sam_storyteller (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-04 03:08 pm
sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-04 03:08 pm
Entry tags:
Flopsies: Slytherin Charity. Rated G-PG.
These flopsies were written as part of a charity fundraiser for the Las Cruces Reptile Rescue. The fandoms include Harry Potter, Ouran Host Club, Discworld/Good Omens, CSI, Sherlock Holmes, Peter Wimsey, Classical History, Black Books, and House. Specifically they contain spoilers for the end of Going Postal; they also contain some writings by Ellis Graveworthy, for the CC fans amongst you. :D
Warnings: Drug use.
Harry Potter, Ellis Graveworthy, and the LCVerse.
Laura B and Drew: Something in the LCVerse
"You are learning," said Professor Snape, "but not quite enough yet."
They were sitting on a grassy hill on the Hogwarts grounds, overlooking the lake. Snape had been giving a lesson on the gathering of potions ingredients, and Harry had lingered after class was over to sit with his professor and sun himself a little. Snape looked tired and drawn, but he smiled more easily these days.
"What haven't I learned?" Harry asked indignantly.
"If You-Know-Who returns," Snape said, idly stripping the outer layer of green from a leaf, "you will be the one to fight him. That much you can see for yourself. Don't think I don't know that you're able to manipulate people quite well, you wouldn't be a Slytherin if you couldn't. But you don't understand the value of people yet."
"That's not true. I love Padma and Neville and Draco."
"Look over there." Snape gestured in the direction of the lake, where several boys and girls were having a noontime swim. One was far and away ahead of the others, a Slytherin boy Harry knew slightly.
"That's Drew Ferrell, isn't it?" Harry asked, pointing. "He's a fifth-year."
"I don't see a fifth-year," Snape replied. "I see potential. A clever lad a few years older than you, with his own skills and talents, already leading some of the others -- see how they follow him?"
"So?"
"So he is worth something, intrinsically, and you're unaware of it. It isn't enough to manipulate people to make them do what you want. You have to convince them that it's the right thing to do."
"I should use him?"
"You should befriend him, and others like him. Your circle of friends is too narrow. You may find there's a world beyond the other three that you were never expecting," Snape finished. "I must be off; do think on it, Potter."
Harry watched his professor go, then turned back to study the students in the lake once more. After a while he stood up and walked down to the edge of the water,
"Hullo Potter!" Drew called. "Come in, the water's fine!"
"Thanks," Harry said, thoughtfully. "I think I will."
***
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aura218: Remus and/or Sirius' thirtieth birthday. Elements included must be Harry and minor catastrophe.
Remus Lupin celebrated his thirtieth birthday, primarily, sitting in a chilly school auditorium.
Actually, that wasn't entirely true. He'd bought himself lunch at a nice restaurant (extravagance!) and spent an enjoyable afternoon at the cinema, but he'd made sure the film ended by five and then caught a bus across town to the primary school that most of the Little Whinging children attended. There he'd paid three pounds for a photocopied ticket, found a seat on a folding chair, and settled himself in to wait eagerly for the show.
It wasn't, of course, a very good show. There was a minor catastrophe when one of the little girls tripped and fell over one of the set pieces. The story itself was only vaguely coherent, something about a snake-charmer and a princess, but Remus didn't care. He was holding his breath for --
This moment. A tousel-haired little kid, eight or nine years old, appeared on stage. He was dressed like some kind of magician's apprentice, and he very carefully carried a paiper-mache prop across the stage to the snake-charmer. He had two lines: "Here is your flute sir" and "You're welcome." Then he bolted from the stage so fast he nearly tripped on his oversized costume shoes.
Remus applauded furiously with all the other proud parents and siblings as the entire cast took a bow. Little Harry Potter, nearly hidden behind an enormously fat young boy, smiled shyly at everyone and Remus sighed happily.
Excellent birthday present.
***
bare_bear: I love LC, do you think you could do something along those lines? Maybe involving Remus after a rather trying day teaching?
Remus settled back in his chair as the last of the day's students filed out. He heard his spine crack when he stretched, and his feet throbbed gently. Walking around this much, this close to the full moon, was bad enough; combine it with a handful of uppity teenagers and he was ready to go hide in the forest and live like a monk for a few years.
Well, provided Sirius could come along, anyway.
It was supposed to be a myth that people actually were crazier around the full moon, and perhaps Remus wasn't objective because his temper certainly got shorter, but he was positive the phases affected his students. There was no other way to explain why half a dozen sixth-years would be so violently angry at each other as to continue a feud during class.
What he wanted most in the world was tea, and a blanket, and a good book. With an option on flooing Tonks to ask if she'd take on another year of teaching, because he was knackered and it was only October.
The classroom door had closed behind the last of the students, and he nearly groaned aloud when it opened again.
"What is it?" he asked, trying not to sound annoyed at whatever Ravenclaw was showing up to ask for extra tutoring.
"Room service," said a deep voice. Remus opened his eyes.
Sirius stood in the doorway with a tray in one hand and a large bulky object slung over his other arm.
"I've brought you some tea," he said, "and you left your favourite blanket at the house last night. I thought you'd want it on the bed tonight, it's starting to get really cold. Oh! And I finished the book on the Goblin Rebellion, you wanted it, didn't you?"
Remus stared at him as if he'd just produced the Holy Grail.
"How...did you know?" he asked, baffled, as Sirius dropped the blanket on his lap and offered him the cup of tea. Sirius grinned and kissed his forehead.
"I always know," he replied.
***
aegyptus: Something Black Books
"Harry Potter! Fucking Harry Potter!"
Bernard Black kicked over a stack of books and glared at Manny.
"What? They're not bad," Manny said, from behind an enormous tome with a blue-and-black cover. "They get kids reading."
"WHO WANTS KIDS TO READ?" Bernard demanded. "They are a blot on literature!"
"You're just bitter because you didn't write them first, you big Muggle," Manny retorted. Bernard clutched his chest, mortally offended.
"Fran, tell him," he ordered, sinking down into his chair as if he might faint at any moment.
"Harry Potter books are wicked," Fran said, taking out a photocopied sheet of paper. "They warp the minds of children and encourage the worship of Satan."
Manny put his book down slowly.
"So that means...." he said, horrified. Fran nodded.
"Yep. If you read those books you'll end up just like Bernard."
***
raistmimi: Can I get an HP/GO crossover? Crowley as the next Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher! That should be plenty Slytherin.
Returning to Hogwarts for seventh year was a pretty depressing thing, after all that had happened the previous June. Dumbledore dead, Draco missing, Harry dropped out; plenty of others had dropped out too, not seeing the benefit in returning to what Dean Thomas called "Deathtrap Away From Home". Hermione and Ron weren't expecting much fun their final year of school.
There was, of course, the usual gossip about who would be their Defence professor; some said they'd heard Mad-Eye Moody would do it, and others said the Ministry was sending someone else. Whoever it was, they weren't at the High Table during the sorting feast and McGonagall made no mention of the new professor in her greeting speech.
Plenty of students were early to their first Defence class that year, but Hermione and Ron were the first. When they entered, they found a curly-haired man in black Muggle clothing lounging indolently against the professor's desk, wearing sunglasses though the glassroom was quite dim.
"Hallo," he said, and Hermione swore she saw a flicker of forked tongue -- but that couldn't be, because a second later he spoke again and his tongue looked perfectly normal. "You must be my new studentss. I'm Professor Crowley."
"Yes, Professor," Ron said staunchly. "Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, Gryffindor house."
"Mmm. I have a friend who was in Gryffindor. Or would have been, if he'd attended," the new Professor said with a grin. "I fancy myself a Ravenclaw, but then the truly wicked have to be a bit clever to keep out of trouble's way, don't they?"
"Are you from the Ministry?" Hermione asked, sitting down.
"Oh no. Just...laying low after a bit of a political incident," he replied. "I'm here to make sure you lot don't get up to too much mischief this year."
Ron didn't like the sound of this, and it must have showed on his face.
"Don't worry, kid," Professor Crowley said. "I haven't actually chosen sides yet."
***
coyotegoth: Four Founders/Two Kneazles
In the ninth year of the school's operation, when children were beginning to ask to attend and parents no longer had to be convinced, Salazar reopened the topic of the Dark Arts courses.
Brutus and Cassius lay on the mantel above Godric's fireplace, lazy elder statesmen and kings of all they surveyed. They listened to Salazar and Godric argue, but they didn't bother to get up and find a hiding place as they had when they were kittens. They were well used to the shouting matches now, and knew that when it was over Salazar would go to the kitchens to sulk and they could depend upon a bowl of fresh cream each if they went down to comfort him.
"You cannot teach eleven-year-olds how to maim their fellow students," Godric exploded, once he'd presented all the economic and logistical reasons not to add any courses and Salazar had shot them all down. "You know better than anyone that children have no impulse control."
"I know that children have no control until they're taught control. My students -- "
"Your, your little Slytherin club!" Godric sputtered. "They seem fully odd to me, Salazar."
"Like attracts like; you have your own followers, even if you won't acknowledge them," Salazar replied.
The kneazles exchanged a knowing look as Godric's voice built to a roar. Cream and some fish, maybe.
***
annechen67: Did Ellis ever visit the States?
Ellis Graveworthy unshouldered the backpack he was carrying and looked around him, inhaling the odd mix of saltwater, cooking steam, and raw vegetables he would forever after associate with America.
The international floo portal between London an the States was located in Boston, just outside what his half-Muggle upbringing identified as a major train terminal. He was supposed to be here for a book tour, which was in and of itself baffling; he wrote about the British Wizarding identity, and hadn't thought his books would even be read in America, let alone popular enough for him to tour. He'd decided to arrive a few days ahead of time to find his feet in this strange alien country, but now he was wishing he'd brought someone along to help him. He wasn't even certain which way to go to reach his hotel.
"This is going to be interesting," he muttered to himself, blindly turning left, because left looked more populated.
