[the princess of the paupers.] (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lookslikelove) wrote2010-06-08 05:57 pm
lookslikelove) wrote2010-06-08 05:57 pm
[meme| the cross-a-drabble meme]
rules. (lovingly lifted from
![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif){kind=small}
ineffort)1. write a drabble.
2. make it a crossover.
3. post it in a comment here with the following subject line: title, fandom/fandom, pairing or characters, rating.
4. beware of spoilers! they may be lurking here.
5. leave feedback for one and all! tis good for your karma (and gives you endorphins).
6. have fun, my darlings.
7. SPREAD IT LIKE AN STD (or pimp it like a whore or something), SI VOUS PLAIT? ♥
Magician's Assistant, Coraline/Harry Potter, George Weasley/Coraline Jones, Rated 15 for innuendo.
Fandom/Fandom: Harry Potter/Coraline
Pairing: George Weasley/Coraline Jones
Rating: 15
Notes: After leaving school and after the war Coraline gets pulled into one of George's new endeavours after losing a bet to her least favourite Gryffindor. Now the pair are travelling the country with a Muggle circus performing as a 'Magical Act' with George pretending to be a Muggle magician and Coraline portraying the ever so lovely Magician's assistant. What could go wrong?
-
“Do you have to be here?” Coraline asked, lifting her arms up and glancing at George the Pervert, George the Idiot, George the wonderfu-Wanker! Coraline covered her chest self consciously and tried to tug down the outfit as the older woman slapped her hands away. “Shouldn’t you be off doing... I don’t know polishing your wand or something?”
“You offering to polish my wand Jones?” George asked grinning wickedly at her as the former Ravenclaw turned bright red. With Cora dressed to kill like that no one would be watching him or his hands. Really, Cora was the perfect assistant.
a place that feels like home. grey's anatomy/early edition, meredith grey/gary hobson, pg.
That had been the plan. The life of Meredith Grey had never gone according to plan. From a post-it wedding that went nowhere fast and a hellish set of days during her residency she more than jumped at the chance to do her fellowship any place other than Seattle.
The hospital is different. A different color scheme, all open plan and water features, windows and doors that separate one area from another. It’s so new that she nearly loses herself both literally and figuratively on during her orientation. Badge in hand, paperwork filed in HR and she heads to the place that she’s been told is a staff favorite. An evening amongst strangers with a bit of tequila has never served her wrong and it is a happier prospect than unpacked boxes and cold pizza.
Sitting on a stool, she flags down the bartender and orders a double of tequila, any type, hold the ice.
Looking down at the tumbler in her hand, she pushes it back and forth gently between her palms. It’s a gold tequila and she can name all of the things that drinking it will do to her body, to her mind and at that moment she doesn’t care.
A folded newspaper is slammed onto the bar with enough force to shake her from her thoughts and she turns to see who it belongs to. There’s a man, all dark hair and smile lines around his eyes pulling his coat off as he settles into the stool next to her.
He catches her watching him and smiles, relaxed and friendly. Years ago it was a smile that Derek used as an opener in a bar not too different from this one, but where Derek’s smile was charming with a bit of knowingness, this man has a smile that is just friendly nothing more.
“Sorry about that,” he apologises before reaching forward to pull the paper towards him and stick it into the pocket of his coat. She catches a glance of the banner, but she hasn’t had the time to learn what makes the Sun Times different from the Tribune.
“It’s no problem,” she dismisses with a smile, watching him as he reaches over the bar to pull a beer from the ice on the other side. Catching sight of her questioning glance as he sits down on the stool, he shrugs.
“It’s my bar,” he explains, pointing to one of the pictures lining the wall. Sure enough this man is featured in more than a few of them suggesting that there is some truth to what he’s told her.
“You looked like you were thinking pretty hard,” he notes and Meredith studies his face. It’s familiar like she’s seen it somewhere before but without context the recognition is meaningless.
She shrugs, smiling down at her drink before picking it up and taking a sip. It burns in a way that feels like home. “Not about anything important. Tomorrow’s my first day,” she shares, taking comfort in the scene.
