prompt responses
Jan. 13th, 2011 11:15 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
holliHere's what I came up with for your prompts:
Buffy and Giles:
Cleveland is total chaos. Or it feels that way, most of the time, with two dozen superpowered teenaged girls stomping up and down the stairs and emptying the fridge and holding knife-throwing practice in rooms with NO KNIFE THROWING PRACTICE signs posted clearly on the doors. It feels like there's never a quiet moment. Buffy wishes that at least the gang could be together, but the four of them are constantly on the move, finding new Slayers and visiting the ones they've found.
So it's a minor miracle when she and Giles get the time to sit and talk over cocoa in the kitchen together, without any of half a dozen ongoing minor crises breaking out. There's even, glory hallelujah, a bag of mini marshmallows that are only a little bit stale.
"Teenagers are exhausting," Buffy groans, and Giles smiles into his cocoa. "Seriously, how did you ever put up with us? And I never know what I'm doing, either, I'm just constantly winging it and hoping for the best."
"So was I," Giles admits. "As far as I can tell, teenagers are too wrapped up in themselves to notice the sheer mortal terror of all the adults around them."
"Was I really that self-absorbed?" Buffy asks. Giles just gives her a look. "Okay, that explains a lot. Let's hope they're all as bad as I was."
"I'll drink to that," Giles says, and they clink their mugs together.
Jayne and River:
The guitar was old. The frets were nearly worn even with the fretboard, the pick guard was cracked, and it needed restringing, but River cradled it like a precious thing when she found it at the back of the junk shop. "There's music in her yet," she told Simon, and he sighed and got out his wallet.
He wasn't expecting her to hand it to Jayne as soon as they got back on board. "What the hell's this for?" he grumped at her, but River only laughed and flitted away, deeper into the ship. Jayne stood on the gangway, holding the guitar by the neck in one meaty hand, as the rest of the crew filed past him.
But that night, late by the ship's clock, the first notes were plucked carefully out of the silence. By morning, there was music on Serenity.
Jason and Dick:
Jason knows that he's maybe a little cracked these days. He's got enough people pointing it out to him, for fuck's sake, and it's not like he lacks for self-awareness either. He's not the boy he was. The boy he was got beaten about the head with a crowbar; the boy he was *died*. He doesn't know how that boy would feel, looking at what he grew up into, but the thing about Jason is-- the thing is, he doesn't *care*. The only thing he owes the dead is vengeance.
So he's not what you'd call the ideal audience for Dick's self-righteous little speeches. Mostly he just wants to shut him *up*. And the best way to do that is do dart in low, feint a blow and steal a kiss instead, bite Dick's lip and bare his teeth, because when Dick kisses back, that means Jason *wins*.
Babs and Tim:
"Urk," said Barbara. There was a basin on the floor by the head of the bed; for the moment, it was empty. She still wasn't sure if it had been the Chinese food or the leftover chicken; whatever it was, her whole digestive tract was in open revolt. She'd toughed it out for a while, sitting hunched in front of the monitors between hasty trips to the bathroom, but sometime's a girl's gotta say 'the hell with it' and curl up in bed. With a bucket, just in case.
That would have been bad enough, but Bruce had decided to be *helpful*. Real help would have been sending Alfred over with some salmonella-free soup; instead, she got the newest birdboy.
"Um," said Robin. "Do you want a cold compress? Or a hot one. Or something to drink?" He seemed appallingly young, to Barbara, and it didn't help that he was small and slight for his age, or that he seemed to think that ridiculous spiked hair made him look older. And he was full of questions: about the computers, about Barbara, about whether she knew the Blue Beetle. It was more than she thought a sick person reasonably ought to have to bear.
"Something to drink, if you don't mind," she said. At least that would get the kid out of her hair for a little while, so she could maybe die in peace.
"Okay," said Robin. "I can do that. Would you like soup? Alfred sent along some soup."
So Bruce wasn't entirely heartless, after all. "Soup would be nice," she admitted, and okay, maybe it was a little amusing to watch the kid spring into action with the same single-mindedness he used to fight crime, all dedicated to the task of heating up soup. She levered herself upright as Robin came over to her with a mug
"Here you go," Robin said, handing it to her. Barbara just breathed in the steam for a minute, before risking a first sip. It stayed down. She tried a little more.
"Thanks, kid," she said, and managed to make it sound gracious.
Cat Chant and Lyra Silvertongue:
Cat hadn't really wanted to accompany Chrestomanci on this trip. He and Marianne were in the middle of quite a big project, and he always felt worse about missing Janet's birthday than he ever would have felt about missing Gwendolyn's. It was her sixteenth, too, and Joe Pinhoe was apparently cooking up something spectacular with Roger in one of the greenhouses. Cat only hoped it was fireworks, and not a still.