But even before he'd gone ten steps, he was looking and listening; before he'd gone twenty, he was making mental notes. And as he walked into the open-air market just past the train station, the opening of a book on the American Identity was already forming itself in his mind...
***
metallumai: Ellis the Slytherin trying to get his head around Sirius the Gryffindor
There was a very small, select group of writers that Ellis Graveworthy felt comfortable with, mostly young men and women like himself who had come up fast in the literary world and, also like himself, were more serious about the craft than the end result. They met perhaps once a month, usually on the spur of the moment, in the back room of the Leaky Cauldron.
"Look at him glow," Emily said, sliding into the chair next to Ellis and knocking her pint glass amiably against his. "Found someone new, have we, El?"
"Maybe," Ellis said, not bothering to hide a smile. He picked at the edge of his coaster, shyly.
"Who is it?" Richard inquired. "Do we know him?"
"I hardly know him myself yet," Ellis murmured. "He's -- unusual."
Richard lifted an eyebrow. "Oh?"
"Well -- he's so -- " Ellis groped for words. "You always make fun of me for being a Slytherin, but he's such a Gryffindor, Richard."
Everyone smiled and glanced knowingly at each other. Ellis in love was -- unusual, and a little funny.
"He's loud and completely selfless and -- and he does the stupidest stunts and shows off. And he says what he thinks pretty much the minute he thinks it. But it's not like that, he's not stupid," he added, as Emily rolled her eyes. Michael looked interested.
"But do you like him at all, El?" he asked. Ellis' fingers twitched and he nearly knocked over his beer.
"I do. I've never met anyone like him. He makes me want to -- " Ellis himself laughed. "There's no way to say it without sounding like a dirty old man, but I want to see what's underneath all that...loudness. It must be like a hurricane. I can see a silent centre in him. I want to find that silence."
Emily rubbed his arm and Richard and Michael smiled at him.
"Well. Ellis Graveworthy conquered by a noisy Gryffindor. This ought to be fun to watch," Michael said finally.
***
arsenic_jade: Something for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
hp_dungeons
This is a poem sent from one character to another.
Mathematical Threes
by Ellis Graveworthy
I stood once at a river delta's point,
The perfect sum deducted circular
And looked to see where branching water rolled
Divided from the perpendicular.
Then crouched upon the slick and fertile soil,
and placed in each new branch a curious hand
To see if one could already be told
Apart from other, heaving down the sand.
So we three in the sunlight through the trees
In blue communion touching living flesh
Comingled for one moment sweet and sure
Unable to tell each one from the next.
Thus two loves have I held in my hand's palm
And found it not a trial but a balm.
***
unicornvamp3z: Graveworthy would be nice
By The Days
by Ellis Graveworthy
Everything that can be said has been:
The train is poet's country, in the end.
However grand or paltry you have done
It matters little. Working, dreaming men
have worked or dreamed according to their need
When they are on the solid iron tracks --
But even if your sowing brings no seed
You still have done this much: have crossed the flats
The rivers, roads, and gullies, passed the shops
Built too-near to the stations. You have seen
The poor in tar-tack houses fenced with wires
And dreamers, what you witness, you have been.
Let others take the faster, crowded ways;
My heart prefers to travel by the days.
House MD
jiapa: House/Wilson
"I have a plan," House announced one day. Actually he didn't really announce it, he sort of whispered it conspiringly over lunch. Wilson, in the middle of a mouthful of soup, swallowed and blotted his lips calmly.
"Well, if you distract the guards with a striptease, I bet I can fit eight or nine gold bricks down my pants. More if I wear the clown pants," he said.
"That was last week's plan, will you get with the times?" House replied. "I'm talking about a plan to get in Robert Chase's pants."
"Have you seen his pants? Yours are nicer."
"I'm sorry, which of us is gay here?" House asked.
"I didn't peg him as your type. I thought you liked men with spines, brains, and less obsession with hair-care products. And how do you know I'm not gay? I could be gay."
"If you are, you really suck at it. I don't know if you've noticed but you've been married three times."
"Come to think of it, why DO you want to get in Chase's pants? He really isn't your type and you don't sleep with your assistants anyway."
"Because he's hot," House said sardonically. Wilson narrowed his eyes.
"This little plan is part of some bigger plan, isn't it?" he asked. "You're not sleeping with him just to crush his spirit, are you? 'Cause I hear Cameron already did that. Is this some kind of Machiavellian plot to make someone jealous? There's someone else, isn't there?"
"You don't trust me?" House asked.
"No," Wilson said, almost incidentally. "There's someone else with a spine and a brain and you're planning to find out if he's jealous or not."
House stared at him for so long that Wilson began to have deeply upsetting inklings.
"Apparently not," he said finally. Wilson's inklings became whole inkpots.
"House, were you just not listening when I said I could be gay?" he asked. House continued to stare. "I'll tell you what, here's my plan. I'll finish work and show up at your place for drinks around seven and by eleven o'clock if I haven't convinced you of the possibility, we'll go with the bank heist plan, okay?"
Silence. Wilson began to fret, until finally the other man spoke again.
"Thank god I don't have to fuck Chase," House blurted.
***
wittgirl: House fic
"I don't care if you're God and I'm carrying the messiah," Cuddy had said. "You're going to therapy. Having a doctor in jail is bad publicity."
Agreeing seemed to be wisest. Pregnant women were so bitchy, he said, but he gave in.
Cameron kissed him and said she'd come along, but he told her to take the hour and pick up some chick in a bar for a three-way after.
"So," said the therapist, whom House had selected by tossing a coin, "Why are you here?"
"Well, due to stress caused by dating my assistant and my boss carrying my in-vitro spawn, I may have slipped a little and punched one of my patients in the nose hard enough to break the cartilage like a cheap pencil," House said.
He knew he'd picked the right guy when the man replied, "For a guy with only one functioning leg, you get around, don't you?"
***
dine: House fic
"Give me your coffee," House said to Chase that morning, standing outside the hospital while he waited for Cuddy to walk by so he could make rude remarks. "I want to try something."
"No," Chase declared. "You're just plotting on theft."
"It's not a plot, give me your coffee," House replied. Chase held it up and back, out of reach. House couldn't reach forward without overbalancing, and if he tried to circle around, Chase would have time to run away.
"It is, it's a plot to steal my coffee because you were too lazy to go to Starbucks and you're stuck drinking hospital coffee," Chase continued, dancing out of the way every time House feinted towards him.
"This is in the name of SCIENCE!" House shouted, then poked him in the ribs with the butt-end of his cane handle. Chase doubled over instinctively, and the coffee came down...
All over House.
He stood there, arms spread, coffee dripping from his fingers and elbows and the end of his nose. It poured down his face in little rivulets and matted his hair against his head.
"That's hot," Cuddy said as she walked past, giving House a little smirk and a wave of her fingertips. House turned on Chase, expressionless.
"Karma's a bitch," Chase said with a shrug.
Then he ran for his life.
***
bedofbones: House would be amazing, since he's so Slytherin-ey it's ridiculous
"You don't see anything wrong with this picture," Wilson said, hands on his hips in that ridiculous pose he'd probably started affecting in the fourth grade and never grown out of.
"Should I?" House asked. He held his hand up to eye level and studied the little creature in it with apparent glee.
"You own a rat. Granted, you were ready to bash in his head in the name of science, but you are mostly fond of him, aren't you?"
"People aren't fond of Steve McQueen," House replied, not breaking eye contact. "Women want to do him, men want to be him."
"Snakes eat rats," Wilson said finally. He was keeping his distance from the small black snake now wrapping itself around House's wrist. House turned to him and held out his hand in offering. Wilson stepped back a pace.
"She's way too small to eat a whole rat on her own. Besides, Steve is a mean bastard," House replied. "She doesn't even get a whole mouse yet. Why do you think I have all the crickets?"
"I wasn't going to ask," Wilson sighed. "What are you naming her?"
"Kim Novak," House replied promptly.
vimeslady: NOTE: Spoilers for the end of Going Postal. I don't like the fact that, at the end of Going Postal, Vetinari offers Gilt the option of managing the A-M Mint. I also don't like the fact that, given the choice, Gilt apparently chose death.
"May I ask you a question, my lord?" Drumknott said.
Vetinari looked up at him, eyebrows raised. Drumknott normally simply asked; he rarely preambled, which was why Vetinari had picked him out of the warren of clerks available to him in the Palace. In addition, it had been something of a long day and Drumknott knew better than to try his patience.
"Is it of an impertinent nature?" Vetinari inquired. Drumknott seemed to consider it.
"I think so, my lord," he said finally.
"Very well; forewarned is forarmed. What is it?"
Drumknott cleared his throat. "Mr. Gilt, sir."
"Yes?"
"He was a killer, sir."
"Indeed."
"And while you are, my lord, known for your appreciation of certain forms of ruthlessness..."
"Very tactful of you, Drumknott," Vetinari murmured.
"(Thank you, my lord.)...you are not generally given to putting psychopaths in charge of major government undertakings."
Vetinari leaned back in his chair and tapped the nib of his quill on the desk's blotter, thoughtfully.
"I believe it is important for people to have choices," he said. "People like to have choices. It doesn't matter what they are so much as long as they exist. I felt it was only fair to offer Gilt the choice."
"But...?" Drumknott asked.
"But just because people have a choice does not mean they will choose correctly. In fact in many cases it is easy to predict that they will choose incorrectly because they do not understand the...concrete nature of their choices. It is not my job to warn them that they are about to be stupid. It is merely my job to offer the choice."
Drumknott smiled. "You knew what he would choose. It was never really an offer at all."
"It was most certainly an offer," Vetinari said, but there was a hint of a smile in return. "And now, to other matters. Ah yes, I see the teakettle budget for the Watch House is up for review..."
