#NaFicWriMo

[thelastspeecher]

NaNoWriMo ‘17 Day 6 - Part of the Job

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Summary: Stanford Pines is used to finding odd things in his house. But even this is a bit much.  AU suggestion from @tea-and-tipulidae.  [Neverhuman AU] Word count: 872

               Ford could hear Stan’s contented humming long before he entered the kitchen.

               “You’re up early,” Ford remarked, standing in the doorway.  His twin shrugged.  

               “Gotta make breakfast for the gremlins.”

               “Actual small creatures that have a fondness for destroying machinery, or Dipper and Mabel?” Ford asked.  Stan looked up at him with a slight scowl.  “Given your new…employment, it’s a valid question.”

               “Fair enough,” Stan muttered.  He poked at the mass of eggs and meat in the skillet in front of him. “Dipper and Mabel.  I don’t see many real gremlins around here.  They like bigger cities.”

               “Interesting.”  Ford cocked his head.  “Did one of the fey creatures here tell you that?”

               “Nah.”  Stan tapped his skull.  “I got that info locked up tight in my own noggin.  It’s a part of the job.  Sorta a dictionary of magical-slash-supernatural-slash-weird creatures.”

               “Remarkable,” Ford breathed.  Stan rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to whatever he was cooking.  “And the breakfast…will you be partaking in it?”

               “Nope.”

               “I’ve seen you eat before,” Ford said.

               “Yeah.  I can. Doesn’t mean I always wanna.  I mean, yeah, usually I wanna eat, but most times, human food just doesn’t do it for me.  Not anymore.”  Stan grimaced.  “I’m too magicky now.”

               “So does that mean you have-”

               “Special fey food?  You bet.” Stan sighed.  “It’s not the same as bacon, but it’s pretty damn good.”

               “Where do you keep it?”

               “Uh, the fridge?” Stan said.  He watched with minor interest as Ford crossed the kitchen and opened the fridge door.  Ford frowned thoughtfully.  “It’s got a glamour on it to keep the kids from eating or seeing it.”

               “Can you take down the glamour?”

               “I guess.”  Stan waved a hand.  Ford immediately let out a yelp and jumped backwards.  “See why I keep it hidden?”

               “Holy Moses!  Stanley, I- I’ve seen my fair share of disturbing things, but that…”

               “Since it spooked you, does that mean I don’t have to worry about you eating it?” Stan asked.  Ford paused to think.  “Geez, that’s never a good sign.  If you have to think about whether you’ll eat something that looks disturbing like my fey food does, you’ll probably end up eating it.  If only so you can brag about eating it.”

               “I’m a scientist.  I like to collect data,” Ford protested.  

               “Uh-huh.  And do you like being able to eat human food?” Stan asked.  

               “I- yes?”

               “Don’t eat the fey food.  If a mortal eats it, they can’t eat human food ever again.  Turns to sawdust and ash in your mouth, or something like that.”

               “…Oh.  Fair enough.” Ford closed the fridge.  “I- I think I saw your fey food move.”

               “Yep.  That happens,” Stan said casually.

               “Why?” Ford asked.  Stan shrugged.

               “Beats me.  Stuff just sorta acts weird around eldritch beings, y’know?”

               “Actually, yes, I do know,” Ford said softly.  He sat down at the kitchen table.  Stan froze.

               “How the hell do you know that?”

               “I’ve met a few.”

               “You can’t have met them here.  If you’d met any of the eldritch people in Gravity Falls, they woulda told me when I got the job.”

               “No, even I knew better than to attempt to contact the powerful old fey more than twice.”

               “More than twice, he says,” Stan muttered to the eggs.  “If you didn’t meet ‘em here, where?”

               “During my journeys across the multiverse, of course.”

               “…Of course you did,” Stan mumbled.

               “The multiverse is-”

               “I know what the multiverse is, Poindexter.  It’s the sum of all the alternate realities and dimensions, as well as different planes of existence.  They border each other, and those borders can be breached by magic, high science, or a combination of the two,” Stan rattled off.  Ford blinked.

               “I didn’t think I was that in depth in my research.”

               “Nope.”  Stan tapped his head.  “Learned that when I took the job, too.  Where’d you think the fey came from?”

               “They’re from an alternate reality?” Ford asked.  “I had theorized they might be, but I wasn’t completely sure.”

               “Bzzt.  Wrong answer. They’re from a ‘higher plane of existence’.  Different from an alternate reality.”

               “…True,” Ford conceded.  He leaned forward, his curiosity continuing to pique.  “Does this mean that you-”

               “Yep.”  Stan stirred the mess in the skillet.  “I’m basically an alien.  Surprised me. Always thought it was gonna be you.”

               “Heh.”  Noises drifted down from the attic.  “The children are up.”

               “Yep.  Just in time. Breakfast is done.  And…if you want, Stanford, you could join us. Scrambled meat and eggs,” Stan said. Ford thought about it for a moment.

               “For a short while, yes, I’ll sit with you.  I won’t stay for long, since I have work and research to attend to.”

               “Figured.”  Stan paused. “I, uh, appreciate it, or whatever.”

               “Of course.”

               “Mind getting the orange juice out?” Stan asked, clearing his throat.

               “Sure.”  Ford walked over to the fridge and opened the door.  He grimaced.  “Your fey food is still visible.”

               “Damn, forgot about it.  Should probably fix that.  The kids ‘ll have nightmares for weeks.”

               “Seriously, why does it move?”

               “I think it’s evolving.”

               “It’s alive?”

               “Yeah, but not sentient,” Stan said.  He sighed softly.  “I should probably eat it before that happens.  Sentience tastes gamey.”

[pollylynn]

Tomorrow is Another One—Caskett one-shot Future Fic, NaFicWriMo 24

Title: Tomorrow is Another One

Rating: K

WC: ~1200

Summary:  Chaos is the new black, and he knows it.

A/N: Schmoopy future fic that I’m late with.

Today was good.

Today was fun.

Tomorrow is another one.

—Dr. Suess

“Babies never sleep.” Lily swings her feet. She drums her heels on the legs of the tall stool. “How come?”

She watches him, fists propped on her chin as he goes from the kitchen through the living room into the office and back through the circuit again. She watches him as he straightens and folds and wipes and stows, all for no apparent reason. Chaos is the new black, and he knows it.

“How come? That is an excellent question.” He looks down just in time to find himself shoving a pair of Kate’s gloves into a drawer with the potholders. He shakes his head at himself.  “One your mother and I have been pondering since you were born.”

“I sleep.” She draws herself up as she says it. She sits straight and prim, all of a sudden.  “I was a good sleeper when I was a baby. Mama says.”

“Mama does say, because you were.” He gives her a drive-by kiss on the top of her head as he goes to toss the gloves on the hall table. “You were the perfect baby, so Mama had no idea what she was in for with your brothers. Up high for the long con!”

“What’s that?” She frowns at him. She raises her little palm and lets him bump it with his own. “Long con?”

“It’s . . .” He tries to think on his feet. He’s already gotten in trouble more than once for some of their oldest’s more colorful vocabulary. “It’s like a joke you tell for a long time before you get to the funny part. 


“I don’t like that. I like the funny part soon.” There’s something plaintive in her tone that stops him in his tracks. It’s not like her. Not at all like their serious, self-sufficient little lady.

“Funny part soon is better.” He budges on to the stool next to her. He sets down the muddled stack of newspapers and hand towels he’d meant to do something with. “You’re definitely funny part soon.”

“Babies aren’t,” she says gravely. “Babies are long con.”

“They sure seem to be.” He bumps her shoulder with his own. He rocks her on her stool and catches her around the waist, pulling her on to his lap. “But you love your babies, right, Big Sister?”

She does. She’s careful with them. More than a little bossy, but tender and fiercely protective, too. And shockingly helpful. She’s been a champ over the last few months, so it knocks him flat when her lip quivers. When her little shoulders hitch and two big, fat tears roll suddenly down her cheeks.

“Mama . . .” She hiccoughs. She looks up at him with her sad, golden eyes. “Mama loves the babies.”

“Invitation for Captain Beckett.” He raps softly at the nursery door. Not softly enough. Jake stirs in her arms. He grunts and fusses, working up to a full-out yell. Reese isn’t far behind in the cradle at her knee. “Special delivery,” he adds in answer to the glare she’s working up to.

She follows his gaze to the hallway. Lily stands in the doorway. She’s wearing her frilliest night gown and fuzziest robe. She’s clutching an enormous card decorated with all the glitter in the loft. Possibly all the glitter in Manhattan.

“An invitation?” She picks up on his look as he takes Thing 1 from her arms and reaches down to tickle Thing 2’s belly. She nods, taking the handoff as seamlessly as ever. “From my Lily?”

“It’s a slumber party, Mama.” Lily’s stage whisper carries to say the least. “In the big bedroom.”

“In the big bedroom.” Kate presses her lips together against a smile. She beckons the girl into the dim room. “Who’s invited?”

“No boys.” Lily climbs into her lap and rips open the card. “It even says. And there is special cocoa. I make it. Daddy helped.”

“I did help, and I’m still not invited.” He makes an exaggerated sad face, but Lily is unmoved. 


“No boys.” She presses her face into Kate’s shoulder. “Tell him, Mama.”

“No boys,” she says. She strokes her daughter’s hair, surprised by the sudden bout of clinginess. “That’s what this very official document says.”

“Official,” Lily echoes. “We go now, Mama.”

She slithers to the floor, tugging at her mother’s hand. Kate looks flummoxed. Overwhelmed and so tired, but he shoos them both toward the door.

“Mama’s cocoa is extra special.” He bounces Jake and nudges the cradle with his knee to keep it rocking. “So don’t mix up the cups.”

“Extra-special?” Kate’s eyes light up, then quickly fade. “Castle . . . I can’t do extra-special.” She nods at the still-fussing twins. “Beasties to feed.”

“Bottles in the freezer.” He waves it off as a mere detail at the exact moment Jake lets out an enormous belch, followed immediately by an artistic spray of spit up. “Bro time,” he says gamely. “To be expected.”

“Bro time?” Kate lingers in the doorway. “You’re sure?”

“Sure.” He nods at the dark head pressed against her hip. The fingers clinging to the swinging hem of her sweater. “You girls have fun.”


He’s half asleep when she slips back into the nursery. Half naked, too. Changing out of his spit up–spattered shirt became a bridge too far right about the time he decided sleeping in the nursery rocker made perfect sense.

“You awake?” she whispers, sliding into his lap. Sliding her hands up his chest. “Castle?”

“Awake.” He inhales sharply. Her hands are freezing. They smell weird. He frowns down at them, still decidedly blurry. “Pink. You’re pink. And purple.”

“ . . . and blue and whatever red this is. Mani–pedis.” She laughs against his neck. “We’re gonna have to burn the sheets. And the comforter. And maybe the blinds.”

“Slumber party success, then?” He swallows down a yawn.

“Big success,” she says, and he can feel her smiling against his skin. “She’s so smart. And she’s funny, and she . . .”

“She can talk?” He nods in the direction of the crib. “These two aren’t the best conversationalists.”

“I feel guilty.”

“For sneaking over to the boys’ camp in the middle of the night?” He slides a hand up her thigh, hiking her nightgown as he goes. “It’s pretty scandalous.”

“For having fun.” She rises up to kiss him. It’s sloppy and exuberant in a completely exhausted way. “Does this feel like too much fun to you?”

“This?” He goes for bare skin again. For a kiss that’s a little more focused, even though it’s hopeless. Even though he can hear Jake thrashing and Reese grunting and he knows they’ve got about twelve seconds to themselves. “This is just the right amount of fun.”

