pike trickfoot in full armour, walking through the halls of the whitestone palace once vox machina comes back from a mission without her, shouting, “i ain’t got no sleep cause y’all, y’all gon’ get no sleep cause of me”
The silence between them is deafening, interrupted only by the hum of the traffic outside, and the soft click-clunk of the plastic cups Rosie is playing with on the floor beside them. It is the first time they have been alone together, since Sherlock’s birthday. It’s only been two days, but it feels huge, important, like there is a precarious bridge stretched out before them both that they need to at least attempt to traverse.
In Ancient Rome, Centurion John is hired to act as personal, round-the-clock bodyguard for the mad emperor’s hedonistic, philosopher brother (that would be Sherlock). Sparks fly, John peers through a partly-open door, arrows fly, and Sherlock learns the very apt name given to John’s 22-inch sword.
No, his *actual* sword. He’s a Roman solider, remember. What you were thinking would be…just, no.
It’s been thirteen months since Mary shot Sherlock and John finds he’s still pissed off about it. Sherlock had thought everything was settled: John and Mary, domestic bliss. But when John turns up at Baker Street with suitcases, the world’s only consulting detective might not be prepared for the consequences. A new case. Some old scores to settle. Certain danger. Concertos, waltzes, and whisky.
What would have happened if Sherlock had returned a few months, a few days earlier? What if it had been nothing but a few hours? What if he and John had been alone? Things could have been so different…
Our Reinhardt was upset. Crabby. I asked what his problem was.
So he says, after some hemming and hawing, “Man, my girl’s coming back today and I’m not ready!”
So I said: “Okay, dudes, let’s solve it up.” Did he have the place clean? He did.
I suggested he bake cookies and have them finishing up when she arrives. She’d enter the place and it would smell great, welcoming.
Tracer said “that’s TIGHT! Cookies! TIGHT!”
Soldier 76 spoke up. "Cookies. Good shit good shit. Know what else? Candles. Candles, man.“
Candles, according to all, were both Tight and Good Shit. Everyone had solid ideas. Reinhardt felt better and thanked us.
Then there was the clicking and clunking noise of someone urgently plugging in his headset. Zenyatta said: "Bath bomb! Bath bomb!”
There was a collective silence, then “TIGHT! GOOD SHIT GOOD SHIT GOOD SHIT!”
The scenario was like this: She enters the place. She smells the cookies and sees the candles (not too many, because then it looks like a horror movie).He will have purchased her favorite dinner (barbecue, it turns out) and have it waiting on the table, buffet style.
And then she will want to clean up, and the bathroom (maximum candle density) will have a robe and bath bombs. With the following effects:
“She’ll have to get naked! TOTALLY naked!”
“She’ll love it cause chicks dig that shit and travel sucks!”
I don’t know if any of it helped. But I haven’t seen that guy log on in a while.
When Jared calls up a fan for his Represent campaign, the voice on the other end sounds oddly familiar. Gen, PG-13, 2000 words. Contains swearing! Discussion of depression and suicide.
Inspired by thisand this. I don’t know what you call this genre: angsty crack. Crangst?
“Goodnight, baby,” Jared says. “Goodnight Shep, goodnight, Tom.” They wave at him, his little family, and he keeps waving until Gen leans forward and shuts off the video chat. He sighs. There might be all kinds of reasons to base themselves in Austin, but sometimes it can feel lonely up in Vancouver, knowing that they’re all giggling away together down South.
Still. It’s not like he’s short of people to talk to. There are how many hundred thousand out there online?
He switches tabs, glances at Twitter, rolls his eyes and smirks at Misha’s latest post. On a whim, he replies to a fan who has tagged him in a message about feeling discouraged at school. Her exclamation-peppered response makes him laugh. Then he checks his email. There’s another message from Jenny at Represent: they’ve hit 30,000 shirts. This is nuts, Jared thinks, shaking his head. Who’d’a thought thirty thousand people would wanna wear his big dumb face on their chests? Not that that’s the point, obviously. It’s about the cause. But the thing has certainly taken on a bigger scale than he’d ever anticipated.
For @tlynnwords after this post. It may be 1.30am but this had to get written! Because Granny ships it big time!
She knew she shouldn’t be looking. It was a private moment - true love in action, but they stood right outside her diner windows. How could she not see them?
Running her cloth along the nearest table, she sighed as the Captain wrapped his arms around his love, lifting her off the ground as they kissed passionately, finally enjoying a quiet moment that they so rightly deserved.
