(no subject)

[nny]

Stealing from fahye because damn, it's a pretty meme.

Reply with an icon, and I'll write you a ficlet about it.


And I will respond to them as soon as I've written Mizners for Ji. (No, I didn't forget).

Comments

[tropes.livejournal.com]

Tee hee.

[villainny.livejournal.com]

This is, like, the hardest icon to fic ever, damn you.



*

Roles.

That was what it was about.

'cos you've got your mother and your father, but that's just lacking imagination. They can't cover all the bases. Dude and Kathleen did well enough, sure, but that was just him and now there's a whole barbershop quartet of them.

(Bernard gets distracted, for a moment, picturing forcing them to confess to their crimes in four part harmony. 'Dora raises an eyebrow at the grin on his face.)

Now Ted and Andromeda, Dude and Kathleen cover them all. Take over, occasionally, when the rest of the family need a time out. They're on the proverbial bench, ready to step in at a moment's notice. But the heart of the family is this:

Aziraphael and Crowley are sat on the sofa together. The tight set to the angel's lips and Crowley's folded arms say that maybe they're having a set to, but they're unconsciously oriented just a little towards each other; it won't last long. Never does.

The kids go to Aziraphael for counsel, Crowley for collusion. 'Dora tends to get the confessions, ('cos Bernard tends to have problems keeping a straight face, and sometimes has to be forcibly restrained from encouragement) and Bernard handles the new and inventive ways of making 'em sorry. They've got their bases covered.

And then there's the times when it's Bernard Sunny turns to, to counsel her. Sometimes it's 'Dora with a secretive grin on her face and Crowley that wheedles a confession out of Jake, and sometimes the angel's quiet disapproval is a thousand times more effective than any number of hours spent washing glasses in the bar.

They're a team. They work together.

That's family.

[tropes.livejournal.com]

I just re-found this.

It's like a snapshot, for me now, frozen in time, and perfect.

Love you.

[unravels.livejournal.com]

You know it had to happen. XD

[villainny.livejournal.com]

It's raining, and he can deal with that.

Grey days like this are best. When the clouds are heavy and the sky touches the ground and you can walk in it, like there's nothing even wrong. Days like this are the best, when there's no one in the park but him and a couple of bedraggled birds, when there's no one thinking and doing and wanting what they shouldn't.

It's raining, and he can deal with that. His coat has seen worse, and he never catches cold. It's dark enough that the trees look black and orange lamplight dances in ripples in puddles and there's no danger of silver. This is his world, now, and he can deal with that.

He sits on a bench and stretches his arms along the back of it, tilting his head back to feel the rain on his face. And he relaxes enough that it takes a minute or two to notice that the rain's not even falling, any more. And it takes a little while longer to register the gentle patter of raindrops on an umbrella and the presence of someone to his left, someone familiar enough that he smiles even before opening his eyes, and smiles even wider when, loooking up at the umbrella, he sees the inverted scrabble tile pattern through the thin nylon.

Aziraphael's watching his face, when he turns his head. Smiling, slightly.

"This isn't exactly your turf." His voice is a little scratchy with disuse.

"Not exactly, no. You weren't in the bar for a while. I worried."

"You... worried?"

Aziraphael rolls his eyes, and scoots a little closer, making sure the umbrella fully covers the both of them.

"You really are," the other angel informs him solemnly, "a most enormous twit."

Raguel shakes his head, and grins.

He can deal with that.

[unravels.livejournal.com]

*MELTS*

Seriously, I am much more comfortable right down here in liquid form. I don't know how you manage to do that so subtly. And Raguel would totally sit in the rain just because it's raining. I love all the little touches you put in to explain why. And the Scrabble umbrella!!!!

Heee, I am grinning like a lunatic. Thank you so much, this made my rainy Saturday. :D

♥

[flyakate]

*innocent face*

[villainny.livejournal.com]

One two.

Bam bam.

Right left.

And Fraser's big blue eyes staring at him past the bag he's holding like he's trying to figure Ray out, like there's gonna be some prize at the end of it if the problem gets solved; pat on the back from Welsh and free dry cleaning for a year, maybe. Only there won't be 'cos there's no problem, here. There's no case to be solved outside of Ray's fucked up head and the part where he forgot he was supposed to stop counting.

He was never a one before there was a two, is the thing. He was just Stanley Raymond Kowalski, son and brother and it was Ray who was one... or maybe Stella was one, maybe that was it. 'cos Ray never existed before Stella looked at him with those beautiful blue eyes of hers...

"Ray?"

"Not now, Fraser."

He shakes out his arms, gets back to pounding. Quick jab with the right and the weight's behind the left, like maybe he can hit the bag hard enough to knock some sense into a kid, twenty years ago, who created a whole new personality so he could be number two.

Bam bam.

