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31 January 2010 @ 10:55 am
January Drabble Dump  
Will fix any mucked-up HTML shortly.

Heroes

Sick

"I just want you to know," Peter said, wringing out the warm washcloth and laying it over Sylar's forehead, "that I'm not here for you."

Sylar's gaze was unsteady. His eyes kept wandering, as though Peter's image was floating here and there. "Course you're not," he mumbled. "You still think your... big brother's in here somewhere."

Peter looked down at him. With the washcloth trailing droplets of water down his already-clammy forehead, bundled up in blankets and shivering along with his fever, Sylar looked less like a killer than Peter had ever seen him. "No," he said. "I've given up that ghost. I just..."

"What?" Sylar's eyelids had drifted closed. A shudder wracked him, and he clutched his fists into the blankets, pulling them tighter. "Can't let me suffer alone?" The pointed tone that would cut Peter to the quick any other day had fallen into near-incoherence with the illness. "Too good of a guy, Peter. 'S you."

"Maybe it is." Peter gave him a soft smile. "Maybe I just want you to know just how different we really are."

"We're..." Sylar rolled into the pillow, nearly displacing the cloth. "not different."

"And how do you figure that?"

"We both have... high opinions of ourselves. Sylar said, then groaned as his muscles complained.

"Actually," Peter said, "that's not the reason I'm here, either."

Sylar sneezed loudly, sniffled, and looked up at him with suddenly sharp, pointed eyes. "Then what is?"

He met a gaze just as pointed. "Do you remember whose power I'd taken when we last fought?" Peter said. He leaned down to brush his lips across the shell of Sylar's ear. Sylar shivered at the contact.

"Why do you think you were able to get sick?" Peter whispered.

Sylar's eyes widened.

"You're right," Peter said, "we're not so different. We both like to watch our enemies suffer."



Supernatural

Captured

They said he was a genius behind the camera, and Dean Winchester was finding out that he was a tyrant, too. Every other minute it was another command in the same  flat voice. "Turn this way. Eyes up. Chin forward. No, the other way. I like that. I don't like that. There. Now. No, it's gone again." He would have sounded like a drone, or a robot or something, if the words didn't come out with such razorlike edges, each one cutting into Dean's skin with a sour sting.

Could he do nothing right? Dean was great at the couture shots, the edgy sort of editorial photography Castiel was known for. His face was flawless. The outfit was worth a few thousand dollars. The lighting was perfect. What was this guy trying to get out of him that he wasn't already giving?

"Take five," Castiel said, slamming the heavy camera down on a nearby table and switching it in his hands with a water bottle. He stalked away from the set looking intensely displeased.

Dean went after him. "Maybe if you told me more about what you're looking for," he said, trying to sound respectful, "maybe I can pull it out for you."

Castiel turned on him with blazing eyes. "I don't have to explain myself to you," he declared.  A snarl curled his lip.

Dean flipped his hands up at the elbow. "OK, man, I didn't mean it that way, I just thought I can help."

"I'm beginning to wonder," Castiel murmured, "if you really can."

"Well, that's why I'm saying. Talk to me."

Another flash of dark eyes. Rage lit Dean's insides. "Look, man, you might think all us models are dumbasses who can't hold a conversation, but if you're going to lord it over me like you're some sort of gift from God, then I'm never going to be able to live up to your expectations."

Castiel scowled at him. "You're mocking me," he said.

"Is that what you say to anyone who tries to help you? Grow a heart, man!"

Castiel recoiled, and he turned away and stalked off.

"Fucking hell!" Dean picked up a magazine littering the table and threw it halfway across the room. The hairdressers began to titter on the side of the set. Dean shot them a nasty look and they fell silent.

They started up again after five minutes, and things went no better. Castiel kept growling in frustration, turning to mop his brow, adjusting his shirtsleeves and calling in wardrobe to switch out the tie Dean was wearing. With a final grunt, he leaned heavily on the table, his head hanging and the camera swinging on the long cord around his neck. Dean was a little afraid it'd weigh him down to the floor.

He approached gingerly. "Look. Just give me a try, man. We're in this together. I know if we talk we can pull it out."

Castiel looked up at him. His eyes were still steel-hard, and a frown darkened his expression. "I can't," he said.

Not we can't. I can't.

That struck Dean sideways, and he folded his arms over his chest. "What do you mean, you can't? You're the legend. You can pull anything off behind a camera."

"Except capturing you," Castiel said mournfully, and that's when Dean got it, really got it. He wasn't looking down on Dean; he was doubting his own prowess. But why?