Peter Wimsey Stories
hangingfire: Wimsey and Bunter during the War
It was tradition, and had once probably been good tradition, to take officers for the military from the upper classes and the University boys. Bunter had seen five or six already in his three years as a Sergeant, and most of them didn't know arse from elbow. Oh, they were smart, but they weren't clever. They hadn't any cunning, didn't know how to scrounge, didn't know when to look the other way for the welfare of the men.
He hadn't thought Wimsey would be any different; he certainly didn't look very impressive, rake-thin and chinless and ramrod-straight like all the others. But there was something in his eyes -- something a little more cunning, a little more clever.
Wimsey was different. He could move with a feline silence, and there were times when Bunter saw the kind intellect disappear completely from those eyes. Then a wall descended and they looked snakelike, predatory and cool and completely without mercy. If he had ever turned those eyes on his soldiers, Bunter would have committed treason to protect the men, but he never did. And so Bunter did not worry about his men.
Instead, he worried about Wimsey.
***
adina_atl: Harriet and Bunter in Peter's absence (not sexual)
"I hate it when he goes off without me," Harriet said, picking at her breakfast. Bunter, shelving a pile of Peter's books nearby, made a soft noise. "Beg your pardon?" she asked.
"Just agreeing with you, Lady Peter," he replied.
"You hate it when he goes off without me?" she asked, smiling. Bunter turned and gave her a rare smile.
"His absence makes itself felt," he said.
"I just think it makes me seem like the good little wife, sitting at home, waiting for her boy to come home," she complained. Bunter frowned at her.
"Oh no, your ladyship," he replied. "I'm certain no-one would think so."
"Yes, well." She pushed her plate away and sighed. "Do you miss him?"
Bunter seemed to have to consider this.
"I wish I could -- be where he is, to help him in what needs to be done," he said finally.
Harriet smiled. "Yes. That's it precisely." Then she pushed herself out of the chair. "Well, to our own work."
"Indeed, Ladyship."
***
jiapa: Peter interacting with his kids
In some circles, admittedly not ones Peter or Harriet cared to be a part of, Bredon Wimsey was described as the result of "hybrid vigour", with a sniff and a sneer. His father had married a commoner, and worse: a writer and freethinker who had once been on trial for murdering her lover. His father, though he had a good bloodline, was hardly better, a peculiar sort who came perilously close to working for a living as a consulting detective.
Bredon was blissfully ignorant of these remarks for the first fourteen or fifteen years of his life, but sooner or later he was bound to hear them. It was a miracle his school friends hadn't said anything, but then Bredon was a popular and much-admired boy at Eton.
"Father," he said, as Peter steered the Daimler (his newest) out onto the highway and began the pleasant drive to Talboys for summer hols, "do you regret anything you've done?"
Peter looked at him, vaguely alarmed. "What's that, old man?"
"Like marrying mum, or doing your detectiving."
"Not in the least. Why on earth do you ask, Bredon?"
Bredon studied his hands. "People say things, that's all."
"Yes, they will do that."
"Things about mum, I mean."
Peter smiled. "They certainly will do that."
"Don't you get angry?"
"Why, do you?"
"Yes. I heard one of my mate's older brothers say something..." Bredon shrugged. "If he'd been my size I'd have thrashed him."
"That's very good of you, Bredon, but entirely unnecessary." Peter pulled the car over to the shoulder and put it in park, turning to regard his half-grown son soberly. Bredon waited obediently for the lesson he knew he was about to receive.
"In this world you are capable of thought, speech, and action. Any one without the other two is the sign of an inferior mind. You will have to deal with a great many inferior minds, my son, because you are intelligent and -- so very much your mother's child," Peter added. Bredon flushed with pleasure. "It is a sign of your own character that you feel a desire for justice, and not a sense of shame."
"But what am I to do when they talk rubbish about her? Or you?"
Peter shrugged. "Piffle along, lad, piffle along and watch sharply. It's always worked for me."
Bredon considered this in deep silence the whole way back to Talboys, but by the time they arrived he had a sunny smile for his brothers and a kiss on the cheek for his mum.
"I have terrible news," Peter said to Harriet later that night, when they were alone. "Bredon's become a man."
"Bother," Harriet replied, laughing. "Is he a good man, Peter?"
"Yes. I rather think he is."
Sherlock Holmes
anon: Anything Sherlock Holmes would be great
Holmes had laid the trap, which meant it was crafted with a hunter's expertise. I, having seen the mechanics of it, did not expect that the metropolitan police would fall for it, but it is easy to scoff at the magician when one knows his tricks.
What neither of us had counted on was the second trap Lestrade laid for Holmes, because Lestrade was not by nature a devious man.
He and Holmes stood in front of the door to the cells, Holmes lounging against the wall, Lestrade facing him and propped against the opposite wall.
"It was tidily done, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade said, looking tired and not a little broken. "I can't say as I regret your sending up four of my detectives for graft, as they were here before my time and nothing but a waste of departmental funds."
"So I understand," Holmes replied, "Though it was not for your sake I did it, nor to antagonise the police."
"Oh, nobody's saying you wished that," Lestrade replied. I, standing down the hallway a bit, eavesdropped shamelessly, knowing Holmes was aware of it and would run me off if necessary. "It's just now we're a bit shorthanded, and missing a few keen minds."
"If I may assist as a consultant..." Holmes offered with a bow.
"Mr. Holmes, I'll take you up on that," Lestrade replied, and Holmes looked up sharply. "For a six-month salary fee."
"Lestrade, what are you talking about?" Holmes asked.
"Hiring you, Mr. Holmes, as a consultant," Lestrade replied easily. "To train up four new detectives of your choice and run the new forensics lab we're gettin' up funding for."
Holmes, always a man of his word, could hardly back down; and that was how Lestrade tricked Sherlock Holmes into donning the badge of the metropolitan police for six months.
***
bedofbones: I'm taking a class right now on Sherlock Holmes and the scientific method. Something with Professor Moriarty, perhaps?
Moriarty sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers.
Contrary to what his underlings believed, he lived fairly simply. There was no luxurious brocade, no fine china, no gilded ornamentation in his study. He did have a fine large writing desk and comfortable sofa, but he had no need of hedonistic luxury, not now. Let young men enjoy their baubles; he was approaching middle-age and had never really had any appreciation for such things.
"This young scientist," he said to his secretary, who was standing nearby with a leather case in one hand. "The one who beats corpses to see how they bruise and is more interested in blood than wine. I would like you to have him watched."
"Of course, sir." The secretary hesitated. "Easier to simply have him killed, sir, if you think him a threat."
Moriarty laughed. "I think you underestimate both him and myself. No, I don't want him killed; I want him cultivated, and watching is the first step."
"Cultivated?" the secretary asked curiously.
"Yes. I shall give out his name in various quarters where people are in need of his services; what is it he called himself, a Consulting Detective? What a splendid title. If the time invested pays off, it will pay treble." Moriarty took out a cigarette and lit it, placing it in a long filter.
"You wish to encourage his efforts? What if he begins to pursue you?"
"Why do you think I have arranged this, dear boy?" Moriarty said, exhaling smoke. "The game is uninteresting without a partner. And even if he should win...I shall have had the pleasure of knowing I was his tutor."
His secretary sighed. "As you wish, sir."
"Thank you, Stamford. You may go."
Note: Stamford is the young medical assistant who introduces Watson to Holmes in A Study In Scarlet.
Ouran High School Host Club (mainly crossovers)
hlynna: Tamaki's no good very bad day
Tamaki Suoh was not having a good day.
It was, in fact, terrible because he'd failed a math test he didn't even know they were having and hadn't studied for. He'd been out with Kyouya instead, discussing new plans for the first spring Host Club session and what costumes to wear.
It might even have been horrible. His dog Antoinette had thrown up on his shoes -- he didn't mind the shoes, though they did still smell, but he was worried about Antoinette's diet. He loved his dog and hated to see her upset by anything.
It was definitely no-good, because since he'd had to wear his PE sneakers all day he'd squeaked everywhere he went, which distracted him and everyone around him too. Which led to it being very bad, as he'd woken up Hunny with his squeaking and Hunny had cut the shoes right off his feet. He was lucky he hadn't lost a toe in the process.
Yes, it was a terrible, horrible, no-good, very-bad --
"Senpai?" Haruhi asked, coming to sit next to Tamaki where he was sulking barefoot in one corner. "I heard what happened to your sneakers. I know a store near my apartment that sells French shoes, I can show you where if you like."
-- wonderful day.
***
aidara: Kyouya getting high
It was an accident. Everyone knew that. It was nobody's fault, per se.
All right, yes, everyone knew that Miyako was a stoner and most of the reason she came to Host Club was because she got the munchies when she smoked after class, but she always designated Haruhi and never caused a fuss, so what was the harm? Her expenditure in cake was negligible and she brought in revenue. But Kyouya knew that too.
And perhaps nobody had told Kyouya that the brownies in the supply cupboard were a gift from Miyako for Haruhi, because Miyako was friendly and thought Haruhi might enjoy them. But Kyouya knew everything, so whose job would it have been to tell him, anyway? And who could have seen him take one as a pick-me-up snack after Host Club had ended for the day? Haruhi and Mori were putting away chairs and Hunny was seeing the last guests off and the twins were, well, the twins, and Tamaki was changing out of his cosplay for the week.
Kyouya laughing was such a bizarre sound, so entirely unusual, that it brought Haruhi up short.
"Tamaki-senpai," she called, because Kyouya was holding Tamaki's hat (furry, and with ear flaps; he'd been a Russian Tsar) and laughing uncontrollably. Tamaki came running out of the anteroom, his fluffy Russian trousers still on under his blue Ouran blazer, and Kyouya dropped the hat. He pointed at Tamaki and laughed until tears came to his eyes.
"What's so funny?" Tamaki demanded. Behind Kyouya, the twins were holding up an empty plate with brownie crumbs stuck to it. Hunny's eyes widened.
"Your -- your trousers..." Kyouya doubled over and clutched his ribs.