“Not that.” She bats his hands away, then catches them. “Well, that.” She presses the warmth of his palms to her skin. She shivers. “But this.” She gestures expansively. “Them.”

“Them. Too much fun.” He looks at her deadpan. “Beckett, I think you might be drunk.”

“On half a shot of Bailey’s.” She thinks about it. “Which is half a shot more than I’ve had in 14 months. I might be drunk. But this is . . .”  She tips her head way back to look at him. Her eyes are gorgeous in the low light. Dark and lustrous, even with the dark circles and the tired lines. “Castle, I’m having such a good time.”

“Me too,” he tells her, his voice suddenly thick. His heart suddenly full. “A really good time.”

[finishthatficmerlin]

LET’S KICKSTART THIS THING!

November is the month of NaNoWriMo, and while that is all about writing a new novel at 50k words in a month, and kinda the opposite of working on WIPs, it doesn't mean we can't bend the concept a bit, mesh it together with Write Every Day May, and have our own little NaFicWriMo here in November :) momotastic has kindly let me recycle all the posts she did last year, which means that every day in November over on beneathdacastle there'll be a new post where you can check in with all the words you wrote and cheerlead on all your fellow participants who are doing the same! Don't worry, you don't have to write 50k words during November, and you don't have to write every day. This is for motivation only!! And even if you are not participating in ftf_merlin at all, you're more than welcome to ride the motivation train with us! This is free for all who wish to participate! Simply had over to beneathdacastle and let the fun commence!

[merlinsfests]

November is the month of NaNoWriMo, and while that is all about writing a new novel at 50k words in a month, and kinda the opposite of working on WIPs, it doesn't mean we can't bend the concept a bit, mesh it together with Write Every Day May, and have our own little NaFicWriMo here in November :) MOMOTASTIC has kindly let me recycle all the posts she did last year, which means that every day in November over on BENEATHDACASTLE there'll be a new post where you can check in with all the words you wrote and cheerlead on all your fellow participants who are doing the same! Don't worry, you don't have to write 50k words during November, and you don't have to write every day. This is for motivation only!! And even if you are not participating in FTF_MERLIN at all, you're more than welcome to ride the motivation train with us! This is free for all who wish to participate! Simply had over to BENEATHDACASTLE and let the fun commence!

[mechanical-jewel]

I’m vaguely doing NaNo again

Maybe I’ll finally finish some of the prompts people gave me last November.

[pollylynn]

Blackwing—A Season 1 Caskett one-shot (?), NaFicWriMo #28

Title: Blackwing 602

Rating: T

WC: 1300

Summary: “She doesn't mean to take it. She doesn't mean to take anything, but it's worse than that. She hadn’t meant to come here in the first place.”

A/N: This starts during A Chill Goes Through Her Veins (1 x 05), but goes through the end of season 1. This probably has a second half, but it’s unlikely I’ll get to it in the next two days. Hopefully it stands alone as is.

She doesn't mean to take it. She doesn't mean to take anything, but it's worse than that.

She hadn’t meant to come here in the first place. Certainly hadn’t meant to stay when the door opened on the bizarre, if domestic, scene. Laser tag gear and mud masks. It’s the last thing she would have pictured, if she’d been in the habit of picturing him at home. But she's not in the habit of that, or hadn’t meant to be.  

She hadn't meant any of this, but here she is darting furtive glances around his office. Here she is slipping a pencil purloined from his desk into the slash pocket of her coat. Here she is asking him for . . . something. Closure. Escape. A satisfying ending for once. Here she is, little more than month in, and he's driven her to this: Neediness and petty larceny.

She hadn’t meant for any of it to happen.

The larceny isn't so petty, as it turns out. It’s an utterly mortifying revelation she stumbles on the first time she takes her contraband for a spin. It's later when she does. A while later, and she's been pretending the whole time that it's not still in the pocket of that coat. She's been pretending the whole time that she's forgotten all about it

She hasn't forgotten, though. The day she "remembers," it's been a while since she's seen him. A few days, and it's not like she misses him, or anything. It's not that she hasn't been absolutely reveling in peace and quiet and paperwork. It's just that life is slow.

There haven't been any real cases, Not any Beckett-flavored ones, anyway, and now she has an actual day off. She’s already done her errands. She's indulged in her thirty minutes of loafing on the couch, and things are slow, so she retrieves it. The thing she's supposed to have forgotten. The thing she's not supposed to have taken in the first place.

She makes her way to the front closet and slips it back out of the slash pocket of her coat. She sketches her name. She admires the sweep of her signature writ large on a drawing pad she doesn't remember buying. She doesn't remember having, but there it is when she the urge strikes.

It feels gorgeous. The weight of it in her hand and the way it sails across the surface of the paper. There's none of the unpleasant squeak or drag of a plain old yellow No. 2, and that makes her roll her eyes. Of course there'd be none of that. Not in anything he'd deign to write with. Anything he'd own.  

But even accounting for that—for the himness of it—it's an instrument so ridiculously lovely that it makes her curious. The aroma of the wood and the satisfying creak of it in the sharpener. The way it takes an enduring, needle-fine point. The crimped metal of the ferrule gives way beneath the gentle press of her thumb when she eases more of the eraser free to study the bevel he's left, and that may be the detail that most captures her attention.

He's used this one, and the fascination isn't in the contagious magic of it—an object he might have used to sketch one of the Derrick Storm scenes that helped her keep her head above water a decade ago. It isn't just in contagious magic, her secret identity as a long-standing Richard Castle fan girl, notwithstanding. It’s a mystery, too—Richard Castle, professional annoyance, doesn't strike her as a pencil person in the least—and mysteries are her bread and butter.

He takes notes. Infuriatingly takes notes on the back of her paperwork. In the margins of her notes. He tears the edges off her legal pads and leaves them ragged. He takes notes in the stupid spiral pad he remembers every once in a while. On his phone sometimes, when he thinks he can get away with it. But when he writes by hand, it’s all bold gestures. Every time she’s caught him writing, it’s been all emphatic ink and the rare strikeout, just as bold.  

And then there’s this. A Blackwing 602 that he's obviously used. The only one he's used of an even dozen. That had been part of the draw, though she only realizes it now in casting her detective's mind back to the scene of the crime. To a cheesy, lump mug that his kid must've made for him and a forest of twelve pencils, eleven of them all of a height with one another. Eleven with precise, pristine erasers.

And this one, shorter than its companions by an inch or more, its eraser definitely and emphatically the worse for wear. It’s the only one he had used, and somehow it had made its way into her coat pocket. Somehow, it had made its way home with her to sail across the page of a drawing pad she doesn't remember buying.

It's all enough of a mystery to make her curious, and that's unfortunate. It turns out to be unfortunate, because it’s a $100 pencil. She can’t believe her eyes when she Googles it, but $100 is where it starts for a freaking knockoff, and she knows, instinctively that it's not a knockoff. That Richard Castle would certainly not have settled for a recently manufactured knockoff.

She can't believe it, but eBay and Google and a dozen honest-to-God fan sites all tell the same story. They list the names of the rich and not-so-rich and famous who've favored it, and God help her, his name shows up under Favored By and In Search Of, and she can't believe it. She's managed to steal a $100 pencil from him.

She vows to give it back. She imagines a hundred different scenarios. Quietly dropping it back into the cup and letting him wonder. Pushing it across the table when she goes all in at one of his poker games. Casually handing it back and dropping it into the messenger bag he carries sometimes.

She imagines a hundred different ways she undo her crime, but she doesn't act on any of them. And she uses it. She keeps in a drawer at home and finds herself using it. For the Saturday crossword. When the urge to sketch strikes her. To make her grocery lists when she's irritated with him.

She uses it, even though she has every intention of giving it back. She uses it, even though it gives her a heart attack every time she sharpens it, now that she knows what it costs. Now that she can do back-of-the-envelope math on the shavings she tips into her desk-side waste basket at him.

She uses it, all the while assuming that she'll give it back eventually. That some moment will present itself sooner or later.

It never occurs to her that she won't give it back until he betrays her. Until he tries to make her sit in a hospital corridor, like she's some fucking child.

But summer comes, and he does betray her. He tries to make her sit while he breaks the news, and she backs away. She flees on foot and tells herself she's going to snap it half. That she's going to burn the fucking thing and send him the ashes. The crimped ferrule and the charred eraser with no explanation. She tells herself she's damned well going to, but she doesn't.

She brings it to the precinct. She shoves it in her desk there. In the way back of her deepest desk drawer and forgets about it. She pretends to forget about it.

A/N: Rook uses Blackwing 602s in the Nikki Heat books. They’re beautiful, sought-after pencils, and even though a new company is producing them now, people will still pay big bucks for originals.

[pollylynn]

Out of Desire—A Short Caskett Insert for Knockdown (3 x 13), NaFicWriMo #23

Title: Out of Desire

Rating: T

WC: 500

Summary: There's a moment when it's innocent.

A/N: Insert for Knockdown (3 x 13)

But kiss me out of desire, babe, not consolation — Jeff Buckley

There's a moment when it's innocent.

He's legitimately frantic. Legitimately terrified and guilt-ridden, because they may be dead. Ryan and Esposito may be dead, and he’s the one who did this. Three years ago when she told him in confidence. When she gave him her trust, and he turned right round and abused it.

He did this.

So, yeah, there's a moment when it's all he's got. It's a dumb idea in three acts and nothing more than that.

Except it's absolutely more than that.

It's the agonizing creak as she throws the shutters open. It's tear tracks drying on her cheeks. It's the heart-rending, matter-of-fact response when he asks. Haltingly asks.  

When did you start?

Over the summer, when you were in the Hamptons

There’s a moment when it’s a grand gesture. Something he hopes to God is heroic that might erase some of the blame here.

Her hand drops to her hip, and he knows what comes next. He imagines the hollow shucking sound of her weapon unholstered. The metallic snick of the safety and the sharp, deafening report just before a bullet rips through her. Through him, maybe, but he did this.

There’s a moment when it’s a stage kiss.

He knows how to do that. Once upon a time he’d been in high demand by the drama club at the girls’ boarding school behind his because he was tall and anything but too cool for it all. He knew his way around a stage, and the star of pretty much every production for the two years he’d been around taught him the ins and outs of it.

No tongue.

He remembers the sharp tone of her voice. The severe look as she advanced on him. Tugged one of his hands right to her hip and slid the other behind her neck. He remembers the sudden weight of her body and the dry warmth of her lips. He remembers the scent of baby powder and the sounds of rehearsal going on as if he wasn’t right there, center stage, kissing the most desirable girl for miles.

He remembers everything but her name as then meets now in a cold, filthy alley.

No tongue.

He knocks her hand away from her hip.

Turn me further upstage.

He tugs her close and puts his back halfway between her and the thug who may or may not be buying any of this. He slides his fingers into her hair. His palm finds the curve of her jaw.

Hesitate. Two breaths. Draw out the tension for the audience.

He hesitates, that’s for damned sure. Not two breaths, because his lungs won’t work. His heart has stopped, but he hesitates.

Get permission from your scene partner.

He tries. He lingers, his lips a fraction of an inch from hers. His eyes flick to hers, and he tries, but there’s no time to decipher her. There’s no time at all, and . . . oh . . .

She doesn’t know how to stage kiss.

