entirely different reason. "What brings you to Colorado Springs, though?" Dylan looked Daniel up and down. "And what's this - hitting the gym? Military haircut? What happened to the geek I know and love?"

"Working as a civilian contractor with the military, actually. Analyzing artefacts accidentally disturbed during foreign operations," Daniel said, and wow, guy was a smooth liar. Jack narrowed his eyes. Had Daniel lied to him about something in the recent past? Like remembering when he was ascended?

"I heard a crazy rumor that you'd died," Dylan said. 

Daniel ducked his head, blushed. "Just a rumor." And there - he was a terrible liar. Dylan furrowed his brow, and then he stepped closer, said something totally gibberish. Except it wasn't gibberish, because Daniel replied in the same gibberish. Dylan arched an eyebrow and tried another language, which Daniel matched. Jack wasn't much of a linguist, really only had a little Arabic and Spanish to his name, but for the next five minutes, Daniel and Dylan chased each other through at least a dozen different languages. The game finally ended when Dylan gave up on a language Jack strongly suspected Daniel had picked up on an alien planet, and both men laughed.

"You've picked up some new ones since we spoke last," Daniel said.

"So have you." Dylan clapped Daniel on the shoulder. "It's so good to see you again, especially after those horrible rumors. I'm in town for two more nights. We should have dinner. Bring your friend." Dylan turned his dazzling Hollywood smile on Jack.

 Jack raised his eyebrows. "Who, me? Sorry. I'm pretty limited to English."

"We'll speak English just for you," Dylan promised.

"I'd love to," Daniel said, "but I'm probably going out of the country to visit a dig site."

Dylan pouted. The women in the vicinity cooed. "Next time we cross paths, then. Dinner's on me. I know government pay is crap."

"Next time," Daniel agreed. The girl at the cash register called for Jack to place his order, and the prospect of imminent caffeine distracted him from Daniel and his suspiciously pretty friend. By the time Jack had ordered for himself and fumbled through Sam's order - soy milk, caramel - Daniel had ordered his coffee and Dylan was gone.

On the way out to the truck, Jack had to ask. "Who was that guy?"

"Old friend of mine from LA. We did linguistics together. Guy's a natural. Mother was Norwegian, so he grew up bilingual. Gave him a crazy head start over the other kids in the program."

"You were in college together?" Jack called the boy's face back up in his memory. "How old was he?"

"Regular college student age, actually," Daniel said. "It was uncanny. He hasn't aged a day."

"I'll say." Jack fished into his pocket with his pinkie and dragged out his keys. "You drive. Sam'll kill me if I spill her drink."

Daniel nodded. "Sure thing." He accepted the keys and trotted around to the driver's side door. Jack hovered beside the passenger door, waiting for Daniel to unlock it. Daniel had gone to college with a supermodel. Who knew.

Five Things - SPN and GG

There are five things Dean Forester will never tell Rory Gilmore.

1. He's already read every book she's ever lent him. He read Anna Karenina on a long car ride, and again by candlelight while huddled in an empty church while winter winds howled down the walls. He didn't compare them to banshees, though, because real banshees didn't sound like that. He appreciated Tolstoy's style, if not his plots, but of the Russian writers he liked Pushkin better. Maybe it was in his nature to enjoy a story about a good game of cards.

2. When he said he'd kill Tristen for giving her crap at the dance, he hadn't meant it, not really. He knew how to sound like he meant it, because sounding like meaning was often scarier than actually meaning it. But Tristen was just a boy, a poor, annoying fool with a crush on a girl who already had a foolish crush of her own, and Tristen hadn't done anything to deserve death. Besides, dealing death with bare hands was a rare occurrence, one to always be avoided.

3. In Chicago they did call it pop, so he learned to call it pop, and back West they called it pop too, but down South it was Coke, no matter what it actually was, it was Coke. You walked into a dingy diner, the gum-snapping, slow-drawling waitress came to take your order, and when you asked for a Coke, she asked what kind, and cherry and vanilla weren't the type she meant.

4. He's smarter than any of the residents of Stars Hollow know or could possibly guess. Other students are athletes, musicians, cheerleaders, shining on the school auditorium stage or rousing school spirit on the football field. He gets straight A's, quietly and persistently, and he's going to an ivy league school as soon as he's done with the high school in this little town - or any little town. Rory wants to be a journalist, and that's fantastic. He wants to be a lawyer, to shine some measure and justice in ordinary people's lives. And he's going to go to Stanford to make it happen. Palo Alto is nice no matter the time of year.

