For all you shatter is our seeming, And in breaking we are free

No idea what it's from. Just a thing that popped up for a prompt on comment_fic, for the prompt: Tread softly for you tread upon my dreams

Sleeping, Seeping

"All this," the man said softly. Kneeling in the ashes of a scorched earth. "All this, brother, just to rob me of my dreams?"

"Your dreams made you weak," the other answered. Cold and pitiless, his blank gaze falling over a shattered landscape without so much as a flicker of remorse. "There were none among us who did not see it, brother. They had slipped inside you. Poisoned you with foreign thoughts. Made you long for ..." A twist, emotion. Contempt. "For gentle things. For all their soft poisons." A lift of one lip. "You must see that. You must know what they did to you."

The kneeling figure shook his head, face twisted in a grieving mask. "You had no right," he whispered, soft and desperate. "You had no right. This was my dream, brother! They gave it to me, and it was mine. This was ... this was my dream."

His companion stared down at him. One fist knotting, a hard, cold clench of pain, as he looked down at the crumpled form beside him, and what remained of the brother he had once known. On his face, too, there was something close to grief.

"Your dreams were poison," he said, very softly, as he turned to leave. "Sooner or later, they would have killed you. They were poisonous dreams, my brother."

"... Yes," the dreamer whispered, to the fading echo of his footsteps, his hands digging softly among the ashes. "Yes, brother. But they were mine."

It is often said, you see, that the antidote to all poisons ... is a poison itself.

Little dialogue-fic, from a crazed and hyper brain. Crack!

Title:  Tank
Rating:  PG
Fandom:  Sanctuary
Characters/Pairings: Helen, James, Nigel
Summary:  Why are they in a tank? And where did they get it?
Wordcount:  308
Warnings/Notes:  SPOILERS for 3x17 Normandy. Crack!
Disclaimer:  Not mine

Okay. So. Today was the first examination I've taken in three years, and it ... went sort of okay? I mean, what I've written probably wasn't worth the paper it was scrawled on, but at least I managed to answer two questions, and get seven pages out of them, and approach at least one question from various angles ... Gah! Not thinking about it. Still probably failed. But ... went sort of okay, and I can ... I've remembered what it's like to take exams now, so hopefully the next couple should be a bit easier. Hopefully. Maybe. *fingers crosses*

And then ... because I'm dead tired and unable to think straight at the minute, I was browsing through document fragments on my laptop. Bits and pieces, early drafts of fics, stuff like that. And I found an earlier draft of Close, one that went in a ... less porny direction. Heh. And since I rather liked it anyway, I thought I'd just post it up here as a snippet, and show people how different things can be between drafts, and yet how sort of the same. Heh.

This version's more Nigel's shakiness and recovery:

Same as the last, in some ways. Two Initiative inmates, after they escape. *shrugs*

Title:  The Thing About Boats
Rating:  PG-13
Fandoms:  Highlander the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Continuity:  Post-series Highlander, sometime after S4 Buffy (I think)
Characters/Pairings:  Methos/Ethan Rayne
Summary:  Ethan drags an explanation out of Methos 
Wordcount:  1133
Warnings:  I'm very, very shaky on Buffy, just so's you know.
Disclaimer:  Not mine

I'm having a very jittery, fragmentary few days, and my minds keeps throwing up random fragments that don't mean all that much. *shrugs*

Title:  Centre
Rating:  PG
Fandom:  Supernatural
Characters/Pairings:  Gabriel, Castiel
Continuity:  Set in some reasonably distant, probably AU Heaven where things have settled down a little
Summary:  The centre holds
Wordcount:  890
Warning:  Meandery (which I do not believe is a word, but there you go)
Disclaimer:  Not mine

The room was white, warm and open and full of soft shadows. He lay by the window, his pale hands spread like silver tracery over the sheets, his head sinking into the white softness. His eyes were half-closed, a mere suggestion of awareness as he watched the silver-grey shadows of the leaves as they danced on the wall. The wind outside was a hollow, gentle whistling, reminding him of the world beyond the window at his back, reminding him of the phantom, white-gold sun that glowed in grey, pearlescent skies. His world was quiet, colourless, a place of waiting for some fiercer thing, some new and pristine glory.

He smiled, and let his eyes slip gently closed. It could wait.