[thelastspeecher]

NaNoWriMo ‘17 Day 23 - Don’t Get Short with Your Brother

Day 01   Day 02   Day 03   Day 04   Day 05   Day 06   Day 07   Day 08 Day 09   Day 10   Day 11   Day 12   Day 13   Day 14   Day 15   Day 16 Day 17   Day 18   Day 19   Day 20   Day 21   Day 22   Day 23   Day 24  Day 25   Day 26   Day 27   Day 28   Day 29   Day 30

Summary: Ford arrives at Stan’s house for another extended visit, but with a key difference.  Inspired by this and this.  [Stay-at-Home Stan AU] Word count: 1564

               Angie answered the door.  She looked around for a moment, confused.

               “Excuse me,” a high-pitched voice said.  Angie looked down.  A young boy, about the same age as her daughters, was standing on the doorstep. Angie smiled at him and crouched down to his eye-height.

               “Howdy there,” she said gently.  The boy shuffled his feet nervously.  “Aw, are ya lost?”

               The only neighbors what have boys are the Thompsons and the Millers.  And their children aren’t this age.  

               “No,” the boy said firmly.  Angie frowned at him.  He was wearing an oversized trenchcoat over his clothes.

               Was he playin’ dress-up with someone? The boy reached a hand up to adjust his glasses, which were similarly oversized and threatening to slide down his face.  Angie’s eyes widened.  Twelve fingers?  Now that she had picked up on the most glaring feature, she could see other Pines characteristics; the wild curls, the ruddy nose, and the tendency to give off an air of grumpiness.

               “…Stanford?” she whispered.  The boy nodded.  “Oh, Lord.”

               “There was an accident,” Ford mumbled.  “My current biological age is merely temporary, but Fiddleford thought it would be best if I stayed with you and Stan until I recover.”

               “But neither of ya thought to let us know.”  Ford adjusted his glasses again, but didn’t respond.  “How did ya even get here?”

               “I took the bus.”

               “You took the- Gravity Falls is over twelve hours away!”

               “I’m well aware of that.”

               “No one on the bus questioned a small child traveling without an adult?” Angie asked.  Ford shook his head.  “Goodness. What is the world comin’ to?”

               “Would you please let me in?  I walked for about an hour until I found your house,” Ford said.  Angie stood to her proper height.

               “Come on in, hon,” she said, placing a gentle hand on Ford’s back and guiding him inside.  She closed the door.  Ford scowled at her.

               “I’m older than you.  Do not call me ‘hon’.”

               “Instinct.  Sorry.”

               “Who was at the door?” Stan called from the kitchen, where he was doing the dishes.  

               “Yer brother.  Sounds like Stanford is goin’ to spend some time with us.  Again.”

               “Really?  Geez, Sixer, what’d ya do to get Fiddleford to kick ya out?” Stan asked, looking into the living room.  His jaw dropped at the sight of Ford.  “Hot Belgian waffles, Poindexter, what happened?”

               “There was an accident during an experiment,” Ford said.  “And…hot Belgian waffles?”

               “I’m tryin’ out fake swears,” Stan explained.  He dried his hands on a gingham dish towel.  “Must’ve been one heck of an accident.”

               “It could have been much worse.  As it is, this is temporary, and Fiddleford will be able to determine the approximate date it will wear off.”

               “You’re the same age as the girls,” Stan said.  He grinned.  “There’s an idea.”  Ford took a nervous step backward, discomforted by his twin’s vicious smile. His diminutive feet trod on Angie’s toes.  She instinctively placed a reassuring hand on the top of Ford’s head.

               “What’s an idea?” Angie asked, stroking Ford’s curls.

               “The girls don’t really have any friends yet.  But they love their Uncle Ford.  And now that he’s their age…”

               “Yer suggestin’ Ford play with the girls while this situation works itself out?”

               “Yep.”

               “Look, I love Danny and Daisy,” Ford said, adjusting his glasses yet again. “But spending time with them while this age might give them the wrong idea.  I’m their uncle, not their playmate.”

               “Oh, please,” Angie said.  “You play with ‘em all the time.”

               “This is different,” Ford insisted.

               “Yeah, it is,” Stan said.  “But think about it.  This ‘ll give ya a chance to bond with ‘em even more.  And it’s not like they’re toddlers anymore.  They’re five.”

               “Stan was right about them not havin’ many friends,” Angie said in a low voice.  “Once they start school, hopefully that ‘ll change.  But right now, their main social interactions are with their parents. Socializin’ with someone their age will be good fer ‘em.”  Ford sighed.

               “Very well.  I get the point.”  He shoved Angie’s hand away from him.  “But stop petting me!  I don’t want to be treated like a child while I stay here, understand?”

               “We’ll do our best,” Angie said.  “But we reserve the right to restrict certain activities fer yer own safety.”

               “I don’t agree to that.”

               “If yer stayin’ under my roof, ya do,” Angie said firmly, putting her hands on her hips and staring Ford down with a steely gaze.  Ford swallowed nervously.  

               “Y- yes, ma’am,” he stammered.  Angie’s punishing demeanor evaporated.  She threw her head back with a laugh.

               “Lord, that ‘angry mom’ face works wonders!” she cackled.  Ford scowled.  “Aw, don’t get all scrunchy-faced,” Angie cooed, pinching his cheek.  Ford slapped her hand away.  “Why don’t ya go see yer lil nieces while Stan and I discuss how we’ll adjust things while ya stay.”

----- 

               Danny and Daisy walked into the kitchen, Daisy idly dragging her stuffed animal frog, Marlo, on the ground.  The two girls cocked their heads curiously at what they saw.

               “Daddy, why is Uncle Ford in the time-out chair?” Danny asked.  Ford was indeed strapped into an old high-chair that Stan and Angie had repurposed for the use of time-outs.  Judging by his reddened face and shouting, Ford was not pleased with the situation one bit.  Stan turned from his de-aged twin brother and looked knowingly at his daughters.

               “‘Cause he’s in time-out,” Stan replied.  

               “Why?” Daisy asked.  

               “Is it ‘cause he’s getting scrunchy-faced?” Danny suggested.  Ford paused his shouts of protest for a moment.

               “Why is that something your family says?” Ford asked Stan.  Stan shrugged.

               “It’s a McGucket thing.  Now, are ya calmed down enough to get down?”

               “I don’t need to be calm to get down, I am a grown man!” Ford shouted.  “Stanley, let me down this instant!”

               “Girls, go play in your room for a bit, okay?” Stan said.  “Your Uncle Ford will join ya after he’s in a better mood.”

               “Okay!” Daisy chirped.  She wandered off.  Danny waved at Stan and Ford before following her twin.  Stan turned back to Ford.

               “Ford, you’re not gettin’ down until you relax.”

               “I’m not a child,” Ford snarled.  “Don’t treat me like one!”  

               “I’ll stop treating you like one when ya stop actin’ like one!” Stan snapped. “You threw a temper tantrum just ‘cause ya couldn’t find your Scientific American issue.”

               “Can you blame me for getting upset?  There’s not much around here to stimulate my intellect!”

               “What a loada bull.  We’ve got all sortsa science stuff around here.  Heck, your own sister-in-law has a doctorate!”

               “Yeah, in herpetology,” Ford scoffed. Stan’s expression grew thunderous. Ford swallowed.  “…I’d like to retract what I just said.”

               “Smart move.”  

               “Maybe I have been acting childish,” Ford said after a moment. Stan nodded.  “I just- I don’t know why.  I’ve been keeping my regular hours, and yet I’m tremendously exhausted. I keep feeling overwhelmed by things and- and overreacting and-”

               “Your brain might be thirty, but your body isn’t,” Stan interrupted.  Ford blinked.  “Sixer, you kept it at bay for a good amount of time, but you’ve gotta admit it.  Until this thing wears off, you’re gonna need to have a schedule like the girls’.”

               “Stanley!”

               “Hey, I’m not happy about it either.  Despite what ya might believe, treating my own twin like I treat my daughters isn’t my idea of a good time.”  Stan sighed. “But it’s what’s best for your health.”

               “I don’t want to be treated like a child,” Ford mumbled.

               “I know.  And Angie and I will do our best to keep the schedule and everything from damaging your dignity as much as possible.  But Ford, ya need naps.  Ya need to go to bed before nine.  Ya need to have meals at a regular time.  Ya need a schedule.”

               “…Fine.”  A moment passed.  “Now will you let me down?”

               “Oh, right.”  Stan took Ford out of the high-chair and set him on the ground.  He ruffled his de-aged twin’s hair.  “Remember when ya first dropped by?”

               “Three days ago.  It feels like so much longer.”

               “The naps ‘ll help with that.  Sleeping makes time move faster.  But anyways, Angie said we reserved the right to restrict activities. This is one of those times.”

               “I just assumed it meant not allowing me to consume alcohol or coffee, or refusing to let me behind the wheel,” Ford said.

               “Those, too,” Stan said.  He walked over to the sink and ran a washcloth under cold water for a moment, then walked back to Ford.  Ford blinked at him curiously.  “For your face,” Stan explained.  He crouched down and began to carefully rub Ford’s cheeks.  Ford opened his mouth to protest, but changed his mind with a tired sigh.

               “Why are you wiping my face?” Ford asked quietly.  

               “Gotta get the tear tracks washed away and you cooled off a bit. Not to mention, pitchin’ a fit like you just did uses a lotta energy.  You’re tired now, aren’t ya?” Stan asked.  Ford nodded.  “This’ll wake ya up for just long enough that you can get in some PJs.”

               “PJs?”

               “It’s naptime, Ford.”  Stan tossed the washcloth onto the table.  It landed with a damp splat.  He put a guiding hand on Ford’s shoulder.  “Come on, I’ll tuck ya in.”

               “Only if you promise to read me a story.”

               “Wait, really?”

               “Pfft, no.”

[pollylynn]

With the Lamp Lit—A Caskett one-shot insert for “Eye of the Beholder” (5 x 05), NaFicWriMo #25

Title: With the Lamp Lit

Rating: T

WC: 1500

Summary: Patience, he thinks, is a funny thing. Not ha-ha funny. Definitely not that. But it’s an odd thing he never really had to consider until her.

A/N: Insert/tag for “Eye of the Beholder” (4 x 05)

Hope is patience with the lamp lit —Tertullian, De Patientia

Patience, he thinks, is a funny thing. Not ha-ha funny. Definitely not that. But it’s an odd thing he never really had to consider until her.

Not in his whole by-the-seat-of-his-pants upbringing, certainly. His mother is not exactly the poster-diva for it, and there was so little to expect, anyway. So little chance that something worth the wait would be around the corner. What good would patience have been?

Kyra might have been the one to teach him, if he’d had the sense to want to learn back then. But by the time she left, life had taught him a different lesson already. About money and swagger and never digging too deep or getting too entangled.

It taught him the beauty of having new passions at the ready long before the old ones had a chance to fray around the edges. It taught him to always keep short-lived obsessions and ill-advised indulgences on tap. By the time Kyra left, life had taught him the beauty of a frictionless existence.

He could have been patient with Meredith. He would have been if there’d been any point. If she’d given him a chance, but she was leaving before he had any idea what had hit him. She was gone before he even had a chance to think. It wouldn’t have been any good, either but he’d have tried. He damn well would have.

Raising a kid ought to have taught him. It ought to have been a crash course in patience, but he swears he doesn’t remember it that way. Just the opposite. He remembers hardly being able to keep up with this fascinating, funny, wildly curious little thing. He remembers constant transformation. Every day she’d master some new feat or he’d see something entirely new in her, and it’s like the rush of scenery through a car window in his memory.

And then there was Kate. Now there is Kate. Or there will be. Might be. Absolutely should be.

If he can just be patient.

