Owen, Ianto | 152 words | Set between seasons 1 & 2.
Ianto blames Jack, because that seems to be his default setting, and it just makes Owen angrier because the whole damn universe doesn’t need to revolve around their captain just because Ianto’s does.
“I’m tired,” Ianto is finally pushed into admitting, though it’s only pieces of the lie because in reality he feels so tired and empty that there probably aren’t words to describe it. Owen’s not getting involved because he refuses to acknowledge any of it. He will not become Ianto’s pillar of support; they still don’t like each other, after all.
“This has to stop,” he snaps, “You have to stop sitting around blaming him for his conspicuous absence and find another way to spend your time. A new hobby. Like origami. That seems lame enough for you.”
Ianto smiles wanly. “It could be worse,” he points out, “I could be blaming you.”
Owen’s shoulder aches. He doesn’t mention it.
Dan, Rufus | 186 words |
“Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
It’s a rhetorical question; you’re just supposed to nod and look repentant and focus on your shoes and hope that sooner or later the state you’re in will be forgotten.
With hindsight, and when he’s considerably more sober, Dan will remember this. Unfortunately, right now, he’s a little too out of it to escape to his room and hide from his dad’s glare.
“I was trying to get Serena back,” he suggests, though it sounds pathetic even to his ears. “I wouldn’t have gotten into Chuck’s limo under any other circumstances. Honestly.”
His dad continues to look disapproving and Dan belatedly recalls that his dad is a rock star and all and has therefore probably told these kind of lies before. It’s really late and Dan stinks like vodka and his school tie is probably still in Chuck’s jacket pocket and he suspects he’s got a horribly visible hickey. Jenny is in the doorway mouthing you are in so much trouble with a grin.
“It’s already all over Gossip Girl,” his dad adds, with a trace of amusement.
Lucy, The Master | 182 words
She thinks that her teeth might be bleeding, or maybe it’s her nose or she’s actually fine and it’s all an hallucination like when the bugs are crawling down the walls and Harry peels off his face to reveal he’s a Toclafane just like the rest of them. Or maybe it actually happened and now she’s lying there with her legs slit open and her wedding ring cold on the floor.
“Remember clouds, Lucy?”
She wants to remember but largely all she’s got now is the permanent sunlight and the Valiant is proving that perhaps it isn’t after all. The Bastard might be more suitable, but then God knows how they’d get the paintwork re-done.
“Want to dance, my love?”
She would call him a liar but she already knows the punishment for that; she feels wet all over but she can’t have bled that much because she wouldn’t still be alive unless she isn’t. And that’s a whole other story, her lips curling back over scarlet teeth.
“Remember when you said ‘yes’, darling?”
She shakes her head. She won’t, you know.
Horatio, Laertes | 196 words | Set during Act… 4?
“You are too angry,” Horatio presses.
Laertes answers with a curled lip; he’s too proud, considering, and he always did burn a little hotter than the rest of them. It’s his father’s fault, of course, but no one is going to say that. Especially not now.
“I cannot be ‘too angry’,” Laertes snarls back. “The Prince has murdered my father.”
Of all the lies floating about, this one has to prove true. Horatio was there for the blood trails on the stone floor and Hamlet’s determined madness; Horatio claims to be his sole confidante but even so he’s not sure exactly what means what any more.
“It’s not that simple,” Horatio attempts, though he knows that whatever he says is superfluous. Laertes is set on his path; oh, duty, and revenge that cannot be undone.
“You defend him, even now?” Laertes demands, and there’s something like hurt in his eyes but Horatio cannot think about that because there is an army of men outside shouting Laertes’ name and too much blood will be spilled.
“I do,” Horatio mumbles, and it comes out as a flat apology, although of course it is too late for it now.
[In unrelated notes, the gigantic decaf coffee I ordered turned out not to be decaf so I was reallyreallyreally ill. Blah.]
Isaac, Peter | 200 words | Set during 0.7%.
It’s not so much the choice you make as the choice you don’t make.
“You should be running,” Peter points out with the sharp grace of a man who doesn’t like his rival but doesn’t want to see him dead. Isaac inwardly laughs, a bitter sound; they’re not rivals of anything any more. There are still smudges of Simone’s blood on his bedsheets; right, but she’s in Europe, of course.
“I know,” he mumbles peaceably.
“Sylar is going to kill you,” Peter insists, as though this is something Isaac has entirely failed to notice.
“Did you draw it too?”
Peter nods awkwardly, pulling crumpled paper from his pocket. The guy sketches better than he paints, Isaac reflects, staring down at himself, mouth open in a crimson scream.
“I’d hide it,” Isaac remarks, handing the picture back. “You wouldn’t want the cops to think this was pre-meditated or anything.”
“That’s it?” Peter asks. His voice catches.
“Save the world,” Isaac reminds him, uncomfortably patting his shoulder. Peter looks like he wants to hug him for a second, then thinks better of it. “Don’t you dare save me,” Isaac warns, turning back to his paints.
Peter says nothing, and then he’s gone.
Don Giovanni/Leporello | 226 words | Set pre-opera
“Master,” Leporello begins, uncertainty rich in his voice, “Master, this is stupid.”
“Shut up,” Don Giovanni responds, and Leorello feels a sharp pinch to the inside of his left thigh. He bites back a sound of pain, trying to look as inconspicuous as he can with his master concealed between his legs.
“Why can’t we keep running?” Leporello asks plaintively.
“Because they will catch us,” Giovanni replies, sounding exasperated, if somewhat muffled. He is hidden by their baggage and crouched contentedly between Leporello’s thighs as though this is an everyday occurrence. It is not. If it were, Leporello would surely have left by now. He tenses his fingers against the top of the crumbling wall before him, keeping Giovanni out of view. He can feel his master breathing against his legs, the heat bleeding through his breeches. He bites his tongue, hard.
“Do you like me down here?” Don Giovanni asks conversationally, and his palm is gliding too high on the inside of Leporello’s leg.
“No,” Leporello grits out, and he can see men approaching, flaming torches held aloft.
“Liar,” Giovanni responds, and bites near the top of his thigh. Leporello winds a lock of hair tight around his finger to keep from crying out, unable to hide his physical reaction. Giovanni laughs softly, and Leporello grazes his fingers against the stone pretending not to hear.
Thirteen, Amber | 184 words | Set pre-hiring in season 4.
Little girls always fall apart too fast.
Thirteen keeps her head bowed over coffee, trying to remind herself that it’s a game. It’s never a game to them, the pieces, but still. None of it matters. None of it’s meant to matter.
“You look tired,” Amber observes. Thirteen could call her Cut-Throat Bitch like everyone else does but they’ve all got their masks and maybe it’s better not to label too early.
“I’m not cracking,” Thirteen replies simply, though perhaps it’s actually a lie. They’re all cracking but no one will admit to it first and anyway, at the end of the line there might be a shiny gold star or some kind of enlightenment because God knows there won’t be any shreds of dignity left there.
Thirteen feels doomed a lot of the time, though she still won’t take the test. It’s a rational fear that she can’t seem to function within.
“Do you think you’re going to win?” Thirteen asks, with shreds of curiosity. She stares at Amber’s shoes, disinterested in facial expressions.
Amber laughs softly; she’ll never hand over that weakness.