He's dancing now, weaving like the bag's gonna go someplace only the rhythm's off.

It was a waltz they danced at their wedding, first dance and suddenly shy even though he knew they were good together, knew it right down to the heart of him, beating triple time -

one two three, one two three

- and -

"What the hell good is a law degree, Stella, if you can't even count to three, huh?"

- and -

"Give it a rest, Ray."

Give it a rest. A beat of silence, and it was back to two. Three was never even - he'd thought it was something they'd wanted, but it turned out Stella always knew what she wanted, all along. And it wasn't a family, it wasn't kids. Hell, it wasn't even Ray and the rests kept right on coming until it was more pause than music. You couldn't dance to it, that was for damned sure.

And how the hell can you be number two if there's no number one, huh?

So maybe he was back to Ray. So maybe he'd been back to Ray until he'd started noticing how Fraser smiled, and the way he licked his lip when he was nervous. Until he started noticing the beat. And he wasn't sure he could do this again but how the hell did you learn to stop counting?

Right left.

Bam bam.

One two.

[nepheliad.livejournal.com]

... I'm sorry.

[villainny.livejournal.com]

Mort has seen it all.

He has seen epidemics and plagues, and he has walked behind the cart, and he has rung the bell. He has seen doctors puzzle over first victims and he has seen the careful slices so the incunabulum that describes this new sickness can be bound in some poor sod's skin. He has watched them slice and dice and has known enough that he can whisper a diagnosis (post-mortem) into a doctor's ear.

Mort is tired, now. He's never had the imagination to ask why; likely the answer would be only 'because'. Every year there are the jokes about being 'well preserved', and the replies about living in a refrigerator. They laugh at him, at him not with him, and he nods and smiles politely in return. There's no sense in getting angry with them.

He knows he will be the one to eventually close their eyes.

[agonistes]

*serene*

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

Yours is the first one that came to mind. Um. I'm sorry in advance?

*

Sometimes she rests her hand on her belly and forgets she's supposed to be doin' for the captain, forgets even about Serenity, her best girl. Forgets about anything save the small flutter of life that Simon tells her that science tells him she ain't supposed to feel, yet. Science and sense ain't never been a good match - she didn't learn to fix machines, they just told her what needed fixin'. And same with this - she just knows, is the thing. She knows and she can feel it moving inside her and this right here is happiness.

(bare feet against metal, a dancer's grace. She doesn't sleep. She waits)

"You stand in the shadows of an evil place." A rich dark voice that steals her voice and her breath, her eyes widening. "A beating heart, remember Kaylee? A - " grenade wrapped in dark fingers, held like something precious - "burning heart. You ever read the Bible?"

"N-no." She knows that refusing to answer will only lead to - she knows.

"There's a Bible in your room, little Kaylee. You wouldn't be lying, now?"

A soundless cry.

Simon -

"It's - the angel - "

"You believe in angels?" The back of his finger traces a line down her cheek and a tear spills quickly to wash away the feel of him. "Like a child."

"He said - " her voice is hitching, now, can't control it no more - "he was the angel of God. He said so."

"I hope he smiled when he said it."

(she knows Serenity as well as she knows herself. O my dove that art in the clefts of the rock, in the secret places of the stairs)

"The captain will - "

"He will never catch me. He will burn. And you will burn with him and this - " his hand where hers had rested and she chokes on her denial - "will burn with you, before it even takes a breath. That seem right to you?"

She's crying freely now. His hand leaves her for a second, sliding around to his side and returning in a moment with beauty and death in a design he appreciates. It traces a line past clavicle and sternum, words that ain't never sounded so romantic elsewhere than Simon's mouth, resting for a second on her stomach before it makes its way slowly further downward.

Her hands lift to cover her mouth, to try to hold in her life.

A moment before she would have said she was paralysed, she would have said by fear.

(her hands lift to cover her mouth, to try to hold in words that aren't hers. I will show you fear, she whispers, in a handful of dust)

"We should do the decent thing you think, little Kaylee?"

"Please." It's the only word she remembers. "Please - " and oh, God, Simon.

"Save your breath for the child. No angel. No demon. Just the child."

His hand covers Kaylee's mouth.

(her hand covers Kaylee's mouth, and her brother's wife startles awake, frantic.

O my dove, that art in the clefts of the rock, in the secret places of the stairs, let me see thy countenance, let me hear thy voice; and her hand gentles against Kaylee's lips as she whispers that he's gone, now, he won't be back to hurt her any more.

No touching guns.

And Kaylee's smiling as River brushes away her tears.

"No power in the 'verse right, genius?"

"No power in the 'verse can stop us." And her hand rests on the blankets covering Kaylee's belly, for a moment.

She protects her family).

[agonistes]

...

