I Had A Dream That I Met A Girl In A Dying World

[114] Text-Only Icons [A:RDU & Everworld]

2009-09-20T00:06:10Z

[79] Animorphs: The Radio Drama (Uncensored!) quotes
[35] Everworld quotes
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[114 text-only icons total]

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Animorphs: The Radio Drama (Uncensored!)

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Credit is nice, comments are lovely, hotlinking is mean.

FIC: Water (Andromeda) (Alphabet Drabble Meme)

2009-03-30T23:58:52Z

Written for the Alphabet Drabble Meme. 100 words exactly.
Prompt: Water, Andromeda, Harper/Rommie
Requested by: ascendant_angel

Clean water was a precious commodity on Earth. The oceans were filthy, the rivers were polluted, the rain was acidic, even the groundwater wasn't safe. It wasn't until Harper left Earth with Beka that he first saw clear, clean water in significant amounts.

He fell in love instantly.

Years after that moment, he dragged Rommie to Infinity Atoll on leave. Clean water didn't hold the same fascination for her that it did for him, but he stubbornly persisted; taught her to swim, and how to surf, and hot to come up from a wipeout laughing.

She fell in love instantly.

FIC: Peanut Butter (LOST) (Alphabet Drabble Meme)

2009-03-29T22:20:25Z

Written for the Alphabet Drabble Meme. 100 words exactly.
Prompt: Peanut butter, Lost, Charlie/Claire
Requested by: ascendant_angel

Peanut butter always brought back strong memories for her. Memories of being small, and protected, and loved. Peanut butter sandwiches, peanut butter on toast, peanut butter cookies, peanut butter snuck out of the jar while her mum's back was turned. Warm, comfortable, well-worn memories.

This is not exactly the same thing, and for a moment her heart is completely broken that the promise was as empty as the jar.

But Charlie pretends to scoop some out to eat, talking about the smooth, creamy taste, and she joins in, pretending, remembering.

Invisible peanut butter tastes as good as the real thing.

FIC: Isotope (LOST) (Alphabet Drabble Meme)

2009-03-29T22:17:55Z

Written for the Alphabet Drabble Meme. 100 words exactly.
Prompt: Isotope, Lost, Daniel
Requested by: kawaiispinel

You can't be in two places simultaneously. Two things can't occupy the same place simultaneously.

Well, on a quantum level, that's not entirely true. But they're not at the quantum level.

He tries to explain, gets rewarded with blank looks and questions. Because they've disproved that, right? Here they are in the '70s, and somewhere out there, younger versions of themselves, living uncomplicated lives.

It's not a contradiction, he says. They aren't the same people they were then. Not on a mental level, not on a molecular level, not on a quantum level. Isotopes, not duplicates.

But no one understands.

FIC: Genie (LOST) (Alphabet Drabble Meme)

2009-03-29T22:15:29Z

Written for the Alphabet Drabble Meme. 100 words exactly.
Prompt: Genie, Lost, Miles
Requested by: kawaiispinel

When Miles was nine, a woman named Antonique told him a story about Scheherazade, married to a powerful king who wanted her dead, and how she stayed alive by telling stories, night after night, always ending on cliffhangers. Antonique told him one of Scheherazade's stories: the story of Aladdin and the djinn of the magic lamp.

Miles listened quietly. Antonique was tall and beautiful and had been dead for four years.

At nineteen, he researched One Thousand and One Nights and discovered Aladdin had actually been added in later by a French translator.

He didn't believe in fairy tales, anyway.

FIC: Epic (LOST) (Alphabet Drabble Meme)

2009-03-29T22:12:57Z

Written for the Alphabet Drabble Meme. 100 words exactly.
Prompt: Epic, Lost, Desmond/Penny
Requested by: turquoisetumult

Penny collected degrees in physics and English, graduated with highest honors, and made her family proud. Her father preferred to talk up the first; he considered her interest in literature to be frivolous in comparison. But both degrees became very useful, years later, when she searched the globe relentlessly for her man. She pored over science texts, looking for an island hidden from record, how a man might know in 1996 where he would be in 2004. And she clung to stories of lovers gone through epic battles and traumas, and come out again together.

And they didn't fail her.

FIC: sail fair to the far fields of fortune (LOST)

2009-03-06T03:48:05Z

Title: sail fair to the far fields of fortune
Author: chicafrom3
Rating: PG
Characters: Aaron (Littleton) Austen, with guest appearances from Walt Lloyd-Dawson, Clementine Ford, Kwon Ji Yeon, and Charlie Hume.
Summary: Aaron doesn't know where he's going. Aaron doesn't know where he's been.
Word Count: 1248 words
Spoilers: Anything through "Life and Death of Jeremy Bentham" is fair game, but I don't think there's any concrete spoilers.
Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me. LOST belongs to a ton of different people, but I think ABC owns the overall rights. Title comes from "Sleep Song" by Secret Garden. Further disclaimers at the end.
Warnings: A little language.
Author's Notes: Written in one sitting, and then lovingly beaten into shape by the fantastic riviyan_questa, who bravely fought through run-on sentences, obscure syntax, and sentence fragments, to make this thing make sense. Much love, and any remaining mistakes are entirely my fault. Feedback of all kinds adored.

Aaron doesn't dream in comic-book frames, like Walt; he doesn't dream in poetry, like Ji Yeon; he doesn't even dream in Clementine's blunt black-and-white text.

Aaron dreams in fleeting images, still frames, and each photograph is unconnected to the last.

Aaron dreams, sometimes, in music.

He doesn't remember meeting Clementine.

She turns up on the front steps of his dormitory without warning, sitting on a duffel bag, studying a book intently and looking for all the world like she belongs in this place. Like she's always been here.

Some of his friends check her out with more interest than strictly necessary. When they ask, he just says that he's always known her.

She stays in his dorm room for three days, and this earns him more mockery, mixed with a little -- is it awe? Yes, he thinks; his friends are awed by Clementine, who saunters through the campus like she owns it, who sits in the quad while he's in class and scribbles in notebooks, who can put down anyone with no more than a word.

When his friends tease him, Aaron just says that it isn't like that, and it's not.

Clementine reminds him of the woman he used to believe was his mother. He loves her, and he's afraid of her. He wants to protect her, and he knows she can protect herself. He's never tried to stop her. He's never even tried to slow her down.

Clementine vanishes after three days. She doesn't tell him where she's going, or where she came from. She doesn't offer a goodbye.

He never expected one.

After she's gone, he finds a folded-up scrap of paper jammed awkwardly in his math textbook. It's ripped out of Joyce:

I will not serve that in which I no longer believe whether it call itself home, my fatherland or my church: and I will try to express myself in some mode of life or art as freely as I can and as wholly as I can, using for my defence the only arms I allow myself to use, silence, exile, and cunning.

He folds it back up and puts it in his bag.

He didn't meet Walt until he was twelve.

Walt told him stories about planes, and islands, and polar bears. Walt told him stories about the woman he used to believe was his mother, and about Uncle Jack. Walt told him stories about the woman who bore him, and about the man who was almost his father. Aaron closed his eyes and listened to the words from a born storyteller. He used to pretend that they were just stories, well-crafted fiction that had nothing to do with him or the people he loved.

He still pretends sometimes.

When he leaves school, he sleeps on the couch of Walt's apartment in Brooklyn while he tries to figure out what happens next.

Walt doesn't ask him what he's doing there. Walt doesn't ask why he left school. Walt doesn't ask him how long he'll be staying.

Aaron doesn't offer any answers. He lies on that couch every night under a thin blanket and listens to Walt's dreams, but Walt's dreams are disturbing and unsettling in a way both of them wish they weren't.

Aaron leaves after a week. He doesn't know what he's looking for, but he knows he won't find it there. He says goodbye to Walt, and thanks him, and leaves.

When he's gone, he finds a page from a comic-book in his hand.

It's a simple drawing of a castle perched on some kind of glass dome in an arctic ocean.

He folds the Joyce scrap into the comic, tells himself he should throw them away, and doesn't.

He met Ji Yeon when he was still too young to think girls were different than boys, and he's never questioned her on anything before.

She meets him in Los Angeles, and he asks how she found him.

She just shrugs.

They go for a walk.

Ji Yeon shouldn't fit into this city, he thinks; she's too natural, too beautiful, too untouched for the smog and commercialism and plasticity of Los Angeles. But they go for a walk, and she looks like she's always lived here, like she belongs here. He feels awkward and out of place beside her.

They talk, but they say nothing. When they come back to where they began he knows nothing more than he did before he started.

She kisses him, quickly, shyly, on the cheek, and says goodbye.

He asks why she came to find him.

She shrugs and is gone.

When he goes back to his room and takes off his jacket, he finds a note card in the pocket, with a line of Korean written neatly in black ink. He struggles to translate it, drawing on a limited knowledge of the language learned a long time ago.

It says, That tree is not rotten.

On the back of the card, in English, are a name and an address.

The address takes him to a marina, and the name takes him to Charlie Hume.

Charlie is even younger than Ji Yeon, but Charlie owns a boat, and Charlie offers to take him anywhere he needs to go.

Aaron admits that he doesn't know where he needs to go.

Charlie doesn't seem to think that's a problem.

They don't talk about payment.

They talk about other things. Aaron lies, makes up a history that doesn't include the things he wishes weren't true. Charlie nods and accepts it and quite obviously doesn't believe a word of it.

Charlie tells him a story about a man and a woman whose love defeated everything that ever tried to stop them. It's a simple story, about waiting, and searching, and faith, and discovery. Charlie loves his parents without question, because his parents have never disappointed or lied to him. Charlie loves the oceans, and his boat.

Aaron shows him the note card, and the comic, and the torn page, and he hopes.

Charlie examines them closely, and then gives them back without comment.

They part ways, amiably, in Britain. Aaron still doesn't know where he's going or why.

He asks Charlie if he has anything to give him.

Charlie says that he has everything he needs already.

Aaron walks into a record store on a whim, buys the first CD he pulls out of the bargain bin, and doesn't look at it until he's safely in his hotel room.

He's somehow unsurprised to discover that he's bought The Best of DriveShaft.

Aaron doesn't know where he's going.

Aaron doesn't know where he's been.

Aaron buys a notebook, and writes his name over and over, trying to make it look right. Aaron Austen. Aaron Shephard. Aaron Littleton. Aaron Pace. Nothing he writes fits. Nothing he writes resonates.

He listens to the CD, but it just sounds like cheap 90s bubblegum rock.

He reads Korean poetry, but it just seems like so many pretty words.

He pages through comic books, but the drawings just seem flat and fake.

He struggles through Joyce, but fuck if he can understand the man.

Nothing fits. Nothing resonates.

He sleeps, and his dreams flicker from image to image with no connection or story. He wanders London, and finds it fake and shallow as Los Angeles or New York or any number of cities. He buys a plane ticket to Australia.

Aaron doesn't know where he's going, but he won't stop until he gets there.

Further disclaimers: the quote that Clementine leaves is from "Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man" by James Joyce. Walt gives a page from "The Green Lantern". Ji Yeon contributes a line from "Tree", a poem by Ch'ŏn Sang-Pyŏng taken from "Back to Heaven". I own none of it and claim no rights.

FIC: Ways To Change The World (we are powerless) (In The Heights)

2009-02-27T21:05:31Z

Title: Ways To Change The World (we are powerless)
Fandom: In The Heights
Pairing: Sonny x Graffiti Pete
Theme set: Delta
Rating: PG
Notes: Underage cousins of bodega workers, unite! …I love these two to a ridiculous degree. Mostly BFF-ness with slashy undertones, plus a healthy dose of Usnavi for good measure. Mostly set within the show, a little bit of backstory and future stuff mixed in. Totally BSed the ages because the boys really do seem like they're in the same age bracket to me even though I read somewhere that that's not true. Numerical, not chronological, order. Abuse of punctuation.

01. Air
Sonny sits on the stoop and watches; Graffiti Pete takes a long, deep breath before picking up the first can of spray paint.

02. Apples
Even though Usnavi hates it, Sonny still lets Pete walk away with free sodas or apples or candy bars – what's the point in working at a bodega if you can't help your friends out once in a while?

03. Beginning
They met the first day of fifth grade: Pete (not yet Graffiti Pete) got in trouble for drawing all over his books and had to sit out recess, and Sonny felt bad and gave him his cookie at lunch; from that moment on, they were friends.

04. Bugs
Graffiti Pete doesn't mean to irritate Usnavi so badly, especially since Usnavi means so much to Sonny, but sometimes it seems like no matter what he does, the guy dislikes him that much more.

05. Coffee
They experiment in the evenings when Sonny's in charge of the store, trying to recreate Usnavi's secret recipes, but nothing they make tastes quite the same.

06. Dark
When the lights go out, Graffiti Pete's impulse is to run to make sure Sonny's okay, and so he does; but Sonny won't leave the store, and the only thing Pete can do is break out the fireworks and stay with him – the idea of finding safety without Sonny never even occurs to him.

07. Despair
Sonny's despair is enough to make Graffiti Pete forget how much he'd butted heads with Usnavi and wish the man would realize that his cousin honestly needs him to stay.

08. Doors
Pete paints a mural over the school doors one weekend in ninth grade; Sonny comes down whenever he gets a free minute, bringing snacks, offering opinions, getting rid of empty paint cans.

09. Drink
The continuing saga of Sonny's quest to get Usnavi to let him have free sodas never fails to entertain Pete.

10. Duty
Part of him knows that Pete is right, this is stupid and dangerous and he's going to get himself killed and do no one any good; the rest of him just knows that Usnavi left him in charge, and this is their livelihood, and he says, "I gotta defend the store, man."

11. Earth
Usnavi says, "We're gonna give a third of the money to you, Sonny," and Pete comes crashing down to Earth; what the hell's going to happen to him if Sonny's got the cash to leave?

12. End
Graffiti Pete isn't sure which feels better, Usnavi's dazed and awed reaction to the mural or Sonny's proud beam.

13. Fall
By September, the barrio doesn't look like the same block; the faces have changed, the salon's gone, the dispatch belongs to someone else; but Usnavi is still pouring café con leche, Vanessa is still coming around, Benny is still working himself half to death; Graffiti Pete's artwork spreads across the walls and awnings of the neighborhood, much of it paid for and commissioned by Sonny.

14. Fire
Nobody, least of all Pete, expected that his backpack full of roman candles would be drafted into service as weapons, but he can't stop to think about it as he struggles to keep the looters at bay, because Sonny needs him right now.

15. Flexible
"I just wish he'd be less strict with my work hours," Sonny complains, expecting sympathy; he's surprised when Pete shrugs and says, "He just wants to make sure you turn out okay."

16. Flying
Pete watches Sonny dancing wildly with Carla and Daniela and can't escape the imagery: Sonny looks like he's flying, untouchable.

17. Food
"I'm hungry," Graffiti Pete grumbles; Sonny throws a Diet Pepsi at his head and says, "Then go get yourself some lunch, dork."

18. Foot
In eighth grade, they ditched school together and walked the George Washington Bridge for no real reason, talking about ways to change the world.

19. Grave
Vanessa teases Sonny about how serious he is, and he blushes and stammers, embarrassed by his own passion; Pete doesn't know how to tell him that it's one of his greatest qualities.

20. Green
The best days are the ones when Graffiti Pete shows up covered in color, red green blue, paint staining his clothes and hands and face, exulting in his newest piece; those are the days when Sonny knows that one day everyone will know his friend's artwork.

21. Head
Sonny isn't exactly at the top of the class, and if Usnavi didn't make him go he'd probably drop out of school altogether, but Graffiti Pete still believes that Sonny's the smartest guy he knows.

22. Hollow
Usnavi pulls the grate down, and Sonny watches anxiously, and the world stops – Pete's heart hammers in his chest as he tries to read Usnavi's expression: he hates it.

23. Honor
Graffiti Pete counts out the money for his supplies and tries to calm himself; Sonny's counting on him for his most important piece yet.

24. Hope
They both want to give the barrio the same thing, really, Graffiti Pete through his art, Sonny through his protests; they want to give their neighborhood a future.

25. Light
"And what am I?" Sonny asks; Pete looks at him thoughtfully and says, "You are a light in a dark and confusing world, my man."

26. Lost
In the blackout, Sonny doesn't know what to do, alone and lost and frightened, and he doesn't know who he's praying harder for, Usnavi or Pete.

27. Metal
The grate is cold and blank and empty, and Graffiti Pete can feel the excitement of a new project stirring in his belly as he looks at it.

28. New
Sonny starts a new rant about how they need to rearrange the power structure in the country; Graffiti Pete smiles as it puts a picture of a new mural in his head, and his fingers itch for a spray can.