The thing is, he has been. For three years, he’s been patient, or at least that’s his reckoning on nights when he feels hard done by. Three long months had certainly gotten him in the habit of that. Three months of dreaming up recovery montages starring her and Doctor Motorcycle Boy. He’s still mad. Newly mad a lot of the time, because it’s not just that she cut him off so completely. She cut everyone off and he’s retroactively blank with fury every time that realization surfaces. She’s still such a long way from whole, and he’s furious when he thinks of her alone all that time. It’s easier than being terrified.

So he calls it three years when he’s inclined to lick his wounds, but it’s not quite the truth.

Not with this advance and retreat they’ve done all the while. Not with the two of them hurting each other. Being hurt. Being brave, being fearful, and never, not even once, being on the same damned page.

Until now. Until recently, but not exactly now, because she’s …

Well, she’s driving him nuts at the moment.

She’s being completely unreasonable about Serena Kaye, like he ordered the woman up or something. Like he was supposed to clear it with her if he did order up a woman.

Not that he is …

Not that he’s in the habit of …

Not that he would, when they’re …

Not when he’s being patient.

And he is. He’s been patient in earnest, and it hasn’t really been all that hard until now.

He’s angry by night. Terrified and relentlessly awake nights when there’s no body. No case and no reason for her to call him. Him to call her. But being with her when there is covers a multitude of sins. She makes him laugh. She picks on him, and he likes it. He picks on her, and it’s even better than it was before. There’s no Gina to feel guilty about. There’s no Josh to burn energy hating, and it’s not just that. It’s not just absence. It’s presence. It’s more.

She doesn’t close up lately when he teases her. When he flirts. She flirts back. She challenges him and he challenges her. They ooze subtext. They make ridiculous puppy dog eyes and slip a hundred hopeful little messages into everyday conversation, and it must be disgusting from the outside looking in. It must look like the cheesiest teen romance, but it’s been easy to be patient.

It was easy before Serena Kaye.

It’s even easy after Serena Kaye. At first it is, anyway, because she’s jealous, right? She’s jealous, and that makes it a hundred and one hopeful little messages. Except it doesn’t, because she’s not jealous, apparently.

(You know, suit yourself.)

Or maybe she is jealous, and it’s is karmic punishment for fishing.

(So you think I should … pursue it?)

Maybe it’s the Universe swatting him on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper for that, but he’s entitled to the occasional long, dark night of the soul, isn’t he? The occasional bid for reassurance, because three years of fuck-ups, take away ten minutes of heavily masked conversation about the rest of their lives … It’s not the kind of math that promotes confidence.

Or maybe he’s not. Maybe he’s fucking twelve, and he doesn’t know the first thing about patience.

He’s turned around entirely by the time he finds himself kissing her. Kissing Serena, not kissing  Beckett, though there’s definite target confusion in the moment. He’s turned around and furious to find that she’s furious. Beckett, not Serena, though the lady in red is none too pleased with him, either.  

He spends the rest of the case furious. It’s easier, after all, and there’s a vicious kind of clarity in it. A vicious kind of freedom in pushing Beckett’s buttons until Serena’s off the hook. Until they have their man. Or woman, as it turns out, and that seems fitting.

That seems just about right until they do have their woman, and there’s a sea change in her he doesn’t understand. Her fury winks out just like that, replaced by sudden resignation he doesn’t understand. Sudden resignation that makes him tired. Hopeless.

He watches from the break room, her and Serena with their heads together. They’re smiling, both of them, and he doesn’t understand. He hangs back as long as he can stand it, fiddling with the espresso maker. Stalling until it’s too much.

He creeps closer. He hears his name. A word that might be date and then nothing as her voice drops low, then lower still.

Why are you telling me this?

That’s Serena, and it’s irritating. It’s infuriating that she’s still there, and he doesn’t have the time to wonder how that particular paradox  works. He doesn’t have the patience as he leans in. As he strains hard to hear.

I think that you should know what kind of person you’re dealing with.

She wants to take him out for a hamburger. She says its the least she can do. It’s the hundred and second hopeful sign. It should be, anyway, but something doesn’t sit quite right about it.

It’s not that he’s furious. Not with her, anyway, but clarity isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. The whole affair seems to have left him with an answer he doesn’t really know the question to, though he thinks it has something to do with patience and lack thereof. It has something to do with the entirely fleeting tingle that came with kissing Serena Kaye and just how thoroughly Kate Beckett has already ruined him for the kind of instant gratification that's gotten him through most of his adult life.

Whatever it is, It leaves him quiet, and she notices. She more than notices. 
“You ok?” she asks, and there’s that resignation again. That soft sorrow turned inward.

“I heard you. What you told Serena.” It’s not true. It’s not quite true, and he’s not exaclty sure why he’s bluffing. What he’s bluffing about. “But I don’t …”  He’s suddenly at the end of his rope. Not furious, but frustrated. “I don’t know why.”

“You were right about her.” Her voice is even. It’s absolutely even, but he can see it’s an effort. He can see it costs her, and that’s good and bad. It’s a wound and a balm all at once. “You were right. I wasn’t …” Her jaw works. “I wasn’t being fair.”

Fuck fair. It’s what he wants to say. It’s what the fierce, furious hope rising up wants to say, but it’s not the right time. It’s another bit of vicious clarity.

“Right isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.” That’s what he says instead. That’s his careful, between-the-lines alternative, because that’s where they are.

“Yeah?” It draws a smile from her. A sly smile that she hides and doesn’t hide behind her milkshake, and that’s where they are, too. “Well, fair straight up sucks.”

Fair sucks. It’s close enough, he thinks, as he smiles back at her. As he steals a french fry and lets her slap his hand away. It’s close enough, and he can wait.

He can be patient.

[thelastspeecher]

NaNoWriMo ‘17 Day 24 - Return Policy

Day 01   Day 02   Day 03   Day 04   Day 05   Day 06   Day 07   Day 08 Day 09   Day 10   Day 11   Day 12   Day 13   Day 14   Day 15   Day 16 Day 17   Day 18   Day 19   Day 20   Day 21   Day 22   Day 23   Day 24  Day 25   Day 26   Day 27   Day 28   Day 29   Day 30

 Summary: After being stuck in a compromising situation long enough that he is now stuck, Ford comes to terms with the loss of his collateral.  Continuation of this and this.  [Variation of Big Sis AU] Word count: 1794

February, 1986

               There was a knock at the door.  Eager to get away from the wails of Stan and Angie’s newborn baby, as well as his own upsetting thoughts, Ford jumped to his feet.

               “I’ll get it!” he called, already rushing to the front door.

               “Ford, don’t answer the door, you’re three,” Stan said half-heartedly.

               “Let him get it,” Angie murmured tiredly.  She rubbed her baggy eyes.  “I’m too tired to chase him.”  Ford ran down the entryway and opened the door.  An older couple stood on the doorstep.  With a sinking feeling, Ford recognized them.

               “Howdy, Ford,” the kind-looking man said.  He crouched down to Ford’s eye-height.  “Angie and Stan told me ‘bout yer sit’ation.”

               “Hello, Mr. McGucket,” Ford mumbled, looking down at his feet.  Pa McGucket smiled warmly at him and ruffled his hair.

               “Son, ya might not be callin’ me that fer much longer,” Pa McGucket said gently. Ford’s head jerked up.

               “What?”

               “We’ll talk.  How’s ‘bout you let me ‘n Sally in?  We’ve got yer business to handle, not to mention a new grandbaby to see.”

               “Seein’ the grandbaby is goin’ to have to wait,” Angie said.  Ford turned around.  Angie had arrived in the living at some point during his conversation with Pa McGucket.  She yawned widely, covering it daintily with one hand.  “We just got Emory down.  We’re not wakin’ him up if we can avoid it.”

               “Smart move,” Ma McGucket said with a nod.  

               “Ford, let my folks in, so’s we can talk,” Angie said.  Ford nodded reluctantly and stood to the side.  Ma and Pa McGucket filed in.  

               “Where’s that fiancé of yours?” Ma McGucket asked Angie.

               “Right here,” Stan said, walking into the living room.  “Hey, Sally.  Merle.”

               “Stanley,” Pa McGucket said with a curt nod.  “Where’s Molly?”

               “In her room.  I told her that we’d get her once we were done with our grownup talk.”

               “Good.”  Pa McGucket looked over at Ford.  Ford resisted the urge to draw in on himself.  

               He’s here to help.

               “Let’s get this conversation started,” Ma McGucket said briskly.  She walked over to the couch and began to pull a series of thick, official-looking papers from her oversized purse, then set them on the coffee table.  Curious despite himself, Ford wandered over and picked up the first paper he saw.  He dropped it immediately as though it had burned him.

               “Why are you walking around with a birth certificate?” Ford asked Ma McGucket.

               “Normally, I don’t.  But I had to bring it, since it’ll be filled out today.”  Ma McGucket frowned at him.  “I thought ya knew the plan, to give ya a new identity.”

               “But why are Angie and Stan listed as the mother and father?” Ford asked.

               “Honey…” Ma McGucket said softly.  Ford looked over at Stan and Angie.

               “Since when did you decide that?”

               “Last night,” Angie said, taking a seat on the couch.  She patted a spot on the cushions beside her.  Ford reluctantly climbed up next to her.  “We just didn’t get a chance to tell ya ‘til now.”

               “Ford, it- it sucks,” Stan said, sitting on the other side of Ford.  “But this is the easiest option.  You agreed that you’d stay here with us, you’re clearly related to me, and I’ve been dating Angie for more than three years.”

               “But you’ve been claiming I’m your nephew-”

               “What about when Shermie shows up?  Or Mom?” Stan asked.  Ford fell silent.  “I’m sorry, Sixer.”

               “No, Stanley, don’t apologize,” Angie whispered.  She rubbed her eyes.  “This whole mess is my fault.”

               “Babe-” Stan started.  Angie shook her head.

               “Don’t say it’s not.  ‘Cause that ain’t true!  If- if I hadn’t gotten pregnant, Ford would be back in Gravity Falls already, usin’ the information he learned from the grimoire.”

               “It takes two to tango,” Stan said.  

               “But only one to ruin someone’s life,” Angie said softly.

               “Banjey, ya didn’t know,” Pa McGucket said gently.  “I never thought there’d be a situation where the time limit on returnin’ collateral would run out fer ya.”  Angie sniffed.  “But what’s in the past is in the past.  Right now, we need to focus on gettin’ Ford settled into his new life.”

               “We need a name,” Ma McGucket said, her hand poised over the birth certificate, holding a pen.  Ford looked down at his diminutive feet.  He fought back the pit in his stomach at the realization that his feet would remain this size until he aged the normal way.  

               “I dunno,” Ford mumbled.  

               “Somethin’ with Ford in it,” Angie suggested.  Ford’s head jerked up.

               “Fiddleford.”

               “Uhh…” Stan muttered.  

               “I- I’ve found myself enjoying the odd McGucket names lately,” Ford said.

               “That makes sense,” Angie said.  “When I was a kidlet, I didn’t mind my name so much.”

               “Yes, well, Fiddleford has my nickname in it, and it’s a name that Angie’s family uses.  It makes sense for her ‘son’ to have a family name.”

               “We are plannin’ on givin’ ya the last name McGucket,” Ma McGucket remarked.

               “What?  Why?” Ford whined.

               “Ya don’t look like Angie’s son.  If we give ya her last name, it might help people see what they expect to see,” Pa McGucket explained.

               “Oh.  Okay.”

               “Ya can’t use Fiddleford as yer name, though,” Angie said.  “It’s taken.”

               “I like Emory’s name,” Ford said.  

               “Also taken,” Stan said.  Ford scowled.

