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that fic quote meme
Because once upon a time, I actually wrote fic that didn't suck.
Optimistic
He'll go north. If he sees a town, that's cool. He'll stop, get some clothes and food. Maybe spend a night in a bed. Take a hot shower. It'll be all civilized. Make him feel like a person again.
That'd be good.
If he doesn't see a town, that'll be better.
Light Walks
The first week after the sun goes dark, there are riots.
It's Los Angeles; there are always riots.
You get that week off, and the next, though if you're being entirely honest, it's mostly just that you take that second week off and no one fires you when you come back. You wouldn't bother, but your landlord wants rent, and it's the only job you've got, so you go back to work not-so-bright and early Monday morning. And as you're giving Half-Caff Amaretto Soy Latte his order, you wonder if you're ever going to see the sunrise through the windows, bright and hazy through the smog.
Bough
It's Bethany's birthday.
She has a big cake with white frosting and yellow flowers on it. There are eight candles. Her presents are lying on the floor by the dining room table.
Bethany herself is upstairs in the attic, clutching a grubby, worn rabbit by the ear. One of its eyes is missing. She doesn't know when it fell off, but the missing eye makes it look like the rabbit is winking at her.
It was a present from her daddy.
Her daddy loves her.
Call It Aftermath
They just stay there on the bed, neither of them saying anything. There's not a whole lot left to talk about. They're alive. They're mostly whole. Gunn plans on keeping it that way. "I got you," he finally says, figuring that's as good as anything.
Wesley half laughs, this horrible raw sound that makes Gunn wish he wouldn't, but then he says, "Thank you," and Gunn feels better.
Neither of them can sleep and so they lie awake like kids in the dark, only there's no one gonna save them and nothing like a happy ending written out on a page somewhere, waiting for them.
Man, I miss them sometimes. Like I Absolutely Love You.
"Two points," says Chris.
Justin shakes his head. "Three." When Chris raises his eyebrows, Justin says, "Two isn't the right number from where you're standing."
Chris grins at him. "It's the loneliest number since the number one," he says, half-singing, half-laughing, and Justin feels himself laughing back, even though he's not really sure what he's laughing at. He learned a long time ago just to laugh at Chris' jokes and figure them out later.
"Even worse than one?" he asks.
"Oh, I dunno. One's a pretty bad number." Chris shrugs and it turns into a full body shiver, no, something smoother. A shimmy, working its way down Chris' back and down his legs, until Chris is grounded again. "Let's go," he says finally. "I'm old and I am tired and you owe me lunch."
Love, All Alike
Winter follows them into Gondor and settles into their bones and in their blood. Elessar welcomes them home, with kisses on each cheek and a hearty meal, besides. He has not forgotten the hobbits or their love of food and drink and song. Nor have they forgotten the pipe of Aragorn, who was Strider and their guide. Pippin bears behind him a small barrel of Longbottom leaf, a gift from the Thain and the Master and the Mayor, from friends.
"Well met, Master Peregrin," Elessar says, laughing, and they are waited on by noble pages. Pippin has dug out his old livery, tree and stars picked out in silver, and it surprises Merry that it still fits.
But then, his own armor had fit as well, though snugly, when he stood by the grave of Eomer king and threw a white flower onto the first mound.
We are none of us changed so much, Merry thinks.
True North
Will says nothing.
"Hm. No? Interesting," says Norrington, sounding as if he finds it anything but. "You are not the only man who cares for Elizabeth. Nor, in fact, are you the only man capable of swift action. But we are not all so free in our choices as you are, Mr. Turner, nor are we all so blessed with luxury in our consequences. Elizabeth...cares for you, and as a result, you will not be facing the gallows as you have earned. I do not even find myself regretting that. But do not act as if yours was the only action to be taken and do not presume to tell *me* what I would have or should have done." Norrington leans forward again and picks up his quill. "You may leave."
Will takes a step back, and another. "What about Jack?"
"Mr. Sparrow will hang for crimes against the Crown." Norrington pulls a sheet of paper toward him. "Is that all?"
"It's not right," says Will fiercely. "He's a good man."
Norrington's expression is...interesting. "Being a good man is rarely enough to warrant the smallest kindness," he says. "It is certainly not enough to redeem a life."
Grey's Apocalypse
But anyway, he's been moping a little because of the flaunting and it's like everywhere he looks there Meredith and McDreamy or Izzie and Addison or Cristina and Burke and he hates it because the last time he got any involved Alex and it involved syphilis and it didn't involve things like saving food if he gets stuck with the patient from hell or *anything* and he's so, so hungry and all that's left is the mutant peas that Addison got in exchange for the c-section she did on some old guy's daughter.
"Hey," says Alex. George grunts and does his best to look menacing and angry instead of just cranky and in need of a hamburger. "I got you this."
It's...George doesn't know what it is, but it isn't peas and he's pretty sure that's what everyone else had for dinner and he thinks maybe he might cry. He clears his throat. "Um. Thank you."