“Is it? Well, good luck then. Can I ask what it’s your first day of?” He was peeling the label off his beer, scraping away at it with his thumbnail and it feels vaguely intrusive to be watching someone’s hands like she is. But she’s a surgeon and hands are important. Hands say a lot about who someone is.
“My fellowship. I’m a surgeon, a brain surgeon or I will be starting tomorrow.”
Bottle to his lips, he raises his eyebrows in recognition of an accomplishment. Setting the bottle back down, he slides it over to clink it against the side of her glass.
“Congratulations, Doctor…?”
“Grey. Meredith Grey.”
“Doctor Grey. I’m Gary Hobson and I hope that you have a good first day.”
She laughs and ducks her head slightly to hide the blush that she doesn’t mean to happen. This man is nice, friendly in an attentive sort of way and it doesn’t hurt that he owns the place that she’s drinking at.
“This is a nice bar,” she says as way of reciprocation which elicits a laugh in response.
“I suppose it is. You should feel free to drink here often. Not just because I like repeat customers, but because it seems like you need a place, Doctor Grey. Maybe this can be your place.”
“Meredith,” she corrects, a laugh in her voice as she takes another sip. “Call me Meredith.”
“Alright, but only if you call me Gary.”
“I can do that.”
And that’s it. She can still be the girl in the bar, but the guy has changed.
Things are starting over, but it feels like it might be home. Maybe. Tomorrow is a different story.
Re: a place that feels like home. grey's anatomy/early edition, meredith grey/gary hobson, pg.
HAVE DRASTICALLY IMPROVED MY DAY.
agahjaskakjsha I am all girly squeals and extreme happiness, thank you, thank you, THANK YOU. I can totally hear them both and now I have this crazy nostalgia craving for Early Edition and oh my god, you made it so beautifully plausible.
Re: a place that feels like home. grey's anatomy/early edition, meredith grey/gary hobson, pg.
Re: a place that feels like home. grey's anatomy/early edition, meredith grey/gary hobson, pg.
This is fantastic. I LOVE I LOVE.
Re: a place that feels like home. grey's anatomy/early edition, meredith grey/gary hobson, pg.
Re: a place that feels like home. grey's anatomy/early edition, meredith grey/gary hobson, pg.
but where Derek’s smile was charming with a bit of knowingness, this man has a smile that is just friendly nothing more.
This! That’s both of them, exactly.
Setting the bottle back down, he slides it over to clink it against the side of her glass.
“Congratulations, Doctor…?”
“Grey. Meredith Grey.”
“Doctor Grey. I’m Gary Hobson and I hope that you have a good first day.”
I love how sincere he is and how pleased she is with his attention. :D Just, awwww.
Re: a place that feels like home. grey's anatomy/early edition, meredith grey/gary hobson, pg.
Monologues in the Morgue. Grey's Anatomy/Twilight. Meredith, George, Bree. PG also character death.
No one tells you about the pain. No one tells you about the agony. No, they tell you about bright lights and tunnels and feeling at peace and seeing your life flash before your eyes. They don’t tell you about the pain. Well, maybe Cristina would tell me about the pain but George? No, George would sugar coat it all the way until I was thinking about cute little cupids and big pearly gates. If I’d known about the pain I would’ve asked for morphine, stat.
Still, if I’d known I was going to get murdered by a vampire I doubt I would’ve left the house this morning. Or come to this city, I mean it’s not something they like to advertise. Come to Seattle, see the sights, have some lunch and hey, how about you be lunch? No, they sure missed that out of the brochure. Maybe next time I’ll remember not to take candy from strangers or help fifteen year old girls out when they look like they’re in trouble. Not that I get a next time. No do-overs for me.
Except if that was the case how am I still monologuing?
“Meredith, why are you in the morgue?”
George. Oh, God, George I’m sorry. But I’m just so damn thirsty.
“Mere? Mere-aaaah.....”
Honor Amongst Thieves, Bela Talbot/Eliot Spencer (Supernatural/Leverage). Rated PG/T.
"Of course not, I was a foot behind you." Bela sounds just a bit frustrated, but it bothers her, it really bothers her that he'd ask her that seriously. "What did I tell you when we first met?"