               “I thought I was going to be allowed to choose my own name!”

               “Fiddleford as a middle name, maybe?” Stan suggested.  Ford nodded.

               “Okay, I’ll accept that.  And, for my first name…Emmett.”  Angie made a soft noise.  Ford looked at her.  “I overheard you and Stan discussing what name to give your newborn.”  He shrugged.  “I liked it.”

               “Emmett Fiddleford McGucket, then?” Ma McGucket asked.  Ford nodded.  “All right.  Emmett Fiddleford McGucket, son of Banjolina Quinn McGucket and Stanley Stanford Pines, birthday is September 26th, 1982.”  Ford watched Ma McGucket ink in the details, his heart feeling heavier by the second.  He resisted the temptation to shout that he had changed his mind.  Noticing Ford’s reticence, Stan put a reassuring arm around Ford’s shoulders.  Ford sniffled softly.

               “It’s okay,” Angie whispered to him.  

               “Look on the bright side,” Stan said gently.  “Now you’ve got an older sister and a baby brother.  I know you always thought it would be interesting have a sister.”

               “I guess,” Ford mumbled.  His eyes widened suddenly.  “Mr. McGucket, won’t everyone who knows Stan and Angie think it’s odd that they’ve never met a boy who is supposedly their son?  And what about the people who Stan and Angie told I was their nephew?”

               “A simple perception charm ‘ll fix that,” Pa McGucket said, taking off his glasses and polishing them.  “We’ll cast a light one on ya, one that makes people suddenly remember meetin’ ya when ya were a baby, and watchin’ ya grow up, and it’ll help ‘em see traits of Angie’s in ya.  Since there aren’t actually any that the two of ya share.”  Ford looked nervously at Angie.  

               “Don’t you worry,” Angie said.  “Pa’s goin’ to cast that one.  I mean, my magic’s still fluctuatin’ a bit.  Hormonal surge.”  

               “If’n ya don’t mind, I’ll cast it right now,” Pa McGucket said.  Ford squeezed his eyes shut.  There was a sensation like a butterfly had landed on his nose.  He sneezed. The sensation vanished.  Ford opened his eyes again.  

               “Now, how ‘bout ya go get yer big sister?” Angie asked Ford.  She kissed the top of his head.  “Son.”

----- 

September, 1986

               Stan was roused from his uneasy sleep by the door to his bedroom opening. He squinted at the short figure in the darkness.

               “…Ford?” Stan mumbled.  Ford sniffed loudly.

               “I- I had a nightmare, Dad.  Can- can I come sleep with you and Mom tonight?” Ford stammered.  Stan’s heart dropped.

               It worked.

               “Yeah, sure thing, kiddo.  Hop on up.” Stan helped Ford onto the bed. Ford promptly climbed over Stan and huddled between him and Angie.  Stan turned to face his former twin.  

               “Can you rub my back?” Ford whispered.

               “You got it,” Stan said.  Ford flipped over.  Stan began to rub soothing circles on Ford’s back.  Ford’s stuttered breathing smoothed.  Within a few minutes, he was fast asleep.  Stan nudged Angie.  “Babe, wake up.”  Angie mumbled something, but remained asleep.  “Seriously, I’m not kidding.  Wake up.”  Angie’s eyes opened.

               “What’s wrong?” she asked blearily.

               “Ford’s here.”

               “Huh?”  Angie looked at Ford, sleeping between them.  “Oh.  He is.”

               “He called me Dad.  And he called you Mom.”

               “The memory spell worked, then,” Angie said in a low voice.  

               “I still think we coulda thought of something better.”

               “Stanley, darlin’, this was the best solution,” Angie said gently.  She stroked Stan’s arm.  “Ford was miserable, bein’ an adult in a toddler’s body, with a toddler’s mind.  He couldn’t be happy with his old baggage.”  Stan shook his head.  “He asked fer this.  This was his idea.”  Stan shook his head again.

               “Ang, we killed my twin brother tonight.”

               “No, we didn’t.  We helped him.”

               “Fine, it was a mercy kill.  Still a kill.”

               “Hon, his memories are safe, ‘member?  Pa and I saved the memories after we took ‘em and replaced ‘em with his new ones.  Ford’s memories ‘re stored until he gets old enough that we think he can handle ‘em again.”

               “And when’s that gonna happen?”

               “I don’t know,” Angie said with a sigh.  “We’ll have to play it by ear.

               “This whole thing feels wrong.  Ford called me Dad.”

               “As far as he knows, you are his dad.”  Angie stroked his cheek.  “And you’ll be a damn sight better than his first dad was.”  Stan swallowed.  “Love of my life, we’re goin’ to raise this boy so well.  Ford’s not goin’ to grow up feelin’ like his polydactyly is anything to be ashamed of this time.  He’ll have two lovin’ parents, two lovin’ siblin’s.  Our son, Emmett Fiddleford McGucket, will grow up in San Diego, not knowin’ he’s dif’rent.  Eventually, we’ll give him back his memories.  But fer now, he’ll be a happy, healthy lil boy.  Our lil boy.”

               “This is still weird,” Stan mumbled.  He took a steadying breath.  “But I’ll get used to it.  He’s not Ford anymore, he’s Emmett.  Our son.”

               “You bet he is,” Angie whispered.  “And he got his cuteness from you.”

               “He got his smarts from you,” Stan replied.  “Or, he woulda, if he was actually your biological son.”  Angie chuckled and took a hold of Stan’s hand.

               “Molly’s smart as a whip, and we’re not pretendin’ I carried her.  Seems to me that yer the common denominator here.”

               “Classic smart-person,” Stan said.  “Using math.”  He stroked Ford’s curls with a small smile.  “I’m gonna have so many genius kids.  They’re all gonna be smarter than me.  It’ll be awesome.”

[pollylynn]

From a Certain Point, Onward—One-shot Caskett Tag for Sucker Punch (2 x 13), NaFicWriMo #19

Title: From a Certain Point, Onward

Rating: T

WC: 1000

Summary: Dinner isn't enough. Four dinners aren’t enough, but he shows up with them anyway when he comes to end it.

A/N: Episode tag for Sucker Punch 2 x 13

From a certain point onward, there is no turning back. That is the point to be reached.

��Franz Kafka

Dinner isn't enough. Four dinners aren’t enough, but he shows up with them anyway when he comes to end it.

End it.

He feels sick when he says it, even in the safe confines of his own head. He feels sick, and four dinners seems like a spectacularly bad choice, especially when nothing could possibly be enough, but he soldiers on. He presses the button and waits for the elevator. He gets on and watches the doors close. He feels the push of gravity on his shoulders as the car rises. He hears the ding as the doors roll open again on four, and he tries, at every turn, not to think of it as the last time.

He crosses the floor to her desk. His steps slow, then stop, as he catches sight of her. She's changed clothes. Of course she has. She was covered in Dick Coonan’s blood. His mind offers up the memory in too-vivid detail, the red expanse of her palms. The smear of blood at her hairline. His mind offers it right up, and his stomach rolls again.

She can’t have been home and back already. He hasn’t been gone that long on his fool’s errand, so she must have gotten this from wherever her stash of back-up clothing lives. A locker, probably. Some dingy, dented locker in a long row of others just like it, but he can't live with that. He wants Narnia for her. A tall wooden wardrobe that opens onto another world full of blazers and stilettos and slim, impeccably cut trousers.

It's pretty, what she's wearing. A soft, dark rose shirt. It’s roomy. It swallows her up a little and leaves her arms bare. It puts the glittering chain that holds her mother’s ring on display, and the reminder, stark and delicate all at once, is another body blow.

Every detail is, really, when he knows it’s the end, and here she is. She’s tucked up into her chair with her hair twisted off her neck, and she's just the prettiest thing. It's not a word that usually comes to mind for her. Pretty. She's gorgeous. She's hot and commanding and lean and sexy and absolutely toe-curling. But right now, she's pretty. It's arresting. He feels even more ill-prepared with nothing but four dinners and a way out to offer her. A definitive end.

He feels even more unequal to the task when he makes his feet move again and he catches the sharp scent of soap. Of some nameless shampoo, and he sees the curling tendrils at her neck that say her hair's still wet. That she must have showered here, and that’s even harder to live with. The image of her elegant feet, pale against the battleship concrete. Her strong, quick fingers scrubbing at her skin. Rivulets of Dick Coonan's blood finding their way down a scuffed silver drain.

“Montgomery’s post-incident evaluation.” She says it without turning. With a smile in her voice that makes his heart lurch in his chest as he covers the last few feet between them. “You come off like Steven Seagal.”

“Should I be flattered or insulted?” He forces a smile, too. He owes her that. Owes her so much, and if he overshoots a little, it still serves. He thinks so, anyway.

He lowers himself into the chair beside her desk. His chair, except it won’t be anymore. It’ll sit empty or find its way back to some hallway or storage closet. It’s another thought that’s almost more than he can bear. Almost, but he has to. He has to, so he might as well get it over with. Might as well.

“I didn’t know what you felt like . . .”

He busies himself with the take-out bags. He babbles and runs on and fusses, setting out foil and styrofoam. Setting out plastic cutlery and cheap chopsticks and napkins and about a zillion tiny containers of sauces. He peels and folds and tucks and stacks.

He’s drawing it out. The end. He’s pitifully, painfully drawing it out, but he’s unequal to it, and through it all, she’s silent. Through it all, she’s tucked up in her desk chair, with her hair twisted up and her mother’s ring warming against her skin. Through it all, she’s pretty and silent until she seems to think he’s finished. Until she seems to think he might have talked himself out for the moment.

“It wasn’t your fault, you know,” she says quietly, and he sees that she means it.

It’s a lie from start to finish. He strong-armed Esposito. He recruited Doctor Death and even used Lanie against her. He betrayed her trust almost from the start, and today—with Coonan—he screwed up. He was too eager to be the hero. Too slow to see the obvious. He’s screwed up time and time again, and of course it’s his fault. Of course it is, and still, he sees that she means it.

“I overstepped . . .” His confession comes spilling out. His apology and his unshaken intent to end it. “I’m through . . .”

It comes spilling out in halting, painful phrases, but hers does, too.

“I’d like you around . . .” she says, fierce and then quiet. Then shy, he’d say if she were anyone else. “I have a hard job . . .”

Her confession comes spilling out, and it isn’t the end, after all.

He wants to thank her. He wants to tell her how amazed he is by her strength. The grace of her kindness under impossible conditions. He wants to go on telling her how sorry he is. How life-changing these months have been and how grateful he is every day that she stumbled into his life. That she wants him to keep stumbling through hers.

He wants to tell her she’s pretty, but he sees the blush on her cheeks. He sees she’s worn out and vulnerable, and it’s enough that this isn’t the end. It’s enough.

“Your secret’s safe with me.”

A/N: Sooooo many things wrong with this one.

[thelastspeecher]

NaNoWriMo ‘17 Day 28 - Forest Protectors

Day 01   Day 02   Day 03   Day 04   Day 05   Day 06   Day 07   Day 08 Day 09   Day 10   Day 11   Day 12   Day 13   Day 14   Day 15   Day 16 Day 17   Day 18   Day 19   Day 20   Day 21   Day 22   Day 23   Day 24 Day 25   Day 26   Day 27   Day 28   Day 29   Day 30

Summary: Stan and Angie find out they weren’t just enchanted, they were recruited.  [Phoenix Enchantment AU] Word count: 1565

               “Son of a- my hair got stuck again,” Stan grumbled. Angie looked back at her fiancé. She stifled a laugh at his expense. After being turned into phoenixes, Stan had decided to not shave or cut his hair on a regular basis.  He looked like a half-wild mountain man most of the time. But attempting to unsnarl his hair from a low-hanging tree branch, he looked more someone on their first hike after spending their entire life in a city.  