29. Old
There's something about the way Pete looks at his ruined, tagged-over painting that completely breaks Sonny's heart.

30. Peace
Sonny thinks he'll never see anyone look as perfectly centered as Graffiti Pete does with a can of spray paint in his hand.

31. Poison
"Yo, your cousin been turnin' you against me?" Pete asks, half-joking half-not; Sonny doesn't look at him but snaps, "He ain't like that."

32. Pretty
Sonny is speechless for a long moment, staring at the wall as Graffiti Pete watches him anxiously; finally he manages to say, "Whoa."

33. Rain [followed by 34 Regret]
It rains the day Sonny leaves the Heights for a place he never thought he'd go – college, to major in political science – and Pete fails to meet him at the bodega to see him off.

34. Regret [follows 33 Rain]
Sonny swallows back the thick feeling in his throat and follows Usnavi out the door – only then does he see the mural painted on the walls opposite the bodega, the word goodbye dancing over the bright pictures.

35. Roses
Sonny gives Nina roses as a going-away present and Graffiti Pete digs his hands into his pockets and pretends not to see.

36. Secret
The first time Graffiti Pete takes him along on an overnight art project, Sonny has to work to contain his excitement; it feels like he's being trusted with an important secret.

37. Snakes
"Yo, man," Sonny says, "It's like…like…like snakes and rats, y'know, the whole system's…?" and Graffiti Pete answers truthfully, "You drunk, man."

38. Snow
It snows at Christmas, and Vanessa laughs herself sick watching the two boys playing around in the street like children again.

39. Solid
"So we still good, man?" Sonny asks worriedly, and breathes out a sigh of relief when Graffiti Pete nods and says, "Yo, we cool."

40. Spring
Sonny daydreams about school ending for the year, the long summer full of possibilities stretching in front of him, and his schoolwork goes undone a little while longer.

41. Stable
Graffiti Pete tries, for a little while, to resent Usnavi as much as Usnavi appears to resent him; but he can't, because he knows that if Sonny has a chance at something more in this life, it's because of Usnavi.

42. Strange
Everything changes, too fast for Sonny to do anything about it; the salon's moving to the Bronx, the Rosarios are selling the dispatch, Vanessa's moving, Usnavi's leaving the country, Abuela's gone, and all Sonny can do is stand in the middle of it, begging for someone to hear him.

43. Summer
Sonny tells an involved story about a friend of his getting trapped in the subway; Graffiti Pete wipes away sweat and laughs as the others groan aloud.

44. Taboo
"Why don't you ever paint on canvas?" Sonny asks once, curious; Graffiti Pete makes a face and says, "This is real art."

45. Ugly
Usnavi calls Graffiti Pete a vandal and a punk and a criminal; Sonny looks at Pete's paintings and at the disfiguring gang tags and doesn't understand how his cousin can't see the difference.

46. War
It's a good-natured, ongoing war; Sonny's attempts to get better working conditions and extra benefits, Usnavi's attempts to teach Sonny a work ethic and make something of him; Graffiti Pete sits on the sidelines and alternately cheers on both sides.

47. Water
Benny's busy with being a big businessman, so Sonny and Pete loyally open up the corner fire hydrant in his stead; Pete expects Usnavi to call him a vandal again when he finds out, but instead the bodega owner laughs and lets it go.

48. Welcome
Usnavi and Vanessa pick him up from the airport, and Benny meets them at the dispatch to say hello, but Sonny doesn't feel like he's truly back at home until he walks into the bodega and finds Graffiti Pete waiting for him.

49. Winter
It's gotta be about a hundred degrees outside, but Pete still feels frozen inside, as Sonny stubbornly avoids looking at him, jaw clenched.

50. Wood
Sonny feels the grain of the wood under his fingers, catches Graffiti Pete's eye, and knows that this is worth it, what matters in life, what the two of them are fighting for; this community has to be preserved, somehow, and right now they have the power to do it, with nothing more than a backpack full of fireworks and a baseball bat.

FIC: Five Reasons Buck Is Candy's Best Friend (Zanna, Don't!)

2009-02-27T20:58:48Z

Title: Five Reasons Buck Is Candy's Best Friend
Author: chicafrom3
Fandom: Zanna, Don't! (musical by Tim Acito)
Pairing/Characters: Buck & Candy, minor side pairings, guest appearance by Tank
Rating/Category: PG/Gen
Prompt: "Candy & Buck, what he sticks around for"
Spoilers: for the premise of the show, but set pre-canon
Summary: There's more to Candy and Buck's relationship than meets the eye.
Notes/Warnings: First attempt to write Zanna, Don't! fic. Written for smallfandomfest. I've been meaning to post this to this journal since November. Uhm. Oops?

1. Because she always wants what she thinks is best for the people she cares about. And contrary to what some people think, she does care about Buck.

"You should go out with Rick Everett," she told him over lunch one day.

He blinked at her. When it was clear she wasn't going to elaborate, he said tentatively, "Isn't this more Zanna's terr—"

"He suggested it, but I think it's a good idea. You'd be cute together. And you know, Rick's pretty okay."

Resounding approval, he thought, except that for Candy it kind of was.

"And then we could double date," she chirped. "Won't that be fun? You and Rick, and me and Suzie!"

"Uh, Candy, aren't you – " jumping the gun a little?

"Zanna says Rick thinks you're cute," she added in a faux-confidential tone.

Well. In that case.

"Are you going to finish your Coke?" Candy asked.

2. Because when push comes to shove, she pushes back. Harder.

"I will not put up with this!" she snapped, looking so completely outraged that he almost wanted to laugh, despite feeling more completely miserable than he ever had before.

"Candy – "

"He cannot get away with this, Buck! I won't allow it!"

"Candy – "

"Who does he think he is?" she fumed. "This is outrageous. This is beyond outrageous. No one cheats on my best friend and gets away with it!"

"Candy."

Honestly, he didn't really want her to stop. It made him feel a little better, to know that someone was so completely on his side.

She tossed her hair and dropped her clipboard on top of all her textbooks – which he was, of course, carrying for her – and said, "I'm going to go give him a piece of my mind! Wait here."

That, on the other hand, might be going too far. "Candy!"

But she was already gone.

He chased her through the school – damn, but the girl could move. It probably didn't help that he was still carrying her books, on second thought, but it was a little too late to do anything about that now. He caught up with her in front of Rick's locker, where she was already berating a shell-shocked Rick.

"You do not cheat on my best friend! What on Earth is wrong with you? You have this fantastic guy who's completely committed to you and you cheat on him? If my girlfriend were as stupid as you, I'd dump her right then and there – do you have any idea how lucky you are that Buck has been wasting his time with you?"

"Um," Rick squeaked.

Buck couldn't help being a little satisfied that for once, it was someone else Candy wasn't letting finish a sentence. Plus, seeing his cheating (ex-)boyfriend so at a loss for words because of a girl half his height was just really, really funny.

3. Because she knows when to not be around. Sometimes, anyway.

So, he was spending the evening with Tank, doing a guy's-night-in thing. The complete series of Buffy on DVD and double fudge brownies, who needed anything more? And they were having fun, cheering on Buffy, bitching about their pathetic love lives, and Tank seriously had to do something about his crush on Zanna soon or Buck was going to have to strangle him, best-guy-friend or not.

His phone rang halfway through "Once More With Feeling" and he kind of picked it up without checking the caller ID first, mostly because he was halfway hoping it was Gary, the cute guy from his swim team, and the next thing he knew Candy was complaining that Suzie had bailed out on their date for some kind of family thing and then inviting herself over while Tank (who didn't hate Candy but also didn't particularly like her) was desperately miming at him no no no over and over again. What could he do?

He said, "Well, Candy, actually – "

"Great!" she said. "I'll be over in half an hour!"

Tank shook his head sadly as Buck hung up the phone. "Man," he said, "We gotta teach you how to say no."

Buck shrugged helplessly. What was he supposed to do?

Candy showed up precisely thirty minutes later with signup sheets for next year's school musical, which she was already working on. She pronounced their brownies underdone and turned off Buffy so she could bitch about Suzie bailing on her. Tank made faces at her every time her back was turned, and Buck desperately bit his cheek and tried not to laugh.

"Uh, Candy," Buck tried to say when she paused to take a breath, "this is kind of suppo—"

"I really appreciate you letting me come over, you're like the best friend ever, Buck." She gave him a hug, and he, well, he just sort of melted. He couldn't throw her out after that, no matter how much she was intruding on his guy time.

And, bless her selfish little heart, somewhere around the time she was trying to convince both of them to sign up for the school musical despite Buck's inability to act and Tank's preference to stay behind the scenes, she started to realize that she was, in fact, intruding. Probably in large part due to Tank's less-than-veiled hints, but still.

"You should have just said," she told Buck with mock irritation. "I can entertain myself for an evening. I have things to do for the drama club anyway. You need to speak up more!"

"But I – "

"Have fun with Tank. He's kind of cute, I guess," she added doubtfully. "I'll see you tomorrow, bright and early!" And she was gone before he could even try to point out the complete ridiculousness of implying that anything would ever happen between him and Tank.

So instead he laughed and went back to Buffy.

4. Because he kind of envies her.

He'd never been the guy people really noticed, since long before he had Candy interrupting him on a daily basis. He was quiet, kind of dorky, not one to like being the center of attention. He always had an instinctual, bone-deep feeling that nobody really cared what he thought about any given topic.

Maybe that was why he got along so well with Tank, who was never really comfortable unless everything was set to music.

Ever since he and Candy became friends and he became her unofficial assistant, he could see firsthand what it was like to be so completely sure of yourself, to have opinions and be confident that the rest of the world should know and share in them. And it was...deeply attractive. He started trying to voice his own opinions – which didn't always work, admittedly; as many good qualities as Candy had, listening to others wasn't listed among them – but sometimes it worked; sometimes people heard him; sometimes he could even finagle Candy into hearing him.

Even if she didn't always realize that was what she was doing. Maybe especially when she didn't realize that she was listening to – even agreeing with – what he thought about something.

But that didn't matter.

What mattered was that even when she really ticked him off, he always wanted, on some level, to be her. Or to be like her, at least. To not be afraid of anything.

On some level, he always hoped that by following her around and being her friend and helping with every cause she happened to pick up he would somehow figure out how she did it.

It hadn't happened yet, but he kept hoping.

5. Because she's his best friend.

Maybe it is just that simple. Is that such a bad thing?

The weekend before school started, they holed up at her house for one last end-of-summer sleepover with popcorn and cheesy movies and Candy's stack of back-to-school activities and controversies. Heather Has One Mommy and One Daddy. The first issue of the school paper. Coach Addison's baby shower. ("Yes," he assured her, "I reminded Gary about our gift.") The school musical. (He finally promised to audition, but nothing more concrete than that. Maybe he could get an ensemble part. Or work on the costumes.)

She asked him about how things were going with Gary and he asked after Suzie. They threw popcorn at each other and raided the kitchen for her mom's fresh-baked chocolate-chip cookies. They discussed the upcoming school year and decided to make an effort to support Heartsville in its less successful sports endeavors, like football. He asked what the rules of football were, and she tried to explain them as best she could – he had a feeling she didn't know, either. But she said there was dancing involved, so that could be fun? And Tank would probably tag along, and he'd convince Zanna, and wherever Zanna was there was usually a crowd.

She was already making plans for the senior prom.

Sometimes Buck was pretty sure Candy was completely crazy.

But he loved her anyway.

After all, she was his best friend.

mini_nanowrimo: week 5

2008-11-30T01:44:21Z

"My name is Natalie, but call me Nat."

"I'm Christine. Call me Chris."

"I'm Jolene." Laugh. "No, really! Just call me Jo."

"I'm Annabeth -- call me Anna, my parents were mad."

She likes names. Especially ones that can be abbreviated. She only recently figured that out about herself, but it's true.

"I'm Margaret. Call me Meg."

She tracks her own movements obsessively, looking for patterns. Names that can be abbreviated, and she thinks she might have gone by a nickname back when she had a real name. Dry, hot, tourist towns, and she wonders if she grew up in a town like this one, or that one.

She has a collection of props. Wedding rings, a few dozen; she picks them up each in turn, sometimes, turns them over and over in her hands, looking at the different styles and jewels and cuts, wondering if one of them is genuinely hers. Wondering if someone ever asked her to be a wife, put one of these rings on her finger.

"My husband Tom's in insurance."

"Jimmy, my husband? He's a truck driver."

"Oh, Luke's a cop back home. It's crazy, I don't think I knew what I was getting into when I married him."

"Will works in a bar, but he's really a painter." Shy giggle. "I modeled for one of his paintings...that's how we met."

"No, I'm not married. Never met anyone I could see doing it with, I guess."

Wallets with a variety of IDs -- driver's licenses, state IDs, passports, even a military ID -- in a variety of names, with a variety of birthdates, from a variety of states, all sporting a picture of the same face she sees in the mirror.

She has an ID from every one of the lower 48 states. She's a little proud of that. She rifles through them, wondering, wondering -- which of these states is she from?

she has cell phones. Some high-tech and classy and with more features than she knows how to use. Some cheap and old and so clunky that people laugh when they see her using them, tease her about what decade she's living in.

"Oh, I couldn't live without my iPhone. What did anyone do before these?"

"I'm a complete Luddite. My boyfriend always said I can't work anything more complicated than a rotary phone. ...well, ex-boyfriend."

"All I want from my phone is for it to make phone calls, you know?"

"I couldn't be disconnected from my e-mail for so long, what if someone needed to contact me?"

She has a full wardrobe, ranging from jeans and cheap T-shirts to classy designer suits to minidresses with ridiculously high heels. Changing personalities is easier when you're changing clothes at the same time.

She wonders what she would wear if she weren't playing a role.

She lies awake at night -- on a bus, on a plane, in a car, in a cheap motel room, in an expensive hotel suite, on someone else's couch, in someone else's bed -- and tries so hard to remember who she was before she started being anyone you want, honey.

She wonders, but the one thing she knows is that she'll never know.

*~*~*

"There are ghosts in the walls," she says, but no one listens, not even the ghosts.

The ghosts don't come out of the walls. Not while she's around, anyway, it's not like she knows what they do when she's not there. The ghosts don't seem to know that they're ghosts, and they stay in the walls, and nobody listens when she tries to tell them.

"You're dead," she tells one, gently, late one night, "Go get some rest, you're dead," but the ghost doesn't listen.

She figures she should probably be used to being ignored, unheard, irrelevant, but it's still annoying.

One ghost – a little boy, she thinks, just a baby really, she thinks – sobs all night, because no will come to comfort him. She creeps through the hallways to his corner, croons, "Bye-lo, baby" and "I hear you, honey" and "You're dead, sweetie, nothing can hurt you now" but he doesn't hear her and nothing changes.

She halfway wishes he would come out of the wall, so she could at least cuddle him, the poor baby boy, but the ghosts don't come out of the walls. Not while she's around.

It's an old house. The walls are wood, the floors are wood, everything is wood. Once she tried prying away the boards that made up the closet walls in her room, to climb in after the ghosts, but she couldn't budge them. Solidly built, they say. They don't make 'em like this old thing anymore, they say. That's real craftsmanship, they say.

She curses them, but no one listens.

She can't go follow them, and they won't go away.

"There are ghosts in the walls," she says, but no one listens, not even the ghosts.

mini_nanowrimo: week 4

2008-11-24T05:18:38Z

"I don't think this is working out," Nick said.

Michael had been lying on the couch, leafing through a Whitman collection and absentmindedly kneading Dervish's fur, but at those unexpected words he went still. The cat purred on, ignorant of the sudden mood shift. "What?"

Nick stood in the bedroom doorway, classic jeans and t-shirt chic, hands in his pockets and hair in his face. He looked completely jumpable. "I don't think this is working." He stared at the floor. "I think we should break up."

It wasn't like Michael had never heard those words before. Sometimes he'd even said them himself. Nick wasn't his first boyfriend; Nick wasn't even his first serious boyfriend. But the fact was he honestly hadn't seen it coming this time. Nick was great – smart, funny, laid back, really fucking gorgeous – and they had a good time together, they fit well together, they were comfortable together. Michael had even gotten used to Nick's psychotic cat.

"It's not you," Nick said. "It's not me, either, really, I don't think. I like you a lot, Michael. I like being with you. It just seems like this is a bad time for both of us, you know? I mean, my work, your school, rent, my dad – it's kind of a crazy time."

"I guess I get your point," Michael said, not lying. He did see what Nick was getting at. Their lives were hectic right now.

Dervish meowed her irritation at the lack of attention and pushed at Michael's hand with her head until he started petting her again.

