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30 June 2009 @ 03:07 pm
June 2009 drabble dump (non-adult)  
Walls (Nightwing/Huntress, PG)

They're atop a brick building looking over the rim of a canyon of concrete walls. Ever-shrinking windows tumble downward to the chasm and chaos of the street. "What am I supposed to do?" she's saying to him. "How am I supposed to operate when he lets me know at every turn that he owns this city and everyone who dares to protect it?"

"I do know that you can't let a desire to gain his approval run your life," he says.

Helena bristles. "What would you know about it? You actually are part of the family."

Nightwing walks over, joins her side by side at the rim of the canyon. "And it doesn't help one bit."


"It doesn't," he insists. "You think I'd be telling you this if it were some sort of Brady Bunch scenario inside that cave?"

The idea strikes her funny, and her lips quirk. He looks straight at her. His eyes have the same hardness as his mentor's, but there's a warmth there she doesn't expect.

"He is not any more forgiving of the rest of us," he says, and his tone is low and patient. "The wall he's put up with you isn't the only one. He's got thousands of walls. It's not to keep us out. It's to keep himself in."

She has the feeling he's talking sense, but it's part of her act to stay hostile. "What the hell do you mean?"

He shrugs. "I mean that for a guy who defines heroism, he's scared to death of danger. He doesn't want to let himself care about us." He pauses, blinks at her meaningfully. "Which, of course, means he does."

She sits on the rooftop, lets her feet dangle out over nothing. "Sounds like you have things all figured out."

The comment is angled up at him, but he's already sitting beside her. "If I did, would I be out here sulking with you?"

He's taken her hand.

She grumbles, but she can't maintain the facade. "You have a point."

And for what feels like the first time in ages, if not forever, they share a smile.

Helena's heart goes to a furious beat as she sees the eyes behind the mask soften. It's so strange, when this happens. When two creatures who are hiding seem to find each other within the shadows.

Kissing him is like kissing a shadow, but it's one that's warm, and she wonders briefly if someday she'll be able to meet the man beneath it.

But Helena has her own walls built up, and they are to keep people out.

Monica Dawson/Peter Bishop, PG
"I don't know when it started," Monica had told them, feeling like a fool. "I don't even have to think about it. I just move. If you wanted me to teach you, I couldn't give you instructions, but I can do it."

"Do what?" Olivia had asked.

Monica looked at her, jaw set. "Anything."


"Perhaps a parasite," Walter theorized. "A creature that feeds on brainwaves, acting as a sort of leech. Sitting on her brain, pulsing with the electromagnetic signature of others' knowledge. Its tentacles plugged into her muscle memory centers."

"Walter, don't talk like that," Peter said. "Or at least wait until 1 a.m. when I'm the only one who'll be nauseous."

"It's cool," said Monica. "If I've got some sort of leech, it's better I know about it now, right? Ow!" she added as Walter decided it was high time he take some more of her blood, not bothering to give her any warning on the subject.

"Walter!" Peter roared.

"I was testing to see if her pain receptors adjust to the experience of a sensation!" Walter declared defensively. Peter snapped back at him that he'd show Walter's pain receptors a thing or two, and Monica sat there giggling as the two of them had something resembling a screaming fight.


Peter walked her to the door still apologizing for his father's behavior.

"You two really care about each other," Monica said gently. "It shows."

"He's a pain," Peter said begrudgingly.

"Be good to him," she said, crossing her arms.

"I will, I will," he promised.

She smirked and put her hand on the doorknob, then turned and stood on her tiptoes to kiss Peter on the mouth, a little too hard. "I mean it," she said.

Peter put up his hands in surrender. "I can't refuse a request like that," he said helplessly.

"That's what I figured," she chirped cheerfully, and was out the door.

Jim Kirk/Peter Petrelli, PG-13

Sometimes he teleports into the middle of a field somewhere in the heartland, some time in the future or the past, just to see what he'll find. He talks to someone or just watches life go by. Here in the middle of cornfields and crossroads, it's always the same, no matter what time period. Like a holding pattern, nothing moves, except that every so often someone zips by at light speed, trying desperately to break out of the gravity of normality. Peter knows how it feels.

