It starts out innocent, like the way the world is supposed to be, like children, like happiness, like justice.<\/i>
[ending AU]<\/a>, anonymous writer, Charles\/Erik
Prompt: Erik wants Charles by his side, and he doesn't give him the chance to refuse. No non-con, just Erik taking Charles with him despite the other's protests.<\/i>
between rage and serenity<\/a>, by oceansex\/homoerotics, Charles\/Erik
\u201cWhat else did you see?\u201d Erik asks suddenly, and Charles stiffens in his seat.<\/i>
On Killing<\/a>, by anonymous, gen so far
\"Listen to me very carefully, my friend. Killing will not bring you peace.\"<\/i>
The Expression of Emotion in Man and Animals<\/a>, by
Armando blinked, tried to arrange his thoughts. \"What day is it?\" he asked.<\/i>
Response<\/a> (at least I think that's the title?), anonymous writer, Charles\/Erik
fun trope + acknowledging that Charles is kind of a privileged douche = a winner!
adagio<\/a>, anonymous writer, Charles\/Erik, WIP
Prompt: Erik was right after all. The government begins openly persecuting and exterminating the mutants. After Charles loses everything he ever loved, he realises that Erik was right all along and joins him. Bonus points for angry, hurting Charles mindfucking people so sadistically that he scares even Erik sometimes.<\/i>
THIS ONE GETS THE IAMBIC DARKFIC STAMP OF APPROVAL IN ANTICIPATION. Also: incomplete as fuck.
Try, Try Again<\/a>, anonymous writer, Charles\/Erik
\"I dreamed you got shot on a beach,\" he'll say. \"You'll be glad to know it was all in glorious technicolor.\"<\/i>
OH MY GOD THIS IS THE GROUNDHOG DAY FIC TO END ALL GROUNDHOG DAY FIC.
The Stranger at Xenophanes Hall<\/a>, anonymous writer, Charles\/Erik, WIP
IT'S A REGENCY AU AND IT IS FUCKING HILARIOUS AND THAT IS ALL YOU NEED TO KNOW
Snakes and Ladders Are Banned in Here<\/a>, by
![](\"https:\/\/l-stat.livejournal.net\/img\/userinfo_v8.png?v=17080&v=915\")
<\/a>paperclipbitch<\/b><\/a><\/span>, Charles\/ErikSet post movie. They never meet in public; not for fear of getting caught, but because they\u2019re too aware of innocent bystanders.<\/i>
nuclear winter<\/a>, by
<\/a>honey_wheeler<\/b><\/a><\/span>, Charles\/ErikSet after the scene with Charles and Erik playing chess at the mansion. Erik and Charles take a night out among adults. Erik buys Charles a lapdance and watches. Angst and sexual tension and emotional torment are also involved.<\/i>
This is angst of the highest quality, folks. It doesn't get much better than this.
Call Me By His Name<\/a>, by
<\/a>sinuous_curve<\/b><\/a><\/span>, Charles\/ErikThere is an empty space in his room, beside his bed. Not quiet as in an abandoned room, but utterly, featurelessly blank. Like a box made of unblemished, impenetrable metal and Charles knows before he opens his eyes.<\/i>
I can't speak for accuracy but it's wildly in-character and hot and also deals nicely with the fact that Charles can't feel his lower half.
jouissance<\/a>, anonymous writer, Charles\/Erik
\u201cYou could stop this bullet,\u201d Charles said. \u201cIn a moment, in a thought \u2013 but you don't have to. Because I will never shoot you.\u201d <\/i>
Gunplay. Done very, very, very well.
again from the start<\/a>, anonymous writer, Charles\/Erik
In which Charles goes back to WWII and changes the past.
Break<\/a>, by serenity-fails, Alex\/Darwin
In which Darwin miraculously turns up at the Xavier Institute.
MORE TO COME WHEN I FIND IT
<\/a>","comments":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/125719.html?view=comments#comments","category":["fandom: x-men movieverse","fandom: marvel","rec"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/125536.html","pubDate":"Sat, 04 Jun 2011 10:50:15 GMT","title":"FIC: Beauty Is Scalp-Deep","author":"iambickilometer","link":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/125536.html","description":"OF COURSE IT FOLLOWS THAT I FINALLY MANAGE TO WRITE FIC AND IT'S COMPLETE AND UTTER CRACK NONSENSE.
Title:<\/b> Beauty Is Scalp-Deep
Fandom:<\/b> X-Men: First Class
Warnings:<\/b> Complete crack, blatant use of awful tropes, flagrant disregard for Charles Xavier's actual characterisation, and a really lacklustre ending
Summary:<\/b> After a recent and jarring physical change, Charles cannot bear to show himself to the outside world. It's up to Erik to convince him that his new appearance is not the curse that it seems at first to be.
\"It's really good to have you back,\" Ororo says for the eleventh time as they climb the stairs. \"Everything else aside, no one can handle the Professor like you can.\"
\"True,\" Erik replies. He unlocks the door to Charles' room with a wave of his hand as they reach the landing. \"If you'll leave me to it?\"
Ororo glances once at the door, then back at him, and then nods gratefully. \"Good luck,\" she says, and doesn't even seem to mean it facetiously. Then she turns and descends the stairs, about as quickly as she possibly could without running. It's a good thing she's here to help run the institute. In a world of ignorance and human weakness, it can be hard to find good help.
\"What have you become since last we met?\" Erik murmurs to himself, quietly enough, but apparently Charles is at least paying attention to the world around him.
Don't come in here,<\/i> he says, somewhere in Erik's head.
\"You're being unreasonable,\" Erik says. He doesn't have to speak aloud, of course, but he's going to damn well do it anyway. \"The running of your school doesn't end because you won't leave your room.\"
I can never leave my room again,<\/i> Charles insists. Life on his own, it appears, hasn't suited him at all; he never used to be this overdramatic.
There's only one solution. If reason won't work, brute force will do the job nicely. \"I hope you're clear of the door, Charles.\" He pushes the unlocked door into the room, slamming it against the wall, and walks into a room that hasn't changed in the ten years since he first saw it. This time, however, it's somewhat messier, as if the occupant started throwing things for a minute but then realised what a complete waste of time such an action was, but never bothered to tidy up those few thrown items.
\"Don't look at me, I'm hideous,\" groans Charles to Erik's left, curled up against a bookshelf. He looks somehow smaller, like something of him has finally worn completely away, leaving him diminished. Uncovered. Bald, even.
Laughter is not the kindest or most politic reaction he might have had, but given their history Erik doesn't really feel the need for kindness or diplomacy. \"Is that it?\" he gasps once he can speak again, and Charles looks up in order to direct an expression of the purest indignation his way. \"This is your horrible, life-changing secret?\"
\"My dignity is gone,\" Charles says in a hollow voice. \"I will never be beautiful again.\"
\"You gave up your dignity when you locked yourself up in here,\" Erik informs him, swallowing a second fit of laughter. \"Professor Charles Xavier, genius of genetics, completely incapacitated by hair loss.\"
\"You couldn't understand,\" Charles sniffs. \"You've still got a full head of hair.\"
\"Get over yourself, Charles, you've got a school to run.\" Erik pulls him to a sitting position and locates the chair, covered in a long jacket and a bottle of redundant shampoo. And then, because Charles actually does seem broken up about this, he adds, \"You're wanted for your brain anyway, not whatever's covering it. Start wearing a hat if you find your bare head that troubling.\"
Really, though, he'd be absolutely fine if Charles' lack of hair made him seem hideous to the world at large. Maybe he'd finally decide to give up on joining the rest of the world. Maybe genetics finally having turned on him in a way he could not accept, he'd finally stop using that tired old pickup line. <\/a>","comments":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/125536.html?view=comments#comments","category":["fandom: x-men movieverse","fanfiction","fandom: marvel"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/125386.html","pubDate":"Fri, 03 Jun 2011 09:53:45 GMT","title":"HEY SO X-MEN FIRST CLASS","author":"iambickilometer","link":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/125386.html","description":"IS THERE A KINK MEME YET? BECAUSE I AM STARTING IT AND IT WILL BE EMBARRASSING IF SOMEONE'S BEAT ME TO IT.
ALSO: IT WAS REALLY FUCKING GOOD
ALSO: YOU SHOULD WATCH IT
SO IN CASE I AM THE FIRST ONE TO GET THIS BALL ROLLING: IT'S
![](\"https:\/\/l-stat.livejournal.net\/img\/community.png?v=556&v=915\")
<\/a>XMEN_FIRSTKINK<\/b><\/a><\/span>COME AND POST SHIT ALREADY BEFORE I GET TOO NERVOUS AND EVACUATE THE INTERNET","comments":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/125386.html?view=comments#comments","category":"fandom: x-men"},{"guid":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/124997.html","pubDate":"Sun, 08 May 2011 08:43:06 GMT","title":"please and thank you","author":"iambickilometer","link":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/124997.html","description":"Has anyone written fic based on the Thor movie yet? Are there communities? Anything? I really want to get my fanboy on but searching hasn't yielded me any results yet. My Google-fu is weak, folks, help me!
(also if anyone has\/knows of icons, this would also be handy, as I don't trust myself to make good ones.)
I will in turn post links to anything I happen to find.
edit:<\/b> You folks have been most helpful! Here's what I've got so far:
<\/a>norsekink<\/b><\/a><\/span> is the obligatory kink meme. Expect to find me there in my free time.- the one where Balder collects a rather unhinged Loki from SHIELD facilities, post-Avengers-movie speculation<\/a>
- the one where Loki is hitting on Fandral for the lulz<\/a> (by
<\/a>hummingbirdmoth<\/b><\/a><\/span>, NSFW)- the ones where Lex Luthor enters into an arrangement with Loki, and sometimes gods and mortals have more in common than either would expect.<\/a>
It's Electrifying<\/a> by
I believe the correct phrase for this fic is \"HEARTS IN MY EYES\".","comments":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/124997.html?view=comments#comments","category":["fandom: thor","rec"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/124880.html","pubDate":"Tue, 26 Apr 2011 20:35:46 GMT","title":"a cry for help (and also prompts)","author":"iambickilometer","link":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/124880.html","description":"So this is... not really a request post? Because what I'm looking for is inspiration for something longer, and I'll probably only go with one suggestion, but.