But go he must, and special provisions had to be made for this world. For the people there all had animal familiars, and to appear in public without one would cause as much commotion as appearing without a head. So Cat had to do a particularly tricky bit of conjuring, resulting in a faux familiar that twined around his ankles, purring. Chrestomanci's was, of all things, a peahen, its feathers drab and its long neck a little ridiculous.
Once arrived in the world, Chrestomanci was immediately swept away into a tobacco-scented conference room, leaving Cat to cool his heels outside. This was the sort of thing that always happened on his trips, and it made Cat wonder why he had to come along at all.
There was a girl, though, Cat's own age, who was cooling her heels too. She had something to occupy her, though— a fat gold pocket-watch sort of a thing, which she was raptly observing, not moving except to twiddle a dial here and there. Her pine marten familiar was twined about her neck like a fur collar. Cat wondered how she stood it; he would have choked.
The marten grew bored, eventually, and began investigating the room while the girl twiddled at her pocket-watch. His exploration brought him eventually to Cat's conjured familiar, and at the first touch between then he drew back with a hiss.
The girl jerked upright, her pocket-watch forgotten. She eyed Cat warily. "That ent— that's not a real daemon," she said. "Who are you? Are you from another world?"
They were meant to be traveling incognito, on this trip. Chrestomanci had been very clear about that. "Er." said Cat. "It's a bit complicated."
The girl had golden curls, and tossed them in an imperious sort of way that put Cat in mind of Gwendolyn. But she was sharper-eyed than Gwendolyn, and cannier, and her pine marten looked like the sort of creature that was curious about everything. "Tell me where you came from," she ordered Cat. "Or I'll find out on my own."
From inside the conference room, the low murmur of voices suddenly rose to a hum. "Cat?" Chrestomanci said, leaning out the opened door. "I need you a moment. These people are remarkably stupid about magic."
"Um, sorry," Cat said helplessly to the girl. "I've got to go. And he darted through the door, relieved for the rescue, and hoping that it would be safely dull inside the conference room again.
He was staying home for Janet's next birthday, Cat decided.
Buffy and Giles:
Cleveland is total chaos. Or it feels that way, most of the time, with two dozen superpowered teenaged girls stomping up and down the stairs and emptying the fridge and holding knife-throwing practice in rooms with NO KNIFE THROWING PRACTICE signs posted clearly on the doors. It feels like there's never a quiet moment. Buffy wishes that at least the gang could be together, but the four of them are constantly on the move, finding new Slayers and visiting the ones they've found.
So it's a minor miracle when she and Giles get the time to sit and talk over cocoa in the kitchen together, without any of half a dozen ongoing minor crises breaking out. There's even, glory hallelujah, a bag of mini marshmallows that are only a little bit stale.
"Teenagers are exhausting," Buffy groans, and Giles smiles into his cocoa. "Seriously, how did you ever put up with us? And I never know what I'm doing, either, I'm just constantly winging it and hoping for the best."
"So was I," Giles admits. "As far as I can tell, teenagers are too wrapped up in themselves to notice the sheer mortal terror of all the adults around them."
"Was I really that self-absorbed?" Buffy asks. Giles just gives her a look. "Okay, that explains a lot. Let's hope they're all as bad as I was."
"I'll drink to that," Giles says, and they clink their mugs together.
Jayne and River:
The guitar was old. The frets were nearly worn even with the fretboard, the pick guard was cracked, and it needed restringing, but River cradled it like a precious thing when she found it at the back of the junk shop. "There's music in her yet," she told Simon, and he sighed and got out his wallet.
He wasn't expecting her to hand it to Jayne as soon as they got back on board. "What the hell's this for?" he grumped at her, but River only laughed and flitted away, deeper into the ship. Jayne stood on the gangway, holding the guitar by the neck in one meaty hand, as the rest of the crew filed past him.
But that night, late by the ship's clock, the first notes were plucked carefully out of the silence. By morning, there was music on Serenity.
Jason and Dick:
Jason knows that he's maybe a little cracked these days. He's got enough people pointing it out to him, for fuck's sake, and it's not like he lacks for self-awareness either. He's not the boy he was. The boy he was got beaten about the head with a crowbar; the boy he was *died*. He doesn't know how that boy would feel, looking at what he grew up into, but the thing about Jason is-- the thing is, he doesn't *care*. The only thing he owes the dead is vengeance.