"And, you know, I love you. But when the timing's off – sometimes love isn't enough to make things work out, right?" Nick spread his hands helplessly. "I wanna stay friends with you. I don't want to miss out on having you in my life. And maybe sometime down the road we can make it work out, being an us...but not now."

"Yeah," Michael said slowly. He watched Dervish intently, because if he looked up he might see Nick's face, and that might hurt a lot right now. Then he said, "I don't want to lose you, either. I'd like to stay friends."

Nick sounded relieved. "Good." He came over to the couch and pried Dervish off Michael's chest; she protested loudly, dug her claws into Michael's t-shirt, and hung on for dear life, but eventually Nick managed to extricate her. He put her on the floor and she immediately bolted for a hiding spot behind the TV. Nick took her spot, sitting comfortably on Michael's chest – and, thankfully, throwing most of his weight on the back of the couch – and said, "You're kind of the best boyfriend I've ever had."

"Only kind of?" Michael raised an eyebrow. "My family adores you, you know, what am I supposed to tell them?"

Nick shrugged and pulled gently at one of Michael's braids. "I was thinking I should probably move out," he said. "My buddy Ian was looking for a new roommate anyway, I could call him."

"Yeah, that sounds like a good idea." Michael traced a pattern on the leg of Nick's jeans. Ian was a good guy, he'd make a good roommate.

"Only his complex doesn't allow pets?"

Michael paused. "Are you asking me if Dervish can stay with me?"

"If you don't mind. She needs a good home," Nick said defensively, "she already adores you, and anyway it would give me an excuse to come over and see you a lot. Not that I'll need an excuse, really."

"Mmm. Yeah, fine, she can stay here."

"And I'll keep paying my share of the rent 'til you find another roommate."

"Thanks," Michael said. "I appreciate it."

Nick leaned over, kissed him lightly. "You're gonna be okay, Michael," he said. "And, I mean, I know you always are – but I mean really okay. Seriously okay."

"Sure," Michael said. "And one day it's gonna work out with someone."

"Maybe it'll even be with me."

Michael smiled a little. "May be."

Nick kissed him again, climbed off him. "I do love you," he said, uncharacteristically soft. "And I am sorry about this."

"Don't be," Michael said. "Do what you gotta do, right? And maybe it's all for the best."

Because Michael Taylor was always okay. It was part of who he was.

"I'll call Ian," Nick said. "And then...I guess I'll start packing. You can go back to reading."

"Sure," Michael said, but when Nick disappeared into the bedroom he didn't pick his book back up. Instead he lay there on the couch, stared at the ceiling, and mentally tried to pinpoint the moment they'd lost control of their relationship, but instead all he could think about was the day he'd first met Nick.

"I am so screwed," he told the ceiling.

"What?" Nick called from the bedroom.

"Nothing. I was talking to myself."

*~*~*

Thump, thump.

Liam's head hurt.

Thump, thump.

Liam's head hurt and his mouth tasted evil.

Thump, thump.

Liam's head hurt and his mouth tasted evil and he needed to throw up and his lips were drier than the Sahara Desert and oh god who'd turned the lights up so brightly and why wouldn't that pounding stop?

Thump, thump.

Cursing under his breath, Liam slowly and painfully dragged himself more or less to an upright position. He was on the floor, he noted distantly; apparently making it to the bed or the couch hadn't been an option. He couldn't really remember much about last night, which neither surprised nor bothered him. He considered the possibility of standing up.

Thump, thump.

Why wouldn't that godawful pounding stop? Irritated, he dragged himself to his feet, stood very still for a moment until the room stopped spinning, and staggered to the kitchen.

The drawer by the sink was empty, and he slammed it shut furiously. What the hell. He'd bought a new stash and put it there just yesterday, hadn't he? Well, maybe not yesterday. But recently. He clearly remembered that.

Thump, thump.

How the hell could he be out already? Furious, he grabbed the last bottle of whisky from the counter and took a long drink, which at least helped with the nasty taste in his mouth –

Thump, thump.

– if not with that annoying pounding in his head –

Thump, thump.

"Liam, I know you're in there and I'm not going away so you might as well open the damn door!"

Oh. Maybe it wasn't in his head. Keeping the whisky bottle firmly in hand, he stumbled back into the front room, undid the locks on the door – which was more difficult than it probably should have been – and opened it. "Ryan," he greeted, and took a swig from his bottle.

"Liam," his brother answered with an obvious lack of pleasure. He pointed at the bottle. "You know it's like two in the afternoon, right?"

Liam shrugged. "Hair of the dog. What are you doing here?"

"I'm worried about you. Can I come in?"

He shrugged again. Held the door open to let Ryan in.

Ryan looked around the cramped, dirty apartment with clear distaste, then said, "How are you paying for this?"

"What?" Liam staggered over to the couch, sank down to a seat.

"I heard you lost your job." Ryan didn't sit down. Liam suspected he was afraid to.

"Uh. Yeah, I guess I did...it was a shitty job, anyway." He'd gotten fired, actually, for coming in shitfaced. Not that he was going to tell Ryan that. Ryan wasn't half as judgmental and prone to freaking out as, say, Tommy, but he was still Liam's older brother and still not at all pleased with how Liam's life was turning out.

"So how are you paying your rent?"

Liam examined his watch, a birthday present from Paul two years ago. "I have savings."

"Which I kind of doubt you're spending on things like rent. I mean, who needs to pay their bills when you can buy more alcohol and drugs instead, right?"

Liam shrugged and took another drink.

Ryan sighed. Loudly. "Go take a shower," he said. "Put on clean clothes. Or at least the cleanest clothes you can find. I'll take you to lunch. When was the last time you ate something?"

"I'm not hungry," Liam said. "Thank you for worrying about me, but please just go away, okay?"

"William Andrew Donnelly, get your scrawny ass in that shower."

"Fuck you."

"Lee!" Ryan grabbed him by the shoulder, shook him roughly; Liam almost dropped his whisky. "Paul's dead," Ryan said harshly, and Liam did drop his bottle. It crashed to the floor and shattered. "He's not coming back. And I'm sorry, but you sitting around killing yourself slowly doesn't fix anything!"

Hands shaking badly, Liam slid off the couch and started picking up bits of broken glass.

He hadn't cried when Paul died. Hadn't cried at the funeral.

Had hardly been sober since.

"Liam, you can't keep doing this to yourself," Ryan said. He sounded like he was almost crying. Why? "You can't keep doing this to us."

Liam gave up and dropped the glass, ducked his head down to hide in his knees. Why did they care what he did, anyway?

"Does it help?" Ryan demanded. "I mean, for you, Liam, does being constantly out of your head help? Does it make it stop hurting?"

He didn't look up, but shook his head a little. If he was honest, no. Even when he was stoned he woke up knowing Paul wasn't there anymore, and it hurt. But it was better than the alternative.

Wasn't it?

Liam didn't remember what it was like to be sober.

"Then why do you do this?" Ryan begged.

Because facing the world without a shield was a terrifying idea, Liam thought, but what he said, in a miserable, broken whisper, was "I don't know anymore."

*~*~*

"Michael," Irene said, dropping into the seat across from him rather more dramatically than was actually called for, and dumping a double handful of shopping bags on the café table. "I'm late."

"You're late," Michael agreed. "Isn't that supposed to be my line?"

She shrugged, tossed her hair over her shoulder. "Sorry, I got held up at Firefly Jewelry. Are you going to eat that?" she asked, poking at the remaining fries on his plate.

"Yes, but help yourself anyway. Firefly Jewelry?"

"On Newbury Street?"

He blinked. "Do you seriously have the money to shop on Newbury Street? Because if so, hi, what are you buying me for Christmas?"

She made a face at him and popped a fry in her mouth. "No, I don't have the money to shop Newbury, but I like to torture myself with all the pretty things I can't buy. But! I did get some Christmas shopping done. Not there. Including your gift. Don't you dare look."

Irene had talked in fragments since Michael had met her, and he didn't bother commenting on it. "How did the fashion shoot go?"

"Fine. Models are divas. That's not news." She sighed. "It was a paycheck, anyway."

"Yeah, I need a few more of those."

"How's David? Couldn't make lunch?" She took another fry.

"No, uh..." Michael cleared his throat. "That's over. We broke up."

"Really?" Irene looked up at that, really paid attention. "That's too bad, you two were good together."

"Yeah, well. It was a while ago. We should really talk more often so you know these things."

She ignored that. "I can't believe you didn't tell me sooner! What happened?"

He took a drink from his Coke. "He got a job in London. I wasn't going to move overseas and he didn't want to do the long-distance thing so...we broke up. Best thing for everyone, you know?"

"You have the most ridiculously civil breakups of anyone I have ever met," she said, a little sullenly, and he laughed –

"It's to compensate for the fact that you have the most ridiculously dramatic breakups of anyone I have ever met."

"Yeah, whatever." She waved a waiter over and ordered her own soda and "more fries, please".

When the waiter was gone, Michael asked, "Are you really not going to eat anything but fries?"

"I've been snacking all day, I'm not that hungry. But I can't resist their fries." She sighed again, sat back. "So. Off the subject of miserable love lives. How's work? You have any shoots lined up or are you finally going to give in and join me in photographing for pop media?"

He snorted. "I actually do have a job lined up – there's this indie rock band that wants me to do the photos for their liner notes. They're paying pretty well, so I guess they've got a decent following for not having a label."

"Ugh! That sounds fun, I hate you, I have to take pictures of stick-thin models wearing trendy clothes." Irene made a disgusted face, then immediately beamed at their waiter as he put a glass of soda in front of her. "Thank you! Anyway. You're a good photographer, Michael, you deserve to be working regularly. You could be a staff photographer somewhere – "

"I really don't want to be a staff photographer somewhere."

"It'd mean regular paychecks," she pointed out.

"It'd mean not being able to turn down a job if I really, really hate the other people involved," Michael pointed back.

She thought about that, then said, "Yes, that is the part of my job I despise the most. But still. It's part of that whole whatdoyoucallit thing. Growing up."

"I like being independent," he told her. "I like choosing what jobs I'll take. I like choosing who I work with. And I have enough inherited money that I can afford to be independent, and turn down jobs just because I don't want to work with someone."

She stuck her tongue out at him. "Rich kids suck."

"And you're implying that I'm the immature one here?" He laughed. "If I wanted to be a real grownup I wouldn't be a photographer."

"Well, there is that." She accepted her fries from the waiter and bit into one. "Plus there's me around to remind you why staff work sucks."

"Exactly! That's why I hang out with you." He paused. "And you hang out with me because...?"

"Because of all my college friends, you are the least annoyingly demanding."

"Thank you," Michael said, and laughed. "I try my best."

*~*~*

When Michael arrived, the members of Black Sunshine were already in his studio and waiting. And, apparently, killing time by running through their setlist. He could hear the guitars and drums before he walked into the studio.

"Hey. Michael Taylor? I'm Roden MacCullum, the band's manager – we spoke earlier?"

"Mr. MacCullum," Michael greeted, shaking the lanky man's hand. "Glad to finally meet you in person."

Roden MacCullum flashed a (fairly attractive) charming smile. "Please, call me Roden. I hope you don't mind – we got here early, your assistant let us in, the boys thought they'd make use of the time to work on a couple songs.

Michael smiled back. He couldn't help it. "Not a problem. You want to introduce me to them now?"

"Right! Let's go."

When they stepped inside, the drummer crashed to a halt, noticing them immediately. The rest of the band took another couple bars, but stopped and gave apologetic smiles.

Michael sized them up quickly.

Four men, lead singer plus two guitarists plus drummer, late twenties to mid thirties maybe, all in basic jeans-and-T-shirt combos. Well, Michael assumed they were all dressed that way – he couldn't really see what the drummer was wearing. All fairly attractive. The height difference would be a problem – the lead guitarist was at least a foot taller than the bassist. And the astonishingly ugly duster the lead guitarist was wearing would have to go or it would be the only thing anyone remembered of these pictures.

"Guys," Roden said. "This is the photographer, Michael Taylor. Mr. Taylor...the band. Kyle Dempsey, lead singer, Liam Donnelly, lead guitar, Johnny Nolan, bass guitar, Patrick o'hArgain, drummer."

"Call me Michael."

"Nice to meet you, Michael," Kyle said amiably. "You're gonna take pictures of us?"

Master of the obvious. "That's what you're paying me for," Michael answered cheerfully, and started to check his equipment.

This afternoon was going to be interesting.

*~*~*

1. Because she always wants what she thinks is best for the people she cares about. And contrary to what some people think, she does care about Buck.

"You should go out with Rick Everett," she told him over lunch one day.

He blinked at her. When it was clear she wasn't going to elaborate, he said tentatively, "Isn't this more Zanna's terr—"

"He suggested it, but I think it's a good idea. You'd be cute together. And Rick's pretty okay."

Resounding approval, he thought, except that for Candy it kind of was.

"And then we could double date," she chirped. "Won't that be fun? You and Rick, and me and Suzie!"

"Uh, Candy, aren't you – " jumping things a little?

"Zanna says Rick thinks you're cute," she added in a faux-confidential tone.

Well. In that case.

"Are you going to finish your Coke?" Candy asked.

2. Because when push comes to shove, she pushes back harder.

"I will not put up with this!" she snapped, looking so completely outraged that he almost wanted to laugh, despite feeling more completely miserable than he ever had before.

"Candy – "

"He cannot get away with this, Buck! I won't allow it!"

"Candy – "

"Who does he think he is?" she fumed. "This is outrageous. This is beyond outrageous. No one cheats on my best friend and gets away with it!"

"Candy."

Honestly, he didn't really want her to stop. It made him feel a little better, to know that someone was so completely on his side.

She tossed her hair and dropped her clipboard on top of all her textbooks – which he was, of course, carrying for her – and said, "I'm going to go give him a piece of my mind! Wait here."

That, on the other hand, might be going too far. "Candy!"

But she was already gone.

He chased her through the school – damn, but the girl could move. It probably didn't help that he was still carrying her books, on second thought, but it was a little too late to do anything about that. He caught up with her in front of Rick's locker, where she was already berating a shell-shocked Rick.

"You do not cheat on my best friend! What on Earth is wrong with you? You have this fantastic guy who's completely committed to you and you cheat on him? If my girlfriend were as stupid as you, I'd dump her right then and there – do you have any idea how lucky you are that Buck has been wasting his time with you?"

"Um," Rick squeaked.

Buck couldn't help being a little satisfied that for once, it was someone else Candy wasn't letting finish a sentence. Plus, seeing his cheating (ex-)boyfriend so at a loss for words because of a girl half his height was just really, really funny.

3. Because she knows when to not be around. Sometimes, anyway.

So, he was spending the evening with Tank, doing a guy's-night-in thing. Buffy on DVD and double fudge brownies, who needed anything more? And they were having fun, cheering on Buffy, bitching about their pathetic love lives, and Tank seriously had to do something about his crush on Zanna soon or Buck was going to have to strangle him, best-guy-friend or not.

His phone rang halfway through "Once More With Feeling" and he kind of picked it up without checking the caller ID first, and the next thing he knew Candy was complaining that Suzie had bailed out on their date for some kind of family thing and then inviting herself over while Tank (who didn't hate Candy but also didn't particularly like her) was desperately miming at him no no no over and over again. What could he do?

He said, "Well, Candy, actually – "

"Great!" she said. "I'll be over in half an hour!"

Tank shook his head sadly as Buck hung up the phone. "Man," he said, "We gotta teach you how to say no."

Buck shrugged helplessly.

*~*~*

1. Because she always wants what she thinks is best for the people she cares about. And contrary to what some people think, she does care about Buck.

"You should go out with Rick Everett," she told him over lunch one day.

He blinked at her. When it was clear she wasn't going to elaborate, he said tentatively, "Isn't this more Zanna's terr—"

"He suggested it, but I think it's a good idea. You'd be cute together. And Rick's pretty okay."

Resounding approval, he thought, except that for Candy it kind of was.

"And then we could double date," she chirped. "Won't that be fun? You and Rick, and me and Suzie!"

"Uh, Candy, aren't you – " jumping things a little?

"Zanna says Rick thinks you're cute," she added in a faux-confidential tone.

Well. In that case.

"Are you going to finish your Coke?" Candy asked.

2. Because when push comes to shove, she pushes back harder.

"I will not put up with this!" she snapped, looking so completely outraged that he almost wanted to laugh, despite feeling more completely miserable than he ever had before.

"Candy – "

"He cannot get away with this, Buck! I won't allow it!"

"Candy – "

"Who does he think he is?" she fumed. "This is outrageous. This is beyond outrageous. No one cheats on my best friend and gets away with it!"

"Candy."

Honestly, he didn't really want her to stop. It made him feel a little better, to know that someone was so completely on his side.

