{ a poll, for old times' sake }

[delga]

FLIST! PICK ONE!

Of Nietzscheans and Memories

It takes every last ounce of self-restraint for Beka to not reach out and grab her by the shoulders but she manages it, just about. She wants to say something – anything – to make Delga see that she’s being manipulated by some higher world order but then Delga turns and she realises she already knows. Of course she does, Beka grimaces, what the hell doesn’t she know?

She remembers looking down through the hatch and reaching out; she remembers the way the smaller fingers had locked through her own, remembered the reassuring weight of the small body as she pulled her through into the ship. She remembers the way Delga would constrict her movements to caress the confines of the space: how she was marginal and crucial all at the same time. She wishes she could reach out and ground her now, but that was never the way of things, and Beka never knew how to fix things that weren’t made of sheet metal and fuel pods.

 

Untitled Numb3rs Post-apocalyptic Crack!fic

“Colby, come on.”

But he can’t move. He sits on the sidewalk, head in his hands, and he just can’t move. He can just make out the wreck of the car crumbling in the flames, the stink of petroleum rushing through the air; smoke lining his nostrils and a sheen of soot across his face, gentle like a newborn’s touch.

“Colby, we’ve got to go. Colby, please!”

Never in all his life did he think it would be this way again: fear and adrenaline, fires in the streets and the numbing strike to his chest as he loses friends. They slip from his fingers like dream figures, sylphs. Except this isn’t a dream. This is carnage, here, in the streets of LA, like nothing he’s ever seen before. He feels like he’s been thrown back into combat but this time without a gun. Without a code to follow.

Megan’s hand shakes him from his reverie. “Move it, Granger, now!” Her face is pale, drawn; the light from fire draws out the hollows in her face. The desperation there kicks him into action, makes him stumble as he tries to stand. Megan hasn’t seen apocalypse before; she doesn’t know that beyond this there’s only more destruction, more death. She’s scared, but she’s still moving, still hoping. He owes it to her to keep going.

He takes her hand, and though there’s no-one behind them, they start to run.

 

In between

“You don’t talk much, do you?”

She’s smaller than he thought she would be: at a distance she seemed almost unreal; now, looking at her, he wonders if he could break her just by touch. But he does want to touch her, to feel the contours of that face beneath his palm, the round cup of her cheekbones slicing into his hand. Maybe to press his fingertips lightly over her eyelids. Or not.

She circles him lightly, looks up at him, wide eyed. Turns her shoulder; silent barriers. He knows what this is. Negative space. The shadows that sum up the form.

“Buy you a drink?”

 

Untitled #2

He was always surprised to open the door and find her sitting at the table, even though this was her inimitable default position. He would turn the key, following the door with his eyes as it swung away from him and look up to see her at the dining table, one seat removed from the head. She would look up and smile at him, her hand still moving, her brain still finishing the sentence he had interrupted.

“Hey, you.”

“Hey.”

She was always pleased to see him; the smile was genuine. It was a half-smile, a secret, as though she was shy or afraid to disturb the quiet. And he was surprised, yes, but pleased; some part of him envisions her before he opens the door. His memory reconstructs the motion of the door, her little figure bet over the table, illuminated by the light that hung directly above. He sees it so perfectly in his mind and yet he turns the key, he opens the door and he is surprised. She is still there.

The pattern of what came next varied from day to day. His dad would walk in, newspaper (or trowel) in hand, and peer at him over his spectacles. “Oh, you decided to come home today?” He’d grimace theatrically, and she’d giggle, covering her mouth out of instinct. Her fingers lingered over her lips as her hand drew away; sometimes she’d bite down on the nail, not enough to break it, but holding it secure enough to anchor her to the moment.

 

Supernatural fic ft. Lise

She pauses, in her somewhat meagre underwear, and Sam feels sorry for her. It’s almost pathetic. She squints at him, hands on her hips. “You lil’ prude, Sam Winchest’r. It’s jus’ skin!”

“Yeah Sam,” Dean interjects, his eyes never leaving Lise, “S’just skin.”

“Shut up.”

“You shut up.”

“Pervert.”

“Bitch.”

“Pansy.” (Lise). “I’ve got other clothes, y’know. Freak.” Opening her bag, she pulls out an old brown shirt and more jeans. She carefully wipes her feet with a clean patch of her sweater, before turning her sneakers upside down to let the rain water sludge out. She scowls and tries to use her sodden t-shirt to dry the shoes. In the end she puts them on damp, her face contorting as her foot meets the cold insole. Sam rolls his eyes as she begins to dress, dropping his coat next to her, in case she changes her mind and then moves to crouch down next to Dean so as to add more wood to the fire. Dean looks disappointed when Lise is back in full attire and Sam grimaces at him patronisingly. Dean smacks him over the head.

Sam tackles him.

 

Evening Grey & Morning Red, part II (Supernatural)

[ PART I ]

The air is cool and clear, the sun is bright. The world is rich, imperial in gold and rouge, the trees shedding their leaves like the night snake, unfurling and leaving the old life behind. Autumn has come to Arizona with startling force, dismissing summer with a swift kick. The days are shorter now, and the evening stumbles haphazardly into the mid afternoon; the wind bites, turns in an elemental two-step, and snags on the trees. Nothing happens here, the scene says, nothing wants to happen here. The little girl watching the Gila River knows differently, though; knows the swirling waters are excited. Everything happens here. Everything will happen here.

Behind her, the tall grass bristles as an older girl sweeps it aside, trying to force her way through.

“Shey? Lil?”

The little girl doesn’t answer, just watches eddies in the river, the small currents fascinating her with their diversity. Her sister finds her there, leant precariously over the water, reaching out as if to break the surface.

“No!” Lise snaps, pulling her away from the water’s edge. “Ain’t safe, shey. Get ‘way from there.”

The girl says nothing, keeps her eyes on the water as her sister pulls her back from harm. She wonders if she should tell Lise about the water. Would she understand? Would it matter? She wonders how much her older sister understands about the motions of the earth, and the turbulence in the air but then she forgets the idea. It’s not important. What Lise knows – what she doesn’t know – doesn’t matter. Mama is important.

Poll is in previous post. Don't ask.

Be sweet and play along, won't you?

Comments

[tigertrapped.livejournal.com]

Well I voted in the Poll for SPN but, having read the above, the ones which really intrigue me - the ones I'm desperate to read - are In-between and Evening Grey, Morning Red. So call me greedy.

[delgaserasca.livejournal.com]

EV&MR is the next part of the supernatural madness so I might play with that yet. As for the other one, it's meandering about loosely. Which is ironic (from my perspective, as I know what it's about).

And it's In Between. That was deliberate.

[noorie.livejournal.com]

mmm. i dunno, really. it's weird because i wasn't into reading numb3rs fic when i was watching the show, and with supernatural, i love the show but i've only read like 4 fics. then there's SGA, which i've stopped watching but read fic for, occasionally.