So he's not what you'd call the ideal audience for Dick's self-righteous little speeches. Mostly he just wants to shut him *up*. And the best way to do that is do dart in low, feint a blow and steal a kiss instead, bite Dick's lip and bare his teeth, because when Dick kisses back, that means Jason *wins*.
Babs and Tim:
"Urk," said Barbara. There was a basin on the floor by the head of the bed; for the moment, it was empty. She still wasn't sure if it had been the Chinese food or the leftover chicken; whatever it was, her whole digestive tract was in open revolt. She'd toughed it out for a while, sitting hunched in front of the monitors between hasty trips to the bathroom, but sometime's a girl's gotta say 'the hell with it' and curl up in bed. With a bucket, just in case.
That would have been bad enough, but Bruce had decided to be *helpful*. Real help would have been sending Alfred over with some salmonella-free soup; instead, she got the newest birdboy.
"Um," said Robin. "Do you want a cold compress? Or a hot one. Or something to drink?" He seemed appallingly young, to Barbara, and it didn't help that he was small and slight for his age, or that he seemed to think that ridiculous spiked hair made him look older. And he was full of questions: about the computers, about Barbara, about whether she knew the Blue Beetle. It was more than she thought a sick person reasonably ought to have to bear.
"Something to drink, if you don't mind," she said. At least that would get the kid out of her hair for a little while, so she could maybe die in peace.
"Okay," said Robin. "I can do that. Would you like soup? Alfred sent along some soup."
So Bruce wasn't entirely heartless, after all. "Soup would be nice," she admitted, and okay, maybe it was a little amusing to watch the kid spring into action with the same single-mindedness he used to fight crime, all dedicated to the task of heating up soup. She levered herself upright as Robin came over to her with a mug
"Here you go," Robin said, handing it to her. Barbara just breathed in the steam for a minute, before risking a first sip. It stayed down. She tried a little more.
"Thanks, kid," she said, and managed to make it sound gracious.
Cat Chant and Lyra Silvertongue:
Cat hadn't really wanted to accompany Chrestomanci on this trip. He and Marianne were in the middle of quite a big project, and he always felt worse about missing Janet's birthday than he ever would have felt about missing Gwendolyn's. It was her sixteenth, too, and Joe Pinhoe was apparently cooking up something spectacular with Roger in one of the greenhouses. Cat only hoped it was fireworks, and not a still.
But go he must, and special provisions had to be made for this world. For the people there all had animal familiars, and to appear in public without one would cause as much commotion as appearing without a head. So Cat had to do a particularly tricky bit of conjuring, resulting in a faux familiar that twined around his ankles, purring. Chrestomanci's was, of all things, a peahen, its feathers drab and its long neck a little ridiculous.
Once arrived in the world, Chrestomanci was immediately swept away into a tobacco-scented conference room, leaving Cat to cool his heels outside. This was the sort of thing that always happened on his trips, and it made Cat wonder why he had to come along at all.
There was a girl, though, Cat's own age, who was cooling her heels too. She had something to occupy her, though— a fat gold pocket-watch sort of a thing, which she was raptly observing, not moving except to twiddle a dial here and there. Her pine marten familiar was twined about her neck like a fur collar. Cat wondered how she stood it; he would have choked.
The marten grew bored, eventually, and began investigating the room while the girl twiddled at her pocket-watch. His exploration brought him eventually to Cat's conjured familiar, and at the first touch between then he drew back with a hiss.
The girl jerked upright, her pocket-watch forgotten. She eyed Cat warily. "That ent— that's not a real daemon," she said. "Who are you? Are you from another world?"
They were meant to be traveling incognito, on this trip. Chrestomanci had been very clear about that. "Er." said Cat. "It's a bit complicated."
The girl had golden curls, and tossed them in an imperious sort of way that put Cat in mind of Gwendolyn. But she was sharper-eyed than Gwendolyn, and cannier, and her pine marten looked like the sort of creature that was curious about everything. "Tell me where you came from," she ordered Cat. "Or I'll find out on my own."
From inside the conference room, the low murmur of voices suddenly rose to a hum. "Cat?" Chrestomanci said, leaning out the opened door. "I need you a moment. These people are remarkably stupid about magic."
"Um, sorry," Cat said helplessly to the girl. "I've got to go. And he darted through the door, relieved for the rescue, and hoping that it would be safely dull inside the conference room again.
He was staying home for Janet's next birthday, Cat decided.
no subject
Date: 2011-01-13 05:51 pm (UTC)\o/
&JAY;
no subject
Date: 2011-01-13 09:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-14 11:38 am (UTC)