as the images unwind

Thu, 16 Mar 2006 19:57:20 GMT

C L O S E D.

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"i'm still here"

Sat, 21 Jan 2006 23:24:15 GMT

Her hands are always cold nowadays. No matter if she's standing next to a heater or petting her cat or wearing gloves. They say it's poor circulation; poor socialization; poor isolation. Who knows. She's accepted it as a fact of life right now; there's no hand she can hold to warm them.

She communes with buckets of bolts and coaxes miracles from keystrokes, but a living, breathing pile of flesh constricts her throat like a sudden bee sting. At times, she thinks that maybe humans shouldn't have eyes - it's the eyes that scare her, after all. Board up the windows to the souls so many people lack, and it would be better - she's afraid of heights and looking into the abyss.

Or maybe she should just go through life blindfolded, but she's too fond of looking around (at things, never people). Too many times she can see a third or fourth dimension to something flat and pained. It's gotten her in trouble before.

She knows, whatever the rest of the world is, most of it doesn't look in the mirror, and those that do, don't see themselves like she does. Does she stand far back enough to be objective? Or is she too close to be anything but biased? She'll never know, but unlike so many, she wants to. Ignorance is abhorrence to her. That's gotten her in trouble, too.

Right now, she sits where she is, feet losing their shoes. She wonders what would happen if she made a conscious decision to lose her soul.

"Greensleeves." CHG. BtD.

Fri, 16 Dec 2005 02:34:30 GMT

Christmasy, but this isn't exactly fluff and snowball fights.

Download the lyrics here.
Download Vanessa Carlton's version of 'Greensleeves' here.

The piano is always kept well in tune, and the keys greet his hands like an old acquaintance with a bluff handshake. Yet tonight, of all nights, he feels the introspection in the room, rather than the textiled assurances of confidence and preferred solitude. Damn these mortal holidays.

It is the night of Christmas Eve, the last night of Advent, and outside is nothing but moonlit brick and white. Or to be more precise, grey. Snow, like so many things, does not stay pristine in old London Town. He simply plays the melancholy melody that permeates his brain, spindly hands never deviating from their course.

He can't help but sink into the old, familiar funk, traitor's brain running over every inch of the time he'd seen her last.She'd still looked widowed when he'd seen her last; merely for a minute as he'd returned some papers to the offices of the Vampiric Council. Dull black, with the sheen matted away. But her skirt had been a lush green that had reminded him of the holiday, insipid as it is.

He can't help but feel ill used by the thought of the Trojan - his mind has its irrational moments, this he knows. But by now, in his long life, this is nearly instinct. The keys flow a little faster now. He can still recall the apex of the black velvet and her collarbones, though he'd refrained from running a finger over the spot. It always ends the same way when he does that; his motor neurons have learnt to curb the impulse, though his brain hasn't yet. She'd been polite, cordial even, and stepped away. He'd given away nothing. And yet now there is still a nagging sense of something in the pit of his unnecessary lungs. He won't pretend she means nothing to him; she's honest above everything else.

Abruptly he stops at the end of a verse and starts to play both the top and bottom lines now, hands running over the ivories as if stroking her hair.

His head bends like a concert pianist's or a surgeon's, intent upon concentration, though at the end of a phrase or three his hands do pause, as if to rediscover the thread of his own thoughts. He knows she's still hurting after recent events; he's seen her cry before, even, though it was long ago. She's seen him play piano to quiet his mind. (Has the Trojan seen her at her best and worst? his possessive mind murmurs into the air.) Since he won't disturb her peace, though, he simply imagines her sitting here, draped in the chair at the other side of the room. His hands continue to coax out the melody.

"Rest" CM/HC. BtD

Thu, 01 Dec 2005 05:50:50 GMT

The interior of Hayden’s flat is desolate and silent. It’s the one dwelling on the entire block that has not a single scrap of Christmas decoration, and that’s both circumstance and the preference of its owner. To someone who knows the place, it would look no different than normal. To a stranger, it looks like the home of a Scrooge.

The flat’s owner, however, has just returned from Russia the previous night, this Cillian knows. Time changes are always hell on the Canadian, so he hadn’t bothered to call, either last night or tonight. He’s simply here. He’s got a key, after all.

He unlocks the heavy door, almost babying the doorknob so it doesn’t creak. Hayden’s either out or asleep, and the Irishman neither wants to scare him nor wake him up. At least not yet. The scene is almost too peaceful to disturb, period. Cillian grins to himself as he closes the door, not turning the knob until the heavy slab is back in its frame. Usually, Hayden’s flat is a masterpiece of cluttered magnificence, with piles of everything everywhere, and yet Hayden swears that he knows where it all is. Right now, given the Canadian’s recent absence, the place is as clean as one could possibly hope for. Heh.

Cillian creeps through the living room, trying to hug the walls as closely as possible. Headlights pass through every so often like policemen sweeping for drugs, and of all things to ruin a romantic gesture, getting arrested would have to be on top of the list. He’s not used to the flat being so clean, though, and twice he stumbles over furniture that is (mirabile dictu!) in its correct place. Each time he freezes, eyes darting, sure Hayden will come barreling out of his bedroom, claws or weaponry raised high. And yet the flat remains soundless.

He’d spent far too much time alone while Hayden had been on this latest tour. Cillian knows that when his lover is away, he should take the time to catch up with others. Spend time with Debra; get work done at the office. He supposes it’s a testament to just how deeply he’s hooked that all he can seemingly do is count the days until Hayden gets back. Count the endless, sodding, linear days. Funny how one goes from crushes, to love, to standing in their better half’s darkened flat with a Christmas garland wound around one’s arm. (It’s the only way to carry the thing.)

Just as he’s about to open the door to Hayden’s bedroom (and oh, how well he knows that door’s peculiarities), he hears a shriek from the street outside. At first he thinks it’s a cry of pain or fright – all too common – but then the noise is punctuated with a delighted, childish giggle and the thwack of a thrown snowball. It’s snowing outside.

If that isn’t karma. Cillian grins to himself, twisting open the bedroom doorknob and performing the same sleight-of-body act as before, ducking onto the other side of the door with the speed of one of the snowflakes. He eases the door shut before turning around, and he just has to laugh, really. The room is neat – edges straightened, piles of paper sorted and in order – and yet there are things everywhere. The low bed looks like an oasis in the middle of a paper tornado.

Between the glass, the snow and the colour of the rumpled bedspread, there are purple shadows scattered across the bed like paint splatters. Hayden is sprawled on his stomach, sound asleep, though Cillian would have worried had the man been awake. His hair is disheveled, light-colored curls half stuck to a tightly clasped pillow. Every muscle in Hayden’s arm is clearly delineated in that tight grip, and Cillian can’t help but memorize that vision for a few minutes. It’s calm sleep, but definitely not relaxed. He reaches out and shakes Hayden’s naked shoulder gently. He hates to wake the blighter, but well, he has to. Right now, it’s a need.

Hayden’s reaction is somewhat anticlimactic, actually. Snuffling faintly into the pillow, the Canadian’s arm twists to push his weight to the side, turning over. A REM-heavy grin floats to the surface. “You look … light.”

Light, how; thinner? More transparent? … Cillian’s only lost for a moment before smiling, sitting on the mattress, resting a hand on his lover’s back. “It’s snowing,” is all he says.

“Mmm.” Hayden nods, turning back into sleep. “Stay?” He lets the pillow go.

Of all the questions to ask. Cillian simply kicks off his shoes and trousers, shucks his shirt, and climbs into the spacious bed, settling on his own stomach, one arm wrapped around his boyfriend’s warm waist. The garland he’d planned to put up (with or without Hayden’s knowledge) winds up in a coil, just barely underneath the bed. The important thing, Cillian reasons drowsily, is that he made the effort.

"Distance." JH. BtD.

Wed, 30 Nov 2005 05:14:14 GMT

He always hated the main airport in Paris; the big, old fashioned, inefficient doughnut. Yet somehow this was a new low. Stranded by a damn thunderstorm, in December? Hadn't the French heard of snow, at least?

Josh sprawled moodily into a chair at the Air France gates, looking downward, eyes snappish, somehow more annoyed with the fact that if the chair's arms were foldable, he could easily have slept here. Damn it. En route to Iran again, of all places. Cold, tired and soon to be achy. And, of course, alone.

His numbed fingers fished in his back pocket for his wallet, pulling it out and looking through the English money. The English were always the odd ones out, of course, not using the euro, but now, he was thankful for it instead of mocking.

Opening the change pocket with a thumb, he found what he was looking for - amidst the pound and two pound coins, there lay one penny. This one had oxidized somewhat. Its copper had darkened.

Josh slipped it in the breast pocket of his coat and shot his lapels again, feeling them rest against his laid-back chest. He would call Debra in a few hours.

"Five Miles To Midnight." duw-verse.

Wed, 23 Nov 2005 03:38:59 GMT

It had been nearly a year since their marriage, and nearly two since Eric had been named president. Catherine had spent countless nights like this one alone at the office, or alone here at their flat with books and phantasms for company. She didn't object - rather, she was proud of his activities; impressed by them - but, like most wives, she imagined, she worried when he was away. How irritating. She was no nagging wife - indeed, she prided herself on not knowing every facet of Eric. She had the luxury of trusting him.

She'd heard the reports out of Krakow lately, that was all. Stories of the French riots - copycat humans in Rotterdam turning cars over, raising hell all over the paltry matter of human religion. Catherine dimly supposed that was the way of love, though - if she were in Eric's position, she would have no fear for herself. She was never scared. Except now when she was completely safe from harm.

She turned away from the window she'd been scrutinizing for seeming hours, facing inside the flat again. The place was a mess, and it made her nose wrinkle - signs of distressingly human emotion were everywhere. That night he'd called her from Paris - the screech of riot victims in the background, and the hiss of burning gasoline as it devoured another car. She'd stayed awake all night after that, and she hadn't been sure why, even at the time.

