various drabbles/ficlets
Jan. 28th, 2008 09:01 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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crossoverficSeven Crossover Fic(lets)
Author: auberus
Fandoms: Highlander/BtVS, Highlander/Good Omens, Highlander/Torchwood, Highlander/Firefly, Highlander/Smallville, Good Omens/Supernatural
Rating: G-PG.13
Disclaimer: If you recognize it, it's not mine.
Author's Notes: These were written for the wonderful people on my f-list, who gave me the prompts/requests.
Author: auberus
Fandoms: Highlander/BtVS, Highlander/Good Omens, Highlander/Torchwood, Highlander/Firefly, Highlander/Smallville, Good Omens/Supernatural
Rating: G-PG.13
Disclaimer: If you recognize it, it's not mine.
Author's Notes: These were written for the wonderful people on my f-list, who gave me the prompts/requests.
Pride of Purchase
Adam Pierce is unusual -- not for his money, which is hardly unexpected in a man who can afford to engage a Companion for a week's time -- but for his youth. He is two years younger than Inara, and while she's had young clients before, they are usually supported by family, whereas Pierce, according to his dossier, is alone in the 'verse.
When they meet for the first time, she is startled again, this time by the wealth of experience in his green-hazel eyes. She'd half-expected a green boy, despite the sophistication his application video had shown, and when it turns out that sophistication was merely the tip of the iceberg, she can't help feeling a bit overwhelmed. His education is as extensive as any Companion's, and their conversation ranges over such topics as the literature of Earth-That-Was, the political situation facing the border planets, and the history of the tea ceremony.
They talk for hours before he finally kisses her, and when he does, she realizes with a start that *he's* seducing *her* -- and that he's doing an excellent job of it.
***
(for![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
cat_i_th_adage; first kiss - Methos/Inara)
***
Adam Pierce is unusual -- not for his money, which is hardly unexpected in a man who can afford to engage a Companion for a week's time -- but for his youth. He is two years younger than Inara, and while she's had young clients before, they are usually supported by family, whereas Pierce, according to his dossier, is alone in the 'verse.
When they meet for the first time, she is startled again, this time by the wealth of experience in his green-hazel eyes. She'd half-expected a green boy, despite the sophistication his application video had shown, and when it turns out that sophistication was merely the tip of the iceberg, she can't help feeling a bit overwhelmed. His education is as extensive as any Companion's, and their conversation ranges over such topics as the literature of Earth-That-Was, the political situation facing the border planets, and the history of the tea ceremony.
They talk for hours before he finally kisses her, and when he does, she realizes with a start that *he's* seducing *her* -- and that he's doing an excellent job of it.
***
(for
cat_i_th_adage; first kiss - Methos/Inara)***
Trespass
Sometimes, Giles feels like he's suffocating. The revered halls of the British Museum seem like they might close around him, trap him forever like a fly in amber. Worst of all, he thinks he could become accustomed to it. Those are the good days.
The students are the second-worst part of the job. Most of them are day-trippers from Oxford or Cambridge; a few of them are from Durham. They're bright and hopeful and interested in their work, and they make him feel grey and boring and *old*, especially when he has to chase them out of the library's restricted sections. Fortunately, their preferences seem to run more towards Victorian pornography than towards the occult. Giles doesn't mind the giggling nearly as much as he would mind cleaning up innards.
Usually he knows right away when someone's in the restricted sections. Generations of Watcher-curators have set wards to alert themselves to any intruder, the spells layered one on top the other until there was barely any need for Giles to set his own. The memory of the magic has soaked into the stones themselves. As a result, when he sees the young man seated halfway down one of the rows of shelves that hold the Museum's collection of medieval French death spells, dark head bent over a grimoire with studious interest, he approaches with caution -- and with a blessed dagger made of a special mixture of silver and steel hidden in the files under his left arm. The wards haven't been triggered all day.
The young man looks up as Giles approaches, eyebrows lifting in mild inquiry.
"Yes?" he asks, not bothering to close the book.
"This area is restricted," Giles informs him, and then, because he still can't help pushing, he adds, "and how the devil did you get in without tripping the wards?"
The innocence in the wide hazel eyes would have fooled anyone who didn't know Ethan Rayne. As it is, there's a genuine quality to the young man's gaze that makes his impression of harmlessness even more convincing than Ethan at his best. Giles shifts the files under his arm so that he has easier access to his dagger.
***
(forlferion; first meeting - Methos, Giles )
***
Sometimes, Giles feels like he's suffocating. The revered halls of the British Museum seem like they might close around him, trap him forever like a fly in amber. Worst of all, he thinks he could become accustomed to it. Those are the good days.