She tossed her hair and dropped her clipboard on top of all her textbooks – which he was, of course, carrying for her – and said, "I'm going to go give him a piece of my mind! Wait here."

That, on the other hand, might be going too far. "Candy!"

But she was already gone.

He chased her through the school – damn, but the girl could move. It probably didn't help that he was still carrying her books, on second thought, but it was a little too late to do anything about that. He caught up with her in front of Rick's locker, where she was already berating a shell-shocked Rick.

"You do not cheat on my best friend! What on Earth is wrong with you? You have this fantastic guy who's completely committed to you and you cheat on him? If my girlfriend were as stupid as you, I'd dump her right then and there – do you have any idea how lucky you are that Buck has been wasting his time with you?"

"Um," Rick squeaked.

Buck couldn't help being a little satisfied that for once, it was someone else Candy wasn't letting finish a sentence. Plus, seeing his cheating (ex-)boyfriend so at a loss for words because of a girl half his height was just really, really funny.

3. Because she knows when to not be around. Sometimes, anyway.

So, he was spending the evening with Tank, doing a guy's-night-in thing. Buffy on DVD and double fudge brownies, who needed anything more? And they were having fun, cheering on Buffy, bitching about their pathetic love lives, and Tank seriously had to do something about his crush on Zanna soon or Buck was going to have to strangle him, best-guy-friend or not.

His phone rang halfway through "Once More With Feeling" and he kind of picked it up without checking the caller ID first, mostly because he was halfway hoping it was Gary, the cute guy from his swim team, and the next thing he knew Candy was complaining that Suzie had bailed out on their date for some kind of family thing and then inviting herself over while Tank (who didn't hate Candy but also didn't particularly like her) was desperately miming at him no no no over and over again. What could he do?

He said, "Well, Candy, actually – "

"Great!" she said. "I'll be over in half an hour!"

Tank shook his head sadly as Buck hung up the phone. "Man," he said, "We gotta teach you how to say no."

Buck shrugged helplessly. What was he supposed to do?

Candy showed up precisely thirty minutes later with signup sheets for next year's school musical, which she was already working on. She pronounced their brownies underdone and turned off Buffy so she could bitch about Suzie bailing on her. Tank made faces at her every time her back was turned, and Buck desperately bit his cheek and tried not to laugh.

"Uh, Candy," Buck tried to say when she paused to take a breath, "this is kind of suppo—"

"I really appreciate you letting me come over, you're like the best friend ever, Buck." She gave him a hug, and he, well, he just sort of melted. He couldn't throw her out after that, no matter how much she was intruding on his guy time.

And, bless her selfish little heart, somewhere around the time she was trying to convince both of them to sign up for the school musical despite Buck's inability to act and Tank's preference to stay behind the scenes, she started to realize that she was, in fact, intruding. Probably in large part due to Tank's less-than-veiled hints, but still.

"You should have just said," she told Buck with mock irritation. "I can entertain myself for an evening. I have things to do for the drama club anyway. You need to speak up more!"

"But I – "

"Have fun with Tank. He's kind of cute," she added doubtfully. "I'll see you tomorrow, bright and early!" And she was gone before he could even try to point out the complete ridiculousness of implying that anything would ever happen between him and Tank.

So instead he laughed and went back to Buffy.

4. Because he kind of envies her.

He'd never been the guy people really noticed, since long before he had Candy interrupting him on a daily basis. He was quiet, kind of dorky, not one to like being the center of attention. He always had an instinctual, bone-deep feeling that nobody really cared what he thought about any given topic.

Maybe that was why he got along so well with Tank, who was never really comfortable unless everything was set to music.

Ever since he and Candy became friends and he became her unofficial assistant, he could see firsthand what it was like to be so completely sure of yourself, to have opinions and be confident that the rest of the world should know and share in them. And it was...deeply attractive. He started trying to voice his own opinions – which didn't always work, admittedly; as many good qualities as Candy had, listening to others wasn't listed among them – but sometimes it worked; sometimes people heard him; sometimes he could even finagle Candy into hearing him.

Even if she didn't always realize that was what she was doing. Maybe especially when she didn't realize that she was listening to – even agreeing with – what he thought about something.

But that didn't matter.

What mattered was that even when she really ticked him off, he always wanted, on some level, to be her. Or to be like her, at least. To not be afraid of anything.

On some level, he always hoped that by following her around and being her friend and helping with every cause she happened to pick up he would somehow figure out how she did it.

It hadn't happened yet, but he kept hoping.

5. Because she's his best friend.

*~*~*

1. Because she always wants what she thinks is best for the people she cares about. And contrary to what some people think, she does care about Buck.

"You should go out with Rick Everett," she told him over lunch one day.

He blinked at her. When it was clear she wasn't going to elaborate, he said tentatively, "Isn't this more Zanna's terr—"

"He suggested it, but I think it's a good idea. You'd be cute together. And Rick's pretty okay."

Resounding approval, he thought, except that for Candy it kind of was.

"And then we could double date," she chirped. "Won't that be fun? You and Rick, and me and Suzie!"

"Uh, Candy, aren't you – " jumping things a little?

"Zanna says Rick thinks you're cute," she added in a faux-confidential tone.

Well. In that case.

"Are you going to finish your Coke?" Candy asked.

2. Because when push comes to shove, she pushes back harder.

"I will not put up with this!" she snapped, looking so completely outraged that he almost wanted to laugh, despite feeling more completely miserable than he ever had before.

"Candy – "

"He cannot get away with this, Buck! I won't allow it!"

"Candy – "

"Who does he think he is?" she fumed. "This is outrageous. This is beyond outrageous. No one cheats on my best friend and gets away with it!"

"Candy."

Honestly, he didn't really want her to stop. It made him feel a little better, to know that someone was so completely on his side.

She tossed her hair and dropped her clipboard on top of all her textbooks – which he was, of course, carrying for her – and said, "I'm going to go give him a piece of my mind! Wait here."

That, on the other hand, might be going too far. "Candy!"

But she was already gone.

He chased her through the school – damn, but the girl could move. It probably didn't help that he was still carrying her books, on second thought, but it was a little too late to do anything about that. He caught up with her in front of Rick's locker, where she was already berating a shell-shocked Rick.

"You do not cheat on my best friend! What on Earth is wrong with you? You have this fantastic guy who's completely committed to you and you cheat on him? If my girlfriend were as stupid as you, I'd dump her right then and there – do you have any idea how lucky you are that Buck has been wasting his time with you?"

"Um," Rick squeaked.

Buck couldn't help being a little satisfied that for once, it was someone else Candy wasn't letting finish a sentence. Plus, seeing his cheating (ex-)boyfriend so at a loss for words because of a girl half his height was just really, really funny.

3. Because she knows when to not be around. Sometimes, anyway.

So, he was spending the evening with Tank, doing a guy's-night-in thing. Buffy on DVD and double fudge brownies, who needed anything more? And they were having fun, cheering on Buffy, bitching about their pathetic love lives, and Tank seriously had to do something about his crush on Zanna soon or Buck was going to have to strangle him, best-guy-friend or not.

His phone rang halfway through "Once More With Feeling" and he kind of picked it up without checking the caller ID first, mostly because he was halfway hoping it was Gary, the cute guy from his swim team, and the next thing he knew Candy was complaining that Suzie had bailed out on their date for some kind of family thing and then inviting herself over while Tank (who didn't hate Candy but also didn't particularly like her) was desperately miming at him no no no over and over again. What could he do?

He said, "Well, Candy, actually – "

"Great!" she said. "I'll be over in half an hour!"

Tank shook his head sadly as Buck hung up the phone. "Man," he said, "We gotta teach you how to say no."

Buck shrugged helplessly. What was he supposed to do?

Candy showed up precisely thirty minutes later with signup sheets for next year's school musical, which she was already working on. She pronounced their brownies underdone and turned off Buffy so she could bitch about Suzie bailing on her. Tank made faces at her every time her back was turned, and Buck desperately bit his cheek and tried not to laugh.

"Uh, Candy," Buck tried to say when she paused to take a breath, "this is kind of suppo—"

"I really appreciate you letting me come over, you're like the best friend ever, Buck." She gave him a hug, and he, well, he just sort of melted. He couldn't throw her out after that, no matter how much she was intruding on his guy time.

And, bless her selfish little heart, somewhere around the time she was trying to convince both of them to sign up for the school musical despite Buck's inability to act and Tank's preference to stay behind the scenes, she started to realize that she was, in fact, intruding. Probably in large part due to Tank's less-than-veiled hints, but still.

"You should have just said," she told Buck with mock irritation. "I can entertain myself for an evening. I have things to do for the drama club anyway. You need to speak up more!"

"But I – "

"Have fun with Tank. He's kind of cute," she added doubtfully. "I'll see you tomorrow, bright and early!" And she was gone before he could even try to point out the complete ridiculousness of implying that anything would ever happen between him and Tank.

So instead he laughed and went back to Buffy.

4. Because he kind of envies her.

He'd never been the guy people really noticed, since long before he had Candy interrupting him on a daily basis. He was quiet, kind of dorky, not one to like being the center of attention. He always had an instinctual, bone-deep feeling that nobody really cared what he thought about any given topic.

Maybe that was why he got along so well with Tank, who was never really comfortable unless everything was set to music.

Ever since he and Candy became friends and he became her unofficial assistant, he could see firsthand what it was like to be so completely sure of yourself, to have opinions and be confident that the rest of the world should know and share in them. And it was...deeply attractive. He started trying to voice his own opinions – which didn't always work, admittedly; as many good qualities as Candy had, listening to others wasn't listed among them – but sometimes it worked; sometimes people heard him; sometimes he could even finagle Candy into hearing him.

Even if she didn't always realize that was what she was doing. Maybe especially when she didn't realize that she was listening to – even agreeing with – what he thought about something.

But that didn't matter.

What mattered was that even when she really ticked him off, he always wanted, on some level, to be her. Or to be like her, at least. To not be afraid of anything.

On some level, he always hoped that by following her around and being her friend and helping with every cause she happened to pick up he would somehow figure out how she did it.

It hadn't happened yet, but he kept hoping.

5. Because she's his best friend.

Maybe it is just that simple. Is that such a bad thing?

The weekend before school started, they holed up at her house for one last end-of-summer sleepover with popcorn and cheesy movies and Candy's stack of back-to-school activities and controversies. Heather Has One Mommy and One Daddy. The first issue of the school paper. Coach Addison's baby shower. ("Yes," he assured her, "I reminded Gary about our gift.") The school musical. (He finally promised to audition, but nothing more concrete than that. Maybe he could get an ensemble part. Or work on the costumes.)

She asked him about how things were going with Gary and he asked after Suzie. They threw popcorn at each other and raided the kitchen for her mom's fresh-baked chocolate-chip cookies. They discussed the upcoming school year and decided to make an effort to support Heartsville in its less successful sports endeavors, like football. He asked what the rules of football were, and she tried to explain them as best she could – he had a feeling she didn't know, either. But she said there was dancing involved, so that could be fun? And Tank would probably tag along, and he'd convince Zanna, and wherever Zanna was there was usually a crowd.

She was already making plans for prom.

Sometimes Buck was pretty sure his best friend was crazy.

But he loved her anyway.

After all, she was his best friend.

mini_nanowrimo: week 3

2008-11-16T03:04:32Z

"I miss you," Erin said.

It was the single most liberating thing she'd ever said.

"I miss you," she said again, and took a deep breath. "I miss you, please come back?" She didn't wait for an answer. "I'll be better this time, I swear. I am better. I hardly ever fall apart anymore. I'm stronger now. I...I can live without you now...but I don't want to."

The answer was almost inaudible, but she imagined that it was I miss you too.

"I don't cry in the middle of the night anymore. There are whole hours when I forget about y...when I forget about us. When I forget about being alone... I'm okay, you know? I'm self-sufficient. So when I tell you I miss you, you should know it's not because I need you. But...I just miss you."

She stopped talking and waited with breath held, wondering desperately what the answer would be.

*~*~*

Once upon a time (and don't all good fairy tales start that way?) Maas was a god.

Okay, so technically he still is. Technically not all that much has changed since the old days, for him. It's not like he was popularly worshipped in the old days. Or even particularly known at all. Even today, ask the world's foremost mythology experts about Maas, and they will say, "Who?"

Maas had never been particularly good at being a god. Maybe that's why he favors the phrasing I used to be a god. It frees him from expectations. Including (especially?) his own.

These days, he keeps a low profile. He pretends to be human. He isn't in contact with any of the other old gods, even though they're all keeping low profiles as well – he's pretty sure their reaction to any contact from him would be about the same as the mythology experts'. He tries his luck at a series of jobs, but honestly he's about as good at being human as he is at being a god. It just never works out for him.

Playing human is interesting, though, in a way that being a god never was. Humans are weird, and funny, and almost completely unpredictable. Sometimes, when he's in between jobs, he entertains himself by finding ways to mess up their lives and then watch as they put the pieces back together again. Sometimes they astonish him with their ingenuity. Sometimes they don't manage to put the pieces back together. He feels bad for those ones, but he can't stop himself from meddling.

They're just so fascinating. And so much better at this than he is. How do they do it? How do they live their short, meaningless lives with such meaning? Hold down jobs or don't, marry and raise a family or don't, celebrate or mourn, fall in love or live for themselves alone or live for the universe in general – no matter what they choose, they all seem to do so with such certainty, even the ones who think themselves uncertain, and Maas envies them that. They are who they are, and he has never, ever had that.

*~*~*

Tasha used to say it was my fault, what happened.

She didn't mean it to be cruel. Tasha never meant anything to be cruel, it was one of the things everyone loved about her. She loved everyone, our Tash, and I don't think it even really occurred to her that other people didn't love everyone to the same degree she did. She didn't ever seem to realize that you could say things just to be cruel.

But she would say it was my fault, and then hug me, because she loved me regardless.

That should have been reassuring, I guess. But Tasha loved everyone, really. It sort of took the specialness away.

People meeting her for the first time thought Tasha was weird. Maybe they were right, I don't know...I'd known her for so long that any weirdness didn't seem to register with me. Sometimes I tried to see her through their eyes; looked at the battered bomber jacket, the sunglasses even indoors, the extensive body art. But it always just looked like Tasha to me. She wasn't weird, she wasn't beautiful, she was just sweet, loving, one-of-a-kind Tasha.

She tattooed my name on her upper left arm, at right angles to the name of the guy she went to our high school prom with. I'm not sure if there's any symbolism in that. I've never asked. I doubt if I ever will. Anyway, there are so many names tattooed on Tasha's arms that it'd have to be at right angles to someone's name, right? My name looks really cool there on her arm, though, in a Celtic kind of script, surrounded by rich swirls. His name is in block letters decorated with tiny, intricate flowers. She designs all her tattoos herself.

Tasha said I was beautiful. I never quite believed her.

Tasha doesn't say it was my fault anymore. I don't know who she blames now. I don't know if she blames anyone. We don't talk about it. Everyone's very careful. We don't talk about it...definitely not around her. Nobody mentions the name Devlin.

Tasha loves everybody, you see. And while everybody doesn't love Tasha, those of us who do love her far too much to hurt her by bringing up old, painful memories like Devlin.

Devlin's name isn't tattooed on Tasha's arm. Most people don't realize Tasha has Devlin's name anywhere on her body. They think it would hurt her too much.

I don't correct them. I think I'm the only one who knows, because I'm the one who put it there. She asked me to, you see. It's on her hip, where nobody's likely to see it unless they're looking for it. It's not a tattoo, it's a scar. She drew Devlin's name where she wanted it, applied a local to herself, and handed me a scalpel. She said I was the only one she trusted to do it, because it was my fault, what happened, and because it was my fault, what happened, I did it for her. I didn't do a very good job. I'm not very good with knives. But she talked me through it, and in the end, there it was. DEVLIN, in slightly jagged, uneven letters on her hip, where it will never go away.

It's the only body art she has that isn't on her arms.

I loved Tasha a lot, I guess.

I didn't love her enough to make up for the fact that Dev never did.

*~*~*

Tasha loves everyone, you see, she always has, but she loves everyone in roughly the same way. Me, for example – she adores me, dotes on me, cuddles me, but in pretty much exactly the same way she adores, dotes on, and cuddles everyone else. It doesn't make me special. It just makes her Tasha.

Devlin, though, Tasha loved Devlin in a way she didn't love anyone else. Idolized her, really. Worshipped the ground she walked on. Tasha thought Devlin could do no wrong. Tasha wanted Devlin's attention and love more than anything else in the world.