You made me and Mir squeak. And say "NNY IS A BAD BAD BAD PERSON" a bunch of times. And resolve that Kaylee needs to have hundreds of fat children, one of whom can be named I'm The One That Would Kill Jubal Early If He Wasn't Dead Already.

However. Eeeeeeeeeeeee. :D!

[ashen_key]

None of them can be called Tim, though.

None.

Because that would be BAD.

[genarti]

Nny?

Your brain is a TERRIFYING PLACE.

And I love it. *squees quietly*

[dopplegl.livejournal.com]

I ALMOST used a MUCH different one.

[odditycollector.livejournal.com]

*innocent*

[villainny.livejournal.com]

"Hey George."

George closed the door to his office - not the famous office, 'cos that had too many people. This one was just for him. Just for him and -

"Hey, God."

God scratched his belly through the stained white vest that showed where his robes were gaping. He had a can of ambrosia rice pudding in one hand, and the other cans scattered around his Holy Recliner showed that he was starting earlier every day - not even waiting for the arm to reach the yard arm, these days. It was pretty hard on George - he knew God wasn't that happy with him, he knew he wasn't first choice, but he'd been hoping they were starting to make a go of it.

"I bought you something, George."

His heart lifted. Maybe things weren't so bad as all that.

He opened the new box lying on the table, decorated with a red, white and blue bow, and for an instant he was truly happy. And then he saw what it was. George turned an anguished look on his Lord.

"I thought we were past this."

"Quit your damned bitching, George. I let you run the country, now you do this for me."

"But - "

"NO BUTS. PUT ON THE GODDAMNED BEAR SUIT."




oh God I wrote it on Easter. I'm going to hell.

[odditycollector.livejournal.com]

Ahaha! You are wonderful.

Thank you!

[unravels.livejournal.com]

*DIES*

Can not stop the horrified laughing.

*Joins you in the special hell*

[rimestock.livejournal.com]

I vote for yes, with a new icon.

[villainny.livejournal.com]

It's the little things that swing it.

He'd spent a lot of the previous four weeks convincing himself it was lust. Love at first sight is a crock and Romeo and Juliet is the greatest story of self-delusion ever told and the way he loves watching the concentration on her face as she brushes her hair exactly one hundred times is just an automatic reaction. Biology, survival, all that sort of thing.

Lust doesn't quite explain the way he feels when she collects stones. She brushes sand carefully from each, weighing them in her small square hands, smoothing her thumbs over the surface of them. Shape over colour, function over form; round and flat and perfect for skimming. And then she stands just at the tide line, adjusts her stance to keep the wind and her hair from her face, and completely fails to make the pebble skip. Stone after stone ploughs into the grey water, and he watches the serene resignation on her face and misses lust by a few letters.

And then she lunges at him sideways, cackling, like a homicidal crab, and he winds up neck deep in surf with a mouthful of salt water and a million tiny shells grinding into his palm. He thinks: It's only been four weeks. It can't possibly be love.

And yet.

[rimestock.livejournal.com]

... I reply with another icon.

[copperbadge.livejournal.com]

!

[cluegirl.livejournal.com]

And lo...

[sophistry]

I CAN'T BELIEVE I MADE THIS ICON.

BUT I FEEL IT WILL BE WORTH IT.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

I ADORE YOU YOU UTTERLY EVIL AND ROTTEN AND AMAZING WENCH

[unravels.livejournal.com]

I HAVE NO WORDS.

ONLY <33333333333333333

[unravels.livejournal.com]

...ONLY CRAP HTML.

AND ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

[sophistry]

I FEEL I SHOULD POINT OUT THAT APPLE!RAGUEL IS WEARING THE SAME SHIRT AS REGISTRAR'SOFFICE!CROWLEY.

[unravels.livejournal.com]

...

THEY ARE SHARING CLOTHES??!

[ashen_key]

Yes.

[dopplegl.livejournal.com]

AAL;SKASD;'LASMS;KDFLN!

BEST KEYWORDS EVER!

[shati.livejournal.com]

:D?

[fire-and-a-rose.livejournal.com]

[kleenexwoman.livejournal.com]

!

[skazz.livejournal.com]

La!

[wickedtrue.livejournal.com]

I give you kisses because I luff ya.

[fahye.livejournal.com]

:)

[jezrana.livejournal.com]

*innocent*

[genarti]

Because you don't have enough already. :)

[kenovay.livejournal.com]

?

ooo, decisions..

[midnight-violet.livejournal.com]

... or my default with the wings, whichever strikes you muse. and if your muse strikes you in an "interesting" direction, go to also. half the time i go "oohhh, beeth" in a dissaproving manner im doing it for the effect. you knew that, right?

[maggiebloome.livejournal.com]

Bwa.

[fer-de-lance.livejournal.com]

Please? :D