5. His name isn't really Dean Forester. Dean is his brother's name, and Dean is a mechanic, but Dean is leaner, sharper, blonder, and would use a copy of Anna Karenina to start a blaze for a corpse before he'd read it.

But when he kisses Rory and tells her he loves her, that's all truth, and it hurts like hell when it has to end.

Technique Study: Flashback

Kyle spun on his heel and went to storm out of the room, and out of the corner of his eye he spotted a photograph. A woman holding her daughter smiled and waved at the camera while the little girl tried to hide her face.

Kyle knew that woman.

"Mom," he breathed.

* * *

"Kyle, hurry up!" Julie pawed at her eyes, squinting in the bright noonday sunlight.

Mom laughed, tugged Julie into her arms for a hug.

"Take the picture, honey!"

Kyle, who was hesitant about using Dad's fancy camera - he was a professional photographer - lifted it, pressed the buttons carefully.

"Are you ready?"

"Say cheese, Julie," Mom said.

Julie buried her face against Mom's collarbone and muttered, "Cheese."

Mom waved. Kyle pressed the button for the shutter.

And then behind him, someone screamed. "Fire! Fire! The house is on fire!"

Kyle turned around, and the camera tumbled from his hands, bounced against his chest so hard it knocked the breath out of him.

Flames licked up the roof of his home. Dad was still inside.

Kyle screamed.

* * *

"You all right?" Sam asked.

Kyle paused, blinked. "What? Yeah."

Sam stepped closer. "Is there something in that picture that's important."

"No," Kyle said. "Just - I hadn't looked at it in a while. I didn't know anyone got it developed. It was from the day our house burned down."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Your house burned down?"

Kyle shrugged, jammed his hands into his pockets. "When I was a kid. My dad was still inside. What does it matter?"

"Was the fire an accident?" Sam asked.

Kyle frowned. "What else could it have been?"

Sam and Dean exchanged looks.

Kyle's chest tightened. "Do you think the fire was set deliberately?"

"Well," Sam began, and Dean said,

"Your father thinks it was."

Silence and the Sound of Home

“But I –” Topher began.

Adelle cut in. “Do not speak unless you can improve the silence.”

Topher shut his mouth so fast his teeth clicked. He raised his eyebrows and made a series of highly expressive and inexplicable gestures that indicated he was very agitated about the situation at hand, but Adelle was pondering a serious problem and ignored him.

A voice broke through Adelle’s brooding, and she spun, ready to deliver a sharp invective to the person who had dared act against a direct order, but it was just George, tall and golden and beautiful and so much a victim, standing in the doorway with a pleasantly passive expression on his face.

“ – Ready for my treatment.”

Topher, very deliberately not saying a word, gestured for George to cross the room and seat himself in The Chair. Adelle studied George, and remembered when she’d first seen him, a broken runaway who’d ended up past the other side of the tracks and almost drowned himself in the river of humanity that was Los Angeles. In his doll state, he didn’t have the accent that reminded Adelle fiercely of home.

Six more months on his contract, and his very wealthy parents would be pleased at the sane, healthy, confident young man who returned their vast estates in the Southeast.

Topher was distracted from his mime act by pulling up The Pipepline and parameters of the engagement. He’d done the work beforehand, but once Ivy, sleep-deprived and too afraid to confess it, had mixed up the imprints and the dolls, and Topher was one for leaning from mistakes.

He lowered the chair, and the light flared blue. Adelle didn’t even flinch anymore when George hissed, arched his back in pain, but then Topher was raising the chair, and George was no more.

George’s handler, Perry, was a slender slip of a thing, and underestimated by everyone who looked at him.

“Are you ready?” Perry asked.

“Of course,” George said, only he was someone else now, someone who sounded like home, and Adelle wished, for one moment, he could stay for a chat.

(350 words)

No Good

I swim my way back to awareness, conscious of a pain in my arm, though dulled by the drugs that keep the worst of it at bay. I can feel my pulse increasing as I come half awake, my hand automatically searching for him, groping at the air. I sigh his name and he is here in an instant, hovering over me where I lay on his mother's couch.

I look up into his face, searching for a truth that I know is there. His gentle smile and soft caress assure me that I am safe. I can't remember how many times he's saved my life, and I, his.

As much as he drives me crazy, I love him, and I wouldn't want any other. As I lay there, vulnerable and worried of the future, he leans down and presses a brief kiss to my lips. I open my mouth to tell him how I feel and he places one finger over my lips, silencing me.

"It's okay," he said, "we're no good at this."

Broken Mirror

Sometimes, while I’m sitting at my desk faced with a mountain of paperwork, I actually miss him. I close my eyes and sit back, remember what it was like to face him. It was like looking into broken mirror, seeing an unfamiliar face - his green eyes, my grey ones - but the same expression: determination. Sheer soldiering willpower.