Is there anything people want to see me write? Any fandom I've ever been a part of. Prompts appreciated. (AU is more likely to ping my interest, but don't let that stop you from suggesting something else!)
If it's something you know I'm already working on, you can still suggest it... but unless I've well and truly forgotten it, I've probably glanced at it already in my search for something to work on and not really been motivated.
At this point what I'm trying to do is just write something and I have no ideas and it's driving me nuts. So basically, HELP PLEASE?","comments":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/124880.html?view=comments#comments","category":"help me internet-wan kenobi you're my on"},{"guid":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/124638.html","pubDate":"Tue, 19 Apr 2011 07:50:44 GMT","title":"so I watched Game of Thrones.","author":"iambickilometer","link":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/124638.html","description":"First I will say that I really enjoyed it and might be getting into the fandom -- we'll see. The intrigue is delicious, the visuals are stunning, and the characters are all (for the most part) really really interesting and sympathetic. I LOVE THE STARKS. I just love them. There are not enough words for how much I love this family and these kids and their antics. I am really excited to watch this show.
But.
There is an arc that. Well, sexual violence\/abuse doesn't trigger me but it makes me very uncomfortable and I know that it would trigger a lot of people. So just so you know. If people are interested in watching this show who plan on skipping such scenes, I'm willing to do a weekly screening and do scene-by-scene trigger warnings (and careful summaries for the triggery scenes). However I definitely understand if you want nothing to do with it. There are a lot of really good reasons for wanting nothing to do with Game of Thrones.
At this point I'm really side-eyeing this show for that arc and how there aren't any characters of colour on the show besides the ones in it and their portrayal is super skeevy.
So basically: I plan on watching it and I really enjoy it but it gets pretty problematic at times so be warned.
Less serious business: I really want to write crossover\/fusion with Tony Stark.<\/a>","comments":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/124638.html?view=comments#comments","category":["tonight on the boob tube","episode reaction","game of thrones"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/124255.html","pubDate":"Thu, 03 Mar 2011 08:41:16 GMT","title":"this has nothing whatsoever to do with me getting back into CLAMP fandom","author":"iambickilometer","link":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/124255.html","description":"Another question for the flist.
A friend and I were complaining about how we miss Kingdom Hearts so much and how we wish there had been better fandom, and then I said it would be a great challenge to have people write\/art\/vid for old fandoms. \"A nostalgia meme!\" she agreed. Which sounds like a GREAT idea to me, but would anyone else be interested?
I was planning just to host it here, since I doubt it'll get that big (but feel free to let me know if you think something else would work better). Format would be pretty loose -- it could be prompt-and-answer, or it could just be people linking back to things they post, or a mixture of the two. I won't impose any guidelines on how old fandoms should be -- if \"nostalgia\" is two years ago or twenty for you, it'd be fine.
So, suggestions? Interest? Anyone?","comments":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/124255.html?view=comments#comments"},{"guid":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/123913.html","pubDate":"Thu, 03 Mar 2011 04:41:34 GMT","title":"in unrelated news, I need new icons","author":"iambickilometer","link":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/123913.html","description":"
<\/a>npmexchange<\/b><\/a><\/span> | about the exchange<\/a> | sign up<\/a><\/font>The incredible
<\/a>preromantics<\/b><\/a><\/span> is putting on a National Poetry Month pan-fandom fic exchange. It's super low-key but it looks like it could be a lot of fun. The goal is to have at least one post every day of the month, so if you're interested you should check it out!<\/center>","comments":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/123913.html?view=comments#comments","category":["check this shit out","pimp my exchange"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/123666.html","pubDate":"Mon, 28 Feb 2011 00:56:30 GMT","title":"one headbutt and baby I believe","author":"iambickilometer","link":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/123666.html","description":"Hello various blogging sites, I am not dead! In case you were wondering. I have been pretty absent for a while but I am pleased to tell you that there is no good reason whatsoever (except that I haven't written anything worth posting, I guess).But I have been writing some things, so in an effort to convince you that if you haven't left you shouldn't, I will tell you what they are!
1. Horrible gratuitous shenanigans involving fictional celebrities because I don't actually want to A) write RPF or B) do the research necessary to write RPF, but still want to write about celebrities Having Gay Affairs With Other People In The Biz
2. White Collar fic in which Neal figures out he never knew Kate that well (but in a closure-y kind of way)
3. White Collar fic in which they fall in with Ocean's Eleven
4. Retelling The Parent Trap with X-Men (specifically Wanda and Pietro) for
5. Weird Tsubasa D\/s because I wanted it to exist and don't trust anyone currently in the fandom to do it justice (or at all)
6. Community AU in which Abed goes to LA instead of Greendale and any Thomas Dolby fans who read it will be side-eyeing me forever
Note that just because these are being worked on doesn't mean they will actually happen. I have so many incomplete stories sitting on my hard drive, which SPEAKING OF. I have been working on this one Marvel fic (Steve\/Tony) since before Steve was even slated to return to life, it is so beyond jossed, and I haven't really had the drive to finish it despite inordinate amounts of help from other people. Would people be interested in me posting it incomplete just so they can read what could have been? Or would that be too painful\/boring\/self-indulgent?<\/a>
Also, for your entertainment: what I did last night and this morning. (I'm on the left with the bad hair)
in the woods<\/a> is a delightful little short about two beloved trios having a brief encounter. If you love either Harry Potter or Doctor Who (but preferably both!) you should go read it immediately. You will not be disappointed. :D","comments":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/123496.html?view=comments#comments","category":["fandom: harry potter","rec","fandom: whoniverse"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/123318.html","pubDate":"Tue, 04 Jan 2011 05:31:51 GMT","title":"2010: Fic Year in Review","author":"iambickilometer","link":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/123318.html","description":"I didn't do one of these last year, but since this year wasn't too prolific and I'm waiting for some sleep meds to kick in, I figured I could start this year. This list starts from January 2010 and ends with my Yuletide fic. :) You can also read all this (except for the request posts) at the Archive of Our Own<\/a>. They also can all be found on Livejournal.
Full Stories<\/b>
Something Approaching Everything<\/a>, Sherlock Holmes (2009), PG-13, 1731 words, Holmes\/Watson.
Supposing Watson was more grievously injured in the factory scene -- how would things have changed?<\/i>
Keep the Change<\/a>, Marvel (Avengers), PG, 518 words, Steve\/Tony.
\"Do we have to get <\/i>married before you'll listen to me?!\" Steve demanded.<\/i>
Where Blows the Wind<\/a>, Earthsea, G, 1380 words, Ogion & Ged gen.
In which Ged leaves.<\/i>
Glass Half Empty<\/a>, Tsubasa Reservoir Chronicle, PG-13, 753 words, Kurogane\/Fai.
In which Kurogane and Fai keep world-hopping, and Yuuko pays them in booze.<\/i>
Stop Me If You've Heard This One<\/a>, Supernatural\/Marvel (X-Factor), PG-13, 946 words, Rictor and Ruby gen.
So a mutant and a demon walk into a bar...<\/i>
Snapshots from Tomorrow<\/a>, Supernatural, PG-13, 1759 words, Dean\/Castiel + ensemble.
The morning after the apocalypse, God makes the world anew.<\/i>
Experience Russia from the Comfort of Your Desk Chair<\/a>, Iron Man (movieverse), R, 1174 words, Pepper\/Natasha.
Pepper's stepping down, Natasha's got new job parameters, and someone's gonna get laid. SPOILER: It isn't Tony Stark.<\/i>
Red, blue, green.<\/a> Iron Man\/Avengers (movieverse), PG-13, 910 words, ensemble gen.
Tony saves the things they say.<\/i>
Smoke, Dust, and Debris<\/a>, Marvel (Daredevil\/Iron Fist), R, 924 words, Matt\/Danny.
New York's been destroyed again.<\/i>
Right of Way (The Things Are Exactly As They Appear Remix)<\/a>, DCU (Batfamily\/Titans), PG, 1436 words, Dick\/Roy + Lian gen.
Dick ruminates, Lian unwillingly convalesces, and Roy beats things up.<\/i> Remix of
<\/a>milleniumrex<\/b><\/a><\/span>'s fic A Father's Right<\/a>.where the muties go to die<\/a>, Marvel (X-Factor), R, 1275 words, Rictor\/OMC.
After the Decimation, Julio fills his days with cheap beer and meaningless sex.<\/i>
Moments From the Hourglass<\/a>, Inception, PG-13, 2860 words, Arthur\/Cobb.
Cobb has been dreaming again, though he'd much rather he weren't.<\/i>
you've won the battle, but you lost the war<\/a>, Harry Potter, PG, 1022 words, Remus gen.
Remus goes to a funeral and then goes back to war.<\/i>
The Ghost In You (She Don't Fade)<\/a>, Harry Potter, G, 797 words, Charlie\/Tonks but mostly gen.
In which there is Quidditch, de-qnoming, prying family, and Teddy Lupin, and Charlie's life goes on.<\/i>
Mark Me Well<\/a>, A Study In Emerald, PG, 3433 words, Holmes + Watson gen.
Assassination, theatre, and domestic spats -- never let it be said that Dr John Watson has nothing to write about.<\/i> Written for
Like Unto Iron<\/a>, Marvel (Iron Fist), PG-13, 1656 words, Orson Randall\/Wu Ao-Shi.
