Discordant Rhyme

If Eternity Ends [YGO, Yami/Varon, 1/1]

Wed, 31 May 2006 19:21:44 GMT

Aaaaaall for raventide. Ilu! I hope you like my pathetic attempt at rationalising the way I promptly shot myself in the foot.

Varon knows that there's a difference between dreams and reality, but he's unsure how to define it. Implied sex. Possibly incoherent. Written too fast.

Time passes.

He doesn't grow up so much as he grows in; to realise you've made a mistake, and correct it, learn from it so you never make the same one again, it is possible, but it changes you. He goes back to Australia, chats to his old friends on the phone, rides his motorcycle on the dirt tracks that only he knows, and tries to forget her face. She fades, after a time; beautiful of course, with the golden hair and the eyes that had not been so bright when green glowed brighter, but hers was a tainted memory - a memory of a mistake, one which he had closed the door on.

She fades, eventually: he'd been in love, but absence made the heart forget. So he wasn't entirely sure what had brought him here, on the slick streets that smell of car exhaust and city air - somewhere between the air he gasped on the dirt track and what he could smell when he stood by the ocean - because this place wasn't home, and it wasn't anything like home, and he didn't want to be here. It wasn't dirty, but it smelt like city and technology, not of dust. He understood the feeling of sand under your feet, and of instinct and knowing what you want and how to get it, but it all seemed different here.

He didn't know why. He didn't know why he was here, didn't want to be here, and yet he was standing on a pavement, as the first drops of autumn rain began to fall, painting everything in watery grey.

He didn't know how to explain it; between the dragons and the lights, he had found something somewhere, and he had lost it again when he went home.

She fades and returns, to drive him to his hotel, but there's another man in the passenger seat of her car: one he recognises distantly, with the acid-green eyes and the long, dark hair. He had expected the blonde - Jounouchi - but apparently not. It doesn't surprise him much. They flirt and joke and giggle in the front, and he sits with his suitcase in the back and wonders how he ever loved her. It isn't that she isn't still beautiful - because she is, with that hair and those eyes, so much brighter now - but at anytime before this he would ached to have taken the place of the boy-man with green eyes, and now he doesn't care.

She's impervious to flame, now; heat, light, darkness. She has a sheen about her; untouchable, cold, an ice queen who covers her casing with make-up and pale, fragile skin, and she is still a goddess, but not one that he longed to worship. He parts with her fondly, waves her goodbye; climbs the steps to his hotel, checks in, and sleeps.

Dreams hold red eyes, now; Varon's not entirely sure why. A memory of a deep voice, a hero out of the stories, he'd thought at the time, albeit mockingly. Pharaoh, Dartz had hissed in a voice that sounded as a mixture of damnation and prayer; he'd been been non-committal, unsure of what to believe. Usually, nightmares held visions of burning burning why was it burning where was she but now, just the boy he remembered, staring at him with red eyes like flames.

"Why are you here?"

He didn't know, so he didn't answer. Dreams pass like time; Varon gets his own flat, gets a job, makes friends with the help of Mai, beautiful but untouchable with her extensive social circle, and continues to dream of red eyes at night. He would have dubbed them 'crimson', but he'd never been passionate about terminology; he tries his best not to think about them by day, because if he did he'd be driven mad. It was unfair, cruel, uncomfortable: Varon's not sure if his imagination is playing continual tricks, or if some spirit visits him at night, but he's never been that fanciful.

Something is wrong with you. The red eyes laugh at him at night, the smile on the boy-king's face amused rather than cold; he remembers dragons, then darkness, and feels burning sand against his face but it doesn't smell like home - it smells of spice and age, and time. He wakes to find one of his hands clenched about the other, so tight that his knuckles creak when he releases them: only after doing so does he remember the vision of him reaching for the boy-king's hand, taking it and holding it tight: flesh under his fingers would prove he was real.

He'd felt nothing at all, until he'd awakened; eyes closed, a brush of fingers across his face that he would never know were his own, and then he went to work.

He tried to forget; he would have the red eyes fade like Mai had, to torment him no more. She had faded to a friend - someone who called every now and then, but was not entirely important. Varon cycled through girlfriends, boyfriends, anything and everything that might have been able to distract him: nothing worked, and he'd dream again and again.

He tried to make a home, and failed: nothing felt better than home, here, but he’d made a place where he was comfortable, at least. Except when he slept - then he felt hot, confused, inadequate: the red eyes were always so dignified, so stately and domineering. He tried to ignore them in his dreams, sometimes, tried to look away; fingers, cool to the touch, pulled his vision back by the chin, and it was then that he screamed: what can I do? What do you want from me?!

He received no answer; fingers brushed over his lips, once, as they gasped for breath after the shout, and he could say nothing more. Eyes wandered to the floor, ashamed, and he awakened again. He found himself caught in the mess between waking and dreaming, making mistakes while working, not listening to his friends. Got dumped by his latest girlfriend, felt lonely for a moment, and decided that sleeping was better than being awake.

Sleeping, sleeping; red eyes are better than being awake, of course, nothing better than being here with you, don’t go away, I think I’m in love with you. Lips curve in a smile, then, and press against his; a ghostly kiss, one that was cool and chaste but meant so much more than the heated embraces of those he had dated in hopes of forgetting.

The dreams became darker; sometimes, writhing against silken sheets, bodies entwined, sweat and that bone-deep want that seered the veins and tamed a heathen soul. The apparition twisted under him, as contorted as he felt; but the eyes were always calm, always in control. But sometimes, bitter beginnings to dark endings; Egypt, sometimes, and all its passion - Atlantis, sometimes, all its dignity, and all its shame.

He loses his job; it comes as no real surprise, since his mind is really elsewhere. He’s in love with someone he only sees by night, so the days have no real consequence - he notices the red print on the bills, but chooses to let them fade, just like Mai refused to now. Once, she slapped him hard across the face; wake up! What’s wrong with you? Everything’s going to hell and you’re just … lying around!

This wasn’t him, and he knew it. He agrees with her, gets up, walks down the street, decides to attempt to beg back his job (his boss was a friend - everyone was a friend, he was just like that) and then sees him: the hair is the same, streaked red-and-black, golden bangs, walking purposefully in the same direction. He runs, then; keeps running until he has caught up, reaches for a shoulder to turn the other around, desperate to see is it true really is it you?

Amethyst, not red; what he sees disappoints him. Now he looks, he sees it: too short, too soft about the edges, the slightly-confused smile is too gentle as he is greeted. Yuugi Mutou recognises him, of course; they exchange mild conversation, passing the time about the weather and what each of them had been doing since they’d seen each other last, because both of them had always been inclined to treat everyone as a friend. But eventually, he’s asked:

“I wasn’t who you were expecting, was I?”

He was about to shake his head, to deny everything; he doesn’t want to talk about his affliction, how he is haunted at night by red eyes, and ache, and sand then fingers on his face; but he says ‘yes’ instead, and tells everything. Yuugi’s eyes are gentle, and so is his hand when he wraps his fingers about his, taking him to a museum somewhere just up the road.

The eyes are not red on the inscription, but Yuugi’s quiet explanation gives him enough to understand the sand, and the hush - Yuugi leaves him, politely, and his fingers trace over the picture. He has not wanted to cry for so long, now; but this was it: finality. Just a delusion, a dream created by things he had learned in the past, and everything he had felt had been merely his own.

Delusion.

Time passes, and he finds his face leaning against the stone; it smells of sand and age, just like him, and for an instant, he hears that voice.

“Goodbye.”

Time passes, and Varon does not dream again.

Soliloquy Interrupted [YGO; Bakura/Malik (Marik?)]

Wed, 19 Apr 2006 17:49:49 GMT

For Hanna, because it's a YEAR TODAY HOORAY~! Not as cool as your stuff for me, like I said, but I hope you like it. It was intended to be thiefshipping - it's a bit vague for me to give it its proper label, but it's definitely close enough. ♥

He was the silver thief, that one who ran through the night in a tyranny of darkness; no flame lit his eyes, no warmth fed his heart, and he was empty as the ivory bones that seemed to pallor his skin. No heat affected him; no light could brighten his days, no facsimile of life could sooth the creature who was dead like dust and still alive.

He was without soul, and thus untouchable; he stole because he liked things that shone, things that seemed all the brighter for his absence of light. He was a mockery of it, he glimmered and flickered in the corner of the eye, nothing and everything all at once; but he never was truly bright.

So he followed everything that could sustain the illumination he had always lacked.

Some days, he stole jewellery; others, watches. A television or two, because people seemed to like them. He stole a complete and unabridged works of Shakespeare once, because he had been told that the words shone past the page; but he couldn’t find the glimmer. The words were past his cunning, an extension past the imagination required to unlock a door without a key and escape a building without being seen; he had no soul to identify the songs interwoven in the words.

He burned the books, uninterested.

He took to stealing transportation; a convertible, which he rode too fast down the freeway until the air screamed with burning rubber and the lights passed by too quickly for him to count. Then he slammed a brick down on the accelerator, leapt from the car and watched it crash into an oncoming lorry in a blazing inferno of light, of heat; for a moment, his eyes seemed to glitter in the fire, but then they died to smoke and ash.

It wasn’t enough.

He tried to steal a motorcycle, one day; felt it purring between his knees as he slid onto the seat: revved the engine, once and twice, pleased at the sound. It shone beautifully - the author was obviously very proud of it, as one might well be - and growled like a lion. It would burn so delightfully when he destroyed it, as eventually he ruined everything. It was what he was good at.

He hadn’t reckoned on the gun being pointed at his face, in the wind seizing his silver hair and pulling it taut across his face so he could see nothing that moved; hadn’t reckoned on a lot of things, really, but it never mattered in the end. The gun was bright, so he reached for it - felt the bullet graze his face and found it hard to care. This was what he (perhaps) lived for, the moment of contact and conflict and the danger in the other man’s (lavender?) eyes as they pulled the gun to and fro.

The silver thief has nimble fingers, and the ammunition slips out of the gun. But the man - golden and bright, or so thinks the darkness, but there was nothing pure about him - does not give up. Silver and gold fall from the motorcycle, all fists and elbows and the hard smack of a thin back against a brick wall - the thief is not sure who feels more pain, but he knows he loves it.

The other man is laughing; at him, at the world, at the fact that the thief is continual, and never ceases. Beautiful, perhaps, in his pale skin and his eyes like twin abysses, but never enough to win - the motorcycle, maybe, or something else.

Fists and elbows become lips and hands; a dirty liaison in a murky alley outside a filthy bar. An arching back, and hands become gags to muffle noises (of pleasure, perhaps, or just despair) - it is not beautiful, and it is not becoming: golden man becomes bloody and pained, because the silver thief destroys all that he tries to own but finds too hard to dominate. But it is them, and this is who they are.

They know each other well.

Repeat [Kingdom Hearts; Cloud/Leon, 1/1]

Wed, 12 Apr 2006 13:59:06 GMT

A one-shot I started writing ages ago and finished today. Has vague language and Sian being a bit of a strange writer. Very vague slash.

1. Middle
The sword was too big for him, Leon thought.

There could have been so many things to say; a million different ideas, that coursed through the mind too fast for him to catch hold of, pin down, enunciate. He could have said anything, it would have done: a blue gaze upon him was expectant for a moment, before turning away in a manner which was far too familiar, and all he could think of was that. Whimsical, unwieldy, pathetic; a repeated theme, or at least that was how it appeared.

But then, he had never been very good with words.

The sword swooped through the air in a manner which spoke of a large amount of practice - that massive, too-big sword was an extension of his arm, dull metal flashing briefly as it passed the long bangs of golden hair. Cloud had always been small, but now he was compact; the child was gone, and what was left was one who had grown into their own shape. A warrior, perhaps, except Leon would have never thought of Cloud that way, and it would forever chafe him. Never a warrior; perhaps not the vulnerable child, though, not anymore. The wing, ugly-beautiful-elegant-broken, was enough evidence for that conclusion.

Behind them, there were shadows.

But ahead, there were stories; what was life but a story?

Leon reached forward as Cloud passed him, gripped his arm; bare skin meeting bare skin, a sideroad in time, and Leon hunted for the child in the eyes that were merely pools of nothing - and was he responsible for this, then? Dead child, hung from a dead ash, rotting behind the eyes which pretended life. But no, it could never have been his fault - Cloud was himself, and Leon was himself, and it had been a long time.

Time was ever the victor.

Then Cloud spoke, and that second was broken; fragmented as it should have been, into its own series of moments. A brief enquiry of what the other wanted, an extraction of his arm from Leon’s grasp, and the inevitable recognition - the soft addition of a name. Leon. The darker can say nothing, only wonder at the blot of dark-light that the childhood acquaintance had become; were they friends, before? The memory was shallow, almost untrue. Unfair to them both, and giving to none - and what did he want, in the end? What was the point in digging up the past, which existed only in translucent fable and ambiguous personal understanding? Cloud would not wish to hear it, and Leon had no more need of it himself. But the words that emerged had not been the ones he intended; the older words, the wiser woods, which were unfortunately entirely wrong.

The sword. It’s too big for you.

The light reflected off the end of the dull, grey sword as it swooped forward - perfectly controlled, without a hint of the weapon being too heavy for its wielder. Cold metal brushed lightly against Leon’s nose, as Cloud answered him in a voice that barely hid the challenge within.

Would you like to find out if that is true?

Leon paused, and reached for the ever-present handle of the gunblade at his back.

… Yes.

2. End
The fight had been only half; time passed between each blow of the sword, and then there were always more battles to have. Sometimes Cloud would be the victor, and other times Leon would be the one who would win; not all fights were with sword and gunfire, after all, and sometimes lips and hands and cool whispers in the midnight were more exciting. Leon’s sometimes not quite sure where they are, or where they’re going, but Cloud leads him by the hand and tells him

It’s alright.

Leon is conscious of the fact that once upon a time, it would have been him leading, unwillingly, with Cloud trailing after him like a stray dog; now, they walked together, with Leon just half-a-step behind.

He misses being in control.

He remembers Cloud drawing words in the mud on the ground with a stick; creating muddled letters, one after the other. Distantly, he recalled crude drawings; a picture of an eye, a woman with wings, swirled patterns in the mud. High matters carved in dirt, and he hadn’t liked it - a sweep of a child-sized boot had messed the pictures away. Cloud had said nothing, used to such treatment, used to having his ideas broken into pieces upon a whim of Leon’s.

Leon contemplates the fact that perhaps, he wasn’t a good person back then.

But was he responsible for the darkness he could catch in the blue gaze that fixed upon his, the sword that flashed sparks against his gun blade, the black and bleeding wing? Was he the reason that Cloud tossed and turned at night, hissing a name that was not Leon’s under his breath?

No.

Then, in defeat, Cloud turns up the corners of his lips; about to score the victory swing, Leon stops in mid-motion, paused and poised for that victory, but waiting for the words that parted the smile.

"Perhaps, we should work together."

Cloud remains motionless, until Leon offers a hand instead of the notched blade of his weapon; the fire of one fight ends, leaving only the ash of history and the warmth of hands, and lips, but the eyes were always the same.

Empty.

They’d fight together, and lie together, and work together as one; disconnecting the memory and the world outside, and create a world of their own. Perhaps it would last for a moment, or a year; it would never be enough for the child that had followed Leon about, tears permanently gathered in the corners of his eyes; would never be enough for the boy who had changed his name to abandon a past he had grown to hate.

Instead, Leon would trust in history; to have it never repeat itself again. He wonders, fingers caught in gold-blonde hair, if another repetition would bring another wing; condemn Cloud entirely to darkness, and have Leon himself forever blinded by the light he couldn’t reach.

The only thing to do was wait.

3. Beginning
A child draws a picture in the sand; stick-figure-warriors moving through sky to clash blades, once. He imagines idly what would happen if the swords were dropped, and the world stopped long enough for each to look into the other’s eyes, and find maybe a companion or a friend. So many people are the same, he thought, if only they stopped to realise it.

“Cloud! Cloud, where are you?”

Memories are nothing but the scars time leaves behind.

The Urban Spaceman [Doctor Who; Mickathon entry]

Thu, 06 Apr 2006 16:48:58 GMT

A Mickathon fic for bekkypk.

up to three things you wanted in the story: mention of jack'd be nice?
up to three things not wanted: Nothing too, y'know, explicit.
maximum rating: Awkward, because I will read NC17 fics but you have to be careful on the wording. Um. I guess I'll read anything so long as it's not in bad taste.

Mickey’s not sure if he wants to stay or go, anymore.

The Urban Spaceman

The day Rose left with the Doctor-who-wasn't, Mickey had not been entirely sure on how to react. There was the usual standard, which was seethe in a vaguely jealous rage for about five minutes, before falling into that habitual half-sadness that had become his life since that first time, when that man in the leather jacket had extended his hand and she had gone running. Into time, and space, and a new kind of living; he had watched her change, a little bit more every time he saw her.

Of course, that was to be expected; she was seeing things that no-one would ever expect to be, and she was becoming something new. Being sad about it was ridiculous in itself, because this world was made up of so many people that Mickey could connect with; everyone changed, a little bit at a tiime. Mickey had changed, too, from the heart out.

He was growing; deprivation was changing him. One of these days, he hoped that she would turn back - and ask him, in that voice that suggested she was truly hopeful. Come with us, Mickey.

One day, he would have the courage to say "Yes."

For now, though, he was content to linger in this place between time and space, and mundanity. He was the urban spaceman, too afraid to go, yet too brave to stay.

The last time he had seen Rose, she had been a changed person; flickering from determined and resolute to desperately sad; the TARDIS had been empty of its Doctor, not to mention the far-too-slick-but-unfortunately-funny Jumping Jack Flash. Without them, she had seemed only a third of herself; the Doctor had not been by her side, but she had been with him, fighting away in some other place and time.

Part of him desperately wanted to be like that; to care so much and so vibrantly about a person that even when they were absent, you were still with them. But another part of him always whispered that he wasn't quite enough, wasn't quite good enough to lead the life that Rose did, that she had always been a little bit special, that Mickey wasn't capable of that emotion she felt - to be able to care so much and so deeply for a person that it transcended time.

Well. He had Rose. And he missed her.

But when she wasn't here, it was easier; he had Trisha Delaney to think about, and his job, and if he wasn't thinking about her all the time then it was ... better. Time passed. The days came and went. The sun shone, and Mickey was capable of thinking about other things; not like Rose, so dangerously focused on returning to the future instead of staying home.

He wasn't like Rose, anymore.

But now, it was winter; it would be Christmas soon, and Jackie, Rose's mum, was asking him what she might want for Christmas - as if Mickey would still know exactly what Rose liked, even though she wasn't here, and could have changed so much and done so many things since Mickey had last seen her. As if she was still alive, when she could well be dead.

Mickey wasn't buying anything for Rose this year; it was a deliberate gesture. He wasn't going to spend his money on someone who believed there was nothing left for them here - because that had hurt, as reluctant he was to admit it - who, due to this, might not come home for Christmas at all. It was a waste of time.

He'd abandoned the website, too; no more point in keeping it, since she was likely never coming back. It didn't do to cling to the past, he told himself time and time again; she wasn't thinking of him, so he shouldn't be thinking about her. Ever. Except whenever a car in the garage started oddly, he thought of the sound the TARDIS made as it materialised; every time he saw a bloke with funny ears or heard the voice of an American he always looked to see that familiar blonde hair, that beautiful smile.

He saw neither; and the people he looked at were never those that something in the back of his head was looking for.

Perhaps they were dead, all three.

It was December the first; the first day of Advent. Last year, Rose had bought him an advent calendar, one of those chocolate ones, just for a laugh; he had forgotten to open it most days, but opened it in batches whenever she came over just to look as if he was opening it religiously. She knew that he wasn't, of course, but appreciated the effort all the same.

He hadn't got one this year; no-one to buy it for him (Trisha Delaney never ate chocolate, she was on one of those perma-diets), no point in doing it except for the sweets. So Mickey ignored the brightly-wrapped packages in the supermarket, and didn't think of Rose for even a moment; he was too bright to do that.

That was, until he saw the man.

There was a tall man standing in the cereal aisle, apparently pondering over Corn Flakes versus Rice Crispies. And he was completely and utterly familiar; no question, no doubt in Mickey's mind as to who the person was. Captain Jack Harkness, standing clear as day in a twenty-first century supermarket, bleeding from a cut on the leg that had slashed through the leather trousers, bruised and battered, but obviously seriously contemplating cereal.

"Jack!" He yelled, and ran in his direction; in his mind, there was no doubt, because he had seen how close, how exclusive and united (and how sickening, because Jack had stolen his potential place) the three of them had been; Rose had to be here. The Doctor would be here. He could find them somewhere, he was sure of it.

The man turned, and grinned; it was the same million-watt smile, lacking feeling. He offered Mickey a perfunctory pat on the shoulder, "Mickey. How ya doing?" He frowned then, and added: "And can you tell me which, between 'Corn Flakes' and 'Rice Crispies', is the superior product? They both appear to be made out of cardboard both inside and out."

"Go for Crispies, they make a funny noise when you put 'em in milk." Mickey answered, and added: "Where's Rose?"

To his shock, Jack laughed aloud, spinning on his booted feet in the centre of the aisle; when he looked back, there was that maniacal look in his eye, the one that Mickey had seen in the Doctor so long ago, when Rose had first taken his hand. Loneliness. "Now, that's the million-dollar question! Where is Rose Tyler? I don't know! Isn't that funny, since we were meant to be travelling together? And before you ask, I don't know where the Doctor is, either."

He laughed again, then the laughter died; he looked smaller somehow, almost pitiable, to Mickey. There was something in Jack Harkness now that he could see in himself, a long time ago; somewhat who was sad to the point of whimsy, someone who felt just a little something within themselves broken in two.

"They went off, into time and space." Jack told him, with an expression that was obviously torn between sadness and amusement, "Left me in a space station filled with dead bodies and Dalek dust. Course, you don't know what a Dalek is, and really you should be glad; I died, too, you know that much? Dead as a doornail, me, so I don't really know how I got here. 'Cept for the old extrapolator, which you do know about, since you were there."

"You don't look dead." Mickey offered; after all, the guy did deserve a little consolation. It sounded as if he'd been through hell.

"I know!" Jack answered with another somewhat insane laugh; "That's the funniest part. I'm walking around like I'm alive, but I know I died somehow. I've been in that time for months, working to save people, and I still don't believe I'm alive. Maybe I've gone crazy."

"You're nuts." Mickey agreed, and decided to go on to something a little more mundane. "What do you want cereal for, anyway?"

Jack gave him a blank, sarcastic look. "I'm hungry."

"So you're going to eat Rice Crispies?"

"Yes." Came the answer, "You just told me they make a funny noise when added to milk, and I could do with a laugh."

Mickey watched him examine the back of the box one more time, give out a quiet, "Nice to be seein' ya, Mickey," and walk away down the aisle. Perhaps, if he was the urban spaceman, caught between the earth and the stars, maybe he was meant to be there; perhaps he was meant to meet Captain Jack Harkness, alone in a time he did not know, and help him out.

He didn't really believe it, but it was enough to make him out, "Jack!"

"What?" The time traveller turned, blue eyes gazing intently at him for the briefest of moments.

"Let's find you something proper to eat."

~*~

Jack spent the night on his couch; when Mickey slobbed through the room on his way to the fridge at four in the morning, Harkness was staring at the ceiling, obviously unable to sleep. Mickey decided to ignore him, at least for the duration of him gulping back half a pint of milk. Jack hadn't acknowledged him, instead staring upwards blankly, as if seeing patterns of monsters on the ceiling.

Mickey found he didn't really have the heart to leave him like that. "Eh, Jack?"

"What?" Came the distant answer; evidently, the man was somewhat less than talkative at this time in the morning.

"You okay?"

"Fine." The answer came through gritted teeth; Mickey, never one to take a lie for an answer, sat on the arm of the couch with arms folded.

"Why're you not asleep, then?"

"You try dying and see if you like dreaming all the time." Jack answered coolly, "I don't tend to sleep until I pass out most days."

Mickey would have scoffed if it was someone else he had known that had said something quite so melodramatic, but he couldn't say that the pain written against the face of Captain Jack Harkness was anything but real. He was uncomfortable in the face of it; this wasn't Rose, he couldn't deal with this man's despair at being left behind. He couldn't even deal with Rose's.