And that scar, a mirror-twin to my own. Some days I think it might have been better for me to lose an eye; it’d stop the girls from cooing over me. And I’d never have ranked up for proper field training. Late at night, when I’ve worked too much and eaten too little, I come awake from an old memory, manacles around my wrists and ankles, electricity pouring through my body.

One day, after too much paperwork and not enough sanity, I leave my office. Walk out while the secretary is attempting to inform me of my schedule for the day. It’s rude, but no one’s ever accused me of being a gentleman. They’ll get mad at me and sulk, but when push comes to shove I’m the one with the weapons and the firepower, and they need me more than I need them.

I scoop up my weapon case and sling it over my shoulder. I’ve heard rumors that he lives out on the water, fishing with his two sidekicks. I’ll bet he’s spoiling for a fight, too.

(237 words; post-canon)

Be So Many Things

I want to be so many things for her that I feel like I’m tearing myself apart. The first time we met, I was half under a car in the garage, spattered with oil. She was lovely in a blouse and skirt, fresh home from another semester of medical school. She was eight years older than me and I knew then and there I wanted her to be my wife.

For the first time in a long time I was glad I saw the world in shades of red and black; it meant she couldn’t look into my eyes and know how desperately I wanted to kiss her. Sometimes I thought she could read my mind anyway.

We played chess by the fireplace; she drank wine and let me sneak a little Irish cream into my hot chocolate. I felt grown-up and charming until I realized she’d had me in checkmate for three rounds and I was ridiculously drunk.

She was done with medical school and off doing her residency when I started college. I spent those four years learning not to stutter, to carry myself like a man instead of a boy. I trained ruthlessly to become an efficient field leader and a competent math teacher.

The first time I saw her after graduation, I wanted to be that kid again, sitting up with her watching Saturday morning cartoons and trying to steal cheerios out of each other’s bowls. When we watched the Sunday evening news and saw more reports about the violence and hatred against our kind, I wanted to show her the man I had become.

The first time she kissed me, I realized she’d been reading my mind all along, and she only wanted me to be one thing: hers.

(295 words; not canon)

Knowing and not Telling

I never told him, but I remember everything from the time loops. Everything. I am so glad though that they figured it out, because to much more of it and I was going to go insane.

At least he did make it interesting some of the time. The golfing, the pottery, juggling, and by heavens that kiss was amazing. Everything that I ever imagined and hoped it would be. I wonder if I activate that machine again I can spend eternity with him. Just the two of us; locked forever into a time loop. I can't think of why I would want to leave. It would be pure heaven.

When he smiled at me, thinking that I didn't know what he was thinking about, I had a tough time hiding the fact that I knew.

Blood and Control

I can't take my eyes off of his still form lying in the hospital bed. He's too still, though from the steady rise and fall of his chest, I know that he's alive. My hand itches to hold his, though that would be a breech of regulations, I reach out anyway and gently brush the back of his hand. I flinch when he twitches it away. I can't imagine what he has just been through. the doctor says it's a blessing that he is even alive, let alone that he will be just fine before long. He may be physically fine, but I worry about how he will be doing emotionally.

Even as I sit watching him, I can't help going over details in my mind, trying to peace together what happened and how this will affect him. Thinking back, I think that I knew that something was not right. I couldn't focus all day, something just seemed wrong. I know we were all tired from the last case, but still, something wasn't right.

That feeling stayed with me all day; after we go the call and we all went to work, and he never showed up. I was worried then, but there was nothing I could do about it. Finally it became to much for everyone to handle, so I went looking for him.

I didn't find him, but I found blood.

My world spun out of control.

(sorry this one should be backdated.)

Magical Vision

I have magical vision - I can always see the white elephant in the room, the one thing that no one else notices. For the longest time I thought that it was a simple matter of the other three ignoring what was going on, but one day, while I sat bound in the corner and contemplated the shininess of the buckles all down my chest, I realized that they really didn’t see what I saw. They were so busy hoping no one noticed them that they didn’t notice each other.

It made me want to laugh.

I laughed once, and it frightened the little one, who pretends he’s cruel and unafraid, who presses his face to the window and watches children laugh and scramble as they kick a soccer ball around a field. I can only assume his longing for the game was born in his childhood, the childhood he pretends he never had.

One morning, while I was hanging upside down in the corner waiting to be released from the latest round of punishment, I watched our leader shuffle into the kitchen, vulnerable in a thin cotton robe, tear tracks fresh on his face from where he wept in his sleep. After he showered and dressed, his eyes behind his glasses were golden-cruel, but I could still remember what he looked like after a night of memories unbound.

