round up, round up!
Dec. 2nd, 2010 09:00 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
obstinatrixIt's that time again, folks!
Oh yes: things that are too small to merit their own posts, they all go here!
It's always been easy between the two of them, always. Nichelle has the best smile, this sudden, bright thing that radiates affection, and the way she looks now is hardly different to the way she looked at their first meeting, her hand warm in Leonard's in Gene's office. They like each other, in the most fundamental way, and it's certain and human and thus, of course, not quite uncomplicated.
It was never like that with Bill; not at first. Bill had to be worked open, learned, like some prickly ancient language whose thorns and artifice made everything look misleadingly complex. Nichelle was just - always there, always inviting.
Leonard has a crush on her. That's pretty much a given; you'd have to be dead not to notice the perfect curves of her, the smoothness of her skin, her eyes. Bill has a crush on her, too. But Leonard is married, and Nichelle isn't terribly fond of Bill, and so the whole thing slides away, something acknowledged, but ultimately ignored. It should be more awkward, perhaps, but they've never let it get that way. Nichelle is gorgeous, and Leonard likes her floral scent and the curve of her waist; and Nichelle likes him, and nothing's going to happen.
So, it's okay. It's okay.
They've worked together over two years, now, and everybody's used to them, to their stasis, to the way things are. Bill's rough edges have chipped off, mostly, and he and Leonard flow together smoothly enough that he's no longer compelled to come over and needle every time Nichelle is on set; invading, demanding. Nichelle has rejected and objected and laughed for long enough that Bill, at some point, finally splintered and laughed at himself; gave up, retreated.
Nichelle doesn't like him, but there's tolerance there, now; things have settled. Leonard likes both of them, and they're all adults, so that's all right. That's allowed.
They're so familiar with each other, now, that it's rather strange to be stopped by a passing photographer - asked for a picture, as if the moment they're making is anything out of the ordinary; is something worth framing, remembering. Leonard doesn't need a photograph to remember how they are, the way they talk so casually, even the least remark tasting of connection. The hand on Nichelle's waist, hers on his face - these are nothing; just them. Just them.
But the photographer is insistent, halting them with a gesture, making them smile. Leonard is unsure; hunches his shoulders a little awkwardly.
Nichelle laughs; strokes the backs of her fingers over Leonard's face. "C'mon, Lenny," she says, "what harm could it do?" Her eyes are as soft as her fingers, dark and open. Leonard looks at her; feels the living warmth of her under his hand.
"Fine," he says, quirk of his mouth; and he smiles, not for the photographer, but for her. What harm could it do?
**
It wasn't a war, exactly. As far as Misha was concerned, a neat little word like war suggested something altogether more orderly and strategic than the ruthless skirmishing that went on here during the snowy season. Rules were anaethema to those who fought in the Snowball War; the thing might begin with participants loosely formed into teams, but there were no loyalties one could depend upon; no certainties. There was a sort of ruthlessness to it, a violence, that reminded Misha of those illustrations of medieval peasants playing soccer with genuine human heads: it went far beyond a game, but it recognised no laws.
It was every man for himself.
Currently, Jensen was defending a little space near the steps of his trailer, a snowball ready in one hand. He looked a little lonely, hovering there like that, but determined, too, in the manner of a small but tenacious bulldog. Misha wondered idly whether he really thought he could take down an opponent with only that single, meagre snowball.
"That is bad form, dude," Jared observed.
Misha laughed softly. "Yeah, he should know better by now. Did nobody ever tell him to build a stack?"
Jared snorted. "We had a stack last year, remember? By the catering area? We dive-bombed you with it."
Misha had a sudden flash of sensory memory, something cold and wet insinuating itself between his shirt and his skin, and shuddered. "Indeed. In which case, he has no excuse, does he?"
"None," Jared said. There was something almost gleeful in his voice, as if he thought this fact somehow freed him from all prior contractual obligations.
On the far side of the yard, Jensen had shifted position a little, scanning the area as if for intruders. Misha grabbed hold of Jared's collar, tugging him down a little further behind the dumpster.
"And?" he prompted. He knew that tone in Jared's voice as well as anyone.
"And," Jared said, pointedly.
They looked at each other for a moment. Then, as if with one accord, their eyes moved to the gargantuan stack of snowballs they had spent the previous ten minutes hastily assembling.
"Move out," said Misha grimly, and began scooping snowballs into his arms.
The look of blank surprise on Jensen's face when he saw them emerge was more than a little comical, but Misha didn't have time for laughing. This was Serious Business, and trying to keep up with Jared was no joke. He had no desire at all to get into firing range only to find that all the choicest parts of Jensen had already been pelted with snowballs.