"Kyouya-senpai, why don't you come with us," the twins said, appearing to be all concern. Haruhi had an instinct to stop them, but she ignored it -- what harm would the twins really do to Kyouya, who would be sober enough again soon?
Kyouya giggled helplessly and allowed himself to be led away, which was how a photograph of him with nothing but a well-placed furry hat ended up on the Host Club website.
The twins didn't come out of hiding for a week.
***
sanura: an Ouran/HP crossover with contrasts of people with glasses in Slytherin and Gryffindor
Kyouya ignored the shouts of "Harry!" at first. He was just waiting for his train, as he had every morning since coming to England for the last of the summer holiday before University. He didn't even really register that someone was shouting until they tackled him around the waist.
He turned around to see who was assaulting him and looked down into the face of a redheaded woman not much younger than he was.
"Hello," he said.
The girl blushed charmingly and released his waist, jerking backwards.
"Sorry," she said. "I thought you were someone I knew. I -- "
She shrieked as she tripped backwards over someone's luggage and fell to the ground, skinning both her elbows. Kyouya sighed, gave in to fate, and helped her up.
Ten minutes later they were sitting in a cafe near the train station, and she was telling him about Harry, who had gone missing two weeks before.
"He's really -- powerful, you know?" she said. "And when he walks into a room you can see him measuring everyone up. And he -- never used to, but now he seems to know everything about everyone, even when nobody will listen to him. He's got big plans. We're all just really worried about him."
Kyouya looked at her thoughtfully over the dreck that the English called tea.
"I'm certain he'll be all right," he said, and thought of Haruhi.
***
kannnichtfranz: What would happen were Hikaru and Kaoru to meet Fred and George.
"Hikaru! Kaoru! Come over here!"
The twins looked up as Tamaki gestured wildly at them. He was waving for them to join him in the little knot of students at the far end of the Hogwarts courtyard, where a tall young man with dark hair and a frizzy-haired young woman were standing. They strolled over at a leisurely pace, taking in the stangers with a measured expertise. The boy had a scar above his eyebrow; this must be Harru Potter, which meant that the girl was Harru Miony Granger. Ouran wasn't specifically a magical training school, but it gave a full education for its expensive tuition, and that included basic Charms, Transfiguration, Herbology, and Magical History. Harru Potter's fame had penetrated to Japan easily.
When they reached the other students, however, Harru Potter stepped aside and Tamaki struck a pose, one hand indicating a pair of redheaded young men who had been standing behind Potter.
"Hitachiin brothers, meet Oueasaly brothers!"
Hikaru caught his breath and glanced at Kaoru. Standing in front of them were near mirror-images; oh, the Oueasaly brothers had longer noses and paler skin, but otherwise it was like looking at his own face.
"Pleased to meet you," one of them said, in the odd, clipped tones of the English. "I'm Fred. That's George. Are you Hikaru or Kaoru?"
Kaoru grinned. "Guess!"
The other boys looked at each other. In unison, they pointed at Kaoru. "Kaoru Hitachiin?"
"Oh bugger," Harru Potter said. "There's four of them."
All four redheaded boys turned to him, sniffed, and then turned back to each other.
"We have a lot to discuss," they said in perfect unison, then burst out laughing.
"We are in so much trouble," Harru said to Tamaki.
***
jazmin_firewing: Kyouya and Vetinari playing chess
(Now available on AO3!
Kyouya was not, actually, a particularly bookish boy. He appreciated books, because they provided information, but books weren't valuable to him in and of themselves. He was more...informationish.
Still, his quest for information had led him deep into the stacks of the Ouran High School Research Library, which had led him through L-Space (which was a cakewalk once you got the hang of it) and out into the library of the Patrician's Palace of Ankh-Morpork. He understood in an intellectual sort of way that Ankh-Morpork was not of his world, but the language spoken there was a sort of thickly-accented dialect of English and he got along all right.
He had explored the Palace (well, he was there, why not) and in his explorations had stumbled across the Patrician, who was working in the garden, paperwork under several half-bricks on his left and a chessboard on his right. The first time, Kyouya had merely meant to make contact with someone who was clearly an important man; but he kept returning because, well, it was stimulating.
"I sympathise with your plight," Vetinari said, moving a piece with one hand while he signed a payroll chit with the other. "Playing the game for the joy of it is considered barbarous when it is against one's own family. I have none, fortunately."
"Have you any advice?" Kyouya asked. He was playing with most of his attention, but he kept a sharp watch on the paperwork Vetinari handled.
"Choose which you value more, your brothers' happiness or truth to your own nature," Vetinari replied. "And always be prepared."
"For what?" Kyouya asked.
"Everything. Bad leaders know what has happened; good leaders know what is happening. True leaders know what will happen."
"And how is that done?"
Vetinari's lips quirked upwards. "Research, of course."
Kyouya's smile matched his own. "I see."
"I suspect you do."
***
elucreh: Peter Wimsey and Kyouya: Collections
"I didn't think you liked fiction much, Kyouya-senpai," Haruhi said to Kyouya one day, when she caught him reading a novel in English. The cover was unmistakably lurid, a bloody outstretched hand lying on the rug at the bottom of an ironworked spiral staircase.
"I like murder mysteries," Kyouya answered absently, turning a page. Haruhi grinned.
"You like solving puzzles!"
"Yes. I collect mysteries; I like this author in particular. I own all of hers. Some in first-edition."
"What's that book about?"
Kyouya closed the book and offered it to her. As she studied the back, he spoke.
"A nobleman with nothing else to do spends his time solving crimes other people commit. He is...sensitive to mood, highly strung, afraid to come too close to people."
Haruhi glanced up as Kyouya's voice changed. It wasn't a waver, precisely, but she could hear the shift in mental gears that it marked.
"He's very European -- blond, pale-eyed, musical," Kyouya said. Haruhi followed his gaze, which had settled on Tamaki, leaning over the back of a sofa to compliment some girl drinking her tea.
"I collect mysteries," Kyouya repeated. "I find them fascinating."
CSI, Classical History
dine: CSI:LV fic
Gil Grissom knew that there were plenty of people in the Las Vegas crime lab who thought he was oblivious. He was a scientist and he was trained to notice things, but he never got his paperwork in on time and he occasionally wasn't entirely in the moment when speaking with someone. That didn't mean he wasn't paying attention, it just meant that he had less processing speed than normal for social inanities because he was working on a tough case.
He had never bothered to fix the problem, because it took energy that could be better dedicated to other things. He had discovered that if he acted naturally, then the sort of woman who was attracted to him would not be the sort to demand things he couldn't provide.
He hadn't counted on Sara Sidle.
It wasn't that she wanted things from him that she wouldn't get. That was what -- well, yes, upset him, if he was being honest. It was that she demanded he give things he could give and simply didn't want to, was afraid to. Many women had been in and out of his life over the years, but only Sara had told him, implicitly and explicitly, that he had to try harder, that she would not be content until he had stepped outside his comfort zone for her just as she'd stepped outside hers for him.
He'd played a game and lost -- but in the end he had wanted to lose. And besides, losing, he still won his prize.
"You're thinking so loudly I can hear you from here," she said, sipping orange juice at the counter in his kitchen. "Anything important?"
"As it turns out, no," he said, and smiled.
***
mizstorge: Something amusing about Odysseus and Penelope for my long-suffering husband, who says heroes are never anything special to their families?
The list appeared for the first time about ten days after Odysseus arrived home. It wasn't actually a list written down anywhere until a little later, but there was no doubt in his mind that Penelope had a mental list at that point.
"Darling," she said one morning, "I've been meaning to ask you."
As if he'd just gone out for a three-day boar hunt, and not a ten-year war followed by a ten-year sea voyage. Still, he had missed her dreadfully and loved her dreadfully, so he smiled and said, "What's that, my own?"
"Well, the cobblestones in the courtyard are getting a bit uneven and I was thinking perhaps it was time to re-pack the mortar."
That was simple enough, and he could hire some lads to help him do it; he was still hale and hearty from his seafaring, after all.
The problem was, after that, she thought there were some walls that could use replastering, and twenty years ago he had promised to build her a little trellis in the garden, and certainly he agreed with her that it was not a woman's work to pull up the stump near the front entryway...
Then, one day, she did present him with a list. A list of little household chores that needed doing. Nothing large, except...
"BLAST IT, WOMAN!" he shouted, after a long day spent trying to pull up that damn stump. "I AM A HERO OF THE TROJAN WAR! I'm a general! I spent ten damn years trying to get home to you!"
Penelope smiled and brought him a cool drink from the fountain, and slipped her hand into his.
"I know, my love," she said, kissing his cheek.
Odysseus looked at the stump again.
Well, it was a small thing, really.
Warnings: Drug use.
Harry Potter, Ellis Graveworthy, and the LCVerse.
Laura B and Drew: Something in the LCVerse
"You are learning," said Professor Snape, "but not quite enough yet."
They were sitting on a grassy hill on the Hogwarts grounds, overlooking the lake. Snape had been giving a lesson on the gathering of potions ingredients, and Harry had lingered after class was over to sit with his professor and sun himself a little. Snape looked tired and drawn, but he smiled more easily these days.
"What haven't I learned?" Harry asked indignantly.
"If You-Know-Who returns," Snape said, idly stripping the outer layer of green from a leaf, "you will be the one to fight him. That much you can see for yourself. Don't think I don't know that you're able to manipulate people quite well, you wouldn't be a Slytherin if you couldn't. But you don't understand the value of people yet."
"That's not true. I love Padma and Neville and Draco."
"Look over there." Snape gestured in the direction of the lake, where several boys and girls were having a noontime swim. One was far and away ahead of the others, a Slytherin boy Harry knew slightly.
"That's Drew Ferrell, isn't it?" Harry asked, pointing. "He's a fifth-year."
"I don't see a fifth-year," Snape replied. "I see potential. A clever lad a few years older than you, with his own skills and talents, already leading some of the others -- see how they follow him?"