She'd blamed it on a cold, of course; some kind of ailment. It was funny, she realised, kneeling to pick up some of the clothes crumpled on the wooden floor and set her latest book on the end table, its pages crumpled and matching the nail marks on her palms. Outwardly she betrayed nothing. Nor did he. Emotion was for the weak in their profession, of course. And yet she'd never met a man more capable of feeling than Eric.

The progression was slow and methodical. A shirt here, a dropped bra there. Couch cushions bent under the curled weight of her own body as she'd devoured the BBC coverage the night Eric had been in burning Rotterdam. Maybe it was paranoia, but it was the vampiric way of life. The way that her husband was trying to change. And he'd made progress at least enough so that she couldn't snort at his idealism anymore. Then again, he knew she'd always been a bit of a fatalist.

Catherine finished picking up, stopping in the middle of the floor, abruptly permitting the faces of Eric's enemies to traipse across her own line of vision, if only to keep her equanimity. She had to be the supreme arbiter of logic; she had to debunk them all one by one. It was something of a superstition, but even Catherine had her idiosyncrasies. Dame Noire could, on occasion, give credence to something besides intellect.

Just as she had cleared the floor, the drumbeat of raindrops began to reverberate on the window panes up and down Koborny Street. It was like a series of tympani - each building older than the last, the drops hitting slower or faster against older or newer brick and glass. Catherine stopped to watch and listen, and though she knew it foolish, had to wonder if it was raining in Ankara now. The daydream was pleasant. But the phone rang, and she had to put it out of her mind.

She picked up the receiver and spoke calmly. Asking him where he was, how things had been going. Telling him about the rain in Budapest, about Janus, about assorted matters that they both know could have waited until his return.

He told her about the ceaseless meetings, about the exhausted riot police in Paris and the soldiers in Rotterdam. He told a funny story about the Polish minister of commerce, seeing the devastation wrought in Krakow to a pair of enamel factories. He told her he would be home earlier than expected, and laughed delightedly when she laughed. He told her he loved her, though it wasn't necessary.

She told him to be safe, that she'd be here waiting. Or at the office waiting. He knew it meant the same.

After they hung up, Catherine looked around. Remembering her book dropped inartfully on the end table, she recovered it, curling into the softness of the divan, her legs crossed underneath her. She opened the cover, smoothed a purposeful hand over the crisp pages and effortlessly began to read. The rain continued.

"Patriot Game." /// DM, BtD.

Tue, 01 Nov 2005 17:18:54 GMT

This is something I may post in BtD at some point soon, but I wanted to try it out first; write it down and see if it resonates.

With all her heart, Debra knows very well that there are few moments colder than November in Belfast. Any Irish knows, it's a chill you feel deep down - something instinctual - and it's something she has to fight off even as she walks up Lepper Street into the neighbourhood of New Lodge. Her hands are buried deep into the pockets of her shearling coat, and her head is bent, hair flying loose behind her. She looks, ironically, prayerful, with her eyes half squinted against the setting sun and the wind stirring up against the building corners. She's alone, surprisingly.

She's on the late side; this she knows. By this point, the body or what's left of it will have been washed and dressed, or at least in effigy; the keening will have subsided. The mirrors will be turned; the clocks' hands will not move. Debra has never seen the inside of Philip and Siobhán Collins' house; she's only met them once, even. They're her ma's friends, not hers, though she'd known their son through Cillian. Yet her ma had insisted, and the wake will be traditional. Two things that are equally dependable.

She spies her ma's Peugeot as soon as she turns on to Upper Meadow Street, and marvels that it's actually there. Orla McCarthy treats that car like it's her third child, and it stands out like the proverbial sore thumb on the brick-and-boarded street. New Lodge is not one of the neighbourhoods that's seen much outward restoration after the Good Friday Agreement, and Debra unwillingly takes in each shop window, each empty business. It's mostly flats on this road, shabby but well kept. Yet the red buildings are still tinged with oxidized copper and plain old Victorian soot.

Sure enough, the windows of No. 23 are darkened, though the black cloth is transparent enough that Debra can see vague outlines through it and watch the hand gestures of silhouettes. She knocks perfunctorily, though she doesn't wait to walk inside (who'd even hear the knock, anyway?). The cramped vestibule is flocked full of people swathed in black and green, chatting in deliberate tones. Debra smiles vaguely at the few who acknowledge her presence - "Evenin'" - and heads for the scent of food, watching the floor so as not to put a heel through a knothole.

The kitchen is a tiny room, but very clean and ordered, aside from the peeling linoleum. Debra's seen a thousand kitchens afflicted with the same disease, from Cork to Belfast and back. People line the space, of course. A short trestle table sits pushed against the wall like a drunk, its top all but buckling under the weight of a hodgepodge of dishes and funeral meats. Thank Christ they'd not set the corpse in the kitchen. Debra's been to a few wakes where that was the case, and the supper tables lose their appeal after seeing that spectacle.

A voice at her back makes her jump, though it's theatrically pitched low, so as not to disturb the moment or some such bollocks. "Quite a crowd, eh, Cian?"

"Best I ever saw to wake some'one where there weren't a body, mate." The man called Cian laughs gutturally, and Debra's stomach jumps, a sick thud she can't explain. "Limey bastards probably chucked old Eamon into the Thames."

"Nah, nah." The first man's voice is only faintly mocking, but Debra can still see a leer in her own eyes. "That's if y'kill twenty - killin' only seven just means a potter's field. Small price to pay!"

Debra doesn't react - she doesn't even move. She simply stares downward at the table, eyes blandly sweeping the earthenware dishes spread across its sagging face (though she's suddenly lost her taste for food; who knows why). She smiles faintly, though, as the words just slip out. "What's that old line about funeral meats going t'waste?" It's a good old fashioned Irish morbidity - a joke Cillian would have made, were he here. Debra doesn't blame him a whit for staying in London, though she knows he bloody blames himself.

The two men laugh uproariously, in true Irish form, and Debra can't help but feel a sense of bizarre, pained pride in her countrymen. It's how they all get by. "Fair point, lass!" Cian's mate grins at her, bowing almost gleefully before turning away to find more beer.

That isn't a bad idea, come to think of it. She pushes past the crowd with a doctor's instinct, getting where the action is. She grabs a bottle of Guinness from the icebox, feeling the cold sweat trickle down onto her fingers (ah, irony) and opens it, mentally raising a toast, though it's to Cillian, not Eamon. You toast the living; you wake the dead.

Drink in hand, she strolls from the kitchen into the sitting room. It's as opulent and overdone as the other rooms are spartan, but Debra has to assume it's for the wake, not for normal use. Everything as far as the eye can see is swathed in differing black cloths - all the black that Siobhán Collins happened to have around the house, or so Debra guesses. It's a fair amount. She does know Eamon had brothers.

She can't help but see the writings on the wall - framed versions of Pearse's poetry, a small flag bearing the words EASTER 1916 and other things in the same line. No UK flags anywhere. In a Provisionalist house, Debra knows, you have to watch your mouth and eyes, but nobody does - times like these are when the old mementoes are trotted out and flaunted like they couldn't have been in years past. Jokes like the one Cian had made; talk that maybe Adams or Ó Brádaigh will grace the room with their presence, feeding soothing words to a congregation that already believes. As if the leaders of Sinn Féin had known who Eamon was in this world before he left it. Bah.

Since neither politician's in the room, though, it's left up to the Father to draw everyone's attention. As the crowd in the room suddenly pivots as one, turning toward the fireplace like an army company, he starts to speak, and it's nothing Debra hasn't heard before. He's got his arm around a short woman - it has to be Siobhán Collins; there's no one else who'd be dressed like this. The woman is all in black from top to toe, her hair flowing down her back like Isolde or some other fairy tale, hands clasped in a pious death grip. The Father sounds like he's reciting bloody Yeats, for all the reverence he's giving his own words. Stories of loyalty and self sacrifice and eternal rewards. Debra doesn't listen, concentrating on the rise and fall of the man's Armagh accent instead of the content of his words.

Eventually the duotone rise and fall stops, and silence lingers in the padded room, aside from the quiet sobs of the wretched woman in black. Soon, though, one lone voice starts up, untrained but full of fervor. "Go on home, British soldiers, go on home ... have you got no fuckin' homes of your own?

It isn't as you'd usually see something spontaneous like this. It takes no time at all for the other mourners to join in at the tops of their voices. "For eight hundred years we've fought you without fear, and we will fight you for eight hundred more! ..." The words are joyous and mutinous, and Debra has to feel the faintest ghost of a grin of national pride. Though she realises with blank eyes that she's the only one who doesn't know the words.

The last lines are shouted loud enough to bring the Garda in all of Belfast round, with Siobhán at the lead. Debra smiles bitterly. "So fuck your Union Jack - we want our country back! We want to see old Ireland free once more!" She looks down, eyes closed, glad Cillian isn't here.

It's as if she's on her knees at the church up the Antrim Road from here. Deb's just tired of it all. She sighs, and has another long pull of the Guinness, feeling the chill it sends through her bones.

fanfic100: The Derevko Sisters

Wed, 12 Oct 2005 15:08:59 GMT

x-posted to fanfic100.

Title: none
Fandom: Alias
Prompt: 66. rain
Word Count: 270
Rating: G
Author's Notes: I don't do titles very often. They always come out sounding trite.

The rain always fell heavily in Ust-Kamenogorsk. Katya had noticed from the moment her transport had arrived from Yekaterinburg. It was as if the rain had nothing better to do out here than fling itself to death.

She was lying on her bunk in the barracks, listening to the drops’ exclamations as they fell. Katya rather enjoyed the moments before lights out, actually – it reminded her of soft goose down, of being tickled by Irina, of Yelena protesting while she tried not to fall out of bed from her sisters’ squealing. In the Red Army, there was no tickling, of course.

Not that she minded. This was where she was meant to be. A cause to pin herself to. A great, noble enterprise to help lead. This was officers’ camp, after all.

