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slashthedrabble Dec. 31st, 2004 11:55 pm)
ruric.livejournal.com posting in slashthedrabble Dec. 31st, 2004 11:55 pm)Happy New Year! Well almost - it being 6 mins after midnight here.
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slashthedrabble "senses" prompt. Week 1 – sight. Can I just say a HUGE thanks because I've had so much fun with last weeks prompt and this one too :o)
Fandom: AtS
It seems I don't (despite my very best intentions) do drabbles. Below are three mini-fics – each 500 words. Um – do I really need to say they're all Lindsey-centric? *g* And the first one - not het. Not really - trust me. Titles of 1 and 3 refer to Leonard Cohen songs – first is a partial line from "That Don’t Make it Junk", the third is a title in itself. Title to number 2 is all mine.
TRIED TO LOVE YOU MY WAY (Lindsey/Darla, with a coda Lindsey/Angel)
The stories his momma told the pack of kids, as they sat wrapped in blankets, huddled together for warmth on cold winter evenings, had always been about heroic knights, beautiful princesses and happy ever afters. His momma had been an old fashioned teller of tales – she could weave a story that would lift you out of your body and take you to another world. A world where you could breathe scents which were foreign, taste the difference in the air, see in glorious and vibrant technicolour.
To this day he only has to hear a fragment of a fairy tale and it feels like he's been sucker punched. He's back in that kitchen listening to the soft melody of her voice, feeling the press of kin huddled around him and the threadbare scratchiness of a worn blanket against his cheek.
But he'd always known tales of love at first sight and happy endings weren't for people like them.
He'd known it when he'd watched his momma weep over the graves of his sisters, known it when his daddy signed away the house, known it soul deep when, a year later, his daddy had gone into the woods and eaten his gun.
But he'd been wrong.
The first time he'd seen her he'd fallen in love; fallen for the broken and fragile thing she was and with the woman she could so easily have been if only the situation had been different. He'd fallen harder as he watched her rediscover the world, tentatively testing sense after sense, and searching for memories. He couldn't fail to see the sadness in every move she made – the aching despair every time he looked into her eyes – and he'd tried to take that away the only way he knew how. But what he had to offer she didn't want.
Angel was the centre of her world, always had been and always would be. He still hasn't figured out whether he'd been more jealous of the fact that she’d loved Angel, or that the vampire appeared to return that love. She'd played him for months and he didn't care because he'd loved her with everything he had. It hadn't been nearly enough.
He spent his life fixing other people's problems but he couldn't fix her and he'd made probably the biggest mistake of his life when he'd tried. He knew he'd lost her when he watched Drusilla turn her – but he'd never stopped loving her – not when he watched her die, not when she turned up later in his office, sleek and well fed, with Drusilla in tow. He'd even loved her that night in Holland’s basement, with the rank scent of fear and death all around him, when her face transfigured and the demon looked hungrily out of her eyes.
Stories with love at first sight and happy endings weren't for people like him.
What linked him to Angel could never be described as love, and could never, in any universe, have a happy ending.
REFLECTIONS (Lindsey/Angel)
The first time he'd seen Angel he'd been pissed. Pissed that there was a new player in town, one capable of taking out a master vampire and one of his most important clients, which made him look bad in front of the Senior Partners.
The second time had been in court. Angel had marched Marquez down the aisle – ruining a perfectly good defence that he'd meticulously constructed over too many late nights – and had met and held his eyes. That one long, unblinking glance had been an undeniable challenge – one thrown down in front of a full court and Lindsey had never been one to walk away from a fight. He'd stopped being pissed and concentrated on revenge, preferably a long, bloody and painful revenge. Unfortunately that hadn't quite worked out as planned.
The third time had been in court too – during the Brewer case – yet another instance of Angel bringing the fight to him and publicly humiliating him. After that things had become much more…complicated.
He spends his life talking and thinking fast – devising schemes that would make Machiavelli's head ache and strategies so devious and complex they'd have Sun Tzu spinning in his grave.
Sometimes the magnitude of what he's seen and done weighs him down. On the days where he's talked and thought too much – until the words wrap around him, sinuous syllables, ropes of intonation that bind him tight and fill his head, making it impossible to string coherent thoughts together – his vision whites out on the periphery, hazing the world into ripped, shiny splinters and language deserts him.