Orson learns to pick his battles.<\/i>
Request\/Drabble Posts<\/b>
1. \"I think it's going to rain today.\"<\/a>
2. alternative universe<\/a>
3. improbable meetings<\/a>
4. nostalgia<\/a>
5. the winter holidays<\/a>
6. Torchwood\/White Collar, Supernatural, Narnia.<\/a>
<\/a>","comments":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/123318.html?view=comments#comments","category":["fanfiction","year in review"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/122986.html","pubDate":"Tue, 04 Jan 2011 04:41:06 GMT","title":"FIC: Like Unto Iron (Immortal Iron Fist, PG-13)","author":"iambickilometer","link":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/122986.html","description":"Title:<\/b> Like Unto Iron
Fandom:<\/b> Immortal Iron Fist
Rating\/Warnings:<\/b> PG-13\/ none I can think of
Wordcount:<\/b> 1,656
Summary:<\/b> Orson learns to pick his battles. (Orson Randall\/Wu Ao-Shi)
Notes:<\/b> Written for
They duel at dawn.
The sun is barely touching the tallest buildings in Manhattan as Wu throws her first strike, right for his eyes, and when Orson ducks she gets him with her knee. She fights dirty. He rolls away and comes up smiling, and when she rushes him this time he's got an elbow ready. Danny's got the wide arsenal and honest streak, fuck knows where from, but Wu's like Orson. This is his kind of fight.
She's grinning like she knows it, eyes all over him to prove he can't take her by surprise. She's faster. But he's older and he knows tricks she hasn't thought of yet. He plays to his strengths, and he knows his weaknesses better. She's agile, and time's against him there. But he's big and he doesn't have to move too much if he keeps her using that agility.
She doesn't tire quickly, and he's breathing heavy and his side aches sharp and familiar. He makes to pull a gun, but all he finds at his side is air.
\"Did you shoot your dragon?\" Wu taunts, gun in hand, and then tosses it away.
\"I took whatever advantage I had,\" Orson bites out, trying not to wheeze.
Her grin turns playful, and she leaps down right into his face, breathing into his nostrils. \"Whatever advantage, you say?\"
His arms are at either side of her, useless. He brings his knee up but she blocks. \"You're an easy man to read,\" she says. \"Like my husband was. Used to being seen and not having to hide.\"
But that's not right. Orson's pulled off many a stealth operation successfully, crossed borders and broken into buildings and evaded soldiers with practiced ease. He steps back, and she lets him go.
\"That was a--\" he begins, and then her foot in his face cuts him off. His head snaps around and he tastes blood where he bit his tongue.
\"Distraction,\" she says.
---
He wakes mid-morning, light pouring into the dingy hotel room, opium cloud evaporated and leaving the world pale and grainy. For the number of times he's fought Wu in this room, he's never yet won. The only Iron Fist to live past thirty-three, triumphant in a shitty hotel where they only know him as the druggie white man who pays on time and doesn't talk to anyone. Fantasizing about a woman who died before he was born and did his old job better than he ever would have.
He stares at the ceiling for a while, and then actually gets up for a knock at his door. He watches the crane fly away and curses the way he learned to in the trenches. Then he stuffs his bag full and walks out.
---
\"I don't usually like dangerous men,\" Wu tells him, pinning him down on the summer-baked concrete in the late afternoon light. Her face blocks the sun. Her teeth are very white.
\"I don't usually like getting my ass kicked,\" Orson counters. She laughs, but does not let go.
\"How is it that this happens so often, then?\"
She stands up and offers him a hand. He takes it, because he can trust her to let him up. If only because it's more fun to beat him up when he puts up a fight. But she doesn't pull him up and push him away. She keeps him held close in, studying his face like she's gonna find something interesting there. She bites her bottom lip and furrows her brows. Orson swallows, as quietly and unobtrusively as he knows how.
\"What are you doing?\" she finally asks. \"What kind of living is this?\"
Orson looks down at his dusty, stained suit. He hasn't worn it in years. \"Only kind I know how.\"
\"It's no life for the Iron Fist,\" Wu tells him. \"We all go out in glory and violence. You are dying slowly and quietly, and it does nothing for anyone else.\"
\"I ain't the Iron Fist anymore.\" Orson smiles, shrugs as best as he can with her grip on his arm. \"Danny Rand is doing the glory thing. I'm just trying to enjoy the time I got left.\"
Wu lets him go then, shoves him so he staggers backwards and nearly falls on his ass again. Her face stays cloudy, like she's actually angry instead of faking it for a good fight. \"If you think you enjoy this, you're a fool,\" she says. She has his gun again. \"You're numb. It's different.\"
He waits for the shot but it never comes. The gun lands at his feet, and Wu wipes her hands against her sides. \"Pick it up.\"
Orson bends down to pick it up, never taking his eyes off of her.
\"Fight,\" she commands.
---
He is smoking outside of the airport, because he won't be able to taste smoke on the flight to the US and the thought alone is painful enough. Better get it now while he can. He doesn't have anything with him but the clothes he's wearing; nothing worth keeping. His worldly possessions are about as worthless as he is. And he'll need to be fast on his feet; it'll be easy to find him now that he's digitised, put on lists. If a crane can find him under a false identity when he's been walking everywhere, here he's a sitting duck.
When he finishes the cigarette and stomps it out, he walks back into the airport, bypasses security and the metal detectors with a wave of his hands, and stalks onto his plane. The woman next to him wrinkles her nose at him -- the smell, no doubt. He had no time, no drive, to take a shower. And beside that, he had no soap, nothing to dry himself with. This woman can deal.
He can't sleep once they are airborne. The roar of the engines keep his mind working and the rigid seat position hurts his back. Around him passengers are snoring, and he just stares into space and tries to remember the warmth of Wu's breath on his face and the weight of her pressing down into the road. Something familiar. It's not opium, but it's a better train of thought than planning for the future or fixating on the past.
There are no cranes in the cabin. Orson stares out the window and waits to see them, flying in the wake of the jet engine. Just because he doesn't see them yet doesn't mean they're not there.
Twenty hours later he walks off of the airplane and bypasses customs with a wave of his hand. They find him pretty quick after that.
---
The first time he met Wu was during the war. Dizzy with bloodloss and hunger, he'd sat down in a bunker to rest and maybe die, and she'd been there. She frowned at him like she was disappointed -- she probably was. \"Giving up so soon, Iron Fist?\" she asked, the taunt clear in her tone and her hand on her hips. \"Where is your iron?\"
\"Somewhere in France,\" he'd said, or something like that. He thought it was clever. She thought it was stupid. She picked up his gun and turned it over in her hands. What kind of weapon was this, she asked. He explained. She laughed at him. She's done that a lot, since. Then she tugged him to his feet and held him steady when his legs tried to give out again.
\"When you fought the dragon of K'un-lun, you became something greater than a man,\" she told him as warmth returned to his bones and battered muscles relaxed. \"Something like unto iron. Something bright and powerful, and when you go out it will be with all that dragon's fire. Your life's purpose is to earn that death, Iron Fist.\"
Then a shell had exploded nearby, and when the smoke cleared Orson was alone in the bunker. He could have explained it as a hallucination but for the fact that he could stand without pain for the first time in weeks. But it was war -- no one questioned that, not when it could all be moot next second. They all just kept fighting, and waiting, and fighting some more.
---
Danny is nothing like Wu, but actually quite similar. He fights smart, fights fancy, plays fair. He hits where it hurts but not from behind, keeps it clean, keeps it pretty. But he's got fire in his heart and a smile on his face and he swings around and kicks death in the face and Orson can see it, where these two very different people meet.
It's all fighting and hurting and fighting and killing here. Wu would be proud. Danny doesn't even think to be. It's all he knows, this kid, and he loves it, the art of it, the action and the cause. It's humbling and sort of sad at the same time.
Orson doesn't even think to kick death in the face. The moment it comes, he knows it's for him, and he stands firm and lets Davos kill him, Danny make a dragon of him, and in that last moment he can see everything, his mind and eyes clear. Maybe he's smiling.
---
\"The Iron Fist dies a glorious death,\" Wu says, across the wooden practice floor from him. Gone is the costume, replaced by simpler colours; her hair is shaved. Orson's wounds have vanished and his body feels decades younger. \"It is our way.\"
\"You kidding?\" Orson asks. \"I didn't even fight it.\"
\"It is not our way to flee death,\" she replies, giving him a look to say that she knows he did just that for years. \"You know this. Daniel Rand knows this. We fight injustice. Tyranny. Threats to that which we see as our domain. Death comes to us as a trophy, never a punishment.\" She settles back into her stance again. \"Now face me,\" she tells him. \"No more distractions.\"<\/a>","comments":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/122986.html?view=comments#comments","category":["fanfiction","fandom: marvel","challenge: yuletide","fandom: iron fist"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/122645.html","pubDate":"Tue, 04 Jan 2011 04:31:16 GMT","title":"FIC: Mark Me Well (A Study In Emerald, PG)","author":"iambickilometer","link":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/122645.html","description":"Title:<\/b> Mark Me Well
Fandom:<\/b> A Study in Emerald
Rating\/Warnings:<\/b> PG\/ bloody murder
Wordcount:<\/b> 3,433
Summary:<\/b> Assassination, theatre, and domestic spats -- never let it be said that Dr John Watson has nothing to write about.
Notes:<\/b> Written for
John sits heavily down on the bed and breathes out in relief, the pain in his leg receding. His heart, having been racing for the past half hour, has begun to calm at the sight of his bags packed and in order by the door. Wind from the open window blows chill around him, and he shivers slightly; his coat burns in the fireplace, stained irredeemably with royal blood. It was a mistake no one caught, but a mistake nonetheless. Holmes is angry with him for it as well. He won't say, but he's pacing to and fro in the other room, muttering to himself along with the discourse in his head, intelligible only to himself. From the whistling of the past minute or so, Holmes put tea on promptly forgot about it.
