Ficlets, Warning, and New Love

[icarus_chained]

Wow, that's a busy-sounding post.

First - warning! I'm offline for the next couple of days. I should be back by Tuesday/Wednesday. Ish. Just so's ye know.

Second - new love! I found the scandalously ill-treated show Brimstone, of which there are 13 episodes total, and I adore it. I love John Glover as the Devil. I mean, how could I not? I love the banter, and the snark, and the moral issues of the show. I love the whole thing!

Third - Ficlets! Just six quick little things, in fandoms I don't play in as much as I should. Inc. 2 Brimstone pieces, 1 B7, 1 Holmes, 1 DBZ and 1 Dresden Files. I make no promises for quality!

Pale Substitute - Brimstone, Zeke/Devil (261 words)

There is a type of loneliness that comes when all you desire is right there in front of you, and beyond your reach. Everything you once knew, everything you once loved, everything you still love, forever beyond your reach.

It's called Hell, you know. That's where people get it wrong. Hell isn't just a place, though of course it's that too. I should know. But Hell is something you can carry inside you. Hell is the loneliness that seeps into your soul, that taints everything you know and do. Hell ... Hell is a living thing, and like every living thing, it grows, it feeds, it yearns. Hell is a loneliness that craves something to fill itself. And he's its embodiment.

It was a quip, at the time. Bet it hurts, to have been run out of Heaven. Bet it still hurts. Yeah. Bet it does.

But there's more to Hell than the loneliness alone. More than just the feeling, there's the knowledge that it will never leave. It will never be fixed. Rosalyn ... like he says, you'd think I'd have gotten it by now. And for him? Who did he love, so long ago? Who does he yearn for, what presence fills his mind, waiting just out of reach, forever?

You know, I think I'm a pale substitute, for Him. Just a little bit. And he's no Rosalyn, either. But in Hell, you take what you can get. And we're all each other has.

Ain't that just pathetic?

  

The Long Game - Brimstone, The Devil (303 words)

I should have known they'd stick their noses into it. They always do, when it looks like I'm going to win. What's a Devil to do, I ask you? All of Heaven, against poor little old me. Hah. Well, they can sing for it this time. Ezekiel ... he won't fail me, this one. My hunter. My hope.

You'll have to forgive my getting maudlin. Consequence of spending too much time alone in the midst of humanity's evil. They're remarkably good at it, you know. Evil, that is. Could put me out of a job, if they put their minds to it. But that'd be too much to hope for, wouldn't it? Or would it? Ah, Ezekiel, if only you knew. Sometimes, I think you do. You see too much, Detective. Too much of me. It would worry me, if all my hopes weren't resting on it. On your redemption. You think I'm going to cheat, don't you? Send you back, break the deal. And I'd get a kick out of it, lets be clear. But I've bigger fish to fry.

I'm after Redemption, you see. Of one soul, one demon. One soul judged and sent to Hell. I told you once before that God's Universe doesn't work like the American legal system. But that wasn't quite true. Prince of Lies, here. In one vital respect, they are similar. One word. One very important word.

Precedent.

They're getting nervous, you know. The closer you come to winning, Ezekiel. The closer you come to beating the Devil. Hah. That's what you think! I'm playing a long game here, Ezekiel. And you know what? I think I'm going to win.

Nobody

beats the Devil.

Clever Hands - Blake's 7, Avon/Vila (168 words)

Avon appreciated intelligence. Whether he appreciated Vila's particular brand of it was another question. He certainly didn't out loud, anyway. But what Avon said out loud wasn't so great a measure of his thoughts, after all. And Vila knew beyond doubt that Avon appreciated at least one aspect of his intelligence.

He had clever hands.

They all knew that one, of course. They all appreciated it. But Vila rather thought most of the others would be quite surprised to discover exactly how Avon appreciated it. He thought they'd be surprised at how much the dour man appreciated Vila's touch, how he loved it when Vila let his clever fingers play over his face, his scars. And more. He didn't think they'd be too appreciative of that, not at all. But Vila didn't particularly care. Because there was something else about Avon that he wasn't sure they completely realised either.

Avon had clever hands too.

And Vila definitely appreciated them.