"So?"
"So he is worth something, intrinsically, and you're unaware of it. It isn't enough to manipulate people to make them do what you want. You have to convince them that it's the right thing to do."
"I should use him?"
"You should befriend him, and others like him. Your circle of friends is too narrow. You may find there's a world beyond the other three that you were never expecting," Snape finished. "I must be off; do think on it, Potter."
Harry watched his professor go, then turned back to study the students in the lake once more. After a while he stood up and walked down to the edge of the water,
"Hullo Potter!" Drew called. "Come in, the water's fine!"
"Thanks," Harry said, thoughtfully. "I think I will."
***
aura218: Remus and/or Sirius' thirtieth birthday. Elements included must be Harry and minor catastrophe. Remus Lupin celebrated his thirtieth birthday, primarily, sitting in a chilly school auditorium.
Actually, that wasn't entirely true. He'd bought himself lunch at a nice restaurant (extravagance!) and spent an enjoyable afternoon at the cinema, but he'd made sure the film ended by five and then caught a bus across town to the primary school that most of the Little Whinging children attended. There he'd paid three pounds for a photocopied ticket, found a seat on a folding chair, and settled himself in to wait eagerly for the show.
It wasn't, of course, a very good show. There was a minor catastrophe when one of the little girls tripped and fell over one of the set pieces. The story itself was only vaguely coherent, something about a snake-charmer and a princess, but Remus didn't care. He was holding his breath for --
This moment. A tousel-haired little kid, eight or nine years old, appeared on stage. He was dressed like some kind of magician's apprentice, and he very carefully carried a paiper-mache prop across the stage to the snake-charmer. He had two lines: "Here is your flute sir" and "You're welcome." Then he bolted from the stage so fast he nearly tripped on his oversized costume shoes.
Remus applauded furiously with all the other proud parents and siblings as the entire cast took a bow. Little Harry Potter, nearly hidden behind an enormously fat young boy, smiled shyly at everyone and Remus sighed happily.
Excellent birthday present.
***
bare_bear: I love LC, do you think you could do something along those lines? Maybe involving Remus after a rather trying day teaching? Remus settled back in his chair as the last of the day's students filed out. He heard his spine crack when he stretched, and his feet throbbed gently. Walking around this much, this close to the full moon, was bad enough; combine it with a handful of uppity teenagers and he was ready to go hide in the forest and live like a monk for a few years.
Well, provided Sirius could come along, anyway.
It was supposed to be a myth that people actually were crazier around the full moon, and perhaps Remus wasn't objective because his temper certainly got shorter, but he was positive the phases affected his students. There was no other way to explain why half a dozen sixth-years would be so violently angry at each other as to continue a feud during class.
What he wanted most in the world was tea, and a blanket, and a good book. With an option on flooing Tonks to ask if she'd take on another year of teaching, because he was knackered and it was only October.
The classroom door had closed behind the last of the students, and he nearly groaned aloud when it opened again.
"What is it?" he asked, trying not to sound annoyed at whatever Ravenclaw was showing up to ask for extra tutoring.
"Room service," said a deep voice. Remus opened his eyes.
Sirius stood in the doorway with a tray in one hand and a large bulky object slung over his other arm.
"I've brought you some tea," he said, "and you left your favourite blanket at the house last night. I thought you'd want it on the bed tonight, it's starting to get really cold. Oh! And I finished the book on the Goblin Rebellion, you wanted it, didn't you?"
Remus stared at him as if he'd just produced the Holy Grail.
"How...did you know?" he asked, baffled, as Sirius dropped the blanket on his lap and offered him the cup of tea. Sirius grinned and kissed his forehead.
"I always know," he replied.
***
aegyptus: Something Black Books "Harry Potter! Fucking Harry Potter!"
Bernard Black kicked over a stack of books and glared at Manny.
"What? They're not bad," Manny said, from behind an enormous tome with a blue-and-black cover. "They get kids reading."
"WHO WANTS KIDS TO READ?" Bernard demanded. "They are a blot on literature!"
"You're just bitter because you didn't write them first, you big Muggle," Manny retorted. Bernard clutched his chest, mortally offended.
"Fran, tell him," he ordered, sinking down into his chair as if he might faint at any moment.
"Harry Potter books are wicked," Fran said, taking out a photocopied sheet of paper. "They warp the minds of children and encourage the worship of Satan."
Manny put his book down slowly.
"So that means...." he said, horrified. Fran nodded.
"Yep. If you read those books you'll end up just like Bernard."
***
raistmimi: Can I get an HP/GO crossover? Crowley as the next Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher! That should be plenty Slytherin. Returning to Hogwarts for seventh year was a pretty depressing thing, after all that had happened the previous June. Dumbledore dead, Draco missing, Harry dropped out; plenty of others had dropped out too, not seeing the benefit in returning to what Dean Thomas called "Deathtrap Away From Home". Hermione and Ron weren't expecting much fun their final year of school.
There was, of course, the usual gossip about who would be their Defence professor; some said they'd heard Mad-Eye Moody would do it, and others said the Ministry was sending someone else. Whoever it was, they weren't at the High Table during the sorting feast and McGonagall made no mention of the new professor in her greeting speech.
Plenty of students were early to their first Defence class that year, but Hermione and Ron were the first. When they entered, they found a curly-haired man in black Muggle clothing lounging indolently against the professor's desk, wearing sunglasses though the glassroom was quite dim.
"Hallo," he said, and Hermione swore she saw a flicker of forked tongue -- but that couldn't be, because a second later he spoke again and his tongue looked perfectly normal. "You must be my new studentss. I'm Professor Crowley."
"Yes, Professor," Ron said staunchly. "Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, Gryffindor house."
"Mmm. I have a friend who was in Gryffindor. Or would have been, if he'd attended," the new Professor said with a grin. "I fancy myself a Ravenclaw, but then the truly wicked have to be a bit clever to keep out of trouble's way, don't they?"
"Are you from the Ministry?" Hermione asked, sitting down.
"Oh no. Just...laying low after a bit of a political incident," he replied. "I'm here to make sure you lot don't get up to too much mischief this year."
Ron didn't like the sound of this, and it must have showed on his face.
"Don't worry, kid," Professor Crowley said. "I haven't actually chosen sides yet."
***
coyotegoth: Four Founders/Two KneazlesIn the ninth year of the school's operation, when children were beginning to ask to attend and parents no longer had to be convinced, Salazar reopened the topic of the Dark Arts courses.
Brutus and Cassius lay on the mantel above Godric's fireplace, lazy elder statesmen and kings of all they surveyed. They listened to Salazar and Godric argue, but they didn't bother to get up and find a hiding place as they had when they were kittens. They were well used to the shouting matches now, and knew that when it was over Salazar would go to the kitchens to sulk and they could depend upon a bowl of fresh cream each if they went down to comfort him.
"You cannot teach eleven-year-olds how to maim their fellow students," Godric exploded, once he'd presented all the economic and logistical reasons not to add any courses and Salazar had shot them all down. "You know better than anyone that children have no impulse control."
"I know that children have no control until they're taught control. My students -- "
"Your, your little Slytherin club!" Godric sputtered. "They seem fully odd to me, Salazar."
"Like attracts like; you have your own followers, even if you won't acknowledge them," Salazar replied.
The kneazles exchanged a knowing look as Godric's voice built to a roar. Cream and some fish, maybe.
***
annechen67: Did Ellis ever visit the States? Ellis Graveworthy unshouldered the backpack he was carrying and looked around him, inhaling the odd mix of saltwater, cooking steam, and raw vegetables he would forever after associate with America.
The international floo portal between London an the States was located in Boston, just outside what his half-Muggle upbringing identified as a major train terminal. He was supposed to be here for a book tour, which was in and of itself baffling; he wrote about the British Wizarding identity, and hadn't thought his books would even be read in America, let alone popular enough for him to tour. He'd decided to arrive a few days ahead of time to find his feet in this strange alien country, but now he was wishing he'd brought someone along to help him. He wasn't even certain which way to go to reach his hotel.
"This is going to be interesting," he muttered to himself, blindly turning left, because left looked more populated.
But even before he'd gone ten steps, he was looking and listening; before he'd gone twenty, he was making mental notes. And as he walked into the open-air market just past the train station, the opening of a book on the American Identity was already forming itself in his mind...
***
metallumai: Ellis the Slytherin trying to get his head around Sirius the Gryffindor There was a very small, select group of writers that Ellis Graveworthy felt comfortable with, mostly young men and women like himself who had come up fast in the literary world and, also like himself, were more serious about the craft than the end result. They met perhaps once a month, usually on the spur of the moment, in the back room of the Leaky Cauldron.
"Look at him glow," Emily said, sliding into the chair next to Ellis and knocking her pint glass amiably against his. "Found someone new, have we, El?"
"Maybe," Ellis said, not bothering to hide a smile. He picked at the edge of his coaster, shyly.
"Who is it?" Richard inquired. "Do we know him?"
"I hardly know him myself yet," Ellis murmured. "He's -- unusual."
Richard lifted an eyebrow. "Oh?"
"Well -- he's so -- " Ellis groped for words. "You always make fun of me for being a Slytherin, but he's such a Gryffindor, Richard."
Everyone smiled and glanced knowingly at each other. Ellis in love was -- unusual, and a little funny.
"He's loud and completely selfless and -- and he does the stupidest stunts and shows off. And he says what he thinks pretty much the minute he thinks it. But it's not like that, he's not stupid," he added, as Emily rolled her eyes. Michael looked interested.
"But do you like him at all, El?" he asked. Ellis' fingers twitched and he nearly knocked over his beer.
"I do. I've never met anyone like him. He makes me want to -- " Ellis himself laughed. "There's no way to say it without sounding like a dirty old man, but I want to see what's underneath all that...loudness. It must be like a hurricane. I can see a silent centre in him. I want to find that silence."