John could go take it off the fire and have tea. Holmes might not even pay him notice at all. But the thought of standing up again, even with his cane, makes his leg ache in anticipation. He pulls the journal from his bag instead and turns to the first blank page. Now is as good a time as any to finish recording the deed.
We left the rented rooms in the early morning...<\/i>
---
John Watson, MD is not a tall man. He cranes his neck to meet Holmes' face and resents that half a foot again. Holmes' face storms, otherwise unreadable. \"A mark, Watson,\" he says, closing the door behind him.
\"Oh?\" says John, even though he knows by now that Holmes will draw it out to its most dramatic. He is to the core an actor, even if he only takes that guise now in the hunt. Everything must be done with theatrics or not at all. It's both endearing and endlessly frustrating -- but then again, so is almost everything else about the man. He'll explain everything eventually, at least. It's no good being dramatic without a reveal to the audience at the end.
\"An opportunity to strike a great blow to Her Majesty.\" Holmes takes two long-legged strides and stares into the fireplace of their most recent quarters. \"If you are not afraid of seeing blood on your own hands once again.\"
\"Were that the case, I should not have joined the military.\" John crosses his arms. \"This is a far better cause to spill blood for.\"
\"You are a dedicated man, Watson,\" Holmes says, only slightly mocking. \"We have in London a royal visitor. The Queen's own nephew come from Germany, here for the bracing air -- the welcome of his aunt -- the gambling and the whoring.\"
\"A mark indeed,\" mutters John. He sits back in one of the armchairs. \"Is it too soon to ask your plan?\"
\"Trapping him will be easy,\" Holmes says, waving a hand. They have done it before -- the royal family all have one great weakness which is all too easy to exploit, and they bleed same as any human. John keeps his old surgeon kit around for multiple reasons, but this is the foremost. It's somewhat odd, considering how detached Holmes can be and how self-suficient he believes himself to be, that he never takes a mark alone. But John has killed every one. \"No,\" Holmes continues, \"the difficult part will be reaching him.\"
He stares into the fireplace, lapsing into silence. John contemplates a cup of tea, but the kettle is out of reach and he has been on his feet for much of the day. His leg protests.
\"That play you wrote,\" Holmes says presently, turning back around toward John, \"You did finish it, I assume.\"
John casts about for a moment, and then remembers: a poor piece of work, packed into his trunk as he couldn't bear to part with it, having spent so long labouring at it. He stands up carefully and and fetches it, all wrapped up in twine. \"It will not impress you, or your actor friends,\" John says, sitting back down. \"I fear the irony in it will be lost upon most and it will read as earnest.\"
\"All the better,\" Holmes replies, with a small smile. \"I do not intend to put on a subversive show this time.\"
Holmes' stint in the theatre must have been an impressive one, for he is forever calling in favours and meeting with old actor friends. Odd enough that it should prove so useful, since acting has never been the most lucrative of professions. John never much cared for the theatre, as it is rarely subtle and often slapstick and crude, or garish and overdecorated. But writing a play was a challenge that kept him occupied for a long and uneventful winter. It also rather impressed Holmes, which is never an easy feat to accomplish.
It is fairly easy to guess why he wants the manuscript. \"You're gambling on the Prince coming to your show? Of all shows?\"
\"He is, I suspect, and egotistical man. He will want to appear refined in his tastes. The playhouse I am thinking of will suit his needs, and it should not be difficult to ensure that our advertising reaches his ears.\"
Holmes turns abruptly back to the fireplace and after a moment takes out his pipe and lights it. The conversation, it would seem, is over.
---
They move into new lodgings for this new hunt, not too far from Drury Lane. A patient of John's offers them rooms in his inn, free of charge, and meals twice daily. It is not a lucrative business, being a Restorationist , but it does place one in a community only too willing to assist each other in whatever means necessary to promote the cause. They rarely go hungry or sleep roofless while on the hunt, or even between marks.
The new place is small but clean, without any overpowering identifying scent in the air, enough for their purposes. The walls of the larger sitting-room have been papered in an inoffensive blue, and those of the smaller bedroom whitewashed, providing a stark contrast in light between the two. (This could very well be the reason Holmes opted to sleep on the couch and not the tiny mattress in the bedroom.) Of furniture there is little -- in the smaller room a desk, chair, and dresser, and in the red-papered room the sofa, a table, and an empty shelf by the fireplace.
Holmes leaves him there most mornings, off to rehearsal, and the rooms are mostly quiet. A few times a day other Restorationalists stop by with communication too sensitive for the post or just to chat. Occasionally his services as a physician are called upon. He is one of only a few in London, called upon most often for hunting wounds and rarely illness, preferred for his military experience and political inclinations to more respectable practitioners.
They have a month -- as much time as could be managed, given the flightiness of the target. Compared to previous hunts, it seems almost leisurely -- though the amount of time they spend working separately may help there. And yet the time passes quickly, so that opening night is upon them long before John would have expected. Holmes assures him that the Prince will be there, though with no explanation as to how he knows or why this should be so certain. He shakes his head when John offers to come along, saying that there will be no point, they might as well not both be seen there.
John decides not to argue, and instead waits for a time and goes anyway. He's had enough of Holmes telling him what not to do.
The first two acts he had not read ahead of time, and he can appreciate the skill of Holmes' friends, if not the medium itself. The last act he enjoys, although it is somewhat painful to hear just how poorly he wrote it: seeing other people acting out his words is somehow special nonetheless.
His first thought had been to head home immediately afterward, but feeling a bit bold, he instead turns into the alley behind the building to find the backstage door. The woman guarding it appears to recognise him, for she smiles and moves aside to let him by. He finds a set of stairs, and at the top a small dressing room. The brief look of surprise on Holmes' face is worth the expression of annoyance that immediately follows -- and then the disguise resumes.
\"Ah, the good Doctor! I trust you enjoyed our show?\"
One of the other actors looks up at the word 'doctor' -- has Holmes been talking about him? It seems counterproductive to the plan, or at the very least useless. But then, Holmes always has a reason for doing the things he does. \"I quite enjoyed it,\" John says, not quite lying. \"The acting was impressive, and the set construction inspired. Tell me, whose idea was that pulley system?\"
\"You're speaking to him,\" says the actor who'd looked up, having pulled on a shirt. \"Our Mr Vernet is quite the genius. In fact, so much a genius, he's got a whole line of fans out in the hall. Will you be going to greet them?\"
\"It would be a poor showing not to,\" Holmes replies with a wink at John, and swoops off. The other actor glances about briefly and then leans in close.
\"I know what and who you are,\" he whispers, and John freezes. \"Not to worry. I won't tell a soul. In fact, I support you. And I'm curious to know why a skilled huntsman like yourself allows him<\/i> to push you around like a simple soldier. You are better than that, friend.\"
His face is honest, the sort of face one wants to trust instantaneously. John knows better, of course. But there's nothing off about this man yet, no reason to end the conversation -- certainly no reason to anger him. \"We work more efficiently together than apart. And he is a master of the hunt -- I'm honoured to work with him.\"
\"He should be honoured to work with you.\" The actor shakes his head. Then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a card. \"When your hunt is finished, you can find me here. If you'd like to branch out. I've got a mark I would greatly appreciate your advice or assistance with.\"
John reaches out for it almost without thinking, and the actor smiles briefly. \"Ask for Jacque, they know me by that name. You will see the symbol on their door.\" He takes John's hand and shakes it once, then melts back into the crowd of dressing actors. John blinks, and puts the card slowly into his pocket.
There are footsteps on the stairs, and John turns around to see what must be Prince Franz Drago of Germany enter the room. He's instantly recogniseable, not because he's left off his human form, but because everything about him is wrong. The joints of the arms, the attachments of the head and neck, the alignment of the eyes -- everything is slightly off kilter, in a manner possibly suggesting tentacles. He gazes into the room, eyes flicking back and forth as if looking for someone.
\"Your Highness,\" says John, swallowing revulsion, managing some kind of bow. He hates it -- hates himself for making even a mockery of obedience -- but not enough to endanger the hunt.
The Prince's eyes dart toward him, staring for a moment. \"You do not have the look of a man who attends the theatre regularly,\" the Prince tells him. \"Not a part of the crew. Did you write this script?\" He hisses and scrapes his sibilants and spits out his hard consonants like gristle.
John almost denies it, but he has never been an accomplished liar when his lies have not been prepared ahead of time. \"I did,\" he says, and the Prince's face lights up.
\"You describe our shared history marvelously,\" he proclaims. \"Down to the foolish nature of stubborn souls. Oh, but that's not a topic for common conversation. Bring me the actors! I must congratulate them.\"
Fortunately for John, the actors have overheard this exchange, and are already gathering warily around. Holmes, among them, shoots John a displeased glare, lost within the very realistic fawning of the crowd. The room fills with chatter again, and John takes a few good deep breaths. The Prince won't live long. He can be tolerated temporarily.
\"I will be back to see this masterful piece again,\" the Prince is declaring.
\"Not I,\" John puts in, in case it should be noticed that he has fallen silent. \"Once is enough to hear my own words spoken back at me.\"
The Prince laughs at that, clapping him on the shoulder; John barely represses his wince of disgust. Holmes' eyes narrow; he shakes his head ever so slightly.
--
\"What were you thinking?\" Holmes demands, back at the rooms. \"He's seen you now! He'll recognise you!\"
John, sprawled on a chair while his bad leg throbs, is about done for the night. \"There's no harm done, is there? He won't see me again until we trap him -- perhaps not even then.\"
\"It should not matter at all, whether he sees you,\" Holmes snaps, and flops down into the other chair.