He couldn't help but feel a brief stab of emnity in the Doctor's direction - did he do this to everyone he took with him, then? Take them to the stars, then leave them to fall into the black hole of their own despair? He had seen Rose, first, abandoned with a broken ship; now Jack, unable to sleep at night, half the man he used to be.

Mickey didn't want to travel with the Doctor in any way, shape or form, not anymore. He didn't want to end up like this; a pool of agony and pain. The realisation was sharp and painful, not something that made him happy or more comfortable with himself - he was too much of a coward to want to be so happy and then hurt so much. Mickey preferred his life in straight lines, as opposed to an emotional rollercoaster.

"... You gonna be alright?" He asked; he'd never been a particularly comforting person, but felt the need to make an attempt.

There was a long pause of silence from Jack; the quiet grew uncomfortable, stifling in the darkness, wrapping tendrils about Mickey's throat so he could say nothing more.

"... Sure." Jack nodded eventually; and then added: "Mickey?"

"Yeah?"

"If Rose and the Doctor ever come back here, don't tell them I was here." The man's voice was deeply reluctant in saying it; "Don't mention me at all; far as you're concerned, I'm dead."

"What? Why?" Mickey found himself stunned at such a request; he'd thought the other man wanted to get back to his friends, not stay away.

"I figure they left me behind for a reason, ya know." Jack said with a sigh; "I've obviously become extra baggage; 'dead' weight, as it were." He laughed at his own morbid pun, and Mickey wanted nothing more than to escape. He got to his feet, heading back to his room instead of listening to Jack laugh about his own fate, but was stopped at the doorway by a slightly-hesitant voice:

"Say, Mickey?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

Mickey offered the man the slightest of grins, appreciatively, before heading to his room. Seems like even Jack knew when to remember his manners.

~*~

The man was gone by the time Mickey rose in the morning, but then, in all honesty he had expected him to be. That clause about Rose and the Doctor had sounded rather like a goodbye, to him; but the man had left him a note, tucked under the ratty cushion on the couch.

Mickey -

Gone to Cardiff. Hear it's nice there at this time of year.
Thanks for helping me out.

-Jack

There was one, hastily-scribbled note on the bottom; obviously something Jack had forgotten to say, and come back to write.

P.S: She'll come back, you know.

Mickey crumpled the paper in his hands, setting it aflame with a flick of the gas hob in his kitchen and tossing it into the nearby wastebin. Any evidence of Jack's existence would have to go, if he wasn't going to be telling Rose and the Doctor if - mentally, he scrubbed the word out and changed it to when - when they came back.

If they asked him to come with them, next time, he would still say no; he'd remember the man left behind on a space station filled with the dead, and say no. The Doctor had no place for more than one companion for any kind of time; if they were still together, then Rose was still filling his life, and he hers. Evidently, the third was always expendable.

Mickey had set himself up for heartbreak once, by running to Cardiff after Rose Tyler after one little call; he wasn't going to do it again.

But he did jog to the jewelry shop just before he was due at work, to pick up the pretty necklace he had spied in the window that he had thought would suit Rose just perfectly. After all, Jackie was right, and so was Jack; Rose would be home, and be home for Christmas.

And maybe, just maybe, he might buy an advent calendar, just to show her it was empty again.

After all, maybe there were some traditions worth keeping.

The Lifestyle Ghost [HP, Godric/Salazar, AU]

Sat, 01 Apr 2006 20:58:38 GMT

Random obscure fic that I've spent about six hours of my Saturday on. AU, Godric and Salazar reincarnated into present day ficcery. Godric's a workaholic; Salazar sets out to change his life, and turnabout is the bitterest pill.

i. in which a twenty-something learns something new about life.
There was a fish in the fountain just outside the Portrait Gallery. He passes the stonework every day, never pausing - such things are never allowed in the rat race, are they? It's a funny juxtaposition of artistry and monotony, his suede-shoed feet passing the gallery toward the technological marvel of his own personal executive building.

Of course, you never notice these things until you spot someone doing something wrong: there's a boy standing on the ledge of the fountain, tattooing words with spray-paint on the chest of the (Rubenesque, he notices distantly) woman depicted on the statue - typical of kids these days, he thinks, and stops to yell out some warning about calling the police.

The boy disappears before his very eyes, hopping down and running away, a flash of green eyes and dark hair, and a fiendish wink. He does something he had never thought he'd do, and stops in front of the statue, if only to survey the words the boy had scrawled in surprisingly neat spray-colour.

"don't look down."

Godric Gryffindor, twenty-three year old office clerk, represented the entirety of humanity in looking down into the water at that very moment. Part of him had expected a dead body, something morbid and macabre. What he saw was a small orange fish, struggling for oxygen at the surface of the dirty water.

Well, well. You learned something new every day.

There was a fish in the fountain outside the Portrait Gallery, but it's not there anymore. He takes it home, plonks it in a bucket of fresh water with minimal dignity, and leaves it there until the evening - before going to get on with his day, and the inevitable racket he was going to receive upon arrival.

When he passes the statue again, the painted words are gone. He wonders if they were ever there at all.

ii. in which it is learned that stationery is very important.

Everything runs on computers in Godric's place of work; even he, a mere dogsbody in the scheme of things, has his own cubicle, his own desk, with his own shining, whirring laptop. Even the coffee machine runs on a card system absolved by computer instead of the usual cash mechanisms - it would be easy to believe that he had stepped onto another planet everytime he slipped into the air-conditioned atmosphere, or perhaps another time. A gazillion years in the future, perhaps.

Godric is fully aware of the fact that 'gazillion' is not an appropriate or even actual piece of terminology for what he was attempting to think, and does his best to frown on the thought, but the word makes too nice a noise in the back of his head to dismiss.

"Gazillion," He tries aloud. "Gazillion."

"Sir?" There's a voice behind him; surprising. He's not usually disturbed at this time of day - perhaps there was an unscheduled meeting of the union, or something equally insignificant. He spins on his wheelie chair, attempting to look professional while doing so; unfortunately, the chair shifts just a little too far, and the delivery boy - cap and all, with long, flowing dark hair tied back and poking out of the back of the cap in a manner which was very nineties, the beak of the cap shadowing his face - was looking somewhat more than amused.

He was looking outright close to laughing, in fact. Godric calmed himself, and held out his hands for the letter the other was carrying. Perhaps his mother had sent him something - it would be a bit strange for upper management to be sending something, that was for sure. But the boy was shaking his head, one hand pressed into the pocket of his jeans.

"You gotta sign for it," He explained - his voice was quiet, the kind that would fade into the walls if you let it, but there was that expected hint of amusement there. "And I've lost my pen." He added when Godric looked expectantly at him.

Godric glanced at his desk; of course, everything runs on computers in Godric's place of work. He looks across the strewn desk, at his filing cabinet - that failing, he looks under the table for a pen. He finds nothing but a discarded pencil, somewhat dusty and half-broken - and what kind of place did he work in, really, if he didn't even have a pen? How disconnected from reality had he become?

It was a disconcerting thought.

Godric fishes the pencil out nonetheless, and the delivery boy is still there, watching him with head tilted to the side.

Godric held up the pencil, offering a sheepish grin. The boy steps forward to hand him the form, then the letter; he's sure that he catches a flash of green eyes underneath the cap, but doesn't get close enough to tell for sure. Having signed the form, the delivery boy turns to leave, heading down the oh-so-long corridor back to the elevator: Godric opens his mystery envelope, and finds only one disappointingly-blank piece of paper.

He turns it over, to see if there was anything on the back.

"find your pen yet?"

Godric leaps from his seat, runs to the corridor to shout the boy back, find out who had sent him - but, in a manner which was concordant with Godric's luck, he was gone. Frowning, Godric flops back into his chair, intending to swing back around to his desk; unfortunately, he goes a little too far, and ends up staring at the entrance to his cubicle once again.

Well, now he had done it once, there was no harm in doing it again; spin, spin, spin, and Godric finds himself laughing as if there was something about the mere action of spinning on his chair that was incredibly funny.

Perhaps he would spin a gazillion times.

iii. in which it is realised that routine is not the be-all-and-end-all.

Lunchtime. Traditionally, it is Godric's favourite time of day; he gets to sit in the corner seat, near to the window, and eat his favourite kind of sandwich, followed by a roll of fruit pastilles; they had that pleasant explosion of taste that he always enjoys. Once upon a time, he might have sat here and written down little character sketches of his co-workers, miniature descriptions that made him feel better about what he was doing here - organising money, in an inorganic existence. Once he had felt better just to be doing something creative; now, it didn't seem to matter so much. He had no paper, he had no pen, and he had no time.

However, that didn't mean he was pleased to see that the scumbag in the line in front of him grab the last tube of pastilles. Someone as blonde as he was, but shorter than him; perhaps he could just reach around and grasp them... yet no. That would be both impolite and thoroughly unprofessional of him, so he refrained; blondie sloped off with the last pack, and Godric watched him meander to the drinks' stand nearby with an expression of barely-constrained jealousy. Besides, what kind of poser wore sunglasses indoors?

The checkout girl gave him a sweet smile - Godric couldn't help but answer it, because she really was such a lovely young thing. A bit plump, admittedly, but with a face pretty enough to counter that, with honeyed hair and eyes. Alright, perhaps he would ask - you never knew, perhaps they had more. "No sweets today, Godric?" She asked him, and he sighed a little.

"You don't have any more fruit pastilles anywhere, do you?" He wanted the taste-explosion for himself; poser-with-sunglasses was still meandering about the drinks cabinet, evidently comparing the calorie intake between Diet Coke and Diet Pepsi. Loser. Godric liked his sweet things sugary, not artificial.

"'Fraid not - I'm sorry, the guy in front of you just had the last pack." The checkout girl answered him with a mild laugh, and shrugged; "I think we have some fruit gums somewhere, if that helps at all."

Godric gave her an exasperated look. Fruit gums? Fruit gums? Had he ever, in the history of her serving him, bought fruit gums? Disgusting things that clung to your teeth, they were; not like the sugary confectionery delight that were his pastilles. He missed the even green look he was fired from over expensive sunglasses as he hissed out: "No, thank you. Fruit gums are not what I want."

She looked hurt, and the customer behind him took a short intake of breath; alright, that had been louder than he had thought it would be, and somewhat more impolite. What was he doing, anyway? Why the hell was it important enough to upset people over? He hated acting ridiculously for no reason, so turned his face away; in time to notice the blonde-with-sunglasses approaching as he silently paid for his sandwich and she silently gave him the change. Wordlessly, the man - young, far too young to be wearing clothing that expensive - ripped the unopened pack of pastilles in half, and handed half to him.

"Here." He said simply; "Not sure why it's so important, but if it means so much to you."

With that, he walked away; presumably to go and eat lunch, although Godric had to absently note that the man hadn't even bought a drink as he gazed down at the half-a-pack of pastilles he had just been handed.

The top one was green.

iv. in which it is discovered that appearances mean nothing.

It had been a long day, and now it was raining. Godric fought with his umbrella in the howling wind, and muttered about dumb luck - but there was a plus point. He walked down the same street every night, and every time, he would be approached by a beggar; he had used to feel sorry for that kind of person, but he had no time to be detained by them anymore. He had to go home, then get ready to go to his mother's ridiculous dinner party that evening - at least if it was raining, he wouldn't be approached by tramps demanding money.

He didn't really like the fact he had such an damning point of view on the subject, but when you had no time, you just didn't. He hurried down the street, angling the umbrella enough to keep most of the rain out of his face, and couldn’t help but notice the boy sitting on the steps, curled into himself to hide from the rain. But the boy looks up when Godric arrives, and the blond man offers a sigh; now, he was going to be canvassed. Brilliant.

“Any change, mister?” The boy addresses him, surprisingly chirpily for someone whose soaked, matted brown hair is all in their eyes; or, indeed, for someone whose patched clothing held no protection from the downpour. “Alternatively, a spare umbrella?”

“No.” Godric answers shortly; “I’m not in the habit of carrying change or spare umbrellas.”
He doesn’t see the boy grin in a way which might have been familiar, but he does feel slim, dirty hands reach to snatch his wallet from the pocket of his greatcoat. “Let me just check, eh?” The boy stands to dance away from Godric’s retrieving hand, rifling through the wallet with practised ease. “Seems like you’ve got plenty of change to me, sir.”

“Well, it’s my change,” Godric answered, thoroughly embarrassed, “Now give that back.”

He was expecting the little thief to do a runner with the wallet - instead, it was zipped up again, and handed back to him with a half-canny smile. “Here you go. I don’t steal, I just borrow.” A happy-go-lucky laugh, and a tilt of the head; lightning flashes in the clouds, and in eyes which were suddenly green. Godric, expectations shattered and utterly confused, just stared at the boy - the colour was gone, and he had flopped down again on the step, huddling into his poor excuse for a jumper.

“Bye bye, mister.” He said tiredly, staring idly over at the opposite wall. Godric gazed at him for a moment, and promptly leaned down to hand over his umbrella to a surprised young beggar-boy. Sure, he would undoubtedly get a cold, but even despite that he felt the best he had in days. Something of the old him; the charitable, kind soul that didn’t yell at checkout girls and always had a pen on him.

Something real, he fancies.

Green eyes watch him go, fixed in temporal fascination.

v. in which one catches a glimpse of the shores of freedom.

Godric had always hated the parties that his mother enjoyed throwing. When he was young, it had involved him being passed around like a doll; now, when he was older, it merely involved them throwing various dolls at him. He was an ‘eligible bachelor’, as his mother put it, and ‘she only wanted him to be happy and not so obsessed with work all the time’. Well, it was his parents who had wanted him to work like this; so she should damn well be happy that he was, in his opinion.

Regardless, he still came to the parties, because it made his mother smile, and it was always interesting to see what train wreck he had been paired up with this time; there was always just a little reason that they were still single, always. Too old, too stupid, too psychotic - his mother knew how to pick girls.

Godric really had no words to tell her that he didn’t really like girls, in general. Some were fine; most were annoying and squeaky and no good to talk to at all. They giggled and looked at him through their eyelashes and expected something, all the time.

But he was here, all the same; the door pushed open with his touch and a rustle of the one suit he owned that always smelt of expensive, and he could see his mother. She always waited for him, with his date to be for the evening. Except that could not possibly be his date.

She had very, very long dark hair, tied high in a waterfall of a ponytail; dressed neither sluttily nor in a manner which was too conservative, a halter neck in emerald green that accentuated her eyes - her eyes.

Godric could have sworn that there were never this many green-eyed people in the world before he took the fish home, a few days ago. But the girl was beautiful, all the same; which meant naturally that she was either as intelligent as a wet flannel, or she had a variety of neuroses.

He could hear their conversation as he approached - “Oh, here he comes now - you wouldn’t believe it, darling, I could swear he doesn’t like girls at all, the way he generally reacts.” The girl had just raised one elegant eyebrow when he cut in with his perpetually-patient,

“Mother.”

“Godric, darling,” His mother answered without missing a beat; “This is Ella. She was very interested in meeting you, weren’t you dear?”

“Yes,” The girl answered; her voice was low, dusky, neither squeaky nor irritating. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Godric.”

“Likewise.” Godric managed, and without further ado, his mother had fluttered away with a kiss on the cheek and a swirl of perfume, leaving him with the girl and the emerald eyes. He was pleasantly surprised to find she was a conversationalist; even more so to find out that she was a literature graduate. She was cultured, and delicate, and elegant; they spent dinner on Hemingway, and moved onto Joyce as the drinks flowed on.

“Have you ever wanted to do something really dangerous?” She asked him with a laugh, and he smiled.

“Skydiving?” He offered; it had always looked fun to him, after all.

“Ah, yes.” She agreed; then, she stood, eyes fixed on him, amused as they had seemed to be for the entire conversation.

She was beautiful, but he wasn’t attracted to her. Not in the way he should have been; he wasn’t desperately to grab her and possess her. He wanted to talk more - he liked talking. That was what made him stand, too; and at her invitation to ‘find someplace more fun’, he agreed readily.

She took him in her black convertible to a club on the other side of town; they took vodka shots, and he ditched his expensive jacket to the coat-taker. Her tapered fingers slipped across his shoulders, his head spun, and they danced to a melody all their own. More drink, more lights, and he swum through consciousness to where she waited for him, kissed her and kissed her and kissed her; nothing else, because he hadn’t wanted anything else. Just the mouth that created the words that had enchanted him, because nothing else mattered.

He wouldn’t remember her lugging him out to her car, strapping him in the passenger seat and driving him back to his mother’s home; wouldn’t remember the soft conversation that passed between them.

“Your lipstick’s smudged, dear. How did it go?”

“… Without a hitch.”

“You know, it’s such a pity you don’t really exist. You’d have made a good friend for him.”

“… I know.”

The next morning he’d remember nothing except green eyes and soft lips and a whispered “goodbye”, and while it made him sad, something in him knew he’d never see Ella again.

vi. in which time is a multiple.

There’s a stall in the exhibition centre at work, and Godric decides to break his routine enough to go and look at it; apparently it’s new company policy to provide ‘interesting and exciting challenges’ for the staff they imprison in cubicles; Godric doesn’t even know why he has just had that unkind thought, but they were the kind that were plaguing him more and more of late.
There’s a young man with golden brown hair, blue jeans and a neon hooded sweatshirt on standing by the stall, grinning broadly at the assorted employees that were standing around. He was wearing a pair of reflective goggles, evidently displaying some on-offer equipment. He has a bright, attractive smile, Godric notices; some kind of walking charisma attacks him as he draws into the vicinity, and the goggle-wearing man turns to him as he nears.

“Hi,” He offers, and Godric reads the writing above his head: extreme sports working tour. He scans the literature briefly before answering;

“Hi.”

The other employees have wandered off while he’s been scanning the leaflets, and when he looks up again the young man is looking at him expectantly - obviously anticipating questions or something, so Godric tries to think of one. Fails, so instead points out:

“You’ve still got the goggles on.”

“Doesn’t matter,” The young man tells him cheerfully, “I’m blind.”

“… Oh.” Godric answers, and adds a lame: “I’m sorry.”

“Not my fault; it’s not as if you stuck something in my eyes when I was a kid and made me so, is it?” The other man answered, “Anyway, my inability to see isn’t the point. I’m here to promote getting out and enjoying the great indoors, instead of hanging around in your cubicle all day and rotting.”

“… It sounds fun,” Godric replied wistfully, “But I’m sure I haven’t got the time, or probably the skills-”

“Dude.” The young man waves a hand, stops him talking mid-excuse. “I make time and have the skills, and I’m blind and work nine til’ five at Selfridges.” The waving hand positions itself on a hip, and he continues: “If you think it sounds fun, sign up. Sometimes we miss things in life just because we think we’ve not got the time, or because we’re worried we won’t be good enough. Then, we look back a few years later, and really wish we’d have done it.”

“Have you ever wanted to do something really dangerous?”

“Skydiving?”

Godric signs his name, and offers the young man a grin that he knows the other cannot see; “… hey, is this just a company thing, or can anyone do it?”

“Anyone can,” The other answered after a moment’s thought; “Why?”

“I’ve got a meeting with my boss.” Godric answered, the smile in his voice as well as his eyes as he turned and left; hearing the footsteps recede away, perhaps, or just watching him go, the young man lifted the goggles from his face. Green eyes glowed with success.

It was nearly over.

vii. the letting go

It was raining again when he walked home (in the light of the day instead of dusk), but he didn’t mind; there was a broad smile on his face, blue eyes bright with heart and soul. There was nothing more brilliant than life at this very moment.

He runs into a boy on the street, with long dark hair like Ella’s had been; but he didn’t look up to show the green eyes that Godric was coming, somehow, to know; he moved on, as quickly as he could.

Godric barely noticed.

He was free.

viii. (salazar)

When he told his mother that he had quit his job, he had expected some kind of outrage or horror from her; not the delight that he received, and the admonishment that he had been ‘working himself to death’. It made him smile still more when she suggested going back to university and taking the major he’d always wanted to do; they had laughed and laughed until the moment he had asked for Ella’s telephone number, so he could inform her of the news - perhaps even ask her to come skydiving with him,

His mother’s laughter had died away, and when she spoke again, she gave him a telephone number; a mobile telephone number. “But don’t expect her to be there.” She had told him quietly, “I suppose it’s time that you know the truth.”

He asked her what the truth was, and she hung up on him; not before he heard the slightest of chokes at the back of her throat. So he called the new number, somewhat bemused now as to what the ‘truth’ might be; the voice that answered was one that might fade into walls, if you let it; vaguely reminiscent of a husky woman’s voice, and a blind extreme sports instructor.

“Salazar Slytherin, professional lifestyle manipulator.” The tone was somewhat bored, “If you don’t know what that is, you’ve got the wrong number.”

Godric couldn’t help but be taken aback - lifestyle ‘manipulator’?

Green eyes, everywhere.

He hung up.

~*~

Salazar Slytherin was on stake-out in a Starbucks, wrapped warmly in an oversized jumper and watching an overly-jumpy little man purchase his morning coffee. It happened at the same time everyday, and was one of the many little idiosyncrasies that this strange forty-something had, which Salazar had noted down in his handy little notebook. The man always bought two cinnamon biscuits with his coffee, he had noted; the coffee was always a mocha, grande, with whipped cream.

He would get up and follow the man, but he knew exactly where he was going; to work, although he would always stop at the pet shop window first - always a good angle to work with, animals, Salazar found. Besides, he hadn’t finished the rather pleasant hot chocolate he had bought, yet.

He didn’t tend to like to stay in one town for long after he had finished a job, but the woman had been willing to pay him an awful lot of money. Unfortunately, when he stayed in one town for too long, such things as what was going to happen next would come to pass.

Godric Gryffindor, minus the suit and plus a rather heavy duffel coat and stripy scarf, flopped down in the chair opposite him, giving him a rather intense look. Salazar matched it with inquisitive, if guarded eyes; innocent until proven guilty, that was the saying.

“Salazar, the professional stalker.”

Well, that plan was shot to hell. Salazar rubbed his forearm nonchalantly, and took another sip of hot chocolate before answering such an accusation. “Most people call me a ‘lifestyle ghost’, actually.” He offered, tone cool; watched Godric’s eyes focusing on his lips, and had a feeling they were sharing a memory.

He had let that night go too far; he had never allowed himself to get that close or to listen so much; note facts, sure, but he never truly listened or cared. But this one particular haunting had been too long and too intense, and now Godric was sitting in front of him - not Salazar the beggar or the delivery boy or even the woman, but Salazar the person, and he wasn’t sure he could cope with it.

He wasn’t used to talking to people as himself.

“Ah, semantics.” Godric answered crisply. He had very blue eyes, Salazar decided, and they were a little more blue now for not being waited down with an over excess of care. “So, is Mr. Squirrel that just departed your next target of choice?”

“I don’t choose,” Salazar answered, a little frustrated: “It’s just about making a living. I’m good at disguises, so I do this.”

“You’re good at disguises, so go be an actor.” Godric retorted, “Stop messing with people’s lives for cash.”

Salazar regarded him astutely, folding his arms over his chest in a manner that was more defensive than he would have honestly liked. “Are you telling me that you don’t prefer your life now to what it was?”

“No.” Godric answered honestly, “But you should practice what you preach.”

Salazar couldn’t answer that, so he got up and left.

~*~

Godric followed him. Not for a minute; not for an hour, or even for a day. For a week, he continued to watch Salazar Slytherin, until the young man was nervous enough to look behind him every five minutes - continually spotting blue eyes and blond hair wherever he went. Now, he knew how it felt; they were here at that one club, and Salazar had sunk far too much alcohol than was deemed sensible.

Godric had been sneaking about for the best part of the evening, until the point where he had been shoved against the wall by a young man with irate emerald eyes.

“What the hell is your problem?” Salazar demanded of him, and Godric shook his head, smirking.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Is this about revenge, or something?” Salazar shifted back unsteadily, and Godric noticed how unstable on his feet the other was; so swept an arm about him, because it seemed the sensible thing to do. The scent of ebony hair reminded him of Ella-who-was-not-a-real-person-but-Salazar-instead, but the thrum of an angry fist against his chest did not. “What is this? What?”

“The bitter pill.” Godric told him softly, and pressed his lips to the younger man’s forehead, feeling Salazar still beside him. This was different, now; there was something longing within him now, to ease the pain and the need to be someone else, to find Salazar under Ella and beggar and beautiful blindness, and reassure them that they were a person too.