On those days he squints into the mirror and sees nothing but a reflection of the man he wanted to be and all he’s left with is the mute rage he was born with. Those are the days he goes looking for Angel. Somehow Angel always knows and is waiting.
It works the other way round too.
There are days, nights rather, when Angel comes looking for him. He's gotten used to being slammed into the walls of underground car parks or snatched off brightly lit streets and dragged into dark and dank alleys. He's as likely to find himself on his knees, as with his cheek pressed up against a brick wall, a fist in his hair and the blood-heavy metallic scent of Angel's breath on the back of his neck.
The thing about vampires, especially vampires as old as Angel, is that you don't generally see them coming. So he finds himself darkly amused on the evenings Angel stalks him, that he sees shadows out of the corner of his eye, a warning of what's about to happen. Warning enough that he occasionally gets the jump on Angel, and it's the vampire on his knees or pressed up against the wall.
He wonders what it says about him that the only two…people to have ever come close to understanding him, to knowing what he needs, and when and how he needs it, are vampires.
THAT'S NO WAY TO SAY GOODBYE (Not Fade Away fix-it mini-fic)
"You know what you're asking me to do?" his voice cracked unable to mask shock at the enormity of the betrayal.
"It's the only way – and that's why I'm asking and not ordering."
He watched Angel closely – looked deep into his eyes, examined every inch of his face – listened and replayed the inflection on each word. If there had been any indication of doubt he would have refused.
But all he saw - in the brown eyes and shadows beneath, in the set of the chin, the furrowed brow, and the harshly draw lines around Angel's mouth - was a grim determination to see this through to the end.
******
Lorne stood, in a room filled with the reek of demon blood, a gun in his trembling hands and pulled the trigger.
Twice.
A few gasped words and the demon turned, dropped the gun and left, closing the door behind him.
The silence of the ozone filled room was shattered by a harshly broken gasp.
Jagged shards of agony pierced lungs that felt as if they were imploding for lack of air. He sucked in another half breath, glad that he'd fallen with the wall behind him, because movement was not possible. All he could do, for a few precious minutes, was to lie there and try to breathe – hoping the searing pain in chest and stomach painting his vision red, would tamp down to manageable levels.
But the pain didn't want to co-operate and he had no time to waste.
Levering himself upright, he yanked the bloodstained shirt open. The bullet holes, one over his heart (who the Hell had known Lorne was such an accurate shot?) one in his belly, were still oozing blood - but red and gold glyphs writhed under his skin. He sucked in another breath, muttered a couple of hasty words, praying to anything that might be listening that he'd got the inflection right, and watched as the bullets edged backwards out of his skin.
His fingers fumbled in the shirt pocket, withdrawing a small ornate silver jar. He yanked the cork out with his teeth. Finesse wasn't important – speed was. His trembling hand tipped the jar and sulphur yellow power drifted down to cover the wounds. Another muttered incantation and the glyphs coalesced around the wounds, sending him spinning towards nausea as his depth perception failed.
The cloud of acrid purple smoke boiling upwards, making his eyes water and the sudden hit of acid at the back of his throat was an unwelcome added bonus.
But it worked. Skin slid back together, lungs expanded, and his body shook with a sudden fizz of energy which masked the pain. Just went to prove that the best money could buy was sometimes good enough. He struggled to his feet and headed out of the room. After all – he had someplace to be.
*******
A dank alley - four backs facing him.
"You gonna start without me boys?"
Angel turned - his wolfish grin enough of a welcome.
For the
slashthedrabble "senses" prompt. Week 1 – sight. Can I just say a HUGE thanks because I've had so much fun with last weeks prompt and this one too :o)Fandom: AtS
It seems I don't (despite my very best intentions) do drabbles. Below are three mini-fics – each 500 words. Um – do I really need to say they're all Lindsey-centric? *g* And the first one - not het. Not really - trust me. Titles of 1 and 3 refer to Leonard Cohen songs – first is a partial line from "That Don’t Make it Junk", the third is a title in itself. Title to number 2 is all mine.
