farad, posts by tag: fic - LiveJournal

Weekdays are going to be a little less productive in terms of fic production, but I did get this today.  The lovely Randi gave me a prompt that inspired something different, at least for me.

Randi - Josiah, any, we are shaped by the light we let through us.

(ETA - Cut tag, d'oh!  Sorry sorry guys, I'm so used to posting on AO3!!  Thanks to the lovely Dail for reminding me!!!!)

 

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Um, I suspect this isn't quite what you had in mind, but it was came to mind.  It's more light-hearted than usual for me, and I'm not often as good with humor as, well, I think I am.

for Mendax's lovely prompt, "Nathan and JD, Eager to Learn"

ETA - cut tag!!  Sorry!

 

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From the wonderful SallyMN, I hope this works!

ETA - cut tag!  Sorry!

 

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It's not quite what you wanted but - perhaps close.  It is in the "He With Us?" universe.

ETA - cut tag!  Sorry!
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From Todeskun's prompt: Chris and Buck, the first time Buck punched Chris:

“Who the hell are you?” The blond was drunk, so drunk that he was still on his feet only because he was holding on to Miss Annabelle's shoulder.

Buck stared at him, his teeth grinding together. It made speaking difficult as he repeated, “Let the lady go.”

The other man blinked, as if he didn't quite understand what Buck was saying. Maybe he didn't. He hadn't actually threatened Annabelle. But he'd latched onto her and wouldn't let her go. “Who. The hell. Are you?” he asked again, slower this time, which made the words even more slurred.

“Boys,” Annabelle said, her voice strained, “there's no need for a fight. I do have some things I -”

“I'll take care of you,” the man said, cutting her off, though his eyes never left Buck's. For all his slurring and unsteadiness, his green eyes were clear and focused, unwavering.

And the hand that wasn't clinging to her shoulder was now resting casually, too casually, on the bar. Too close to his polished pistol with its bone handle in his shiny black leather holster.

Buck stared back, knowing the man's intent. He was drunk, and angry, and ready to do something stupid. He might have been hurt recently, or, more like, he'd just changed his circumstances somehow. He didn't seem to want Annabelle, not in the way she was willing to be wanted, but he wasn't letting her go. He needed company, but not the natural things a man needed from a woman.

Buck drew a deep breath. Despite himself, he felt sorry for the sorry son of a bitch. Mostly, though, he needed to get Annabelle out of the man's way – she needed to earn a living tonight, and no matter how nice he was to her, he wasn't going to pay the bill for the whole night. He didn't look to have it on him.

Buck blinked then looked up at the ceiling, frowning. “What was that?”

The man blinked also, then he, too looked up. “What?” he said.

And Buck lashed out, one quick, hard right to jaw.

Annabelle thanked him later, in the manner of a man and a woman. The man, Chris Larabee as Buck found out the next morning when he stumbled back to his room to find said man finally waking up, didn't thank him. But he didn't shoot him.

It took me a lot longer to write this than it should have - it was supposed to be finished by the end of October, as you can tell from the challenge and then in the story itself, but I couldn't seem to get my muse to work.  It is here now - thanks as always to the wonderful people at WEC!!

All Soul's Passing

by Farad
October 2010: The seven end up in a ghost town, complete with legends of hauntings and ghosts and restless spirits. What brought them there and how do they feel about it? Who believes in ghosts or spirits, who's scared, who's not?
A post-"The Trial" story.

A little C/V in the OW, set after "Lady Killers".  "Slings and Arrows", with a little twist of kink!

to the wonderful stcrispin !  Hopefully, you are far away in San Francisco enjoying yourself (I know I would be!)

Not much, but better, I hope, than a graphic:

He wasn't really surprised when Angelique eased onto the barstool beside him.  The bottle of Dom Perignon had arrived just a few minutes before, already opened and with two glasses.  Champagne wasn't Illya's style, and Dom Perignon wasn't Mr. Waverly's, so that left a very short list of others willing and able to spend that much on him.

"1955 vintage," he said, lifting his glass to her. 

"Not the right year, but as close as I could get," she shrugged.  The silk of her emerald green dress whispered with the movement, the material shimmering in the bar's soft light.  "They didn't produce it the year you joined the U.N.C.L.E."

He didn't ask how she knew that.  Instead, he tilted his head to her and smiled.  She smiled back and lifted the bottle, pouring champagne into the second fluted glass.  It bubbled, hissing delicately.

"To birthdays," she said, toasting him. 

She drank first, closing her eyes in pleasure at the taste before she swallowed.  It was good, he observed, letting the flavor roll around in his mouth for a few seconds.

"As a matter of course, I have to remind you that Thrush doesn't have a mandatory retirement age," she said conversationally.  "If you find yourself bored with life behind a desk, you have a standing invitation to join us and return to the action."

He shook his head but grinned.  "I'll keep that in mind," he said, letting himself appreciate her beauty. She was especially radiant tonight, her white-blond hair drawn up on the back of her head, her make-up artfully applied to look as if she wore very little except around her wide, sparking eyes.  

"I'm certain you will," she agreed.   "Now, with that out of the way, let us move on to more enjoyable things."  She dropped one hand lightly on his arm, her fingertips tracing circles slowly.  "I ordered us a late dinner - oysters as an appetizer, pasta prima vera, tiramisu for dessert.  Shall we?"

She stood, leaning in close to him.

"Upstairs?" he asked, picking up the bottle.  "You have a room?"

She kissed him on the lips, soft and slow, then whispered, "In a little over a hour, it will be your fortieth birthday, Napoleon, and you will be officially retired from field work.  Of course I have a room here.  Where else would I be to mourn the end of an era?"

Where else indeed.  He let her lead him to the elevator, knowing exactly how much he was doing to miss certain aspects of this job.

As Nano starts tomorrow, and I have overcommitted myself, as usual, I have tried over the past week to finish up a few stories that I've had on the 'to be done' list.  This first one is a birthday piece I did for Van and Di, a post-"Obsession" piece called "Idle Seashore".