He had a feeling that Salazar had forgotten it.

ix. the night

Godric wishes that you could make time stand still, because there’s a beautiful tempest of hair over his pillow; sleeping, wrapped in his arms, Salazar is himself, and it was such a pity that by the time he woke up he would be gone.

He closes his eyes, instead of taking the battery out of his watch.

x. morning

Green eyes open slowly; a bleary smile shifts over still-swollen lips.

“Good morning, Salazar.”

Rain and Sunshine [Silent Hill, Henry/James (ish)]

Sun, 26 Mar 2006 20:44:11 GMT

.... I really do have nothing to say about this. It's just... there.

One.

They met somewhere between Henry's dreams and James' nightmares, a pair of lost spirits flocking together. One is a motionless pool of calm and grace; intent in the knowledge that this too will pass, we two will pass, and soon it will all end. Ruddy golden hair reflects lifelights, and warm hands are gentle on the shoulders of the other, because James knows how it feels.

Perhaps this is a dream, or perhaps this is the only reality that Henry wishes to remember; it is quiet here, at least, without a symphony of crying women and screaming children echoing from the black hole in his wall, and it had not hurt that much in the end.

There was no pain now, at least; just the tears which fell and fell (when you hold them in too long, tears stop being raindrops and become a tumult instead) and the tender pressure on his shoulders. But Henry had wanted the darkness, wanted it desperately, had longed for the silence, and it had never come.

He wasn't sure how long he had been sitting here, in the silent room; he remembers Walter leaving, with a glance at him that was almost regretful; remembers the sound of Eileen screaming and screaming and screaming as she woke, neverending until one day something within her broke, irreparable, and silent again. She was no more Eileen Galvin now than the moon outside his window was the one he had known so well before he had moved into Room 302, all that time ago.

Time always played tricks, but it seemed as if the man behind him had been there for days - just a reminder that Henry was not alone. Occasionally, when he allowed the tears to fade for a moment (though they always returned; a thought of Cynthia's reanimated soul, to close his eyes and catch a glimpse of the freckled lights in Walter's eyes as the knife had scythed oh-so-gently across his throat was all that was required) he heard the man's soft, quiet breathing.

Breathing. Henry had not bothered with such a thing for a little while; he took a breath in, and felt no different. Exhaled, and let his silence go; such an act of kindness as standing there for days with him deserved recognition, and even in this Henry refused to be impolite. Sleeves hard with almost-dry blood rub furiously at tired eyes, leaving bloody smears as Henry lifted his head, then his body to gaze at the blond man who had been waiting for the grief to end (did it ever end?).

A hesitant exchange of unsure smiles; the warmth is honest on one face, on the other it is a mere movement of muscles. Henry allows his hair to fall forward before his eyes to obscure the view of his shameful grief, regardless of the fact that he knew well the other understood fully the reason why it was there; he has never enjoyed expressing emotion so violently.

James understands that, but does not accept it; murmurs softly, almost under his breath, but the noise is soothing to Henry's scream-dulled ears. He draws his sleeve up onto his hand, and moistens it with the daub of a tongue before cleaning away the smears of blood underneath Henry's eyes, so he no longer looked as if his tears had been crimson; ignoring the angry carving just below the jawline, because such is past help or meaning. Henry lets him do it, too tired to be Henry Townshend, too tired to be independent and free and himself; he's had enough of running.

Something inside him wonders how the man got here, but his lips could not move to ask it; words seemed superfluous against the look on the man's face, the stories in his eyes. (Besides, it would be pointless; his throat was irreversibly cut, and every sob had been soundless.) The name came to his head like the imprints of a setting sun on the inside of the eyelids; son of someone he knew, it was carried in the facial expression, in the eyes and the honest kindness on his face, behind the shadows. James.

"Enough," The man tells him softly, and it is.

Two.

They sit on the steps outside the apartment building, and Henry finds himself sad to see that the world doesn't go by anymore. It is as quiet here as it is everywhere else; there are others (twenty to be exact) that linger around South Ashfield Heights, but they do not speak to Henry. Perhaps there is something in the knowledge that someone will not be able to answer you, Henry thinks, or perhaps they just do not talk anymore.

Sometimes the man speaks, James. He always breathes, too, as if it matters; Henry prefers the feeling of stillness within his chest, because it reminds him of exactly what he is. Sometimes, when he speaks, the others gather to hear him; he tells stories to broken souls, and makes them smile - sometimes they talk together, whispers and murmurs (and the occasional surreptitious glance in his direction; failed half-hero-wanderer, yet still worthy of attention.)

Henry tries to smile too, especially when James' eyes meet his and he brushes tender fingers across the plains of Henry's cool-skinned face. The touch is always warm, even though Henry's usually cold; perhaps, he muses, he will grow colder and colder until he freezes, and then there would be rest. But James touches him and he's warm again, and Henry's always unsure as to whether he should bless or curse him.

They watch the world stop going by, and Henry counts non-existent pulses against his wrist; then James lays out his hand between them, palm-up against the step. He does not look at Henry, nor expect anything from him, so Henry lays his hand palm-down atop the warmth of the other's skin, and somehow it's better that the traffic is gone, that the others stay away from him when James is quiet, that there are no chatting mothers and skipping children, no angry-faced teenagers storming away from unrepentant fathers, because now there is nothing to interrupt this one stagnant moment.

It could stretch into forever. Henry has stopped counting.

Three.

Often, now, all Henry wants is to be warm; all the time, like he used to be.

He's alone for a change, staring at his cold reflection in the bathroom mirror. He had traced his fingers against the places where the hole used to be, wondering whether (if he wished hard enough) he could make the hole reappear, climb back through it to his bedroom, wake warm and safe with hard-beating pulse and gasps of breath he didn't require.

Wishful thinking never helped, and the soft, half-stilted sound of James's voice was filtering through the room; not from the door, and not directed to him. Rather, to Eileen, who would be reclined on the bed in Room 303, and James would be sitting on the floor, just talking to her. Perhaps James thought it would help her - Henry was glad, in some way, that James cared enough to try and help her, but privately felt she was long gone. He had no words to convey such a point to James, however.

Perhaps she was in a better place.

His reflection was white, barren and sad; the only colour is the angry carvings upon his throat and jaw, marking him as property, and the green of his eyes, made stringent and acidic from the lack of colour on his face. Once, he had wanted to make a celebration of human skin and air and sky, capture it in pictures and place it on the wall - now, he would give anything just to be whole. Abandoning the mirror for what it may have been, he retreats into his (his?) living room, to see Walter huddled there by the peephole, listening to James' light talking in the next room across.

Henry's used to seeing Walter, by now; used to the delicate symmetry in which their movements took shape. Walter was the black-hole-sun, always in Room 302, curled against the wall he liked best; somewhere between the mother of his delusions and the mother of his heart. Henry rotated around him in a delicate orbit; avoidance was the key issue, but here he would not have a choice but to acknowledge the man who had killed him.

At least Walter's own actions would prevent him from striking up a conversation - Henry's half-cut throat was reluctant to form a sound of greeting. Henry nodded instead, once, and Walter looked up at him as if in detached sympathy; and was standing, looking at him faintly, fondly. A black-hole eventually pulled everything back to it; some kind of deviant gravity, perhaps. Henry had never been very good at science, but he knew that Walter was now the very centre of all of their worlds.

He wondered if Walter liked that thought or not.

"... That man's not meant to be here. I don't know why he is." Walter's voice, when it came, was heavy and translucent. Henry raised a questioning eyebrow; having previously believed that everything in this world was here because Walter had made it so, this was a surprise to him. But he had no words to reply in question, and so offered the slightest of shrugs.

"Mother won't tell me what he wants," Walter told him, the slightest of smiles curving against his lips at the very mention of the word 'mother'; for an instant, Henry felt a fleeting pang of sorrow for the person Walter Sullivan might have become. "Do you know, Henry?"

He paused, and his fingers reach to course over the rip in Henry's throat; the other steps backwards, very deliberately, eyes wide with alarm. Don't come near me. The message was more than plain, and so Walter lowered his hand; unruffled, unaffected by Henry's fear and dislike as he noted, tone somewhat wry:

"I think ... you do. But you'll never be able to tell me." The smile broadens, and as if the one-sided conversation had never taken place, Walter flees back to his corner; the background noise has stopped, and James is at the door, having heard voices in 302.

James stares down at Walter, who does not deign to look back. While Henry could gaze upon Walter with all the understanding of one who could never express such feelings, James did not hold it; perhaps a detached empathy, but never understanding.

"Want to go for a walk?" The voice is familiar in Henry's ears, as is his quiet answer of wrapping his hand about the other man's; they left Walter alone to his mother and room, down the stairs, and out into the thin strains of sunshine that were more sad than they were warming. Outside is Walter's idea of a perfect world; shining blue sky, yellow sunlight, all the colours more vivid than they were meant to be. If it were not real, then it would be as a child's drawing - one person's image of how things are meant to be.

Henry thinks that this is Walter's little gift to those he had slaughtered; perhaps a pretty unlife, to Walter Sullivan, is better than the one they had all lost. The hand wrapped around his squeezes, and for a moment Henry fancies that he can feel a pulse beating against his skin.

He doesn't know what James wants, but he wished that he did.

Four.

James wakes up one morning, and realises that he's still alive.

He goes to the window of Room 302 (careful not to wake Henry, who is all tempestuous hair and pale, pale skin at this time, fast asleep against the paler sheets) and finds that it is raining, for the first time since he arrived. His fingers travel slowly to trace the inside of his wrist; feeling the thump of passing blood, the smooth warmth of living skin, and wonders why he hadn't noticed it before.

Henry's waking up. His eyes are as vivid as the sky usually is, but tainted with the yellow of the sun - he sits up, and doesn't have the breath to form a sigh. James doesn't speak - moves instead to take the other man's hand, lead him to the window. Henry's cool mouth brushes against his, once, before looking out of the window, and James can tell that he sees nothing changed.

James' hand moves from Henry's hand to brush against his wrist, confirm what he already knew - there was no throbbing life in that vein. Henry was nothing but a spirit, a delusion, another dream to add to the many James had slipped through in the past. But he wasn't one who understood.

Eventually, they go outside; James tilts his face up to feel the rain fall against his skin, smiling slightly at the sensation. Henry feels the idyllic half-sunshine, and keeps a tight hold on James' hand, because he can feel something changing, subtle and slithering behind his consciousness.

James laughs, wild and unbecoming against his personal tempestuous sky, before turning to Henry again, and seeing people stepping down the streets, laughing to themselves as they ran through the rain. No half-formed spirits; instead real people, alive and living and free.

Laughing, laughing, and then the laughter stops; somewhere where their worlds collided, Henry is looking at him, with sad recognition - and somewhere behind them is Walter, who is watching them in silence, sunbeams reflecting in the weak light that James could not see. James bridged the worlds, pulled Henry to him, pressed a kiss to his forehead and let him go.

Henry closes his eyes, tearless; knowing that if he asked James to stay, he would, but Henry had no words to ask it of him, and would not ask it if he had. Nothing hurts as much when you gaze at it through dead-acid eyes, and when they open again, James is still there, still looking at him.

He reaches for Henry's hand again, gently guides it to just below his chin, where the pulse is thumping against the too-thin skin (and on Henry it is ripped, torn, but all the blood has faded with time). Henry feels the warmth against his fingers, but does not move to it, not anymore.

The walls build themselves.

"Are you going to be alright?"

Henry had no words to answer; instead, he gave the barest of nods. James is suddenly reminded of Mary, and chokes on pain - how many times would he be fooled, how much more would he have to feel before he was forgiven? But Henry looked so pale now, against the sombre colours of the real world.

"I have to..."

Another nod.

"You understand?"

An exchange of glances, an unspoken affection, a grace untold, extension of fingers touching once from across two worlds. Then James turns (he had never been good at goodbyes) and heads down the street, following the running family.

This might be his salvation.

Henry watched him go, because everything looked perfect from far away. He sees James look back only once, and meets his eyes, promising nothing. Then James is gone, and he's walking back to Room 302, Walter a shadow behind him.

They had met somewhere between dreams and nightmares, and parted between rain and sunshine, but Henry would always remember how James had made him happy, as the man who had cheered the dead.

And James lets the world begin again.

Five.

White roses, tied with black ribbon, are left leaning against a gravestone.

The sun is shining as James walks away.

Alpha and Omega [Silent Hill 4, Walter/Henry] (1/1)

Fri, 17 Mar 2006 20:28:42 GMT

Strange stream-of-consciousness present tense piece I wrote for my brand shiny new obsession, Silent Hill 4. It's bloody fun. (Ha ha, get it?)

Henry's lips were parted slightly, chest rising and falling softly in breath that was now a mockery; the window split moonlight and cast it over his skin, and Walter watched intently. The bed was pale, and held no place for bloodstained hands, so Walter remained in the doorframe, just watching.

Henry did not stir; he never stirred until their artificial morning. Looking at him now was like looking at him at the beginning of the Ritual; silent and peaceful. The only difference now was the pale scars running along the other's jawline; Walter had carved numbers with a hand that had not shaken, and had gently squeezed too-large hands around a suddenly too-delicate throat.

The bruises were gone, now; they had lingered for days, mocking Walter as he stared upon them, Henry's eyes casting shadows as he stared at the ceiling. Blank and incoherent; the sheer experience of death and then life but it's half life and it's worth nothing overcoming him, until one day he sat up and smiled, and went next door to see Eileen.

Walter followed, because Walter was good at following; he grew to love being Henry's walking shadow, staying with him day and night. Sometimes, Henry noticed; usually when a small child hung about his ankles, clinging to his jeans and pointing Walter out, again and again, crying and saying he's not safe he's not safe, run away Henry, run away, it's always best to run.

Henry always smiles, because there is nothing more that Walter could ever do to him, and there was nowhere left to go. Sometimes, Henry swings Walter's past up onto his shoulders and takes him to the window, and sometimes Walter lets the sun shine on their faces so they'll smile together.

Walter likes it when his past is allowed to be the child that in reality, he never got to be. Henry plays with the child; teaches him his letters properly, as if it matters that the ghost learns to read all books, as opposed to the one passage that would end so many lives. When the little boy falls, Eileen picks him up with gentle hands and wipes away the dirt; the tears that had gathered in the little boy's eyes would fade, as she makes him giggle with a light touch to the ribs.

Walter was Henry's shadow, but he still liked to watch her sometimes. Mother Eileen, beautiful and serene; not real-mother, but perhaps heart-mother, the little girl who gave him the doll so long ago. Walter had gotten it back from the box, tucked it into his pocket, and kept it safe, as his memory of a time when someone had actually been kind.

The sun rises, and Henry wakes.

Like clockwork, maybe; this world was not content to let him sleep his death away. Green eyes cast reflections back to the sun, and Henry is light by himself as he stands from the bed; rumpled in sleeping shorts and teeshirt, and Walter longs for nothing more than to touch him, to touch and touch and claim again - but never to leave bruises on golden skin or imprints of fingernails on the delicate skin of Henry's neck, for something else now, something different.

Sometimes, he sleeps; night is always fitful and troubled for Walter, the faces of his sacrifices smiling at him from twisted, mangled bodies. They should have been happy to be chosen for something pure and true, their lives had been corrupt before, but they looked only sad and angry when they gazed at him; then the creature came, who had Henry's eyes and windswept hair, but Eileen's lips and tender-soft fingers, enfolding him in his (her?) arms and telling him that he would be alright.

Walter wants to be a good person, so he stays only in Henry's shadow; he wishes to touch, so he touches the warmth that the other leaves behind, stays close enough to bask in his natural light. Some days, Henry looks at him; not into the shadows that he leaves behind, but at him, and fingers reach to sketch over the numbered scars. Pains of passing, sweet Henry, Walter had whispered to him as he had brushed the blade over his throat; it'll all be over soon, soon you'll forget.

Some days, when Henry looks at him, Walter wants to ask if the pain is gone, but he never does because he already knows the answer. Walter wants to be a good person, so he doesn't trouble Henry with silly questions that would only hurt him more; instead, he counts Henry's footsteps from Room 303 to 302, knowing that there should be exactly twelve; any more, any less, and there is something wrong.

There were always twelve steps, though, because Henry doesn't let much bother him anymore. The past runs into the room after Henry, stops dead at seeing Walter in the bedroom, and turns to Henry instead. Somehow, the little boy knows that it isn't right for both of them to exist in the same place; but this was not the right world, this was someplace else, and Walter makes the rules.

But the little boy still existed, no matter how hard Walter wished him to leave. Perhaps it was because Henry's warm laughter and Eileen's gentle words echoed more when the boy was around; perhaps it was because Walter no longer cared enough about getting his own way. It didn't matter.

Henry sits with Walter's past, and tells him stories; he's not a very good storyteller, but the little boy pays him rapt attention regardless. Walter does the same, not so much for the vaguely inane words as for the motion of hands, and face, and the laughter in his eyes when the little boy beside him works up the courage to ask him a question or point out a plot hole that Henry himself clearly had not thought about.

Once, when the sun was setting, Walter had climbed the stairs to the apartment roof, and found Richard Braintree watching him. The man tended to hang around up here, he knew; they were all trapped in the dark-light of this world, and there was no way to escape now, for any of them. Even Walter, who could control the world, if he asked nicely, would never escape it; but then Walter had no desire to see the real world again.

Braintree hadn't given up on finding an exit, though. The stare Walter was afforded was cold and clinical; at least until Eileen wandered past Walter in a swirl of soft hair and perfume, offering him a kind smile before going to stand beside Braintree at the rail.

"Did you find what you were looking for?" She asks him cheerfully, her eyes tawny in the sunset that Walter had decided would be beautiful today. He offers a simple shrug in answer, an evident 'no', and they stand together. Walter watches them, and wonders when Braintree became so quiet - perhaps they were all fading away, piece by piece.

Joseph's talking to Henry when Walter returns to room 302; he huddles against the wall by Eileen's peephole (this way he feels like he's close to both of them) and listens to their conversation. Henry's dreamingly serene, sitting on the sofa; Joseph opposite him, no longer inhabitant of the ceiling. He is not old, so much as weathered; tired against Henry's comfortable grace - fading sunlights give Henry's eyes their own luminescence, because in death he is brighter, more vibrant.

Walter notices a little boy, curled up at Henry's side; notices one tender hand smoothing the light hair, realises that the boy is sleeping. Joseph's talking about escaping, Walter realises distantly, and somewhere within him an anger kindles; he has given them a gift in that their deaths were not the end of their lives, and yet Joseph was still ungrateful. Walter stands, knowing that he is imposing - then the mood fades as soon as it comes, as there is no time for anger, now; Henry's talking, and the tone of his voice soothes away the ragged edges of Walter's anger.

"There's no way to escape. The holes are gone."

Joseph's noticed Walter now, and seizes up in fear - makes his excuses to Henry briefly, and escapes the room. Walter doesn't understand; it isn't as if he could do anything more to Schreiber now. But this means that Henry is alone, which means that surely Walter could talk to him - in fact, Henry appears to be expecting it, face upturned in a look that was distantly affectionate, in an almost-mocking way. Walter, he murmurs, and stands; smoothing the little boy beside him to lie flat on the sofa before turning back to Walter.

Walter is tall, but Henry's smiling still; reaching forward to take Walter's hand in his and leading him to the window in a way which seemed terminally unbothered by his own actions. Walter follows, focused on the warmth of Henry's hand, smooth skin against his own - such skin should never touch the bloodstains, but Walter can't argue because Henry chose to touch him.

Henry's always the one who chooses.

"Will it be this way forever?" Henry's talking again; a question that Walter knows the answer to.

"No."

Henry smiles, as if he had been hoping for that answer. Walter's not really sure why.

"Will we fade?"

Walter's other hand moves by itself, to trace the number-scars, and he imagines leaving smears of blood over every number; no matter how many times he cleaned his hands, he could still see the blood, and he could not decide if that made him feel guilty.

"Yes."

Henry's smile does not fade; it grows more vibrant, instead, and Walter wonders how he could say that when it was clear that Henry never could fade; he was too bright. Henry always chooses, and soon Walter's thoughts are gone; lips meet his, not petal-soft like heart-mother's, but different; this was what he wanted, this was heart this was home.

Walter is strong, but Henry is smiling even through the kisses; Walter feels him allowing him to take control, because Henry doesn't need to assert himself to be comfortable; he knows that Walter needs it to be this way, and he just doesn't mind. Henry is virtually unthreatenable, now; he's lips and hands and heart and eyes, and Walter wants to love him, except he's not sure how to do it; his hands aren't used to being gentle, they clutch and hold to never let go, but Henry doesn't mind that either.

Later, Henry sleeps again, resting against Walter's shoulder: once he is sure that the other is resting peacefully, Walter slips away. He makes sure that the brown-haired head rests comfortably against the pillow and brushes a knuckle gently against one cheek, before examining the face; one hand moves of its own accord to fit against the place where he had once squeezed (and didn't his hands just fit perfectly around Henry's neck?). He redresses to stand in the shadow, watching Henry sleep until daybreak.

Walter was a pious man, and he knows that it is sin to defile that which you worship. The Descent of the Holy Mother had brought him nothing but pain, yet there was a new centre of the universe, one that asked for nothing but to be gentle with me, please. No death, no hurt, no wondering if what he was doing is right at the back of his mind, even against the haze of bloodlust and righteousness. Just Henry, and his light-filled smile.

The sun rises, and Henry wakes, to the sunrise of their pale blue morning. He shares the half indignant, half indifferent look he always wears upon the morning after with Walter, before he hears Eileen's voice at the door; he rises, dresses quickly, and lets her in, and the two share morning coffee before tickling Walter's past awake.

Walter finds it hard to believe that they are fading; they seem more real to him than they ever had before. But somewhere within him, he knows that they will end; Eileen will smile at anything, these days, and Henry cares about less and less.

Walter huddles against the wall of room 302, and listens to the sweet hum of their voices. He was a good man, this much he knew, and he had done the right thing in bringing down the Holy Mother, even if it wasn't a good thing, in the end. He had stood by his principles and his God, and should have known better than to expect his true mother to return.

She had never wanted him; no-one had ever wanted Walter Sullivan. Except Henry, who takes him by the hand and guides his fingers to the curve of his shoulder; Walter had never wanted to dirty Henry with his bloodstained fingertips, but they almost seemed clean when touching him.

Perhaps it was right, then.

He finds an old Gideon's Bible in Henry's nightstand, one day, and looks for the parts he knows - finds none of them, and realises that this is somewhat strange. He asks Joseph where they are, since Joseph knows about these things; besides, Walter finds that knowing you terrify a person means that you will often get a truthful answer.

"You weren't taught about the right God," Joseph tells him, and Walter wonders what that means, because there surely could only be one God. I am the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the ending, he tells Joseph, and the man shakes his head.

"What you were taught about wasn't a God at all. It was a Devil."

Walter hits him; hard, again and again. Blood comes, and the feeling is familiar - Joseph is surprisingly calm against him, because pain is only half-real here. Walter almost feels alive, and then sees his past staring at him, eyes like lamp-lights, and above him was Henry, pushing Walter back and pulling Joseph away as if reprimanding a pair of naughty schoolchildren. Will you two learn to get along? He asks, and seems to be more amused than worried; he taps Walter on the nose in irritation, and goes to his couch, leading the child by one hand and Joseph by the other. He pushes him down to sit, then mops up the blood with one sleeve.

"Don't worry, the pain will be gone by morning." He tells Joseph, and smiles.

The sun rises, and Henry wakes; the day passes, and he sleeps again.

Walter wonders if Henry's pain is gone, late at night when he watches him sleep; when the moonlight touches his skin, highlighting an eyelid, a cheekbone, and Walter's legs begin to ache from so long a time standing. He's always so tired, these days, and it would be so easy to curl up beside Henry to rest - so that's what he does, because he's more tired of not doing what he wishes for.

He had worshipped a devil, not a God, and nothing is worth it; Henry's fingers curl in his coat as Walter draws him close, and he never stirs for a moment.

Walter sleeps, and dreams of fireflies, then pain; it ends as abruptly as it begins, and Henry's there, smiling at him against a monochrome background. Hands reach out, hands touch and entwine, and Walter wonders if this is finally the moment when they fade away - when all meaning is lost, and nothing is left but a feeling of momentum, and Henry's smile is omniscient and omnibenevolent all at once.