Prior experience suggested that it might help to let loose a war-cry, and indeed, Jared slowed a little at the sound of it, enough that they hove into prime position almost as one man.
"You," Misha yelled, "are under attack!"
"I get that," Jensen yelled back, recovering his cool admirably under fire, and let loose his lone snowball. To Jensen's credit, it caught Misha across the bolt of the jaw even as he was in the process of winding up for a pitch of his own, sending chilled sludge flying down the side of Misha's neck. But Jared was already on the case, flinging snowballs unerringly at the exposed parts of Jensen - namely his face and hands - and Misha congratulated himself again on his strategic tact in teaming up with Jared this time.
Jared used to be on a basketball team. Also, he was really big. These two things kind of went together, and also, translated well to excellent snowball soldiery.
Jensen, though, was a sneaky son of a bitch, and they all knew it. He wasn't going to stand around and let himself be stuck full of snowballs like a latter-day St Sebastian, not when there was a trailer he could get behind. Misha had gotten in maybe three palpable hits before Jensen gave up on making more snowballs and took off around the side of his trailer, skidding over the snow.
"Oh, no," Misha heard, as Jared lobbed a last snowball at Jensen's retreating back, "you don't." Then, over his shoulder as he ran, "Mish? Plan C?"
"Plan C," Misha agreed grimly, in hopes that the tone of his voice would strike fear into Jensen's stoic breast (perhaps more easily, now that said breast was also snow-covered and presumably chilly).
By the time Misha got to the clearing behind the trailer, Jensen was already on the ground. He was flailing weakly, gasping with what might have been laughter, but Misha preferred to assume was abject fear.
"PLAN C," Misha reiterated, reaching for Jensen's collar.
"No," Jensen huffed, through little sputters and squirms of Abject Fear, "no, no, you don't - stop it - you put snow down my fucking jacket and it'll be the last thing you - "
"Mm," agreed Misha, shoving three snowballs into the neck of Jensen's shirt. "More?"
"Pile to the left," Jared said, shifting his weight on Jensen's thighs. Jensen kicked his feet irritably and jerked in the snow. There was altogether too much Abject Fear, Misha thought, as he picked up another snowball from the pile.
"Plan D," he told Jared, darkly. Jared raised his eyebrows and laughed.
"Oh, dude. You are cold."
"I'm cold," Jensen retorted. Misha grinned.
"Plan D."
Plan D comprised two parts. Jared, obviously rightly recognising himself as the subordinate in this combined operation (or possibly just because he was a wuss), took it upon himself only to perform Plan D, part 1: lift Jensen's jacket, sweater, other sweater, shirt, and undershirt, and shove snow up and onto his stomach.
"Jesus Christ," Jensen yelped, and reared up like a whale, or something else large enough to bodily heave Jared Padalecki onto the ground with one thrust.
From the look on Jared's face, it was a long time since he had been heaved anywhere.
This had not been part of the plan.
"Misha," Jensen said, coolly. Misha didn't like the coolness thing. It didn't work for him.
"Uh," said Misha.
"Plan D," Jensen said, and promptly shoved three snowballs down the back of Misha's jeans.
There were no loyalties that could be relied upon in the Snowball War, no true alliances, and three seconds later found Misha on his back in the snow with Jared on his feet and Jensen on his chest (not to mention all the snow now in his underwear), which, again, NOT THE PLAN.
Oh, it was so on.
*
(originally here )
(Dean)
i.
I held to him despite my hands' resistance, my grip
that was not, my bones that ached. Still, the drip-
drip-drip of desperation in the blood that was spilled
overrode all pain, this instinct always stronger. I killed
as many of them as I could find to annihilate, after,
while the shell of him lay there, condemning.
There was too much to contemplate, all of it stemming
from the knowledge of him, heavier, somehow, in death,
like a weight around my neck. And every breath
felt criminal, wrong in my throat and not in his,
in my body and not in his, and I felt that all of this
was a judgment, heaped upon my chest like stones.
It came on me abruptly: I could not continue alone,
couldn't leave him. Not this boy, whom I have guarded like
diamonds, like a fire in a forest. Like a bomb. A spike
of something, then, gutting me, and I knew, I knew;
I had mocked those who had gone before, but now, I, too,
would take the bitter for the sweet, so that one could live.
I cannot wonder which is which. He's my brother. I give.
*
(originally here, at this joyous community that makes me commit heinous acts of poetry.)
Okay, that's all, folks! Again, these are mostly for archiving purposes. Carry on, carry on!
Oh yes: things that are too small to merit their own posts, they all go here!