Despite his bleeding, angry shoulder, she can see Eliot huff out a laugh. "That if you got mad at me, you'd come at me from the front. And I'd be armed."
"Exactly." She calms down. He remembered.
Re: Honor Amongst Thieves, Bela Talbot/Eliot Spencer (Supernatural/Leverage). Rated PG/T.
There is not enough Bela in the world and I never would have thought of pairing her with Eliot but YES.
Re: Honor Amongst Thieves, Bela Talbot/Eliot Spencer (Supernatural/Leverage). Rated PG/T.
Re: Honor Amongst Thieves, Bela Talbot/Eliot Spencer (Supernatural/Leverage). Rated PG/T.
the lamplight where you lie, true blood/being human, jessica/mitchell, pg
Everything dies.
So is the human way.
Mitchell isn't human, but when time takes the people he loves, when time takes George, Annie too eventually, he wishes he could be. That he could have an end to go with his start and see them on the other side to bookend it all.
But Mitchell lives. For lack of a better word, he lives and he moves on.
In the distance, Texas waits.
In the distance, a girl whose going to stay a girl forever rises with the moon and goes down with the sun.
-
The first meeting -
it's a bar, and she is saying something that the short blonde beside her finds worthy of laughter.
They laugh, her and this other woman, giggle really, and from where he stands, he can hear the blonde's pulse, the thud of that beat under her skin, the blood pulsating wet and warm beneath.
When he moves his gaze, red red hair and a smile that splits too easily (splits like Annie's smiles used to, did), there is no similar sound. No beat of tell tale life. No blood, pushing hard and fast inside veins and arteries alike.
There is silence. The hollow nature that comes with that and little more.
Jessica smiles. Mitchell watches her lips curl around her teeth, imagines the fangs for himself.
Later, they will spring into view.
Later, he'll feel them against his mouth and she will feel his against hers in turn, a sigh breaking between them.
But for now, there is a booth.
She hands him a bottle, the label eliciting a chuckle in the process and her fingers itch promptly on the sound. She holds them still under the table.
"True Blood, huh?"
Her expression slants for coy, "That's what it says."
He grimaces with the first sip. A little less with the second.
Her lips spin on amusement for both.
-
They trade stories by a fireplace that goes unlit.
Her voice goes low with the name Hoyt, and he almost asks. For details, what happened and why, but that would open the door for her to do the same and as much as he likes her, likes the way she reminds him of people who aren't with him now, they're not quite there yet.
The thing about Jessica though is that she's not too concerned with keeping score. Never was.
She tells him everything. She tells him things about herself like she's talking about someone else. With animation and detachment and an eerie sense of calm that is only compromised when her head bows her face from his steady gaze, a shaky breath expelled.
"Sometimes," she says, "I forget. I wish it happened more often."
Her hand turns tight in his wrist. He almost fastens his fingers a little closer at that.
Sometimes, she said, and he didn't have to ask what she meant.
They were once human. It's not suprising that those memories still spill down from where they sit stored in their minds and they lose themselves.
They forget. Moments, here and there. What they are now, what they were then, and how one can't ever go back, but only forward.
He always remembers when he tries to snake a breath in he doesn't really need.
With her, it's the catch of her wrist against another, the warmth there. How it doesn't translate to her own flesh and never will again.
Silent, he pushes back her hair from her face. Lets her forehead hold easy in the space below his chin.
There, she breathes. Closes her eyes in the dark, and waits.
Together, they forget.
-
Re: the lamplight where you lie, true blood/being human, jessica/mitchell, pg
MAY. I WAS JUST WRITING A TRUE BLOOD/BEING HUMAN CROSSOVER. OUR MINDS WHAT IS THIS.
But YES. It's so pretty and I don't know. It is kind of sad and kind of sadly perfect. JUST GAH.
Re: the lamplight where you lie, true blood/being human, jessica/mitchell, pg
Re: the lamplight where you lie, true blood/being human, jessica/mitchell, pg
Re: the lamplight where you lie, true blood/being human, jessica/mitchell, pg
Re: the lamplight where you lie, true blood/being human, jessica/mitchell, pg
Favorite bit:
red red hair and a smile that splits too easily (splits like Annie's smiles used to, did)
YES.