The students are the second-worst part of the job. Most of them are day-trippers from Oxford or Cambridge; a few of them are from Durham. They're bright and hopeful and interested in their work, and they make him feel grey and boring and *old*, especially when he has to chase them out of the library's restricted sections. Fortunately, their preferences seem to run more towards Victorian pornography than towards the occult. Giles doesn't mind the giggling nearly as much as he would mind cleaning up innards.
Usually he knows right away when someone's in the restricted sections. Generations of Watcher-curators have set wards to alert themselves to any intruder, the spells layered one on top the other until there was barely any need for Giles to set his own. The memory of the magic has soaked into the stones themselves. As a result, when he sees the young man seated halfway down one of the rows of shelves that hold the Museum's collection of medieval French death spells, dark head bent over a grimoire with studious interest, he approaches with caution -- and with a blessed dagger made of a special mixture of silver and steel hidden in the files under his left arm. The wards haven't been triggered all day.
The young man looks up as Giles approaches, eyebrows lifting in mild inquiry.
"Yes?" he asks, not bothering to close the book.
"This area is restricted," Giles informs him, and then, because he still can't help pushing, he adds, "and how the devil did you get in without tripping the wards?"
The innocence in the wide hazel eyes would have fooled anyone who didn't know Ethan Rayne. As it is, there's a genuine quality to the young man's gaze that makes his impression of harmlessness even more convincing than Ethan at his best. Giles shifts the files under his arm so that he has easier access to his dagger.
***
(for
lferion; first meeting - Methos, Giles )***
Exposure
Faith doesn't bother to stick around while they're rebuilding the Council. Someone needs to be out there kicking ass and taking names, and B's earned her Roman holiday about a billion times over.
So Faith takes off; does the trip through Europe thing, hits nightclubs and raves and private parties, as well as demonic trouble spots that haven't seen a Slayer in far too long. She spends the summer on the road and comes back to England in September, to cold grey days and the institutional solemnity of a thousand years of stability. The new Council building is full -- of Slayers, of researchers, of Watchers. There are training sessions and meetings and lectures; responsibilities that she can't escape. Sometimes she doesn't even want to.
She's been back for all of a week and is sitting through her third lecture of the day -- Giles has her supervising the new Watchers, who know a great deal more about theory than they do about practice -- when she spots one of the trainee Watchers rolling his eyes in irritation from the back of the lecture hall. As soon as the class has been dismissed, she hops off of the desk she's been occupying and heads straight for him. There's no way she's going to let some arrogant little shit of a Watcher kill one of the new Slayers because he didn't feel like paying attention in school.
"Was the lecture boring you?" she asks as soon as she's standing over him, and oh, this one's smarter than she'd first thought, because judging by his sudden inhalation he can hear the warning hiding in her nonchalant tone of voice. When he looks up, though, all the sirens in her head go off at once, because what looks like nervous tension in his shoulders is actually a predator's careful stillness, and the bland expression on his face is the best lie she's ever seen.
He tries to protest his innocence, and keeps on protesting as she hauls him to Giles' office, where the man himself hears her out with an expression that reminds her that he used to be called Ripper.
"Adam?" he says coldly, once she's finished. Adam winces, and for a second he really looks as harmless as he's been pretending to be. Then he sighs, and runs a hand through his hair before beginning an explanation of his own.
***
(formorgynleri_fic; prompt - Methos, Faith)
***
Faith doesn't bother to stick around while they're rebuilding the Council. Someone needs to be out there kicking ass and taking names, and B's earned her Roman holiday about a billion times over.
So Faith takes off; does the trip through Europe thing, hits nightclubs and raves and private parties, as well as demonic trouble spots that haven't seen a Slayer in far too long. She spends the summer on the road and comes back to England in September, to cold grey days and the institutional solemnity of a thousand years of stability. The new Council building is full -- of Slayers, of researchers, of Watchers. There are training sessions and meetings and lectures; responsibilities that she can't escape. Sometimes she doesn't even want to.
She's been back for all of a week and is sitting through her third lecture of the day -- Giles has her supervising the new Watchers, who know a great deal more about theory than they do about practice -- when she spots one of the trainee Watchers rolling his eyes in irritation from the back of the lecture hall. As soon as the class has been dismissed, she hops off of the desk she's been occupying and heads straight for him. There's no way she's going to let some arrogant little shit of a Watcher kill one of the new Slayers because he didn't feel like paying attention in school.
"Was the lecture boring you?" she asks as soon as she's standing over him, and oh, this one's smarter than she'd first thought, because judging by his sudden inhalation he can hear the warning hiding in her nonchalant tone of voice. When he looks up, though, all the sirens in her head go off at once, because what looks like nervous tension in his shoulders is actually a predator's careful stillness, and the bland expression on his face is the best lie she's ever seen.