Emily rubbed his arm and Richard and Michael smiled at him.
"Well. Ellis Graveworthy conquered by a noisy Gryffindor. This ought to be fun to watch," Michael said finally.
***
arsenic_jade: Something for hp_dungeons This is a poem sent from one character to another.
Mathematical Threes
by Ellis Graveworthy
I stood once at a river delta's point,
The perfect sum deducted circular
And looked to see where branching water rolled
Divided from the perpendicular.
Then crouched upon the slick and fertile soil,
and placed in each new branch a curious hand
To see if one could already be told
Apart from other, heaving down the sand.
So we three in the sunlight through the trees
In blue communion touching living flesh
Comingled for one moment sweet and sure
Unable to tell each one from the next.
Thus two loves have I held in my hand's palm
And found it not a trial but a balm.
***
unicornvamp3z: Graveworthy would be nice By The Days
by Ellis Graveworthy
Everything that can be said has been:
The train is poet's country, in the end.
However grand or paltry you have done
It matters little. Working, dreaming men
have worked or dreamed according to their need
When they are on the solid iron tracks --
But even if your sowing brings no seed
You still have done this much: have crossed the flats
The rivers, roads, and gullies, passed the shops
Built too-near to the stations. You have seen
The poor in tar-tack houses fenced with wires
And dreamers, what you witness, you have been.
Let others take the faster, crowded ways;
My heart prefers to travel by the days.
House MD
jiapa: House/Wilson "I have a plan," House announced one day. Actually he didn't really announce it, he sort of whispered it conspiringly over lunch. Wilson, in the middle of a mouthful of soup, swallowed and blotted his lips calmly.
"Well, if you distract the guards with a striptease, I bet I can fit eight or nine gold bricks down my pants. More if I wear the clown pants," he said.
"That was last week's plan, will you get with the times?" House replied. "I'm talking about a plan to get in Robert Chase's pants."
"Have you seen his pants? Yours are nicer."
"I'm sorry, which of us is gay here?" House asked.
"I didn't peg him as your type. I thought you liked men with spines, brains, and less obsession with hair-care products. And how do you know I'm not gay? I could be gay."
"If you are, you really suck at it. I don't know if you've noticed but you've been married three times."
"Come to think of it, why DO you want to get in Chase's pants? He really isn't your type and you don't sleep with your assistants anyway."
"Because he's hot," House said sardonically. Wilson narrowed his eyes.
"This little plan is part of some bigger plan, isn't it?" he asked. "You're not sleeping with him just to crush his spirit, are you? 'Cause I hear Cameron already did that. Is this some kind of Machiavellian plot to make someone jealous? There's someone else, isn't there?"
"You don't trust me?" House asked.
"No," Wilson said, almost incidentally. "There's someone else with a spine and a brain and you're planning to find out if he's jealous or not."
House stared at him for so long that Wilson began to have deeply upsetting inklings.
"Apparently not," he said finally. Wilson's inklings became whole inkpots.
"House, were you just not listening when I said I could be gay?" he asked. House continued to stare. "I'll tell you what, here's my plan. I'll finish work and show up at your place for drinks around seven and by eleven o'clock if I haven't convinced you of the possibility, we'll go with the bank heist plan, okay?"
Silence. Wilson began to fret, until finally the other man spoke again.
"Thank god I don't have to fuck Chase," House blurted.
***
wittgirl: House fic"I don't care if you're God and I'm carrying the messiah," Cuddy had said. "You're going to therapy. Having a doctor in jail is bad publicity."
Agreeing seemed to be wisest. Pregnant women were so bitchy, he said, but he gave in.
Cameron kissed him and said she'd come along, but he told her to take the hour and pick up some chick in a bar for a three-way after.
"So," said the therapist, whom House had selected by tossing a coin, "Why are you here?"
"Well, due to stress caused by dating my assistant and my boss carrying my in-vitro spawn, I may have slipped a little and punched one of my patients in the nose hard enough to break the cartilage like a cheap pencil," House said.
He knew he'd picked the right guy when the man replied, "For a guy with only one functioning leg, you get around, don't you?"
***
dine: House fic"Give me your coffee," House said to Chase that morning, standing outside the hospital while he waited for Cuddy to walk by so he could make rude remarks. "I want to try something."
"No," Chase declared. "You're just plotting on theft."
"It's not a plot, give me your coffee," House replied. Chase held it up and back, out of reach. House couldn't reach forward without overbalancing, and if he tried to circle around, Chase would have time to run away.
"It is, it's a plot to steal my coffee because you were too lazy to go to Starbucks and you're stuck drinking hospital coffee," Chase continued, dancing out of the way every time House feinted towards him.
"This is in the name of SCIENCE!" House shouted, then poked him in the ribs with the butt-end of his cane handle. Chase doubled over instinctively, and the coffee came down...
All over House.
He stood there, arms spread, coffee dripping from his fingers and elbows and the end of his nose. It poured down his face in little rivulets and matted his hair against his head.
"That's hot," Cuddy said as she walked past, giving House a little smirk and a wave of her fingertips. House turned on Chase, expressionless.
"Karma's a bitch," Chase said with a shrug.
Then he ran for his life.
***
bedofbones: House would be amazing, since he's so Slytherin-ey it's ridiculous "You don't see anything wrong with this picture," Wilson said, hands on his hips in that ridiculous pose he'd probably started affecting in the fourth grade and never grown out of.
"Should I?" House asked. He held his hand up to eye level and studied the little creature in it with apparent glee.
"You own a rat. Granted, you were ready to bash in his head in the name of science, but you are mostly fond of him, aren't you?"
"People aren't fond of Steve McQueen," House replied, not breaking eye contact. "Women want to do him, men want to be him."
"Snakes eat rats," Wilson said finally. He was keeping his distance from the small black snake now wrapping itself around House's wrist. House turned to him and held out his hand in offering. Wilson stepped back a pace.
"She's way too small to eat a whole rat on her own. Besides, Steve is a mean bastard," House replied. "She doesn't even get a whole mouse yet. Why do you think I have all the crickets?"
"I wasn't going to ask," Wilson sighed. "What are you naming her?"
"Kim Novak," House replied promptly.
vimeslady: NOTE: Spoilers for the end of Going Postal. I don't like the fact that, at the end of Going Postal, Vetinari offers Gilt the option of managing the A-M Mint. I also don't like the fact that, given the choice, Gilt apparently chose death. "May I ask you a question, my lord?" Drumknott said.
Vetinari looked up at him, eyebrows raised. Drumknott normally simply asked; he rarely preambled, which was why Vetinari had picked him out of the warren of clerks available to him in the Palace. In addition, it had been something of a long day and Drumknott knew better than to try his patience.
"Is it of an impertinent nature?" Vetinari inquired. Drumknott seemed to consider it.
"I think so, my lord," he said finally.
"Very well; forewarned is forarmed. What is it?"
Drumknott cleared his throat. "Mr. Gilt, sir."
"Yes?"
"He was a killer, sir."
"Indeed."
"And while you are, my lord, known for your appreciation of certain forms of ruthlessness..."
"Very tactful of you, Drumknott," Vetinari murmured.
"(Thank you, my lord.)...you are not generally given to putting psychopaths in charge of major government undertakings."
Vetinari leaned back in his chair and tapped the nib of his quill on the desk's blotter, thoughtfully.
"I believe it is important for people to have choices," he said. "People like to have choices. It doesn't matter what they are so much as long as they exist. I felt it was only fair to offer Gilt the choice."
"But...?" Drumknott asked.
"But just because people have a choice does not mean they will choose correctly. In fact in many cases it is easy to predict that they will choose incorrectly because they do not understand the...concrete nature of their choices. It is not my job to warn them that they are about to be stupid. It is merely my job to offer the choice."
Drumknott smiled. "You knew what he would choose. It was never really an offer at all."
"It was most certainly an offer," Vetinari said, but there was a hint of a smile in return. "And now, to other matters. Ah yes, I see the teakettle budget for the Watch House is up for review..."
Peter Wimsey Stories
hangingfire: Wimsey and Bunter during the War It was tradition, and had once probably been good tradition, to take officers for the military from the upper classes and the University boys. Bunter had seen five or six already in his three years as a Sergeant, and most of them didn't know arse from elbow. Oh, they were smart, but they weren't clever. They hadn't any cunning, didn't know how to scrounge, didn't know when to look the other way for the welfare of the men.
He hadn't thought Wimsey would be any different; he certainly didn't look very impressive, rake-thin and chinless and ramrod-straight like all the others. But there was something in his eyes -- something a little more cunning, a little more clever.
Wimsey was different. He could move with a feline silence, and there were times when Bunter saw the kind intellect disappear completely from those eyes. Then a wall descended and they looked snakelike, predatory and cool and completely without mercy. If he had ever turned those eyes on his soldiers, Bunter would have committed treason to protect the men, but he never did. And so Bunter did not worry about his men.
Instead, he worried about Wimsey.
***
adina_atl: Harriet and Bunter in Peter's absence (not sexual) "I hate it when he goes off without me," Harriet said, picking at her breakfast. Bunter, shelving a pile of Peter's books nearby, made a soft noise. "Beg your pardon?" she asked.
"Just agreeing with you, Lady Peter," he replied.
"You hate it when he goes off without me?" she asked, smiling. Bunter turned and gave her a rare smile.
"His absence makes itself felt," he said.
"I just think it makes me seem like the good little wife, sitting at home, waiting for her boy to come home," she complained. Bunter frowned at her.
"Oh no, your ladyship," he replied. "I'm certain no-one would think so."
"Yes, well." She pushed her plate away and sighed. "Do you miss him?"
Bunter seemed to have to consider this.
"I wish I could -- be where he is, to help him in what needs to be done," he said finally.
Harriet smiled. "Yes. That's it precisely." Then she pushed herself out of the chair. "Well, to our own work."
"Indeed, Ladyship."