               “I told ya to put yer hair in a ponytail again,” Angie said, walking over and helping him free his long locks.

               “Yeah, yeah.”  Stan managed to escape from the tree branch.  “I just wanted to get outta the house.  Between the baby and your family-”

               “I needed a break, too,” Angie said softly.  She sighed and ran a hand through her hair.  “Wedding plans get a whole new kind of urgent when ya can’t communicate what ya want most of the time.”

               “Yeah, wasn’t Ford supposed to make a translator or somethin’?”

               “He was.  But as far as I know, he hasn’t done it yet.”

               “He needs to get on that.”

               “To be fair, everyone’s been a bit distracted lately,” Angie pointed out as they set off again.  “Molly’s been super fussy, and with her screechin’ up a storm all the time and the hectic wedding decisions, things ‘re fallin’ to the wayside.”

               “Yeah.  It sucks.”

               “It most certainly does,” Angie sighed.  “I just wish I knew what was makin’ lil Miss Molly so fussy. She’s not teething, ‘cause phoenixes don’t have teeth.  Maybe her pinions ‘re comin’ in or somethin’?”  Angie looked questioningly at Stan, who shrugged.

               “Fuck if I know.  You’re the one with a degree in biology.”

               “Yeah, in herpetology.  Not ornithology.  I don’t know birds as well as I know salamanders.”

               “Well, we didn’t get turned into lizards.”

               “Amphibians.”

               “Same difference,” Stan said dismissively.  Angie rolled her eyes.

               “It’s a good thing yer cute.”

               “Yep.”

               “Hang on, do ya hear that?” Angie asked, coming to an abrupt stop.  Stan looked around, listening intently.  His eyes narrowed.

               “I do.  Sounds like it’s from over there.”  He left the path and shoved his way through the undergrowth, Angie close behind.  In a few moments, they came to a clearing. “Aw, fuck, what the hell?” Stan muttered, staring at the apparent kidnapping of a small flock of fairies by a wood troll.

               “It’s about time one of you showed up!” one of the fairies squeaked.

               “…What?” Angie said in a low tone.

               “Do your damn job and help us out!” another fairy squealed. Stan and Angie exchanged a confused look.  

               “Hey, buddy, leave ‘em alone, okay?” Stan said, walking over to the wood troll.  The wood troll grunted at Stan.  “You’re like, trafficking them.  That’s not cool.  Just-” The wood troll took a wild swing at Stan.  “Oh, you wanna play rough?  I can play rough.”  Stan punched the wood troll soundly in the middle of his face, making him drop the butterfly net full of captured fairies.  The wood troll let out a wail and ran off into the woods.  Angie joined Stan in the clearing.

               “Thank you, for finally getting off your asses and doing your job,” the first fairy said to Stan and Angie.  Angie frowned at the fairy.

               “Look, I don’t know what yer talkin’ about.”

               “You’re the breeding phoenix pair,” the fairy said, exasperated.  Angie and Stan stared at the fairy.  “Oh please, to other magical creatures, it sticks out all over you.  You guys are dripping with magical energy.  You couldn’t hide it if you tried.”

               “What does us bein’ the phoenixes have to do with a job?” Stan asked.

               “God, did no one tell you?” the second fairy asked.  

               “Tell us what?”

               “You’ve been given immortality, immense powers, and many, many children.  But those aren’t the only parts of the phoenix enchantment.  Phoenixes protect the magical people living in their area,” the second fairy explained.  “Even though you were turned a full year ago, you haven’t helped us once!”

               “I didn’t know we were supposed to do that,” Angie said defensively.  The third fairy fluttered its wings angrily.

               “This is what happens when you get humans to do a magical creature’s job.  Whatever!” The fairies flew off into the forest.

               “Damn, fairies are assholes,” Stan said cheerfully.

----- 

��              Stan peered over Ford’s shoulder.

               “Well?” Stan pried.  Ford sighed and closed the book.  

               “The fairies you spoke to were correct.”

               “They were?” Stan said, sounding disappointed.  Angie frowned at Stan.

               “Did ya think they were lyin’?”

               “I mean, they’re fairies,” Stan said with a shrug.  “Seems like the thing they’d do.  And anyways, they were assholes.”

               “Shh!  Language!” Angie hissed, covering Molly’s ears.  Molly giggled and grabbed at Angie’s hair with her chubby hands.  They were back at Ford and Fiddleford’s house, looking through the ancient bestiary Ford had found that explained the phoenix enchantment.  Fiddleford was in the kitchen making phone calls about the wedding while the rest of them sat in the living room.

               “Ang, she’s less than a year old.  She hasn’t started talkin’ yet.  It’ll be fine,” Stan said calmly.

               “Look, Gucklings have odd first words, and tend to say ‘em younger ‘n most kids.  I don’t want Miss Molly’s first word to be a swear.”

               “She hasn’t started talking yet?” Ford asked, interested. Angie frowned at him.

               “No.  She’s six months old.”

               “When you three are in phoenix form, she chirps up a storm,” Ford pointed out.  

               “Yeah, but it doesn’t mean anything,” Stan said.  “It’s nonsense noises.  Sometimes Angie and I make bird sounds that aren’t actual words.” He narrowed his eyes.  “That’s somethin’ you would already know if you’d made that translator by now.”

               “It’s more difficult than I thought it would be,” Ford protested.  “Your status as magical creatures makes your language more difficult to understand.”

               “Seems like it would be the other way around,” Angie said, now bouncing Molly on her knee.

               “Yes, it does.  But nothing about this enchantment has been easy, so I shouldn’t be surprised by yet another bump in the road.  Not to mention, I can’t actually build it or design adequate blueprints without Fiddleford’s assistance.  And he’s busy planning for your wedding.”

               “Oh, it’s a machine?  I thought it was goin’ to be a potion or somethin’,” Angie said.  

               “The magic of the phoenix enchantment is ancient and powerful. I don’t want to mess with it, so I’m going exclusively the path of science,” Ford said firmly.  

               “Makes sense,” Stan said.  He took Molly from Angie.  Molly chortled and immediately grabbed fistfuls of Stan’s hair.  “If ya mess with the enchantment, you might end up joinin’ our little flock.”

               “All of this is a moot point,” Angie said, waving her hand. “Stanford, what exactly did the bestiary say about phoenixes protectin’ magical creatures?”  Ford opened the bestiary again.

               “Let’s see… ‘The phoenix enchantment established in Gravity Falls was due to its high population of magical creatures.  There are other localities across the globe which have magical creatures, but they are much smaller, so having a highly magical breeding phoenix pair living in those areas isn’t as crucial.’

               “‘Phoenixes act as the protectors of the magical world.  They serve the denizens of the forest by not only saving them from humans, but each other.  In Gravity Falls, should the magical creatures go for even a month without a protector, wars can break out.’”

               “Wait, wait, we’re supposed to prevent wars from happening?” Angie said.  

               “I’m just reading what the bestiary says.”

               “Fine.  Keep readin’.”

               “‘The phoenix enchantment of Gravity Falls, established by higher planar beings, gives two humans the task of forest protector. These humans, the area’s new breeding pair, have higher levels of magic, granted by the enchantment, and, unlike more mundane phoenixes, can be reborn an unlimited number of times.  Their offspring are the same way, and join their parents as protectors of their magical denizens.’”

               “So we got turned into magical cops,” Stan said flatly.  He looked down at Molly.  “And Molly’s gonna be one, too?”

               “I think it’s less like a police officer and more like a combination of a peacekeeper and a sheriff,” Ford said.  After a moment, Stan nodded.

               “Okay.  I think I can live with that.”

               “This actually makes sense,” Ford said.  “The fairies you stumbled across were irate because magical creatures consider the enchantment a gift, given with the understanding that you would take care of them.  You were transformed almost a full year ago, but have yet to make a single patrol through the forest you are supposed to protect.”

               “Like it’s our fault,” Stan said.  “We didn’t even know why we’d been turned into birds until four months ago!  Which, by the way, it’s still creepy as hell that we got turned into phoenixes so we could ‘repopulate the area.’”

               “There’s more to it than that,” Ford interjected.  “Yes, the enchantment chose you because you are a steady and loving couple, who would raise children well.”  Angie leaned against Stan.  “But it also chose you because it could see that you have the temperament to serve the magical community.  You both have inherently high protective instincts.”  Ford shrugged.  “It seems to me that you should be flattered.  The enchantment clearly thought highly of you.”

               “Uh-huh,” Stan said.  “Wanna trade lives, Poindexter?”

               “…No.”

               “Didn’t think so.”

[thelastspeecher]

NaNoWriMo ‘17 Day 12 - Wild Woman

Day 01   Day 02   Day 03   Day 04   Day 05   Day 06   Day 07   Day 08 Day 09   Day 10   Day 11   Day 12   Day 13   Day 14   Day 15   Day 16 Day 17   Day 18   Day 19   Day 20   Day 21   Day 22   Day 23   Day 24 Day 25   Day 26   Day 27   Day 28   Day 29   Day 30

Summary: Stan comes across a werewolf in the forest.  Inspiration from here.   Word count: 1918

Part 2

               Splash!

               Stan looked to the left, startled.  Nothing was there.  He was still the only person sitting by the stream.

               Probably just a fish.  Stan scowled at his fishing rod.  But if it was a fish, why the hell haven’t I caught one yet?  He had decided to take a break from helping Ford out with his research, and try to catch some fish in the stream he’d spotted last week.  I deserve a break.  I also deserve to catch some fish.  Where’d they all go?  He sighed and reeled in his line.  Maybe there aren’t any.  Figures that I’d find the only stream that doesn’t have any-

               “Pfft!”  Stan’s head whipped around.  He gaped at the sight of a completely nude woman, climbing out of the stream, sputtering.  She collapsed onto the bank across from where Stan was sitting and closed her eyes.  

               “What the fuck?” Stan whispered.  The woman’s eyes snapped open.  A crimson flush spread across her face.  She and Stan stared at each other in silence for several moments.  “Uh…you okay, lady?”

               “That’s a loaded question,” the woman said carefully.  Stan frowned.

               “Not really.  What, did you escape from a mob hit?”  He shook his head.  “Nah, that can’t be right.  There’s no way there’s a mob here in Gravity Falls.”

               “Gravity Falls,” the woman repeated.  “Where- uh- which state is Gravity Falls in?”

               “Oregon.”

               “Sweet sarsaparilla.”  The woman sat up.  “How on Earth did I- hey!”  Stan’s gaze had traveled south of her face.  “Eyes up here, sir!” she snarled.  

               “I mean, it’s not like I can see much.  You’ve got so much mud caked on you, it’s like you’re wearing clothes.”

               “But I’m not, so stop it,” the woman said firmly.

               “Fine.  But seriously, lady, are you all right?”

               “…No.”  The woman groaned and put her head in her hands.  “I remember what happened, I just- I have no clue how I ended up so far from home.”

               “Sounds like you don’t really remember what happened, then.”  The woman glared at him.  “Okay, geez, chill.”  Stan rubbed the back of his neck.  “Maybe…maybe tell me your name?”

               “Angie.  And yours?”

               “Stan.  My brother’s got a place not far from here.  If you want, I could take you there, get you some clothes, a shower.” Stan’s stomach rumbled.  “And food.  I mean, I’m hungry.  In the state you’re in, you’ve gotta be starving.”

               “Hungry like the wolf,” Angie deadpanned.  