It's always been easy between the two of them, always. Nichelle has the best smile, this sudden, bright thing that radiates affection, and the way she looks now is hardly different to the way she looked at their first meeting, her hand warm in Leonard's in Gene's office. They like each other, in the most fundamental way, and it's certain and human and thus, of course, not quite uncomplicated.
It was never like that with Bill; not at first. Bill had to be worked open, learned, like some prickly ancient language whose thorns and artifice made everything look misleadingly complex. Nichelle was just - always there, always inviting.
Leonard has a crush on her. That's pretty much a given; you'd have to be dead not to notice the perfect curves of her, the smoothness of her skin, her eyes. Bill has a crush on her, too. But Leonard is married, and Nichelle isn't terribly fond of Bill, and so the whole thing slides away, something acknowledged, but ultimately ignored. It should be more awkward, perhaps, but they've never let it get that way. Nichelle is gorgeous, and Leonard likes her floral scent and the curve of her waist; and Nichelle likes him, and nothing's going to happen.
So, it's okay. It's okay.
They've worked together over two years, now, and everybody's used to them, to their stasis, to the way things are. Bill's rough edges have chipped off, mostly, and he and Leonard flow together smoothly enough that he's no longer compelled to come over and needle every time Nichelle is on set; invading, demanding. Nichelle has rejected and objected and laughed for long enough that Bill, at some point, finally splintered and laughed at himself; gave up, retreated.
Nichelle doesn't like him, but there's tolerance there, now; things have settled. Leonard likes both of them, and they're all adults, so that's all right. That's allowed.
They're so familiar with each other, now, that it's rather strange to be stopped by a passing photographer - asked for a picture, as if the moment they're making is anything out of the ordinary; is something worth framing, remembering. Leonard doesn't need a photograph to remember how they are, the way they talk so casually, even the least remark tasting of connection. The hand on Nichelle's waist, hers on his face - these are nothing; just them. Just them.
But the photographer is insistent, halting them with a gesture, making them smile. Leonard is unsure; hunches his shoulders a little awkwardly.
Nichelle laughs; strokes the backs of her fingers over Leonard's face. "C'mon, Lenny," she says, "what harm could it do?" Her eyes are as soft as her fingers, dark and open. Leonard looks at her; feels the living warmth of her under his hand.
"Fine," he says, quirk of his mouth; and he smiles, not for the photographer, but for her. What harm could it do?
**
It wasn't a war, exactly. As far as Misha was concerned, a neat little word like war suggested something altogether more orderly and strategic than the ruthless skirmishing that went on here during the snowy season. Rules were anaethema to those who fought in the Snowball War; the thing might begin with participants loosely formed into teams, but there were no loyalties one could depend upon; no certainties. There was a sort of ruthlessness to it, a violence, that reminded Misha of those illustrations of medieval peasants playing soccer with genuine human heads: it went far beyond a game, but it recognised no laws.
It was every man for himself.
Currently, Jensen was defending a little space near the steps of his trailer, a snowball ready in one hand. He looked a little lonely, hovering there like that, but determined, too, in the manner of a small but tenacious bulldog. Misha wondered idly whether he really thought he could take down an opponent with only that single, meagre snowball.
"That is bad form, dude," Jared observed.
Misha laughed softly. "Yeah, he should know better by now. Did nobody ever tell him to build a stack?"
Jared snorted. "We had a stack last year, remember? By the catering area? We dive-bombed you with it."
Misha had a sudden flash of sensory memory, something cold and wet insinuating itself between his shirt and his skin, and shuddered. "Indeed. In which case, he has no excuse, does he?"
"None," Jared said. There was something almost gleeful in his voice, as if he thought this fact somehow freed him from all prior contractual obligations.
On the far side of the yard, Jensen had shifted position a little, scanning the area as if for intruders. Misha grabbed hold of Jared's collar, tugging him down a little further behind the dumpster.
"And?" he prompted. He knew that tone in Jared's voice as well as anyone.
"And," Jared said, pointedly.
They looked at each other for a moment. Then, as if with one accord, their eyes moved to the gargantuan stack of snowballs they had spent the previous ten minutes hastily assembling.
"Move out," said Misha grimly, and began scooping snowballs into his arms.
The look of blank surprise on Jensen's face when he saw them emerge was more than a little comical, but Misha didn't have time for laughing. This was Serious Business, and trying to keep up with Jared was no joke. He had no desire at all to get into firing range only to find that all the choicest parts of Jensen had already been pelted with snowballs.
Prior experience suggested that it might help to let loose a war-cry, and indeed, Jared slowed a little at the sound of it, enough that they hove into prime position almost as one man.
"You," Misha yelled, "are under attack!"