Re: the lamplight where you lie, true blood/being human, jessica/mitchell, pg
Re: the lamplight where you lie, true blood/being human, jessica/mitchell, pg
This is wonderful, girl.
Comparing her to Annie and I haven't even gotten that far in BH.
IDK IDK but this is wonderful, as are you my dear.
basic space, community/friday night lights, annie edison/matt saracen, pg
It's on her list, number nine in fact. Of things Annie Edison needs to her before she dies.
Maybe she's seen Grease too many times, maybe she hasn't.
Maybe she identifies too much with Sandy Olsson, maybe she doesn't.
Either way, it's on the list and when she goes to an art show, meets the featured artist and tells him in a voice that spells nothing, but genuine, how much she loves his pieces, it's not what she's expecting.
Matt takes her hand, shakes it with firm, but soft fingers and thanks her.
It's the fact that his words betray the same sincerity that held her own together that makes her think maybe.
He takes her hand to let go of it. She quietly excuses herself to turn back into the crowd, shaking away the thought as she goes.
When he finds her afterwards, fingers pitched into the road for a taxi, he's all nerves and smiles that don't quite finish.
Annie thinks maybe again. Tries to hold onto the possibility and runs her fingers over a blushing face that matches his own.
Two weeks later, she'll cross number nine off the list, his laugh skimming past her throat as she does.
The pen clatters to the floor first.
All the same. They won't remember hearing it.
Re: basic space, community/friday night lights, annie edison/matt saracen, pg
Re: basic space, community/friday night lights, annie edison/matt saracen, pg
Re: basic space, community/friday night lights, annie edison/matt saracen, pg
Re: basic space, community/friday night lights, annie edison/matt saracen, pg
Re: basic space, community/friday night lights, annie edison/matt saracen, pg
Re: basic space, community/friday night lights, annie edison/matt saracen, pg
Re: basic space, community/friday night lights, annie edison/matt saracen, pg
Re: basic space, community/friday night lights, annie edison/matt saracen, pg
Re: basic space, community/friday night lights, annie edison/matt saracen, pg
Re: basic space, community/friday night lights, annie edison/matt saracen, pg
Re: basic space, community/friday night lights, annie edison/matt saracen, pg
Re: basic space, community/friday night lights, annie edison/matt saracen, pg
Re: basic space, community/friday night lights, annie edison/matt saracen, pg
chinks in fine armor. across the universe/a midsummer night's dream. lucy carrigan/demetrius. pg.
She is not the good girl she used to be.
They fight. They have always fought. Loud and angry, over things that don’t matter and those that do. Things get thrown and threats get made. He calls her an intolerable wretch and makes suggestions about her parentage and her brother’s affections for certain farm animals. She spews venom at him, suggesting that he is poorly endowed and other insults to his personage and personality.
All their fights end the same way. Most of them anyways. He asks what she wants or she wonders aloud by she bothers and before any more thoughts can be had his mouth is on hers, hands are everywhere. Tugging, pulling, tearing at clothes and hair in a way that is not gentle, not poetic or kind, but is its own sort of loving.
The quiet comes afterwards. He holds her, presses her against his bare chest and she can hear his heartbeat. It’s the sort of domesticity that only exists with their eyes closed (secretly he opens and observes the fall of her hair, the curve of her body and freckles that no one else can see; she watches his face for signs of the person he could be).
One leaves first. Rolls away and slides clothes back on before fleeing the scene.
They don’t talk about it. Their words are used as weapons, insults thrown instead of cries of love and affection. It’s easier to put up those barriers and tear them down instead of giving into the fact that maybe they never really existed at all.
If asked he says nothing of her. Dismisses her with a shrug of his shoulders and a change of subject. Talk of another girl, one who may or may not exist but will be his. A brief look betrays what he himself is denying.
She speaks little of him except to suggest that moments in his company are agony. The few who do not understand her intentions take them for truth and share their own dislike only to be met with cold glances and even colder shoulders.
It’s not love. It never will be. It’s a battlefield that neither will ever surrender, no ground will ever be won or loss.