***
jiapa: Peter interacting with his kids In some circles, admittedly not ones Peter or Harriet cared to be a part of, Bredon Wimsey was described as the result of "hybrid vigour", with a sniff and a sneer. His father had married a commoner, and worse: a writer and freethinker who had once been on trial for murdering her lover. His father, though he had a good bloodline, was hardly better, a peculiar sort who came perilously close to working for a living as a consulting detective.
Bredon was blissfully ignorant of these remarks for the first fourteen or fifteen years of his life, but sooner or later he was bound to hear them. It was a miracle his school friends hadn't said anything, but then Bredon was a popular and much-admired boy at Eton.
"Father," he said, as Peter steered the Daimler (his newest) out onto the highway and began the pleasant drive to Talboys for summer hols, "do you regret anything you've done?"
Peter looked at him, vaguely alarmed. "What's that, old man?"
"Like marrying mum, or doing your detectiving."
"Not in the least. Why on earth do you ask, Bredon?"
Bredon studied his hands. "People say things, that's all."
"Yes, they will do that."
"Things about mum, I mean."
Peter smiled. "They certainly will do that."
"Don't you get angry?"
"Why, do you?"
"Yes. I heard one of my mate's older brothers say something..." Bredon shrugged. "If he'd been my size I'd have thrashed him."
"That's very good of you, Bredon, but entirely unnecessary." Peter pulled the car over to the shoulder and put it in park, turning to regard his half-grown son soberly. Bredon waited obediently for the lesson he knew he was about to receive.
"In this world you are capable of thought, speech, and action. Any one without the other two is the sign of an inferior mind. You will have to deal with a great many inferior minds, my son, because you are intelligent and -- so very much your mother's child," Peter added. Bredon flushed with pleasure. "It is a sign of your own character that you feel a desire for justice, and not a sense of shame."
"But what am I to do when they talk rubbish about her? Or you?"
Peter shrugged. "Piffle along, lad, piffle along and watch sharply. It's always worked for me."
Bredon considered this in deep silence the whole way back to Talboys, but by the time they arrived he had a sunny smile for his brothers and a kiss on the cheek for his mum.
"I have terrible news," Peter said to Harriet later that night, when they were alone. "Bredon's become a man."
"Bother," Harriet replied, laughing. "Is he a good man, Peter?"
"Yes. I rather think he is."
Sherlock Holmes
anon: Anything Sherlock Holmes would be great
Holmes had laid the trap, which meant it was crafted with a hunter's expertise. I, having seen the mechanics of it, did not expect that the metropolitan police would fall for it, but it is easy to scoff at the magician when one knows his tricks.
What neither of us had counted on was the second trap Lestrade laid for Holmes, because Lestrade was not by nature a devious man.
He and Holmes stood in front of the door to the cells, Holmes lounging against the wall, Lestrade facing him and propped against the opposite wall.
"It was tidily done, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade said, looking tired and not a little broken. "I can't say as I regret your sending up four of my detectives for graft, as they were here before my time and nothing but a waste of departmental funds."
"So I understand," Holmes replied, "Though it was not for your sake I did it, nor to antagonise the police."
"Oh, nobody's saying you wished that," Lestrade replied. I, standing down the hallway a bit, eavesdropped shamelessly, knowing Holmes was aware of it and would run me off if necessary. "It's just now we're a bit shorthanded, and missing a few keen minds."
"If I may assist as a consultant..." Holmes offered with a bow.
"Mr. Holmes, I'll take you up on that," Lestrade replied, and Holmes looked up sharply. "For a six-month salary fee."
"Lestrade, what are you talking about?" Holmes asked.
"Hiring you, Mr. Holmes, as a consultant," Lestrade replied easily. "To train up four new detectives of your choice and run the new forensics lab we're gettin' up funding for."
Holmes, always a man of his word, could hardly back down; and that was how Lestrade tricked Sherlock Holmes into donning the badge of the metropolitan police for six months.
***
bedofbones: I'm taking a class right now on Sherlock Holmes and the scientific method. Something with Professor Moriarty, perhaps? Moriarty sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers.
Contrary to what his underlings believed, he lived fairly simply. There was no luxurious brocade, no fine china, no gilded ornamentation in his study. He did have a fine large writing desk and comfortable sofa, but he had no need of hedonistic luxury, not now. Let young men enjoy their baubles; he was approaching middle-age and had never really had any appreciation for such things.
"This young scientist," he said to his secretary, who was standing nearby with a leather case in one hand. "The one who beats corpses to see how they bruise and is more interested in blood than wine. I would like you to have him watched."
"Of course, sir." The secretary hesitated. "Easier to simply have him killed, sir, if you think him a threat."
Moriarty laughed. "I think you underestimate both him and myself. No, I don't want him killed; I want him cultivated, and watching is the first step."
"Cultivated?" the secretary asked curiously.
"Yes. I shall give out his name in various quarters where people are in need of his services; what is it he called himself, a Consulting Detective? What a splendid title. If the time invested pays off, it will pay treble." Moriarty took out a cigarette and lit it, placing it in a long filter.
"You wish to encourage his efforts? What if he begins to pursue you?"
"Why do you think I have arranged this, dear boy?" Moriarty said, exhaling smoke. "The game is uninteresting without a partner. And even if he should win...I shall have had the pleasure of knowing I was his tutor."
His secretary sighed. "As you wish, sir."
"Thank you, Stamford. You may go."
Note: Stamford is the young medical assistant who introduces Watson to Holmes in A Study In Scarlet.
Ouran High School Host Club (mainly crossovers)
hlynna: Tamaki's no good very bad day Tamaki Suoh was not having a good day.
It was, in fact, terrible because he'd failed a math test he didn't even know they were having and hadn't studied for. He'd been out with Kyouya instead, discussing new plans for the first spring Host Club session and what costumes to wear.
It might even have been horrible. His dog Antoinette had thrown up on his shoes -- he didn't mind the shoes, though they did still smell, but he was worried about Antoinette's diet. He loved his dog and hated to see her upset by anything.
It was definitely no-good, because since he'd had to wear his PE sneakers all day he'd squeaked everywhere he went, which distracted him and everyone around him too. Which led to it being very bad, as he'd woken up Hunny with his squeaking and Hunny had cut the shoes right off his feet. He was lucky he hadn't lost a toe in the process.
Yes, it was a terrible, horrible, no-good, very-bad --
"Senpai?" Haruhi asked, coming to sit next to Tamaki where he was sulking barefoot in one corner. "I heard what happened to your sneakers. I know a store near my apartment that sells French shoes, I can show you where if you like."
-- wonderful day.
***
aidara: Kyouya getting high It was an accident. Everyone knew that. It was nobody's fault, per se.
All right, yes, everyone knew that Miyako was a stoner and most of the reason she came to Host Club was because she got the munchies when she smoked after class, but she always designated Haruhi and never caused a fuss, so what was the harm? Her expenditure in cake was negligible and she brought in revenue. But Kyouya knew that too.
And perhaps nobody had told Kyouya that the brownies in the supply cupboard were a gift from Miyako for Haruhi, because Miyako was friendly and thought Haruhi might enjoy them. But Kyouya knew everything, so whose job would it have been to tell him, anyway? And who could have seen him take one as a pick-me-up snack after Host Club had ended for the day? Haruhi and Mori were putting away chairs and Hunny was seeing the last guests off and the twins were, well, the twins, and Tamaki was changing out of his cosplay for the week.
Kyouya laughing was such a bizarre sound, so entirely unusual, that it brought Haruhi up short.
"Tamaki-senpai," she called, because Kyouya was holding Tamaki's hat (furry, and with ear flaps; he'd been a Russian Tsar) and laughing uncontrollably. Tamaki came running out of the anteroom, his fluffy Russian trousers still on under his blue Ouran blazer, and Kyouya dropped the hat. He pointed at Tamaki and laughed until tears came to his eyes.
"What's so funny?" Tamaki demanded. Behind Kyouya, the twins were holding up an empty plate with brownie crumbs stuck to it. Hunny's eyes widened.
"Your -- your trousers..." Kyouya doubled over and clutched his ribs.
"Kyouya-senpai, why don't you come with us," the twins said, appearing to be all concern. Haruhi had an instinct to stop them, but she ignored it -- what harm would the twins really do to Kyouya, who would be sober enough again soon?
Kyouya giggled helplessly and allowed himself to be led away, which was how a photograph of him with nothing but a well-placed furry hat ended up on the Host Club website.
The twins didn't come out of hiding for a week.
***
sanura: an Ouran/HP crossover with contrasts of people with glasses in Slytherin and Gryffindor Kyouya ignored the shouts of "Harry!" at first. He was just waiting for his train, as he had every morning since coming to England for the last of the summer holiday before University. He didn't even really register that someone was shouting until they tackled him around the waist.
He turned around to see who was assaulting him and looked down into the face of a redheaded woman not much younger than he was.
"Hello," he said.
The girl blushed charmingly and released his waist, jerking backwards.
"Sorry," she said. "I thought you were someone I knew. I -- "
She shrieked as she tripped backwards over someone's luggage and fell to the ground, skinning both her elbows. Kyouya sighed, gave in to fate, and helped her up.
Ten minutes later they were sitting in a cafe near the train station, and she was telling him about Harry, who had gone missing two weeks before.
"He's really -- powerful, you know?" she said. "And when he walks into a room you can see him measuring everyone up. And he -- never used to, but now he seems to know everything about everyone, even when nobody will listen to him. He's got big plans. We're all just really worried about him."
Kyouya looked at her thoughtfully over the dreck that the English called tea.
"I'm certain he'll be all right," he said, and thought of Haruhi.
***
kannnichtfranz: What would happen were Hikaru and Kaoru to meet Fred and George. "Hikaru! Kaoru! Come over here!"