She turned over silently, light grey eyes facing the wall. She had to wonder idly if this area was where her parents had been sent. It was certainly a place where she’d put a gulag. Or a boot camp (so Comrade Brezhnev had chosen well, she supposed). She didn’t need to look outside to know the landscape – cold, quiet, surrounded by mountains. Raindrops like Mother Russia shedding tears for the men and women who would die from every company that left UKA. It would be a sad thing, but comrades died every day.

Katya shifted onto her back again, just in time to be hit square between the eyes with a raindrop. She never permitted it to cross her mind that it could be marking a path for the bullet. Officers of the Red Army ignored the rain.

Title: none
Fandom: Alias
Prompt: 24. family
Word Count: 370
Rating: G
Author's Notes: I don't do titles very often. They always come out sounding trite. Slight spoilers for Alias 4.22, "Before the Flood".

The brightness of Buenos Aires might have darkened her skin, but Yelena never really needed the help from the beginning. Even when she’d arrived in Argentina along with the rest of the war criminals so long ago, she’d been mistaken for a native. Until they heard her clumsy Spanish, of course.

She was fluent now. Even her native Russian had an oddly lisping accent, like a Castilian trying to blend in. Then again, she’d always been the changeling. Irina and Katya were so fair – they looked more like Scandinavians than Russians. Yelena still remembered the schoolchildren calling her Tatar, Mongol, devil.

And yet Nadia looked like her. Unwitting, graceful, naïve Nadia. Yelena had laughed – something rare in itself – when she’d been told that this gypsy girl was her sister’s daughter. Whatever ran the universe did work in mysterious ways.

Even now, tied to a chair in this wreck of a warehouse in Sevogda, the girl was beautiful. Yelena had to think of a damsel in distress, like the old tales, and yet Nadia wasn’t in distress. Not from her aunt.

She woke the girl with a gentle shake to the shoulder. Knowing Irina, she was probably in hot pursuit. “Nadia.” The name was hushed, whispered like a fervent prayer. “I want you to join me.” It was necessary. “Once the toxin is into the water supply, we can observe these people. Study them. Learn how to better this human race as we watch the weak turn on each other.”

“No.” It was weak but pronounced, clung to with an inner well of desperation, no matter how calm the façade. “I’ll never join you.”

Yelena sighed, shook her head. She heard footsteps. Irina, no doubt. “You may want to reconsider.”

“No.”

Yelena shook her head. “I taught you better.” And she had; nothing too good for this unknown niece, the potential Passenger, the gin card. Yet too much had gotten in the way. Her long, delicate fingers closed around the hidden syringe as her tone changed. “Would you like a drink of water? You must be thirsty.”

Nadia’s chocolate eyes widened as they processed the significance instead of the tone. Though she kept advancing, Yelena felt a tiny pang of regret.

"haze". hc/cm. slashy smut.

Wed, 10 Aug 2005 04:03:31 GMT

Title: "Haze"
Suggested For Reading: Bush, The Science of Things

Cillian normally didn't have quite such vivid dreams as this one, especially after an evening of sharpness from Cate and carping from his mum (another blind date? No thank you). This one, however, was rather welcome, as intense as it was. Soft pillowed lips barely touched the skin of his naked back, over and over. Body heats met and mingled. And his name, in Canadian cowboy tones, was repeated over and over, in different pitches. "Cillian ... Cillian?"

He opened his eyes abruptly and blinked in total shock; there was in fact a body on top of his. Light, but with more weight to it than his own. Cillian smiled, still hazy, and shifted his weight to turn around onto his back, but suddenly there was a hard shove right between his shoulder blades.

He must have made some incoherent protest noise, because the next thing on Cillian's mind (and body) was another push and the seamy closeness of a familiar voice, hissed in his ear, and an unfamiliar object from fingers he knew like his own. "We're going to try something today." The voice was sharp like absinthe, and just as addicting. "You've got one hell of an imagination ... we're gonna use it." As Cillian strained to break the hold, he felt the metallic clinks of handcuffs. Two sets. One for each hand and a bedpost. And then, the wisp of fabric, a thick black mask.

A tiny thrill prickled through Cillian's mouth at the knowledge of restraint. He opened his mouth to speak, but instantly Hayden's hand (for it was Hayden, of course) flew over his mouth. The quick whisper- "No need to waste your energy, babe."

Damn him, Hayden already knew just how erotic confidence was. Cillian could feel his voice box go offline like a computer on screensaver. "Good," crooned the voice softly, the voice that was and wasn't Hayden's. "Great." The voice was gentle like normal, but there was something under it, a monster under the stairs that Cillian just had to see.

He couldn't see anything, though, only the dense blackness (no doubt helped by the bed pillows). It wasn't fair, Cillian decided, still putting up a perfunctory struggle, if only to hear that tone from Hayden again. His mind was interpreting the tactile clues in dizzying, mouth-watering detail. Those long fingers were everywhere, from a nest in his hair to a tent at the base of his spine. Hayden's body felt deliciously warm, especially now as it seemed to change course, going horizontal. Cillian licked his dry lips and waited.

It wasn't long. Hayden's mouth soon met the very tip of Cillian's angular shoulder blade. Cillian could just sense his whole body shiver at that. "I know what I wanna do," Hayden murmurs against Cillian's collarbone. "But I'm not gonna do it if it will flip you out, Blue Eyes." That pet name, as always, both made Cillian happy and turned him on a little - who else pronounced those two words almost as one, half swallowing both syllables? But he had to focus again. His little dom was saying something. "You gotta trust me, okay?" Hayden stroked Cillian's cheek, looking both gentle and young when he was very far from either. Cillian nodded wholeheartedly, telling the honest truth fuddled by longing and outright lust. He did trust Hayden, implicitly. There was something in those malachite eyes to speak for his honesty.

He knew Hayden had seen that nod, and thus prepared himself for contact, but nothing could prepare Cillian for the soft, shivering finger laid up his spine. A soft noise escaped him again - he heard it this time - and Hayden laughed at exactly the same volume. "I didn't know you liked it soft, Blue Eyes. Though I should have guessed." Cillian felt another soft stroke, but this time it was lips and teeth and tongue driving his skin crazy.

He'd learnt, though. He arched his back under the other man, making the handcuffs rattle, wanting Hayden to talk, to tell him not to disobey the dom, yet it was only counterproductive. As his skin reached upward it touched more of Hayden's, from his chest to abs to navel, down to the erection now too close to Cillian's. He licked suddenly dry lips. "Hayden." Oh, God. Now he could feel those teeth running down his back, and he had to say it again. Had to get his attention. "Hayden ..." Okay, that sounded like a moan already.

Before Cillian could rebuke himself, Hayden laughed again, that delicious sound wedded to an action Cillian would remember - a rough hand in his hair, only just yanking his head upward. "I like it when you moan my name," were the words that came into Cillian's ears in that bloody sinful accent. "Do it again?" Hayden's tone lightened, now almost mesmerizing, like the lilt of a small child. Cillian had to work hard not to whimper as Hayden reached around his body, still rather roughly, fingers grasping. He felt the other man squeezing around his length so hard Cillian gasped in not-quite-pain, until he gasped again from sheer surprise - one of the handcuffs was undone. Then two. Then he was free. He didn't dare move or breathe, though he couldn't quite restrain a whimper of pleasure. The fact that Hayden would never hurt him, yet was almost doing so now, well. Cillian could barely speak, there was so much of his blood supply running south. Still. He tried, in a voice very akin to begging. "Hayden ..."

"Turn over." Hayden commanded quietly, even laying his hands on Cillian's shoulders to shift the body weight. Cillian could guess at that sexy little assertion of power now on the other man's face; he could imagine the pads of Hayden's fingertips digging into his length still. "I shouldn't do this, babe," Hayden murmured, squeezing between thumb and forefinger. Cillian had to moan. "I mean, I asked you not to talk, and you did." The tone was now Hayden's normal half sneer, but for one brief moment Cillian felt the terror that Hayden might actually stop what he was doing. "I said save your energy, and you didn't do that, either." Hayden's eyes are on Cillian's now; he's certain of that. "I should make you call me master or something. Though I doubt you're into that stuff."

Another hard squeeze on his length and Cillian instantly rethought his agreement of two seconds ago, expelling it in another moan of entreaty and pleasure. He knew in that moment he would happily call the other man "master" or anything Hayden pleased. Now, Cillian managed to commiserate with himself. If only he could speak.

He tried, but Hayden instantly cut him off, both with a gentle finger to the lips and the sharp noises of his limbs being re-tied to the bedposts. "Shhh, Blue Eyes ... I have to tell you, that in spite of you doing what you did." Hayden's hand was soft now, but the smirk was very audible in his voice. "I'm gonna do you a favour." With that Hayden abruptly rose off of him, his breath going laboured at the movement plus the hand gripping his own erection.

Cillian was lost, confused, until he felt the first delicate kisses on his chest. One of Hayden's curls tickled his sternum as the other man's mouth kept trailblazing. This was almost scary, how relaxing (yet breathtaking) he felt. He had to smirk to himself while coherent thought was still possible. Only Hayden could work him up and melt him in seemingly the same moment.

His whole body must have been rigid, though, because Cillian heard a whispered exhortation. "Shhh ... don't worry, Blue Eyes, you'll like this." A gentle collection of fingertips settled on his pelvic bone, trying to reassure. Not like Cillian needed it. Though the impulse to touch Hayden pretty much tripled as that sarcastic mouth lowered down onto him, shielding teeth so as not to mar this.

Cillian had read of the practice, even seen a film or twelve which included it. But he had never experienced this, so it was all he could do to keep every cell in his body from exploding. The very idea ... but Hayden's lips never seemed to cross the line, just touching and teasing at first. He'd obviously done this before, but that was fine with Cillian. Oh, God, more than fine. He had to moan, her left hand rattling the sturdy chain against the post as Hayden's tongue danced and teased around his length. The one drawback of this was that it kept Hayden quiet, but soon enough he hears the thick Irish dirty talk fall out of his own mouth.