Their own Hundred Years War with a casualty of two and songs that will never be sung. That is how things should be.
Re: chinks in fine armor. across the universe/a midsummer night's dream. lucy carrigan/demetrius. pg
This is ten shades of beautiful. All of it really, but this liiiine.
Their own Hundred Years War with a casualty of two and songs that will never be sung
WORDS FAIL, LINA. MY HEART <33.
Re: chinks in fine armor. across the universe/a midsummer night's dream. lucy carrigan/demetrius. pg
Re: chinks in fine armor. across the universe/a midsummer night's dream. lucy carrigan/demetrius. pg
(no subject)
(no subject)
White Heat, Grey's Anatomy/NCIS: LA, Meredith Grey/G Callen, PG [1/2]
It is, by necessity, a finite one, but every time Meredith thinks she's completed it, she remembers just one more thing to add. It's a list of the things she left when she left Seattle for Los Angeles. Her mother's ashes, George's grave, a place at the hospital that was her home. Cristina, her career on the rise, and men vying for Lexie's love the way they once fought for hers, the pathetic periodic attempts at reconciliation from her father. The memory of Izzie leaving them, leaving her. The mistakes, the betrayals, the losses. Derek.
The feeling of being threatened, of near-death, of gunfire.
That's one she forgot, one she tried very, very hard to forget, one she underwent therapy again to put behind her, and what she hears first is glass breaking in the front window of a house that she hasn't had long enough to call home before there's the weight of a body on top of hers, pulling her gracelessly to the ground.
And against all logic, against the distant realization that she has, once again, just missed dying, she pushes back. "Get off!"
"Hey," comes the protest, immediate, more offended than concerned, "I don't know if maybe you missed it, but I just saved your life. Stay down."
"They're shooting at me," Meredith says, looking past him and thinking three things almost at the same time, everything too much to process in any rational order: first, that someone tried to shoot her, because it's big damn deal; second, that she's not actually sure how Agent Callen made it from the chair he'd been sitting in to right smack on top of her that fast; third, that having him on top of her isn't so bad. "I didn't see anything, I didn't — I have, at best, at the very most, educated guesses and they are still shooting at me."
"I noticed," he says, and the sound of car wheels squealing off has long since faded, but he's still perched atop her, warm and close. And then he eases back to kneel beside her, holding out a hand, glancing toward the door for his partner, the brunette who went running as soon as the bullets stopped — to see if she could catch a license plate number or whatever it is they do, Meredith guesses. When they came to her house to ask about one of her patients, one of those losses she couldn't help, one that she knows wasn't her fault, she didn't count on everything falling apart so fast. Maybe she should have known better; that's always been her life.
She takes his hand. She sits up and catches her breath, one big inhale, head tipping up as her eyes meet his. "Sorry," she says, defaulting to apologies, then shakes her head, hand still in his. "I mean, thank you. For saving me."
"It's my job." His smile's crooked in a way she can't help liking; she's got a weakness for a hint of arrogance, and he's got that, a confidence that is, despite his age, resolutely boyish. "Can't question you if you're dead."
"Mm," Meredith says, huffing out a laugh with her lips pressed into a smirk. "Chivalry. I like that in a stranger."
"That so? And what about in someone you know a little better?"
"That'd be a first."
"Well, good," he says, leaning forward against his knee. "I like being first."
Her smile hitches up higher on one side, corresponding with the way her head tilts. "Are you hitting on me? I don't think you're allowed to hit on suspects. Witnesses. Whatever I am."
"Every case ends eventually," Callen says, lingering a moment more before he pushes to his feet, pulling her gently up with him. "I'm very good. At solving cases, I mean. Quick. And now I have your number. What d'you say, dinner sometime when this is all over?"
White Heat, Grey's Anatomy/NCIS: LA, Meredith Grey/G Callen, PG [2/2]
"Only the really beautiful ones. That a yes?"
She looks at him, really looks, searching eyes and expression for something even she can't explain — some hint of something, some promise, impossible to make, that she isn't just jumping in headfirst again, running into trouble just to put the past behind her like she's done so many times. "Yes," she says. "Okay. That's a yes."
