amblering

Fri, 07 Jan 2005 17:47:47 GMT

Word #154 on daily15

sweets

Alias, pre-series, dialogue fic, pure, unmitigated, fluff

“Admit it.”

“I will not.”

“No, seriously. Repeat after me…”

“Will!”

“I, Sydney Bristow…”

“Shouldn’t that be, ‘I, insert name here’?”

“Obviously, you haven’t seen enough of those bad comedy routines where a whole roomful of idiots repeats ‘insert name here.’ We’ll have to rewatch Blazing Saddles at the first available opportunity.”

“I’m waiting for the point.”

“I, Sydney Bristow…”

“Will, grow up!”

“Not until you admit it.”

“I swear, you are making me take back every wish I ever made about having a brother.”

“That’s so sweet, Syd. Really. I’m touched.”

“Give me the bag.”

“Oho, someone’s getting pushy. What, are you going to go kung fu on my ass?”

“You are standing between me and chocolate. I might consider it.”

“She admits it!”

“I admitted nothing.”

“I, Sydney Bristow, am a chocaholic.”

“That’s not a word, Will. Give me the bag.”

“It is so a word. Anyway, I’m a writer. I can invent words. Shakespeare did it all the time.”

“Gee, do you think I could write my next paper about you?”

“I’m not saying it wouldn’t be out of line.”

“Will. Chocolate. Now.”

“You, on the other hand, seem to have given up on verbs. And on manners.”

“You are holding chocolate hostage, and you think I should say ‘please’?”

“There’s never a situation in a little politeness go unappreciated.”

“What are you, Miss Manners?”

“I prefer to think of myself as more of an all-knowing Dear Abby type.”

“I’m thinking of you as the man between me and chocolate right now.”

“What’re you gonna do about it – oof! Hey!”

“Are you going to come watch the movie, or not?”

“Yeah, soon as I can breathe again.”

“Clearly, if you can talk, you can breathe.”

“You’re killing me with kindness, Syd.”

“Need I remind you that you were holding a bag of chocolate hostage?”

“Where did you learn that anyway? Should I be afraid now?”

“You could say I’m something of an international woman of mystery.”

“Yeah, right, whatever. C’mon, mystery woman, the movie’s starting.”

Fri, 07 Jan 2005 16:34:33 GMT

Word #156 from daily15.

Oneiromancy: the practice of predicting the future through interpretation of dreams.

Alias, Sydney POV, with spoilers for 4x01/2, "Authorized Personnel Only"

Every new city means a new set of dreams.

They are grouped in themes, her nighttime wanderings. They are symphonies with movements circling around a central leitmotif.

In Reykjavik, the contrast of white ice and snow with the perpetual darkness of the winter sun mean she sleeps with the light on in her hotel room. So it is only logical that when she closes her eyes, she immediately opens them again in her sunny apartment: pre-fire, pre-Covenant, and pre-betrayal. Francie is baking for a visit to her parents’ later that night, Will is sneaking finger-swipes of cookie dough, and Sydney is curled up in the crook of her couch, reading Alice in Wonderland. The details are different from night to night (sometimes they are playing Scrabble; sometimes they are sharing sangria and lemon poppyseed cake) but Iceland is a place she leaves with a small amount of regret.

But the trail takes her to Rome, a city whose history weighs down on her. She stays in her (Julia’s – but also hers) penthouse and cannot escape the nightmares. Julia kills, fucks, eats, and sleeps all with the same mechanical stoicism behind false passion, and Sydney slowly dies inside. Every time she closes her eyes to the looming angel statue she opens them again behind the hilt of a knife, the sight of a sniper rifle, the thin line of a garotte twisted in her hands.

St. Petersburg cannot help but remind her of her mother, and the reasons for her journey. So she tries not to sleep much, but when she does, she is back in the marble corridor, her hand pressed up against cold glass as her mother plans a betrayal. Sometimes Sydney can see the plot behind her mother’s eyes, and sometimes she sees only what the six-year old girl wanted to see: a loving mother who knew just how to braid her hair, just how to make her believe that her life could be everything would be what she wanted it to be, and just how to make her father smile.