The dark-haired photographer looked up as though he'd heard Dean's unspoken question. "I thought I could shoot you," he said quietly. "From the photos I've seen I thought you'd be perfect. I didn't expect..."

"What?" Dean put a hand gingerly on Castiel's arm. "What didn't you expect?"

"I didn't expect," Castiel said, "for you to be this perfect."

Dean's mind reeled. "What?"

"I can't capture it," Castiel whispered. "In person, you're... you're more than I thought, and I just can't seem to make it come through in the camera. It'd never do you justice. I could take a million photos and I'd never capture what I see here right before my eyes. You're--"

Dean's eyes were soft. He let a half-smile light his face, and gently, he stroked his fingers down the length of Castiel's arm.

A shiver wracked the wiry frame. Nervous eyes met his.

"I don't know," Dean said, his voice a low note. "I think you've got me pretty well captured right now."



Birthday Cake

Castiel doesn't follow the human calendar. It means nothing to him. Weeks and days and months are nothing but artificial constructions meant to give pattern to the eternity of time through which humans ride, helpless to slow or stop or recall. It's not something he takes a terrible lot of notice of.

So he asks Sam, one day, why Dean's been talking about his birthday coming up. Sam chuckles, throws a stone into the pond beside which the Impala is parked, and says to him, "It's a special day, Cas. It's sort of a chance for your friends and family to say to you, we're glad you're here."

Castiel looks pensive, trying to muddle it out. "Why can't you say that any day?"

"Well, you can. But sometimes it's hard to, you know? So birthdays kind of give you a good excuse." He laughs, nervously, and then touches Castiel's shoulder. "You should give him a birthday cake," he says with a twitch of a smile. "Dean'd like that."

"I thought Dean preferred pie to cake." This brings another bubbling laugh to the surface.

In the end, yes, he does bring a cake. Store-bought, with dollops of brightly colored frosting and the word Birthday misspelled in yellow loops. But Dean takes one look at the open door, the proffered cake, and bursts into a big grin. "Seriously?" he says.

"Should I not have?" Castiel cocks his head to the side.

"No, no, it's not that, but... why? I mean, why you? I thought Sam would..."

"Because I'm glad you're here."

The smile slides off Dean's face. For an instant, emotion hovers there that Castiel doesn't recognize. He fears he may have said something very wrong.

"That's nice of you to say, man." Dean's jaw is trembling a little. "I don't... I don't know quite how to answer that."

Castiel finds himself starting to smile. "I don't think you have to."

Dean looks at him, then down at the cake. He scratches his head. "You're beyond me, dude," he says, grinning ruefully. "So. You hungry?"




The Blue Room

At first, Dean thinks he's back in the green room. There's the same ugly-bordering-on-obscene mural on the wall, the same opulent gold leaf on the doorways and  the same marble columns. Hell, there's even the same plate of hamburgers. Has Gabriel taken them back in time? Because Dean really doesn't want to deal with that assface Zachariah again. He really isn't in the mood.

Then he looks down and sees he's wearing a bathrobe. No, a smoking jacket, a real Hugh Hefner type of deal.

And if that isn't enough, Castiel's voice is behind him, saying his name. Dean turns.

There definitely didn't used to be a bed there. And it definitely didn't rotate, or have disco lights on it, or Barry White music pumping in. And certainly, absolutely, there was no naked angel waiting on black sheets, a heart-shaped pillow keeping his naughty bits from public consumption, looking absolutely terrified.

Dean takes a moment to be horrified, and then he chuckles. "Oh, that's what he's up to. Gabriel, you perv."

"I don't understand," says naked Castiel, and yeah, he sure as hell doesn't. The blankness in his eyes would be funny if he didn't look so damn desperate. "What does this mean?"

Dean's lips twitch. "It means your big brother's got the wrong idea." He turns and grabs a hamburger from the plate, trying to ignore the unsettling sense that maybe Gabriel has the right idea after all.



Afternoon Sun

They hadn't gotten up this morning. They'd just rolled over and gone back to sleep, woken up, went to the bathroom, came right back to bed. The fight from last night was still burned into their bones.

Sam's hands on his aching muscles felt divine. Dean had groaned, and the groan had done something to Sam, caused him to pull Dean over, look at him, brush a too-long stretch of hair back from his face. They'd melted into each other like snowdrifts into the street on a sunny day.

