I need to respond to comments and stuff, but hee. These drabbles really are fun.

First, a roundup:

* My first lines, along with the lovely snippets that have been contributed, so far.

* The drabbles I wrote off others' first lines last night.

And second, another set:


Unexpected Peace (Stargate, Mooshee-style) for agentotter:

His favorite pastime is watching her sleep.

The others are good for being, listening...even nibbling because it's amusing (except when The One catches him on the nose; that hurts) and their hair smells of trees.

She doesn't like him much. He knows this the way he knows that the armored ones shouldn't be taunted, or they will send fire through the air without pausing.

He doesn't know the reason in her case, and it's confounding, frustrating. Yet when he visits her -- in-out, here-gone -- and finds her, head curled down over arms, he's soothed. She is a center in this place.



A Man's Best Friend (Pirates of the Caribbean), for fabu:

Brute force can only go so far. Jack learned that early, being somewhat smaller than most of those he comes up against.

Lessons in trickery and cunning started even earlier, but during the six years he'd had at the time, he'd made a point of prodding at others' truths. Then he met a man considered large by everyone's standards who took some exception to Jack lightening his burden, and even more to having his blows returned. And now Jack would rather lead with a well-honed façade at his fingertips and in his smile.

Not that he'll part with his blade.



Pass/Fail (Alias), for vaznetti:

It happens all at once and seems to take forever: the way his body jerks back, and then the slow collapse of his limbs.

Then Sark blinks, pulls back from the scope, and there's only blurred figures swarming around the crumpled mass 250 yards away, 50 more than the woman in Prague.

Between that moment and when the rifle is back in its case and Sark is on the subway -- someone shadowing with proud eyes -- not a single figure does anything other than move closer to the man who might have done nothing thing wrong in his life beyond jaywalking.



Last Night in Town (Farscape), for rubberneck:

"But I don't have a cat, John."

Olivia's face crumples, her lips tightening. She's failing spectacularly in keeping the tears at bay, but John isn't backing away with his hands up and panic in his eyes. Which only makes it worse.

The sound that forces its way out of her throat is muffled against his shoulder as he pulls her close, tucking her under his chin. That gun digs into her waist until he shifts.

"And you need a cat because...?"

"I-I don't knoooww," she sobs, and he snorts.

Seconds later they dissolve into a snickering heap on the carpet.



Four Walked In... (Sports Night), for suelac:

The room is small for four people, and they are wedged in together, hip to hip, their breath mixing in the dank air.

"We're being filmed, aren't we?"

The snort comes from Dana. "What?"

"Filmed, taped, captured for posterity and anyone who's looking to blackmail us," Dan elaborates.

"Who would blackmail us and what for?" Casey sounds like he's sneering, but there's a hint of fear.

"Oh, I don't know. You got something to hide, Jeremy?"

After the obligatory cough: "I would rather that no-one found out about my stapler collection."

Silence.

"My entire kingdom for a key," Dana mutters.



Let the Sun Shine (Alias), for shadesofbrixton:

It was a beautiful day.

It was always a beautiful day when disasters came; that dark and stormy night stuff was complete and utter bullshit, Weiss found. Although him saying that now was a clear signal to the universe to prove him wrong.

Go ahead, do it, he sneered up at the clouds starting to block the sun. I dare you to make this worse by fucking raining on me.

Nothing.

Any other day, the cough to his left would've given him a heart attack.

"Sark?"

"Wh-why am I alive?"

The laugh ripped something else in Weiss' chest.

"Good question."



It's Not the End of the World (Yet) (Good Omens), for gabby_silang:

There is music in the background. It's the sort of music that Aziraphale would have around, all light and unobtrusive until it hits you over the head with a clash of symbolic cymbals.

And there, on cue...

Crowley hunches deeper into the chair, wishing that did something other than bend him in uncomfortable ways.

"Would you unearth yourself from there before I glare that thing into submission?" he calls out. "You'll only have to go buy another!"

A head emerges from the stacks, leading with a disapproving frown. It gets a raised eyebrow, which brings forth a deep, resigned sigh.