It’s odd, he thinks, trying to navigate the winter-cold halls toward Gaius room, how the people he sees standing in expressionless attention behind their masters can be so different in the privacy of their rooms. Perhaps something to do with growing up in service, or the years of practice he’s never had serving in the court. He knows they resent him sometimes, for taking a position that should have gone to one of them; apparently, serving a prince is something to be envied. He hadn’t known that.
It’s a secret world there, warmer than the formalities of court, and he’s glad he could go tonight. They might never be friends, but at least they now accept him, and sometimes, he imagines that one day that might be enough.
It takes him three tries to acknowledge he can’t find his key, and ten minutes of knocking before he acknowledges that Gaius’ warning he remember his key or spend the night outside was in earnest. Frowning, Merlin wraps his arms around himself, trying to work out a spell that opens doors and then remembers how the bodice of someone’s dress had come open in his hands and has to take a moment to breathe.
Right, so that’s not going to work.
Author’s Summary: Arthur’s biggest problem to date, Merlin thinks darkly as he carries yet another load of suspiciously not-really-dirty clothing down the stairs, is an unaccountable fear of anyone, anywhere, suspecting he’s capable of being other than a complete and utter prat.
If you like this, you could try
“What’s going on?” Angel asked, and Wesley could hear everything he couldn’t see on their faces. It warmed him, and grieved him that as soon as Master Arelain spoke, his place here would be over.
“I have come to re-claim my property. It went astray.”
He could hear the anger, could read the voice as well as he’d ever been able to read languages of human or demon. He might escape with death.
Likely not.
[ Author's Site: James Walkswithwind ]
[ Author's Site: Mad Poetess ]
If you like this, you could try
“What’s the meaning of this?” snapped a balding man with squinty eyes, who was backed by a couple of thugs who looked only too eager to deal with my disruption of the performance. A second man with more accompanying muscle didn’t even look in the mood to ask cursory questions before disposing of my carcass one way or another.
Only one man in the opera box didn’t have a visible gun trained on me, and that was Gentleman John Marcone. He regarded me with swiftly calculating eyes from his seat on a red velvet sofa, cool as could be in his tuxedo.
“You said we’d be alone,” Baldy said meaningfully.
“And we are, I assure you,” Marcone said smoothly. “Mr. Dresden here is my companion, who was unavoidably delayed.” There was a slight emphasis on the way he said companion, something indulgent and proprietary. It raised the hairs on the back of my neck, and I didn’t like it one bit.
Then again, I wasn’t really fond of getting plugged full of holes when I accidentally walked in on high-level mafia negotiations, either. The other men in the box still looked suspicious, but Marcone brushed his fingertips over the empty space next to him on the velvet sofa. “Do sit down,” he said, not taking his eyes off mine.
Hell if I knew what kind of game he was playing now, but no one’s ever accused Marcone of not knowing how to land on his feet, even when a wizard burst into his opera box full of men with itchy trigger fingers.
[ Author's Website ]
If you like this, you could try
Rodney doesn’t like small spaces, and he doesn’t like not having anything to do, and he doesn’t like not having some kind of escape plan, and he doesn’t like having to acknowledge that Teyla’s right and that the best thing is to do nothing until they know more, and he doesn’t like the fact that Ronon stubbornly refuses to tell him how many knives he still has, and where, as though there would be some massive tactical disadvantage to divulging this information to a teammate. But what he really, really doesn’t like is how he doesn’t know where Sheppard is, what they’re doing to him, and how many pieces he’ll be in when they get him back.
It’s another hour later before he gets an answer to that question, and when he sees the two mammoth guards practically carrying Sheppard between them, he has a horrible moment of certainty that it’s actually turned into one of the days when he wishes he’d never agreed to join an away-team in the first place. But then they heave Sheppard into the cell, and when Ronon catches him before he can hit the ground, John grins goofily and says, “Hey, thanks. I really appreciate that. You’ve got great reflexes. And a surprisingly gentle touch.”
If you like this, you could try
The wind picked up and he shivered, trying a mournful pout in Alan’s direction, but Alan was looking everywhere that Billy was not, and Billy’s mouth tightened with a more sincere sadness. Alan was sighing and huffing just quietly enough to stab Billy through the gut because it wasn’t intentional, hell no; Alan was careful with the guilt trips nowadays. He stuck close, yeah, but somehow it still felt like they were standing on opposite sides of the K-T boundary.