Sam's hair had tinted gold-yellow under the sun. Dean had watched a bead of sweat dangle at the tip of his chin for an endless moment before spilling onto Dean's lips. His jaw tasted of dried blood and stubble, and when he pushed hard against the rock of unforgiving muscle Dean shouted and shuddered. They were solid and liquid, themselves and each other, with the sunlight blessing them and the silence of a dusty bedroom and a small town obscuring their tracks. Nobody ever knew or had to know. They knew, and that was enough.

Lazy, spent and contented, Dean watched the golden sunlight pour thick as syrup into the room. Normal as you please. As though nobody could ever fault them for their secret time together, how desperately they knew and needed each other in every way. All in the pure light of afternoon. All normal. All good.




Sanctuary

It was something an angel said in passing, perhaps, or maybe it was a demon who mentioned that when the old year passed into the new, there were a few minutes of sanctuary -- a no man's land of time, where sin and virtue ceased to be.

So Sam (so fearful of the demon inside him) whispered, "Meet me at midnight," and Dean (so tortured by the righteousness he dared not trust) nodded silently.

And now here at midnight they're locked in an embrace that time and God forgot, touching skin they mustn't remember and sharing words they'll forget far too soon, having finally found a time and place where they belong.





Torchwood/Firefly
Spicy Chicken

When the man walked in, all of Mal's red flags went up. The way he walked, the long stride and the upturned chin, made him think Alliance, authority, danger. But his eyes simultaneously had the cool gaze of a man who'd been everywhere before and the eager wideness of someone who'd never set foot off his own home planet. And that made Mal think he was one of his kind.

"Now this," said the man, his voice broad as his shoulders, "looks like the sort of place that serves damn good buffalo wings."

Mal snickered, and the man's eyes darted to him immediately. "Sorry, friend," Mal said, "no hard feelings, just... buffalo wings? Really? This look like Old American Cafe Royal to you?"

"And what's wrong with buffalo wings?" The man approached Mal's table. "I like a good dose of spicy chicken once in a while."

"Oh, if it's spicy chicken you're after, this is the place to go, no doubt." Mal stretched out his hand to offer the stranger a chair. "But they ain't buffalo wings, I can assure you of that."

"Oh?" The man sat, his coat billowing around him. "Captain Jack Harkness," he said, grabbing Mal's hand before he could withdraw it.

"Oh, a fellow captain." Mal grinned broadly. "And fellow fan of spicy chicken."

"Spicy, spicy chicken," Jack said, and gave Mal a once-over that made him feel a little bit molested.

"Right. Hey, waitress!" Mal spit out a few indecipherable syllables at a serving girl in a pretty, flowered robe, tied tight with a sash. He followed it up with, "Enough for two!"

Jack leaned back, folded his arms over his chest and nodded. His eyes were narrow. "What did you just order?" Mal repeated the syllables at him. "And that's spicy chicken, right?"

Mal's lips twitched. "The spiciest."

Jack reached out, grabbed Mal's jug of ale from his fingers, and stole a swig. "I am liking this place more and more."
 
 
 
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Tiptoe39: i'm the queentiptoe39 on January 31st, 2010 05:25 pm (UTC)
Most of the short stuff is from comment_fic which is one of my favorite places to hang out :-3

I'm working on my Big Bakeshop AU, and also on a fic or two for the newest dean/cas fic exchange. And a couple original-fic ideas. But you can bet I'll have random pornlet and ficlet ideas at regular intervals.

Thank you hon! You make me feel all celebrity and blushy. ^o^ I just bought a notebook computer so I hope it will help me write loads and loads!

EDIT: I do owe you a "not so angelic" fistfight/fuck fic don't I? I should work on that today. that might be a fun onefer.

Edited at 2010-01-31 05:28 pm (UTC)
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Tiptoe39tiptoe39 on January 31st, 2010 09:11 pm (UTC)
WRITING IT TODAY. Although it's going in a weird direction. I might have to whip it into porn shape.
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Tiptoe39: squeetiptoe39 on February 3rd, 2010 02:42 am (UTC)
You have no idea how much it makes me happy that someone is actually reading all my old drabbles. It just makes me squee. :D :D :D :D :D :D I'm so glad you are enjoying them.

*has warm and fuzzy feeling... heads out into freezing snow.*
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Tiptoe39: dean winkstiptoe39 on February 3rd, 2010 02:46 am (UTC)
dawwwwwwwwwww. :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D
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Tiptoe39: Cas smilestiptoe39 on February 3rd, 2010 04:15 am (UTC)
Oh, honey, I *know.* Wait till you see how much fricking good fic is out there. It's like a cornucopia of delicious riches. :D