Jack/Suzie | 217 words |
Jack knows that he’s in love with her. Oh, not the be-all-and-end-all love, and he’s fully aware that he may not even remember her after she dies – which will be too early, because Torchwood demands that sacrifice – but, for the moment, there is something.
“You’re bored, and I’m lonely,” Suzie tells him, because it really can be that simple, if they want it to be.
“You’re such a romantic, Suze,” he returns, with plenty of teeth.
“And you’ve romanticised every relationship you’ve ever been in,” she counters, and for a moment looks sad. “‘Cause for a minute and a half, every time, you think it might be enough to fill the gap he left behind.”
Jack feels his jaw tense; he’s never told her about the Doctor, but Suzie is far from stupid. Flawed, yes, but never stupid.
“That’s enough,” he mutters, voice so sharp that even Owen would back off at this point. But Suzie isn’t Owen, and she won’t ever back down.
“You might as well admit it,” she shrugs. “We’re not him – whoever the fuck he was – and we just make that space bigger and colder.”
“Get out.” Jack’s voice is pale with fury, strained and trembling. Suzie says nothing as she walks away.
But he’ll still love her in the morning. For now.
Simon | 205 words | Set pre-show/film
His frown is fixed. “And she’s dangerous?”
“Well, yes.” His companion smiles. “Of course dangerous. There’d be no point if she wasn’t.”
This is true. You don’t stick needles in the head of a little girl in the hopes she’ll become docile. In the short term, perhaps; but there’ll be fallout, and there’ll be memories.
“How dangerous?” His voice is steady, for all that it catches at the edges. He’s this deep now, there’s no point in stepping back and quailing now. There are too many ripples from his actions; already, soldiers are questioning his parents – their parents – who remain stone-faced. Two children gone, and he hopes that somewhere along the line they care.
“Dangerous.” His companion’s teeth glitter, a wide and supposedly trustworthy smile. He’s anonymous, of course, no names and darkened drinking dens. “Unbelievably dangerous.”
He nods, accepting the slip of paper slid to him with the words phonetic on it.
“Don’t forget them.” His companion laughs, trembling and sadistic. “The day you do will be the day she rips your head off.”
“My sister wouldn’t do that.” He needs to believe it.
“She isn’t your sister any more.” The tone matter-of-fact. “Good luck.”
Simon shakes his head. He refuses to need it.
Merlin, Arthur | 210 words | Set post 1x01
[Yes, my friend Holly has pointed out I inadvertently quote The Devil Wears Prada. Oh well.]
“You saved my life,” Arthur says, somewhat blankly.
“Kind of wish I hadn’t, now,” Merlin replies with a wry grin. “Since my reward has been so very special.”
Arthur’s lip curls. “There are hundreds of people all over Albion who would kill to be in your position,” he says, all pretty arrogance and a self-assurance that Merlin thinks he would like to have.
Merlin privately hopes that they don’t try and kill him, but outwardly just says: “Oh, right, this is an honour. I keep forgetting.”
“I could have you imprisoned for saying that,” Arthur pushes, although there’s the slightest trace of amusement in his eyes. Merlin wonders if anyone ever stands up to Prince Arthur.
“You’ve already done that once this week,” Merlin points out. “At this rate we’re going to have to have a special cell set aside for me.”
“With your name engraved above the bars,” Arthur adds, though he’s smiling, which indicates he might not be serious. It would be nice, Merlin decides, if he wasn’t being serious.
There’s a moment that’s almost awkward, and Merlin concludes that Arthur’s just as disconcerted as he is.
“It’s going to be all right,” Merlin offers. “I’m capable of letting go of things. Unlike certain people.”
Arthur just scowls.
Claire/West | 235 words | Set… post season 2? How did season 2 end anyway?
Claire was never really all that good at the whole obeying instructions thing, and anyway this can be somebody else’s migraine.
“My father can fly,” she tells West on an August afternoon, the two of them sharing smoothies like all other boyfriends and girlfriends.
West gives her a confused look and she belatedly recalls that he doesn’t know about the whole adopted family mess; for a moment she misses the hell out of Zach. She should email him sometime, see if the Haitian got into his head or not. Is he wiped clean?
“I’m adopted,” she shrugs. She doesn’t bother name-dropping Nathan Petrelli because no one cares about him outside of New York. “My dad can fly and my mom can create fire from her hands.”
“That’s pretty cool,” West tells her. “I don’t think either of my parents can do anything like that.”
“Have you asked?” Claire enquires, grinning slightly. They both contemplate West walking in and going: so, special powers in the family? Anyone? “Maybe not,” she concedes.
She hasn’t told West about the whole New York Disaster, and probably won’t; the painter who drew her and Ted the desperate radioactive man and Sylar – oh God, Sylar. There are some things she doesn’t think West needs to know.
“My father can fly,” she repeats one last time, and mentally adds: and you sure as hell better not turn out to be my brother.
Slight Benvolio/Mercutio | 212 words | Set pre-play
There are roses growing across his mother’s balcony, and Benvolio turns away, sighing. Not today, at any rate.
“You are melancholy,” Mercutio observes later, a smirk listing across his lips. He’s dangerous, Mercutio; dancing dark eyes and a seeming incomprehension of the word ‘no’. He can be a welcome relief, but a lot of the time he’s just exhausting. A liability. Benvolio insists to himself that he does not love Mercutio for it.
“And there’s a word I did not think you knew,” Benvolio replies, shrugging off the arm laid deliberately across his shoulders.
Mercutio purrs softly, like a cat. “Bitter, too,” he says. “Careful, or I will not help you cheer up.”
Benvolio allows himself a glare, turning away from his friend. If ‘friend’ is the word to use to describe Mercutio, and it isn’t. ‘Responsibility’ might perhaps be closer to the mark.
“So sour,” Mercutio pushes, slinging his arm around Benvolio’s shoulders. His fingertips catch Benvolio’s cheek, soft and sudden.
“Get off,” Benvolio mutters, lips pursed in a scowl. He can’t look – won’t look – and he thinks of flowers and balconies and all that he cannot have.
“One smile,” Mercutio coaxes. “One smile and I will stop.”
Benvolio cracks and lets his lips move; he wishes it weren’t so easy.