Henry's lips part in question, but Walter allows no words to escape; this was their time, their one moment left in a series. They had travelled apart, from Alpha to Omega, and now it was time to find home.

Walter wonders if this is finally the moment they fade away, and it is.

The sun rises.

The sun sets.

The sun rises.

The Lonely Position of Neutral [Doctor Who, 1/1]

Sun, 12 Feb 2006 10:10:31 GMT

Somewhat hard to summarise, and long. Contains Doctor/Rose and Doctor/Jack shippery. Bats off 'Father's Day' - a different kind of paradox leads to a different kind of adventure.

It was his own fault, he supposed, for getting soft.

He knew full well just how dangerous it was to mess around with history; how easy it was to rip the delicate fabrics of time. He knew it all, and had seen it to his detriment; yet, her voice had taken on that pleading note which always felled him at the wayside, and he was powerless to her will. So they had gone and seen her parents marry, in that not-quite-perfect ceremony with fine-tuned feeling; witnessed Rose's uneasiness at the sight of her father in the technicolour of life, and now they were here.

It was certainly his own fault - and who brought a girl of nineteen to see her own father die, when it was sure to break her heart, when in one car and one little accident would be the reason why her home life had only been half of what it could be? Deep uneasiness seized him as he felt her hand wrap around his; he looked at her, and saw her turn away as he died. There were tears, and there was pain, but most worrying of all, there was the wish to try again.

He had known the dangers; but no-one can fully understand time as it was meant to be. This was the last time that the two of them could be in this time, in this space, and there was still that hypertension within her - taut this time with something else, some determination, some sheer force of will that he had seen within her before - standing between him and the Dalek, defiance incarnate, demanding to know what he was turning into.

She had touched that Dalek and made it something it was not meant to be, and now she had done the same to him; crushed his resolve, his independence. What was he then, but a willing slave to her will? So, there they were, and she was more than ready to change history.

The sprint forward, his voice breaking the silence - "Rose, no!" - and then time ripped apart as she leapt upon the man she would have called father and dragged him out of the way of the passing car. He watched, eyes terrible, as everything changed; he could feel it in the harmonics of the air, the difference between the world as it had been and as it was now.

She gazed back at him, frozen in silence and space; her mouth opened to mouth his name, but no words would come to her. Then, just as the two of them of two minutes ago had disappeared upon seeing her, she faded too. It was slow, but he could not move to her; there was nothing he could do.

Time's primary function; to right itself when wronged. Every timeline was rewritten to include a presence that had not once been there, every person who Alan Tyler would meet in the years of his life that would return to him changing to reflect him.

And instead of him being gone, it was Rose that had faded.

For a moment the bottom dropped out of his world, as he stared blankly at the man-who-should-be-dead. Rose Tyler was gone; just as he had begun to define himself by her, she had faded. Not dead, of course; he knew what had happened to her. Her father's presence in her life had changed her timeline, and she would not have been in the clothing store at the time he had taken her hand, and told her to run.

And if she had not been there, they would never have met.

By rights, he too should have been changed; to reflect the lack of her presence in her life. But he was out of time; the creature without a home, without a time, without a space. No rules of physics could restrain him, but gravity.

And how that gravity pulled upon him now; the buoyancy that had filled him whenever she had smiled at him, laughed, and taken his hand, it was gone. All kings had to fall - the giants stumbled and tripped, and the bigger you were, the more it hurt when you hit the ground.

Perfection inevitably corrupted itself.

~*~

He went to Earth in the fifty-first century, seeking the sleek, metallic corruption that such a time could always bring. It was not a particularly nice place to be; every piece of machinery was too efficient, the streets were too clean, and the people too officious to be of real interest. But if you were looking for oblivion, this was the best place for anyone to go.

He went to that particular club because it smelt dirty; it reminded him of a place that he could never return to: that twenty-first century, when London was black with soot and tired, but held the gem that he had lost and would never again find. Even thinking of her hurt, and there was only one thing that would dull such a pain.

After his fifth drink, his eye was caught by a flash of golden hair; his brain functions were just beginning to blur from the potent alcohol running through his system, and for a moment, he could have sworn the girl he looked up to see was Rose. This was a strange place indeed; the music they were playing appeared to originate from the twentieth century, some claptrap by Glenn Miller, if he remembered correctly. The girl - no, woman's attention was entirely fixed upon the boy-man she was dancing with; dark hair, blue eyes, an easy laugh, and too young for her by the looks of him.

The more he looked at the woman, the older she seemed; there were cracks in the make-up where the wrinkles lingered, and eventually the boy laughed again, and moved away. Red-slicked lips twisted in a moue of disappointment, and she left the area; likely to ensnare someone else that would not look hard enough to see her flaws.

He was sorry to have likened her to Rose; the youthful energy that surrounded her would dim for no-one. For entertainment, he watched the dark-haired boy as he milled through the crowd; everyone seemed to know him, and before long he had been snared by another - a man this time, dark-skinned and tall. Humans in the fifty-first century were distinctly unworried by gender; they would grab whatever shone enough to be pretty, and the Doctor (as a detached observer) could see that the boy who danced liked darkness and laughed like sunshine was enough to catch the eye.

But an old eye like his could catch the details; the multi-talented wristwatch he had on was standard Time Agent issue, and while the lips moved in whispers against the dark man's skin, while the motions were almost drunken in their slow half-grace, the blue eyes were level and calculating.

A hesitant cough behind him, and the bartender told him that it was likely not worth looking. The boy was nothing like the usual; he came and he went, he was nowhere fast, he was one of those out of time. The very phrase caught the Doctor's ear, and as he watched the boy-man slip the disk out of the dark one's back pocket and into his own, he had to wonder.

The Time Agents were meant to be an organisation which dealt with miscreants in time from alien races; very few of them actually moved through time at this point. Those who did were usually young, as this one was, and adaptable; they called them timewalkers, and they often lost their places.

Humanity was never meant to walk nor run through time.

As the boy parted from the dark man, beginning to make his escape, the Doctor followed; out of intrigue, and for the want of something to do to take his mind off of her. But it was no use; in the fiery spirit he distantly caught in the eyes of the boy, she danced before him as the reborn phoenix.

He would never be free of her. He would never want to be.

~*~

The boy's name was Jack Harkness, and he was a timewalker.

They had picked him because he was clever, or so he said; he seemed fairly quick to the Doctor, at least for an ape. There was something a little off about his movements, about the way he talked about himself and acted in company, and he was not a boy at all - this was a man, if a young one. It was not the age that counted, it was the attitude.

The conversation, surprisingly, did not die. He had thought there was nothing left to say to anyone, but the man (or was it the alcohol?) had him talk, and talk, and talk. How he was alone, and he had lost her, and he wanted so badly for somewhere to belong. The boy-man-time-creature had listened, eyes that would only have to be the right colour to be hers intent upon him, and when the Doctor had finally finished blathering on, he leaned forward and kissed him.

There was surprise, at first; then a deep-set feeling of wrong, and right, then wrong again. If he did this now, then he would use Jack Harkness for something dirty; not in the act, but rather in the fact that he would use him as her. Their adventures had been bright, and shining, danger and mystery and love all at once; he had never thought of her in this way, but he had wanted to.

This could be different; shifting movement in the night, sweat and sheen and eyes that could see to the bone and through. The Doctor took Jack Harkness to a cheap hotel, and stopped thinking.

It was his own fault, he supposed, for getting soft.

At one point in the night, too fuzzy to remember, in a choked whisper he called the boy-man Captain, and supposed he would never know why.

~*~

Jack Harkness was naturally a light sleeper; the sound of two hearts in one chest was enough to stir him eventually. In the noon-light he sat up, wondering where the headache had appeared from. The hotel was cheap, dank and dirty; it had not seemed so when he had stumbled in, but then his attention had been focused somewhere else.

Jack Harkness was nineteen years old, and he had been a timewalker for three years already. They had needed people like him, who were willing to do the dirtiest of deeds to retrieve information, money, a particular resource or drug. The Time Agency was corrupt, and he knew it; but through his work, he saw wonders.

Last night's job had been easy; provide some cheap thrills, steal an infodisk, get out. Something had gone wrong somewhere down the line, though, and here he was, in bed with another alien.

This one at least looked human, but there was something else there; something intriguing, powerful and aching within the psyche of the man-of-sorts that he had never planned to sleep with. Of course, he knew the other for an alien only for the pounding of the two hearts in one chest; all he had heard from the drunken ramblings of the previous night was that the creature was very, very alone, and he had lost a flower, somewhere along the line.

At least, that was what Jack thought he had heard. The scanner would tell him the rest, surely. It took two flicks of buttons on his wristwatch for the computer to tell him that it had never seen this particular species before, and Jack frowned, flummoxed.

The Time Agents' resources were vast. All of the species were on record, and he had never had a problem identifying someone before. He attempted the scan again, and then again, growing increasingly confused. Just as he was getting the distinct urge to bang his faithful scanner against the bedroom wall, the alien he was attempting to identify awakened.

He appeared to not notice Jack whatsoever; lurching out of the bed with a terrible look in his eyes, heading for his clothes. The Time Agent watched him, silent and unashamed in his nakedness - this was who he was, the endless pleasure of the night and the shame of the morning after, when you looked into each other's eyes and realised that the person of the night was never the same as that of the day.

Maybe the alien was going to find his flower, Jack wasn't sure. But as the creature pulled on his leather jacket, without so much as a word to Jack, and looked back only once before he left the room, Jack was very glad for the fact that he had upon waking pinched the strange sonic device (a screwdriver? Who the hell would want a sonic screwdriver?) out of the man's coat pocket.

But for now it was time to return to headquarters with the disk he had meant to take to them the night before. He ignored the aches in his lower back as he stood, dressed, and left.

Jack Harkness was a timewalker. He moved on.

But never too far, it seemed.

~*~

Perhaps, in all of his life, he had never felt this ashamed.

The TARDIS was welcoming, soothing as he entered; the psychic ship sensing the tumult of emotion in his mind, and seeking to calm it as best she could. While the Doctor loved his tempestuous ship dearly, he could have done with the clarity of thought that his shame brought to him.

He had never gone so low as to go out and randomly sleep with any nearest creature with appealing eyes and a nice smile. Not even in his darkest pits of despair. Yet, that was what she had done to him; she had gone, and now that desperate want for companionship she had inspired in him was turning to others.

Maybe if he truly isolated himself all of this pain would cease; he needed a place that was calm, that was silent, that would chill him enough to keep him away from the dirty call of humanity. He would go to Women Wept; it was uninhabited, after all, and aptly named at that.

Maybe on a planet of ice, he could find a cold heart, and there again would be true serenity, without Rose’s beautiful face and the knowing eyes of Jack Harkness. He could find himself, and no other there.

The TARDIS faded, and so with it did the Doctor’s thoughts of her, and him, and that. Maybe this time, in the corner of his mind, he would admit to a loss, and let it go.

~*~

Women Wept had not worked as it was meant to; he had felt no serenity, no calm and no new freedom of choice. All he had felt, in fact, was a lighter pocket; upon stepping onto the surface of the ice, the Doctor had promptly placed his hands into his pockets for warmth and had found a distinct lack of presence of his beloved sonic screwdriver.

Rose, he had lost. His sanity too, perhaps. But he would be damned if he would allow that to go, too; especially when he knew where it would be. He had not taken it out of his pocket, so someone else must have, and the only one who had lately had any proximity to his clothing was Jack Harkness.

Obviously, the young man had eyes of a magpie. It would not take much to get the item back, though, so the Doctor did not allow himself to get angry as he reprogrammed the TARDIS to return him to fifty-first century Earth; he owed the young man he had taken advantage of that.

Upon arriving back in New York, however, he found that the TARDIS was playing tricks on him once again; he was a year past the time he had needed to be in. No matter - if the boy had the screwdriver, he was likely to have kept it. It was a useful little thing, after all; all he needed was to park the TARDIS in an obvious place, and the Time Agency ought to come scurrying up anyway.

Soon enough, the arrival of a solitary Time Agent caught his eyes; it was Laughing Boy himself, Jack Harkness, with the light in his eyes. He looked no older than he had done the last time the Doctor had seen him, but there was a familiar item sticking out of his back pocket. Jack Harkness smiled at him, and asked if he ever found his flower, in the end; the Doctor shook his head no, and held out his hand, expecting the screwdriver to be placed into it.

Instead, Jack placed his own hand into the Doctor’s, and pulled him into his own TARDIS, telling him that if he himself had not been able to find the flower, maybe Jack could. But he had stopped upon seeing the inside of the ship, eyes wide in wonderment. The Doctor took the opportunity to take back his sonic screwdriver, and placed a hand on the boy’s chest to push him back out of the ship.

But the boy met his eyes, and questioned: “Who thinks: ‘Let’s make this screwdriver a little more sonic‘, anyway?”

“I do,” The Doctor had answered, face darkening: “It’s mine. I have a sonic screwdriver.” But Jack’s attention was no longer on him, and the TARDIS was singing in a way it had never done with Rose, or with anyone since Romana; recognising another time traveller, one born to it.

But in a human? What human was a born traveller? Shaking his head at the supposed insanity of his sentient ship, the Doctor watched as Jack investigated the variety of TARDIS controls. It was a ridiculously complicated ship, and he was not expecting the young man to make much headway at all, but practiced hands were finding the correct controls - the occasional fumble, since no-one was perfect, but he was growing used to the TARDIS far too quickly.

Jack looked up, and grinned at him: the TARDIS hummed in his ear, and the Doctor succumbed.

He told him where to find Rose.

~*~

Jackie Tyler, the Doctor decided, was altogether more rotund than she had been when the Doctor had seen her last. He and Jack watched her out shopping, watched her go home; indeed, it was not the same home now, but a bigger house on the upper end of town. Evidently, the Tylers had found some of money at some point; the Doctor was glad, in some distant way. At least Rose wasn’t having a deprived life, now.

Jack was entirely unaffected by the gravity of this situation for the Doctor, and eventually the Time Lord had drawn the young man back to his bed in sheer desperation for that ignorance; for that lack of knowledge about the thorns that had speared the Doctor when he had lost the Rose. It was a simple enough agreement, and silent; they never spoke of it.

In a month they had tracked Rose down to the University of Cambridge; she had always been clever, the Doctor thought, but he had not known she was that clever. She was studying astrophysics, which was apt, he supposed, and she was an entirely different person. Glasses, worn for aestheticism as opposed to poor eyesight; hair that was no longer bleach-blonde, but rather her natural dark brown. The eyes shone now with a cold calculation as opposed to the healthy vigour that had been there before, and her skin was darker with sunbed tan.

This Rose was not his Rose, and the Doctor could feel nothing for her, but for that never-distant ache for the young woman he had loved beyond lust, beyond the bounds of lovers, and beyond the bounds of friends. He had loved her unconditionally, but for the condition that she was who she was; now, she was nothing but a shell of the person she had been.

Jack didn’t understand, of course; not until it was explained to him. It was like the first time, with the Doctor hesitantly talking and talking, until the heartache came and he was pained into silence. But there was no stumbling away to a dirty hotel and finding each other between the stained covers; instead, Jack’s fingers brushed over his face, and simply said:

“Take me back, and we’ll make it right.”

Lost as he was, the Doctor could do nothing but what the other said.

~*~

They returned first to that same dirty old hotel that they had first known each other in; the same room, a different time. Two years forward to the day. Jack smiled at him from the bed, and the Doctor sits beside him, tries to work out what the other is thinking.

He is a brilliant boy, Jack Harkness; untarnished as yet by the corruption of the world in which he lives, as much as he tried to hide the evidence for such a sentiment. He had taken hold of a lonely old alien’s hand, and tried to make things right again, and he still had not given up, even now. But the Doctor was running out of ideas; the only thing left was to return to the scene.

But he did not want to, for fear of what he would see; besides, returning to a place three times would attract attention. From the Time Agency, or from the Reapers, or something worse - he knows better than to take that chance.

Jack flopped back on the bed, a sigh escaping his lips; he was out of time for the moment, a year ahead of where he should be. The Time Agency would be looking for him in this time, but the cover identity served him well. The Doctor glanced back at him, and asked:

“What are you thinking?”

Jack just smiled, and told him:

“Something crazy.”

Maybe, kissing him then would have been the right thing to do; but the Doctor was tired of listening to his heart. It was about time that he started listening to his mind, again, and that was exactly what he did; he leaned over, and brushed a hand over one warm cheek.

“No change there, then.”

~*~

Later. Jack had asked for the TARDIS to materialise in the hangar of Time Agent headquarters, and that was exactly what the Doctor managed to provide for him. With that, Jack had turned to him, and laughed; leaning up to press one, single kiss on his lips. The feeling lasted; not perfect, since it never was, but warm enough and right enough to keep the Doctor in the right place.

Nice meeting you, Doc.

With that, he slipped out of the time machine, and went to find one of his own. The Doctor watched him go, and knew what he had to do. It was time to go back, he supposed; back to 1987, where she had disappeared.

It was the same as ever; the litter still blew in the breeze, and the words “Bad Wolf” were still scrawled across the smiley face of the hard-drugs rave campaign poster. But somewhere, this time, was an invisible fifty-first century time ship; and there were the second copies of himself, and there was Rose, visible as she ever had been.

History repeats; from behind a dustbin, Jack Harkness smiles once at him, and as Rose runs forward, leaps out and grabs her. You are under arrest, he tells her cheerfully; not for very long, but you are.

The Doctor steps forward, and grips the shoulder of that second copy of himself. The man turns from where he was about to protest Rose’s capture; from in front of them, the first Doctor and Rose had turned to see the ruckus, and faded away in the paradox of time.

“Hello,” The Doctor who lost his Rose says simply; looks up, and smiles at Jack, one last time. The boy-man lets go of Rose, and waves at him, once. Then, the pain is gone, and so is he.

This was his serenity.

When Rose turns back to the scene of her father’s death, the man has already been struck - she runs to him, and holds his hand. Just outside the nearby church, Jackie Tyler watches one girl hold her husband’s hand as he dies.

History rewrites itself, and everything is perfect.

~*~

“Can’t explain,” Jack informs Rose and this one Doctor cheerfully; “Time Agent business, you know, a bit strange, you’ll never quite understand.” With that, he heads back to his ship, ignoring their protests and demands for him to return and explain what exactly had happened here.

He knows already just how much trouble he is going to be in: the Time Agency will never let him forget his discrepancies in time, no matter how he tries. But sometimes, the risk was something worth having; sometimes, a story will reach out and touch you from the heart out. Jack Harkness was a cold creature by nature, and he did not let such things affect him; that was his way. But everyone deserves to have one time in which they let themselves make mistakes.

The TARDIS key the Doctor - his Doctor, not the one standing by the beautiful, tearful blonde girl - had given him had disappeared by the time he felt for it, and Jack supposed that was right; their story was of that way, something to forget. When his fellow Time Agents seize him and bring him before the Council, he pleads guilty with a clear conscience; he did nothing but bring a bad situation to something good.

If not a little illegal, but Jack’s always enjoyed staying just on the wrong side of the law.

For “good behaviour previous to event”, he is given no real sentence; just the eradication of the two years in which the Doctor had appeared in his life. He would then return to work. The operation would be short, and painless; somehow, it was apt.

If he didn’t remember the Doctor, then he would have no time to miss him.

When he awakens, remembering nothing but the fact that two years of his life are now gone, he decides that it is about time he took up a change in career.

~*~

Ten years pass, in someone’s time; for others, only a matter of days. The Doctor and Rose are chasing a vehicle that is classified as mauve and dangerous towards the centre of 1940s’ London.

Later, Rose meets a man named Captain Jack Harkness, and introduces him to the Doctor. While they don’t exactly hit it off, there is something that makes them very similar, to Rose. When the gasmask people are about to attack, and Jack exclaims: “Who thinks ‘hey, this screwdriver could be a little more SONIC?’”, she hears a noise out of the Doctor that might once have been choked disbelief.

Though she would never know it, and perhaps neither would they, maybe this time the world has come to rights. When the Doctor saves Captain Jack from his close-to-exploding ship and brings him onto the TARDIS, he watches the man moving with a strange familiarity; hears the TARDIS singing, as if welcoming an old friend home.

Time is inevitable. But sometimes, it has a way of smiling upon you.

fanfic100 - FFX-2, Crimson Squad.

Sun, 29 Jan 2006 17:24:59 GMT

Theme 28: Children.

It was raining.

There were a variety of obvious reasons why Nooj would dislike rain. Firstly, half of him was an abomination of metal; while assured that he would not rust, he saw no reason to take chances. However, his current main reason to dislike the fact that the heavens had opened on them was that he was stuck in a damp, humid tent with his two teammates and their recorder, with absolutely no escape from the noise they made.

Paine, their recorder, was usually a quiet young woman, keeping herself to herself; however, one thing she was doing was sharpening her sword. It made an uncomfortable grating noise, but Nooj could have coped with this sound alone; sharpening swords was a necessary evil, and he was glad that the girl was conscientious enough to do it.

However, the continual prattle of his two counterparts was beginning to stamp upon his very last nerve, and Paine's usually snide comments to the Al Bhed of their group did not help. Gippal was usually the one who began the riotous noise, and while Baralai did his level best not to provoke such outbursts, Paine delighted in inciting them.

Today's reason was the fact that Baralai and Gippal were playing an Al Bhed dice game, and the priestling was winning. This was naturally a dent to Gippal's overmighty ego, and so he was doing what he did best - making a noise about it.

"You are cheating, I swear it. I never lose at this game. Ever."

Cue Baralai's protestations of innocence, and Paine's insinuations of incompetence, and overall it was a conversation of children; Nooj glared sourly out of the tent flap, duly noting that it was still raining. The weather hated him and wished him to suffer, which was a fact that did not surprise him whatsoever. He knew that he should not be surprised that their exchanges were that of children; they were young, all three, far too young to be championing a battle in which grown men had fought and lost.

But maybe youth would win out; against Sin, as well as against the older and wiser applicants for the Crimson Squad, and who was Nooj to judge them then? Not to mention, he knew for a fact that sometimes he forgot his own age: just because he felt like an ancient monstrosity, did not mean that he actually was one in years.

What harm was there in being a child, when innocence could be the best method of combat of all against Sin? Maybe that was why he was here; that was the lesson these three were meant to teach him.

"Gippal, perhaps instead of proclaiming your apparent unbeaten record, you may wish to defend it - I believe Baralai's about to beat you." He commented, and Gippal ceased speaking mid-proclaimation: that was reward enough, as far as Nooj was concerned, and Paine's smile and Baralai's concealed snicker were simply handsome additions to the list.

It was still raining outside, when he looked; but maybe Nooj could learn as much when trapped in here as he ever could out there, seeking a death with a gun in his hand - going back to school, and learning the principles of interaction all over again. Nooj was never above listening to a lesson, especially when there was something valuable to be gained from it.

He watched as Baralai triumphed (quietly, as always - insisting that he wasn't trying to make Gippal feel bad, and what was worse was that he said it in a way that made even Nooj believe him) and Gippal crashed and burned, watched as Paine set her sword aside to roll dice with the priestling - each one of them had something to give.

It was easy to see, when you looked with the right eyes.

The Rusty Swing [Doctor Who, gen] (1/1)

Fri, 06 Jan 2006 00:26:48 GMT

And on that day you're too tired to move on, that is the day when I'll carry you home. Roughly gen-fic, set post-series. Rose moves on, and so does Jack. Occasional hint of Doctor/Rose/Jack.

It is the year 2002AD, according to his scanner; early December, and the snow crunched beneath his booted feet. The moon was a mirror, hanging low in the sky; pale, weak light strayed across the park, highlighting and casting shadows. He is cold, distantly; not that eternal cold he had felt only hours before, but of a different sound, the kind which began as a dull prickle in the skin and ended as an ache of the heart.

He is cold, and he is alone; it is 1am, and thick flakes of snow are beginning to settle on his head, melting as they make contact and seeping to brush icy fingers against his scalp.

Captain Jack Harkness has never felt more miserable.

It was a cold idea, a harsh one; the thought that you were no longer good enough, that the people you cared for no longer considered you adequate. Jack would normally have simply told himself to cope and get on with it; it was not the first time in his life he had been disappointed, and it would likely not be the last. He fed his mind with clichés, hoping that they could at least be a temporary poultice against the pain; but it did not work. It never did.