Her family - their family - were all here, the traditional gathering to celebrate them all being home and safe, at least for now, well underway even without the guest of honour. A rumble of relieved chatter filled the air, quiet laughter and the clinking of glasses the soundtrack of yet another happy moment.
And if the smiles on the faces of the princess and her pirate as they pulled away from each other were anything to go by, the hope for the future clearly written in each of their eyes, she suspected they would be celebrating another happy moment before too long.
Perhaps this time they could get through a celebration without an interruption…
She was instantly on alert. Her eyes darted around the room, scanning the familiar faces hastily before realising the one she sought was not among their number.
He never was.
Peering past the couple, still wrapped around each other in the courtyard, she scoured the surrounding streets for any sign of him. Not today. Not on her watch would another celebration be marred by his foghorn of a voice and his human - well, dwarf - emergency management system.
The barred windows on the nearby bank building provided the inspiration.
He had barely raised an argument when she called, the urgency of him coming to the back door clear in her voice as she begged him for help in some hastily explained crisis.
His breath came in pants when he reached the diner, his eagerness to not miss a single incident in town working right into her hands.
“It’s in here,” she said, panic in her voice as she played her part, ushering him towards the cage she had lovingly constructed for Ruby, the haven to keep her granddaughter safe now protecting the celebration so needed by this town. “Down in the corner there. Some kind of magical… thing.”
The door closed with a satisfying clunk, locks clicking into place as Leroy turned sharply to face her.
“Hey, what do you think you are doing?” he shouted, lunging at the door to no avail. “What’s with the cage?”
She eyed him witheringly, her voice low and steady as it hissed through her teeth. The urge to growl was strong as she stared and he backed away, taking a few steps into the dark. “Those people out there,” she started, eyes flashing to the door to the dining room, Killian and Emma’s faces shining among their family and friends, “have just come back from hell. I’ll be damned if I let you turn this party right back into it. Now sit there and shut up.”
From the counter behind her she grabbed a bowl of chili and a beer, sliding them through the bars. He narrowed his eyes at her but took them, looking for all the world like he had something to say, but clearly thought better of it.
She raised a warning finger. “Not a sound,” she said fiercely, before turning towards the celebration.
Can I request a ficlet where TLG walks in on M/S having sex? Happy frisky friday everyone!
They have bags of food from Jimmy’s; Greek salads and meatball subs, cheesesteaks and chicken Parmesan. There’s a box of cannoli and almond macaroons, a pint of Spumoni for the birthday girl.
Byers heads the procession down her hall, an ambassador of good taste. Langley, gawky and squinting, brings up the rear like a paranoid ostrich. Frohike strides between them, carrying the offerings.
Mrs. Scully had, with a sigh, confirmed her daughter planned to spend the evening at home. Messages were left for Mulder and they assumed he would join them, because where else had Mulder to go?
Byers raps shave and a haircut on the door, waiting for a reply, but there is none. He knocks again, harder, as Scully is oft times known to lose herself in JAMA of an evening. Mulder had once found her conked out over The American Journal of Forensic Medicine and Pathology, a highlighter leaving lurid green marks on her pale cheek.
But no matter, Frohike assures them, stepping forth. He brandishes Scully’s keys like a wise dwarf with a long held talisman.
“Sweet,” Langley says, as Frohike unlocks the door. The deadbolt clunks, the doorknob clicks. Gears are turning inside the portal. The door swings open and Scully is not visible, is not curled on her couch with wine and wisdom at her pretty fingertips.
They peer at one another, unsure.
Inside, then, to her tidy soft rooms that smell of laundry and toiletries. There is no scent of toner, no twinge of burnt wires and solder. Langley sniffs, considering. “Tea tree oil,” he pronounces. “Rosemary.”
Byers steps forward, taking the bags from Frohike as he does. He sets them on the table, scanning about. Scully’s shoes are on the floor, her keys on the hook. She is home, then. Resting, perhaps. Showering.They’ll wait, it is agreed. Surprise her with this feast.
Frohike, looking put out, looking small and crabby, withdraws his phone. He punches Mulder’s home number in, mistrustful of the FBI issued cell. It rings for a long time, then goes to voicemail. Frohike jams the phone back into his pocket in disgust.
“Scully?” he calls, peering into the kitchen. Silence there. He prowls down the hall, calling her name. He does not wish to startle her emerging Venus-like from the shower, waking rosy from a nap.
Noises in the bedroom, voices, the rustle of linens and hasty dressing. He understands then, a crooked Grinchy grin showing his teeth.