Billy trudged off in the direction of Fort Peck Lake, wishing he could adopt a heartrending limp, but his pelvis was mostly holding together okay now and apart from the busted arm and wrist, dislocated shoulder, dented ribcage and manly scars, he was hale and Alan knew it. Still, his footing was not nearly as sure as it used to be as he struggled through the sagebrush, especially when his eyes wanted to dart skywards all the time. He recognized the compulsion but was helpless against it, so it was just as well he was less likely to trip over a rattler this time of year. Far below him, the lake looked like an oil slick beneath the mottled, overcast sky, and Billy wondered when he’d ever see it again. By the time digging season came around next year, Billy would be done with his dissertation, and Alan’d be done with him.
Billy Brennan, Prince of Humbugs
If you like this, you could try
“Pinky made a deal, probation in exchange for testifying against his supplier. The trial starts next week, but apparently he got stage fright. I realize you’re short a partner until O’Hara gets back from vacation, but I need you to track down Pinky Ellison.”
Carlton pushed his shoulders back. “No problem, Chief. I can handle it on my own.”
“I’m sure you can, but–” She waved her hand, beckoning, and Carlton turned to look, as Shawn Spencer came sauntering into the office. “Mr. Spencer’s better half is also out of town, as it happens. I thought the two of you could work together on this one.”
Spencer threw his arms open wide. “Lassie! Come to papa.”
What Happens in Freedom Stays in Freedom
[ Author's Site ]
If you like this, you could try
She said, “Have you ever considered being a butler?”
“Excuse me?”
“How are you on self-defense?”
“Self-de–” he said cautiously, paused and visibly gathered himself. “I’m competent at tae kwan do. I’ve studied some aikido and judo.”
“All right,” said Lara. “Lead the way. Have you ever considered being a butler?”
And that was how she found Hilary.
Hard to Find
The All-Seeing Eye
Your Move
[ Author's Site ]
If you like this, you could try
Ken’s been wondering if there’s something wrong with his haircut. It’s not as though he has changed it recently, it’s the same haircut he’s been getting since he and Barbie broke up. He uses Barbie’s hairstylist, because the chairs are hot pink and fake blue and remind him of the years they spent in Malibu.
That was before she started the band, and definitely before Blaine. Back then it was simple, they’d drive out to the beach in his car and she’d tilt until her head almost touched his shoulder and then bend her head to a seventy degree angle so that it touched his shoulder.
After the band, she didn’t have time for rides in his car, so he sold it to Tommy when Tommy got his learner’s permit. After he crashed it into Skipper’s baby-pink BMW, Tommy had towed the thing to a junk yard and sold it for forty dollars.
The Best Part of Breaking Up, and the sequel The One Where Ken Meets GI Joe
If you like this, you could try
“How the hell do you get in and out of those things?” Leon demanded, slouching into the petshop with a package held tightly in his hand.
D was — big surprise there — busily engaged in setting out tea, his graceful hands darting among the elegant china cups as if he were tracing the surface of a pond, looking for some kind of exotic goldfish. “Detective,” he murmured with the usual small smile gracing his face. “You are just in time. And how do I get in and out of what?”
“Your dresses.”
“My — ” D’s eyes widened momentarily, and then his mask of cool politeness was back on, so quickly it might never have slipped. But Leon had seen it. “I really am tired of telling you, Detective, that my clothes are not ‘dresses’…” Sensing an ice storm rising in D’s voice, Leon quickly dangled the package in plain view, and D’s eyes widened again. Mission accomplished. “You have brought me something,” D exclaimed, his voice going from cool to coo in no time flat.
[ Author's Site: The Rag and Bone Shop ]
If you like this, you could try
So apparently it’s a really bad idea to start off a story about a guy, a girl, and changing the world by saying “it didn’t last long,” because then everyone in the fucking world wants to know what happened. Nevermind that what happened next was the entire point of the epilogue, apparently that just raised more questions than it answered, like ‘Where the fuck was Harmony?’ As if the fact that she didn’t appear in frame meant she’d dropped off the face of the fucking Earth, instead of just being at an audition or an acting gig. Some people have too much imagination for their own good.
But actually, there is a bit more to the story. I didn’t think anyone would give a shit about my personal life and the next part was more than a bit X-rated, so I cut myself off before we got to that part the first time I did this. Only apparently you people all have filthy minds and a serious voyeuristic streak, so what the fuck. Clear the kiddies out of the room for this part, folks. I’m not kidding, I’m not going into this where impressionable ears might overhear. Swearing is one thing, they hear that shit on the fucking playground, even in the midwest. Porn is another thing entirely.
You Know What They Say About Eavesdroppers
[ Author's Site: Crimson Quills ]