Benvolio/Mercutio | 207 words |
It could be an admission, caught on a sigh, but there’s no sense in admitting to anything just yet.
It can pay to be prudent, Benvolio has learned. Espeically when it comes to Mercutio. Especially when there has been more wine than is sensible, and the outcome of this night is becoming increasingly uncertain.
“You make things solid,” Mercutio is explaining, batting away thin air. Benvolio has never been certain if Mercutio is actually insane or merely over-enthusiastic, and that conundrum has become increasingly less important over the years. Benvolio would care for him if he insisted that all the armies of Julius Caesar resided in his hair, or if he couldn't recall his own name. There is a great deal that is attractive in Mercutio’s too-bright eyes and shuddering grin. He is a fire that no one could pull away from, no matter how burnt they grew.
“That is because I am dull,” Benvolio replies, on a piece of a smile.
“No!” Mercutio seems almost offended at this suggestion, a frown passing across his features.
“You cannot always ignore the truth,” Benvolio murmurs.
“Yes I can,” Mercutio replies, pressing his shoulder against Benvolio’s. “I always can.”
There is no sense in arguing. There is never any sense in arguing, not with Mercutio.
Caspian/Peter | 248 words | Set towards the end of the movie
“I have forgotten,” Caspian mumbles flatly, “I have forgotten how to be happy.”
Peter narrows his eyes against the sunlight, the shadows of trees dappling his battle-damaged face. Three bare days ago they survived more than they believed possible; now they lie in the forest and watch the trees quiver.
When Peter sighs it sounds like an ache; whenever Caspian closes his eyes he sees his uncle fall. They weren’t worth much to each other but they were at least related. Now Lady Pruniprismia pushes chests against her chamber doors, and will not let Caspian see his cousin. He has betrayed Telmar; he bites his tongue until the urge to scream fades back.
“It will come back to you,” Peter offers softly.
Caspian’s mouth shivers. He can’t work out if he wants to laugh. “Do you promise?”
Peter does laugh. “No, of course I don’t promise.”
Caspian allows himself a smile, streaks of quantified sunlight flaring across his face.
“There is so much I must do,” he mumbles. “So much that there will not be space for me.”
Peter whistles, a dry note between his teeth. It jars against the silence and the space smoothed around them. “Make room for yourself,” he orders at least.
It isn’t that simple; or maybe it is. Caspian stretches out a little, palms flat to the dirt. He hearts Peter shift, their fingers separated by scant blades of grass. Caspian could push, close the distance, but he doesn’t need to. Not yet.
Rose/New!Ten | 248 words | Spoilers for Journey’s End
He bites his nails.
Rose folds her mouth into a tidy line, fingers tapping the warm chipped ceramic of her tea mug. She wills him to stop; the sight of his teeth fixed tight to the edge of his ring fingernail makes her skin crawl. She swallows, leaving her tea to steam on the kitchen table, mumbling an excuse that he takes with a smile, fingers still pressed to his lips.
At the end of the garden, she digs her cigarettes from her jeans pocket, selecting one from the crumpled packet with the Death! warning printed on the side. The lighter wheel sticks to her thumb, and she inhales fast on the first tug of flame.
He probably wouldn’t forgive her if he knew.
Rose smokes quickly, blowing plumes of grey to the twilight sky, unconsciously counting the seconds. The house is small but big enough for their purposes; they have a garden, something unheard of for the girl who grew up in a council flat. Rose is happy, of course, because there aren’t a whole lot of options, emotionally, when someone dumps the Happy Ever After into your hands and then runs for it.
The house is papered with post-its; name suggestions for the one who could tell her he loved her. For a moment – for nearly a week – she thought that would be enough.
But the one in her house got what he wanted, and she got second best. And it isn’t nearly enough.
Mickey, Owen[/Ianto] | 228 words | OMG AU
“He makes me nervous,” Mickey admits, the words a flat mumble against the rim of his mug. “He makes good coffee, though.”
Owen smirks. In another, crueller past he would have passed this information straight on; but now he just shrugs and sips his coffee.
“Why does he make you nervous?” he asks, watching with amusement as Tosh tries to figure out what exactly is happening to the fabric of their universe – something’s going wrong because Mickey Smith keeps falling through. Jack is all kinds of desperately happy about this; it’s yet another piece of his mysterious past that remains so endlessly shadowed it’s as complex and about as irritating as The Da Vinci Code.
“He’s like a robot,” Mickey points out. Ianto is impassively tidying their sofa area, suit immaculate, and movements almost mechanical. “You watch him work, he doesn’t hum or anything. He just… does.”
“Ianto is unbearably professional,” Owen nods.
“It’s creepy,” Mickey decides.
Owen laughs. “Ianto’s fucking creepy,” he agrees. “But you do get used to it.”
Mickey drinks some more coffee. It really must be magical stuff, Owen muses, because Mickey does start looking less freaked-out and judgemental.
“It is great coffee,” he concedes.
“Yep.” Owen smiles. “And he’s great in bed too.”
Mickey chokes, and Owen grins wider. Mickey finally smiles back. “I’ll have to tell Rose that Jack’s contagious,” he says.
Merlin/Morgana | 213 words | Set post 1x04 The Poisoned Chalice
Morgana is magnificence personified, of course. Today she’s resplendent in crushed purple, dark hair twined back behind her head in a style that must have taken Gwen ages.
Merlin feels even more like a small child’s doll; the seams slit open and worn stuffing pouring out of the holes. And perhaps Merlin wouldn’t be quite so hard on himself, but Arthur literally flinched when Merlin walked in this morning.
(“Go back to bed,” he ordered, “I didn’t go to all that trouble to save your life just to watch you push yourself too hard.”
And Merlin could have pointed out that his master was the one who told him to get up at the crack of dawn and report for duty, but he didn’t.)
“My lady,” Merlin stammers, feeling wan and crumpled and generally disgusting; though Gaius promises the colour will return to his cheeks soon. He tries to get to his feet for an attempt at a bow, but fails miserably.
“Don’t.” There’s a soft warmth to Morgana’s voice, a curve to her perfect mouth. Merlin stays silent, and tries to control the unattractive shivering.
“I’m glad you’re not dead,” Morgana tells him, smooth and quiet.
Merlin stumbles a thanks; she laughs her tinkling laugh and leaves him drowning in her wake.