And Devlin, well, Devlin didn't love anyone. Everybody knew that. Devlin didn't even love herself. I'm not sure Dev ever figured out exactly what love was or why everyone was so hung up about it. Dev had a lot of problems.

Don't get me wrong, I loved Devlin, too. Not the way Tasha did, of course, but the way you loved a screwed-up little sister who you don't entirely understand. I still don't really understand why Tasha fixated on her to the degree that she did, but she did, so whatever. Not my problem – except, of course, that it completely was.

Because if anybody could have saved Dev, it should've been me.

Because it was my fault, what happened.

*~*~*

So I forget. Are we in love?

No. That would just make things complicated, you know?

Right. So...this is strictly an acquaintanceship.

I dunno, I think we've passed acquaintanceship.

Friends?

I wouldn't go that far...

I forget, do you like me or just tolerate me?

I like you, I guess.

Gee, thanks. So what's this meant to be, then?

I dunno...I like it. Whatever it is. I just...I dunno.

Well...will you be my 'it's complicated' on facebook then?

...you need to stop reading xkcd.

Haha. Never.

Was that whole thing just a setup to get you to that line?

...maybe.

*~*~*

i used to write poetry
i don't anymore
it got to the point where everything
i was writing
was repetitive
and clichéd
and i hated
just the look of it
i erased far more words
than i kept
i used to write in pen
now when i write –
if i write –
it's in pencil
the paper smudged with eraser dust
and full of holes from rubbing too hard
i hate the way eraser dust smells
i hate the smeary look it leaves behind
i used to think i had talent
i don't anymore
why did i ever bother to try?

*~*~*

The sea was gray and choppy, the sky was an unappealing nothing color, the wind was blowing fiercely, and Trista stood on the beach and shivered.

"Take me back," she whispered, and then "I changed my mind, I want to go back!" she shouted, but the wind whipped the words from her mouth and they were gone.

"Take me back!" she screamed, but she couldn't even hear herself and, crying, she prepared to give up. "I want to go home," she said, barely even a whisper. "Take me home. Take me back to the way life used to be."

As if in answer the wind howled all the louder and a sudden spray of seawater hit her full on. She shrieked in surprise, jumped backwards, and suddenly everything went silent and still.

Trista stood motionless.

mini_nanowrimo: week 2

2008-11-08T21:14:40Z

One of the things Michael had always loved about Liam – from a distance, mind – was how much space the other boy took up.

For as long as Michael had known him, Liam was completely unapologetic about anything. He just didn't seem to care. He didn't care that he was gay in a predominately Catholic neighborhood; he didn't care that he dressed glam and wore lip gloss and eyeliner and glitter while the few other gay boys around were doing everything they could to avoid those stereotypes; he didn't care that his drug use was the worst-kept secret in Massachusetts; he didn't even care that everyone hated his ugly coat.

He just didn't seem to notice when people took offense to him. He took up all the space in any given room, was enthusiastic and outgoing and cheerful about the most meaningless things, never minded being the center of attention.

As quiet and shy as Michael was when he had first arrived, Liam's brash fearlessness had been intensely attractive.

Now, though, Michael wondered how much of that had been the real Liam Donnelly and how much had been the cocaine he'd been relying on a lot more than anyone suspected.

Stripped of his drugs, dressed in plain jeans and an oversized Red Sox t-shirt Michael suspected probably belonged to one of his brothers, no makeup or glitter to be seen – Liam didn't look like himself. He looked small, and fragile, and almost broken.

It scared the hell out of Michael.

At least he still had the ugly coat.

Neither of them spoke for a moment. Liam looked unfocused, not quite in the room; his hands were shaking as he scratched at his leg absently.

Finally Liam said, "Why are you here?" His voice, even – his voice now was smaller, softer, unhappier.

"I wanted to see you." Michael thought it over, because even he could tell that wasn't the whole answer. You didn't ditch classes and subject yourself to an interrogation by four protective older brothers and a borderline-insane older sister, just to see a guy you'd barely spoken to before, a guy you'd kissed once at a party and never genuinely connected to. He added, "I was worried about you."

Liam shrugged and didn't meet his eyes.

"How was...?" Michael winced at the word, but since Liam showed no signs of answering the unspoken question, he forced it out: "...rehab?"

"They took away my drugs," Liam said, his voice odd.

"I'm sorry."

That sparked something that was almost a smile. Not quite. "You're sorry I'm not still on coke?"

"That's not what I meant!"

The almost-smile faded away. "I know."

Another, even more awkward silence, before Michael took a deep breath and said, "I missed you."

"You don't even know me."

"I know." Liam looked completely fucked up, and it was screwing up Michael's ability to think coherently. He took another breath before trying again: "I want to, though."

Liam shook his head and said, "No you don't. I promise." That was when Michael realized that the reason his voice sounded so odd was because he was trying not to cry. "I don't even want to know me."

Michael swallowed. "I should go," he said.

Liam said, "Yeah," and didn't stand up. Then he said, "Michael?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't come back, okay?"

*~*~*

The banshee sang every night the week before Julia died, and Susan tried her hardest not to notice.

She was too busy doing everything she could to forget that Julia was dying. She didn't need the banshee telling her what she wanted so desperately not to know. But it was hard to forget – even without the mournful wails, Susan would have seen it every moment in the dark circles under her lover's eyes, the ever-more-pronounced cheekbones, the bruises that came from nowhere and wouldn't go away. It wasn't fucking fair.

Not Julia, she prayed. Take anyone else. Take me. But not Julia.

Julia obviously knew what Susan wanted to ignore, and played along. She wore colorful scarves to hide the sores on her neck and face. She got up every day at least long enough to get properly dressed, regardless of how much it clearly hurt. She talked, incessantly, happily, about all the things we'll do when I'm recovered enough, love.

She fell asleep every night listening to the fairy woman keening her deathsong, and that made her smile even as it made Susan cry silently, secretly.

The night Julia died, Susan was sitting on the bed holding her hand and talking too fast, telling her I love you over and over, and the banshee was silent.

Susan didn't know why. With Julia dead, was her job done? Or was she simply paying respect, giving Susan the space and silence she needed to grieve? She decided she didn't care. The empty space in the house that had once been filled by a vibrant, living person – by Julia – was enough to break her heart, she didn't need to waste time pondering the motives of the aos sí.

It wasn't until nearly a month later that Susan thought about the banshee again.

She was sitting at Julia's grave, as she'd spent much of the month, when she felt someone approach – which was odd. No one usually bothered her here. She looked up.

An unnaturally beautiful woman stood there. Later, Susan would be unable to remember anything specific about how she had looked, except that she was beautiful, and her cloak was gray.

"Julia's dead," Susan told the banshee numbly.

"Aye," the banshee agreed.

"I don't know what to do."

The banshee thought about it. Then she said, "You'll live. You'll grieve. You'll move on. Some days you'll forget her. Some days you'll remember her and it will hurt all over again, just like the day she died. Some days you'll remember her and it will be like she's standing next to you and everything is fine. Sometimes you will be happy. Sometimes you will be sad. And then you will die."

Susan didn't say anything.

The banshee looked at Julia's grave. "She was of a noble family," she said, her voice regretful.

"She was wonderful," Susan said sharply.

"She loved you," the banshee said, and Susan's throat felt too tight to allow her to speak. "She was happy."

"She was too young to die." Susan blinked away tears and looked at the inscription on Julia's tombstone. Julia Kathleen O'Brien. 1980 – 2008. Beloved. Earth has no sorrows that heaven cannot fix.

"They all are," the banshee said mournfully.

When Susan looked up again, she was alone in the graveyard.

*~*~*

The bruises are an ugly shade of yellowish green (greenish yellow?), now, and she touches them gingerly. The biggest one, the one on her right kneecap, is speckled with red and purple marks. She can't remember her high school biology classes well enough to know what that means. She can't remember if they covered that in high school biology.

"Are you coming anytime soon?"

"Yeah, I'm on my way."

There's a Sharpie in the drawer under the sink. She takes it out and writes this isn't real right above her knee. On her ribcage, she carefully prints don't forget this. She scribbles don't let anyone see on her left arm.

She puts on her clothes, puts the Sharpie back in the drawer, makes sure everything is left the way it was, and goes out.

"Took you long enough."

"Sorry."

When she wakes up the next morning and undresses for her shower, she sees the smeared marker and wonders who wrote on her, and what the cryptic messages mean.

Her bruises are almost gone.

*~*~*

He doesn't know what it's like to be alone anymore.

Sometimes he wonders about it. Tries to imagine it. Tries to remember what it was like. Back when he could take a moment and be just by himself, alone in the room, alone in his head. It never works. It's beyond his comprehension now.

But he wishes...

There's blood in the sink. He cleans it up mechanically and ignores the voice of –

He ignores the voice.

This isn't my fault, he says at last, and the voice of the other stills for just a moment. This isn't what I wanted, he says.

I'm sorry, the other says. It's too late now.

He doesn't say anything.

This isn't my fault, the other says petulantly. I didn't ask to be here.

He puts the bloody cloths in the washing machine, fills it with water and soap, starts the cycle. Sorry, he says.

And for once the other is silent.

But he's still not alone.

*~*~*

"I think this was a bad idea," Liam said, tugging at a loose string on the hem of his t-shirt.

"Why do you think that?"

"Because my brothers can be the most judgmental beings on the face of the planet?"

Paul snorted. He turned off the car and turned to look at Liam. "I've been judged before. No big."

Liam eyed him skeptically. "We're Catholic. That's a whole new level of judgment."

That got a grin – "I've dated Catholic boys before."

"...seriously?"

"Liam." Paul grabbed his hand, pulled it away from the loose string. "I wanna meet your family."

Liam bit his lip and tried not to smile too much. But... "I'm pretty sure they don't want to meet you." He looked down at his old sneakers. "Sorry."

"Don't be sorry. I know I'm not exactly bring-home-to-Mom-and-Dad material." Which was, all things considered, the closest Paul ever got to self-doubt.

"My siblings are worse than parents. And Tommy's gonna take one look at me, and he's gonna know I'm using again, and then he's gonna look at you, and he's gonna know you use, and he's gonna make out like it's your fault even though it's totally not, and – "

"Liam, breathe."

Liam took a deep breath. "Okay," he said at last. "I'm okay."

"Are you?" Paul asked, amused, twining his fingers through Liam's.

"Well, I really need a fucking line, but aside from that." He paused. "I really need a fucking line."

"I don't think it's gonna help me make a better impression on your siblings if we're both high when we walk in there."

"That's why I need the line," Liam said, picturing the expressions on his brothers' and sister's faces when he brought Paul in.

Paul considered that for a moment, then said, "Well, they're not expecting us for another half hour, right?"

They stumbled into Sara Donnelly-O'Kelly's Cambridge apartment fifteen minutes late, and the reception was about what they'd expected.

"You must be Paul," Ryan said with a sort of forced cheerfulness. Ryan always was the one to try to make things go easier for Liam, which was why he was consistently Liam's favorite brother, but that didn't mean he approved of Liam's life any more than the rest of their family did.

"If I must be." Paul grinned, a little too widely; he'd been briefed on Ryan along with the rest of Liam's family. They shook hands, and Liam chewed on the inside of his lip anxiously.

Tommy, he couldn't help but notice, had somehow managed to vanish from the room in the time between Liam and Paul's entrance and Ryan's attempt at civility.

"Liam," Sara said with a fixed smile, "Could you give me a hand in the kitchen for a moment?"

Like he could possibly say no to the girl who pretty much raised him. He nodded and followed her, throwing Paul an apologetic look.

In the kitchen, Sara handed him a can of Coke and said, "Are you fucking high, you moron?"

Well, no one ever accused any of the Donnelly siblings of subtlety. Or tact.

"No," Liam said unconvincingly.

She ignored that. "You are such an idiot. Tommy is going to kill you, did you realize that when you were snorting up?"

"I – "

"Not to mention what he'll do to your boyfriend, and Conor and Kieran will probably help."

"Saraaa."

She pulled out a box of Triscuits and raided the fridge for cheese. When in doubt, cook, that was Conor's motto; the lone Donnelly sister was not so domestic. "Look, kid, you're one of my favorite people in the whole world, you know that, right? And, I mean, I'm sorry Tommy and I weren't better at being parents to you – "

"You're not my parents."

"I know that!" She practically threw the cheese at him. "Will you listen to me for five minutes?"

He shrugged.

"The point is you're my baby brother and I feel like I was kind of a surrogate mom to you and I love you a lot, okay, Lee? But that doesn't change the fact that you screw everything up." Before he could come up with an answer, she thrust a plate at him. "Here. Take that out there before the boys kill Paul. Or scar him for life."

Liam took the plate back out.

Paul didn't look nervous, but that was probably because he was high. If he were sober he'd know that Conor, Kieran, and Ryan were watching him with expressions they usually reserved for people who were about to suffer horrible, bloody injuries. Liam thrust the plate of crackers and cheese at Conor, who spared a brief moment to look at it in silent judgment of his sister, and slipped in next to Paul.

"Paul was just telling us that he's an accountant," Ryan said.

"Yeah?"

"That work out well when you're off your head on drugs?"

Paul's smile didn't falter. "I do pretty good."

Liam busied himself opening the Coke Sara had given him, then promptly spilled it all over himself.

That was about when Tommy came back in, glaring at his youngest brother and the young man he'd brought home, looked at the spilled soda, and said, "Well, that's symbolic, isn't it?"

Ryan winced out loud, which probably meant that was a bit harsh even coming from Tommy. It took Liam a moment, but he got it; he sucked at his Coke-soaked sleeve, and said, "Hi to you too, Tommy."

"William."

That was worse. Nobody ever called him William.

Tommy continued, "Well, so much for the last round of rehab, huh?"

"Tommy," Sara snapped, storming in from the kitchen with her hands wrapped around a mug of coffee. Her knuckles were almost white. "You think you're helping anything?"

"I don't think anything can help Liam anymore," Tommy snapped back.

"Tommy, shut the hell up already," Conor hissed, standing up.

"Knock it off, Conor."

From there it just completely fell apart, devolved into a blatant fight; Conor and Sara and Ryan on one side, the back-off-on-Liam-before-you-drive-him-to-something-worse side, Tommy and Kieran on the right-because-Liam-could-find-something-worse side, and Liam just wanted to disappear.

But Paul took his hand and squeezed it gently, and that made even Tommy's viciously obvious disapproval almost bearable.

*~*~*

The bookstore opened almost six months ago, and since then he's had nothing but trouble.

Mostly minor things. Misplaced receipts. The cash register coming up short at the end of the day. Things gone missing from inventory.

He's taken every security measure possible. He knows his staff isn't stealing from him.

He can't keep a computer running in that place for more than a week. The front window is broken every morning when he comes in, no matter how many times he replaces it. Bookshelves fall apart despite being securely built and carrying far less than they're rated for. A fire breaks out in the back room, destroying a thousand dollars' worth of books; the fire department can't come up with an explanation for how it started.

Shire, the store cat, watches everything from her perch on one of the bookshelves. He doesn't know how she got up there (who ever knows, with cats?) but she refuses to come down; whenever he carefully returns her to a lower perch, she stays put until his back is turned, and the next thing he knows, she's back up there.

He thinks she knows what's going on.

He thinks he's going crazy.

*~*~*

"I wish," she says, and stops.

That's what got them all into this mess, isn't it? Wishing?

But they're all looking at her expectedly, wanting her to fix it, and how can she let them down?

I wish...

Jack started it all, wishing for fame; the next thing they knew his face was plastered all over the news, wanted fugitive dead or alive reward, and everyone knew him, and this wasn't what he wanted.

So Laura tried to fix it, wishing for Jack's innocence to be known; Jack was pardoned for the original crime, but three or four others were charged to him, and Laura charged as his accomplice.

Tristan tried next, wishing that the whole thing would blow over; a courthouse exploded, and the bombing was pinned to Tristan as a known accomplice of Jack and Laura.

Now it was up to her to fix it, but she didn't know what to say. She didn't know how to fix it without making it worse.

I wish...

mini_nanowrimo: week 1

2008-11-01T22:08:01Z

In the morning, he cooks himself breakfast: pancakes and eggs and bacon and toast and fried potatoes; so much food, so little space in that tiny apartment, the smells filling every breath, warming every corner.

She sits at the table and watches him. She thinks he looks like a picture of domesticity, still in pajama bottoms, dark hair falling across his forehead, messy from sleep, grabbing a dishtowel in lieu of oven mitts. He is focused, focused, focused on cooking; she is focused on him.

I think I love you, she says.

He doesn't answer.

(She sits at the table and eats cold cereal dry, because she's forgotten to buy milk again.)

In the afternoon, he goes for a walk. Grabs his jacket and is out the door, expression relaxing as he steps out of the building and into the cool smoky New York air.