Hayden settled finally into more of a rhythm, and after that, it was just too many sensations to count. Too many little licks in just the right spot, too many breaths he forgot to take. Cillian found himself in almost a haze, with his body relaxed and every nerve in his body focused on that gorgeous, talented, adored mouth. Master.

The climax hit with plenty of warning, but Cillian was still stunned (or would have been had he been capable of coherent thought) at its force. All the little whimpers and thrashings suddenly coagulated into one long, low almost-growl. Cillian would later swear the room spun.

Hayden eased off, catlike smirk in place as usual as he licked his lips, flicking the black mask off Cillian with an idle thumb. He didn't speak right away, just undid one cuff. Two. Three. Four. But it was Cillian who acted first, surprising himself, grabbing Hayden as the cuffs came off, pulling him in for a plundering kiss, so deep it made the room turn again. Maybe it was that his whole body still pleasantly throbbed. Maybe it was the sudden, damn-near-desperate urge to taste the other man. Maybe it was the quiet fact, Cillian admitted, that Hayden might as well have a box in which he kept Cillian's heart. In all honesty, he couldn't have possibly cared less.

"circle". lo, jh.

Wed, 27 Jul 2005 05:09:24 GMT

Title: "Circle"
Suggested for Reading: Original Soundtrack, Cold Mountain

St. Anthony's Hospital, just outside Athens, Georgia. Year: 1927.

As usual, it was pouring rain outside, and Lena could hear the metallic pling of hard raindrops as they hit loose roofing tiles on her way down the long halls. She knew it upset some patients, and she knew the hospital was losing money, and she also knew the administrators didn't care.

Sighing, she turned moodily back toward the rotunda, heading for the maternity ward, still ever watchful. Though she couldn't help but think longingly of Victor. Of course, he'd gotten to pursue the big city end of this contract. He was probably wining and dining New York society widows about now, while she stood guard here, incognito, to make sure their mark didn't come back for the loot he'd stashed here.

So far, her lycan eyes and ears had picked up nothing. Not a solitary whisper that the mark had ever been here, let alone stashed $2 million in gold bullion here. If Victor got the flashy kill again, well, she'd pout far longer than normally allowed. Lena paused, flexing her feet in her clunky shoes. They were horrible, but part of the nurse's uniform. She had to fit in here, of course, and the slightest variation might cause comment.

Like a bad moving picture, though, a tattered scream suddenly flew through the hall. Lena reacted instantly, grabbing in the pocket of the dowdy nurse's apron to make sure her gun was there, but retracted her hand immediately when she saw she'd run into the maternity ward. Laughing slightly at her own foolishness, she nonetheless edged into the room. It certainly never hurt to cover every possible angle.

The scream had come from one of the not-quite-newborn babies, third from left in the centre row of bassinettes. Lena had to chuckle at her own memories; her docile daughter sleeping peacefully in just such a setup in the hospital in Florence. This child was anything but docile, however; its tiny arms and legs looked like whirlwinds, kicking so hard as it cried. Perhaps a touch of colic, Lena decided. More memories. She threaded her way between the cribs and bent over, trying to read the name and sex on the chart.

A boy. Joshua Holloway. Hm. She picked up the child, rocking him gently as he cried, only dimly feeling the thuds of baby fists and feet as they kicked. It probably was colic; goodness knew enough children here in the rural areas picked it up. She ignored the ticking of automatic hands as the machines kept things regulated, murmuring quiet Swedish nonsense to the child.

Come to think of it, she recalled the mother from the admissions desk. A shadow of a woman, pale, alone and listless, not even complaining at what must have been horrendous pain. Joshua whimpered as Lena stopped walking, her mind trying to cast back and think more. She couldn't even recall the woman's first name, just the eyes. She began to walk again, still rocking the child, pacing slow circles around the room as it poured.

Eventually, the baby's sobs had descended to quiet whimpers, and Lena smiled to herself. She'd grown used to the sound of her own footsteps echoing in the paint-peeling room, but finally it died away as she laid Joshua back in the bassinette. He still looked fussy, but all was quiet. She somehow knew the boy would fall fast asleep, yet she waited until it had happened before she exited the room.

The trek back to the nurses' station was long and contemplative. When she arrived, Lena sat and looked up the last name in the card file of new patients. The name Holloway did not appear.

She looked to her right, to the long black file, with the red X daubed on top. She didn't want to look in there, somehow.

Lena rose without comment, feeling again in her pocket for her tiny snubnose, and headed back down the hall. The card file sat, unopened and alone, on the cluttered desk. She didn't want to be near it. Somehow, that would have ruined everything.

"androgyny." hc/cm.

Mon, 25 Jul 2005 03:57:44 GMT

Title: "Androgyny"
Suggested for Reading: Garbage, beautifulgarbage
Not like I think anyone will care, but this is more overtly slashy than I usually write, just fyi.

It was definitely a common scenario, maybe even cliche, but the irony was completely lost on Cillian. He was more consumed with the reality that he'd agreed to meet Hayden here. And that it was imperative he fit into the swirling mass of people.

He'd have been lying if he said he wasn't scared and fascinated at the same time. There was an absolute glut of people packed into the basement club; it felt to Cillian somehow alien, like he'd walked into Wonderland just off Soho Square.

He began to walk down into the place, forsaking the safety of his perch near the door. He'd dressed dangerously again, in low-slung trousers and a fitted tee - he'd even put on as much eyeliner as he deemed necessary. Clearly, it was the uniform of places like this. Cillian tried to keep his eyes to the ground as whistles caught his ears, and painted faces made eyes wink in his direction. Just get to Hayden, he thought repeatedly, face as blank and calm as though he were walking in a white room. Just get to Hayden. His ears were so red they could have lit the room, this he knew.

Just at the moment he stopped looking for it, he felt a leonine hand on his shoulder. "Blue Eyes."

Cillian turned around and frankly stared. Hayden looked ... well. The first word he'd thought of was angelic, but that didn't apply. The other man was dressed in black and white, with the light shirt clinging to his body while he looked as though he'd been poured into those trousers. He was sweating, but it only made the shirt cling more and the hair stand up where Hayden had run his knuckles through it. He'd added eyeliner and shadow to further darken an already dramatic face.

Hayden laughed, just once, but it was a long and predatory sound. "You look fucking hot."

"And you don't?" Somehow Cillian wasn't at a loss for words once Hayden spoke. Though he could feel his heart clogging up his voice box.

Hayden laughed again, but it was perfunctory. As though he had better things to do. He ran a hand through Cillian's now-damp dark mop. "I never saw you in eyeliner before ... would have thought you'd think it femmy."

Cillian shook his head, brain pleasantly whirling from marijuana smoke and arousal. "Seemed a part of the uniform here," he managed, leaning against the nearby wall.

"You clean up good." Hayden smiled, and Cillian realized belatedly that the other man was weaving just a little bit, but who cared. In vino veritas and all that. He opened his mouth to respond, but suddenly Hayden moved in, drawing him close with his back to the wall. "You don't usually dress this way." One unsteady finger stroked Cillian's cheek, leaving a trail of fire behind.

It was getting very hard to resist now. That impulse, as wild as anything Cillian had ever felt before, to admit that he was in the process of signing his heart over to this out-of-place flower child. Maybe he already had. All his impulses had become a bit more daring lately, come to think of it.

One of his hands snaked around Hayden, sensing how thin he was, coming to rest on a leather-clad arse. His voice barely carried over the music. "For you?"

The question was rhetorical; the kiss was unexpected and rough. Cillian's hands crawled up Hayden's back, under his shirt, touching definition, feeling the press of the other man's body, lips plundering. He felt Hayden's elegant neck dip to bite at his collarbone, and Cillian would have been thankful his gasp was lost in the crowd, had he still possessed the power of coherent thought.

He almost whimpered when Hayden's head rose, his lithe hands clenching a rhythm on Hayden's skin as if to compensate for the loss of velvet lips. He noticed the other man's eyeliner had smudged, but all Cillian could think of was the overpowering urge to dishevel Hayden quite a bit more than that. He switched positions, pushing at Hayden til he hit the plaster with a thunk. The other man leered and kissed Cillian again. It made his lips tingle, Cillian realised, sinking slowly to his knees, another different face in another different crowd.

"easy heart," hc/cm.

Thu, 21 Jul 2005 01:32:29 GMT

Title: "Easy Heart"
Suggested For Reading: Whiskeytown, Pneumonia

Ever since his contract came through, Hayden has inwardly marvelled at just what a palace he really lives in now. It's about as far away from his parents' home as he can remember. Not that he tries to remember much of it.

For now, he's spending a quiet evening at home, imbibing the scent of his new floors that smells like a car off the showroom floor, marvelling at the smooth, clean lines of all the costly furniture. But then there's a knock at the door. Somehow, every muscle in his leonine body tenses. It's a soft knock, a tentative knock, even; Hayden's soon smiling at his own paranoia. He'd wanted a little company tonight.

However, the Cillian on the other side of Hayden's new oak door looks "affrighted from his soul," as Shakespeare might say (Thank God he'd paid attention in school that day). Those normal ocean-blues of Cillian's now have a haunted, icy look, and one slightly ungainly hand grips the doorknob as if to remain upright. Hayden all but shoos him inside, closing and locking the door loudly to drive his point home without words. Here, at least as far as Hayden knows, Cillian is safe.

Cillian does seem to calm somewhat at the harsh sound. At the very least his eyes go from verging on panic to mere worry. He murmurs an apology, something about overreacting.

Hayden simply shakes his head; he still sees the tremors in the other man's fine-boned fingers. He pads down the polished hallway, ignoring it now, beckoning Cillian to follow into the kitchen. He opens the huge refrigerator, grabs a glass and pours - one small thing retained from his father is a belief in the curative qualities of whisky.

Cillian eyes the glass warily, but eventually downs it, coughing and choking amidst the occasional chest thump. However, there is some actual colour in those pallid cheeks when he sets the glass down. Hayden has to laugh at himself silently, and wonders what it is about Cillian that encourages mothering. The silence is still there, though, and he doesn't want this to turn into some chick-flick heart to heart. He does, however walk around the wood and stone island and put an arm around Cillian, leading him toward the living room.