Not running now, she tells herself, just taking steps, a little bit at a time, moving forward in increments of one syllable. Not running, just starting new, even if some of the same old ingredients always make their way back in. Maybe, after all, there's no point in trying to leave everything behind.
[For Laaaaaine. :D aghsjak so many typos, sorry for the repost.]
Re: White Heat, Grey's Anatomy/NCIS: LA, Meredith Grey/G Callen, PG [2/2]
Re: White Heat, Grey's Anatomy/NCIS: LA, Meredith Grey/G Callen, PG [2/2]
Re: White Heat, Grey's Anatomy/NCIS: LA, Meredith Grey/G Callen, PG [2/2]
Re: White Heat, Grey's Anatomy/NCIS: LA, Meredith Grey/G Callen, PG [2/2]
Re: White Heat, Grey's Anatomy/NCIS: LA, Meredith Grey/G Callen, PG [2/2]
Re: White Heat, Grey's Anatomy/NCIS: LA, Meredith Grey/G Callen, PG [2/2]
line of best fit, doctor who/fringe, the 11th doctor/olivia dunham, pg
"Doctor."
"Right. Doctor."
Olivia opens the file in front of her. Pushes it off to the side after a moment to watch the man in the chair who thinks he's not a man, but a doctor. An alien doctor.
It's times like these when she misses Charlie the most. The knack he had for making her realize the absurdity of their work, to appreciate it, and then the shared laugh that would accompany that observation.
But as it stands, Peter is on the other side of the glass. She can't see him, but her eyebrows rise high on her forehead all the same. She imagines the chuckle, the lines that spring around his mouth at that before returning to the moment.
Back to the matter at hand. A missing girl. An Amelia Pond, and this man who thinks he's not a man being the last person with her. That is the problem that lies before her and the answers never come easy.
Sometimes, she wonders if they ever have. History calls for a negative, but there's something to be said for the remembering the golden years that never were. Olivia chooses to remember.
"Do you really expect us to believe any of this? A phonebox that travels through time? You and this Amelia-"
"Amy."
"Sorry. You and Amy and your time travelling phonebox? Do I have it right now?"
A beat passes before her teeth snatch around, "Doctor."
The man actually laughs. Shifts in his seat and leans too close across the table between them.
He says, "If I'm not mistaken, I believe you're well versed in believing the impossible, Agent Dunham," his fingers twist around his tie on her name - she won't miss that or anything else, "After all, why do you think I came to you in the first place? Willingly surrendered myself?"
She looks at him then. Takes him in properly and the smile that cards across his face almost catches her off guard. Almost.
Olivia kicks her head down.
"Okay," she breathes, "Okay."
A call to Broyles makes the case a priority.
When she tells him they'll be keeping him in custody for a few more hours, he brings both arms back around his head, hair pushing up to stand on end with the action, and leans back in the chair that she knows isn't as comfortable as he makes it seem. (A cartoon. That's what he reminds her of.) Eyes on the glass, she knows Peter's thinking the same. Unseen, he sets his eyes to roll.
She'll bite back her smile.
"Brilliant."
"Brilliant?"
The alien doctor grins. The federal agent's eyes narrow.
"Brilliant," he repeats.
This is when she begins to believe.
He records the moment in his head with all the others.
Later, she joins Peter and keeps to watching him where he can't see her.
He can't see through the glass, she knows that, but somehow, his eyes stay stuck on where her face would be if he could.
Unseen, Olivia shivers.
Re: line of best fit, doctor who/fringe, the 11th doctor/olivia dunham, pg
Re: line of best fit, doctor who/fringe, the 11th doctor/olivia dunham, pg
Re: line of best fit, doctor who/fringe, the 11th doctor/olivia dunham, pg
with friends like these, gossip girl/v, blair waldorf & lisa, pg
Her roommate is an alien.
Literally.
Right off the mother ship; Blair Waldorf rolls her eyes at the fact that not only is she some alien princess, but has the Serena factor as well.
Just her luck.
And sure, it’s definitely a plus that there’s extra security at her dorm, and she didn’t mind the publicity at first, but when the Waldorf name started to get lost amongst that of the no-last-name creature from out of space…
She wasn’t having any of that.