He had done what he had sworn he would never do again, and had gone and gotten attached. Silly old Jack, losing your soul and your heart in the same place - no way to get them back now, no time.

Just hours ago, he would have said that he had all the time in the world, and that was the bittersweet irony of it all: they had soared higher than birds through the skies of time.

But lower than gods, as much as it had felt that way; the cost was the fall, down to this. He folded his arms tight against his chest, trying to keep out the cold; he did not even know why he was here.

Commandeering a time ship had not been difficult in 200100AD: the Time Agency headquarters was massive, if entirely inefficient due to a lack of information beaming into the place, and there was such panic that slipping onto a ship and gently guiding it away was more than simple; it had to be, seeing as he was not by any means at his best. He had not known what the Doctor expected him to do, alone on a satellite eons away from his own time, but he was not fulfilling any such task.

If the Doctor could walk away from consequence, then so could Captain Jack Harkness; in fact, he could do it far better, because he was without conscience, without scruples, and without friends. He should have felt liberated, he knew; perhaps even justified in leaving the ruined world behind: instead, all he felt was empty, because now more than ever he knew what the Doctor was capable of.

The Time Lord had left behind people who required aid in restoring their lives before; they had done it together, preferring to stay out of the clean-up at the end of the adventure. Why should gods trouble themselves with such petty things? Now, he was a consequence; a shell of a person, who left behind the suffering, who bled from an invisible wound over the heart.

It wasn't a good feeling. The wind was picking up, ruffling his hair, and on the breast of it he heard the sound of crying. It seemed as if he was not alone. He walked in the direction of the sound; he would likely be able to do the square root of absolutely nothing to help the distressed person, but sometimes company was all that was required.

Even in desolation, Captain Jack would pride himself on being extremely good company.

The swingset was creaking in the wind as one of the two swings shifted, back and forth; there was a girl sitting on it, hunched forward with her face buried in her knees. Her shoulders were shaking with the force of her sobs; her pale blonde hair cast in shadows at night, yet frosting with snow; just as Jack was sure his own was.

He recognised the tone of voice, the hair, the sound and look and heart of her as he looked; it was Rose, but she was younger, and he knew how time worked. When he sat on the swing beside her, and she looked up - eyes filled with tears, mascara in smears, and still as beautiful as when he had kissed her goodbye. It was clear she was fearful; she asked who he was, in tones too shaken to be merely curious.

A friend, he answered, voice gentle, and she managed a shaky, tearful smile. It happened every time, when he met someone he was going to know before he knew them; that feeling of trust, the lack of suspicion of motives, when usually Jack was sure that if a man approached her at one in the morning in general, she would give him a good kicking and run.

At least, if that wasn't her general reaction he would be worried.

Then, she was talking. She wanted to just die, and his name was Jimmy Stones, which was one Jack did not recognise and felt guilty for it; he had left her in tears and in debt, had hit her and told her she was worth nothing. She had nowhere to go, she was scared, and she didn't want to be alone anymore - she hated him and loved him all at once, and Jack could not help but acknowledge the irony, as that was exactly how he felt about her and the Doctor now.

But he did what any friend would do. He reached out, wiped her eyes, and told her to go home. He knew for a fact that home was where she needed to be; where her loving if not loud and impatient mother would wait, and the young man who loved her so much that he would follow her anywhere but the stars. That was where she would wait, and grow; until one day, a man with a hook-nose and big ears would tell her of the stars, and ask her if she wanted to come with - and she would say yes.

Then, her story would begin; it certainly did not end here, in a snowy park in the middle of the night, with a man she did not yet know.

They talked until the sun began to rise, the first hints of light sliding over the horizon; he gave no name, and walked her as far as the corner, and bowed his head when they stopped under the streetlamp so she could see no real detail of his face.

After all, she had never recognised him; or if she had, she had never mentioned it. She thanked him, the tears gone, the smile as he remembered it; turned to walk away, and then glanced back.

You never told me your name.

He smiled, shook his head, and turned to go his own way; winking at her, over his shoulder.

Maybe later.

She laughed, waved, and went on her way; and although the wound in his heart had not healed, Jack felt that maybe nothing was as bad as it seemed when everything was dark, and you were alone.

As he returned to his stolen time ship and his semi-charmed life, he glanced back at the two swings, side-by-side, still shifting slightly in the remainders of movement from where they had sat together and passed the time.

The sun was rising. It was a new day, and Captain Jack Harkness' life was not over yet. He managed a smile, and looked on into the light.

~*~

Some place, and some time, Rose Tyler was sitting on the right swing of a rusty swingset on the dirty side of London. Her TARDIS key is wrapped tightly in her grip, and just for a moment, she feels like crying.

She had gained and lost, in the past few days. Gained a friend, but lost two; her Doctor, and the Captain she had loved to call friend.

The Doctor had said he was alive, somewhere. He had sounded sure, but it was hard to think of anyone who could have survived an invasion of the Daleks. But then, Jack did have some interesting talents, and he had fought Daleks before; it was easy to hope that someday, they would meet again.

Maybe, one day, she would sit on these swings and he would come to sit beside her; but there now is her new-old friend, the Doctor after the Doctor who was the Doctor all the same - he was trying to hold the swing as still as possible, clearly disliking the angry creak the structure makes; Rose swings herself back and forth with the sheer intention of making that noise, so he would pull that face he always made when mildly irritated with her.

She was beginning to truly care for this Doctor; it was him, underneath the shock of hair, the odd choice of shoes and the even more maniacal behaviour. It was all him, and all accounted for, and she found it so easy to fall back into how it had been; the two of them, partners, best friends.

But the missing link in the chain still pained her, sometimes. They did not talk about it; it was the unwritten rule. Don't mention Captain Jack Harkness - don't mention what he did for us, whether we cared about him, if we miss him now he's gone. Don't think about how we left him behind on an abandoned ship in the dark, because it would be so very hard to forgive ourselves.

It was wrong to do that, and she knew it; but there were no words to explain how she felt, or how they had talked in the dark here, long ago, when Jimmy Stones had dumped her and she had felt that she would never move on, ever. He had picked her up, and sent her home; he had made it such an easy decision.

But she remembered him as half of what he usually was; no flirtation, no jokes or delightful banter - just a man, not a conman or a ladykiller. There had been something about him that was tired, and lonely, and afraid; but only now, could she see it.

The Doctor was offering her a bemused smile, wondering why her expression had darkened; seeing this, she lightened up, ushering her brightest smile in his direction and removing the bandana from her hair.

She tied it to the pole of the rusty swing, and hoped that if he ever returned here, to this time and this place, he would find it maybe; perhaps, it would remind him of her. Her fingers entwined with the edge of the synthetic silk, and the Doctor's hand lightly touched her shoulder.

"Come on," He said softly; his voice was tender, as if to reassure her. He would not understand, but that did not stop him from sympathising; that was one of the things that Rose had always loved most about the Doctor, one of the things that had made him so bright and wonderful in her eyes.

"Yes," She answered.

Someday, they would find him; he could not be far away. The universe was vast, but they could look in every time, and every place - and they both had more than enough time to look for him in. Not that they would ever say that they were looking; it was an unspoken agreement, something negotiated through only memory.

Someday, she knew they would find him.

And then, there would be a different story.

Half a mile away, in the same time, and the same place, Captain Jack Harkness is smiling, because just as she knows, so does he.

Time has a way of turning around on you.

Scars [HP - Godric Gryffindor/Salazar Slytherin] (1/1)

Mon, 02 Jan 2006 23:15:52 GMT

For actualize, who is inspirational as ever.

The moonlight was ice on his skin, fractured mortality like an unspoken challenge that wrote itself across the sky and then reversed, mirror writing shining silver across a dim twilight. Maybe he was a dream, he wondered, or a ghost that was so intensely focused on one spot that he was solid; it would make more sense than him actually being here, in physicality, when he had been so sure that he had come to nothing.

The blood had formed wet strings in the water, and he had watched it spread; unsure of why he was standing with his wrists in the sink, having committed an action that was simple cowardice; that was all it was, and yet it was nothing. The water was warm, and the flickering reflections from the candlelight caught his eyes like stars, and that brightness hid the ugliness within.

The blood was on his shirt; red on red, yet dark and distinct; and the moonlight still shone down on him from the solitary window. Fire and ice - red and white, and he closed his eyes so he would no longer have to look or feel the chill against his bones.

Then, there was green, green eyes, and black hair, and pale skin; and a smile like a needle, and wrists rubbed raw from where the ropes had held them; the skin was broken, ribbed and still bleeding, even now. The sleeves of the robe were rolled back; decorated by blisters from where the fire had seared the skin, but the face was clear.

Salazar sat on the ledge above the sink, booted feet resting on each side of the stone bowl, and watched Godric fail; still smiling patiently, and young as if they were sixteen again, on the day they had met; the only difference were the burns, the rips, and the smile that held no mercy. Godric lifted his hands from the sink, water flashing briefly in pink-clarity as it fell back into the bowl, and reached to slip his hands into Salazar’s; the boy’s smile deepened as his fingers twisted to press deeply into the ragged cuts Godric had pressed into his own skin; a moment of madness which had lasted a forever since he had heard the burning, the screaming, then the silence.

Pain, vivid splashes against the backs of his eyelids, and he was falling; Salazar fell with him, and it felt like an eternity before his back struck the stones of the floor; Salazar was beside him, a tumult of robes and mist and silence - the slim fingers were still pressed against the cuts, but the smile was gone, and that face was an abyss of emptiness.

Puppets on strings, moonlight and stars; Godric could not move if he had wished it, lifeforce drained and those eyes accused; truthful accusations and painful - because he had allowed Salazar to die, because he had been the one to stand and watch as he burned in his own personal hell, he had been the one to allow fire to consume he had loved and hated ultimately. Was this penance, then, to see but not touch, to feel only pain at the other’s grip? Things had been different once.

His blood poured down Salazar’s palms and mingled with the messes at his wrists; they were mingled, then, blood brothers, like the boys who had sliced their hands once upon a time and squeezed them together, mixing their blood and declaring themselves one being, not two. The way their skin had stuck together was still the same.

“Let’s always be friends, forever.”

Godric counted the blisters on each arm, as the moonlight grew too bright to be natural; Salazar folded himself about Godric, and the accusations were gone, and so was the pain. Godric tucked his arms about the boy-that-once-was, somewhere in lucid time and in the stars. So many people wished upon stars, but they were no more than distant lights, cold and unfriendly.

Once, they had counted stars together; the moonlight had been brighter on pale skin and green eyes, casting highlights in a swathe of dark hair.

A dark head nestled under his chin; they had never found a compromise. The most passionate of lovers, and the most terrible enemies; peace now was far easier to come by. Godric had forced and demanded, and Salazar had pressed and manipulated, and both were guilty - the blood seeped out and burned like acid to the very bone, wandering marks of crimson fingerprints that would never leave the skin. Godric wanted the imprints to linger, so he would know where Salazar had been.

He wanted not to miss him anymore.

“Let’s always be friends, forever.”

Salazar looked up, and now the smile was nothing more than a smile; tender, forgiving, but never innocent. He released his painful grip, and the wounds were gone; for here, his spirit was strong enough to be solid for that one moment, enough to ensure a survival.

His secrets laid here; in Godric, behind these walls. Spirits always remained to protect their treasures; puppets on strings, gold and silver, and always secrets. But never for long; the lightest brush of a kiss, lips against bloody lips, and Salazar was gone -

And it was morning, sunshine and rain. The light streamed through the window, glinting off a tap that was shaped like a snake; one of Salazar’s markers. I’m still here. Every secret, every story, lingered in Godric’s tired eyes as he stood, and drained the still-full sink; blood smeared like a ever-present stain, to remind him of the reality of that delusion.

Memories burned stronger than any acid, and those were the scars that would stay.

fanfic100 theme 001: Beginnings.

Mon, 02 Jan 2006 19:02:36 GMT

The first of my intrepid adventure in the direction of completing fanfic100 - the subject I've chosen is the Crimson Squad, from Final Fantasy X-2, just to be different.

001: Beginnings.

Gippal was never the most patient of people, and this didn't really seem to be the best place to start being so; here, at the Crimson Squad sign-ups, where everyone appeared to want to take a good chunk out of each other before the trials began - less competition that way, he supposed, although he truly did wish it was not so, as most of the residual tension and anger at being kept waiting was being taken out on him.

He could see why, of course; he's Al Bhed (naturally, that was the biggest problem: the entirety of Spira had a problem with his race); he's too young to be here, although he's keeping that one quiet, and he's a loudmouth. He just cannot stop himself - whenever he sees someone weaker being picked on, he can't help but intervene: he'd already gained himself a black eye that way, having walked in on two muscleheads harrassing a terrified young woman. It was a matter of course that the girl would never survive Crimson Squad training, but Gippal knows for a fact that no-one deserves attacking before they've even been given a chance: he helped her to escape, and received the beating himself.

The reason he was thinking of said incident was because it appeared to be repeating itself; but not with a woman, this time, but a boy - or a man, with a face like that one it was difficult to be sure of an age. Probably older than Gippal, though, since everyone here was - but Gippal wasn't getting involved this time, no way.

Why?

The boy being harassed was dressed like a priest, and that could only mean one thing: Yevonite. An Al Bhed walking into a fight just to help out a Yevonite? It just was not done, regardless of situation; besides, suddenly the kid seemed to have it under control. Gippal pulled a face as suddenly, a screech arose from the nearest bully; the hands that had grabbed the boy were freezing. Ice spells, magic, ptuh. Gippal didn't hold with it at all; he looked away, because regardless of his morals, anyone who relied on magic to defend themselves from idiots like that could deal with their own fallout.

So Gippal moved on; registration passed with a smooth and efficient untruth, and then there is only waiting, assigned into vague divisions. Gippal found a quiet corner, and waited: another thing he was bad at, so instead of contenting himself to do nothing he decided to watch others instead. He noticed that some are not condemned to waiting, but were instead ushered into a furnished tent out of the sunshine - while that initially seemed unfair, he realised that there was one he recognised - a Crusader they called the Undying. Gippal only knew of him because he was a machina man: half of him was made of metal, and the techniques used to graft the artificial limbs to his skin were revolutionary. All Al Bhed knew about them, especially those who fancied themselves engineers. Yet, all of Spira knew of him; he was a famous face, a great warrior. So the VIPs were given special treatment.

The man Undying passed out of sight, and Gippal lingered, watching those around him: most looked as if they would not last a bad thunderstorm, let alone training to be part of the Crimson Squad. Some were even injured from initial weapons tests; waifs and strays, orphans cast by Sin and rebels without causes.

Gippal did not really like to think about just how well he fit under the second category, so returned his attention to someone he recognised; the mage-priest-Yevonite-scum, who had passed through registration without a quandary and was now being given an extremely wide berth by the bullies who had also been placed in his division.

Yevonites made him sick. Gippal could not help it; there was something about the continual spread of lies that made him nauseous, especially when confronted with such a display of relative purity: the boy's skin was darker than his, flawless, which made the fact that his hair was incandescent white all the more striking.

The Yevonite was beautiful, and that was what Yevon was all about: concealing untruths with beauty, with fable and mystery. Gippal could feel a seething pool of hate grow in his stomach just looking at the boy, who was not doing him the same courtesy.

He knew it was ridiculous, but the very fact that the priest wasn't even looking at him was enough to offset Gippal's temper, and only curiosity stayed his hand from throwing something big at the other - a rock, maybe, particularly with a sharp edge, just to obliterate any kind of chance that they would be placed in the same team. He didn't even want to imagine how painful being stuck in a team with an ignorant fool like that would be.

The boy's attention appeared to be thoroughly drawn, all the same; Gippal was weighing a dusty yet pleasantly sharp rock in his hand, tossing it up and down to debate on the required trajectory and flight path to hit the priest directly on the back of the head, when the Yevonite moved; Gippal's eyebrows drew together as the boy-priest moved just out of range, kneeling before that same young woman Gippal recognised as the one he had rescued from Team Musclehead not so long ago.

There was a bruise on her face; dark, puffed, and distinctly painful-looking, even from where Gippal was sitting. The Al Bhed craned to the side, trying to see what the Yevonite was doing; probably saying a prayer over her, or something ridiculous like that.

A dark hand raised towards a surprised young face; for a moment, everything around them seemed brighter, and then dulled to the dust of Mushroom Rock again. The Yevonite patted her on the shoulder, once, and returned to his seat.

White mage, healer; black mage, destroyer. Balanced forces, and that was very unlike Yevon indeed. Gippal watched as the Yevonite returned to his seat, and allowed the rock to slip from his fingers - the boy-priest was doing no harm just by sitting there, so he should not provoke any trouble. That would be unhealthy.

Later, later; and here he was, gun in his hand, where he fit best; although he was fairly sure that this was meant to be a drill of some sort. Everyone was getting just a little bit over the top with the grenades, or so Gippal thought; obviously, the amateurs didn't know just how precious the damned things could be. They were supposed to be meeting up with the rest of their 'teams', at the same time; yet, he had not seen any sign of his thus far.

He ducked behind a rock to reload his weapon, and found a rather unique sight - a Yevonite pulling out the pin of a grenade with his teeth, and hurling it over the rock rather inaccurately at their attackers. In fact, it was that very same Yevonite, the one who had frozen the bully and healed the girl; Gippal fought the urge to groan, seeing as he appeared to have been lumped with the one person on the camp that likely wouldn't be able to get over their prejudices.

Yet, having spat out the pin, the only comment the priest made was:

"This is rough." It was not said in a woebegone tone; instead, simply both exasperated and tired. Gippal sized the priest up momentarily, and realised that there was no-one else here; the Yevonite was part of his team, and he was going to have to lump it.

Besides, he was a natural conversationalist; not to mention, he enjoyed having any kind of excuse to whinge.

"Isn't Team Three getting a bit carried away?" He answered irritably: he knew damn well that it was that particular team shooting at them, he had seen them on the way over. "And here was me thinking this was meant to be a drill!"

The rock behind their backs rocked; a grenade had landed on-target. Gippal tumbled forward, set off balance; the Yevonite took the opportunity to aim around the side of the rock and send off a blast of gunfire one-handed; the Al Bhed couldn't help but grin at the wince the priest made at the recoil from the weapon.

Moments passed, and soon the pink elephant of the training ground was kicked to the kerb by the priest, who raised a friendly eyebrow at Gippal. "Say, aren't you an Al Bhed? Why're you trying out for the Crimson Squad?"

And it was just a question, the way he phrased it; the generations of racial hatred all boiled down to an easily-phrased question, the answer to which the other obviously did not care all that much about. What sort of Yevonite was this, who could look an Al Bhed in the face and not care that they were anathema to the teachings - that they were heretics, blasphemers, that they were enemies?

Gippal wanted to yell at the stupid priest, tell him that yes, he was an Al Bhed, and the two of them should have been on opposing sides, on opposing rocks, shooting the hell out of each other. But - just for a moment - he tried to see himself as the priest was seeing him, and realised just what it was.

He was just a boy, and the priest was just a boy, and they were fighting for their lives and their places for something they believed in. Where you've come from doesn't matter, it's where you're going that counts.

"Hey, the Al Bhed wanna help Spira as much as anyone else." And he ended up talking about his attempt to join the Crusaders, because the boy was actually listening, and he hadn't had anyone to talk to for a while. It was lonely, being the sole representative of a minority group - just as he was about to wonder whether the priest had felt that way too, the third member of their team then chose that moment to show their face, furled in wreaths of dust - but Gippal could see a machina arm, a machina leg.

He choked on irony and dust at the same moment; an Al Bhed, a Yevonite and a Crusader, all in one team. He couldn't help but wonder if all of the other teams were filled with such obvious contradictions. So, the Undying was part of their team; but he could not remember the man's real name, but the priest asked it first - and revealed his own - "I'm Baralai."

One swift guilt-trip later, and they had secured a name from the famous machina-man; Nooj. So, it was Nooj, Baralai and Gippal: the odd beginnings of a team. If it hadn't been so stupid, Gippal would have laughed - for now, he was content to raise his eyebrows at Baralai ruefully, and grin when the other boy managed a smile.

Sure, differences were hard to get over - but Gippal was sure he would be good at building bridges, if he tried hard enough.

Mon, 02 Jan 2006 18:56:00 GMT

001.	Beginnings.	002.	Middles.	003.	Ends.	004.	Insides.	005.	Outsides.
006.	Hours.	007.	Days.	008.	Weeks.	009.	Months.	010.	Years.
011.	Red.	012.	Orange.	013.	Yellow.	014.	Green.	015.	Blue.
016.	Purple.	017.	Brown.	018.	Black.	019.	White.	020.	Colourless.
021.	Friends.	022.	Enemies.	023.	Lovers.	024.	Family.	025.	Strangers.
026.	Teammates.	027.	Parents.	028.	Children.	029.	Birth.	030.	Death.
031.	Sunrise.	032.	Sunset.	033.	Too Much.	034.	Not Enough.	035.	Sixth Sense.
036.	Smell.	037.	Sound.	038.	Touch.	039.	Taste.	040.	Sight.
041.	Shapes.	042.	Triangle.	043.	Square.	044.	Circle.	045.	Moon.
046.	Star.	047.	Heart.	048.	Diamond.	049.	Club.	050.	Spade.
051.	Water.	052.	Fire.	053.	Earth.	054.	Air.	055.	Spirit.
056.	Breakfast.	057.	Lunch.	058.	Dinner.	059.	Food.	060.	Drink.
061.	Winter.	062.	Spring.	063.	Summer.	064.	Fall.	065.	Passing.
066.	Rain.	067.	Snow.	068.	Lightening.	069.	Thunder.	070.	Storm.
071.	Broken.	072.	Fixed.	073.	Light.	074.	Dark.	075.	Shade.
076.	Who?	077.	What?	078.	Where?	079.	When?	080.	Why?
081.	How?	082.	If.	083.	And.	084.	He.	085.	She.
086.	Choices.	087.	Life.	088.	School.	089.	Work.	090.	Home.
091.	Birthday.	092.	Christmas.	093.	Thanksgiving.	094.	Independence.	095.	New Year.
096.	Writer‘s Choice.	097.	Writer‘s Choice.	098.	Writer‘s Choice.	099.	Writer‘s Choice.	100.	Writer‘s Choice.

Fracture [FFX-2, eventual slash] [1/5]

Wed, 21 Dec 2005 17:37:27 GMT

Birthed of my playing the game again, multi-parted, eventually Gippal/Baralai. The Spiran Alliance decide to attempt a rebuild of Zanarkand, with disasterous results.

One: Foundation
A city with a thousand years of history, a crowd of people waiting to begin what may become their life's work, and three world leaders waiting on a hill. The sun was setting over Zanarkand - over an age of time that had passed, bringing on a new era free from fear, from pain. All that was required was an agreement - just one decision, passed between three people.

One sat in abandon; his thoughts clear and position sound. He was tall, blond, dressed in the clothing of an Al Bhed; an eyepatch over the right eye, the left containing the hypnotic blue that marked his race out for who they were. In the past, he had been reckless; lending muscle to any cause who could pay the right price, but now the entire Al Bhed nation were united under his name: Gippal, of the Machine Faction. He was the representative of the so long oppressed, and so tired of this oppression; but he had learned wise council and slower thought, and so waited in silence for the final judgement.

Another, then; this man was glaring over his glasses, his judgement also already passed. This a born leader, though hardship and trial; he was half-machine, one arm and one leg made entirely of metal, and he walked with the aid of a cane. Yet he was still young, for all the hardship he had seemed to have suffer; he was dressed as a Crusader, one of the warriors of Spira against the former menace of Sin, and he would continue to dress that way long after the cause of said group had faded and the people within it had become the Youth League, a faction consisting of the young and hardy of their world; those who did not want to wait for change, but instead pushed for it with all their might. Proud Nooj of the Youth League did not mince his words, or change them to befit others; he spoke now, to the third member of their party:

"You're clinging to a history that is no longer relevant. It is both weak and pathetic."

This gained the attention of the third; dark, flawless skin against white hair, and Baralai of New Yevon is silent still. His expression is troubled, almost haunted; he, who begun as a summoner at a far too young age, was forced to turn back, and devoted himself to a cause which held no truth. This was the past; the future was brighter. Baralai, at twenty years of age, led the faction known as New Yevon; an extension of the old religion, Yevon, which disregarded everything that had been wrong and made it right again. Baralai was a quick thinker and a concise talker; while Gippal could charm and Nooj could compel, Baralai entreated with a far greater force as a soul who at least appeared to be beautiful in its truth. When he entreated, he spoke for those who could not follow the changing times as fast as was wished for by those in the other two factions; the old, the weak, the tired, and those souls who could not quite let go of Yevon yet.