She watches him leave and thinks that the picture has changed, from domesticity to a model with a killer smile, brown eyes gleaming with mischief and laughter, designer jeans and a silk shirt and that red leather jacket he loves so well. All he thinks about is how much he's going to enjoy the change of scenery. All she thinks about is him.

Stay safe, she says as he walks out.

He doesn't answer.

(She used to try to join him on his walks, but it always started and ended the same way: he cuts through the crowds effortlessly, long legs covering ground quickly, while she struggles against the current to keep up. And then one moment he's there and the next – blink! – he's gone.

Now she stays home and waits.)

In the evenings, he climbs out on the fire escape and smokes. He hand-rolls his cigarettes, carefully, lovingly, although he's not very good at it and tobacco falls out and litters the rusty stairs. He lights up with a sulfur match, takes a deep breath, and just...is.

Even with the window closed, she can smell the match and the cigarettes, acrid, smoky, sharp in the back of her throat. She sits on the couch with a blanket and a book but doesn't read; he looks like a vintage rock star, hair falling carelessly in every direction, rebel-without-a-cause look on his face, cigarette dangling from his mouth as he scrawls in an old notebook words he'll never let her see. The story and the smoke are all he knows; and all she knows is him.

Come inside, she says.

He doesn't answer.

(She can see sodium-yellow streetlights shining from the street below, distorting her view of him, making him almost solid. In a moment he'll be gone again.)

(Sometimes she wonders which of them is the ghost.)

*~*~*

"I've never done this before," Emma admitted, twisting her hands in her shirt and looking anywhere but at the bed.

The vampire sat down and pursed her lips. "With a vampire or with a woman?"

"With...with either. With anyone." She stared at the opposite wall and tried not to watch the vampire out of the corner of her eye.

The vampire was beautiful, which was about par for the course with vampires, but Emma still couldn't quite get over it. She had long red hair and full red lips and the prettiest eyes Emma had ever seen, long fingers and painted nails and a perfect body. Emma tugged at her shirt a little more, acutely aware of her own failings in those areas.

"I kissed a girl once," Emma said. "When I was still in school. Her name was Sarah. ...that was a long time ago."

"Was she pretty?"

Emma said, "You're making fun of me."

The vampire smiled. "I'm not, I promise." She studied Emma. "You're very beautiful."

"No, I'm not," Emma said automatically.

"Yes, you are. That's why I approached you." The vampire stretched out, crossed her legs elegantly, and Emma chanced a glance over, at the flushed ruddy skin the vampire clearly enjoyed displaying. "You were looking for me."

"I – "

"You wouldn't have been in that club if you weren't," the vampire observed. "Or someone like me, at least."

Emma picked some lint off her jeans. "I've never done this before," she said apologetically.

"You said that already."

"Oh."

The vampire studied her, and then said, "I can leave if that's what you want."

Emma bit her lip, looked up at the ceiling. "I just...have you ever felt like there's a whole different life you're supposed to be living?" she asked finally. "And this is just...someone else's life. A smaller life. Not yours."

"I'm dead, remember?" the vampire said patiently.

"Oh. Right."

There was an awkward silence. Emma was good at those. Finally, though, she said, "So if we...if we...do this...will that make me, you know, like you?"

"A vampire?"

"Yeah."

The vampire shook her head, hair falling in her eyes. She didn't push it away. "I've fed recently," she explained.

"That's why you're not, you know, pale."

"Yes. But even if that weren't the case, I wouldn't take enough from you to kill you, that's unnecessary – and contrary to what some would tell you, you do have to die to become a vampire."

"Oh." Emma felt a little disappointed about that, which surprised her. "My mother said sleeping with a vampire would turn me into one."

"That's because your mother didn't want you sleeping with vampires."

"Yeah. I guess."

"I can go," the vampire said again. "Maybe your first time really should be with someone you care about. Or at least someone with a pulse."

"I don't care about anyone," Emma said.

"That's very sad."

"Yes, it is."

The vampire stood up, unfolding herself from the bed, and crossed over to Emma. She kissed her, firmly, on the mouth, and Emma tasted blood faintly. "I'm going to leave," the vampire said, "Because you really don't seem comfortable with this. If you change your mind, you know where to find me."

"What's your name?" Emma asked.

"Does it matter?"

It didn't, really. Emma shook her head.

The vampire left.

Emma sat down on the bed and thought about Sarah.

*~*~*

She excuses herself. Goes to wash her hands again.

No one's said anything. Not to her face, anyway. But surely they all know. Surely they can see it…

She scrubs a little harder, but the reddish-black stain won't come off.

It's blood, all right. Couldn't be mistaken for anything else. Not that color, not that texture. Blood dried on her nails like so much cheap polish, refusing to come off.

She gives up, goes back to the party. Is it her imagination or do they hush a little as she enters? She imagines what they might have been saying about her behind her back. What they might have thought of the dried blood on her hands, of his conspicuous absence from her side. But she smiles and chatters about the latest big thing and says nothing.

Before dinner, she excuses herself.

Goes to wash her hands again.

*~*~*

Michael used to daydream about what it would be like kissing Liam Donnelly, see.

What it would be like varied depending on his mood at the time. Sometimes he felt romantic, sentimental; he imagined that it would be something soft and careful, and Liam would taste like sugar and creamy ice cream, and when the kiss broke neither of them would say anything. Sometimes he felt more playful, and imagined that Liam would kiss like he talked, enthusiastically and carelessly, and he would taste like glitter and cheap lipstick (what glitter and cheap lipstick actually tasted like wasn't something Michael spent time thinking about), and when the kiss broke Liam would laugh, and touch his lips like he wasn't sure that had just happened. Sometimes Michael felt cynical, and then he daydreamed that Liam's kiss would be bruising and demanding, and he would taste like cocaine (whatever cocaine actually tasted like), and when it broke Liam would just...leave.

So when the time came and Liam Donnelly actually did kiss him, Michael thought he was prepared for whatever it would be like.

He wasn't.

Liam tangled himself up in Michael, hands in Michael's hair, long legs wrapped around Michael's own, and kissed like he was scared about what would happen if he didn't, and what would happen now that he was doing it was an even scarier thought. He didn't taste like sugar, or glitter, or cocaine (whatever cocaine actually tasted like), despite the fact that he'd been sucking down Tootsie Roll pops all evening, and he wore enough body glitter to keep Vegas in business, and there was still dried blood under his nose from his last fix; the inside of Liam's mouth tasted like, well, like the inside of someone's mouth, a lot like Michael's own; the only real difference was that the glam boy's lips tasted faintly of cherry-flavored Chapstick.

And when the kiss broke, Liam stared at him with kohl-smudged green eyes, looking half-terrified of his reaction.

Michael touched Liam's lips gently, like he wasn't sure that had really just happened, and said, "I'm sorry I love you," and left.

Liam stayed where he was for a long time.

*~*~*

Prompt: Millions long for immortality who don't know what to do with themselves on a rainy Sunday afternoon. ~ Susan Ertz, Anger in the Sky

Sean wasn't doing much of anything.

He was sitting on the floor because the couch was taken up by someone from last night's party, still passed out. He thought he should probably get up, throw whoever it was out. Take a shower. Get dressed. Maybe even eat something.

It all sounded like too much work.

Someone's number was scrawled on his hand in smeared black Sharpie. He stared at it blankly for a moment, remembered someone from last night's party – someone drunk – giggling and laughing and kissing him and writing their number on his hand.

He could go wash it off. It wasn't like he was ever going to call whoever had left the number.

He didn't get up.

It was Sunday.

Sundays were the worst.

Sundays meant that one more endless week was over, and far too many – innumerably many – still stretched in front of him.

Sean was still sitting on the floor doing nothing when his current roommate – fuck, what was the guy's name? – Patrick – when Patrick staggered in from the general direction of the bedroom.

"Why are you sitting on the floor?" Patrick wondered, staggering in the general direction of the coffeemaker and ignoring the guy asleep on their couch.

Sean didn't answer. After a moment he said, "Do you ever wonder what it would be like to die?"

"Hell, no, I'm gonna live forever."

For the life of him, Patrick couldn't understand why Sean started laughing brokenly at that. Or why the young man looked up at him from the floor and said, "Hell, so am I. That's the problem."

*~*~*

This is the effect that she has on the world.

She writes names in the sand, names of people she once knew, names of people she's never met, names of people who've never existed.

She watches the tide wash those names away and doesn't understand why she feels sad.

She reads Behan and Joyce and Beckett when the sun rises and builds sandcastles when it sets.

She goes swimming, and she collects seashells.

They watch her, and she knows this, but she doesn't know why. Her life is serenity, and repetition, and nothing to anyone (but everything to her).

But they watch her. They make notes. They share her quiet meaningless life.

She changes the world.

*~*~*

He's asleep in their bed, buried in blankets and pillows, and she's writing again, curled up on the couch with a half-empty mug of hot chocolate on the floor beside her, and outside their windows and doors the world is ending.

Before she fixed her cocoa, she made sure all the windows and doors were closed tightly and locked. She turned the TV to face the wall, unplugged the radio, made sure her computer was off, hid his laptop under the window seat.

Something explodes less than a block away. She can hear screams.

He doesn't wake up.

She keeps writing.

There is screaming outside, and if she would just look up, she knows what she would see – blood, and pain, and terror; the gods finding their revenge for being forgotten, the dead rising to wreak havoc, people shooting and killing each other for no rational reason (except fear and no, fear is never rational) – and so she doesn't look up.

By the time he stirs and wakes and emerges from his cocoon of blankets and pillows, her cocoa is cold and congealed and she's on her third notebook and the room is lit by firelight from outside.

He yawns and asks, jokingly, "What did I miss?"

"The world ended," she says. "I'm sure we'll die soon...could you make me another cup of chocolate?"

FIC: Undefined and Unobserved (The Black Donnellys)

2007-12-23T02:52:43Z

Title: Undefined And Unobserved
Author: chicafrom3
Rating: PG-13; language, implied violence and sex filtered through a twelve-year-old's view
Fandom/Pairing(s): The Black Donnellys, Sean, Joanie, mild Jimmy/Joanie
Word Count: 1,176
Warnings: Language. Implied violence, sex, and drug use filtered through the view of a moderately sheltered twelve-year-old.
Disclaimer: Sean, Joanie, and the fictional Hell's Kitchen neighborhood in which they reside is the property of Paul Haggis and Robert Moresco. I own nothing but my own ideas.
Summary: Early mornings were all that Sean had to himself. Joanie didn't even have that much.
A/N: Set pre-series; Sean is approximately twelve, Joanie is about sixteen. No real spoilers but if you don't know much about the series it could be tricky.
Concrit worshipped, as is general feedback.
Based on the lyrics:

Everyone you see is half asleep
And you're on your own, you're in the street

The fact that Sean liked early mornings and early morning walks was a secret, one that he guarded carefully. It meant climbing out of bed super quiet to keep from waking up Kevin, who tended to sleep hard but would still wake up if he got kicked in the face or something. And then it meant sneaking out of the apartment quiet so nobody else would wake up, either; when Jimmy was asleep, he'd stay that way through a hurricane, but Tommy and Ma, they might wake up and tell him he couldn't go.

And then, after his walk was over, it meant sneaking back inside just as quiet and climbing back into bed and pretending to be asleep, and whining as loud as Kevin when they got dragged out of bed.

But mornings were best, as far as Sean was concerned, and totally worth the trouble. When most of the world was still asleep and the streets were his, and he didn't have to be anyone's baby brother, and no one was protecting him or babying him or keeping things (Dad) from him.

Sometimes he hated being the littlest.

But in the mornings, he wasn't the baby, or the pretty one, or the only one Kevin could beat at sports. He didn't have to be little Seany Donnelly. He could just be Sean, all by himself, undefined.

He liked that.

So at least three mornings a week (that was his rule) he woke up early and listened to make sure Kevin's breathing was deep and even and that Jimmy wasn't watching cartoons in the living room, and then he crept out of bed and pulled on jeans and a shirt and just left.

He tried to choose a different path to walk each time, but really there were only so many directions to go and not get lost. But he still thought proudly that he'd probably seen more of their neighborhood than all of his brothers put together.

Well, maybe not Jimmy, but who knew what Jimmy got up to?

"You're a fucking prick, Corey Mahoney!"

The scream tore through the early morning air, disturbing the almost-silence, and made Sean trip in surprise and look up, his thoughts broken.

A skinny girl about Jimmy's age stumbled onto the sidewalk from a rundown apartment building, still screaming cuss words. She was crying, and there was blood on her face, and she was wearing a t-shirt that was way too big for her and, apparently, nothing else; stringy dirty blond hair hung in her face and she looked like maybe she hadn't had a shower in a while.

Sean recognized her, sort of. He'd seen her before, hanging around outside the drug store with some of the guys from Tommy and Jimmy's school; Tommy always hurried him and Kevin past and told them not to spend time with that crowd. Jimmy always gave her a leer and cracked a comment Sean didn't understand, to his eternal frustration.

He didn't know her name.

When the door to the apartment slammed shut, she kept screaming for a few minutes, then sunk down to the pavement, buried her face in her arms, and sobbed.

Sean watched her for a moment, checked the time, and then gave up and walked over to her. "Hey, um." He didn't know what to call her. "Are you okay?"

She peeked up at him and he decided that she wasn't pretty, not really, not like Jenny was, anyway. But then again, he'd never seen Jenny all bloody and crying, and he hoped he wouldn't ever. "Okay?" she echoed doubtfully. "No."

What was he supposed to say to that? "Oh."

"I know you," she said. "Don't I? You're Jimmy Donnelly's baby brother."

He scowled and hunched his shoulders, trying to make himself look older and tougher. "I guess."

She sniffled and dragged the hem of her T-shirt across her face, and now Sean knew that she wasn't wearing anything under it but underwear, and he averted his eyes hurriedly, embarrassed, in case maybe she didn't want him seeing that. But she didn't seem to notice. "Joanie."

"What?"

"I'm Joanie," she repeated.

"Sean." He scuffed his foot across the pavement. "What was all that about?"

"Just..." She sniffled a little more and looked like she was going to start sobbing again, which made him take a step back, alarmed. But all that happened was that she said bitterly, "Boys are pigs," and then looked at him closer. "Do you date, Sean?"

"Not yet," he said, a little sullenly. Ma said no way too young and that was the end of it. Kevin got to take a girl to the school dance last month, and Kevin was dumb. Sean hated being the baby.

"Well, when you do," Joanie said, "Don't treat your girls like shit, okay?" She tugged her shirt further down over her legs awkwardly, looking suddenly self-conscious. "Fuck," she mumbled, and looked back up at him. "Don't tell your brother about this, okay?"

He didn't think Jimmy would care, not really. "Okay."

"Jesus." She laughed a little, not a nice laugh. "Oh, Jesus, I'm really fucked up..."

He put his hands in his pockets and then took them out again. "Can I...?" He didn't know what he was asking.

But she put a hand out, and he took it and helped her get to her feet. She brushed herself down, wiped at her face, which only smeared the blood and tears around, and tugged at her shirt again. "You're gonna be a real heartbreaker someday, Sean Donnelly," she said, giving him a watery smile. "Just don't be a creep about it, all right?"

"Kay." He wanted to ask her what, exactly, being a creep about it would entail, but he didn't. "Are you gonna be okay?"

"No...I guess. I should probably go home." But she still hesitated.

"I'll walk you," he offered impulsively, and was rewarded with a slightly larger watery smile.

"See? Heartbreaker."

They didn't talk much on the walk. Joanie only lived a few blocks away, which was probably a good thing since she was barely dressed and Sean was keeping a close eye on the time, trying to judge when he'd have to turn around to get back before anyone noticed he was gone. But every so often, she would say something that didn't seem to make much sense, or just repeat, "Jesus, I'm so fucked up." Sean stayed quiet, turned in on himself, wondering what Corey Mahoney had done to her.

"This is it," she said, and they stopped walking. Sean dug his hands deeper into his pockets and waited for her to go inside so he could leave. She surprised him, though, darting forward to kiss him lightly on the cheek. "Gonna be a real heartbreaker when you grow up," she repeated with an unsteady laugh. "Tell your brother I said hey, okay?" And then she was gone, slipping silently into the building, and he watched her go open-mouthed.

At last, though, he turned away and began the slow walk home.

FIC: Such A Squalid Little Ending (Chess) (un_love_you #1)

2007-10-13T04:32:42Z

Title: Such A Squalid Little Ending
Author: chicafrom3
Fandom: Chess
Characters: Freddie Trumper/Florence Vassy
Prompt: un_love_you #1. You were right about me
Word Count: 378
Rating: PG
Summary: Who'd ever think it?/Such a squalid little ending/Watching you descending/Just as far as you can go/I'm learning/Things I didn't want to know/Who'd ever guess/That this would be the situation/One more observation/How'd we ever get this far?/Before you showed me/What you really are. Future fic.