He tries to protest his innocence, and keeps on protesting as she hauls him to Giles' office, where the man himself hears her out with an expression that reminds her that he used to be called Ripper.
"Adam?" he says coldly, once she's finished. Adam winces, and for a second he really looks as harmless as he's been pretending to be. Then he sighs, and runs a hand through his hair before beginning an explanation of his own.
***
(for
morgynleri_fic; prompt - Methos, Faith)***
Recall
Political Evolution of Medieval Europe is Clark's least favourite class. The professor is stuck up and abrasive, and the TA reminds Clark of Lex. He has the same way of hiding his smiles, as if no one else could possibly understand the joke, and the same air of elegant boredom, though Evan Pierce seems to prefer baggy sweaters to Tessori suits. During the first of Professor Ryan's mandatory study sessions -- led by Evan, since the professor himself is far too busy to attend -- the resemblance is even more pronounced. Evan lectures with the same ease and interest in minute detail that made Lex so interesting to listen to, and by the time he dismisses them, Clark is ready to tear his hair out with frustration.
***
(forgoldenrat84; prompt - Clark, Methos)
***
Political Evolution of Medieval Europe is Clark's least favourite class. The professor is stuck up and abrasive, and the TA reminds Clark of Lex. He has the same way of hiding his smiles, as if no one else could possibly understand the joke, and the same air of elegant boredom, though Evan Pierce seems to prefer baggy sweaters to Tessori suits. During the first of Professor Ryan's mandatory study sessions -- led by Evan, since the professor himself is far too busy to attend -- the resemblance is even more pronounced. Evan lectures with the same ease and interest in minute detail that made Lex so interesting to listen to, and by the time he dismisses them, Clark is ready to tear his hair out with frustration.
***
(for
goldenrat84; prompt - Clark, Methos)***
With Malice Aforethought
It had been the day from hell. Methos had woken up to find that it was raining, he'd slept through his alarm, his internet connection was down, and the last bottle of beer had fallen over and broken in his refrigerator. He had to make a mad dash for class, arrived ten minutes late, and spent the entire lecture suffering under the glare of Professor Caldwell, a man who could have given Duncan MacLeod lessons in 'dour'.
After class his cell phone didn't work, and the computer in the University library presented a blank screen and spat sparks at him when he tried to fix it. The librarian evicted him with a glare that rivaled Caldwell's, and, feeling thoroughly routed, Methos decided that the best place to be was his flat -- but when he got there, the electricity had gone out. That was the last straw. Methos let out a string of curses that should by rights have peeled the paint from the walls, and headed out for the bar.
The well-dressed, smirking figure seated at his favourite table was utterly familiar, though the Saville Row suit and designer shades were new; the last time Methos had seen him, they'd both been in Elizabethan finery and his tormentor had been wearing a hat with a very wide brim.
"You," Methos growled, irritation surging to the fore. "I should have known. Even my luck's not that bad."
Crowley grinned. Methos folded his arms over his chest.
"Explain to me why I shouldn't just shoot you right now."
"If you do, I won't get the chance to make it up to you," Crowley said, with a suggestiveness that left little room for interpretation, and a quirk of his mouth that was as much invitation as it was smile. He made an apologetic gesture with his left hand; Methos found himself suddenly dry, warm, and holding a microbrew that wasn't actually available in the States. There were, he thought, some advantages to being friendly with demons. Another glance at Crowley, who was lounging back in his chair like temptation personified, was enough to convince Methos to let himself be coaxed back out of his bad mood. The things that Crowley could do with his tongue outweighed all sorts of minor inconveniences.
(for [Bad username or unknown identity: goldenrat84 ; disheveled - Methos/Crowley) *** ]
It had been the day from hell. Methos had woken up to find that it was raining, he'd slept through his alarm, his internet connection was down, and the last bottle of beer had fallen over and broken in his refrigerator. He had to make a mad dash for class, arrived ten minutes late, and spent the entire lecture suffering under the glare of Professor Caldwell, a man who could have given Duncan MacLeod lessons in 'dour'.
After class his cell phone didn't work, and the computer in the University library presented a blank screen and spat sparks at him when he tried to fix it. The librarian evicted him with a glare that rivaled Caldwell's, and, feeling thoroughly routed, Methos decided that the best place to be was his flat -- but when he got there, the electricity had gone out. That was the last straw. Methos let out a string of curses that should by rights have peeled the paint from the walls, and headed out for the bar.
The well-dressed, smirking figure seated at his favourite table was utterly familiar, though the Saville Row suit and designer shades were new; the last time Methos had seen him, they'd both been in Elizabethan finery and his tormentor had been wearing a hat with a very wide brim.
"You," Methos growled, irritation surging to the fore. "I should have known. Even my luck's not that bad."