Each faction numbered almost equally, and just two months ago the three groups had combined their hearts and objectives to become the Spiran Alliance; for these three men had a history as dark and detailed as it was binding. Long ago, they had fought together in earnest; but so much had come to pass since then. Gippal, who had been a sixteen year old almost-child in the days of the Crimson Squad trials, had grown to become a man: taller, and broader, but physicalities were only the beginning of his developments. He was still devil-may-care, still held the wicked laugh and the opportunism, but all these traits were subdued by a calm business mind which showed in almost every move he made in this newly-political world. Nooj had changed, but this time in the opposite direction: he used to be Nooj the Undying, the Deathseeker, looking for his own end in the best way he could. Now, he lived for his job; it was better than than not living at all.

But Baralai had changed more than that, more than Gippal. From the unassuming, shy boy that had blushed every time someone looked at him and had been terrified of anything that was not similar to him, to the leader of soft words and iron will; Nooj had already been a leader, and Gippal had the potential to be anything he wanted to be, but Baralai had needed to adapt to become what he was today, and sometimes it seemed as if he had given a little too much of the person he was to become the person standing on that hill, trying to let go of a past that meant too much.

"It is relevant," He answered; his voice was soft, and contemplative rather than commanding. "I thought the point of Sin was that we became too advanced, took too much, and never returned it; what if it returns because of this?"

"Because all of that was a lie forged by Yevon, Baralai. Sin came because of Yu Yevon's greed, and that was all-"

"That fact is disputable-"

"Guys!" Gippal's patience seemed to fracture at this, and he was on his feet; taller than Baralai, shorter than Nooj, directly between the two of them - Baralai was first to turn his head to the side, throwing up his hands in abandon.

"It will happen regardless." He said eventually, his voice more of a sigh than a statement of fact; "Two to one vote, so I am outnumbered even if I decide to disagree."

"But that's not the point of this." Gippal answered earnestly, shaking his head; he truly believed it was not meant to be that way, Nooj and he making a decision and Baralai simply going along with it because he had to in order to maintain parity. They had to come to a decision they were all happy with, otherwise Baralai would end up resenting him and Nooj and Gippal certainly did not want that - any reasons he had for such were his own, and were not under debate even within his own mind.

Baralai thought of Vegnagun; of the spirit that had possessed him, and the lessons he had learned; of the reasons why Yevon had been the evil of Spira, and why all of this should really be remembered. Then, why it could be forgotten, and he came to his decision.

"Do it." He said simply; "Make it anew."

With that, he left the company of the other two, robe billowing behind him as he departed. Gippal had reached to grip his arm, but had been just a few seconds too late. The Al Bhed cast a rueful glance at Nooj, and let Baralai go; sometimes, the older young man just needed some time to steam, and later he would be fine. Hopefully.

"Let's get started, then." Nooj intoned simply, and Gippal nodded; this would be a wonderful project, that could restore Zanarkand to its former glory - then, Spira could finally forget the stigma that it had carried for a thousand years, and look to the future.

Baralai would understand why it had to happen, eventually. He had to; it all made perfect sense. Although Gippal had decided that it certainly would not be him who was going to inform the High Summoner about the project - he was many things, but he certainly wasn't suicidal.

A smirk flickered across Gippal's face as he descended from the hill to the waiting Al Bhed workers - perhaps he would leave that one to Nooj. Oh, sweet irony.

~*~

Baralai, as the only one of the three who did not have a set of troops prepared to level the city at a moment's notice, was not sure how he had been led to this place. Yet, here he was; the decimated and broken Chamber of the Fayth. No aeon lingered here now, and the magic was gone; it was almost sad to see the mess that the tourists left behind.

Baralai hated the fact that something that had once been so serious had become nothing more than a tourist attraction, but there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. Except, perhaps, to pray one last time in the temple that he had never quite reached while on pilgrimage - his journey had ended at Mount Gagazet, with the death of the second of his three Temple-granted guardians. Baralai had been a nine year old boy at the time, sent by a Bevelle that was desperate for the Calm; far too young, and it was a wonder he had gotten as far as he had.

Summoners were meant to be at least six years older than he had been; the first aeon that Baralai had communicated with was Bahamut. The young boy had been wandering through the temple, and was soon lost in the labyrinth of the Cloister of Trials - terrified, he had stumbled on and on, until he had finally come to the Chamber of the Fayth. When he had prayed, he had prayed only to be released from the maze, to be found; when the search parties traced him, they came to the closed door of the Chamber.

When they finally opened the sealed door, they had apparently found Baralai passed out over the mural, and when he had woken he had felt the aeon's presence in his mind. None of the monks had believed him when he had said he felt the aeon in his head, so he had simply concentrated hard enough to summon the creature; mighty Bahamut rising to defend a confused yet earnest child.

Baralai could not help but smile, thinking about it; they had sent him on pilgrimage directly afterwards, and he had been absolutely doomed to fail. He was nine. It had been ridiculous. Luckily enough, only a few months later High Summoner Braska had begun on his own pilgrimage; he had brought the Calm, so there was no longer a need for any other Summoners.

But when Sin returned, the aeons were nothing more than mutters in his head - half with him, half not, and he could no longer summon them. Baralai had become a mage instead; both of the white and black variety, although he had a deep dislike for his own use of dark magics, largely because he knew how it felt to be on the other side of them. Then, he had taken part in the Crimson Squad trials, and...

... The rest was history, and now he was here.

Back to where he had started, praying before a mural; but this time there was no power, and it contained nothing but dust. Baralai had been kneeling, but now he sat back on his heels, looking around the area. It was so dead here, now, when before these places had seemed so alive; he was wasting his time, praying to the idols of a religion long dead and past.

But a part of him still longed for the time when he knew exactly what he had to do, and why he did it; everything was so difficult now, particularly as he was in a position of such authority. People were looking to him for reassurance, everyday, and he found that he had less and less to say to them.

This too would pass, though. Soon, he would know exactly what to say; just as he had done before all of the business with Vegnagun had began. Sighing, he tilted his head in the direction of the empty tomb of the long-absent aeon, before making his way through to the plateau beyond; where Yunalesca had greeted Summoners at the end of their pilgrimages, had fed them the lie which she had known to be so but had given it anyway.

It was like standing at the end of the world. The night was calm and silent, the sun having fallen entirely to the west, and Baralai felt himself teetering on the edges of an answer to a question he did not know. Yet, the more he waited, the less answers he found; but soon, this place would be gone, and there would be nothing left here at all.

The end of the world as he knew it, indeed; footsteps sounding behind him, and Baralai sat on an outcropping, waiting for Gippal to join him. He had already known it would be the Al Bhed; Gippal could never resist following him when he disappeared, even back then.

"Hey, 'Lai." Came the greeting from behind him; his name shortened, as it almost always had been back then; a reminder of a time quite different that Baralai shook away. "S'almost a shame to demolish something so pretty, isn't it?" The casual tone was not quite as easygoing as it could have been; Gippal was well aware of Baralai's feelings, and was doing his level best to avoid treading on them. The Praetor of New Yevon sighed slightly in answer, and nodded.

"It's the end of an era." He added, to fill the silence which suddenly felt stiff, unaccommodating. The leader of the Machine Faction's eye was upon him; he could feel his gaze like the cold slide of metal against his skin.

"And the beginning of another." Gippal reminded him unnecessarily; he wanted to reach out, take his friend's hand and reassure him that everything would be fine, but there was that border of restraint between them now which carried the word 'friend'. Before, they had not been friends; when they had first met, they were bitter enemies, then lovers, then two extensions of a same whole. Baralai and Gippal had been part of each other; but now, things were so very different, and so very difficult.

They had changed; both of them had adapted to their surroundings. Gippal had never gotten over the betrayal he had felt when Baralai had returned to Yevon - he still harboured that beginning of feeling now, even though it had come to the best and here they were, the three of them, starting anew. Baralai, meanwhile, had never forgiven himself for his attack upon Gippal during the incident at the Den of Woe - the last kiss the two had shared had been before that event, and no matter what Gippal had tried after it, cajoling and pleading and begging Baralai to believe him that it was alright, that nothing had changed, it had because Baralai had changed and he missed him so much, even now.

They had changed physically, at that; Gippal had been the younger, shorter, weaker of the two, loudmouthed and filled with bravado; he had replaced this with strength and height and assurance of his own ability. Baralai, who had cared and protected Gippal continually at the time of their fight together, found himself with someone who was no longer dependent on him; Gippal was self-assured, arrogant, postured, and Baralai himself had changed only in the way he carried himself. He had used to be at least essentially carefree; he had been secure in his beliefs, in what he wanted from life, and how he loved; now, he was confused and alone, and had stiffened in order to pretend that he knew all the answers, to present that front of calm authority he showed to the world.

Once, it had been so easy; they had been young, and filled with hope. Gippal still held that hope, muted in the back of his heart; but it was gone from Baralai, replaced by cynicism and a distant feeling of what might be right to his people, not to himself.

This was not the Baralai that Gippal had loved, or hated. This was a different creature entirely; this was Praetor Baralai, an animal who was more political than spiritual, and he could not bring himself to reach for the other's hand.

"Yes." Baralai intoned eventually, "A beginning of another." His tone dictated a square root of absolutely nothing to Gippal, and the Al Bhed hated that he could not tell how Baralai was feeling anymore; he had always used to be able to tell instantly.

"The beginning of our era," He answered firmly, more to reassure himself than the one who sat beside him. Baralai just sighed again, and the sound was so tired that Gippal thought his heart might break at hearing it. He and Nooj had an easy life in comparison, all things considered; they had to create, but Baralai had needed to reform, and that above all things had changed his friend.

His friend - yet, that was not even accurate now. His acquaintance would be more appropriate, his colleague. Someone like Rikku was likely now closer to him than the one that had once shared half of his soul, and he was beginning to despise that fact more and more by the day.

Enough for him to speak about it.

He stood, and Baralai stood with him - and it was childish, but Gippal delighted in the inch or two he now stood above the Praetor of New Yevon. He gazed down at Baralai, single eye intent on the pair gazing back; Baralai seemed a little confused, waiting for some reason for Gippal's strange look, but that calm poise still lingered; the Al Bhed wanted to tear it asunder, throw it aside, break it apart and find his Baralai waiting for him beneath it - and yet he was scared, because he was worried now about finding nothing left.

But he could not be scared forever.

"Baralai." He intoned eventually; the name was full, his voice was serious, and yet Gippal was not entirely sure how to do this right. This was one of the few areas in which he felt insecure; he could fix anything, break anything back down, he could think quicker than most and work much harder, but he could not talk to the one person who had made him feel complete.

But that was so long ago now.

"Yes?"

He wanted to ask if there was a chance; if Baralai would ever love him again, if they would ever be what they were, if Baralai would be well again, if he could have hope. Such irony, to be having this thought here, where all beliefs were cast aside. But he wanted to know - if they could be the same.

"... Nothing."

But he would never ask; instead, he would do as he always did, and walk away.

Baralai watched the Al Bhed fade back into the darkness, and turned back to the stars above; if he never knew the questions, he could never give the answers, to a question of faith, or indeed of love. Only when he heard the sound of machina from below, did he descend; back to the realm of existence which he understood.

He knew how much he had forgotten, how much was now incomprehensible to him.

But he could see no way to get it back; so there was no point in mourning its passing.

There was no point in crying over spilt milk, after all.

Gravity [HP:GoF, Viktor/Cedric] (1/1)

Sat, 17 Dec 2005 20:53:06 GMT

Do not question the contents of my brain. Viktor remembers Cedric Diggory. Loosely inspired by actualize and 'Gravity' by the Dresden Dolls.

Gravity

First.
When Krum finds himself again, he is out of the maze, and Karkaroff is staring into his face; agitation, concern, disappointment comes across the man's expression all at once, fighting for precedence on the man's dark features, and Krum knows that whatever happens, he has not emerged victorious.

He has lost, and he can hear sobbing. His initial reaction is to ignore it; such a sign of emotion was unnecessary weakness, and Viktor Krum never succumbed to such things. But the sound persisted, and eventually he turned, taking stock of his surroundings.

Harry Potter - nothing more than a boy, famous boy though he was, sprawled across the chest of his older Hogwarts counterpart. The child was beside himself with despair, and Diggory was not moving to comfort him - one of the two must have won, surely, so Krum did not really feel such things necessary. The mutinous urge to give famous Harry Potter a good kick in the teeth emerged briefly, but faded as Krum slowly began to realise that Potter was not the only one crying.

Screaming. Sounds of shock, of terror; questions that demanded answers, but there were none to be found. Viktor Krum was not interested in the milling of the crowds, in the hysteria and the screaming - all he could note was that Cedric Diggory's skin was a shade paler in death than it had been, and that the boy's fingers were still clenched about his wand.

As the screaming subsided to the sole cries of a mourning father, roars of anguish to the blue and black sky, Krum saw the mark of a true fighter; Cedric Diggory, who had lived and died prepared.

As Potter was ushered away, and the body was carried past Krum, he craned to see if an old magical legend was true; that you could continue to see the reflection of a killer in the pupils of a wizard's eyes. He looked, and looked, but all he could see was darkness. The story kept its secrets, at least for now.

It was a pity, he decided, about Cedric Diggory.

Second.
Krum had a genuine liking for Albus Dumbledore. The man was not overly patient, not overly kind, but was fair and just with an eye for the truth. He could see why he was so respected, even worshipped by certain kinds of wizards; Dumbledore could speak emotively without sounding trite, or clichéd. It was a rare talent.

Cedric Diggory's euology had been and gone, and Krum could not remember a word that had been said - words had been irrelevant. The message they conveyed had seemed far more important; words just faded away. The only thing he could really remember was that he had to remember; that everything was wrong in the world, and someday it had to be righted.

He had acknowledged Cedric's weeping relations and friends as he had left the room - they were a picture of grief, and Krum could not help but wonder if there would be anyone who would weep so earnestly for him if he were the one to die. They would say it was a sad day for Quidditch, a sad day for Bulgaria, but not for his own death; only for the death of his abilities.

Viktor Krum wondered what it was about Cedric Diggory that inspired such sadness at his passing - he would have liked to ask, but knew that it was not the time. Having found out just what had happened to him while in the maze, Viktor toasted that night to irony; if he had managed to hex the boy appropriately, he would not be dead today.

It was not a comforting thought to Krum, but not one which particularly bothered him; Cedric Diggory had been far too good a wizard to fall to Viktor Krum, and that was all there was.

They were returning to Bulgaria - Hogwarts was left far behind, and Cedric's death should have been nothing more than a detached memory.

But Krum did not let it become so.

He would remember, instead.

Third.
Viktor Krum is not really interested in Quidditch anymore.

The pitch had always seemed like home; he was far more comfortable with himself in the air than on the ground, but the game did not enchant. All of the ridiculous balls and hoops were a mild annoyance; far more important was the feeling of flight, of freedom from the invisible shackles that held him to the ground whenever he did not have a broom between his knees.

Gravity plays favourites, though, and as Krum performs a lazy loop-the-loop, slipping through the night sky like liquid against silk, the cold air exhilarating as it rushes past his face, he wonders whether Cedric Diggory felt the same when he played those Quidditch matches at his school; whether he practiced at night, and flew so high that he wondered whether he could touch the stars.

Krum does it all the time, so it is easy to imagine Cedric doing the same; they were nothing alike on the ground, but he cannot help but wonder if they were the same in the air; intensely focused on freedom and nothing else, fighting gravity and winning time and time again.

He dreamed of Cedric Diggory, sometimes; even though a year has passed now, and he had never so much as returned to Hogwarts. He did not dream of Cedric talking with his friends, taking on the trials, or even being himself; he dreamed of flying, he and Cedric side by side. With the dream in mind, if Krum squinted he could almost picture Diggory flying beside him; black and yellow, dark gold hair and grey eyes and the muted smile that seemed to be perpetually laughing at a private joke.

Although they had been acquaintances at the time of the Triwizard Tournament, Krum believed himself to know Cedric Diggory far better now than he ever had when the boy had been alive. Now, he was a product of Viktor Krum's imagination; he had likely been far better a person when he was living, laughing with those he chose to spend his time with; now, he was Krum's constant companion, never laughing but always smiling as if he knew far more than Viktor ever would.

Yet, in those dreams, whenever Krum reaches out to touch the vision, Cedric did not fade, but simply back away; not saying that it would never happen, that they would never connect, just that it was not to be yet.

Viktor Krum had never utilised a fading imagination; if he believed Cedric to be there, then he would be. Illogicality did not matter, since it was illogical for a human being to fly - and yet, there he was, soaring through the skies and dreaming of a person who only became interesting when he stopped existing.

That night, Krum would toast to irony once again; it seemed to plague him, these days.

Last.
Viktor Krum is falling.

The air is rushing by his ears, and his broom has fallen past him; it would land before he would, shatter on the ground, be of no help to him.

He was past helping from the moment he fell, and realised that there was nothing left to save him; no magic, no luck, and no skills at Quidditch. Cedric was falling beside him, and he was laughing now; exuberant and joyful, the daredevil skydiver who had nothing left to lose.

Krum did not care that he was going to die; he cared only that, within his vision - illusion or delusion, it no longer seemed to matter, because he could hear that laughter. As the ground rushed to greet him, the laughter ceased, and he had maybe a second to wonder if this was how Cedric Diggory felt as the green rays of the killing curse raced in his direction.

Krum wonders whether, when someone finds him in the morning, broken-boned and silent, whether they will look into his eyes to see the reflection of his killer and see Cedric Diggory's silhouette reflected back at them, because the product of his imagination knelt beside him as he struck the ground, and as the silence came Cedric Diggory reached to take his hand.

The silence would not last forever; the darkness came to cradle him instead, and there was no pain. Krum did not want someone to look into his eyes and find Cedric Diggory there, so he closed them instead.

And gravity takes all of us, in the end.

If I Am [YGO, Seto/Ryuuji/Mai] [1/2]

Sat, 10 Dec 2005 21:18:18 GMT

First of a two-part piece for fickle_goddess. Ryuuji and Seto play games, but Mai's too good to be a prize.

The sky was heavy with clouds, dark and foreboding, but it was not snowing - much to the disappointment of the large majority of Domino’s teenage population. All things remained dreary, the mood in the city as dull as the grey of the paving stones upon which the students of Domino High milled about, expressing best wishes to their friends before parting, heading in small groups to waiting homes.

There would be no more school now until after the New Year; Ryuuji was glad for the break, but not for any Christmas cheer, nor for any kind of resolution. He had his own reasons, but they were quiet ones - he exchanged words with those he saw as friends, and caught the eye of one who did not. Kaiba Seto was watching him, as he often did - Ryuuji was never unnerved by the other boy’s stare.

Kaiba was a perceptive young man, Ryuuji knew that much. Clever, too; very clever indeed, as Yuugi and Jounouchi wandered away, and they exchanged a gaze electrified; Kaiba the tiger, Ryuuji the panther, neither giving an inch - two predators, and neither would ever win the game they played, simply because it was the game that was never won.

Some nights, they would play chess - Ryuuji would imagine that they two were the Kings, commanding their forces with dignity, fighting in a manner that was both noble and archaic; knights, bishops and citadels, deadly Queens and rows of troops that were really only pawns. But neither of them were that noble, and although Kaiba usually won, Ryuuji always enjoyed the loss as much as he would if he were the victor.

All the same, it would be nice to win; checkers, cards, backgammon, Kaiba triumphed always. It was if he had memorised every method of victory, as if he knew which moves Ryuuji would make before he made them; the green-eyed boy (now, in both a literal and metaphorical manner) never liked to think of himself as predictable. So he tried harder - thought of trickier stratagems, better methods of play, even played with others in an attempt to better himself: this he managed, but still, Kaiba always won.

Tonight would be different, though. Tonight would change the tides, and leave Ryuuji the one standing victorious on the beach - Kaiba would be washed away. Checkers, tonight, ten o’ clock? He offered pleasantly, flickering a smile that was more of a smirk at his opponent. This was how it always was - he would offer, Kaiba would (eventually) accept, they would meet in some nondescript bar, a quiet place, and play. Always a Friday, always the same, and Ryuuji liked it that way; as it meant that his victory could be all the more of a change.

But Kaiba was shaking his head, and the first hint of a smirk was touching his lips; a rebuke. No, can’t. Busy. His limousine pulled up behind him, but he did not move to get in it; instead, someone else stepped out of it. Ryuuji stared at Kaiba, disliking this answer - why? Hot date? He asked, more a joke than anything else; the idea of Kaiba hitting the town with some gorgeous young thing on a Friday night amusing him. Of course not, it would be his corporation requiring his attention, or -

Perhaps, the goddess that stepped out of the limousine, golden hair, voluptuous curves and the smile that could fracture worlds - recognition glimmered in violet eyes as she walked to stand beside Kaiba, head tilted slightly to the side. Ryuuji?

He could only nod, too surprised at seeing her to comment further; Kujaku Mai, friend of friends, occasional acquaintance - famous model, these days, or so he heard. Working in Tokyo, in America, in Britain - older than they were by a few years, and yet she was here, standing with Kaiba as if her presence meant something. It seemed to - Kaiba’s eyes had brightened upon seeing her, and there was that hint of a smile lightly twisting against his lips - something that was strange to see on him, but not entirely wrong. Her expression was like a sunrise, bright and unassuming as she leaned forward to pat Ryuuji on the shoulder: perhaps we should get together sometime, Ryuuji, catch up? It’d be nice to hear about what you’ve been doing.

Ryuuji manages a slow nod as they move away together, Kaiba opening the limousine door for Mai, who slides into the vehicle elegantly and makes a gesture at Ryuuji - lifting her hand to her ear, fingers closed but for a splayed thumb and little finger, in the shape of a phone. I’ll call you. Even here, both jealous and disappointed (a real green-eyed boy now, and he did not know which of their companies he even wished to be in) beside himself, with all of his plans for the evening thwarted , he could not help but smile at her; laugh, even, as he mimicked the gesture.

It was funny how she could make everything brighter just by standing nearby; except for Kaiba, that was, who bore his own artificial light. Ryuuji shook his head, and decided to head home; after all, now Mai was in town, he would have to improve his game again in order to win.

What the prize would be, he was still unsure of.

~*~

Days passed; the festivities drew near, and the weather remained overcast and fruitless. Mai had held true to her word, calling Ryuuji the day after he had seen her with Kaiba; they met in cafes, in bars, at the occasional nightclub; she was gold like the sun, and he, like the artist placing the finishing touches on a piece, placed a dab of green, a splash of darkness and pale skin to make the picture complete. An easy rapport between them; so easy, so gentle, his own experiences beginning to match hers. His business, her career; similarities and differences, and there was always so much to say.

She was dangerous, though; one day, they went shopping, and ended up in a tattoo parlour; they gained tattoos that matched, the silhouettes of identical butterflies placed on shoulder blades. Ryuuji knew he was lucky to be even spending time with her; she was bright and beautiful and she lived fast, and if you did not run then you could never keep up.

He was not the only one quick enough on his feet to catch and walk beside her, though - Kaiba was still there, occasionally, waiting for her. Ryuuji and Mai could spend days together; shopping, laughing, dancing; nights together, in shady clubs and beautiful parlours, but she was never quite his - the occasional text message, a phone call made to her or by her, he was still around - but they never talked about him.

Today, they were going ice skating on the pond at the centre of Domino; Ryuuji loved to skate, preferring to glide than walk - it was a feeling that was lighter than air, and it felt even better when she held his hand; even when they fell down, a tangle of golden hair and dark tresses, peach and violet and dark in a heap of limbs on the ground, it was alright; she was grace even when she was undignified and laughing, and his laugh was like a rainbow - together they were colour.

He was closer to her than any other girl he had known; for all his supporters, his cheerleaders, she was the best because she did not worship the ground upon which he walked; instead, she just cared, and that was more real than any adoration.

Tuck your fingers in, she told him fondly as other couples skated by them; either that, or you’ll lose them. He laughed at her, reaching said fingers out to touch the waves of damp golden hair where they laid against the ice. For a moment, he wanted to kiss her; he leaned forward, and her breath hitched; then the light caught in her eyes, a reflection from the ice, and they were blue, dark blue, just like his.