"You were right about me."

The speaker doesn't identify himself. He doesn't greet her, by name or by pleasantries. He doesn't check to make sure the correct person has answered the phone.

Florence sinks to the floor, clutching the phone, and says, "Freddie?"

"You were right about me," he repeats, his voice low and gravelly, years of alcohol and cigarette abuse audible in the words. "I just…I…"

There's a long moment of pause, as Freddie falls silent and Florence searches her mind desperately for something, anything, to say.

At last, he laughs bitterly and says, "Hi, Florence."

"Hi, Freddie," she answers softly.

"It's been a while, huh?"

Understatement of the year, she thinks, and just says, "A while. How have you been?"

"…well. I've been." He laughs again. It doesn't sound any better this time. "Could use a match against my favorite second, though."

"Freddie…"

"Never mind," he says. "Forget it. It doesn't matter. Life isn't chess, right?"

She flinches. "Right." There's another long silence, and Florence hates it. At last she says, "It's good to hear your voice again."

"No," Freddie says bitterly. "It's not. But thanks for trying, honey."

"Freddie, I'm sorry about—"

He cuts her off. "D'y'ever hear from Sergievsky?"

"Anatoly?"

"Do you know any other Sergievsky? And don't mention his wife."

She wouldn't have mentioned Svetlana anyway, but she is too preoccupied by the odd tone in Freddie's voice to mention that. "No. Not in a long time." She can't tell whether the mention of the Russian was bitter, or angry, or resentful…or wistful.

He laughs again, and she really wishes he would stop that, because it's not the laugh she remembers. "Thought you two kids were in love."

"Yes," she says softly. "So did I."

"Y'know, I used to think you and I," he begins, then cuts himself off.

She's grateful for that, the only break he has given her in this strange, twisted conversation. "Freddie, where are you?"

Another long pause before he says, finally, "Nowhere."

"Fr—"

"I just called to say," he interrupts, "That you were right about me."

She swallows.

He disconnects then, and she's left listening to the steady buzz of the dial tone.

Did she imagine it, or had Freddie whispered 'I'm sorry' before hanging up?

[54] Dirty Sexy Money icons (new fandom love!)

2007-09-30T02:09:40Z

[54] Dirty Sexy Money – Jeremy & Juliet icons

Comments are unspeakably lovely and brighten up my day. Credit (fandomfrom3) is wonderful but not required. Hotlinking is a big no. Textless icons can absolutely be used as bases if you so desire.

SPOILER WARNING: Promotional images from episodes two, three, and four used! Please don't click if you're trying to remain completely unspoiled; without context, images tend to be a bit useless, but they are still technically spoilers.

Teaser:

1	2	3

1	2	3	4

5	6	7	8

9	10	11	12

13	14	15	16

17	18	19	20

21	22	23	24

25	26	27	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

Great news for chess fans! Yeah, that's how he did it! That's how the Communist plays!

2007-09-07T02:16:26Z

*flail* I fail at that whole not-committing-to-things-until-other-commitments-have-been-fulfilled thing, don't I?

Anyway! Table for un_love_you, claim of Chess: general fandom.

01.	You were right about me.	02.	I was wrong about you.	03.	This cancels out the hurt.
04.	I need to want you.	05.	You can be like me.	06.	I want to need you.
07.	Prove it.	08.	I'm cruel.	09.	Always wondered what this'd be like.
10.	I'm broken.	11.	Thought I needed this.	12.	I'm drunk.
13.	I want to hurt you.	14.	I'm awake and you're breathing.	15.	This is my desperation in action.
16.	I want to break you.	17.	Wish I didn't love you.	18.	I pity you.
19.	This isn't about you at all.	20.	I hate you, you bitch.	21.	You'll do.
22.	I hate myself.	23.	You remind me of me.	24.	I want you to hate me.
25.	You remind me of someone.	26.	I can be like you.	27.	Author's Choice.
28.	Author's Choice.	29.	Author's Choice.	30.	Author's Choice.

FIC: The End Of The Road (Is The Beginning Of Your Life) (Doctor Who)

2007-09-03T17:19:02Z

Title: The End Of The Road (Is The Beginning Of Your Life)
Author: chicafrom3
Gift for: imsanehonest
Rating: PG. More for safety than anything else.
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Billy Shipton/Sally Wainright, some minor Billy Shipton/Sally Sparrow
Word count: 1,088
Summary: Where it starts, and where it ends. The life and loves of Billy Shipton.
Spoilers: Blink
The Request: "Billy Shipton (from "Blink") and adjusting to life in 1969. Let's hear a bit about his Sally!"
Author's Notes: This didn't come out quite like I planned it, and is kind of surreal and deeply nonlinear, but I hope it still pleases. *hugs* I'm so sorry this is late, I was offline unexpectedly for the weekend.
Disclaimer: Billy Shipton is not mine. His life is not mine. His Sally is not mine, and neither is Sally Sparrow. Let's be honest, I own nothing except for this precise arrangement of words in a row; the BBC owns everything else.

There are days—moments really—when Billy Shipton forgets.

Moments when he forgets that this is not where he belongs; forgets that he was not born into this world (time); forgets to be afraid to blink.

Moments when he forgets the Weeping Angels; forgets that this is not the twenty-first century; forgets the gorgeous girl called Sally Sparrow and the fake police box and the existence of anyone called the Doctor.

Moments when he forgets that he is living out a predestination paradox, and that's his only purpose any more.

And then the moment is over, and it all comes crashing back in.

-*-

It ends here: in the rain, in a bed, with gorgeous girl Sally Sparrow crying beside him.

I have till the rain stops.

-*-

Billy Shipton was an officer of the police, a Detective Inspector, a good one. He did his job. He caught the criminals.

He goes into publishing because the Doctor tells him that's what he does. Some days he wonders why he's taking the word of a man without a name—not just taking the word of, building his entire world around the word of—and then he remembers that the Doctor is the only one who knows what's going on, and how it all plays out.

Filming the Doctor and Martha is fun, and distracting. The Doctor is focused, reciting mostly from memory, glancing at the autocue only every so often. Martha is good-humored, snarky, beautiful and clever.

He stores the film like the Doctor tells him to. DVD technology doesn't exist yet; but eventually, he will be responsible for passing this message on.

-*-

It starts here: he is happy. He's had a good day. He is waiting for something he doesn't know. The year doesn't matter, because he is where he is.

She is beautiful, and smiles at him, and they flirt.

Her name is Sally Wainright, and he drops his glass.

-*-

There are the moments when Billy Shipton forgets, and then there are the moments when it is too real to be borne.

Moments when he can't explain his knowledge of things he shouldn't know, and ignorance of things he should; moments when he wants to shout his frustration from the tallest buildings; moments when all he wants to say is fuck the timeline get me out of here.

Moments when he sees the dirty looks directed at him for having the beautiful Sally Wainright on his arm, because she's white and he's black; moments when the casual racism and sexism and just all the isms together combine to drive him to fury; moments when it is crystal clear that this is not when he belongs and the Weeping Angels stole something precious and irreplaceable from him.

Moments when he really does feel like there's nothing left for him, and he really might as well end it here and now, paradox be damned.

And then he takes a deep breath, and he keeps going.

-*-

"I'm glad you're out of time," she whispers against his skin one night, whispers like it's something secret and shameful. "Because it means you're mine."

He kisses her and thinks: this is real.

-*-

The Doctor and Martha help Billy Shipton set up a life for himself. Find a flat, find a job, fake the paperwork, and move on.

There are days when it hurts to remember that they will get to escape while he takes the slow path—and there are days when he is waiting for that to happen as impatiently as they are.

Because life is short and you are hot, he had told the lovely Sally Sparrow, but here and now, life is long and slow and he is at a loss.

But he is willing to bet that forty years in the future, she is still hot.

-*-

His Sally is jealous, but won't admit it, and he knows what she's jealous of, but can't stop.

Kathy (his future mother-in-law, he sincerely hopes) tells him stories about Sally Sparrow and he tells her about his own meeting with the gorgeous girl. They talk about the twenty-first century and the things they miss.

For whole hours, they exist in a time that hasn't come yet, and that Sally cannot be part of, and it hurts her but he cannot stop.

-*-

There are nights when Billy Shipton dreams of rain.

He always wakes up with tears on his cheeks.

-*-

Their wedding is quiet and inexpensive and the happiest day of his life.

Sally is radiant. Brilliantly, beautifully happy, and he is scared to death (what if he can't do right by her?) but he can't stop smiling.

Kathy squeezes his hand briefly in encouragement, kisses him on the cheek, and goes to reassure her daughter.

While he is saying his vows, he glances at the friends and family gathered in the church, and sees two people lurking near the door—a tall, thin man in a brown trench coat; a pretty young woman in a red leather jacket; and everything is okay and maybe someone is profiting off of his stolen future but this future looks pretty good from where he's standing.

You may now kiss the bride, and when he does, everything else ceases to matter.

-*-

The day she dies (he can't—)

The day she dies.

This is how it ought to end, sitting by her bedside, holding her hand, watching everything vanish on him, but it doesn't.

I have till the rain stops.

This is the first time he prays for the rain to come, and for Sally Sparrow to appear, and for the rain to stop.

It won't be the last.

(She's dead, and how did that happen, how does any of this happen, God, why—)

-*-

It starts:

Here and now, in a thousand different places, at a million different times.

It starts:

Sally Sparrow soaking wet, abandoned cars still running in the yard of an abandoned house, Miss Sally Wainright consenting to become Mrs. Sally Shipton, goes ding when there's stuff, 1969 and a future that shouldn't have been his but is stretching out in front of him as far as he can see.

It ends:

Then and there, in one set moment that he can't find.

It ends:

In an Angel's touch, when the rain stops, in a DVD he made himself because he was destined to, in a hospital bed and he curses the doctors for their failure to save her.

It ends:

It doesn't end.

LiveJournal auto-post

2007-08-30T02:50:52Z

Fandom: Doctor Who
Pairing: Ian Chesterton x Barbara Wright
Theme set: Epsilon
Rating: PG? Ish?
Notes: In numerical, not chronological order. Spoilers through The Chase, if an episode that aired in 1964 can be counted as a "spoiler". There's also a reference to The Christmas Invasion in one of the Powers That Be reside in his head, with himself, the Defender trying to be useful, Shannon needed someone to love her, and I can’t stand to be that tiny?

She climbed up to sit on the floor among empty and half-full and broken bottles, peaceably passed out. Rommie was just sitting up on the bed, her expression making it clear what she thought of hangovers.The android scowled down at the files, paged through them carelessly, and handed them back.

"Perjury's a crime," the lawyer said fiercely. "So how about for once in your miserable life you tell us the truth. What really happened to the Donnellys after the shootout with Farrell?"

Joey shrugged and gave up: "I'm from another universe."

"Oh, brilliant," he said, expression clearing right up. "So'm I. Another round, then?"

ii.
"Men suck," a voice announced, and the pretty blond girl sat down at Wade's table without waiting for an answer. "As a whole? Regardless of species, men suck. That's all there is."

Wade blinked at her, then let the species remark drop. Different worlds and all. "Well," she said cautiously. "Not all men."

"All men," the girl insisted. "All men ever. Even Kyle, who I thought might be different—all men suck." She gave Wade an appraising look, then stuck out a hand and after a moment’s drunken pause, he shook it. “In from California. Los Angeles, to be precise.”

“So, Miss Rutherford, what brings you here, little sister?”

“We’re on vacation.” From the way she wrinkled her nose, it was obvious they weren't used to them; when they left, someone overheard Anthony say, "Damn, Spot, let's not do that again."

#12 – Sensual
Spot was convinced that this was his last hit, after this he was going to be in Sydney?” Karen asked.

“A couple more days,” Liam said, smiling charmingly. “Have two more shows, and then it’s back on the road, touring, and he could get her a present. That was the one reason he had to waste half an hour bickering with the dealer, trying to hold on his train of thought long enough to hear one of the only people in New York that had not exactly sold out, because their popularity was already on the wane. Liam was stoned out of his control.

At first, of course, he’d been quite upset. It was a new feeling for him, in love with Han–c’mon, who wasn’t?–and you wanted to be a doctor," she observed, taking a drink of her coffee.

"What?" He pretended to take offense. "You think doctors can't be silly sometimes? What are you doing now?"

"Trying to get us to Barcelona. And especially the bad ones." The Doctor peered into the console. "Oh, I wondered where I put that…"

"You're not gonna start banging on it with a hammer again, are you?" Rose demanded.

"Bad memories are at least as responsible for this fic, as well as you think, Beka.""Oh, really?" You laugh again. "Name one thing I don't know any other way to be. I don't know if I succeeded in not boring my readers, but at least I hope I have.And I know I screwed up something awful, baby, but I'm sorry, okay? I was depressed and I was always terrified that if I say any of this, except it needs to be told.

It's the first honest thing he'll say to you.

[298] multifandom icons

2007-08-13T20:11:54Z

[55] Andromeda – Harper/Doyle (for pyramid_dares challenge)
[81] Lost – Charlie/Claire feat. Jonathan Coulton lyrics
[30] Ghostwriter
[28] If I Should Fall From Grace: The Shane MacGowan Story (mostly of Shane himself)
[71] The Phantom Tollboth by Norton Juster – quotes
[33] Chess - quotes

[298] icons total

Credit is nice, comments are better, hotlinking will get you into trouble. Edit if you like.

Teaser:

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Harper/Doyle icons from pyramid_dares

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Charlie/Claire feat. Jonathan Coulton*
song credits at end of post

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If I Should Fall From Grace: The Shane MacGowan Story

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Jonathan Coulton songs used in Charlie/Claire icons:
1-3 Better
4-5 Bozo's Lament
6-8 Brand New Sucker
9 Brookline
10-11 Drinking With You
12-15 I Crush Everything
16-18 I Feel Fantastic
19-24 Madelaine
25-27 Millionaire Girlfriend
28-30 Not About You
31-32 Overhead
33 Re Your Brains
34-36 Rock And Roll Boy
37-38 Screwed
39 See You All In Hell
40-42 Shop Vac
43-48 So Far So Good
49-56 Someone Is Crazy
57-60 That Spells DNA
61-62 The Future Soon
63-66 Till The Money Comes
67-79 When You Go
80-81 You Could Be Her

FIC: I'm Awake (And You're Breathing) (Doctor Who)

2007-06-27T01:03:45Z

Title: I'm Awake (And You're Breathing)
Author: chicafrom3
Characters/Pairings: Martha Jones/Jack Harkness, with implied Martha/Ten and Jack/Ten
Rating: PG
Warnings: ...none really. Some very vaguely implied slash, some het kissing, vaguely dark themes.
Word Count: 600
Spoilers: Again, none really. "Utopia", to the extent that [character spoiler that everyone knows by now]. But is placed very vaguely in the timeline and doesn't specify much.
Summary: Jack and Martha are connected in all the wrong ways.
Author's Notes: Betaed by the AWESOME snarkaddict. ♥ Loads of gratitude to her. Also, credit and appreciation must be given to crickets, whose challenge community un_love_you is at least indirectly responsible for this fic, as well as the title and two of the lines within.

It's not something she's expecting.

Reflecting on it, she decides that she should have expected it. After all, she doesn't know much about Captain Jack Harkness, but she knows he's a hopeless flirt. Male, female, giant bug -- doesn't seem to matter. She kind of likes that. But she hadn't thought it through to this conclusion.

If she admits it to herself, that's a lie. She'd thought it through to exactly this conclusion. She just hadn't believed it. Still doesn't wholly believe it, really.

If she were willing to lie to herself, she'd say it was the Doctor's fault. That his perpetual ignorance of her feelings had blinded her to the idea that any other man could find her attractive.

She's not the type to lie to herself, and while the Doctor is certainly irritatingly oblivious, he's not responsible for her disbelief that this is really happening.

She's moved past dwelling on the thought of is this really happening? and is analyzing whether Captain Jack Harkness fits into her normal pattern of men -- he's certainly a bit gorgeous and rather camp, but he's not the kind to depend on her for an emotional crutch, is he? -- when he breaks the kiss and looks at her with that oddly intense expression.

"D'you think," she says breathlessly, "that this is really the best time for a snog?"

"It is never the wrong time for a snog," he says with a little laugh. "And you, Martha Jones, are incredibly snoggable."