Hayden might love his living room more than any other place on earth, actually. It's a place he's designed himself, down to every last stick of furniture. Thus, it's definitely his room - smooth and well tailored, bold colours, but nothing too crazy. Right now it keeps him on an even keel, however tempting it might be to freak out that Cillian's still shaking. It's only after he walks past the other man and sits (though more like flops) on a sturdy chair that he opens his mouth and asks what's wrong.

Of course, at first, Cillian laughs faintly and says he's fine, sounding about as alive as the automated voice on the London Tube. Obviously, Hayden doesn't buy it; those blues won't look at him. He murmurs a few "there there" platitudes and instantly hates himself for it.

Finally, though, Cillian seems to unbend, but it's obvious the effort costs him. He starts to talk, loosely and incoherently, filling Hayden's mind with acts of just complete savagery. It's pretty bad. But he's wrinkling his nose not at the descriptions, but at the messy visual of a man fighting off a nervous meltdown; watching this man fight this meltdown is like watching a dead man walk.

Still. Soon Hayden can't watch anymore and surprises himself by laying a nervous hand on Cillian's shoulder. But Cillian wrenches away, eyes still leaching pain. Hayden's got no choice but to watch now; his eyes are probably goddamned bug-eyed. And for just a minute, he fucking hates Cillian for forcing that.

Eventually, though., the animation ebbs from Cillian's mouth and he crashes onto the far end of the couch. Far from Hayden. But Hayden knows it's not going to stay like that, if only because he won't let it. He swallows his pride and lifts his weight onto his hands, scooting down the expanse of couch before settling next to the cushion Cillian is on. He's fully ready to badger Cillian into letting it all go, at least for tonight, and don't think that doesn't worry him.

However, Hayden doesn't need words; after the first sliver of a syllable has crossed his lips, Cillian begins to speak. Coherently, and at length. About Dame Noire, about Cate, about blood and murder and fear of a lot of different types. He's only cut off by his own yawn and apology.

Hayden just shakes his head, though; it's fine, let the bloke sleep. He snakes an unthinking arm around Cillian and is rewarded; the other man murmurs a sleepy thank-you and lets his head drop onto Hayden's shoulder.

Hayden looks around the room again, feeling the air moving around and Cillian's dark head slipping as sleep finally gets him. Hayden's fingers find that flyaway hair as the other man's head unconsciously settles in his lap. He stays that way for a very long time.

drabble - "breeze." ab.

Wed, 20 Jul 2005 21:50:53 GMT

Adrien's eyes are closed, as they’ve been for almost the entire trip. Whether with Kat - his wife, dear God - or as now, sitting in a chair on a sun-ripened balcony, he knows he's feeling a foreign concept - peace.

There's a slight breeze in the air - if he turned his head and opened his eyes, he could see the mountains, but he won‘t. He can hear soft Latin music from somewhere.

His wife walks outside in a bathing suit so brief it makes him blush. He catches her dark hand, tilts his head back, and smiles.

"lucky." jd/kk, for curlygurrl.

Wed, 20 Jul 2005 05:04:59 GMT

Title: "Lucky"
Suggested For Reading: Ben Folds, Rockin' the Suburbs
07.20.05

The sun is still up when Johnny returns home, unlocking the door and walking into the flat before realizing the state it's in. He rubs exhausted eyes fiercely with the heels of his hands - he's got to be hallucinating - but after he trips over a stacking cup, he's painfully aware that this is all real.

It looks like the place has been ransacked and robbed. Toys are everywhere; indeed it looks like someone took his kids' toy box and dumped it upside down. Couch cushions are on the floor, baby clothes scattered. Johnny feels the bile rise in his throat, only to feel it flip over to panic and fury in the next instant. How dare someone violate his home like this.

He keeps walking; somehow he can never run if he's terrified to find whatever lies at the end of the trail (and this definitely qualifies as terror). It does seem to be almost a trail; diapers crumpled underfoot, the scattered detritus of travelling bags. Johnny keeps following, a sense of loss already beginning to take root in his stomach. Belatedly he remembers his gun, wrenching it from the holster, hands shaking, safety on.

Eventually as he walks, Johnny's eyes focus on the half-cracked bedroom door. His face is calm, but he knows whatever did this probably ended in their bedroom. His and his wife's bedroom. Oh, fuck. He stands there for aeons before opening the door. Johnny's had to make peace with a lot in his lifetime, but it can't be the person who's done this. If the person's in the room, well, he'll will just have to disembowel the motherfucker.

He goes in low and tight, but not shooting. In fact, the gun soon winds up on the carpet, making a soft thunk as it lands. Johnny laughs softly, both in amusement and chagrin at his own paranoia, as his eyes focus in the dark and catch the tableau on his bed.

His wife is happily asleep, eyes twitching faintly with the cool air from each pass of the revolving fan. Keira's clothes look rumpled, and at least one shoulder is covered in baby food. His kids are on their stomachs, breathing noisily against their mother's chest, held there in the crooks of her elbows. They're dressed crazily, like refugees from Wonderland, missing socks, clashing colours, sweaters buttoned wrong.

Johnny lets them sleep, closing the door with a faint smirk. He gets to cleaning up the flat, and for some reason, he's actually feeling blessed to have the opportunity.

"if i were brave." cg.

Tue, 12 Jul 2005 14:36:10 GMT

Title: "If I Were Brave"
Suggested For Reading: Shawn Colvin, A Few Small Repairs
07.11.05

It's approximately 1.30am, and the London tube is deserted. That suits Crispin Hellion Glover just fine. He stands, back straight (though he is not some sort of martinet), briefcase resting between his feet, waiting for the train to come and whisk him home to Charing Cross as on every other night. He could be an executive or undertaker in his stout, severe blacks and greys.

He checks his pocket watch, thin lips pursed in slight irritation. Six minutes late; in the meantime there is a hemoglobin experiment at home getting disastrously stale. Even the young couple to Crispin's left look exasperated now, he notes; they've left off with their nauseating display of public affection. 'Darling' and 'sweetheart' indeed.

And yet, Crispin's fangs do not emerge; his limbs do not propel themselves into gangly yet restrained movement. Instead he simply ignores them, deciding to be polite and gravely tipping his bowler to a woman who's just come onto the platform. Ah, distraction.

Out of the corner of his eye, Crispin sees her eyebrow raise, then sees her recede back out of his line of vision, now merely a phantasmic voice in his left ear. There is a burst of jagged laughter. His eyes narrow, and it escalates. He is honestly not sure what to do now, and it shows in minute ways. One dark gloved hand clenches around the stalk of his umbrella (grey, of course), though he does not hear the wooden frame snap like a madman.

But by then, the opportunity for satisfaction is past - the woman climbs aboard the newly materialized train, the doors of which close so fast Crispin is left standing dumbly on the platform, watching the retreat of both prey and transport.

He stays there for some time, eyes slightly widened, mouth slightly agape, as if struck by lightning. He wants to show London what they trifle with, to show them what sort of things the Monster of Spain is capable of. Yet as the southbound train pulls in on the opposite platform, his eyes fix on a new life form. At least from afar, it does appear that it could solve his temporary problems. And he's content to stay there and watch; more so as he's gotten older.

There is a certain familiar sway to her walk, down to the intricate high heels. The woman is a dark night, a vision of head to toe black, hair and all. She even carries a black Gladstone bag as a tastefully retro briefcase, though Jack the Ripper she's not. Crispin recalls that case, smirking to himself at the humans' fancies, yet he happens to notice the note of cream and satin as the dingy flourescent lights bounce off the skin where her sleeve and glove bisect. God, even after she'd tried to kill him, she's still the one he aspires to more than anyone he's known. He watches for as long as he can, enjoying the casual voyeurism, knowing it's likely all he'll get from her.

The next northbound train finally wheezes into the station, and Crispin boards, setting his briefcase down and finding a window where he can watch her for those few more precious seconds. Just as the train is ready to leave, the woman's hood slips off her head, and she stops to fix it, patting long coppery red hair back into place, the tattoo of a star clearly visible now as her sleeve slips up her right arm. She takes a glove off to fix her hood, and Crispin can see the spider veins and signs of human aging on once-beautiful, thin hands.

As the train leaves, he sits down in his seat, briefcase again between his feet, hands clasped quiescently in his lap. He feels nothing so much as foolish.

N.B. Yes, Kate, this is my original C/C idea, but as I said, the thing mutated a little. *G*

"an ode to foxglove." vg/lo.

Fri, 17 Jun 2005 04:00:38 GMT

Title: "An Ode To Foxglove"
Suggested For Reading: Molly Johnson, Just Another Day
06.16.05

The stage was, as they say, set. Victor checked his measurements for the fifth time before finally replacing the pouch of foxglove in his pocket. Right here at the seat of Swedish government was a delicate place to kill a man. But he'd been well paid to have Count Gunnar out of the way before the new government came into power. For all the zeros at the end of that cheque, Victor would risk it.

For now he stood around looking bored, though, keeping an eye on the dinner tray he'd just poisoned without appearing to do so. These balls were horribly boring, but it was a price one had to pay. He could certainly be far worse places. Places that didn't have free food and an abundance of things to look at. He just had to eye that dinner tray, then act shocked when Gunnar fell. Simple as could be.

The lilting waltz fell on his ears as he ambled round the perimeter of the room. Women in full skirts brushed past him, laughing slightly. Men wore tuxedoes and monocles. Victor couldn't stop a faint sneer of distaste. Blue blooded was one thing he never aspired to be, even in playing a part. There was an innate snobbery he couldn't (and wouldn't) fake.

Gunnar would be his ... thirty-seventh? Was it so many already? Who knew. Victor had been trained by the best, proficient in his art - and it was an art form - to the point of being feared. No one knew his name, nor his roots. Occasionally he'd hear himself be called the Victor, as in, the one who received the spoils. It was apt, Victor had to admit.