Crowley grinned. Methos folded his arms over his chest.
"Explain to me why I shouldn't just shoot you right now."
"If you do, I won't get the chance to make it up to you," Crowley said, with a suggestiveness that left little room for interpretation, and a quirk of his mouth that was as much invitation as it was smile. He made an apologetic gesture with his left hand; Methos found himself suddenly dry, warm, and holding a microbrew that wasn't actually available in the States. There were, he thought, some advantages to being friendly with demons. Another glance at Crowley, who was lounging back in his chair like temptation personified, was enough to convince Methos to let himself be coaxed back out of his bad mood. The things that Crowley could do with his tongue outweighed all sorts of minor inconveniences.
(for [Bad username or unknown identity: goldenrat84 ; disheveled - Methos/Crowley) *** ]
Accidents of Time and Space
Cardiff is pretty boring, really, so when the sparkly cylinder with the flashing lights appears out of what is for all intents and purposes thin air, Cory really doesn't see any reason not to pick it up and examine it. When his lips turn numb and pain spreads through his chest, his last thought is that maybe Matthew has a point when he accuses him of being too curious for his own good.
He gasps his way back to life only to find two very startled mortals standing over him. Having found that the best thing to do in such occasions is to smile and wave and then leave before anyone can wrap their minds around a suddenly re-animated corpse, Cory proffers the smile that had always gotten him into the most exclusive speakeasies in Capone's Chicago, and starts to stand up.
"Not so fast." The male half of the duo standing over him is really very pretty, and his gun is almost as impressive as his looks. "I think you have some explaining to do."
Cory resists the urge to make a joke about 'I Love Lucy' -- it's difficult, but he manages -- and blinks innocently at their now suspicious faces. "Excuse me?"
"You're supposed to be dead," the woman says with some asperity, pushing her dark hair out of her face with one gloved hand. The other is holding the whatever-it-is that had killed Cory so precipitately.
"I got better?" Cory hazards, and then has to bite his lip hard to keep from laughing. The advent of Monty Python has added a special twist to reviving in public. "Seriously," he says, smiling winningly at both of them, "if I were dead, I'd have stayed that way. It's not like the condition's reversible."
"My god, Jack," the woman says, looking between Cory and her companion with an expression that's somewhere between amused and appalled. "It's like getting you in stereo."
***
(for [Bad username or unknown identity: strangevisitor7 ; prompt - Cory Raines, Jack Harkness) ]
Cardiff is pretty boring, really, so when the sparkly cylinder with the flashing lights appears out of what is for all intents and purposes thin air, Cory really doesn't see any reason not to pick it up and examine it. When his lips turn numb and pain spreads through his chest, his last thought is that maybe Matthew has a point when he accuses him of being too curious for his own good.
He gasps his way back to life only to find two very startled mortals standing over him. Having found that the best thing to do in such occasions is to smile and wave and then leave before anyone can wrap their minds around a suddenly re-animated corpse, Cory proffers the smile that had always gotten him into the most exclusive speakeasies in Capone's Chicago, and starts to stand up.
"Not so fast." The male half of the duo standing over him is really very pretty, and his gun is almost as impressive as his looks. "I think you have some explaining to do."
Cory resists the urge to make a joke about 'I Love Lucy' -- it's difficult, but he manages -- and blinks innocently at their now suspicious faces. "Excuse me?"
"You're supposed to be dead," the woman says with some asperity, pushing her dark hair out of her face with one gloved hand. The other is holding the whatever-it-is that had killed Cory so precipitately.
"I got better?" Cory hazards, and then has to bite his lip hard to keep from laughing. The advent of Monty Python has added a special twist to reviving in public. "Seriously," he says, smiling winningly at both of them, "if I were dead, I'd have stayed that way. It's not like the condition's reversible."
"My god, Jack," the woman says, looking between Cory and her companion with an expression that's somewhere between amused and appalled. "It's like getting you in stereo."
***
(for [Bad username or unknown identity: strangevisitor7 ; prompt - Cory Raines, Jack Harkness) ]
untitled
"Look, here's something," Sam says. He turns his computer screen to show Dean an article on a recent outbreak of violence in Topeka, Kansas. "It was precipitated by three days of city-wide cell phone failure and traffic congestion."
Dean rolls his eyes. "There's nothing particularly demonic about that, Sammy."
***
(fifty words; misapprehension)
"Look, here's something," Sam says. He turns his computer screen to show Dean an article on a recent outbreak of violence in Topeka, Kansas. "It was precipitated by three days of city-wide cell phone failure and traffic congestion."
Dean rolls his eyes. "There's nothing particularly demonic about that, Sammy."
***
(fifty words; misapprehension)
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