The twins looked up as Tamaki gestured wildly at them. He was waving for them to join him in the little knot of students at the far end of the Hogwarts courtyard, where a tall young man with dark hair and a frizzy-haired young woman were standing. They strolled over at a leisurely pace, taking in the stangers with a measured expertise. The boy had a scar above his eyebrow; this must be Harru Potter, which meant that the girl was Harru Miony Granger. Ouran wasn't specifically a magical training school, but it gave a full education for its expensive tuition, and that included basic Charms, Transfiguration, Herbology, and Magical History. Harru Potter's fame had penetrated to Japan easily.
When they reached the other students, however, Harru Potter stepped aside and Tamaki struck a pose, one hand indicating a pair of redheaded young men who had been standing behind Potter.
"Hitachiin brothers, meet Oueasaly brothers!"
Hikaru caught his breath and glanced at Kaoru. Standing in front of them were near mirror-images; oh, the Oueasaly brothers had longer noses and paler skin, but otherwise it was like looking at his own face.
"Pleased to meet you," one of them said, in the odd, clipped tones of the English. "I'm Fred. That's George. Are you Hikaru or Kaoru?"
Kaoru grinned. "Guess!"
The other boys looked at each other. In unison, they pointed at Kaoru. "Kaoru Hitachiin?"
"Oh bugger," Harru Potter said. "There's four of them."
All four redheaded boys turned to him, sniffed, and then turned back to each other.
"We have a lot to discuss," they said in perfect unison, then burst out laughing.
"We are in so much trouble," Harru said to Tamaki.
***
jazmin_firewing: Kyouya and Vetinari playing chess(Now available on AO3!
Kyouya was not, actually, a particularly bookish boy. He appreciated books, because they provided information, but books weren't valuable to him in and of themselves. He was more...informationish.
Still, his quest for information had led him deep into the stacks of the Ouran High School Research Library, which had led him through L-Space (which was a cakewalk once you got the hang of it) and out into the library of the Patrician's Palace of Ankh-Morpork. He understood in an intellectual sort of way that Ankh-Morpork was not of his world, but the language spoken there was a sort of thickly-accented dialect of English and he got along all right.
He had explored the Palace (well, he was there, why not) and in his explorations had stumbled across the Patrician, who was working in the garden, paperwork under several half-bricks on his left and a chessboard on his right. The first time, Kyouya had merely meant to make contact with someone who was clearly an important man; but he kept returning because, well, it was stimulating.
"I sympathise with your plight," Vetinari said, moving a piece with one hand while he signed a payroll chit with the other. "Playing the game for the joy of it is considered barbarous when it is against one's own family. I have none, fortunately."
"Have you any advice?" Kyouya asked. He was playing with most of his attention, but he kept a sharp watch on the paperwork Vetinari handled.
"Choose which you value more, your brothers' happiness or truth to your own nature," Vetinari replied. "And always be prepared."
"For what?" Kyouya asked.
"Everything. Bad leaders know what has happened; good leaders know what is happening. True leaders know what will happen."
"And how is that done?"
Vetinari's lips quirked upwards. "Research, of course."
Kyouya's smile matched his own. "I see."
"I suspect you do."
***
elucreh: Peter Wimsey and Kyouya: Collections "I didn't think you liked fiction much, Kyouya-senpai," Haruhi said to Kyouya one day, when she caught him reading a novel in English. The cover was unmistakably lurid, a bloody outstretched hand lying on the rug at the bottom of an ironworked spiral staircase.
"I like murder mysteries," Kyouya answered absently, turning a page. Haruhi grinned.
"You like solving puzzles!"
"Yes. I collect mysteries; I like this author in particular. I own all of hers. Some in first-edition."
"What's that book about?"
Kyouya closed the book and offered it to her. As she studied the back, he spoke.
"A nobleman with nothing else to do spends his time solving crimes other people commit. He is...sensitive to mood, highly strung, afraid to come too close to people."
Haruhi glanced up as Kyouya's voice changed. It wasn't a waver, precisely, but she could hear the shift in mental gears that it marked.
"He's very European -- blond, pale-eyed, musical," Kyouya said. Haruhi followed his gaze, which had settled on Tamaki, leaning over the back of a sofa to compliment some girl drinking her tea.
"I collect mysteries," Kyouya repeated. "I find them fascinating."
CSI, Classical History
dine: CSI:LV fic Gil Grissom knew that there were plenty of people in the Las Vegas crime lab who thought he was oblivious. He was a scientist and he was trained to notice things, but he never got his paperwork in on time and he occasionally wasn't entirely in the moment when speaking with someone. That didn't mean he wasn't paying attention, it just meant that he had less processing speed than normal for social inanities because he was working on a tough case.
He had never bothered to fix the problem, because it took energy that could be better dedicated to other things. He had discovered that if he acted naturally, then the sort of woman who was attracted to him would not be the sort to demand things he couldn't provide.
He hadn't counted on Sara Sidle.
It wasn't that she wanted things from him that she wouldn't get. That was what -- well, yes, upset him, if he was being honest. It was that she demanded he give things he could give and simply didn't want to, was afraid to. Many women had been in and out of his life over the years, but only Sara had told him, implicitly and explicitly, that he had to try harder, that she would not be content until he had stepped outside his comfort zone for her just as she'd stepped outside hers for him.
He'd played a game and lost -- but in the end he had wanted to lose. And besides, losing, he still won his prize.
"You're thinking so loudly I can hear you from here," she said, sipping orange juice at the counter in his kitchen. "Anything important?"
"As it turns out, no," he said, and smiled.
***
mizstorge: Something amusing about Odysseus and Penelope for my long-suffering husband, who says heroes are never anything special to their families? The list appeared for the first time about ten days after Odysseus arrived home. It wasn't actually a list written down anywhere until a little later, but there was no doubt in his mind that Penelope had a mental list at that point.
"Darling," she said one morning, "I've been meaning to ask you."
As if he'd just gone out for a three-day boar hunt, and not a ten-year war followed by a ten-year sea voyage. Still, he had missed her dreadfully and loved her dreadfully, so he smiled and said, "What's that, my own?"
"Well, the cobblestones in the courtyard are getting a bit uneven and I was thinking perhaps it was time to re-pack the mortar."
That was simple enough, and he could hire some lads to help him do it; he was still hale and hearty from his seafaring, after all.
The problem was, after that, she thought there were some walls that could use replastering, and twenty years ago he had promised to build her a little trellis in the garden, and certainly he agreed with her that it was not a woman's work to pull up the stump near the front entryway...
Then, one day, she did present him with a list. A list of little household chores that needed doing. Nothing large, except...
"BLAST IT, WOMAN!" he shouted, after a long day spent trying to pull up that damn stump. "I AM A HERO OF THE TROJAN WAR! I'm a general! I spent ten damn years trying to get home to you!"
Penelope smiled and brought him a cool drink from the fountain, and slipped her hand into his.
"I know, my love," she said, kissing his cheek.
Odysseus looked at the stump again.
Well, it was a small thing, really.
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At any rate, all of them are fun. =D
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Of course, I will never object to House. Ever. :D
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Awww, Bunter!
And I liked the two Kneazles...they brought to mind Si and Am from Lady and the Tramp...
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Hikaru, Kaoru, Fred and George = really, really scary, albeit awesome. From a safe distance. *hides*
*squeaks* You wrote Odysseus and Penelope! With a to-do list! If you didn't already own my soul, well, there'd be some bestowing going on right now. As it is, accept my utter GLEE!
The one with Peter's son was beautifully written. And I'm such a sap - there may have been tears.... The little tag with Harriet just nailed it.
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I had fun with Peter and Bredon. *pats Bredon*
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<3 the rest of them, especially the HP/GO crossover. Yay Crowley!
and the LC Snape giving Harry lessons on surrounding himself with allies is just precious!
*lovelovelove*
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Oh... squee! Married love is surprisingly rare in fanfic, and this was just wonderful. Especially since Penelope really is quite as clever as Odysseus, if quieter about it.
The rest are all wonderful too -- and the first House one especially. I've just marathoned the first season, and it really does sound like the oddball lunch conversations House and Wilson have.
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"Apparently not," he said finally. Wilson's inklings became whole inkpots.
That bit was just class. You capture characters so fully that even those whose internal workings are hidden come shining into life in your writing. Which is an overly dramatic way of saying that, basically, you're fabulous.
And the two Gravesworthy poems nearly made me cry, especially 'The Days' which was really just beautiful.
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I was rather proud of the inkpots myself :D
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I also really liked Peter and Bredon - very in character for Peter and you've really caught the mood for the series well. I think that's one of the two things I admire most about your writing - your ability to capture just the right atmosphere (the other thing is your great subtle humor).
Nicely done as usual.
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However, would Peter Wimsey really be driving an automatic?
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7th year would be so much better!
Oh, Sam!
The idea of Crowley and Aziriphale lurking amongst the hedges at Hogwarts is just, ooh, too too lovely, like wrap your arms around yourself and hold on tight kind of awesome.
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~"Well, if you distract the guards with a striptease, I bet I can fit eight or nine gold bricks down my pants. More if I wear the clown pants," he said.~
*loves*
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(Anonymous) 2006-10-12 09:45 pm (UTC)(link)Anyway, sorry, just my two penn'orth. Loved them all, though. You rock.
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Glad you liked the rest of them! :) And thanks for the picks, I'll look into fixing those.
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You're not sleeping with him just to crush his spirit, are you? 'Cause I hear Cameron already did that.
MWAHahahahha
The Remus' birthday drabble is just too adorable for words ♥
And now I have to find out who Steve McQueen and Kim Novak are X-D
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Wilson's inklings became whole inkpots. is one of the cutest phrasings I've heard in a long time.
They were all excellent.
House and his therapist. And Ellis being teased about Sirius. And Snape with Harry. And all the House ones. And Remus seeing Harry's school play, hee!
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xxx
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Best. Line. Ever.
...although there were plenty of other incredibly good ones scattered throughout as well.
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Laughed so hard I woke up my roommate.
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