As he turned back from the window, a bubbling, wavered scream jumped over the din in the room. Victor blinked, events happening too fast as he cut through the crowd. "I'm a doctor, I'm a doctor," he lied, pushing past fainting matrons and politely gobsmacked men. He had to get Gunnar's body out of the room before anyone thought of testing it for digitalis. That might upset his client considerably.

One woman caught his coat tail as he approached the ring of people around the prone body. "Thank heaven, sir; she just took a bite and dropped. Thank heaven you're here!"

.... She? Victor nodded, easing past, to see two things he detested. Firstly, Count Gunnar was one of the faces he saw in the front row of the throng, looking concerned. Secondly, he was peering down at the body of a prone woman, the wreckage of his carefully doctored dinner plate providing a neat counterpoint of broken porcelain.

Bugger.

Victor knelt, pushing the audience back genteelly with a look. The woman looked about his age (or his age, were he human). Long brown hair, the colour of spoilt honey; hands just beginning to show the spider veins of human aging. Willowy body, clothed in yards of purple silk, accented with a light, perfumed scent. She was, he realised, quite beautiful. But that dose of foxglove would have killed a human thrice over.

Bugger.

He sighed; best deal with this, then track Gunnar to his home and kill him there. It would mean a lot of extra work. He should have watched that dinner plate like a hawk, discretion be damned. Carefully he readied his knees beneath him, picking up the prone woman in one motion. "Does anyone know where her room is? I'd best set her down somewhere she can stay before I start to work."

One of the men pointed up toward the elevator. "Third on the left, fourth floor."

Victor thanked the man and set off with his burden, though she was really very light. Certainly no trouble. He couldn't stop castigating himself, however. How could he have gotten distracted? Now Gunnar still walked, and he'd killed this rather lovely woman.

Of course, however, as that thought crossed Victor's mind, the woman stirred faintly. He blinked - perhaps death throes? But no, her eyes were opening. How was that possible? There'd been enough foxglove in there ...

His train of thought broke temporarily as he manoeuvred the door open by kicking at the bottom corner; though the woman appeared to still be among the living, Victor didn't want to ask her to do anything physical like move to lift the knob. Ignoring the room's opulent furnishings, he deposited the woman in a bundle of satin and tulle on top her coverlet. He looked over her body clinically, eyeing her noble jaw structure, her lithe hands and full lips with a doctor's eye.

Finally, after an indeterminate amount of time, he spoke to her, noting the absence of dilation in her pupils. "I'm sure you're curious as to where you are. You're in your room, after having fainted during the Government Ball. My name is Victor Garber. I have some medical knowledge, so I was asked to look in on you."

He had spoken Swedish, taking a guess by her colouring and carefully kept hands and skin. It proved correct; the woman responded in the same language, albeit weakly. Still, the accents were strong. "Mr. Garber. My name is Lena Olin; it's a pleasure. However, I didn't faint; my entree tasted of foxglove."

Victor blinked in unadulterated shock. Not many humans knew of the plant, never mind that it was poisonous. "I ... beg your pardon?"

Lena chuckled, still somewhat weak, but sounding better by the moment. "Foxglove. Digitalis. Surely you know of it? In my line of work I employ it often."

Suddenly, after hearing those accents and that laugh, plus the decaying scents buried somewhere in the room, it all clicked. Victor matched that chuckle after a moment, shaking his head. "I've been unutterably dense tonight, Miss Olin. Your origins didn't register in my brain until just now."

Lena laughed, which Victor actually appreciated; a lesser woman would have tried to offer kind yet obfuscating explanations. Best to admit mistakes and rectify them. "Well, Mr. Garber, I am a lycan. As, judging from the scent and tint of your eyes, are you."

Hence the reason the foxglove didn't kill her. Hence the reason she seemed to be radically improving already. Something made him smile at her. "Victor. Please."

It was clear from her blink that she hadn't expected that; perhaps she was in a similar line of work to his. Manners were rare amongst contract killers. "Call me Lena, then."

Victor took her hand and kissed it, and watched her smile. It was really quite beguiling. Hm. Perhaps he could subcontract his kill for the night? "A pleasure. Though I wish it could have been in better circumstances."

"Likewise. Though I feel all right now." Lena nodded, running her fingers against one another idly as her head tilted with the yawn of the tower of pillows. However, Victor saw her hand stop its motion suddenly. She murmured slightly as she pinched a thumb and forefinger together. But it seemed to be nothing, for she laid back again.

He rose. "I should go and let you be. "Recuperate," for the humans' benefit." Victor smiled, but it was the smirk of a conspirator rather than a polite stranger.

"I will, though I'll go mad if I sit here too long." Lena nodded, returning the rather demure smile, which amused Victor more. This was no sweet little maid.

As he turned for the door, Lena stopped him. "Two things, Victor?"

"Yes?"

"Firstly. The door is booby-trapped; don't touch the knob. Silver." Lena's eyes were the colour of a sparsely lit dance floor. "And secondly, I will see you downstairs."

Victor nodded to the first, and outright smirked at the second. And he got the last word, too; a lucky bonus, much like other events of the evening. "Somehow I think you're the type of woman who succeeds in the goals she sets." He didn't turn back, but he just knew. She was smirking as he headed back off down the distant hallway.

"god only knows." vg/lo.

Fri, 10 Jun 2005 03:41:16 GMT

Title: "God Only Knows"
Suggested For Reading: Holly Cole, Shade
06.09.05

Victor always liked the pattern of light shining through the ceiling of their flat in London. The old, overpainted wood and dingy glass felt homey to him.

He stood in the kitchen, idly poking through the refrigerator for a drink. But his ears picked up more than the usual creaks and settling of the grande dame of a building. There was a scratching, a rhythmic sound that Victor couldn't quite place. And something musical, yet it was too rough to be only a CD. Under-the-breath singing?

Beer forgotten, he padded noiselessly into the pantry between the kitchen and the living room, a hand on the trim, ready to shift at a moment's notice. Had the Stasi finally broken the door down? But as the door opened, the sound seemed to crystallize, and he smiled at his own foolishness for not knowing it before.

Lena had her back to him, hair tied up and broom in hand, sweeping under the armchairs, behind the weapons cupboard, et cetera. Her movements were languid, as if she was moving through water. And under her breath she was singing along with the CD player, a nearly perfect echo, though lacking a little. It was a song Victor knew.

His mind flashed back to a thousand places: Spain, before that incident in Pamplona; Turkey and their honeymoon; their wedding in Ireland. His wife had always possessed an innate grace, ever since he'd laid eyes on her that day in Stockholm. Despite the foxglove poisoning. And watching her slow dance with the broom made Victor grin at the seriousness of it all in her eyes. She never seemed to quit making him smile.

Victor walked into the room, feet still noiseless, though he'd long since learnt the frequencies which wouldn't disturb Lena's hearing. He couldn't help but sing along with the tune - hey, it was catchy. Besides, it alerted her to his presence, thus avoiding any unnecessary bloodshed. They'd been through that problem far too many times already.

Lena did hear her husband, turning around, still singing in a quiet, lilting tone. Victor just smiled, catching her in his arms where she belonged. She burrowed, just like those times in Rome when she'd been scared for Jennifer. But he didn't want to think of her crying. So he just kissed her.

She returned it, of course, her mouth gentle and quiescent against his. As her head rested against the protrusion of his collar bone, Lena murmured one of those pleasant expressions in Swedish, the ones that sounded like alphabet soup and meant heartfelt things. Victor smiled, echoing the sentiment in strangled pronunciation, slow dancing with his wife over the dropped broom and dustpan of ashes.

"whispering." jb. alias, 200 words. for sadsadmonkey.

Tue, 07 Jun 2005 23:42:59 GMT

I am not a tactile person. At least not at this point. My vision is more taken by sounds; immediate indications of my environment. Yet there are times, of course, when that inclination can come back to haunt me.

The faint sounds of Mozart from above. A swish of purple fabric.

She looked confused when I accused her of attempted murder. That should have been a clue. Irina will deny or accept. Never dodge. And that was the final straw; the last push toward a manipulated act of madness. Though not before I touched her. Reassuringa myself, I suppose.

The soft ping of the champagne bottle meeting glass. Heels on a tiled floor.

I can say it now that Yelena is dead - it was an astonishingly good double. Down to every detail, she felt like my wife. Whoever that woman was. Hm. Ironic.

I think what I did was because of how guileless she looked. With what I know now, it's obvious that that was an act; careful artifice probably designed by Yelena Derevko. But it was maddening. She was absolutely silent. Until the bullet hit her forehead.

A soft laugh. That poisonous splash as she hits the water.

Drabble, "Cigarette." EH.

Tue, 07 Jun 2005 04:44:54 GMT

katernater I told you I'd post this, so voila. *L* But now I gotta go bed. *G*

Long thin hands holding a filter, the paper next to jutting knuckles and a palm that's been scarred and healed too many times. You can see the smoke kind of spiralling out of his curled up fingers and away into a streetlamp or bar candle like a moth. The smoke might rise into his ruffled hair, or maybe that little goatee he insists on keeping. His teeth are probably slightly stained but in the dark, you can't tell. All you could see would be those fucking amber cat eyes through a bluish haze, and a slight flash of tainted cream when Ethan would crack a smile.

"shiva." jd. for curlygurrl.

Mon, 30 May 2005 00:45:23 GMT

It's raining. That's the only thing Johnny's conscious mind seems to be able to process. He's been lying here, sheets entwined around his lower legs, staring at the ceiling for about twenty minutes now. Just your typical morning in Jerusalem. Except it never rains in Jerusalem.

He gets out of bed finally, shrugging into something old and moth-eaten. Anna is on his mind today. Well. Like she isn't on any other. But today he can almost smell her in the room: the rosemary her father burned constantly for luck; the certain brand of makeup she would use, most of which would wind up on him after a vision.

Eh. Johnny shrugs, lacing his shoes. Least it isn't death he smells.