Without Desire - Sherlock Holmes, Holmes&Watson (317 words)

I am a widower.

It's a strange thing to say, that. A strange thing to admit, in the hollows of my heart. She is gone. My Mary. I lost her, so soon, so close to when I'd lost him. It ... I do not think I was quite the same, after that. Those months, that time ... I was not quite myself. Not quite John Watson. And do you know, for one selfish moment, when he returned from the dead, I almost thought, almost hoped ... but she will never come back. She is somewhere else now, not in disguise, as Holmes was. Gone forever, or at least until I may follow her.

But strangely ... I do not find myself yearning for it. Maybe that is not so strange to you, but for those months when they were both lost to me ... it occurred to me. Many times. I am a doctor. It would not be difficult, and were it not that where Mary undoubtedly is now would never accept me after such an act, I think I might have. But now ...

Now, he is here. He is returned, standing at my side as if he never left. Acting as if he never left. I will admit to some small ... disgruntlement, about that. But Sherlock Holmes, my friend, my partner, my home, is with me once again. And I find myself less than eager to follow my Mary, because of it.

I love him, you see. Not as I loved her. But as deep. If the love I bear that man is wholly unburdened by desire, it can be no less deep because of it. Love is a balm to the deepest of wounds. I hope that someday, I may find a way to grant him in return the salvation he has granted me, simply by being.

For the love I bear him, I swear I shall try.

Demanding - Dragonball Z, Vegeta&Goku (392 words)

You act as if you demand nothing of me. You act as if you have never asked me for a thing, as if your eyes have never questioned my gaze, never asked silently for help. You act as if I have turned aside everything I have ever learned of my own free will, just to help you. As if I deserve your gratitude. As if I were a good person. Hah! It would be funny, if I didn't think you honestly believed it.

Kakarott. I am not a good person. I never claimed to be. I never wanted to be. What I was, was strong. A strong person. Free and proud, even in my captivity. I was the strongest, for so long. The best. And then ... you.

I wonder, have you ever looked at our rivalry, at the results, and found it ironic? Not at all, I suppose. You don't think that way. You don't think, most of the time. But I do. And I see. I see you getting stronger, always stronger than me, as if taking the strength I have fought for all my life for your own. Asking for it, without a word. And in return ... in return, you make me a 'good person'. Your eyes ask, make me question, and suddenly I cannot take what I once would have. Suddenly, I have what you call friendships. I have a wife, a son. I am no more the warrior prince. I am ... a good person. Or a better one, at least.

Don't you see it? Don't you find it at all funny? That we each seem to give the other what they never thought to want in the first place. I never wanted to be good. And strength ... to you, strength is a game, something to defend your family with. It's not a desire, not the way it is with me. And yet, that is what we give each other, though I've yet to figure out how. I've yet to figure out how to stop it, either.

And now, looking at my wife, my son ... I am no longer sure I want to. I have you to thank for them, in a way. And I am grateful, Kakarott. I am.

Just don't ever expect me to say it out loud.

He Who Lives By The Sword - Dresden Files, Harry/Morgan (263 words)

I never liked Morgan, you know. Well, you try liking the man who's made it his sole mission in life to see you tried, sentenced and summarily executed. Not easy, huh? Although, to be fair, it was never personal. Not the way I thought it was. Took me a while to see it, but Morgan just wanted to destroy the evil. And right then, I seemed to be it. He'd gotten over that, for the most part. I think. I hope.

Though I'm pretty sure, actually. I'm pretty sure. Because Morgan doesn't seem the kind of man to respect evil. He doesn't seem the kind of man to stand between a wounded evil-doer and a demon. Ever practical, is our Warden. If evil wants to kill evil, let if off, and all that. He's not the kind of man who'd take time out from a battle to help someone he honestly thought was bad news, the kind to let himself get stabbed in the bloody chest for his troubles.

And he definitely doesn't seem the kind of man who would want to spend his last breath kissing his enemy. But ... that's what he did. That's what ... He kissed me. It happens that way. When you're hurt, when you know you're dying. You want someone to be there, someone to touch. He was just unlucky it happened to be me. Someone he'd never really liked. Someone who'd never really liked him.

I wonder why he was smiling, then.