It isn’t until Moscow that she dreams of Vaughn, and of all the memories she has of her (ex?) lover, none of the good ones choose to make an appearance in her dreams. He is beaten, bloody, scarred, and broken. He lies helpless in a hospital bed, and even when she has not directly wielded the weapon he is there because of her, and his eyes tell her that. He drinks himself into oblivion, he marries Lauren, he beats Sark, he kills Lauren, and then he kisses Sydney and they both taste nothing but regret.

And she runs, and keeps running, and keeps dreaming. It is almost a relief to find her mother’s body, because her nights after the makeshift funeral are filled with nothing but the blessed void of unconsciousness.

Tue, 14 Dec 2004 06:53:48 GMT

I cheated; not only did I go back to last week's challenge, I had to guesstimate a cumulative time on this one, and it was probably actually longer than a 15 minute write. Screw it. I like it.

painful

Alias, s1, Syd POV with hints of Syd/Vaughn. PG.

Everything hurt. Everything.

She'd felt this way after missions before - far too often for her preferences, because it was doubly difficult to conceal the soreness from Francie and Will. She had to concentrate on walking in a straight line, on the smooth movement of shoulder and elbow to reach for the cereal down from the top cabinet without betraying the deep purple splash across her bicep. For a week she wore shirts that didn't show an inch of skin when she stretched up so that no one would see the white bandages wrapped around her torso, holding bruised ribs in place as best they could.

Vaughn offered her an appreciative, wry twist of his lips, when confronted with her stiffness, and hidden deep in his eyes was a grief and worry that she ducked her head away from. His fingers tightened around the coffee cup, and as she lowered herself to sit on the crate - slowly and painfully, betraying the extent of her injuries to another person for the first time since Dixon's worrying glance on the plane ride home when she stood to stow her carry-on.

There was a certain strange intimacy to it, to his impassive gaze as he watched her sit. It was as if he saw through the expensive material of the pinstriped suit, beneath to the greens and blues and yellows of several day old bruises and the scabbed over gashes and rashes. For a moment it was his fingers and not his eyes that took measure of her wounds, trailed over them with light whispering touches and then dug in deeper to unknot the pulled muscles.

So close that she raised her head quickly, and met his eyes watching her. She blinked first, turned her head to the side and pondered the chain-link fence over his shoulder as she described her impressions of SD-6's newest field agent. He was still looking at her, steadily, and she put a hand down on her thigh, fingers splayed to cover one of the largest of her bruises, holding him there as surely as if she'd intertwined her fingers with his.

Fifteen minute ficlet, Week of Dec. 12, 2004

Mon, 13 Dec 2004 16:13:31 GMT

CSI, Sara POV, PG-13

It really shouldn't be bothering her that much.

Sara braced her arms, locked her elbows, and photographed. Locator shot. She inched forward, braced her arms again, and clicked for a detail shot. Now for a perspective shot - only one arm to brace this time, as her other hand held up the small metric ruler.

Too small, and she swallowed, hard, as she tore herself away from the handprint and looked back at the body crumpled on the floor. Far too small a handprint, far too small a body. Nick straightened from where he had been taking a dirt sample from sneaker treads - they were the light-up kind, the kind Sara's brother had begged for when he was this boy's age - and their eyes met across the room. She turned away first, because her brother had grown up.

Children were hard on all of them, and Jeremiah Holden was no exception. He should have been safe inside his own house - he should have been just fine under the care of his babysitter, should have spent the night playing video games and whining for a later bedtime. But the television was white snow, the video game cable was wrapped around his neck, and the babysitter was a paroled sex offender.

Grissom, she knew, was taking it especially hard. He'd stared at the handprint as well for a long moment, his lips pursed, and his muscles stiff. She'd wanted to put her hand on his shoulder, just a feather-light reassurance, but was afraid he would dissolve under her touch. Instead it had been Nick, behind her, who'd put his hand on her shoulder, and she'd discovered she was holding herself nearly as stiff as Grissom, an unconscious reflection that she didn't appreciate learning about.

His touch was gentle and firm, and her knees had nearly buckled like she'd been afraid Grissom's would have, but she'd locked them and marched forward with careful steps, her feet encased in crime scene booties and barely even scuffing the thick rug, right up to the handprint. If she tried to cover it with her own hand, the tips of the fingers wouldn't even reach her first knuckle.

It really shouldn't be bothering her that much.