There is some silence, and then John chances, \"But have you managed to speak to him?\"
\"I at least was successful,\" Holmes says. \"He expressed great interest in what wares I might have to offer. After the matinee performance Sunday next, we have arranged for him to accompany me to our agreed location, where you will dispatch him. So long as you follow instructions, there should be no deviation from this plan. Do not come to the theatre again. I was forced to create a story for you, and you cannot accidentally contradict it through ignorance.\"
They do not speak again that night.
Holmes does not spend much daytime at all in their shared rooms, and John takes pains to keep out of his way when he is about. Their verbal exchanges are short and curt. It hurts, but not enough for John to lay aside his anger just yet. It's clear that he will once again be the one to give in, but not yet. Instead he fingers the card from Jacque and imagines what it would be to work with someone who defers to him, or at least sees and treats him as an equal. It wouldn't be Holmes, of course, but maybe it could be better.
He brings it with him, in his pocket, as he leaves Sunday afternoon for the house in Shoreditch, and runs his fingers along the long side all the underground ride there.Then he drops it in his doctor's bag and steps out into the evening light again, walks into the house to wait. His nerves begin buzzing as they always do toward the end of the chase. It's nearly done. Another message sent.
It is only a half hour before the sound of hooves and wheels signal the approach of Holmes and their mark. John pulls out his longest scalpel, sharpened only this morning to a fine glint, and takes his weight from the wall. Then the door opens and Holmes and Prince Franz Drago of Bohemia walk in.
The Prince is tall and affable as before, but his smile is hungry and his eyes dart around the room, not spying John in his search for Holmes' bait. He reaches his long neck out as if offering it up to John's scalpel. So greedy for the promised feast he is that he doesn't even think to fear a trap -- why should he? It would be mad to oppose the royal family.
John strikes quickly, severing both main arteries, as Holmes shoves the creature into the room. Foaming green blood spatters against the floor, onto the walls, violently exiting its lifeless body. The smells of sulfur and something far more stomach-turning fill the room. It only takes a few minutes for the body to bleed out.
Holmes breathes out smoke and steps delicately into the room. \"And now the signature,\" he says, though not at all to John. \"They must know exactly who committed this act.\" He taps out his pipe in the empty fireplace, and then without so much as a grimace dips the first two fingers of his right hand into a nearby streak of ichor and proceeds to write, on the wall, Rache. Having thus signed his canvas, he steps back into the doorway to survey his work.
\"Another success,\" John says, cautiously. Holmes turns his head and gives him a look of utter scorn.
\"Though not for your help.\"
To dispute this would only invite more insult; Holmes will not be convinced of his own flaws where he doesn't see them. John looks away instead, sets about packing up his kit, wiping the viridian from his longest scalpel and replacing it among its fellows. His hands shake slightly, now that the time for steadiness is over. He still hasn't become accustomed to cold-blooded murder, nor voluntarily standing in the presence of royal blood.
\"The cab awaits,\" Holmes says, and turns on his heel, obviously unconcerned as to whether John follows.
---
Thus the matter of Prince Franz Drago was resolved. But another weight lay heavy on my shoulders, for Holmes remained thoroughly and inexplicably disgusted with me all the way to our temporary lodgings. I resolved to discover the heart of the matter<\/i>
John lifts the pen and stares at the last word written, in case it happens to spawn another sentence. In truth, talking to Holmes again is the last thing he wants to do, but they can ill afford resentment between them in their line of work. Another concession, then. Holmes demands all and offers little, but since he informed John of this when they began their association it seems foolish to complain only now. Overall, it's a sacrifice of pride worth making to continue to apologise for everything and do as requested. He won't regret having done it, as loath as he is to admit it now.
With a great sigh, he pushes himself to stand and limps back into the other room, where Holmes still paces to and fro. \"Holmes,\" John says, and he looks up. \"This is foolish. I'm sorry I ignored what you said to me. It achieved nothing.\"
\"I've told you before,\" Holmes says, \"I need to be able to rely on you to do exactly as I say.\"
\"I was mistaken.\" John keeps his voice calm, despite his irritation, and folds his arms so as not to give himself away with gesticulation. \"I've apologised. Our hunt was successful, there's one less false god in the world, and I don't see where the problem lies. Enlighten me, Holmes.\"
Holmes sighs out loud, pointedly. \"The problem lies in the fact that I will now have to consider the possibility of this occurring again and plan around it. You are largely a predictable man, Watson. This is why we work so well together. This is also why your unexpected actions are an issue.\"
\"But this is hardly the first time I have taken actions you never dictated,\" John says. \"Holmes, if we are to work together we need to work together. Not as superior and inferior. Not at odds.\"
For a long moment, Holmes says nothing, paused in his pacing. \"I suppose you will be going to see Jacque, then.\"
John must be making an odd face, the way he can feel it twisting in surprise. It really shouldn't be surprising that Holmes knew about the card, though. Holmes misses very little -- and also snoops shamelessly.
It might have been enjoyable to torment him with it for a while, but in the end -- why? The point of this exchange is reconciliation, not getting revenge. John at least will be mature about this. \"Holmes, if I wanted to leave our arrangement, I would have done so an age ago.\" He shakes his head.
\"Oh,\" says Holmes, and then he composes himself. \"Well, in that case, Miss Adler's notified me of another opportunity for when things have died down here -- in France this time, if you're up for crossing the Channel. It's a good thing you've packed, we'll be wanting to relocate in a few days -- the Warren, I suspect, will do us nicely. Oh, and Watson?\"
John, who has already begun to retreat into his room, smiling and shaking his head, pauses and looks back.
\"Thank you,\" Holmes says, as if it pains him, like stretching a seldom-used muscle.
\"You're most welcome,\" John says.<\/a>","comments":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/122645.html?view=comments#comments","category":["fandom: sherlock holmes","fanfiction","challenge: yuletide","fandom: study in emerald"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/122440.html","pubDate":"Mon, 13 Dec 2010 22:26:00 GMT","title":"I. partridge in pear tree","author":"iambickilometer","link":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/122440.html","description":"Abruptly and for no good reason (well, okay, for a very good reason that I will keep to myself) I am decided to do a round of holiday-themed posts (much in the style of Paul Cornell, actually).
First day is a Request Post<\/b>! I think most of you know how this works, but in case you're new or you've forgotten:
1. You comment and leave me a prompt. Or two. Or ten.
2. I go through and fill as many as I can.
3. There is no limit on the number of prompts you can leave.
4. There is no guarantee I will fill them. (But I will try!)
5. You don't have to follow the theme.
6. If you feel inclined, you are more than welcome to fill other requests.
7. Everyone wins!
Today's theme is the winter holidays<\/b>. You define what that means. :)","comments":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/122440.html?view=comments#comments","category":["holidays 2010","holiday goings-on","request post"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/122317.html","pubDate":"Thu, 25 Nov 2010 07:15:43 GMT","title":"FIC: the ghost in you (she don't fade) (Harry Potter, G)","author":"iambickilometer","link":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/122317.html","description":"Title:<\/b> the ghost in you (she don't fade)
Fandom:<\/b> Harry Potter
Rating\/Warnings:<\/b> G\/none (spoilers for Book 7 though)
Wordcount:<\/b>
Summary:<\/b> In which there is Quidditch, de-qnoming, prying family, and Teddy Lupin, and Charlie's life goes on.
Notes:<\/b> Written for the Harry Potter Non-Canon-Ships Comment Ficathon<\/a>
It's a point of pride for him; Uncle Charlie is my favourite.<\/i> Teddy always grins wide like a shark when Charlie walks into the room, and changes his hair blazing red, sprouts freckles. Did I hatch out of an egg like a dragon?<\/i> he asked once, on Charlie's shoulders as they cavorted around the yard, chasing after a wheezing Percy. Can I go with you to the dragon park?<\/i>
One game of Quidditch later, in which Harry's team trounced Charlie's but Teddy scored every shot he took, they're all sitting on the steps while George teaches Teddy the finer points of de-gnoming the garden. Hermione leans her head on Ron's shoulder; Harry's on the grass, leaning against their combined legs. The sun has begun to go down, and the air smells of summer and the beginnings of dinner. Somewhere inside the house, a radio turns on, and the static quickly smooths to the rise-and-fall cadence of a news announcer.
\"You know, you're the only unattached soul in the house,\" Percy comments from his perch by the door. \"Unless you're having clandestine affairs as well.\"
Teddy lets loose a gnome with a wild shout, and the small, bulbous figure goes flying off into the tall grass. \"Not really time to date when I'm split between here and Romania.\"
Percy snorts. \"People have made such a situation work in the past. Bill, for instance. And now look at him.\"
\"He's spawning,\" says Ron with a tone of joking disgust.
\"All the more reason for me not to.\"
He'd have taken Teddy in at the drop of a hat, and almost offered to that awful night after the battle, when Harry stared down at the baby with bewilderment in his eyes and stammered he couldn't do this, not at his age, what were Remus and Tonks thinking. Charlie saw the bent of that brow and the blue of that hair and wanted him immediately. But babies and dragons don't mix. Much in the same way that families and wars clash, in fact. Neither can live while the other survives<\/i>.
Teddy looks more like Remus, though with aquamarine hair and a reckless smile no Lupin could possibly have worn, and a casual grace that not even Tonks wore well. The House of Black lives on in that one,<\/i> Mum once said. She wasn't wrong.
\"But Charlie, you love Teddy,\" Percy says. No surprise that he's echoing Charlie's thoughts. Everyone knows by this point how Charlie loves the kid.
For all their gossip, it's funny how they never guessed why. Lucky, maybe, though there's always the chance that they'd ease up on the needling for him to go out and date if they knew. But he doesn't need that space to mourn. Isolation never did much for him. And it has been time enough since the war ended.