"No problem," says Alex. He watches George eat which is kind of creepy. But the whatever it is tastes fantastic and so George (mostly) ignores him and focuses on the food.
untitled jack/norrington kisstag
Of course, if one went by the name of Captain Jack Sparrow, one was not supposed to be conversing with the fine Commodore at all, never mind a discussion of a ship lost first by the Commodore and then by himself. Truly, it was sad the way the Commodore managed to work himself into a temper whenever Jack mentioned the ship, or the merchantman he'd taken, or the fine French brandy he'd borrowed -- *borrowed*, said Jack, and hadn't he come back this time with a bottle or five of the Caribbean's best rum? And wasn't the Commodore a man of His Majesty's Navy? And therefore, wasn't rum like mother's--
"Enough," said Norrington, holding up one hand, as if such a feeble gesture could stem the tide of words. Words, Jack had realized long, long ago, were as much a weapon as cutlass and pistol and a good bit more effective than either if one's intention were not to kill -- horrible word, that -- but to knock a man off balance.
It never seemed to work on Norrington, damned nuisance of a lifelong sailor as he was. His sea legs were almost as much a part of him as Jack's, and he was deeper on the draft than most. It'd be easier to send a ship of the line onto its side in a calm sea with naught but grape shot than it was to set the Commodore off his balance with mere words.
more kisstag
"Mine is hardly the only ship in that bay being less than truthful," said James. "And you are the only person here who can name me."
"Ah," said Jack.
"You see your problem," said James.
"Yes," Jack said thoughtfully. "But your problem is a bit larger than mine. I've only you between me and that door, and that door is all that lies between you and several hundred men who'd be quite happy to see you hang. And I am in possession of this very fine pistol." Jack held up the pistol in question, waving it around in a lazy circle.
"I take your point," said James
"I thought you might," said Jack.
James rocked back on his heels a moment. "You seem to forget that I also have a pistol of my own."
"That you do," agreed Jack. "It seems we're at a bit of an impasse. What say I put away my pistol, and you put away yours, and we discuss this like the men of reason and sound mind that I know we both are?"
"I don't negotiate with pirates," said James. But he made no move toward the gun still tucked away neatly at his waist.
Jack looked around the empty room and leaned forward conspiratorially. "The only people I see in this room are pirates, James," he said, voice low.
"I am not a pirate!" he snapped.
Jack began to count off his points. "Sailing under false colors--"
"A perfectly acceptable--"
"Spying--"
"*Your* lot can't keep their mouths closed--"
"Disguising yourself as one of the Brethren--"
"Hardly a crime, I should think."
"Depends on who you're asking, mate." Jack frowned. "Where was I?"
"Wasting your breath and my time," said James. "As usual."
Optimistic
He'll go north. If he sees a town, that's cool. He'll stop, get some clothes and food. Maybe spend a night in a bed. Take a hot shower. It'll be all civilized. Make him feel like a person again.
That'd be good.
If he doesn't see a town, that'll be better.
Light Walks
The first week after the sun goes dark, there are riots.
It's Los Angeles; there are always riots.
You get that week off, and the next, though if you're being entirely honest, it's mostly just that you take that second week off and no one fires you when you come back. You wouldn't bother, but your landlord wants rent, and it's the only job you've got, so you go back to work not-so-bright and early Monday morning. And as you're giving Half-Caff Amaretto Soy Latte his order, you wonder if you're ever going to see the sunrise through the windows, bright and hazy through the smog.
Bough
It's Bethany's birthday.
She has a big cake with white frosting and yellow flowers on it. There are eight candles. Her presents are lying on the floor by the dining room table.
Bethany herself is upstairs in the attic, clutching a grubby, worn rabbit by the ear. One of its eyes is missing. She doesn't know when it fell off, but the missing eye makes it look like the rabbit is winking at her.
It was a present from her daddy.
Her daddy loves her.
Call It Aftermath
They just stay there on the bed, neither of them saying anything. There's not a whole lot left to talk about. They're alive. They're mostly whole. Gunn plans on keeping it that way. "I got you," he finally says, figuring that's as good as anything.
Wesley half laughs, this horrible raw sound that makes Gunn wish he wouldn't, but then he says, "Thank you," and Gunn feels better.
Neither of them can sleep and so they lie awake like kids in the dark, only there's no one gonna save them and nothing like a happy ending written out on a page somewhere, waiting for them.
Man, I miss them sometimes. Like I Absolutely Love You.
"Two points," says Chris.
Justin shakes his head. "Three." When Chris raises his eyebrows, Justin says, "Two isn't the right number from where you're standing."
Chris grins at him. "It's the loneliest number since the number one," he says, half-singing, half-laughing, and Justin feels himself laughing back, even though he's not really sure what he's laughing at. He learned a long time ago just to laugh at Chris' jokes and figure them out later.
"Even worse than one?" he asks.
"Oh, I dunno. One's a pretty bad number." Chris shrugs and it turns into a full body shiver, no, something smoother. A shimmy, working its way down Chris' back and down his legs, until Chris is grounded again. "Let's go," he says finally. "I'm old and I am tired and you owe me lunch."