TRIED TO LOVE YOU MY WAY (Lindsey/Darla, with a coda Lindsey/Angel)
The stories his momma told the pack of kids, as they sat wrapped in blankets, huddled together for warmth on cold winter evenings, had always been about heroic knights, beautiful princesses and happy ever afters. His momma had been an old fashioned teller of tales – she could weave a story that would lift you out of your body and take you to another world. A world where you could breathe scents which were foreign, taste the difference in the air, see in glorious and vibrant technicolour.
To this day he only has to hear a fragment of a fairy tale and it feels like he's been sucker punched. He's back in that kitchen listening to the soft melody of her voice, feeling the press of kin huddled around him and the threadbare scratchiness of a worn blanket against his cheek.
But he'd always known tales of love at first sight and happy endings weren't for people like them.
He'd known it when he'd watched his momma weep over the graves of his sisters, known it when his daddy signed away the house, known it soul deep when, a year later, his daddy had gone into the woods and eaten his gun.
But he'd been wrong.
The first time he'd seen her he'd fallen in love; fallen for the broken and fragile thing she was and with the woman she could so easily have been if only the situation had been different. He'd fallen harder as he watched her rediscover the world, tentatively testing sense after sense, and searching for memories. He couldn't fail to see the sadness in every move she made – the aching despair every time he looked into her eyes – and he'd tried to take that away the only way he knew how. But what he had to offer she didn't want.
Angel was the centre of her world, always had been and always would be. He still hasn't figured out whether he'd been more jealous of the fact that she’d loved Angel, or that the vampire appeared to return that love. She'd played him for months and he didn't care because he'd loved her with everything he had. It hadn't been nearly enough.
He spent his life fixing other people's problems but he couldn't fix her and he'd made probably the biggest mistake of his life when he'd tried. He knew he'd lost her when he watched Drusilla turn her – but he'd never stopped loving her – not when he watched her die, not when she turned up later in his office, sleek and well fed, with Drusilla in tow. He'd even loved her that night in Holland’s basement, with the rank scent of fear and death all around him, when her face transfigured and the demon looked hungrily out of her eyes.
Stories with love at first sight and happy endings weren't for people like him.
What linked him to Angel could never be described as love, and could never, in any universe, have a happy ending.
REFLECTIONS (Lindsey/Angel)
The first time he'd seen Angel he'd been pissed. Pissed that there was a new player in town, one capable of taking out a master vampire and one of his most important clients, which made him look bad in front of the Senior Partners.
The second time had been in court. Angel had marched Marquez down the aisle – ruining a perfectly good defence that he'd meticulously constructed over too many late nights – and had met and held his eyes. That one long, unblinking glance had been an undeniable challenge – one thrown down in front of a full court and Lindsey had never been one to walk away from a fight. He'd stopped being pissed and concentrated on revenge, preferably a long, bloody and painful revenge. Unfortunately that hadn't quite worked out as planned.
The third time had been in court too – during the Brewer case – yet another instance of Angel bringing the fight to him and publicly humiliating him. After that things had become much more…complicated.
He spends his life talking and thinking fast – devising schemes that would make Machiavelli's head ache and strategies so devious and complex they'd have Sun Tzu spinning in his grave.
Sometimes the magnitude of what he's seen and done weighs him down. On the days where he's talked and thought too much – until the words wrap around him, sinuous syllables, ropes of intonation that bind him tight and fill his head, making it impossible to string coherent thoughts together – his vision whites out on the periphery, hazing the world into ripped, shiny splinters and language deserts him.
On those days he squints into the mirror and sees nothing but a reflection of the man he wanted to be and all he’s left with is the mute rage he was born with. Those are the days he goes looking for Angel. Somehow Angel always knows and is waiting.
It works the other way round too.
There are days, nights rather, when Angel comes looking for him. He's gotten used to being slammed into the walls of underground car parks or snatched off brightly lit streets and dragged into dark and dank alleys. He's as likely to find himself on his knees, as with his cheek pressed up against a brick wall, a fist in his hair and the blood-heavy metallic scent of Angel's breath on the back of his neck.
The thing about vampires, especially vampires as old as Angel, is that you don't generally see them coming. So he finds himself darkly amused on the evenings Angel stalks him, that he sees shadows out of the corner of his eye, a warning of what's about to happen. Warning enough that he occasionally gets the jump on Angel, and it's the vampire on his knees or pressed up against the wall.