               Kinda weird way to say it, but whatever.

               “You’ll have to come over here.  His house is on this side of the stream,” Stan informed her.  Angie bit her lip, clearly hesitant to follow a stranger somewhere.  She let out a sigh after a minute.

               “Okay.”  She crossed the stream, but stumbled on the bank while she tried to climb up.

               “Here.”  Stan held out a hand.  Angie took it with visible relief.  He pulled her up.  “Um…you look cold.”

               “I’m covered in mud ‘n water, but not much else.  What do you expect?” she asked, shivering violently.  “Which way’s yer brother’s house?”

               “That way,” Stan said, pointing.  Angie turned around.  Stan eyed her figure.  “But, uh, if you’re cold, I guess you could take my jacket.  Don’t really need it right now anyways.”

               “Really?”

               “Yeah.  It needs to be washed, though, just so you know.”  Stan slid off his jacket and handed it to the shivering woman.

               “So do I.”

               “Heh.”  Angie zipped Stan’s jacket up.  It was exceedingly large on her; it nearly reached her knees.  “Hey, bonus, you’re not flashing the entire forest anymore. Or maybe that’s a downside.”

               “Definitely a bonus,” Angie said.  She hugged her arms close to her chest.  “It was this way, ya said?”

               “Yep.”  

               “And is it just a straight shot there?”

               “Yep.  Let’s go.” Stan grabbed his fishing rod and tacklebox, then the two of them set off, Stan close behind Angie.

----- 

               Stan hummed to himself as he made lunch.  

               Nothin’ like good old-fashioned scrambled meat.  There was a small cough behind him.  He turned.

               “Those clothes all right?” he asked Angie.  She nodded silently.  Freshly showered and wearing some clean clothes, she looked more human than she had in the forest.  “They were the closest thing to your size I could find.  Looks like they’re still too big, though.  You’re a lot smaller without all the mud and twigs and leaves.”

               “Beggars can’t be choosers,” Angie said idly.  “It’s better ‘n prancin’ ‘round in my birthday suit.”  She looked down at her feet.  “Thank you, again.  Ya didn’t have to help me like ya did.”

               “I know,” Stan said with a shrug.  “I coulda just pointed you in the direction of the road, sent you on your way.”

               “Why didn’t you?”

               “I know what it’s like to end up in a strange place, with jack shit.  It sucked.  I coulda used someone to give me clothes or let me shower or whatever. And I can’t really leave a pretty girl with a nice ass like yours alone in the woods.”

               “Lord,” Angie mumbled, rolling her eyes, but still cracking a tiny smile. Stan eyed her.  

               “I also know what it’s like to be targeted by the mob.”

               “It wasn’t a mob hit.”

               “Dammit.  I was hopin’ you’d cave in if it said it like that,” Stan muttered.  He grunted.  “Go ahead and take a seat at the table.”  

               “Mmkay.”  Angie sat down at the table and gazed around the kitchen with interest.  “What does yer brother do?”

               “Research.”

               “Oh, he’s a scientist?”

               “Yup.”

               “And you help him with his research?”

               “In a way.  I’m muscle. Help him carry things, or fight off monsters and stuff like that.  The person that helps him with his actual research is his assistant.  Skinny, twig-like guy.  He’s the person who owns the clothes you’re wearing,” Stan said, nodding at her.  She pursed her lips.

               “Don’t seem like he’s got much of a sense of fashion, then.”

               “Oh, hell no.  You should see the clothes I passed up for that.  Ugly-ass green splotches, bell bottoms.  I mean, I don’t care about fashion, but I do care about how messed up his style is,” Stan said passionately.  Angie giggled.  Stan stared at her.  

               Fuck.  That was cute.

               “Where’s yer brother and his assistant right now, then?” Angie asked. Stan looked back at the stove.

               “Fuck if I know,” Stan mumbled.  The front door opened.

               “Stanley?” a voice called.

               “In the kitchen!” Stan shouted back.

               “All right, we’ll come meet you, then,” Ford said.  Stan glanced at Angie.  She had picked up a plastic spoon, and was staring at it with unbridled interest.  

               Sweet Moses, please tell me she knows what a spoon is.

               “Oh, uh, just so you know, we have a guest,” Stan said loudly.  

               “What?  Stanley, don’t invite people over without consulting me first,” Ford said grumpily, walking into the kitchen.  He sighed upon seeing Angie.  “What on Earth is going on here?”

               “Found her in the woods,” Stan said.  

               “You found her in the woods?  Stanley, she could be any number of dangerous magical creature!” Ford said angrily.

               “Or she could be some girl who got lost and needed help,” Stan ground out.

               “Stanford, be reasonable,” another voice said.  “Stanley’s got good intuition.  Now, mind gettin’ out of the way so’s I can see our guest?”

               “Very well.”  Ford stood to the side.  “You’ll be angry too, once you see that Stan dressed her in your clothes.”  A silence fell.  Stan looked over at Angie.  She was staring slack-jawed at Ford’s assistant.  Stan frowned, looking back and forth between the two.  His eyes widened.

               “Holy fuck.”

               “Angie?” Fiddleford squeaked.  The plastic spoon Angie was holding fell from her hands.  She nodded silently.  “Lordy!  You’ve been missin’ fer three months!  Where have ya been?”

               “Places,” Angie mumbled.  She looked down at the shirt she was wearing.  “Should’ve known these were yer clothes.  Yer the only person who likes shirts as awful as this.”

               “Do we have to discuss fashion now?” Fiddleford asked, sitting at the table next to her.  She eyed him warily.  “Angie, we were so worried!  The baby of the fam’ly, just up and disappearin’?  Ma ‘n Pa were apoplectic.”

               “Wait, Fiddleford, this is the missing sister you’ve told me about?” Ford asked.  Fiddleford nodded.  Ford stared at Stan.  “And Stanley just so happened to find her in the woods?”

               “Don’t say I never did anything for you, Fiddlenerd,” Stan said. Fiddleford didn’t respond, instead continuing to stare at his sister.  She leaned away from him, her eyes wide.  “Okay, dude, chill out.  You’re scaring her.”

               “Don’t tell me how to act ‘round my sister,” Fiddleford snapped.  Stan rolled his eyes.  Fiddleford abruptly reached out to take one of Angie’s hands.  She let out a small shriek and fell off her chair.

               “D-don’t,” Angie stammered.  “Don’t move so fast.”

               “Wha- sis, what’s wrong?” Fiddleford asked.

               “Fiddlenerd, I found her in the woods, naked and covered in mud.  She looked fuckin’ feral,” Stan informed him.

               “Feral?  Naked? My baby sister?”

               “Yep,” Stan said with a nod.  “But she insists it wasn’t a mob hit.”

               “Of course it weren’t,” Fiddleford said firmly.  “Angie, what happened?”

               “Don’t wan’ talk about it,” Angie mumbled, still on the floor where she had fallen.  

               “We should give ya a checkup.  I’ll find ya a doctor,” Fiddleford said.  

               “I can take her vitals,” Ford suggested.  Angie eyed him suspiciously.  “It won’t substitute for a proper doctor’s visit, but it should let us know whether to take you to the hospital right away or not.”

               “Okay,” Angie said reluctantly.  She climbed onto her chair again.  Ford sat down next to her.  She held out her wrist.  “Fer my pulse.”

               “Of course.”  Ford rested his fingers against her wrist.  He frowned.  “Very rapid heartrate.  And your skin feels warm.”

               “I just showered.”

               “Still.  If you continue to feel warm, we should take your temperature.”  Ford fished around in his pockets and pulled out a small flashlight. “I’ll check for a concussion.”  He shone the light in her eyes.  She blinked.  “Stop blinking.”

               “My eyes don’t like the light.”

               “Hmm.”  Ford frowned at her.  “Would you mind rolling up your sleeves?”  Angie seemed confused, but did as she was told.  Ford nodded silently.  “As I suspected.  Fiddleford, look.”

               “Lord!” Fiddleford gasped, staring at a large bite mark on Angie’s forearm.  “What happened?”

               “I suspect she was bitten by a werewolf.  That would explain her disappearance; initial transformations can last months until the individual is sufficiently shocked enough to turn human again.  It would also explain the reports we’ve been hearing of a large wolf.”  Ford shone the light in Angie’s eyes again.  She grimaced.  “Werewolves have eyes sensitive to light, and their eyes will glimmer in a distinctive way. The rapid heartrate and high temperature are also signs of lycanthropy.”

               “Angie, is this true?” Fiddleford asked, aghast.

               “I doubt she recalls anything of her time as a wolf-” Ford started.

               “It’s true,” Angie interrupted.  She looked down.  “It’s true.”

               “Damn.  I was way off,” Stan said.  Angie pulled her sleeves down again.  “What made you turn back human?”

               “I fell in that stream, tryin’ to catch a fish,” Angie mumbled.

               “Okay, I get why you didn’t wanna tell me the truth,” Stan conceded.

               “Yer all just acceptin’ this?” Angie asked.  “I- I just confirmed that I’m a werewolf.”

               “We’ve seen stranger things in the woods here,” Ford said.  Stan nodded.

               “So far, though,” Stan said, ���I think I like stumbling across a naked woman the most.”

[thelastspeecher]

NaNoWriMo ‘17 Day 11 - Hello, Sailor

Day 01   Day 02   Day 03   Day 04   Day 05   Day 06   Day 07   Day 08 Day 09   Day 10   Day 11   Day 12   Day 13   Day 14   Day 15   Day 16 Day 17   Day 18   Day 19   Day 20   Day 21   Day 22   Day 23   Day 24 Day 25   Day 26   Day 27   Day 28   Day 29   Day 30

Summary: Ford’s day goes south, but he meets an interesting anomaly. Inspiration from here. Word count: 1346

               Ford coughed forcefully, ejecting lukewarm seawater as he did so.

               “There, there,” a gentle voice said.  Ford opened his eyes.  A stranger was cradling his head, kindness and concern swirling in his blue eyes.  “Hello, sailor,” the stranger said softly.  Ford continued to stare at him.  “You all right?  I mean, it’s quite possible ya hit yer head durin’ yer journey.”

               “Did you rescue me?” Ford croaked.  The stranger nodded silently.  “Thank you.  I- I owe you my life.”

               “Oh, it was nothin’,” the stranger said, waving a hand.  Ford gaped at the webbing between the stranger’s fingers.

               What on Earth?  Now that he had picked up on that abnormality, he could see other inhuman features in his rescuer: round slits along the stranger’s neck, green scales cascading over his shoulders, and strange fins in the place of ears.  Honestly, why didn’t I figure it out sooner?

               “What are you?” Ford asked.  The stranger blanched.  “Was- was that rude?”

               “When would that sort of question not be rude?” the stranger demanded. He sighed.  “But if ya must know, I’m a merman.”  Ford abruptly sat up.  

               “My word,” Ford murmured, staring at the merman’s green and yellow tail. He looked around.  “Where are we?”

               “A private beach in South Carolina.”

               “How did I get all the way to South Carolina?” Ford said to himself, running a hand through his wet, sand-encrusted hair.  He coughed again.  “Last thing I remember, I was in New Jersey, working on fixing up a boat with my brother.  We were finally testing it on the water, when a freak wave rose up and knocked me overboard.”

               “New Jersey?” the merman said.  He frowned.  “How ya got all the way down here is a good question.  I found ya floatin’ offshore of North Carolina, holdin’ onto a piece of plyboard. The closest place I could drag ya to without riskin’ bein’ seen was this here beach.”  He flapped his tail on the wet sand for emphasis.  “I wanted to save yer life, but I couldn’t do so at the risk of exposin’ my whole race, of course.”