He meets Jim at a local bar, and they end up kicking back beers on the front steps of a closed-for-the-night general store at two a.m. Jim is drunk. Peter's just tired. They talk about expectations and a life less ordinary. Peter says his brother's a politician, and Jim scoffs. Jim talks about overprotective mothers, and Peter nods. Living up to the people who've come before you is never an easy thing to do.

"How do you tell them that what you want isn't what they want for you?" Peter says.

"You gotta let that go," Jim says. "You see something you want, you gotta reach out and take it."

"Even if it might get you punched in the jaw?"

"Even if it might get you killed, man."

"If you say so." And Peter leans forward and kisses him.

Jim's mouth is open and wet, and the taste and scent of beer floods Peter's sinuses. He hears himself moan, small and weak, overwhelmed. "Go ahead," he says when he breaks away, wincing and bracing himself for the inevitable impact.

"I'm not gonna punch you in the jaw for that," Jim says. His voice is oddly muted.

Peter realizes then that Jim's hand is on his shoulder.

Come daybreak, Jim wakes in the middle of a cornfield, half-naked and alone. He looks up, calls Peter's name, then sighs and reaches for his clothes. Walks to the edge of the field, gets on his bike, and speeds away, off to go on with his life. There's nothing else left to do, really. Peter knows how that feels, too.

Supernatural: Bobby POV
Now. I don't like to be one to spread rumors. Person like that don't get too far in the circles we run in, y'know? One thing y'gotta know in this trade is how to keep a secret. And that's the thing with those boys, just like their daddy, they know how to keep things on the down low. Good on them. Makes 'em better hunters. Best in the business right now, if you ask me.

It's just that you gotta wonder, you know what I mean? Sharing a bed over the years when the cash flow's short, sleepin' in the car, day in and day out together. So much time on the road. It'd make a man awful lonely, but they never seem lonely to me. Always focused. Sometimes dumber than pikes, but always focused.

Isn't that what they say about guys in the military? Like, what was the name of it, Sparta?

Now I'm not judgin' either. Lord knows I've done enough in my time that I'm ashamed of to be judging someone else on what they do to keep their eye on the ball. Ahem. To, uh, coin a phrase.

All I'm saying is, I wonder. Don't you ever wonder?

Torchwood high school AU, PG

The first day of high school, Gwen Cooper got shoved into a locker.

She'd barely seen the face of the boy who'd done it, but it was sharp and angular and altogether mean-looking. She screamed and shouted until finally the janitor came to break the lock and she was dragged to the principal's office to explain everything.

"Principal Jack Harkness," she read on the door, arching an eyebrow. It was an impressive name, but the door was locked and the light out inside. She worried about the Torchwood Academy, that its principal was nowhere to be found.

A slight Asian girl with a ponytail and dark-rimmed glasses wandered by in the hallway, her nose in her cellphone. At the sight of Gwen sitting outside, looking forlorn, she stopped and squinted at her. "You're the new girl," she said flatly. "Gwen."

"H-how did you know my--"

"You got shoved in a locker, didn't you?" The Asian girl spoke crisply, clinically.

"Who-- who--"

"It was Owen Harper," the girl explained. "He's the school bully. It means he thinks you're cute."

"WHAT?" Gwen's shriek reached fever pitch. Somewhere in a science classroom, an answering squawk came from a parrot that sounded more like a pterodactyl.

"I'm Toshiko Sato," the mousy-looking girl. "You can call me Tosh. I know all about Owen."

"Has he shoved you in a locker too, then?" Gwen asked.

Tosh looked a little sad. "No," she said forlornly, "he never did it to me."

Just then, a booming voice sounded down the hall. "Tosh! Don't tell me you're in trouble again!"

"You know I don't get in trouble, Principal," Tosh answered, tossing her head, and Gwen looked over at the new arrival.

"Oh, gosh," she said, fidgeting and biting her lip. She leaned over and whispered in Tosh's ear. "That's the principal? He's so cute!"

Tosh laughed. "Don't get too excited. I once saw him in a supply closet with Mr. Jones. And I mean like that."

Down the hall, the janitor looked up briefly, checked his pocket watch, and, nodding and smiling a trifle wickedly at the principal, went on his way.
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