"I get that," Jensen yelled back, recovering his cool admirably under fire, and let loose his lone snowball. To Jensen's credit, it caught Misha across the bolt of the jaw even as he was in the process of winding up for a pitch of his own, sending chilled sludge flying down the side of Misha's neck. But Jared was already on the case, flinging snowballs unerringly at the exposed parts of Jensen - namely his face and hands - and Misha congratulated himself again on his strategic tact in teaming up with Jared this time.
Jared used to be on a basketball team. Also, he was really big. These two things kind of went together, and also, translated well to excellent snowball soldiery.
Jensen, though, was a sneaky son of a bitch, and they all knew it. He wasn't going to stand around and let himself be stuck full of snowballs like a latter-day St Sebastian, not when there was a trailer he could get behind. Misha had gotten in maybe three palpable hits before Jensen gave up on making more snowballs and took off around the side of his trailer, skidding over the snow.
"Oh, no," Misha heard, as Jared lobbed a last snowball at Jensen's retreating back, "you don't." Then, over his shoulder as he ran, "Mish? Plan C?"
"Plan C," Misha agreed grimly, in hopes that the tone of his voice would strike fear into Jensen's stoic breast (perhaps more easily, now that said breast was also snow-covered and presumably chilly).
By the time Misha got to the clearing behind the trailer, Jensen was already on the ground. He was flailing weakly, gasping with what might have been laughter, but Misha preferred to assume was abject fear.
"PLAN C," Misha reiterated, reaching for Jensen's collar.
"No," Jensen huffed, through little sputters and squirms of Abject Fear, "no, no, you don't - stop it - you put snow down my fucking jacket and it'll be the last thing you - "
"Mm," agreed Misha, shoving three snowballs into the neck of Jensen's shirt. "More?"
"Pile to the left," Jared said, shifting his weight on Jensen's thighs. Jensen kicked his feet irritably and jerked in the snow. There was altogether too much Abject Fear, Misha thought, as he picked up another snowball from the pile.
"Plan D," he told Jared, darkly. Jared raised his eyebrows and laughed.
"Oh, dude. You are cold."
"I'm cold," Jensen retorted. Misha grinned.
"Plan D."
Plan D comprised two parts. Jared, obviously rightly recognising himself as the subordinate in this combined operation (or possibly just because he was a wuss), took it upon himself only to perform Plan D, part 1: lift Jensen's jacket, sweater, other sweater, shirt, and undershirt, and shove snow up and onto his stomach.
"Jesus Christ," Jensen yelped, and reared up like a whale, or something else large enough to bodily heave Jared Padalecki onto the ground with one thrust.
From the look on Jared's face, it was a long time since he had been heaved anywhere.
This had not been part of the plan.
"Misha," Jensen said, coolly. Misha didn't like the coolness thing. It didn't work for him.
"Uh," said Misha.
"Plan D," Jensen said, and promptly shoved three snowballs down the back of Misha's jeans.
There were no loyalties that could be relied upon in the Snowball War, no true alliances, and three seconds later found Misha on his back in the snow with Jared on his feet and Jensen on his chest (not to mention all the snow now in his underwear), which, again, NOT THE PLAN.
Oh, it was so on.
*
(originally here )
(Dean)
i.
I held to him despite my hands' resistance, my grip
that was not, my bones that ached. Still, the drip-
drip-drip of desperation in the blood that was spilled
overrode all pain, this instinct always stronger. I killed
as many of them as I could find to annihilate, after,
while the shell of him lay there, condemning.
There was too much to contemplate, all of it stemming
from the knowledge of him, heavier, somehow, in death,
like a weight around my neck. And every breath
felt criminal, wrong in my throat and not in his,
in my body and not in his, and I felt that all of this
was a judgment, heaped upon my chest like stones.
It came on me abruptly: I could not continue alone,
couldn't leave him. Not this boy, whom I have guarded like
diamonds, like a fire in a forest. Like a bomb. A spike
of something, then, gutting me, and I knew, I knew;
I had mocked those who had gone before, but now, I, too,
would take the bitter for the sweet, so that one could live.
I cannot wonder which is which. He's my brother. I give.
*
(originally here, at this joyous community that makes me commit heinous acts of poetry.)
Okay, that's all, folks! Again, these are mostly for archiving purposes. Carry on, carry on!
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2010-12-02 10:34 pm (UTC)AND LOL PLAN D, GONNA USE THAT SOMETIME...
I ♥ Your Brain.
no subject
Date: 2010-12-02 10:44 pm (UTC)TY BB!
no subject
Date: 2010-12-03 02:54 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-12-03 09:06 am (UTC)But I'm glad you found some fics of mine you're interested in!