               “Um, sure.”

               “Are ya goin’ to be all right?” the merman asked softly.  Ford looked around the abandoned beach.  The sun was beginning to set on the horizon; it would be dark soon.

               “That depends on your definition of ‘all right’.”  Ford swallowed.  “I don’t know what to do now.  I mean, thank you for saving my life, but sweet Moses, I- I’m miles and miles away from home.  I don’t have any identification, I don’t have any money or food or dry clothes.”

               “I can’t help ya out on the identification or money, but let me see what I can do ‘bout the rest of it,” the merman said.  He scooted back into the ocean and dove under the waves.

-----

               Ford shivered.  It had gotten dark faster than he expected, and that, combined with a brisk breeze and his wet clothes, was chilling him to the bone.

               “Sorry, so sorry it took long!” a voice called.  Ford looked over.  The merman from before had beached on the shore, a box of supplies in his arms. Ford stood and walked to the merman. “Some clothes, some food, even scrounged up some money fer ya.”

               “Thank you,” Ford said, his teeth chattering.  He opened the box.  “How did the clothes stay dry?  Weren’t you underwater?”

               “Waterproof box.  Keeps the contents completely dry.”  The merman watched with interest as Ford took out a flannel shirt and denim pants.  “Sorry if they ain’t yer ‘style’, which is apparently somethin’ humans have.  We don’t really wear clothes, us merfolk.  This was all I could find fer ya.”

               “I don’t care that it’s different from what I usually wear.  It’s dry.”  Ford began to take off his shirt, but froze.  The merman was continuing to stare at him with unapologetic curiosity. “Um, do you mind?”                “Mind what?”

               “Turning around.  I, uh, I don’t-”

               “Oh!  That’s right, you humans have a nudity taboo.  Sure thing.”  The merman turned around.  Ford let out a sigh of relief and changed into the clean clothes.

               “Thank you.  You can turn around again.”  The merman did so.  “What sort of food is in here?” Ford asked, pawing through the box’s contents.  

               “Mostly prepackaged things.  Crispy potatoes fried in oil, sticks of meat mixtures, sugar and corn syrup that has artificial flavors and colors added,” the merman rattled off.  “I don’t know the names fer what humans call it.”

               “Can’t you just read the label?”

               “I can speak English, but I can’t read it.”

               “Why not?  Your accent is from the southern US,” Ford said.  He pulled out a bag of potato chips and opened it with gusto.  “If you weren’t a merman, I would assume English to be your first language.”

               “If I wasn’t a merman, sure, you’d be right.  But I am.  My native tongue is Mermish.  I just have this accent ‘cause humans near my colony speak like this.  That’s where most merfolk learn human languages from, y’know.  Humans what live nearby.”

               “Fair enough.  I suppose I just didn’t consider that merfolk might have their own language,” Ford said, stuffing a handful of chips into his mouth.

               “I mean, ya didn’t even know merfolk existed until today, so it’s understandable that ya didn’t consider it.”  The merman smiled crookedly.  “Enjoyin’ yer food?”

               “Well, it’s off-brand, but that’s what my parents usually buy anyways.  And I’m too hungry to be picky.”

               “Are ya feelin’ better now?”

               “Much better, thank you.”  Ford swallowed his mouthful of food.  “But the food and clothes don’t solve my other problem, which is lack of identification and money.  I’m effectively stranded here.”

               “It ain’t like yer on a deserted island or somethin’.”

               “No, I’m not.  But it almost feels like I might as well be.”  Ford sighed. “I have no clue how I’ll get home.”

               “This is a private beach,” the merman reminded him.  “Just go see the folks what own it, ask if you can use their phone.”

               “I don’t know…people who own a private beach don’t seem like they’d be the kind to let a teenager use their phone,” Ford mumbled.  The merman’s eyes widened.

               “Yer a teenager?”

               “Yeah.  Why?”

               “I’m one, too.”  The merman looked at him intently.  “I assumed ya were a fully grown human, since I don’t have any real idea of what an immature one looks like.”

               “I’m essentially fully grown,” Ford snapped, turning red.  “I’m seventeen.”

               “I’m nineteen.  So I’m more fully grown ‘n you are.”  The merman grinned.  “Golly, I never thought I’d meet a human so close to my age.  Most sailors are adults anymore.  Pa says that in his parents’ day, folks what washed overboard were younger ‘n they are now.  You must be the exception.”

               “If I was a sailor, I would be.  But I’m not.  I’m just a student.”

               “Ya own a boat.  That makes ya a sailor in my book.”

               “My brother and I co-own the Stan O’War.”

               “Two captains, eh?  Interestin’.” The merman squinted up at the crescent moon.  “Aw, shucks, it’s gettin’ real darn late.  I have to go home ‘fore the nocturnal predators come out.”

               “Is that a common concern?” Ford asked, interested.

               “I live in the ocean, stranger.  Of course it is.  But anyways, I know fer a fact that the folks what own this beach are considerate.” The merman pointed at a small house, just visible in the distance.  “They’ll help ya out, I’m sure of it.”

               “Really?”

               “Yup.  But, ah, ‘fore ya leave, would ya mind tellin’ me yer name?”

               “Why?”

               “Just curious,” the merman said with a shrug.

               “Stanford.  Stanford Pines.”

               “That’s a nice name you’ve got there.  Mine is Fiddleford.  Fiddleford McGucket.”  Fiddleford nudged the box of food closer to Ford.  “You can keep these.  Merfolk can’t digest most land food anyways.”

               “Thank you.”

               “No problem.  Good luck, Stanford.  Hope ya get home safe ‘n sound.”

               “You, too.”  Ford watched the merman dive back into the water.  He stood with a small sigh and set off for the house.

[pollylynn]

Title: In Winter, Enjoy

Rating: T

WC: 2500

Summary:  The first chill rolls in late that year. After her birthday. After Thanksgiving, even.”

A/N: Future fic for the last day of this month. Thank you to those who have read and commented and tweeted and reblogged. This was challenging. I absolutely didn’t have time to do this, and yet I’m glad that I did as I turn the corner out of this year and out of a major part of my life. Heartfelt thanks.  

In seed time learn,

in harvest teach,

in winter enjoy.

— William Blake

[pollylynn]

Interruptus—A Caskett one-shot insert for Death Gone Crazy (5 x 12), NaFicWriMo #29

Title: Interruptus

Rating: T

WC: 1000

Summary: “He takes a turn for the weird near the end of Tiffany Shaw’s interrogation. Weird, even for him.”

A/N: A superdumb insert for Death Gone Crazy (5 x 12).

He takes a turn for the weird near the end of Tiffany Shaw’s interrogation. Weird, even for him.

She’s trying to stitch together all these pieces. The body guard’s half truths, and now way too many whole truths from Tiffany Shaw.

“You ever do it in a nightclub, Detective? Hot, sweaty, quick?”

She can practically hear him smirking. Can practically see him flipping through his mental rolodex of juvenile comments, but their soft-core porn star jerks her attention right back to center with a plot twist that brings thing all the way around to the body guard again.

“I thought it was another woman, so I followed him to see who it was. But when I saw what that bodyguard was up to . . . “

That’s when the weird really kicks in. His whole body tenses. He lights up like a freaking Christmas tree, and the look he lays on her is . . . a problem. It turns her head, literally. She doesn’t have the slightest intention of acknowledging it. Him. Whatever’s going on. Not the slightest intention, but it turns her head.  

It’s absolutely fucking smoldering. It’s the least workplace-appropriate look he’s given her in the last seven months. Hell, it’s the least workplace-appropriate look he’s given her since he offered to let her spank him in this very room, and . . . whoa.

She breathes in. Breathes out, and turns her attention back to Tiffany Shaw, because that particular memory isn’t exactly good for professionalism. She shifts in her seat. Inches her chair every so slightly away from him, and treats him to the withering side-eye glare that usually does the trick. It usually snaps him right back in line, but not this time. Not this time at all.

He faces Tiffany Shaw again. He’s all eyes front—all innocence, except for the fact that his thigh is suddenly pressed right up against hers under the shitty table. Except for the fact that his hand is on her knee and trailing steadily upward.  

“What was she up to?” he asks, his voice smooth and even. Pitched entirely too low for anywhere but the bedroom, and she’s really going to kill him the absolute first chance she gets.

“Nothing good . . .” Tiffany says. She flashes them her phone. The picture of Scarlett Jones, and the wheels start to turn in Kate’s head. They’re trying to turn, but he yanks her out of her chair. He practically carries her out of the interrogation room even as she’s checking to be sure the pictures made it to her phone.  

"Castle," she hisses as his hand lands on her hip. As his arm curves around her waist and molds her to his side, dragging her down the hall, decidedly away from the bullpen. Decidedly away from Ryan who, hopefully, has news about Scarlett Jones’ alibi. “What is with you?”

“With me?” He spins her suddenly. He backs her against a wall in a particularly shadowy corner. “My very dear Detective Beckett,” he murmurs right against her ear, “it’s not about what’s with me.”

“Then what . . .” she snaps. She means to snap, but he’s distracting. His eyes are roaming over her, head to toe. He’s crackling with desire, with smug amusement, like he knows something she doesn’t. Like he’s waiting for her to catch up, and . . . “Castle, we are at work.”

“We are.” He blinks. A huge, genuine Tex Avery–worthy blink, like he’s just realized it. Like whatever the hell is going on with him, he’s managed to forget that tiny detail and remembering turns it up a notch. He crowds against her. “You. And I.” His teeth catch her ear lobe. “Are on the job.”

She pushes him away. She plants her palms against his chest and pushes him away. Except that she doesn’t do that at all. Except that both hands are curled tight in his shirt, and her head is tipping far to the side. “Castle—“

“We’re on the job.” He tugs at the top button of her blouse. He thumbs it open and hauls the collar aside. He nips hard at the just-revealed skin, groaning as her back arches and her hips press into his. “And Esposito . . .”

His mouth opens, hot and wet against the tense cord of muscle in her neck. The heel of his hand brushes her breast. The electric contact nearly sends her through the roof. It sends desire and sudden clarity sizzling through her.

“Esposito’s on a date.” She grabs a fistful of his hair. Their eyes meet in a burning look. She yanks his mouth up to hers. “With Scarlett Jones.”

“Not for long.” A dark laugh rumbles through his chest. He finds the hem of her blouse. He slides  his palm up her side. He teases her ribs and the lace edge of her bra. “How far . . . How far do you think they’ve . . . ”

His breath hitches. He gasps as she hip checks him and turns the tables. She pins him to the wall and shuts him up with a searing kiss.

“Just far enough.”

She pushes off the wall. She turns on her heel, and she’s halfway down the hall before he even registers it. Before he’s even breathing again.

“Where . . .” His hands scrub over his face. He tugs at his belt. At the bottom edge of his sport coat. He takes a shaky step toward her. “Beckett, where are you going?”

“To bring in Scarlett Jones,” she throws an arch glance over her shoulder, “Obviously.”

“What? Now?” His voice runs through at least an octave. “Not . . . later.”

“Now.” She picks up the pace. “Not later.”

“But we . . .” He scurries to catch up. Reaches out to haul her back into the shadows.  “We have to go now?”

“Not we.” She stops abruptly. She turns and straight-arms him. “You’re not coming. Not until I get home.”

She waits for that to hit him. All possible interpretations of that to hit him, then strides off.

“Details,” he calls after her. “I am expecting details, Beckett.”

A/N: A much-deserved cockblock for a certain Hispanic detective, 5 years in the making . . .