Observing disguised as studying, Blair frowns as she watches the girl get ready for her date with that floppy haired motorcycle kid.
Here. Blair stands, grabbing a dress from her own closet and throwing it at the girl. (Marc Jacobs; lord knows when she became this generous.)
Thanks. Lisa nods, smoothing out the wrinkles. Blair gives her a once over, shaking her head and throwing her another object.
A headband.
(She’s almost proud at how nice she’s being; intergalactic relations being so, so, so important in today’s society and all.)
Better? Lisa asks cautiously.
Blair smiles slyly.
Definitely, L. Definitely.
This girl/alien/thing may be a Princess, but Blair Waldorf is going to show her how to be a Queen.
Re: with friends like these, gossip girl/v, blair waldorf & lisa, pg
Re: with friends like these, gossip girl/v, blair waldorf & lisa, pg
Things Annie Edison Didn't Know - Community/Doctor Who (Annie/Eleven)
To be perfectly honest, she didn't know that phone boxes came in shades of blue, either.
And she really didn't know that phone boxes could be flown through time and space by young men who dress similarly to Vaughn's hipster friends.
"It's...it's bigger on the inside," she tells him, and he grins.
"Yes! I was waiting for you to say that," he tells her, and then lays a hand on her shoulder. "Do you want the grand tour?"
She doesn't really know what she wants. She wants things to make sense; she wants her dress to be prettier; she wants to put down her chemistry book that she's been gripping so tightly.
"Who are you?" she asks.
He smiles. "Why, I'm the Doctor."
She doesn't ask about the name. If Britta can be named after a water filter, she's pretty sure anything goes.
A sigh. "Yeah, okay," she says. "I'll see more."
"Fantastic! Where do you want to go?" he asks.
"Um...what?"
"Where do you want to go? You see, this incredible little blue box, for all of its marvels on the inside, can show you all of the wonderful things on the outside, too," he says, leaning against the control panel.
"Oh," Annie says. She holds on to her chemistry book.
He looks at her, crookedly smiling, fondling a lever. "We can go anywhere, anytime you want," he says. "And you won't have to worry about chemistry, wonderful subject that it is."
She smiles back, nervously. Slowly, she places her chemistry book on the floor, and walks over to him. "Okay, Doctor," she says, biting her lip.
Of all the things Annie Edison knows, of all the things Annie Edison has experienced, of all the things Annie Edison wishes she didn't know and of all she wishes she did, she never could have expected this. A small, blue phone box that travels in time, piloted by some crazy in suspenders that look like they come from a thrift shop.
And she never could have expected that he would have asked her to leave with him, showed her all of the things he has, and still manage to keep his promise that he would get her back in time for her chemistry final.
(Originally much longer: full fic HERE (http://madeelly.livejournal.com/293850.html).)
Hiding in Plain Sight - Bones/Dexter
"Do I know you?" he asks. Of course he does - he's seen her face on the news, in the station, looking for him, and all the while not knowing that he's lurking, waiting, watching.
"I don't think so," she says. She looks distinctly uncomfortable in this situation.
"You're Dr. Brennan, right? I've seen you around the station. I'm Dexter Morgan. I do blood splatter," he tells her. Simple things. Things she could pick up from asking everyone.
"Right..." she says. She still has no clue who he is. It's a good start.
"You're here for the Bay Harbor Butcher case, right? How's that going?" he asks.
Her face grows stern. "I'm really not at liberty to discuss that," she says.
Damn it. It's going to be harder than he thought.
"Bones!"
He turns around and sees a tall man in a suit come up to Dr. Brennan. The man stops, mouth falling open, eyes narrowing.
"Booth!" Brennan exclaims. "Let's go." She doesn't even bother whispering.
Booth stands there, eyes piercing through Dexter's shell. The dark passenger stirs, and Dexter clenches his hands in his pockets.
"Booth," Brennan urges. "Come on."
"Right," Booth says, slowly drawing out the word. "Let's go."
Booth's eyes don't leave Dexter until the two are out of the store.
Maybe it's time to rethink his plan.