So he pretended he was just moving to brush the hair from her face, and she pretended it did not happen. They stood, brushed themselves off, and began to skate again; soon enough laughing and dancing in the weak sunlight, glittering in a bliss which was almost fake, because he was always there.
Not so much in their hearts, but engraved in their very bones, he waited.

~*~

At the end of that day, he was waiting to collect her; upon seeing him, her pace picked up, and Ryuuji slowed to watch Mai greet Kaiba with a kiss of the cheek that whispered of almost flagrant sexuality: it was easy to see why they would be attracted to each other. Kaiba, quiet and competent, sharp like a knife and tongued like one - Mai, strident and confident, headstrong, and both beautiful in parallel.

He could see them together so easily, and it pained him; deep within him, he knew that it was not just because of the goddess who had picked him up and taught him how to dance and laugh until could not breathe anymore; it was him, the man of wires and of irrepressible thought, with the eyes that could see the soul. But Kaiba looked past her, to Ryuuji himself, lips tipping up in a definite smirk which the green-eyed male could not help but return. Game of checkers this evening? Ryuuji offered, and then the slightest of snickers. I’ll try to be a challenge this time.

Ryuuji’s smile was like the sunshine, and Kaiba could see Mai in him when he smiled - when it was not a smirk, or a grimace, but a real smile which spoke of pleasure. Kaiba wondered why such a smile was directed at him, but found that cause did not matter so much when the effect was so great.

Sure, came the answer. See you later then. He took Mai’s hand, and lead her away; she made their customary sign at Ryuuji as she walked away, the splayed thumb and little finger. I’ll call you. It always made him laugh - through his snickers, he returned the gesture, before heading home.

Beating Kaiba was all about strategy; but the game had become so much richer now Mai had brought the colour back to their worlds. Yet, he still had the potential to win - games were all analysis, and Ryuuji would find clarity again.

Defeating Kaiba would be a great victory; because then it would be the CEO approaching him for a game, to regain his dignity. He watched as Mai slipped into Kaiba’s limousine, watched the young man follow her, saw their silhouettes merge through the lightly tinted glass as the car passed; no matter how perfect they were, he would strive to be more so - just because he could.

It was just a matter of time.

Stories [Original, 1/1]

Sun, 04 Dec 2005 13:24:39 GMT

Flash-fic - written in 30 mins. On stories, belief, love and faith; on a girl who dances, and a boy who smiles, and a better world.

Stories

The first time she saw him, she was twelve; although she never did know him for who he would be, not then. There were moonbeams and stardust, and fireworks overhead; an explosion of reds and yellows, and his eyes flashed in the darkness - surprisingly blue, just for an instant, before they died and faded away to become merely an impression of light when she closed her eyes. The next firework was a bright pink, shattering over the horizon, and her attention was immediately drawn back to it as she huddled closer to the body of her mother, beside her. The new year passed on; twelve midnight, and a minute after she slept.

At sixteen, she met him again - they spoke this time, once a month, three times in all. Just a meeting for a youth club project; she, ever-impressing, short and somewhat plump, yet with a presence that vibrated in a person's head - if one closed their eyes, her imprint remained, like sparks from a firework cast in neon reflection. He was different, of course - taller, much taller, with a self-assured smile, the portrait of a believer. His God was not one that she could hold to, so they never spoke of it - they were not friends, just linked acquaintances, but his eyes haunted her for six months past their last meeting.

But then, she forgot him, and he her - each condemned to their own different worlds, of science and of progress. Paths merge apart, and together again; this is her choice, but she did not think it would bring her back to him. A new place of learning, new friends, new hearts to learn and stories to read - and there he was, smiling at her still, exactly the same as he had been that year ago. She was different - something more intense, more learned, and something burning. The light that she had held which remained when one closed their eyes, the fire of self-belief and assured opinion, it was gone; replaced with something different, something that could easily slip past the senses if he allowed it.

She was kind, in her own way, he found; they saw each other more and more, then less and less - it fluctuated from week to week. Some days, she did not matter to him at all; he would pass her in the corridor and not even notice. Other times, he would follow her to that quiet corner she sometimes inhabited, just to watch her. Sometimes, she would hum to herself in the midst of homework; songs of stories and of hope, and he would watch and listen, just to see if he could learn something.

Come Christmas, then; snow and fairy lights, green trees and holly. For most, the happy thoughts of Santa Claus, of gifts and commercialism - he remembered the child that had it all begin, and she thought of nothing at all. She sang of Christmas, now; from old carols to the occasional pop song, from a hum to an aria of wonder - and found herself obsessed with the way his face changed when he smiled, found herself longing to provoke that smile more often. So she reached out to give him a way to make his dreams leave the ground; she knew the way to a different world, and she would take him there if it would make him smile.

He did not accept her hand - his world was already a better one, given light by his beliefs and determination in himself. She, who had no desires but airy thoughts and the occasional dream, found him strange (and still beautiful, the eyes leaving their imprints not behind her eyelids but within her heart) enough to wonder what would happen if they combined dream and belief to make faith.

But faith was always hard to find; time passed, and the last day before Christmas break came forth. Decorations were scattered through the school, tinsel catching the eye; fake snow sprayed on windows, colours everywhere. She, in mute greys and blues, was as eyecatching only in that she did not assault the eye; she walked a moving story, and he followed her even when he did not want to - they were still not friends, only acquaintances with a still-dubious link from fireworks and collaboration, yet he walked her path.

It was snowing when she stepped outside, humming to herself; her hands were thrust deep in her pockets, protecting them from the freezing wind. Bundled in a coat a size too big and black like the raven, she seemed too small to captivate; then she looked back at him, and smiled in the way she always did - the way meant to provoke a smile in answer.

Her hair blew across her face as she waited for him to join her; golden topped with the white of the fresh-falling snow, and he moved slowly - almost as if he had been caught in the act of watching her and felt guilty for it. They exchanged greetings, cordial talk; her bus was in ten minutes, and he could not cycle in the snow, haha, so he guessed he was stuck here for a while. He leaned against the wall, listening to her talk; her voice was mid-pitch, always with that teasing hint of song, and he found her kind enough, in her own way.

She stretched out her hand again - not to offer a different world, but simply in a gesture of respect. He took it, gloved hand covering her bare skin, and smiled at her again. This was what Christmas was; acquaintances becoming friends. He would go to church, pray for the child who would grow up to die and be saved; she would slay the dragons, sail down the rivers, dance on rooftops; their worlds were so separate, but everything could touch upon occasion.

After all, everything was a story - gods, girls of song and rhyme, and boys with enchanting smiles. Her hand lingered in his as he walked her to her bus; maybe a new beginning, a joining of hands and then of hearts - then, to make a love. Perhaps that would be a world in which he would want to stay.

There would be moonbeams and stardust, and fireworks overhead - this was who they were, before times change, telling them that they must be different people, as ever it does - but this was a memory to leave an imprint behind the eyes, burning, burning, gone.

Shadow and fade, light and requiem; a plot for a story, perhaps, or nothing at all.

The Redemption [FF7, Cloud/Aeris, 1/1]

Tue, 08 Nov 2005 17:44:47 GMT

One-shot. Cloud brings Aeris flowers.

The Redemption

She wasn't real anymore.

He knew it, even as he walked through valley, through field, through mountain and cave; she walked beside him for every step, dancing and singing through his mind with that spirit she had always held in her eyes; she wasn't real. Not to him, and certainly not to anyone else.

She wasn't there, of course not; her spirit had gone now, looking for a place to rest somewhere as bright and beautiful as she was - and the quest was cold now, as cold as his heart. What had begun as idyllic, filled with morals and heroics had become something bitter, stained, filled with revenge; he wanted to kill the one who had took her from him, with the blade and the empty heart of a soldier.

Now, when it was all done, all said, everything behind; the planet saved, the battle won, and he still heard her singing at the back of his mind, he wondered if everything he had done was truly worth it - while he could still feel her behind him, presence warm and loving as ever it had been, when he turned she was never truly there, and everyday, the doubts crept in.

It was his fault that she died; others would protest it, but he knew it to be so. She wasn't here to tell him otherwise, and if it were not for him, she would be. Death was cruel and futile; it took, but it left those memories that could both comfort and destroy. They were blessing and curse all in one, something that could lift and could sink; she was the heart he had never claimed to have, and the soul that had been destroyed when she left him.

But then, he had never been one to put much stock in the heart and the soul.

There was the other, now; brilliant and energetic, bright like the sun, and they would fit together, she and he, if he still had the heart and soul that he had lost when he had lost the one that went before. Tifa was patient, calm, giving; she knew that one day, maybe he would heal, and she would wait for that day when a childhood love could blossom into something more.

But now, the wait stretched for her; someday, the love she held for him would wax and wane, becoming nothing more than a shadow. He knew this, yet could not reach out; Aeris still held his hand, swinging it between them as they walked through the amusement park together.

The water was a cold hole now, nothing more, nothing less. Yet, he came here sometimes all the same; a pilgrimage of flowers, from one place to another. He picked a flower from the church, just one sometimes, maybe two; and brought it all the way here. It had never withered before he arrived here, and he would linger and think of her.

Here he stood, now; a sword in one hand, a flower in the other, a walking contradiction of himself. The flowers she had grown, once; the first time he had truly seen her, kneeling amongst the flowers, straightening them with gentle hands. He remembered wanting to be forgiven.

"Why don't you forgive yourself?"

He could forgive himself, in time; he could let go of the past, and let go of the future. He was trying, even now; let go of the past, let go of the flower, let another become the heart within him, yet there was something within him that could not forget. Forgiveness was possible, but who could forget her?

Perhaps they all would, in time; she would become nothing more than a faded memory and a outgrowth of flowers in a church, somewhere just before Sector Five. A redemption for him, and peace for her; but a misplaced redemption, pyrrhic, false.

No-one can forgive by forgetting the crime, after all - and no-one can let go of a memory so loved as easily as the flower falls into the water that they had once left behind.

It seems so long ago, now; petals fall, the stem shifting in an unfelt wind as it falls down, down, down; into darkness, where it can rest. Colour against blue; then, nothing against nothing at all as Cloud looked away.

She wasn't real anymore, and neither was this place; forgotten city, forgotten time. This was all they had been; a place once written through history, but now left to dust and only dust. He turned to leave, sword still resting in his grip; and glances back once, only to check if they remain.

Beautiful flowers float on the water; too many to count. Maybe they wither, sink, die; but he replaces them with new ones, so it does not matter. She had loved the flowers, so he brought them to her; but never lingered long, not forever.

Would he do this forever? Perhaps; but maybe not. His visits were far less frequent now; he was always busy, with no time. Maybe redemption would come swift, or maybe it would be a winding path; but she was always there, as long as he never looked behind.

They would get through this together; some days, he could see her, in that place so bright it could only be the Promised Land. But she faded; she wasn't real anymore, she was only forged in his imagination, and somehow that thought did not hurt quite as much as it could have.

Cloud went home; somewhere beyond him, Aeris smiled in a love beyond the window, but truthful nonetheless.

"You came for me, didn't you? That's plenty, right there."

Requiem.

Paradise Descending [FFVII, Reno/Rude, 1/1]

Wed, 02 Nov 2005 20:29:17 GMT

Test piece, for my writing this pairing, this fandom - always read, never written for - and this style. Everything's in present tense. Why? I don't know. It reads interestingly. Warnings: boylurve, death, mentioned smut although no detail.

At 9:30am, exactly half an hour late, Reno walks into the newly rebuilt Shin-Ra building; instead of heading for his desk, he heads directly for Tseng's office. Greeted with the half-smile of those who have history, and answering with the slamming down of resignation papers on his boss's desk, Reno turns his back on Tseng and leaves, hair snaking behind him.

He has signed his own death warrant, and he doesn't care. A new Shin-Ra still has secrets, and lies, and Turks; Turks to whisper, to spy, to extort, and to eat their own when they defect. He was mildly surprised that Tseng had not raised his revolver to shoot through Reno's head as he walked out.

He has no reason to quit, except for the fact that he had begun to hate everything about his job. People like him corrupted, and bled, and died screaming; he would sooner die from the bullet to the head from the hand of Tseng now, who still knew Reno for who he was, than from the fate that would await him if he stayed in the Turks.

He still heard them calling to him, sometimes, which was why he remained so loud; the voices of the people he executed. Sometimes, late at night, he could believe in ghosts, and he wasn't the man who was a Turk anymore.

It was a good enough reason for him; Reno goes home, and spends the rest of the day packing. He would not leave tonight, but tomorrow; the papers had to go through a proper triplicate process before there would be a warrant laid out for his death, so he should be safe tonight. He gets out of the uniform he had never worn properly, and changes into easy slacks and a green hooded top; considers cutting his hair, but cannot find the heart.

That night, Rude lets himself into Reno's apartment; the locks remain unchanged, at least. Reno's in the kitchenette, fixing himself a sandwich: he already knows that Rude is there, was expecting something of this manner. Perhaps angry words, the disappointment that Rude tried so hard to hide when Reno screwed up.

But warm arms around his waist, the grip slightly too tight; his partner's face burying itself in Reno's hair, breathing in the spicy scent of his shampoo, something impossibly him; emotion and tension and pain all in one embrace, and all Reno could do was sigh. The sound was impossibly sad, stretching between them: like the threads that Rude would tie the two of them together with, if he could ever give Reno a reason to stay.

"You here to do the deed, partner?" Reno asks simply; Rude simply makes a pained noise into his hair in answer, hands turning the smaller body to him. Partner. The very word hurt, because they weren't partners when they didn't work together; that was the link that bound them, that meant he could hold on tight without letting go.

Reno pauses for one moment only, and then buries his face in Rude's shoulder. It had been half a day only, and he had already missed this; had thought it would never be so again. This was how an attachment to another person worked; Reno was an extension of Rude who was Reno again. They knew how the other thought, moved, breathed; hearts, souls and minds. Now, Reno was ripping the two of them apart, and they bled together.

"Just here to say goodbye." Rude tells him softly, and Reno's hands bunch in the immaculately pressed shirt: if ever he regretted a decision he had made, he regretted it now. "... Thought you'd be leaving town soon."

Reno says nothing, but his eyes stray to the already-packed bag in the living room of his apartment, behind them; Rude sees the expression, and reads it as easily as a page of an open book. His hands tighten against the smaller male's waist; not so much a sign of possession, but rather of reluctance to let go. After all, how could either let go of half of themselves?

"... you could come with me." Reno breaks the silence, as he often does, his voice experimental; yet undertoned with a desperate, far-fetched hope; choose me over them, choose me over this, choose me over your entire life. Blue eyes lowered: Reno would not meet Rude's eyes, would not truly ask it of his partner, not even now.

Rude wants to say yes. He wants to drop his weapons, do something overly dramatic like throwing a one-fingered salute in Tseng's face, and take Reno to that anywhere they spoke about once, although maybe that was a dream. He wanted to see his partner smile like he hadn't seen for weeks; not that grimace which pretended to be a smile, the half-smirk of the person that had already been lost to a life too difficult for any to bear for too long.

The hate, the oppression, the fear and the lies; it built up on everyone, after a time. Not Rude, because he didn't allow himself to feel it; but Elena too was showing signs of strain. Only through her continued devotion to Tseng was she staying, and he knew that deep-down their boss appreciated the unconditional affection she offered him. But he rebuked her, all the same; and when she had heard of Reno's departure, Rude could tell that her kneejerk reaction was to follow him out.

Rude wants to say yes, but that want is in his heart: his head tells him that two is an easier target, that they would be dead before they got out of Midgar, that Reno would be better off alone.

"I can't."

Disappointment shades the lowered eyes; Reno allows his hair to fall forward to mask the expression on his face. "I know you can't." You don't love me enough to break the order in your life, do you? Partner?

Rude lets him go; heads for the door, because he cannot answer the questions that had not been spoken. Reno's fingers catch in his jacket sleeve, for a moment; Rude stares down at them, instantly freezing his arm still; long, slim fingers, skin pale as ever it had been. Eventually, his own hand; larger, darker-skinned, made to crush and not to hold but trying so hard regardless, closing over Reno's and just holding him there.

"Why?" Rude's voice is calm as his other hand reaches; tracing Reno's face, over the pale forehead, down across the tattooed cheekbone; sliding downwards, cupping a cheek, thumb running smoothly again over a bottom lip.

"I don't want to be anything more than just myself." Reno answers eventually, looking up at Rude from where he stood; the hand not caught in Rude's reaching to remove the sunglasses, looking up into his partner's eyes.

He could still understand nothing; Rude was a Turk, and always would be. Emotion could not quite make it through, unless Rude wanted it to be seen; apparently, he didn't. Staring, staring, waiting for something to happen; some kind of catalyst to the reaction that would be them.

Then Rude's hand clasped over Reno's moved to the small of his back, pressing them tightly against each other. The kiss, when it came, was not easy as it usually was; an endless, innocent whisper of goodbye passed between them, chaste and affectionate.

Then, the fight for possession began, as it always had and always did. The kiss changed to kisses, passionate and demanding; Reno's hands, pushing away the suit jacket from his partner's shoulders, but Rude lifted them both to sprawl on the couch. Clothes shed, bodies entwined, hearts touch; together, together, together apart.

Later. Reno slumbers against his chest; his hands entwine in the long crimson hair, enjoying the contrast of colour between the vibrant hair and his skin. What to do when all has been said and done, when you know the game was lost? Rude presses a solitary kiss to Reno's forehead; the younger man does not so much as stir. There is a half-smile on his face as he sleeps; he looks innocent, and Rude knows he can never be fooled by that. Innocent, child-like, murderer.

Murderer, just like they all are.

Reno weighs little as Rude carries him to the bed that they had shared in the past; but memories only began to matter once something was over. He deposits Reno on the bed; the redhead does not stir. Waking his partner when he slept was like waking the dead; Rude swallowed, his throat dry, before returning to his clothes.

He dresses, piece by piece; the pressed trousers, white shirt, tie, suit jacket. Leaves the sunglasses off, but attaches the belt; the holster rests against his thigh as he returns to the bedroom.

It was blessed mercy, he told himself as he gazed down at the sleeping man; still a child when he slept, the child that had insinuated himself into Rude’s heart made of wires and made it flesh again. It was mercy.

His breath came short, once; he leaned forward, brushing unruly crimson hair from Reno’s face, kissed his lips, once. Reno stirred, just slightly; the smile broadening, he opened his eyes to look down the barrel of a gun: he was used to it. He looked up to the eyes instead.

I love you.

I know.

Goodbye.

The shot rang out through the apartment; a perfect hit, from this range. A shock, seeing as Rude’s eyes were too filled with the liquid he would swear was not tears to even see. Blood, mingling with crimson hair; blue eyes closed again - he could still be asleep, but for the fact that the smile was gone; serenity, nothingness replaces it. Rude drops the gun, turns away; moves to the toilet, to retch up the scant food that he has eaten today.

This was weakness, and weakness could not be tolerated. He was a Turk, that was the mark, it was all over. There is no explaining the tears that continued to gather, but never fall from Rude’s eyes as he heads out of the apartment, so he pretends they don’t exist as he dials Tseng’s number, raises the cellphone to his ear. Turks do not show emotion.

“It’s done.”

Switch off, switch on, and one bullet left in the gun.

Above, there were stars.

JHFE: Behind the Window [Doctor Who]

Tue, 18 Oct 2005 19:30:18 GMT

For the Jack Harkness ficathon- thus dedicated to __kali__.

Hell, I don’t know what this is. It’s something, and that’s enough. A series of vignettes that are vaguely tied together - a story within a story, and it all comes back to swingsets in the end. I failed a bit on the smut requirement; it only got a mention. Sorry, __kali__, my bad.

Stated was:
Three things you want to see in your fic: Little bit o' smut, heroic!Jack, bit of Jack/Nine implied
Don't want to see: Death of characters
Maximum rating: Any

~*~

His training as a Time Agent complete, Jack Harkness is leaving on his first assignment tomorrow. A field assignment, of course; no more mollycoddling. He has finished his training at an imperative time; the galactic battle against the Daleks is reaching a height.

It is 4:30am, Greenwich Mean Time; it is the year 2002, and Jack Harkness has been joyriding; not through space, but rather through time. It’s not strictly allowed, but he was never really very good at rules. They seem to go in one ear and out of the other without really registering with the brain; oh, well. It has been a good night, and now it is an even better morning; the girl had been beautiful, and the boy just as so, and together they had been perfect. It was one moment in a series of moments, or so she had said when dressing afterwards; Jack had laughed, and asked her where she’d quoted such a sentiment from - naturally cynical, of course, such ideas didn’t usually come so quickly.

Just a movie she’d seen lately, she’d answered, and kissed him; then she was gone through the door, holding the hand of the boy that had loved them for one of those moments. Jack is watching them go, and wondering whether sentiment is simpler when it is not torn by time. Time Agents didn’t tend to commit, after all.

Which made it a perfect life for someone like Jack Harkness, who is scared at the very idea of settling down and making his life in one place and one time. There would be far too much to lose.

Park bench, now; his spaceship is hovering above the swingset, and the sun is just starting to glimmer over the horizon. There’s no-one around - the only sound remaining is the slow creaking of the chains on the swings, shifting just slightly in the breeze. If anyone had been here at this very moment, they might have said it was a lonely sight; but such a thought had not occurred to Jack Harkness.

He doesn’t know what lonely means.

~*~

The Great Fire of London.

The greatest city in England was in ruins; flames ran rampant through building after building- and they had stepped right into it. The Doctor had insisted there was something important to see here, that she wouldn't be harmed- she had taken his hand and stepped out of the TARDIS as she always did. One thing she could never be called was easily frightened.

They had not counted on the people of London; fleeing their houses in a massive, fearful crowd, trampling all in their path; if there was one thing that truly scared humanity, it was fire. People were dying, trapped in their houses; this place that Rose would one day call home was distant and incoherent, covered by smoke and ruin.

All around them, London was smouldering; with fire and with the stink of unwashed rioters- looters, thieving things from empty houses, killing as they went. Rose refused to admit she was afraid, but clung to Jack's arm, all the same. Captain Jack Harkness, a friend since the moment that they brought him onto the TARDIS; a guardian, a companion, and most of all a great laugh. Jack never lacked a joke, a story or a bawdy song to cheer Rose up - ever.

Until now, that was; Jack looked thoroughly grave as they headed into an alley to try and avoid the most recent surge of looters. Rose knew exactly why, too - the Doctor was no longer with them. He was gone, and they didn't know where. Worse, neither of them had any real knowledge of this time; Jack had avoided this event for obvious reasons, and Rose, well- Rose hadn't paid attention in History class.

One thing she was sure of, however, was that a situation like this could not possibly have a happy ending. And the Doctor was gone.

"What are we going to do?" She asked Jack, having to raise her voice over the sounds of the mob; neither of them were familiar with London in the 18th Century, after all, and the TARDIS was lost to them. The streets were too dark and smoky for it to be properly seen. Jack could usually locate the TARDIS with that doohicky on his wrist, Rose remembered as the man began to shake his wrist irritably; however, by the looks of things it wasn't working. Wasn't that just peachy, she couldn't help herself thinking as she stood nearer to him to look at his glorified watch, which was not getting any better for being shaken forcefully, and then felt guilty almost immediately. It wasn't Jack's fault that his technology had failed on him.

"I don't know." Jack answered her question eventually; he sounded calmer than he looked and she felt, which was likely due to Time Agent training. "We're going to have to retrace our steps, which is gonna be difficult seeing as the TARDIS might be surrounded by fire by now." His face was illuminated suddenly by flickers of still-alight paper, falling from the roof above them; the little flames floated down between Rose and Jack, landing on the ground.

"Where're all the fire engines?" Rose asked, voice a lot more jittery than Jack's; in response to that, Jack stamped out the fire between them and pulled her closer; she wrapped her arms around his waist, clinging to what was left of her world here in London.

"I don't know." He answered; "They're probably running away; the way I think I remember the way it went. London burned to pretty much a husk before it was under control." He looked down at her, and that dreadful focus - the calm that she was so not used to seeing - seemed to almost intensify. She understood, then; clarity coming a little later than expected, she realised just what this was. All they had seen before was Captain Jack Harkness, the conman - this was Jack Harkness, the Time Agent.