Maybe I would tell someone if I could, but they all think me mad and wouldn’t believe me. I’m not sure if I really am mad, but it’s fun to let people think it.

It was one of my rare moments of freedom in the kitchen that I learned the final sad secret of my third teammate. I was mashing potatoes by hand, because it was my turn to provide supper and I liked to do things the right way. He slipped in far later than he was supposed to, even if dinner wasn’t ready, and I watched him shrug off his hideous double-breasted green coat. He was rarely without a coat, mocking formality by assembling the most clashing pieces he could find.

I caught a brief flash the pale skin on the inside of his arm before he rolled down his sleeves with quick, smart motions.

He’d lost his mind so many times that he’d had to tattoo his real name on the inside of his wrist.

(398 words)

All that I Offer

He looked up at me, and suddenly, he seemed to see me. Really and truly see me, and all that I had to offer him, all that I am and all the love that I posses was his for the asking. He finally looked up and saw what I was offering and reached out to me.

I don't know if he ever noticed the change in my patronus or not. Being a guy, as perceptive as he usually is, he probably didn't. He most likely attributed it, like that git, to the loss of my cousin.

No. It changed, though I never did, because I love him. I don't know how I manage to continue breathing without him around.

It doesn't really matter anymore, because he is here, and he's not going anywhere, and miracle of miracles, he says that he loves me.

For Her

I do everything for her. No one knows, but I do.

I sit in the midst of a flowering meadow on a sunny day and read for her, white pigeons perched on my shoulder and punctuating Sun Tzu with soft coos; they're pretending to be doves.

I train in the rain for her, form upon form upon form, snake and tiger and mantis and crane. I end in dragon, always dragon, solitary dragon that I am. The name makes me smile; the others think I cannot hear what they say when I’m staring at a go board, playing against myself and pretending she’s sitting opposite me, taunting me for being such a scholar.

I fight for her and kill for her. Every time I climb into my machine and fire up the engines, I close my eyes and feel her presence seep into me, feel my instincts meld with the motherboard, and then we launch into space.

I would have died for her.

Every morning I wake up and put on my uniform and go to work, put out another fire, prevent another war, and I wake up for her. One day, when this is all over, I won’t wake up, but when I open my eyes, it’ll be to see her.

(212 words)

Smiling

I smile at his stupid movie trivia, but inside I cringe. Chances are, when I'm not fully occupied, my eyes stray to his face. It's a handsome face, just a little bit boyish. I try to hide my smile as he picks on out teammate. Sometimes I get the colloquialisms wrong, just so that I can hear his voice correcting me. I would follow his voice even if it meant my death.

I just can't forget what he said in Africa. I knew that I could ask him anything then, and he would tell me the truth, but I couldn't bring myself to ask. I couldn't bear it if he had said it was duty and not love.

We will carry on as we are. It's comfortable, easy, routine. But not what I want.

Six Photographs

The happiest moments moments of my life were captured in six photographs. I’d stolen Father’s rusty old Nikon, mixed the developer formula myself, and set the thing to just go. Whenever it wanted to.

The first was of the two of us sitting side-by-side on the grass studying, she with a textbook in one hand like it was a novel (she made it look so easy), me with the book propped open on my knees scribbling notes in the margins (me and my cramped handwriting). Every now and again we’d sneak glances at each other. She’d flick a flower at me (always the play on her namesake, cheerful with her where it was kitschy from anyone else), send the petals to march solemnly across my boot. I’d immolate them with a glare and send ants to scale up her (pretty, soft) red plait. It was a loop of action, inaction.

The second photo was escalation, petals circling my head while I studiously ignored them, her plait wavering in midair like a charmed cobra rising from a basket. By the third photo we were shooting sparks at each other, subtle jolts that were harmless but made us jump nonetheless and mock-glare at each other.

In the fourth picture, she’d drawn her wand on me and drenched me with a single spell. I looked like a drowned-rat, ill-fitting clothes clinging to my abused, underfed gaunt form, hair hanging in my face in limp tatters. I spluttered, spelled my book dry, and seized my own wand.

The fifth picture featured her thoroughly soused in green and silver paint (I did not stoop to glitter) and lunging at me with a cry, and a flock of (shockingly lovely, detailed) birds exploded at me.

The sixth picture was the aftermath. She was covered in paint, bat-bogeys, and multiple other horrid (potions ingredients) substances. I was liberally doused with glitter, garlands of flowers (again with the blossoms), and had hummingbirds perched in my hair. We were both laughing and smiling at each other (for the last time).