He'd still take Teddy with him to Romania if there were a chance it'd work. Or that Andromeda, having latched onto him, would ever let go. She looks at Charlie funny sometimes, like she's waiting for the question. Or the confession. Teddy has her sharp browline, though his softens in laughter much more often than hers does. He's got the Tonks nose, the Lupin jawline, the Black mouth. He talks with his eyebrows like Harry. He runs full speed like Charlie, like the best thing in the world is ahead and there's a Hungarian Horntail nipping at his heels.
\"He's right, you know,\" Hermione says. \"You'd be a good dad.\"
Charlie shrugs, tugging that smile back to his lips and tearing his eyes away from Teddy and his amazing flying gnomes. \"I'm raising dragon hatchlings. That's fatherhood enough for me. And once you start studying the mating habits of your typical Ridgeback, you never want to date again.\"
\"You're talking, but all I hear is 'Let me babysit your spawn',\" Bill says from the door.
\"Charlie took nesting very seriously,\" Ron replies. Harry snickers.
Charlie shakes his head and stands up slowly, strolls over to where George and Teddy are still looking for remaining gnomes to toss. \"How's the exterminating going?\" he asks.
George rubs his remaining ear. \"I reckon we got most of 'em,\" he says. \"Didn't we, sprog?\"
\"There's one down here!\" Teddy proclaims, pointing down a molehill. \"Charlie, you get this one!\"
Charlie reaches down and grabs the gnome firmly by two appendages -- not certain which two -- and spins it forcefully in a large loop. Teddy whoops as it goes flying over the tall grass and drops out of sight, and Charlie slings an arm around his shoulders. This is how life goes on, in the end: a boy and his uncle and all the memories of the woman who brought them to each other turned gold with the summer sunset. <\/a>","comments":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/122317.html?view=comments#comments","category":["fanfiction","device: gen","fandom: harry potter","device: futurefic","device: family fluff"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/121704.html","pubDate":"Tue, 02 Nov 2010 01:54:10 GMT","author":"iambickilometer","link":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/121704.html","description":"Just posted to the NaNo filter; if you didn't see it, you're not on the filter. If you'd like to be, let me know and I'll add you. If you'd rather not be on it, let me know and I'll take you off. :)","comments":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/121704.html?view=comments#comments","category":"message from our sponsor"},{"guid":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/121129.html","pubDate":"Mon, 01 Nov 2010 18:36:51 GMT","title":"word count: 1,713","author":"iambickilometer","link":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/121129.html","description":"Will be posting word count updates daily. So: who wants to be on the NaNo filter? If you were on it on LJ last year, you're still on it, no worries. (Unless you'd rather be off! In which case let me know.) I ask because I might be posting excerpts and I don't necessarily want them to be easily accessible to the public. Note that even if you're not on it I will be talking about it all the time anyway (just not the details of my writing, mostly my writing habits) so if you have a huge aversion to anything NaNoWriMo you might want to stop reading my blog for the next month.
Going to a write-in later tonight, which should be fun; hopefully I can get substantially ahead this year and actually finish my novel, not just get to 50,000 words.
The title this year is \"Standard Fare\" and it's a horror-lite whodunnit. I'm pretty stoked.","comments":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/121129.html?view=comments#comments","category":["nano 2010","nanowrimo"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/121073.html","pubDate":"Mon, 25 Oct 2010 23:14:32 GMT","title":"and it's a bore","author":"iambickilometer","link":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/121073.html","description":"I've failed two ficathons this fall, and I am hereby banning myself from all exchanges but Yuletide.
I'm sorry to everyone I have let down because of my own writing difficulties. Hopefully I can still finish your stories and post them eventually. But, uh, I wouldn't keep your hopes up.
(except for
<\/a>athenemiranda<\/b><\/a><\/span> has a whole bunch of them, if you still want one. Just let me (or her) know.Also, I've been in sort of a writing slump, so I think it's time for another request post!
For those inexperienced with this phenomenon:
1. Leave as many prompts as you like, any fandom, any pairing.
2. The theme and encouraged fandom are only suggestions, not requirements.
3. I will fill whatever prompts strike my fancy.
4. You are welcome -- nay, encouraged -- to fill prompts as well.
5. I do not guarantee that all or any of your prompts will be filled.
The theme this round is nostalgia<\/b>. The encouraged fandom is Harry Potter. Have at!
Marvel - Matt\/Danny - Shackle<\/a>
Harry Potter - Remus\/Sirius - Trinkets<\/a><\/a>","comments":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/120628.html?view=comments#comments","category":["fanfiction","fandom: marvel","fandom: harry potter","request post"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/120494.html","pubDate":"Tue, 07 Sep 2010 06:47:01 GMT","title":"you've won the battle (but you lost the war) (Harry Potter)","author":"iambickilometer","link":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/120494.html","description":"Title:<\/b> you've won the battle (but you lost the war)
Fandom:<\/b> Harry Potter
Warnings:<\/b> Character death.
Wordcount:<\/b> 1,022
Summary:<\/b> Remus goes to a funeral and then goes back to war.
Notes:<\/b> I wrote this over about two hours thanks to Bloc Party's \"Signs\" and
<\/a>balphas<\/b><\/a><\/span>. I'm still confused as to how it happened.you've won the battle (but you lost the war)<\/b>
It's a small gathering of them in the cemetery, beneath the oak trees, crunching what brown leaves have not gone soggy with rain. The cold wind blows right through thin black suits and black quilted cloaks, and the worn scarf hardly puts up much of a struggle. Remus' nice black shoes squelch in the mud and bits of leaf stick to the sides of them. His fingers are stiff and slow with cold. His breath mists in front of him. Everyone has been staring at him all the while, since he arrived. Maybe they're surprised that he is mourning just as much as the rest of them. Maybe they didn't even expect him to come.
Peter is the only one who never meets his eyes.
There is no reason for them to all stand here, as the priest closes his book and folds up his hands, as the shovel slides against the tree it was leaned on and hits the ground. The fresh-dug earth smells of rain and growth and a little like spring, but this is November and Remus is never going to be able garden again without smelling it. They should turn and go. Remus is waiting for them to leave, but no one seems to want to go.
The crunch behind him is Dumbledore. No one else is going to talk to him. Remus is ready for the hand that descends upon his shoulder, so he doesn't jump.
\"I'm blaming myself,\" he says instead, before Dumbledore can tell him not to.
\"You can stop that now,\" snaps Minerva McGonagall instead, and when Remus looks back she's there, just behind him, all in a black only somewhat less faded than Remus', hat untrimmed. Either he never noticed how threadbare his teachers were, or he's missed a lot, being on the run so long.
\"He was the obvious choice,\" Remus tells her anyway. In a way, she's a better listener than Dumbledore. She at least can be trusted to be honest. \"Too obvious. I should have volunteered.\"
\"Thinking like that's not going to fix anything,\" she says, short and snippy, but her hand is steadying on his shoulder.
Remus turns his head to face her and smiles his best. It breaks all across his face and falls in cracked pieces around his feet as he replies, \"Can anything, though?\"
When the cemetery is bare and empty, Remus walks up the headstone itself. He thinks of insulting it, but settles on spitting instead, the most juvenile form of expressing anger and affection he knows. When he turns to go, the cold and the lump in his throat have locked his mouth shut tight, so silently he walks away.
The problem with moving on is that the world conspires against him. Remus doesn't remember seeing so many silver-tipped owl ears delivering mail, nor motorcycle jackets, nor overgrown heads of black hair before. The world keeps turning and the war keeps ravaging it, but it's not Death Eaters that have Remus on his toes anymore. It's the familiarity of someone's laugh from down the street. The creak in the hall that could<\/i> be someone walking around. The pop of apparition in a place no one else would think to go. Remus pushes open his bedroom door but finds Peter there instead, wringing his hands.
\"Can I come in?\" he asks.
Remus wants to let him in, no questions asked. It's not for his own sake that he performs the spells, asks the questions, but Remus doesn't want to see anyone else buried. Peter passes everything, anyway. He walks in and slumps on the sofa.
\"Tea?\" Remus asks, and Peter doesn't even talk, just nods.
Peter takes his black, no sugar even, and holds the empty teacup so tight Remus expects it to break. \"I need your help,\" he says, staring down at the teastained porcelain.
Remus doesn't want to help. He'd rather curl against the wall and let the shock of grief completely paralyse him, but he's not doing that. He's putting on old sweaters and battered corduroy pants, going about his day. He's preparing for the next full moon. He's listening to Peter.
\"You're going to hate me,\" Peter says. It sounds nothing like a warning. \"I don't need you to like me, though. I just need you to help me.\"
Remus puts two and two together. He finishes his tea. Says, \"Where do you want me to hide you?\"
Remus is keeping secrets now, some his, some not. Remus is spending all his time running, and on full moons isn't even building good relations with the others of his kind. Only running. He runs across Europe and into Russia, crosses the Balkans, hides in the expanse of empty land where Grindelwald laid his traps. Dumbledore sends him eagles, not owls, and brief coded messages, the barest update on the war. Once he says that Harry has learnt his first word. Remus cries for the first time since the war began.
He meets a small man one day, dark of hair and familiar of face, but everyone looks like Sirius these days. Remus is not prepared when the man introduces himself as Regulus Black, and maybe that's why he isn't asked for his own name in return.
\"I need to get rid of this,\" Regulus says, furtive, frightened; he pulls something from the inside of his jacket and thrusts it, still closed inside his fist, at Remus. \"It might get you killed.\"
\"I'll take it,\" Remus sighs, and opens his hand underneath Regulus'. When the pendant and chain hit his skin, he closes his hand. Regulus sags, strings cut, free.
\"Do you know my brother?\" Regulus asks after a moment. \"You look...\"
\"No,\" Remus says. By semantics, he could be telling the truth.