There was a difference between the two - so extreme and yet so small it was almost unnoticeable. That focus was now on finding the TARDIS and getting out of this mess; Rose reached down, and took his hand.

With that look on his face, it almost felt the same. He could have almost been the Doctor; except there was no devil-may-care grin on his face - Jack was deadly serious, and as he looked back at her, he seemed to be looking through her.

Then, they moved out into the smoke; back into the streets of London that were dressed in only flames.

~*~

Discard this message. Discard this message.

~*~

Jack was a running vector. Every move he made was calculated; gauging distances, measurements, dangers; figures accommodating Rose, too, who ran at his side, her grip on his hand tight as if to say don't leave me behind. Jack, of course, would never have done so - but he was not thinking about any kind of emotional attachment. First, save the people who could not defend themselves; then, solve the situational problem as best as one could.

He was realistic; he could not put out a whole fire alone. Yet, he could get them out of here - they were not pieces that fit in the puzzle, and they certainly were not supposed to be there. The TARDIS had to be close; he thought he remembered this place, his fractional memory obscured by panic and flame.,

Every part of him burned, to match his surroundings; beside him, Rose was gasping from lack of air, due to the smoke and the speed at which they were moving. Had he been in the mindset in which he was prepared to suffer, Jack would have felt the same; but he knew he could not afford to. Danger was everywhere; there was no time for pain.

Everything he had told the Doctor and Rose about being a time agent was true. Sometimes it was about adventures, and laughing, and saving the day when the odds were against you - but not always. There was nothing glorious about this part of the job, where you would crawl your way through anything to survive - to not die here, out of time and out of the world in which you knew. To save the person beside you, the innocent who should never have been in this place.

Distantly, in the back of his mind, the Jack that Rose knew raged about just how much of an earful the Doctor was going to get when he caught up with them- of course, he was unworried about the fact that the Time Lord may have been harmed, or died. They had been travelling together only a short time, and yet it was too long for Jack to think that the Gallifreyan could not handle himself in every situation that presented itself.

This street was more familiar; and there was the square in which they had landed. He had gotten them back; but not without a price. Flames lashed all around them; Jack could feel the skin of his bare upper arm burn with the heat, and Rose was moving closer to him and away from the flames even as they ran.

But the TARDIS was there, in front of them; miraculously untouched by the flame in the centre of the stone square. Rose ran ahead, seemingly with a last burst of energy at seeing the time machine; Jack slowed, because he had heard something.

Was it the Doctor? He had wondered at first, but that thought was quickly extinguished. It was the wail of a baby; a child, forgotten in a nearby house. It was aflame, at least on the lower floor; smoke rose from it like turrets of living death. But still, Jack paused. Protect the innocent.

Had he been thinking in a manner that he would have called straight, he would have left the child- the odds were too highly stacked, and the baby would likely have been dead before he got there, the assessment from Captain Jack Harkness would have said. But now, he thought in curves, in arcs, in angles- and he knew, as other cries began to sound from within the house- of a mother, a father- there was a chance for them.

He was that chance.

He could no longer walk away; he was still now, calculating. Rose turned, screamed his name from the door of the TARDIS; he did not hear her. As the Doctor emerged from the smoke of a back street, whistling jauntily, Jack ripped a shred of his teeshirt away to cover his mouth. The people he was going to save were on the second floor of the town house; all he had to do was get up there, and get them back down.

Rope. He needed rope. A well, in the middle of the square; a bucket hanging from a long piece of rope. He moved to it, drawing a knife from its customary place in his boot; it took a moment, but eventually he sawed away the fibres enough to separate the rope from the knot at the wood of the well. Now, if he could get up there, he could save them- because someone who could help was at his side, looking a little confused.

"What the bloody hell are you doing?" The Doctor asked; "The TARDIS is over there, I've done what was required."

Jack rolled his eyes; trust the Doctor. The man was so tunnel-visioned at points; had he not seen the suffering people in the house? Yes, he definitely did owe the man a good punch - however, at this point, he needed co-operation. He balled the rope, and spoke to the Doctor:

"Stand under that window there." He pointed, even as he was surprised at the sound of his own voice, cracked and half-broken due to the smoke. The Doctor assessed the situation in his own way, and reached to grab hold of Jack's arm, seeing that it was likely a lost cause; Jack snaked his arm out of the Time Lord's grip, and entered the burning building.

Rose had moved to the Doctor's side, eyes wide with panic. "What is he doing?!" She cried out, afraid for him and exasperated all at the same time; the cries had ceased to silence.

"Being an idiot is what he's doing." The Time Lord answered irritably, one arm wrapping around Rose protectively; "You alright?"

"I'm fine." Rose nodded; "But he's gone bonkers! What's he doing in-"

A rope fell from the window, snaking to the ground- the Doctor stooped to pick it up, looking up questioningly - Jack was at the upper window, looking thoroughly singed with an angry burn on his neck.

"Tense the rope, make a zipline!" He called; the Doctor nodded, accepting the command and moved back to the well, lashing the line to it quickly. Suspended on clothing, the mother and father of the child swung down the rope shakily in a perfect slide, the child tucked into the man's coat; Jack had really been inspired with that idea. But it was bound not to last; the rope smouldered and burned, falling to the ground; the people on the rope fell, but not far, landing on their feet.

Jack was stuck in the burning house, and as he looked back he saw the room was filled with flame. Don't die out of time. Do whatever you can to survive. Never die out of time. He looked around wildly; and saw no other option.

Every part of him was united in praying he didn't break his neck as he jumped out of the window; doing as his military training had instructed. Fall to be on all-fours, smack the ground as you strike. It will spread the impact throughout your body instead of just on one limb.

But it was rock below him; that thought had him off balance. He landed awkwardly on his left arm; the pain screamed through him as he felt the bone of his forearm snap. To his credit, he did not scream; the stinging vibration that rung throughout his body had forced the pain into numbness almost instantly. He stumbled up, wincing as a low groan left clenched lips.

He could distantly hear the Doctor going on about someone being stupid, ridiculous and idiotic, but could not bring himself to care. Rose was by his side, supporting him; the Time Agent within him was starting to disappear, to leave one Jack Harkness who was both exhausted and in pain. Using one stinging hand to support an entirely numb broken arm, he stumbled in the direction of the TARDIS.

He hit the ground again about a metre from the TARDIS, and this time he did not get up.

~*~

Forget my name, forget my face.

~*~

The TARDIS hung in the Earth's orbit; Rose wasn't exactly sure of when they were, but it didn't really matter- she was far too busy watching the Doctor.

The man was still muttering to himself about Jack being an idiot; and an idiot he certainly was. What he had done was absolutely ridiculous - but it had saved three innocent lives, too. The Doctor did not appear to see it that way, however - at least, not yet.

But the interesting part of it was, as the bitter mumbles fell from the Time Lord's lips, he was quite willingly tending to Jack's injuries. The conman himself was fast unconscious; breathing a little unsteadily, but he was going to be fine - she hoped. Rose herself was breathing from a bag; the Doctor had made a dumb joke about her not knowing that humans weren't able to breathe carbon dioxide, but had left it at that after she had answered that he hadn't seemed to remember that either.

The Doctor had made a mistake, and it could have cost him both of his companions. He had thought they were near the TARDIS- he had thought they would be alright. Instead, Rose was being treated in his miniature hospital inside the TARDIS for smoke inhalation and Jack, due to his own sense of duty, was unconscious with no particular sign of waking. Not asleep; his consciousness was poisoned by the smoke he had taken in instead of air. Rose had been surprised to see that the oxygen masks that the Doctor used were very similar to the 21st Century set; just a little more advanced, he had said with a half-smile.

The Doctor looked terrible, Rose realised. He looked perfectly miserable; and she knew why. She was feeling the same.

The person silent in the bed was not smiling; was not laughing, telling jokes or even doing something stupid. He was not being unhelpful, or clever, or amusing, or Jack. The person that lay so pale and silent did not look like Jack Harkness at all.

She reached out for the hand that was not in plaster. She had been surprised to see that the Doctor was a true doctor, and knew how to set a broken arm, but only mildly. She knew better than to second guess him, after all. But she squeezed his hand gently, unconsciously wanting him to wake; not so much that she missed his stupid jokes or his bravado, but the very aura of the man himself.

“So, what now?” She asked simply, looking over at the Time Lord; he smiled at her, and she felt her spirits lifting with that smile despite herself. She loved that about him; whether it was because the expression was so comical, or because of the warmth behind it, when he smiled she always smiled back.

It always made things better.

~*~

When he began training as a Time Agent, he had been told tales about the Time Lords.

He had been told so many things; most entirely nonsensical, some most likely truthful- all carrying the conveying message of- "Travel through time, and they'll know it- they'll be there, watching over you." He had been told that the Time Lords could feel a change in the fabric of space-time as if it were within their own skin; that the changing of time could be felt within their very souls.

That was true, Jack Harkness now knew. Everything that he had gathered to be true about the Time Lords, was true indeed- but for one, significant little letter in every legend.

The 's'.

There were no Time Lords.

Only one Time Lord, alone.

~*~

Jack had awakened the next day; not usually the type to let such silly things as smoke inhalation and a broken arm get him down, he got dressed in the manner of a person that had more than enough practice in having broken limbs, and headed down to the TARDIS control room.

Rose wasn’t present; perhaps, she was sleeping off the events of yesterday. Jack slipped into the seat and watched the Doctor bustle about; after all, just because he was around didn’t mean that he was actually going to work. He was an invalid, and intended to milk it for all its worth; at least, until he got bored of doing so.

The Doctor looked up from the console eventually, giving Jack a gaze that was distinctly assessing. “What’re you doing out of bed?” He questioned eventually. Jack absently picked at his cast, and smirked up at the Time Lord as he announced, with a distinct note of cheekiness:

“I got lonely.”

The Doctor rolled his eyes, the expression carrying a thousand words as he moved over to Jack so as to check his cast. It had dried and finished well, he found; nothing had been disturbed apart from Jack’s casual picking at the material at the corner. He lightly slapped the hand away, telling the ex-Time Agent sternly:

“You should know better than to do that.”

“You know me, I never listen to my common sense.” Jack answered cheerfully; evidently, this fact did not bother him at all. The Doctor sighed heavily; it was the sigh of a person that had to deal with far too much.

“You’re an idiot.”

Jack laughed playfully, reaching out to poke the Doctor squarely in the shoulder. “But I am a loveable idiot, right?”

“Now, that’s a loaded question. I shall have to contemplate my answer; ask again in a thousand years, and I’ll let you know.” The Doctor told him solemnly, and said nothing else; instead, turning back to the console. Jack leaned back, closed his eyes, and said nothing at all for a long moment, before:

“So… If I go forward 1000 years in time and find you, you’ll tell me?”

The Doctor paused, pondering; then, he reached over to ruffle the Time Agent’s hair; fondly, as one would an errant puppy.

“No.”

~*~

He’s come a long way.

It was a fight like any other, except he had managed to die somewhere along the line. He’d known he was dead, because of the silence; the serenity that had taken him, and then the darkness.

But then there had been light, and wrecked lungs had breathed again; he had seen the dust that used to be a Dalek, and then heard the sound of the TARDIS disappearing. Anything in between the two points was thoroughly hazy, and Jack was exceptionally glad of it; if anything had been there, he didn’t want to know about it until the next time he was shuffled off this mortal coil.

Time passed, and passed, and passed; as it did, he allowed himself to actually think about what had happened. Memories were fractured, as ever they were; but there were thoughts clear in his mind, bright as day; Rose’s laugh as they chased each other about the console room, her delighted smile as he presented her with a flower he’d found on the infertile land of Geragoa; her frustration as they had talked about things she did not understand, the punches she rained on his shoulder when he had made a joke that had been at her expense; always loving, and never cruel on his part. A sister, and more, and less. What she was to him did not matter; she was Rose, and she was somewhere in the universe - with him.

He wasn’t exactly sure what the Doctor was; to the world, to himself. Jack knew that he was everything and nothing at once; the man that had fought the teasing playboy for the attention of the girl and then taken that same playboy to bed, late at night, when the girl was long asleep. The way they were together had been electric; Jack’s easy experience against the Doctor’s masterful calm, skin on sweat on heat on light. It had been once, and once only; and he had known the Doctor saw it as a mistake.

Jack didn’t mind that; some of his own greatest experiences stemmed from mistakes. If he hadn’t messed up on the Blitz con, he would never have had the greatest adventure of his life; and he was grateful for that. He still loved; but that love, so passionate and fervent when the three had been together, had receded to simple affection: buried in the back of a mind that did not search for them, but rather waited for them to return.

Such things came in cycles; Jack knew that one day he would see the Doctor and Rose again, some day they would sit around the table in the TARDIS kitchen and talk about what had happened since they parted. He would flirt with Rose, make her blush; annoy the Doctor just enough to surprise him with a kiss. And they would laugh, the three of them, together.

He just had to wait.

It is 4:30am, Greenwich Mean Time: the year 2003. The playground is still there; the swing still creaks in the breeze. A spaceship, invisible, hovers above it. So much time has passed since he has stood in this same spot; yet here, only one year of time.

So much, and yet so little. The tiredness clings to his bones, yet still he smiles; ruefully, yet hopefully, as the first beginnings of sunrise start to break over the horizon.

Now, he knows what ‘lonely’ means.

End

Meme drabble for fickle_goddess

Sun, 16 Oct 2005 12:42:08 GMT

The Art of Losing

It had not taken long to step into the mind of the unconscious weakling boy, Bakura; there was no resistance at all to his entry, and with the taken Sennen Ring as his guide Yami no Malik searched for exactly what he was looking for. Not the boy; he was useless, nothing. But something else, instead; something far more interesting, something far more potent.

Incandescence.

Yami no Malik watched the spirit of the Sennen Ring from where he stood, arms folded, waiting to be acknowledged; the spirit was slumped against a wall, to all intents and purposes looking rather bored. He seemed to create his own light; pale skin and pale hair like bleached bone on white sand, but the eyes were black holes as they looked up, bringing all toward him.

"Ah, if it isn't my jailer." He said, voice actually seeming rather jovial; he made no attempt to stand, and instead watched the creature made of shadow - the gaze seemed casual, but it was most certainly not. There was fear there, lurking behind the white mask of carelessness.

Yami no Malik simply smirked at him; the spirit would not gauge him simply by watching, as eerie as he seemed in this light. He was the darkness to the mockery of light that the other presented; between them lingered a beautiful contradiction as the dark knelt at the side of the light, grasping a fine-boned chin and forcing the other's gaze up to stare into shadow-tainted eyes.

"It isn't fair to create light for yourself when I banish you to the dark." He said simply, the slightest of smirks touching his lips; the spirit smirked in answer, allowing a mocking laugh to escape his lips. White hands caught fists of the shadow-cloak at Yami no Malik's shoulders, as the spirit pulled him closer to whisper:

"Didn't you hear? I am the darkness. I will escape, and I always win." Another laugh, but whether this time the spirit was mocking Yami no Malik or himself was unclear. "Somehow."

The white, slim hands pushed in one moment; and they were tumbling; two entwined in a fight, but not one that would have a true winner. They were equal, for this moment; darkness and light - the final attempt at dominance from a spirit that had lost the fight.

White rested on top of black, Yami no Malik's hands pinned to the ground; he could break the grip at any moment he wanted, but the black hole eyes drew him in as the spirit gasped from breath above him, hair hanging about his face. There was a strange beauty about a person who had already lost, but fought regardless; something to be respected, and Yami no Malik respected it by surging upwards, teeth gripping hold of the other's bottom lip and tugging him down to meet with him. The kiss was ripping, grinding; all the while, the spirit's hands wrapped about Yami no Malik's wrists in a pretense of power.

They parted after a time that could have been a millenium, or just a second; now crimson stained the white of the spirit's face, and it looked right. The gaze that passed between them ripped pages out of books, rewrote them to be how they wished them to be; to burn the world, and laugh on.

Then Yami no Malik was gone; there were other things to attend to. He could not linger and watch the dark-stained light forever; and regardless of his promise to escape, the spirit would forever be there. Simply waiting there to be defeated, again and again, at his discretion and his leisure.

This was the art of losing.

Meme drabble for flyingpinkbunny

Sun, 16 Oct 2005 12:00:28 GMT

Erosion

Whenever he looked at her, he wondered if she could see into his soul.

They stood opposing, in their duel that he knew he would ineveitably win; they fought, and he would crush her. He did not need the Item around her neck to tell that - her skill level was, quite simply, below his. But everytime he looked up and saw her looking back, eyes unreadable as his own could be without any of the ice that usually accompanied his own stare, he couldn't help but have a twinkle of doubt emerge at the back of his mind.

Could she peel back the layers of his soul, with that necklace and that stare? Melt the ice, batter down the stone, rip apart the paper-thin defenses beneath it and see what lay within him; at his deepest heart that he would prefer to deny. A card was played; a trap encountered, a monster destroyed, and the woman continued to stare at him as if she knew his deepest secrets.

Something, deep within him, wondered if she could ever like what she saw. But that thought was immediately crushed, as he crushed her; victorious, he would go on to battle the Pharaoh. She had given him the power to do so.

She was still staring at him as he turned to go; he looked back, blue eyes greeting blue. A connection between them that would last throughout time still lingered; for one instant, he felt a trace of sympathy, of fellowship. Oh, she knew what lay within him.

Maybe one day he would have her tell him what it was she saw in him.

It would be nice to know.

Meme drabble for tammaiya

Thu, 06 Oct 2005 16:19:44 GMT

Cloak

It was unlike Godric to lock himself away in any kind of working room for longer than half an hour, Salazar mused as he eyed the door with an air of slight worry- rather like a parent who knew that their child was up to something, but didn't quite want to know just what. However, Gryffindor had been in Salazar's study for the best part of the day. Without asking, Slytherin would hasten to add.

He decided that it was about time to find out just what he was doing- anything that had held Godric's attention for so long had to be interesting; besides, anything that Salazar could be doing was inside that room anyway. He pushed the door, to find it looked- a glance at the lock managed to open it with the slightest of 'click' sounds. Salazar slipped into the room, only to see what appeared to be Godric underneath a large wall hanging pulled from the castle entrance hall.

"Whatever are you doing?" He enquired mildly; in somewhat of an understated fashion due to the sheerly odd situation, but then that was the way that Salazar tended to approach things involving Godric Gryffindor in general. If you were too uptight about things, then you were just worried continually.

Godric appeared to burrow out from under the curtain, covered in dust with his blond hair in disarray; he looked tired, grumpy and considerably less happy than usual. Salazar reached up, slender fingers brushing away the dust from the man's shoulders, emerald eyes filled with mirth that did not show on his face whatsoever. A slight sigh falling from his lips, Godric reached out to pull the wall-hanging up again.

"I'm trying," He said with a slight grimace, "To make this into a cloak which turns one invisible."

"Isn't it a little heavy to wear as a cloak?" Salazar answered practically, looking down at the hanging; "It's a little large to work on by oneself, also." Godric sighed, and reached out to fold Salazar in against himself- Slytherin brushed a little more of the dust off him before allowing him to do so, head tucking against the other's shoulder. It was comfortable like this, on the occasion that they weren't arguing- he could feel the other's hand stroking down the long braid of hair that trailed down his back.

"I just needed a large square of cloth to work on." Godric answered with a sigh; "It is a little harder than I anticipated, however."

Salazar simply snickered slightly; "You were never good at practicalities."

"And you're not helpful."

The snicker became an all-out laugh; "Sulking doesn't become you. However, if I am so unhelpful, perhaps I should do what is required of me and aid you in your apparent quest for invisibility."

Godric's look of displeasure instantly flickered back to a happier expression: "Now, that would be nice."

Hours passed. As the sun was setting, Godric declared that the cloak was 'finished'; Salazar could see that there was a distinctly larger amount of magic in it now than had been in it before, but it still looked like a ragged wall-hanging as far as he was concerned. He did not announce that opinion publicly, due to the fact that Godric would sulk, and a sulking Godric was more than Salazar's life was worth, of course.

"Now, all that needs to be done is to test it." Godric announced; "I'll get under it, and you tell me if you can see me."

Salazar stifled a laugh as Gryffindor scrambled under the hanging. Well, he certainly couldn't see Godric - he could see the wall-hanging, of course, but that was thoroughly irrelevant.

"No, I can't see you."

Godric whooped; before Salazar could explain that he could still see the wall hanging, the other had tugged him under it. "So, now we're both invisible." He declared proudly, "I knew we could do it!"

Salazar hadn't the heart to tell him it hadn't worked; instead, he slipped closer to Godric, pressing his face into the other's neck - mainly to stifle a laugh, but never mind. The other's arms wrapped around him, and even though the wall-hanging was dusty and it rather stunk, this was a somewhat more pleasurable way to spend an evening than force-feeding magic to a large, uncooperative piece of cloth.

Eventually, of course, Godric would find out it hadn't worked quite as it should; but Salazar was rather looking forward to that. The other was going to make a complete fool of himself, but Salazar had never said he wasn't a naturally cruel person.

In fact, he rather was. He pressed the lightest of kisses to Godric's jawline, listening to the rumble that sounded at the back of the other's throat at such attention, and couldn't help but smirk.

Life - particularly with Godric Gryffindor - truly could be rather amusing.

Meme drabble for gaijin_chan

Thu, 06 Oct 2005 14:24:46 GMT

Oneself in Others

Severus Snape was a Potions Master for a reason.

He had schooled himself to learn different factors, the optimums, the conditions required to make the perfect potion. To brew glory, stopper death, all took a determination and a singular tenaciousness that not many had; he had been entirely accurate when he had said that not many became great in the field of Potions.

There were a few talented children in the class; certainly not Potter, for all his acclaimed status. Five years, he had been teaching the boy, and he had not shown even a hint of the qualities that Snape was seeking in a student. Granger, of course, was 'good'; however, she lacked the instinct required to be truly great. All her knowledge lay within books.

But the Malfoy boy, he was different; he did not even listen in classes, his grades were unsatisfactory, yet he had the basic instinct for it - just how much to add, how much to take away, the graceful stirring method and accurate cutting. The grace granted to him by birth was more than evident, once you got past that boorish, imbecilic attitude implanted by his father. Yet, he still was not good enough. He lacked determination, the will to succeed; as he did not need to. His family's money ensured that.

Severus Snape was unconcerned by the fact that there was no-one he saw as having true potential within the class; it had been the same since he had begun teaching, years ago. He knew exactly why: there were none that even had a shadow of his own potential.

He didn't see that as arrogance, but a statement of simple fact. But looking for a shadow of yourself is always hard to find, because it is unreachable; and when you reach to touch it, there is never anything there but darkness.

But he would keep looking for his shadow; and one day, he would find it somewhere which was not deep within himself. Yet, for now there was only waiting.

Severus Snape was a very patient man.

Meme drabble for azure15

Tue, 04 Oct 2005 19:00:08 GMT

Nine Point Five

Sometimes, one moment can stretch to an eternity. Two presences, within the same mind; one ascending, the other descending. It is as if consciousness was water, and Nine could see his new self arising from the deep recesses of his unconscious mind; younger, more handsome, floppy hair and cheeky grin. Oh, Rose will like this one then.

He paused as the other passed; of course, they were part of the same item, so the other stopped, too. Yin and Yang, they would call it; one falls into darkness, as the other rises to light. He and Eight had done it in the past, but he had been rising to glory, not falling in this unique form of disgrace.

All he could say to the other, as they paused, was depreciating: "Well, look at you. I'm going to spend part of my life looking like a New Age indie rocker."

The new self laughed; Ten, Nine supposed. The tenth life; double figures at last. Not much more time to go; three more lives after this one, three more selves. Not that it mattered to him, anymore.

"It's not your life, anymore." Ten told him, simply; a curiosity, a warmth in his eyes as he moved closer; "We could almost be two, but only for now; soon, you will be gone, and I'll be alone."

The Ninth Doctor laughed, now; he laughed, and laughed, and did not stop until their lips were touching and his hands had found the other's shoulders. It was like kissing Jack, but there was none of that fragile humanity there; eternity lingers in the sombre gaze that greets him as he pulls away.

"You're never alone." He answered, and gave one, final smile. "We're always about, somewhere. You just have to look." Another laugh; this time, of the bitter sort. "I never looked hard enough."

With that, he was gone; closing his eyes against the stream of life, and the absence of light.

It's time to go home.