The best moments of my life in six photos. I wasn’t a kind or sentimental man, but I’d make sure her brat got them after I was gone.

(375 words)

Who I Really Am

I watch him out on the training ground with his knights, wielding his sword with easy confidence. The ring of steel on steel is a comforting counterpoint to the frustrated scrub, scrub of this blood-stained cloth at his stupid maille. Blood rusts metal, I know, but I don’t understand why he has to bleed on something every day. I imagine he does it just to spite me; the careless dismissal in his voice when he tells me to have all his armor polished for the next day makes me curl my hands into fists.

I know full well that every other knight at the castle sends their armor to the armory or has a miniature convoy of pages and squires to polish every piece of life-saving nonsense. I’m just one servant, and his royal pratliness knows it. It’s a wonder he hasn’t figured out what I am yet, given how many chores I manage to do in a day. Usually he’s too busy complaining at how terribly I do my job to realize that, really, one man alone couldn’t possibly do all I do in one day.

I tried to point that out once.

He sent me to the stocks.

I wonder if wielding a sword feels to him the same way using magic feels for me. On the first day we met, he informed me that he’d been trained to kill since birth. I’ve seen him disarmed before; he’s a natural leader and thinks quickly on his feet, but there’s always that flash of panic in his eyes when his sword flies from his grip. I don’t know what I’d do if I suddenly found myself without my magic.

Assuming we weren’t in the middle of being attacked by something that usually only came from story books, I’d probably cry.

Not that I’d ever tell him that.

He thinks I’m a useless servant. I trip over my feet a lot, so in the middle of an important banquet, when I spill wine down a visiting princess’s dress, I might give him that.

But he has no idea who I really am.

I’m not sure I want him to.

(361 words)

Sale

“So you just got that piece on sale.”

“You’d be surprised at what you can find at an army surplus store.” Mike hacked at the rope on his wrists with the army knife he’d propped up between his feet.

“Some kidnapper,” Jake grumbled. “He knocks us out, ties us up, but doesn’t think to take your knife or your gun.”

“I’m guessing he miscalculated our weights in ratio to the tranquilizing agent in the tranq darts and assumed we’d still be unconscious when he got back,” Mike said.

“Or he’s strong enough and fast enough that it doesn’t matter if you’re awake, untied, and armed.” A shadow fell across the doorway, and for a moment both men couldn’t see.

Then their eyes adjusted, and they realized that their captor was a boy, no older than fifteen, slight of build and with features like a china doll. And a pair of bright, bright blue eyes.

“Why did you kidnap us?” Jake demanded.

The boy tilted his head to the side quizzically. “Who says I kidnapped you? It’s not as if I’ve asked your families for ransom.”

“Then why did you take us?”

The boy’s smile was slow and calm and utterly terrifying. “Jei wanted something to eat.”

(206 words)

Severus Dissevered

Angst
He raised his wand against his mentor, friend, and cast.

AU
The teacher read, “Severus Snape!”

The Sorting Hat exclaimed, “Ravenclaw!”

Crackfic
“What’s Snape wearing?”

“Looks like Neville’s Gran’s favorite hat.”

“Right-o.”

Crossover
“Don’t speak to me, Wolf.”

“My name is Luke, Severus.”

Dark
Harry dreamt of Snape branding followers with the Dark Mark.

Fluff
“Smile occasionally, Potter. Your mother would’ve liked to see it.”

Humor
“Potter, hand over that kitten immediately! She’s not for potions!”

Hurt/Comfort
Severus sat opposite Remus and lifted a glass for Sirius.

Romance
Dearest Lily, I’ve left his service. Amor vincit Omnia.

~ Severus

UST
He passed Lily - she was pregnant, glowing - and ached fiercely.

Jayce on the Job

(Mortal Instruments Trilogy)

Angst
The last thing he saw before he died was Valentine.

AU
“I’m Clary. Now come on - that Demon wants your blood.”

Crackfic
“Hi everyone! My name’s Jayce, your brand new yell leader.”

Crossover
“Buffy, Willow, this is Jayce. He’ll help with the demons.”

Dark
Jayce followed Valentine through the portal and never looked back.

Fluff
“Hey Clary, I fixed that vampire’s motorcycle. Here’s the keys.”

Humor
“Jayce, you aren’t flirting?”

“Girl’s a siren. Wants my liver.”

Hurt/Comfort
He gripped her hand as the stele burnt her skin.

Romance
“So you’ll give me the heroine’s kiss I’ve earned?”

“Absolutely.”

UST
His heart didn’t matter; he had to keep her alive.