He wonders what it says about him that the only two…people to have ever come close to understanding him, to knowing what he needs, and when and how he needs it, are vampires.
THAT'S NO WAY TO SAY GOODBYE (Not Fade Away fix-it mini-fic)
"You know what you're asking me to do?" his voice cracked unable to mask shock at the enormity of the betrayal.
"It's the only way – and that's why I'm asking and not ordering."
He watched Angel closely – looked deep into his eyes, examined every inch of his face – listened and replayed the inflection on each word. If there had been any indication of doubt he would have refused.
But all he saw - in the brown eyes and shadows beneath, in the set of the chin, the furrowed brow, and the harshly draw lines around Angel's mouth - was a grim determination to see this through to the end.
Lorne stood, in a room filled with the reek of demon blood, a gun in his trembling hands and pulled the trigger.
Twice.
A few gasped words and the demon turned, dropped the gun and left, closing the door behind him.
The silence of the ozone filled room was shattered by a harshly broken gasp.
Jagged shards of agony pierced lungs that felt as if they were imploding for lack of air. He sucked in another half breath, glad that he'd fallen with the wall behind him, because movement was not possible. All he could do, for a few precious minutes, was to lie there and try to breathe – hoping the searing pain in chest and stomach painting his vision red, would tamp down to manageable levels.
But the pain didn't want to co-operate and he had no time to waste.
Levering himself upright, he yanked the bloodstained shirt open. The bullet holes, one over his heart (who the Hell had known Lorne was such an accurate shot?) one in his belly, were still oozing blood - but red and gold glyphs writhed under his skin. He sucked in another breath, muttered a couple of hasty words, praying to anything that might be listening that he'd got the inflection right, and watched as the bullets edged backwards out of his skin.
His fingers fumbled in the shirt pocket, withdrawing a small ornate silver jar. He yanked the cork out with his teeth. Finesse wasn't important – speed was. His trembling hand tipped the jar and sulphur yellow power drifted down to cover the wounds. Another muttered incantation and the glyphs coalesced around the wounds, sending him spinning towards nausea as his depth perception failed.
The cloud of acrid purple smoke boiling upwards, making his eyes water and the sudden hit of acid at the back of his throat was an unwelcome added bonus.
But it worked. Skin slid back together, lungs expanded, and his body shook with a sudden fizz of energy which masked the pain. Just went to prove that the best money could buy was sometimes good enough. He struggled to his feet and headed out of the room. After all – he had someplace to be.
A dank alley - four backs facing him.
"You gonna start without me boys?"
Angel turned - his wolfish grin enough of a welcome.
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Loved that the most.
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I've just been saying over on AIM that I hate, Hate, HATE, (stamps foot for emphasis and does the angry dance) the writers with a fiery and combustible passion for the betrayal of Lindsey in S5, especially of both Lindsey and Lorne (and even Angel) in NFA.
Grrrr - just call me a signed up member of Clan Denial! :o)
But then again my earth encompassing massive hatred is tinged with a little volcanic warm kernel of love for, lo, they did give us (finally) the "Lindsey I want you" line. Which I suspect made many a heart beat faster *g*.
No one's gonna tell me those writers weren't aware of slash :o)
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And don't forget Spike's comment to Illyria saying that he and Angel were never intimate, "well, except for that one time..." They were very aware!!!
The betrayal of Lindsay in NFA took me completely by surprise and totally blew me away. I haven't forgiven the writers for having Angel do it or for leaving Lorne in that position. The whole S5 thing is a matter I try not to get into unless I have a day or two to rant, *g*!!
Right there with you!!!
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Oh agreed. My mate
The whole S5 thing is a matter I try not to get into unless I have a day or two to rant, *g*!!
Rant away any time. *g*
I thought I was going to be OK with it til it happened. I realised I wasn't when in the final scenes I found myself snarling "Good! You all deserve to die. Bastards!" at the TV screen.
So that'd be unresolved issues for me then I guess!
Still potential future challenge/prompt? NFA fixit fic? *g*
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Thanks for the comments - glad you liked them. I'm looking forward to next weeks prompt :o)
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