She considers how odd that sounds in Jack's American accent. Then she wonders if something is wrong with her -- after all, she's just been thoroughly kissed by a gorgeous, suave, adventurous man, and she's thinking about his accent and syntax, and --

"And," he adds, "You think too much."

"Really? Wasn't aware that was a flaw." She still sounds breathless, she notes disapprovingly.

"Usually it's not." His hands travel down from her shoulders, brushing her arms, settling on her waist. "Kissing, though -- kissing isn't as much fun if you overthink. You're supposed to just stop. Don't think about the situation. Don't think about the world. Don't think about -- "

" -- the Doctor?"

It's the wrong thing to say, she thinks, or maybe it's exactly the right thing; Jack's face clouds over for just a moment, a heartbeat, a blink (don't blink). And then he says softly, "Just think about you, and me, and this kiss."

He kisses her again, and it's wonderful, it's definitely one of her top three kisses ever, and that includes that kiss with Johnny Depp that she's never actually had but has daydreamed about repeatedly. There's a very good chance that Johnny has got nothing on Jack Harkness.

Still, the kiss breaks again and she can't help herself: she asks, "What about the Doctor."

"What about him?"

"You implied to me that you love him."

"If loving the Doctor stopped me from ever loving anyone else," he counters calmly, "Then there would be something very, very wrong with the situation."

She raises an eyebrow. "Are you saying that you love me?"

He sighs, and lets her go, rather reluctantly, she thinks. "I hardly know you, Martha Jones," he says at last, softly, brokenly. "But I know you're beautiful, and clever, and strong, and -- "

"And?"

"And you remind me of me."

This time, she kisses him, and they don't break apart until it's time, again, to run for their lives.

And Martha's response to Jack's confession is unspoken, but they both hear it, loud and clear, even if they're the only two who ever will:

It isn't about us at all.

FIC: There Are No Happy Endings (The Black Donnellys)

2007-05-18T19:21:29Z

Title: There Are No Happy Endings
Characters/Pairings: Sean/Nadine, Kevin, Tommy/Jenny, Jimmy/Joanie, Helen Donnelly, Joey Ice Cream
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Language, allusions to drug use and violence
Word Count: 1,980
Spoiler alert: through "Easy Is The Way"
Summary: Five happy endings that might have happened after "Easy Is The Way" ended.
Author’s Notes: Unbetaed. Concrit welcomed with enthusiastic applause. I watched "Easy Is The Way" while depressed and wrote this and made myself more depressed. Damn cliffhanger endings...why do the networks hate us?

Sean

They picked up Nadine at her apartment. Sean insisted, and nobody could dissuade him, so they made the stop and waited in the van while Sean and Nadine stood in her doorway, arguing in hushed tones until she gave up and hugged him and went to pack a bag.

And when they left again, Sean was driving, and Nadine was perched awkwardly next to Joanie, eyes bright with excitement and confusion and adventure.

Throughout the drive, it was Nadine and Joanie that kept everyone's spirits up, chattering excitedly with each other about what they planned to do when they reached their destination...wherever that was. Nadine chose all the music they listened to, and was so enthusiastic about her choices that everyone else got into it, too. Joanie bubbled over with enthusiasm about everything, and the further they got from New York the happier she got. They ganged up on Joey to get him to tell a story that didn't even pretend to be truth, to distract everyone. Joanie got into Nadine's textbooks and coaxed Jimmy into looking through them with her. Sean wouldn't stop grinning, and Tommy's grim expression lightened a little every time he looked at his youngest brother.

Three weeks later, Kevin was the best man, Joanie was the maid of honor, Jimmy and Joey stole a ton of beer for the reception, Tommy made a toast, and Helen was full of dismal forebodings as would have been predicted but allowed herself to be persuaded to kiss her new daughter-in-law on the cheek.

Sean kissed his bride again, and again, and again, and they laughed in disbelief—we're married!—while his brothers whooped good-natured lewd encouragement, his mother shook her head in despair, Joanie giggled herself sick, and Joey shook his head: "Little Seanie married, who'd'a thought it?"

A year later, a new life was brought into the world: they called her Roberta Catherine Donnelly, and as Tommy carefully gathered his new niece into his arms, he silently promised her, his baby brother, and his sister-in-law, all the same thing: You will never have to fear for your life from the mob.

Kevin

It was a long time before Kevin needed any happy ending other than seeing his brothers and his mother and Joey and his brothers' girls safe and content. He was the one who plotted out their course, tracking their progress in the old road map, following his dad's old pencil markings with a happy smile.

He sang along with the radio and badgered Seanie into pulling over at a thrift store so he could 'buy' a new jacket. Tommy made him actually pay for it, but he wasn't particularly upset about that; it fit nice and the sign on the wall said all profits went to charity, so probably he would've felt guilty about walking out without paying for it.

They'd been settled into their new home for a while, and everyone was pretty happy, and Kevin liked that. Liked seeing his family happy. Especially Ma. She hadn't been happy near enough, lately, and she was smiling a lot more now.

That was when the old itch came back, and he went to the races.

There was this horse, see. This really amazing horse. Luck Of The Irish, she was called; how much more of a sign did anybody need?

Jimmy made fun of him. Said that Luck of the Irish meant 'if it weren't for bad luck there'd be no luck at all' and that's exactly the kind of luck Kevin had, so come on, come back to the bar and leave the horses alone. But Kevin just shook his head and said it had been their lucky year so far and he had a feeling, he had a really good feeling about this horse, and he put all his savings—five hundred dollars—down on Luck Of The Irish to win. The odds were a little long, but that was okay, that just meant the payoff would be better.

Sean came to the race with him. Kept grinning and making fun of him and insisting that it was a waste of money. Kevin ignored him, mostly, except to tease him back; some of the other spectators paused what they were doing to look at the two brothers with a fond smile.

Luck Of The Irish won by a nose.

Tommy

Nobody asked any questions when Jenny stepped out into the street in front of the van, forcing Sean into a very abrupt, very ungraceful halt.

Nobody asked any questions when Tommy let her into the van and she very calmly found a seat, and they all saw that her clothes were splattered with blood.

Nobody asked any questions about where her wedding ring was, or why she'd changed her mind, or whether her father was going to meet up with them at any point.

When a day later they heard on the radio that Samson Dawlish had been found dead in his apartment building, they still didn't ask any questions, but Joanie loaned Jenny a change of clothes, and Tommy brightened up a very little.

Jenny didn't offer any explanations. But at the first gas station they stopped at, she disappeared into the tiny bathroom for a very long time, and when she walked out her skin was a tight, stretched pink all over where she'd scrubbed it almost to bleeding.

A hundred miles later, Tommy kissed her behind the van in a Burger King parking lot, a soft, tentative, questioning kiss, and she kissed him back.

Kevin almost cheered from where he was spying behind a parked car, but Seanie elbowed him sharply just in time. Nobody let the two of them know that they knew what had happened.

But if Tommy and Jenny thought they were being discreet, then they obviously had no self-awareness whatsoever.

They had been settled into their new place for a month when Tommy walked in one day loaded down with paint cans and got to work. On every wall in every room he painted; for nearly a week he painted. And when he was done, there were bright, colorful murals on every wall, and hidden among the bright lines and colorful shapes were familiar faces: his brothers, Joey, Ma; Nadine and Joanie, Kate and Matty Farrell; Pop and Frankie and Calero. And on every wall, Jenny looking out with a bright smile, a smile that very nearly captured the beam Jenny walked around with for two weeks after seeing his handiwork.

Jimmy

The first thing Joanie did when they were all settled in and safe was find a rehab program, and enroll them both.

Jimmy sulked about it for a while and swore he wouldn't go. Not even if she bullied him or threatened him or left him would he go to some stupid rehab, he promised.

So she didn't bully or threaten or leave. She cried and begged and pleaded with him, saying she didn't want to be a junkie anymore, she wanted to belong, and she wanted to belong with him, and in the end he couldn't take it anymore and he went.

When Kevin came to visit him in rehab and Jimmy was grousing about why the hell had he ever thought this would be a good idea, Kevin grinned and said it was because he loved her. Jimmy had to hit his brother for that, chasing him out with barked orders not to come back.

When they got out, Joanie kissed him and threw her arms around his neck, looking healthier than she had in years, and wouldn't stop fucking smiling, and he thought to himself: well. Damned if Kevin's dumbass suggestion wasn't right after all. He loved her.

They bought a bar.

It took a while, but a couple years later they had a clientele and a reputation for being the only authentic Irish-American pub in the area. Jimmy was surly with the customers, Tommy and Kevin and Sean and Joey pitched in to help with work whenever they were needed, and they didn't sell mixed drinks; you got beer or hard liquor or you got the hell out. Joanie stopped bleaching her hair and led the red grow out; she flirted with the customers and hummed happily as she mopped down the bar.

They went to dinner at Helen's every Sunday and were almost constantly surrounded by family. Joanie had never been happier, and sometimes, Jimmy could almost be persuaded to admit that he kinda liked it, too.

Helen

It was terrifying. Blood, and pain, and broken glass, and the very strong feeling that there was not supposed to be a hole in her body there. And she could hear Joey hyperventilating and that girl of Jimmy's screaming in terror and gunshots, so many gunshots...

She cried out, and Tommy clutched at her hand.

She had her boys, she reminded herself; and she knew better than to doubt her boys, they were good boys, smart boys. They would figure out what to do, and they would fix this.

Well, Tommy would, anyway.

So Helen just focused on keeping her breathing going until Tommy could fix this.

And sure enough, they made it to a hospital; the whole ride was a blur to Helen, who was focused on breathing and pain, but the hospital was bright lights and a terrified nurse saying you made it just in time, needles and pressure and then blessed darkness—

The bullet wound was serious and required surgery, but the boys managed to scrape up the money and simultaneously coerce the doctors and nurses into not letting anyone know that they were there.

She woke up to find eight worried faces clustered around her, and noted that at some point her sons had added Jenny and Nadine to their ranks.

As soon as she felt well enough to leave, she walked out of the hospital, ignoring the doctors' protests, and rejoined her family on the run. The group had been scouting out destinations and Tommy swore they had found a house that she would love, a home that would make up for their loss of the neighborhood.

When she walked inside and looked around, she thought to herself that it wasn't quite the apartment she and Bobby had worked so hard to buy for themselves and their children, but it would do.

A year later, her sons and Joey and the girls had worn it in enough that she could almost hear Bobby's voice around the corner.

She was home.

Joey

"That's the thing about the Donnellys," Joey concluded. "They always got away, in the end. And I went with them. 'Course, I was one of the family and all—but that's another story."

"Right. But here's the thing," the lawyer said. He opened his briefcase and extracted a thick mass of files, laying them down one by one in front of Joey. "Nadine Gage graduated from Manhattan School Of Music with a bachelor's degree. She never got married and has no kids. No horse named Luck Of The Irish has run a race in the United States in the past twenty years. Samson Dawlish's body was never found; Jenny Reilly was questioned about his disappearance but there was never any evidence against her. We can't find a single bar that matches up with your description of Jimmy Donnelly's bar, and a woman matching Helen Donnelly's description was declared DOA at the community hospital that night."

Joey looked down at the files, paged through them carelessly, and handed them back.

"Perjury's a crime," the lawyer said fiercely. "So how about for once in your miserable life you tell us the truth. What really happened to the Donnellys after the shootout with Farrell?"

Joey shrugged and gave that half-smile that meant anything except happiness. "I just wanted to give them a happy ending, for once in their lives."

100 Small Worlds Icons for tw_icons100

2007-05-14T00:55:10Z

Subject: Small Worlds // S1, Ep. 05
Batch: Batch 3 // 100/100 // COMPLETE
Themes: 57 - 100
Additional Notes: Comments are lovely. Credit is nice. Hotlinking is bad. #4, "Lyrics", uses a couple lines from "Lullaby of London" by the Pogues. #71 and #93 come from a comment made by mitchellxl5. #84 draws on lyrics from "One Lonely Night" by Endway. #88-#90, #94, and #97-#99 use lyrics from the musical Chess. #100 is, obviously, a quote from Doctor Who.

Teasers:

5 0 . T h e m e d

001 Laugh	002 Cry	003 Smile	004 Lyrics	005 Alien

006 Secret	007 Travel	008 Underground	009 Lips	010 Body

011 Hot	012 Cold	013 Food	014 Drink	015 Textless

016 Day	017 Night	018 Hug	019 Regret	020 Final

021 Name	022 Shocked	023 Run	024 Help	025 Computer

026 Frightened	027 Flashlight	028 Weapon	029 Alone	030 Team

031 Artifact	032 Hero	033 Villain	034 Innocent	035 Dirty

036 Blood	037 Water	038 Air	039 Fire	040 Earth

041 Time	042 Forget	043 Remember	044 In My Arms	045 Technology

046 Shine	047 Blue	048 Red	049 Black	050 Monochrome

5 0 . A r t i s t ' s . C h o i c e

051 artist's choice	052 artist's choice	053 artist's choice	054 artist's choice	055 artist's choice

056 artist's choice	057 artist's choice	058 artist's choice	059 artist's choice	060 artist's choice

061 artist's choice	062 artist's choice	063 artist's choice	064 artist's choice	065 artist's choice

066 artist's choice	067 artist's choice	068 artist's choice	069 artist's choice	070 artist's choice

071 artist's choice	072 artist's choice	073 artist's choice	074 artist's choice	075 artist's choice

076 artist's choice	077 artist's choice	078 artist's choice	079 artist's choice	080 artist's choice

081 artist's choice	082 artist's choice	083 artist's choice	084 artist's choice	085 artist's choice

086 artist's choice	087 artist's choice	088 artist's choice	089 artist's choice	090 artist's choice

091 artist's choice	092 artist's choice	093 artist's choice	094 artist's choice	095 artist's choice

096 artist's choice	097 artist's choice	098 artist's choice	099 artist's choice	100 artist's choice

21 Torchwood: Class Of 2006 Icons

2007-05-08T21:40:33Z

A collection of 21 icons made from mzimmy's adorable drawing of the Torchwood/New Who crew as the Class of 2006! Credit her for the awesome artwork.

Want, take, have; add text to your heart's desire; plz don't hotlink.

[1] Group
[4] Jack/Ianto
[4] Jack/Tosh
[4] Owen/Gwen
[4] Jack/Ianto/Tosh
[4] Tenth Doctor/Rose

Teaser:

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45	46	47	48

49	50	51	52

53	54	55	56

57	58	59	60

61	62	63	64

65	66	67	68

69	70	71

1	2	3	4	5

6	7	8	9	10

11	12	13	14	15

16	17	18	19	20

21	22	23	24	25

26	27	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	59	60

61	62	63	64	65

66	67	68	69	70

71	72	73	74	75

76	77	78	79

1	2	3	4	5

6	7	8	9	10

11	12	13	14	15

16	17	18	19	20

21	22	23	24	25

26	27	28	29	30

31	32	33	34	35

1	2	3	4

5	6	7	8

9	10	11	12

13	14	15	16

17	18	19	20

21	22	23	24

25	26	27	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

1	2	3	4

5	6	7	8

9	10	11	12

13	14	15	16

17	18	19	20

21	22	23	24

25	26	27	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

1	2	3	4

5	6	7	8

9	10	11	12

13	14	15	16

17	18	19	20

21	22	23	24

25	26	27	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	59	60

61	62	63	64

65	66	67	68

69	70	71	72

73	74	75	76

77	78	79	80

81

1	2	3	4

5	6	7	8

9	10	11	12

13	14	15	16

17	18	19	20

21	22	23	24

25	26	27	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	59	60

61	62	63	64

65	66	67	68

69	70	71

1	2	3	4	5

6	7	8	9	10

11	12	13	14	15

16	17	18	19	20

21	22	23	24	25

26	27	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	59	60

61	62	63	64	65

66	67	68	69	70

71	72	73	74	75

76	77	78	79

1	2	3	4	5

6	7	8	9	10

11	12	13	14	15

16	17	18	19	20

21	22	23	24	25

26	27	28	29	30

31	32	33	34	35

1	2	3	4

5	6	7	8

9	10	11	12

13	14	15	16

17	18	19	20

21	22	23	24

25	26	27	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

1	2	3	4

5	6	7	8

9	10	11	12

13	14	15	16

17	18	19	20

21	22	23	24

25	26	27	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

1	2	3	4

5	6	7	8

9	10	11	12

13	14	15	16

17	18	19	20

21	22	23	24

25	26	27	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	59	60

61	62	63	64

65	66	67	68

69	70	71	72

73	74	75	76

77	78	79	80

81

1	2	3	4

5	6	7	8

9	10	11	12

13	14	15	16

17	18	19	20

21	22	23	24

25	26	27	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	59	60

61	62	63	64

65	66	67	68

69	70	71