Remus gets a letter in Israel, dust in his eyes, and reads that Neville Longbottom survived the impossible and that the war has been won. He pulls the locket free from his neck and closes it in his fist. In the end, he only throws the letter into the Dead Sea. There is the future to think about, after all.<\/a>","comments":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/120494.html?view=comments#comments","category":["fanfiction","device: au","fic: harry potter"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/120228.html","pubDate":"Fri, 03 Sep 2010 16:11:30 GMT","title":"so this happened.","author":"iambickilometer","link":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/120228.html","description":"Hallo, Internet! Today we are to have a hurricane here in sunny old Boston, which has me very excited because it has finally stopped being painfully hot. (I never thought I would be so happy to see the temperature at eighty degrees Fahrenheit.) I was so excited, in fact, that I wrote a sonnet. (I only plagiarised the first line, I swear.)
An Ode To The Incumbent Hurricane<\/b>
Shall I compare Earl to a summer's day?
Because, y'know, he will arrive on one
and shunt all of its dogged heat away
and with his driving rain block out the sun.
O Earl my longing could the sun outshine
if yearning for a storm emitted light
And soon you and your cool air will be mine
as time (and the Gulf Stream) are on my side.
I know no other way I could survive
the damned heat New England summers hold
while all my friends laugh at my chosen life
You come to me with damp and wind and cold.
I raise my arms, incumbent clouds to grasp --
You think our love is wrong? Then kiss my--
ahem.","comments":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/120228.html?view=comments#comments","category":["let's talk about the weather","poetry","boston city of excellence"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/119909.html","pubDate":"Wed, 11 Aug 2010 04:31:27 GMT","title":"this is just to say","author":"iambickilometer","link":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/119909.html","description":"Hey you guys, I'm offering art commissions, if anyone is interested. More info here at kilograph<\/a>. Prices are pretty reasonable as far as I can tell.","comments":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/119909.html?view=comments#comments","category":["commissions","message from our sponsor"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/119682.html","pubDate":"Sat, 31 Jul 2010 08:09:57 GMT","title":"solo polvo de estrellas","author":"iambickilometer","link":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/119682.html","description":"Man, all this stress is getting to me. Added to the fact that I'm out of T and just missed a week, I am an emotional time bomb right now and also kind of a wreck anyway. I just want to apologise ahead of time if I forget to do things I said I'd do or screw things up or don't comment on your things or reply to your comments. I'm sort of having a hard time right now, and I'm under a lot of pressure.
and okay I feel sort of silly and egotistical adding this bit but: if you're going to ask what you can do to help, the answer's just to be patient with me. And if you really want to help, and we talk on IM, ask how I'm doing and be willing to listen to me spiel. It might not happen, mind.
Eight things I am currently working on. Only one Inception but it is a long<\/i> project.
1. This kid's gonna come into the world surrounded by law-flouting, headfucked, over-competent people; possibly Ariadne should have her parenting license revoked.
2. Kate laughs to herself and steps away from the window, changes out of her sweats into jeans, pulls on boots, touches up her makeup.
3. So Jim Kirk says goodbye to the cornfield with a careless spit to his side, and he climbs into the passenger seat of the old Toyota and rests his backpack at his feet.
4. Watanuki picks up the in-flight magazine and buries his nose in it, opened to some article about overpriced vacations in Italy.
5. By the near-empty coffee maker and the steamless cup next to him, Rictor must have been here long enough to read the whole thing by now.
6. He was almost difficult to see, out of focus and blurry until the zashiki-warashi jumped down and put her arms around him.
7. Watanuki puts his hands on his hips and narrows his eyes. \"Okay, please, please<\/i> tell me you have at least managed to get laid once in your sad emotionless life, you dimwit,\" he snaps, and Shizuka almost laughs except, well.
8. He thinks of Warp Seven, of every motion he's memorised to pull the crew to safety. He opens his eyes to find that he's got his hands fisted around the curtains he's next to.<\/a>","comments":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/119682.html?view=comments#comments","category":"the emo strikes again"},{"guid":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/119511.html","pubDate":"Fri, 30 Jul 2010 08:32:10 GMT","title":"FIC: Moments From the Hourglass (Inception)","author":"iambickilometer","link":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/119511.html","description":"Title:<\/b> Moments From the Hourglass
Fandom:<\/b> Inception
Warnings:<\/b> Spoilers.
Wordcount:<\/b> 2,860
Summary:<\/b> CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR THE FILM. In which Dom Cobb sees his kids grow up and starts dreaming again, a condition Arthur is determined to rid him of. (And in a shocking turn of events, Cobb\/Arthur is the ship of the day.)<\/span>
Notes:<\/b> Thanks to the fabulous
<\/a>inception_kink<\/b><\/a><\/span>. They meet in a dream. It has been five years. Phillippa's in middle school, Dom is finding white hairs, and the memory of Mal -- still painful -- is just photographs now. No more dreams. And yet.
Arthur looks just like he did before. Then again, the dream self is shaped by self-identity; Dom himself is probably missing the lines and streaks that have slowly begun to encroach upon his once-youthful face. Arthur's suit is clean and crisp, his gun out of sight, his face creased in some kind of worry.
\"Why are you here?\" Dom asks. The walls are fluid, translucent; the light falls soft around them. A silhouette runs by at Dom's left.
\"Looking for you,\" Arthur replies, and his voice echoes as if inside a cave.
Dom laughs, puts out a hand to touch the wall; it solidifies under his fingertips. It feels like any wall might, dry and powdery. \"You found me.\" He removes his hand, and the solid area of wall ripples and falls back into the motion of its surroundings. \"Ariadne's gotten better.\"
\"I didn't think it would work,\" Arthur says. \"I'm still not sure it's working.\"
\"They look functional,\" Dom replies.
\"I mean finding you.\"
Arthur's still got the creased worried look, which is beginning to make more sense. \"I'm real,\" Dom says. \"Are you?\"
The walls pulse in once, twice. \"We can't know for sure,\" Arthur says, looking down at his wrist Dom takes another sip of coffee, blinking at his daughter who somehow can muster the energy to eat and<\/i> complain about school. He's so tired.
--
Coming home from work is a comforting routine: walk in, coat down, hug the kids, walk into the kitchen. Dinner cooked, days, discussed, dinner served. Evenings can change form to suit needs, but coming home remains ever the same. James got an A on his report. Phillippa scored a goal in PE soccer; she's thinking of trying out for the school team. Grandma glares at Dom from the other side of the table.
\"You look like a wreck,\" she snaps at him, when he looks back at her. \"If you're sick, don't pass it to the children.\" Not ever his<\/i> children. Always the<\/i> children. No one ever says it, but she still blames him for Mal.
\"I'm not sick,\" he says, more for the kids than for her sake. \"Just tired.\"
\"Then for heaven's sake, go to sleep!\" It's nothing, an excuse to get him out of the room, but he's tired, he really is. He takes it. Kisses the kids goodnight, clears his place, heads up to his dark and empty room. Undresses, lies down, closes his eyes. Opens them.
\"Still a figment of my imagination?\" Arthur asks.
The room's changed, and that more than anything is the giveaway. Dom's still surprised he made the leap. He hasn't dreamt in so long. The dresser's there, but bare of picture frames; the closet door is now shut, and the lamp on the bedside table instead of overhead. The room's dark, but there's more clutter than usual on the floor, and of course Arthur in his suit sitting at the foot of the bed.
It's one of those strange things that to most people would be only in their dreams but for Dom can never happen at all; he's thought about Arthur and his bed in conjunction before but never dreamt about it. Dreaming's work. Was work. And there was always Mal, in the back of his mind, waiting to ruin everything, anything. Arthur's always been straight lines and cool thinking anyway, never attainable, never even close.
Always cut a nice figure in a suit, though. That hasn't changed.
\"One of us probably isn't real,\" Dom says. \"It's not me.\"
\"So you say,\" Arthur replies. \"So we're at an impasse.\"
Dom doesn't do real dreams, doesn't remember how to just go with it. Lucid dreaming's all he knows. If he'd never heard of extraction he could probably reach out and touch. God knows it's been ages since he's slept with anyone; better in his head than not at all. But the possibility of Arthur really somehow being there... is ludicrous but unavoidable. Dom doesn't take the chance.
\"If you're real,\" Arthur continues, \"we're going to wake you up.\"
\"You're warning me?\"
Arthur looks him up and down. \"Preparing you.\"
---
The duck just declared rabbit season again and James is laughing himself sick at Dom's side. Phillippa sticks her head out of her room, tousled hair and angry eyes. \"I'm trying<\/i> to talk on the phone. Daddy, make him turn it down!\"
James sticks his tongue out at her. \"No way.\"
\"Nah, we'd better turn it down a little bit,\" Dom says; his head is aching, dully, constantly. Sleep. It's been ages since he's slept well. Last night he had that dream --
Pause. Rewind. Since when does he dream? Except last night he woke up hard and frustrated and that must have been a dream. He can't remember the dream. He remembers, barely, dreaming. He remembers, more vividly, wanting.
\"Daddyyyyyyyyy!\" complains Phillippa, insistent. Dom blinks, remembers, and turns down the television volume.
--
\"We're trying again,\" says Arthur, from behind him. Dom nearly bashes his head on a lamppost, turning around. The bridge is well-lit, wet and gleaming, and Arthur's somehow matte against it all.
\"It worked,\" Dom tells him. \"But how did you do it?\"
\"It failed,\" Arthur corrects. Looks him up and down again. \"You haven't stopped dreaming.\"
The air's balmy, not warm. Dom would be uncomfortable in his pajamas, but he's fully dressed, hair heavy with the fog, nose and ears something approaching cold but not quite there yet. He picks up a hand and looks at it; it looks the same as ever. He steps forward, puts it on Arthur's shoulder; the fabric of his suit is damp, too.
He's being forward. He's not sure why he did it. He pulls his hand away again, wonders if he's dreaming on command, wonders if this is all just in his head. His head alone. In this light both his hand and Arthur's face look so pale. It could be a normal dream. Arthur's just watching him, collected, thoughtful, forehead creased like it was before. Before. Because he's dreamt this, two nights running. Three? More? They escape him like they did before he took in his training. Water through fingers.