Thunder plays its own symphony in the background as he opens the top bureau drawer, going for his copy of the Talmud. Anna gave him that. Carefully he picks it up with dirty hands, dropping it into the lined inner pocket of his jacket. It's already crinkled and faded, but he draws the line at getting actual dirt on it. For some reason he can see Anna smiling at the little book's signs of constant use.

He closes and locks the door, stepping out into the street with barely a blink at getting suddenly drenched. It's just water, after all.

Apparently the rest of the city disagrees, though. If Johnny cared more about his surroundings, he would take the time to notice the desolation. Doors are closed, shop windows are unevenly shuttered. The whole city is either in their homes, or at temple, church or mosque. Johnny, however, is a man on the proverbial mission, so he isn't seeing the silence. His mind conjures up images both soporific and dreamlike, complete with familiar sounds and smells. Occasionally there's even the wisp of a black hijjab caught by a gust of wind in the corner of his eye. He isn't stupid enough to believe Anna's there with him, though. No matter how bad he might want the gift, he hasn't quite figured out how to delude himself that fully yet.

Finally, after numerous twists and turns (the Jewish Quarter is a maze even on sunny days) Johnny comes face to face with the Wall. True to his memories, it's almost completely deserted except for one wizened, silent shape, neither moving nor speaking. He dons the yarmulke, feeling its felt squish against his soaked hair, and plunks down on one of the utilitarian wooden chairs always left there. It's warped from the rain, the smooth pine distorting against its metal frame. Johnny knows that feeling.

Out comes the copy of the Talmud, carefully held inside the perimeter of the raincoat to keep it in one piece. But soon Johnny decides it's a ridiculous gesture. He already knows the prayers by heart.

He bows his head, though it isn't really a gesture of reverence; hell, he just wants the water out of his eyes. First he recites the Shabbos prayer for that day, the Hebrew falling from his lips like the passage of time. The prayer is appropriate; a lonely, desolate image. For the first time Johnny looks up from the ancient brick and realises just how alone he is.

Though it's sobering, he's got no choice but to ignore it. He holds the Talmud copy tightly through his pocket, so tightly he can hear the embossed cover break against his palm. He starts to say kaddish, his tone covering the sound of cracking bindery.

Kaddish is the prayer for the Jewish dead, and it has many components. Johnny sits there for some time, clasping the Talmud like it's a direct link to Anna, the steps of the prayer following one after the other. He knows that technically it's incorrect to say kaddish outside of a funeral, but it's justified. Johnny holds onto the words like a child to a balloon string, feeling the gold-leafed Hebrew pages start to congeal into a solid, clenched mass as his hand grows tighter still.

Finally he goes silent. Everything's as it has been. Still raining. The old shape a few feet away still hasn't moved. But at least he got here. He said goodbye. Yes, it's melodramatic, Johnny knows this. But so is love. So is losing love.

He rises, shaking the moisture from his hair like a wet dog, knowing it won't make any difference, but doing it anyway. He has to hope that isn't a parallel with prayer as he calmly disappears. As he's halfway home, he remembers to unclench his hand.

untitled as of yet. czj. jh.

Wed, 18 May 2005 02:11:26 GMT

I have no clue where this comes from, but I like it.

The street light hits the bottle of whisky before it touches anything else, but Josh is already awake, looking into another vampiric dawn. He's got a sensitivity to light; really, a sensitivity to everything, now that he's on his own again. He grabs the bottle and swigs, feeling the cheap shit burn like cough syrup. But it's enough to kick-start his wobbly legs.

It's the same routine every day: rise, scratch himself, shrug into trousers, and go splash his face with water to make it feel like something other than the siren call of booze has woken him up. It succeeds about a third of the time, but Josh doesn't care. Especially not today. It's been three years to the day since his wife died, and it will be hard enough not to wallow in his own pain, let alone in Macallan or Black Jack.

The phone rings, and Josh curses, lifting a cracked hand to pick up the receiver. Probably his fuckwit boss. "Hello, it's Hartnett." He's been in Rome since he and Diane left Janus and had the twins, but he still doesn't have enough Italian to order red wine at a restaurant. Diane always teased him about it.

The voice on the other end, however, laughs genteelly, a mixture of lordliness and cloves. "Hello, Josh."

For a moment, he can't speak; he's got no fucking words. Josh knows the voice on the other end of the line, almost as well as he knew his own wife's voice. At times he can still hear her silky vocals penetrate his brain. It occurs to him eventually that he should possibly speak her name. "Catherine."

He can hear her smile. "Good. You do remember me." The sounds of her making herself comfortable float down the line into Josh's eyes.

He shifts in his own seat, shoulders pointed downward. "Stop it." This is pure throwaway Catherine; a line of small talk painted to calm the subject of her eventual strike. Josh is certain, she hasn't changed that much in so few years. He has to ask. "What are you doing nowadays?"

"Nothing much different than when I saw you last, I'm afraid. Though Budapest has been placed on the list of travel warnings for lycans." Catherine's tone is full of carefully managed emotions. Josh has to marvel; she always did have a taste for theatricals. "But I need to ask something of you that I dislike having to ask."

Josh blinks. Her, asking for his help? Something makes him tease. "Bit of a reversal from the old days, huh?" Fuck. Of course, Josh's first visions on thinking of those days in Budapest are of his wife.

It's kind of comforting, then, that Catherine reacts as she always did. "I admit having your expertise in this situation would be extremely valuable." Her tone, Josh notes with a nostalgic smile, could freeze lava. "But when I detail to you what the situation is, you may balk at assisting me in this hunt. I would not blame you."

"You know I don't shy away from a fight." Josh's tone is scornful, not stopping to evaluate just how much denial is in that statement. "What exactly is up?"

Catherine pauses before answering; not, however, to snap at him, Josh notes. "An old presence has resurfaced in Budapest. One of my bitterest foes ... someone you have an intimate acquaintance with."

Josh's muscles tense the moment he hears the soft wince after using the expression intimate acquaintance. His voice is soft, almost tractable. "I thought he was dead, Catherine."

"So did I." Her voice is just bitter, full of regret at a missed opportunity. Nothing more.

Josh swallows. "What do you need me for? Surely you've got people you can use concerning Hawke?" The name leaves his lips for the first time in God knows how many years. It hasn't lost its aftertaste.

"I need expertise." Catherine says simply, in the way that only she could possibly get away with. "I need someone Hawke knows, I need to know the patterns of his repulsive little mind."

Josh, frankly, reels. Not physically; he'd never do that. But suddenly he needs to touch someone. Reassure himself that his quiet little life with his wistful dreams of Diane and his kids hasn't gone up in smoke any more than it's done already. "Are you out of your fucking mind?" She needs bait is what she needs.

"No." Damn her, it's that sane, reasonable tone, Josh thinks savagely. But then she just keeps on. "You're as close as we will ever get to understanding how that thing thinks."

The thing is, he knows damn well she's right. Not like Ethan fucking Hawke would ever unburden himself to one of his victims. But Josh has seen the beast ... read his eyes. He's seen what goes on in that head. Much to his regret.

Of course, Catherine can read minds. "I know ..." Her tone drops to subterranean levels, but it's still the same. "I know it's a horrible thing I'm asking. But don't you want revenge, Josh? Don't you want to wipe the dog from the globe once and for all? Kill him slowly? Send him to suffer the torments of hell?"

"Yes." Josh snaps almost immediately on the heels of her plea. And it is a plea, he knows, but he doesn't dare mention that aloud. It's a calculated plea, as usual, and it works. He'll rationalise later ... all he knows is that Catherine hasn't lost her touch. He can see her right now (through the thoughts she's sending him?), in her burgundy chair (though he knows it was destroyed probably years ago). Both hands are gripping the phone with even paler knuckles than usual. "I'll do it ... don't fucking ask me why, but I'll do it." It's a lie, though; he's doing it for his own sanity as much as for her and her eyes.

He can hear the rustle of silk as Catherine sits back into her chair or couch. Knowing her, probably a couch, soft as rabbit fur. "Good," is all she says, and that softly. "Come to Budapest."

"Now?" Josh blinks; she can't be serious. It's barely dusk out there.

"Go to Fiumicino Airport. Hangar fourteen." Catherine's voice has a thin layer of amusement over a core of command. "Ask for Ede."

After the ups and downs of emotions, all Josh can do is take another swig of Macallan and laugh. "You know what? I'll be there."

"Good." Catherine's tone is serpentine. The old shiver nestles in his bones like it never left. "The plane should land at Ferihegy within three hours. I will see you in four and a half."

She hangs up without a goodbye, leaving Josh to stare at the phone as though it'll give him answers of its own accord. Still. Better to hunt one of his malevolent ghosts than live with the ones who'll simply drive him insane.

Sun, 20 Mar 2005 02:35:29 GMT

My dear Petrovna,

I do hope that all is well at my ancestral home. I have heard no word of Pavel since last Eastertide, which greatly disturbs me. But at least I have you to console me. How fare my mother and father? I am sure mother is involved in half the wartime societies in St. Petersburg. It is a sign of normalcy if she is, you may rest assured.

And you, Petrovna? What are you passing the hours with? Are you living in our library? Are you perfecting your English, learning Shakespeare to quote the time away? I am sure the time goes faster than it does here. I have been in the military for many of my years on this earth. And yet I have never seen it like this.

The other day, we were going for a push. And in the midst of the fighting I witnessed a boy. A boy, Petrovna, of no more than thirteen. He had clearly lied about his age to join the tsar's crusade. And he lay there, trying to pretend he had died, but I know the signs ... he was pretending. Praying for the bullets to detonate overhead and leave him there. I do not know what he imagined he would do when he returned to the barracks. But one of our own officers saw him after I did. And you can imagine how that ended.

I grow weary of this. If this will truly be the War to End All Wars, so be it. If not, well, I fear for our future. And it is, at least, ours.

All my love,
Vassilievich

"if there is a chance." jack bristow/irina derevko. alias.

Wed, 09 Mar 2005 05:16:04 GMT

I know I said no drunkentoaster smut, but, well, you still didn't get a say. ;-) Happy late birthday, Figgy dear. *G* This happens after the last episode of Alias.