Love, All Alike
Winter follows them into Gondor and settles into their bones and in their blood. Elessar welcomes them home, with kisses on each cheek and a hearty meal, besides. He has not forgotten the hobbits or their love of food and drink and song. Nor have they forgotten the pipe of Aragorn, who was Strider and their guide. Pippin bears behind him a small barrel of Longbottom leaf, a gift from the Thain and the Master and the Mayor, from friends.
"Well met, Master Peregrin," Elessar says, laughing, and they are waited on by noble pages. Pippin has dug out his old livery, tree and stars picked out in silver, and it surprises Merry that it still fits.
But then, his own armor had fit as well, though snugly, when he stood by the grave of Eomer king and threw a white flower onto the first mound.
We are none of us changed so much, Merry thinks.
True North
Will says nothing.
"Hm. No? Interesting," says Norrington, sounding as if he finds it anything but. "You are not the only man who cares for Elizabeth. Nor, in fact, are you the only man capable of swift action. But we are not all so free in our choices as you are, Mr. Turner, nor are we all so blessed with luxury in our consequences. Elizabeth...cares for you, and as a result, you will not be facing the gallows as you have earned. I do not even find myself regretting that. But do not act as if yours was the only action to be taken and do not presume to tell *me* what I would have or should have done." Norrington leans forward again and picks up his quill. "You may leave."
Will takes a step back, and another. "What about Jack?"
"Mr. Sparrow will hang for crimes against the Crown." Norrington pulls a sheet of paper toward him. "Is that all?"
"It's not right," says Will fiercely. "He's a good man."
Norrington's expression is...interesting. "Being a good man is rarely enough to warrant the smallest kindness," he says. "It is certainly not enough to redeem a life."
Grey's Apocalypse
But anyway, he's been moping a little because of the flaunting and it's like everywhere he looks there Meredith and McDreamy or Izzie and Addison or Cristina and Burke and he hates it because the last time he got any involved Alex and it involved syphilis and it didn't involve things like saving food if he gets stuck with the patient from hell or *anything* and he's so, so hungry and all that's left is the mutant peas that Addison got in exchange for the c-section she did on some old guy's daughter.
"Hey," says Alex. George grunts and does his best to look menacing and angry instead of just cranky and in need of a hamburger. "I got you this."
It's...George doesn't know what it is, but it isn't peas and he's pretty sure that's what everyone else had for dinner and he thinks maybe he might cry. He clears his throat. "Um. Thank you."
"No problem," says Alex. He watches George eat which is kind of creepy. But the whatever it is tastes fantastic and so George (mostly) ignores him and focuses on the food.
untitled jack/norrington kisstag
Of course, if one went by the name of Captain Jack Sparrow, one was not supposed to be conversing with the fine Commodore at all, never mind a discussion of a ship lost first by the Commodore and then by himself. Truly, it was sad the way the Commodore managed to work himself into a temper whenever Jack mentioned the ship, or the merchantman he'd taken, or the fine French brandy he'd borrowed -- *borrowed*, said Jack, and hadn't he come back this time with a bottle or five of the Caribbean's best rum? And wasn't the Commodore a man of His Majesty's Navy? And therefore, wasn't rum like mother's--
"Enough," said Norrington, holding up one hand, as if such a feeble gesture could stem the tide of words. Words, Jack had realized long, long ago, were as much a weapon as cutlass and pistol and a good bit more effective than either if one's intention were not to kill -- horrible word, that -- but to knock a man off balance.
It never seemed to work on Norrington, damned nuisance of a lifelong sailor as he was. His sea legs were almost as much a part of him as Jack's, and he was deeper on the draft than most. It'd be easier to send a ship of the line onto its side in a calm sea with naught but grape shot than it was to set the Commodore off his balance with mere words.
more kisstag
"Mine is hardly the only ship in that bay being less than truthful," said James. "And you are the only person here who can name me."
"Ah," said Jack.
"You see your problem," said James.
"Yes," Jack said thoughtfully. "But your problem is a bit larger than mine. I've only you between me and that door, and that door is all that lies between you and several hundred men who'd be quite happy to see you hang. And I am in possession of this very fine pistol." Jack held up the pistol in question, waving it around in a lazy circle.
"I take your point," said James
"I thought you might," said Jack.
James rocked back on his heels a moment. "You seem to forget that I also have a pistol of my own."
"That you do," agreed Jack. "It seems we're at a bit of an impasse. What say I put away my pistol, and you put away yours, and we discuss this like the men of reason and sound mind that I know we both are?"
"I don't negotiate with pirates," said James. But he made no move toward the gun still tucked away neatly at his waist.
Jack looked around the empty room and leaned forward conspiratorially. "The only people I see in this room are pirates, James," he said, voice low.
"I am not a pirate!" he snapped.
Jack began to count off his points. "Sailing under false colors--"
"A perfectly acceptable--"
"Spying--"
"*Your* lot can't keep their mouths closed--"
"Disguising yourself as one of the Brethren--"
"Hardly a crime, I should think."
"Depends on who you're asking, mate." Jack frowned. "Where was I?"
"Wasting your breath and my time," said James. "As usual."
no subject
(Anonymous) 2006-10-30 09:30 am (UTC)(link)no subject