\"And you?\" he asks.
\"Short bursts,\" Arthur says. \"No sedative. We were asleep for a long time.\"
\"Doing what--\" Dom starts to say, but Arthur looks up at the foggy sky. \"What is it?\" Dom asks instead, but then he hears it, faint and far away. That song. He hasn't heard it in five years, but the familiarity is unmistakeable.
\"You're waking up.\" Arthur doesn't refute it, doesn't acknowledge it. He's still watching Dom. He always did that, before, like he was trying to predict Dom's next move, like he was trying to figure him out. Dom's got his secrets locked away somewhere, the ones Ariadne doesn't know, but Arthur's probably working other things out. Researching. That's his thing.
The music goes quiet but doesn't fade out entirely. It's still somewhere between his ears, infiltrating his consciousness. \"It's hard to believe you're real. Even though I don't dream on my own. Funny how that works.\"
\"Wouldn't it make more sense for you to have projected me in someone else's construction?\"
Well, that would make sense, except: \"What could anyone possibly want from me?\"
\"You're a security gap. There's no knowing what you know.\"
Dom crosses his arms. No gun. He could dream one up, but he's still not keen on going back to creating. \"Are you just one of my projections?\"
\"No.\" Arthur shrugs. \"But you can't believe me.\"
--
The insomnia\u2019s getting worse. He paces around his room, out into the hall, through the living room. He peers into the kids\u2019 rooms, but their faces turn away like they always turned away. He avoids the study, with its pictures and memories; he avoids the door outside. He could tear the house apart for all the good it would do him. He remembers too clearly, sometimes.
The bottle of wine is a logical progression. Two glasses in and the clarity fogs, the memories recede, the pain dulls. Dom leans back in his seat and lets himself relax into it completely. Not to sleep, but to rest. Just a moment.
An orange grove. Arthur tosses him a firm fruit, pulled from the branch. \u201cTry this one.\u201d
Dom peels it, orange pulp lodging itself under his fingernails, juice spraying forth over his hands and wrists and chest. When he bites into a slice it\u2019s refreshing, tangy-sweet. \u201cYou quoted at me.\u201d
\u201cTo die: to sleep, no more.\u201d Arthur\u2019s lips curve smoothly into a tailored smile, fitted perfectly to his face. \u201cTo sleep, perchance to dream.\u201d
\u201cOn the bridge at New Year\u2019s. Before that big job.\u201d
\u201cAnd in that sleep, what dreams may come?\u201d
Dom lowers the rest of the orange, juice still dripping from his hand. \u201cMal nearly pushed us both in that night.\u201d Suddenly he\u2019s not thirsty. The sweetness dries sticky around his mouth. \u201cShe would\u2019ve killed you, too.\u201d
\u00a0
Two steps forward and Arthur's close, reaching for the orange and taking it back. \"She wouldn't have wanted me along.\" His eyes are intense; his smile fading back into the void from whence it came, a kick to Dom's adrenaline that reminds him of the existence of every inch of his skin. He knows, as Arthur knows, why Mal wouldn't have wanted Arthur dead too. But if that had been the price, she would have paid it.
\"She never thought that through,\" Dom says against the rush, and catches himself before he reaches to take the orange back, hand already an inch closer. Arthur looks down at it.
It's criminal, the way his eyelashes curl like that against the straight lines of his face. He shouldn't be allowed, when Mal's still strong in Dom's memory and the taste of oranges is still so strong in his mouth. Arthur might taste like that. Had he taken a bite?
Dom doesn't remember leaning forward.
But Arthur tastes clean, vaguely alcoholic, hints of mouthwash. Like he looks like he should taste. He kisses back not carefully but meticulously, like he's learned it by rote. His hands come up to rest idly against Dom's side, where the gun used to hang; he doesn't pull back but lets himself fall against Dom when Dom pulls at his collar. Dom bites, Arthur skims his own teeth against Dom's upper lip. It's not Mal's slow burn or the fever pitch release of adrenaline they might've had in the real world, but Arthur's smiling again.
\"You look just the same,\" Dom says against that smile. It's not what he meant to say at all. \"How the hell do you always look the same?\"
But that puts paid to the smile, wrong thing to say, and Arthur pulls his face away to look Dom in the eye. \"Time passes differently in reality. You know that.\"
\"But it's been years.\"
Arthur shakes his head, pulls his hands away; Dom lets him go, unclenches his hands, steps back. \"Time passes differently in limbo.\"
\"No,\" Dom says. It's not. It's late night and his own home, his own dream, and the kids have school tomorrow and Mal's still dead, has been dead for years. It's not limbo. He spun the top. He--
--doesn't remember it ever landing.
\"No,\" he says again, to himself this time.
\"Sorry,\" Arthur replies all the same. \"It's true.\"
Dom turns to the side, scrubs a hand over his face. Looks back. Arthur is still, constantly, watching him. Dom wants to kiss him again Dom stares at the pitcher of orange juice and contemplates another glass. Sleep's tugging at his eyelids and his mouth still tastes fuzzy, not minty at all. What was he...?
It's gone. Sand through fingers. Just an idea left, something someone told him once. In a dream. Limbo.
The house is dim, empty. Kids at school, Grandma off doing whatever she does. Dom's not at work. He doesn't work. Every day it's been the same, fast-forwarding the days because alone can't happen, alone will just make him think, and he... can't be allowed to think. So he's alone now. And he's thinking. Bathrobe and cup of coffee; he's tired of sleeping. Time to wake up.
Limbo is a small area, beyond which he hasn't dared to go, hasn't dared to create. Limbo is children who haven't aged in all the years he's been gone. Limbo is the thought that he could ever possibly go back, that it would ever be as simple as one phone call to get him that. Inside limbo he's got a shadow of the real thing. He knew that, before. Why'd he forget?
He walks back to the desk. The top is still there, spinning; has it ever stopped? Why hasn't he ever noticed?
He leaves it there. Walks away before the walls start spinning, too.
The house is quiet. Dom ends up wandering all the rooms, picking things up to examine them and trying to figure out what, exactly, he imagined them for. The vase from Saito's dream. The coat rack from some hotel room. The mirror he can't remember but probably has something to do with Mal. It's all significant somehow. It's just killing time until tonight. Living out the day because it's a dream but he's still going to live lucidly.
But he doesn't dream that night, or that night after that. Or the night after that.
--
James hates high school but Phillippa already misses it, looking beautiful and radiant in her blue robes, red hair falling around her like some angel of academia. She's already going to grow up to be better than her dad. But no one will ever tell her that she can shape reality. She'll be safer that way. Never again a Mal or an Arthur or an Ariadne. Maybe the secret will die with the rest of them, and the governments will keep it locked up tight.
People and chatter all around him, it's overwhelming. Dom's no good with crowds anymore. Doesn't like the possibility that one day they might all point to someone and prove that he's been in denial this whole time. Lately he's been getting that feeling of 'too good to be true'. But he's here today, smiling across the crowd at his amazing daughter, tears in his eyes. James next to him has his phone out, most likely texting his girlfriend; Phillippa out there is the centre of the world right now, smiling so wide she could drown out the sun.
\"You're proud of her,\" Arthur says in a thoughtful voice, just behind him. Heart hammering, Dom turns, and it wasn't just him, or just a dream -- that's Arthur, sitting on the bleacher row behind him, just as he was years ago. His right hand is closed around something, his left open and hanging between them, a question.
\"Of course I'm proud of her. She's my daughter. She's -- stunning.\"
Dom looks back over his shoulder at her again, at the curve of her smile and the slope of her cheeks, the laugh lines around her eyes scrunched up tight. She's going far, going places, leaving him behind; he might not see her like this for a long, long time.
He turns to Arthur again, who hasn't moved a muscle, except at the corner of his mouth. The barest smile.
\"You'll see her again, you know,\" Arthur murmurs, like he's reading Dom's mind. But then, they've been in and out of each other's minds, maybe too often. It's not impossible.
\"I know,\" says Dom. \"But not like this.\"
Arthur might be the only person Dom knows who wouldn't offer something comforting or at least approaching comforting. He just nods, once. \"You can take a moment.\"
Dom opens his mouth, question ready, but Arthur opens his right hand, lets the red die fall from his fingers to clang against the metal below.
\"We had to go all the way back,\" Arthur says, looking up again. \"Otherwise you wouldn't wake up all the way.\"
The sound of the crowd is dimming, time slowing down. Dom breathes out. Looks back at James, at Phillippa, but James is looking at his cell phone, and Phillippa is lost in the crowd.
\"They're waiting,\" Arthur says, a hint of urgency in the stress of his syllables. The holster at his side weighs heavy, hardly noticeable but still present, and Dom thinks for a moment of pain.
He reaches out and splays his hand against the side of Arthur's jaw, little finger perpendicular to his jugular, feeling for a pulse. He's not sure why, but Arthur seems to understand, holding still once again.
Dom asks, \"How long?\"
\"Twenty minutes,\" Arthur replies, with that hint of a smile back again.
\"What happens now?\"
\"We go,\" Arthur says, and brushes his left hand against Dom's right before reaching across for the gun.
<\/a>","comments":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/119511.html?view=comments#comments","category":["fanfiction","fic: inception"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/119122.html","pubDate":"Mon, 26 Jul 2010 06:11:38 GMT","author":"iambickilometer","link":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/119122.html","description":"Anyone want to beta an Inception fic? Cobb\/Arthur, 3,015 words, nothing to warn about that I can pick up on. Wrote it fast for the kink meme, so it's probably rife with errors, and also no doubt needs a bit of consistency checking.","comments":"https:\/\/iambickilometer.livejournal.com\/119122.html?view=comments#comments"}]}}