In a fit of incongruity, they had chosen a hiding place right in the centre of downtown Los Angeles. The old double bluff had worked so far - Jack simply had such a reputation for secrecy. Though the world knew, Jack wasn't exactly rational about the thing that was being hidden.

Like clockwork he walked into the busy hotel, though it was more of an amble than his normal decisive stride. He didn't look at anyone, slouching his shoulders as he headed for an elevator. He didn't even run to make himself visible so the chatty tourists would hold the opulent elevator.

Eventually he got to the twelfth floor, shoes noiseless on the thin carpet. He knew the door would be unlocked - Irina always did believe herself invulnerable.

Indeed the door was open. Unsettling how easy that prediction had come. Jack walked into the room, looking around for her until he heard the pointed sound of running water. Oh, hell.

He called out, edging toward the bathroom door, speaking German (which he knew she still understood). "Anya?" Using one of her old aliases. It wouldn't do to speak Russian, much call her by her name.

The response was instant; the abrupt elimination of the flow of water; the harsh, Germanic "Ja?" in reply. "One moment," Irina called in German. Jack sat down gingerly on her (huge!) unmade bed to wait.

It was a few moments, more like, but Irina appeared eventually, hair dry and wrapped in an enormous towel. "I hadn't expected you so early." It wasn't an apology; Irina never casually apologised.

Jack just shrugged. "We need your help." That was not an admission he could possibly make lightly.

And Irina knew it. She sat down next to him, easing herself down like a cat. "You need my help, or you need my help?" The subtlest little hint in her voice tweaked him. Still.

Jack just looked at her. "To say 'we' assumes that someone besides myself and yourself is aware you're alive."

For the barest instant, he saw the frustration on her face at having to be reminded of that fact. But she recovered, of course; shaking her hair out rom under the towel, hoping to act disinterested. "What do you hope I know?"

A lot, actually. Jack made it simple, watching her carefully. "The Cadmus Liberation Front."

"It's an offshoot of the Covenant, what of it?"

Well, at least he seemed to have her attention now. "They hired Anna Espinosa to retrieve a chemical bomb. Which she, along with Sark, have now taken. Ostensibly for themselves." He didn't think any of that surprised her, but then again, he wasn't looking at her face.

She took a moment to reply. Jack wondered what she was hiding, or if it was just instinct. "The CRF, last I heard, was incredibly weak. If they hired Anna, she wouldn't be all that impressed with them. The temptation for her to go freelance is great."

"True." He rose, needing to pace. "But the crux o the matter is, what do we ask her to discover whether she has or not? I mean, it isn't as if she'll simply tell us her plans. Or if she isn't freelance, who she's working for."

Irina folded her legs under her on the bed, head cocked to once side. The implication, Jack saw, was certainly not lost on her. Anna Espinosa worked for few people. "You have Anna?"

"We do. And as of yet she's only said one thing that might prove illuminating." Jack looked down at Irina, suddenly more weary than businesslike. He had a damned good idea who Anna was working for, but somehow he wanted confirmation. If his hypothesis was true, for all her faults, Irina would see it. "She spoke of a sentinel watching out for her."

He saw, though she tried to hide, the whispers of reaction on her face. The only reason Anna would have taunted him with that was that she'd been to Moscow; she'd seen the lying slab of granite. Or someone there had already told her. "You have to take steps, of course," was all Irina said.

He risked saying it aloud. "Of course we do, but what I need to know is, what could we tempt Anna with to make her lead us to Yelena?" There. He'd said it. It was in the air now.

Irina actually faltered, though the cynic's part of Jack figured it was more from the knowledge of being beaten. Eventually she spoke again, calmly, though the vein behind her eye twinged. "Anna doesn't want anything but power." She rose to stand with him. How ironic. "And Yelena won't give it."

Very true, given their intel and intercepted chatter. Jack had to say something sarcastic; this was getting away from him. "Seems to run in our family." Our - what had he said that for? She already knew him not totally unaffected by her, but he didn't have to compound it.

Irina just looked at him for a long moment, but her voice was not calm enough when she answered. "Yelena cares only for money. Bait the trap quietly and expensively enough, and you'll attract her attention." Her hand clutched almost white-fisted at the knot in her towel. "Ask Anna about K-Directorate's business contacts. You'll surely find someone to trap her with."

"Well, besides you, of course." Jack did feel compelled to point that out. It sounded so simple - who better to trap a Derevko than another Derevko? - but he or anyone could see what it did to Irina.

They were close now, very close. Jack could smell the antiseptic scent of her shampoo, could feel the gooseflesh from the air. "Just trap her, please." Irina's tone was ugly; equal parts silk and broken glass. "I'm tired of this."

Jack knew she meant the hiding, the inactivity, but she could have spoken in generalities. For all her faults Jack knew Irina Derevko was not cut out to be a cat's paw. So he simply kissed her - out of sympathy or apology or a desire to surprise, he had no idea. None of which he would ever admit.

Irina reacted as he'd thought, and yet she didn't. Her mouth landed against his, at first just there, then matching his own for intensity. He tangled his hands in her hair, ignoring the slivers of damp that trickled down his forearms. He felt Irina's arms wrap around his waist; feeling the tension in her muscles and tendons. Moving his hands down, he kneaded at the back of her neck with one set of fingers, while the other slipped under the towel covering her back. He heard Irina's tiny moan, but he didn't feel the towel slip until she had his tie and jacket off.

She had always been fond of feminine claws, and he had been expecting them. Still. It didn't mean he didn't hiss when he felt her nails dig into his back. Jack's hand dropped further, pushing her into the far wall firmly, feeling only the thud as they hit; neither the neighbour pounding on the wall or the beating of Irina's own heart registered that much.

Her movements were sharp; her hands short and desperate to go with his own carefully clinical motions as he balanced her between his hips and the wall. Irina grabbed like a grappling hook, fingers unconsciously clinging. Her mouth sought his again, strangely soft, but strong. He wouldn't have expected the cliche from her.

Her body was the same beautiful thing it had always been, Jack thought dispassionately as he bent his head to insert expert teeth into her skin at that one spot on her collarbone. Irina's back fairly arched, but even now she played dirty. How had she recalled that one knuckle directly up his spine, even through material ...

No matter. Irina slid herself further up his body, and he slid inside her, and somehow the brain experienced a very strange sort of electric shock.

Irina, as usual, gave no breathiing room. He felt her ankles lock around his torso as they slid together, her arms wrapped around his neck. It was quick, but not haphazard; sharp, but surprisingly not cruel. Then again, even as Laura she'd been desperate in the bedroom. Comforting to know even Irina had habits. Yet he hadn't seen this coming.

Jack fairly shuddered as Irina angled herself just right atop him, and he caught the tail end of a smirk as vision returned. It would have made his blood boil before. Now he simply retaliated, pressing her into the wall, his hands tangling harder and deeper in her hair.

Tilt happened fairly quickly after that, around the same time as Irina. She was quiet, like always. He couldn't recall his own reaction.

Eventually Irina found her legs, looking up at him all but silently. "Find her. I'm asking."

Jack nodded. No segues or clarification required. She knew he'd do it, of course, but if he did, at least part of it would be for her. Damn. What else could he do but turn to go?

Irina picked up her towel and simply watched, as natural as ever. He half expected her to offer some parting salvo, but she stood where she was. As he knotted his tie, though, she pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, and disappeared. Jack kept that tang in his senses as he shuffled back down the long hallway.

Fri, 11 Feb 2005 01:16:26 GMT

I'm going to take a page from Joelle and write a drabble a day. I figure it can't hurt.

Eric ambled surefooted down the Via Appiana, not so much unafraid as willfully unaware. The whores hooted and catcalled; the pimps and puppies hissed, sinking back into their cowardly darkness whimpering. But of course, they couldn’t tell he was watching them.

In fact, he wasn’t. The colorless eyes behind the pointless sunglasses were fixed on a gaunt figure with a self-satisfied strut, about a block ahead. He needed information. And Glover always had a smug way of walking. He’d pick the man out of seven thousand in the same suit.

At least he was alone. The monochromatic woman wasn’t there.

"wayfaring stranger." (vv)

Sun, 16 Jan 2005 21:52:33 GMT

Title: "Wayfaring Stranger"
Suggested For Reading: The "Cold Mountain" soundtrack
01.15/16.05

The figure on the hill was immortal in the sense he could not die of natural causes. He had never known disease, unless one counted the savage thing on permanent exhibition in his head. He would only die because of lucky aim or a simple want to throw himself onto something sharp.

Right now, though, he was surrounded by maddeningly soft angles. The Apennine hills lazed around him; the figure felt almost caressed instead of beaten. He didn't know what to make of it, in all honesty.

Still, he came down from the hills like the man from the mountain. The figure hefted his few belongings, feeling the pack on his shoulders, hoping the smell of blood didn't follow him too closely. He'd found number sixty-two earlier that week. And out of the sixty-seven men from Broadmoor Asylum and Hospital that he'd hunted down and killed, this one had taken the most showers to erase completely.

He liked killing. Sue him. It was as if God was giving him a blank cheque toward evening shit up. Feeling the skin give under his bare claws ... well. Only time he really felt immortal.

Fucking Jack Allen, though. Fucking bastard who'd looked at him with fear and righteousness, firmly convinced that to torture the "beast" all those years ago had been right. As if he'd been able to help being born a fucking lycan, or to help the way lycans stayed alive. Vince had enjoyed killing the man, but for some reason he'd left the body in more pieces than usual.

He hugged the road leading out of the Roman foothills, staying silent. No point in drawing attention to himself. That would happen soon enough. Though he did have to smile at one of the dark-haired girls giving him the eye as he walked onto some random street. Maybe he'd double back to her later. He did need the old ashes hauled. And he might not even kill her this time. Who knew. For now, he needed somewhere to flop, and somewhere to plan. Could be the same place. Rome had a lot of killing to be done in such a small space.

The figure didn't smile, even as he scented fresh vampiric ash in the air. He had to wander til he found it. It was just the rule.