o my boy where is the sky

Forces of Friction

2010-03-20T10:34:17Z

Prompt:
Lyrics; Alice Cooper - Poison.
I want to hurt you just to hear you screaming my name.
Holmes/Watson, preferably with Holmes being the one who wants Watson screaming.

Forces of Friction
From the moment their relationship goes past friendship and ventures into the realms of more, it becomes Holmes’ self-imposed goal to get Watson to make as much noise as possible.

It is, he quickly discovers, not an easy task: Watson has seemingly endless amounts of tolerance for Holmes’ crazier ideas, no little patience and positively inhuman self-control in bed. That’s alright: Holmes never says no to a good puzzle, and his doctor’s body is a subject more than worthy of his attention. Watson’s reluctance to produce the smallest sounds makes it all the sweeter when Holmes manages to coax out a whimper, a moan out of him. Still, it is only a matter of time before he has his every reaction mapped: he knows where to kiss to make Watson tremble, mouth open and head tilted back; how hard to bite to make him inhale sharply, exhale a shaky breath and tense around him, how the lightest of touches at the small of his back makes him squirm and gasp.

He is not sure what it says about him that it gets boring. It’s gentle and loving and predictable and he needs more, always more, but he cannot bring himself to say that to Watson.

So, of course, being himself, he pushes.

Unsurprisingly, it eventually ends in a fight. It’s Holmes’ fault. Again. And because Watson is in the right and angry enough to forget his usual restraint and Holmes is a stubborn, determined genius on a mission, it ends up with them rolling on the floor grappling and wrestling, the argument still going strong.

Then the lines start blurring and they are not fighting so much as fucking, except there are still a couple hits exchanged here and there and Watson is fairly bristling in rage, glaring at Holmes from where the detective’s got him awkwardly pinned against the wall, old papers and dusty knick-knacks scattered around them and precariously-balanced stacks of books digging into their sides and back.

Holmes stares back, but anger is not his main motivator. Rather, it is that Watson is gorgeous like this, hair ruffled, burning eyes and mouth painted red by the split lip Holmes just gave him, straining against his hold. It is also, and there lies the crux of the matter, that the doctor is still talking, ranting and cursing and threatening bodily harm if Holmes doesn’t unhand him right this instant.

He only pauses when he manages to get an arm free and punches Holmes, making him reel back enough to get some breathing space again. Then he lunges and it’s back to trading blows, rising trails of black and blue under their skin and red like leaves in fall scattering at their mouth, their knuckles, over the floorboards.

And it’s a close match: they know each other too well to fall for the usual tricks, and they each have their own advantages. In the end though Holmes gets a hand on Watson again, pressed against his back with an arm across his throat, the doctor’s wrists pinned behind his back.

“I win,” he whispers in Watson’s ear, and can feel the growl that rises at his words.

“Holmes—“ Watson starts, but Holmes is already moving, releasing the other man’s arms to snake his hand to Watson’s front and plunge under the half-undone trousers. He grins at finding that Watson is almost as hard as he is; “I win”, he repeats, and gives one harsh, violent stroke that has the doctor jerking against him in what could just as well be pain as pleasure. “Scream for me?”

Watson obliges.

through the ruins of the heart

2010-03-18T01:33:20Z

So. Yeah. Trying my hand at what could be construed as pr0n. A bit shifty-eyed about it too.

through the ruins of the heart
Watson doesn’t know why he says yes. Or rather he knows, but wishes he didn’t; wishes he’d refused, wishes he had the willpower to deny this last request, the courage to look at Holmes in the eyes and say it’s over". But wishes are just that—wishes, and the fact is, he is something of a coward when it comes to this, and still very much in love.

And it’s like this—it’s Holmes jittery and haunted, pacing in restless circles around the apartment, wild hair and stormy eyes; Holmes vicious and resentful, snapping at Watson over the smallest things and scaring the dog off, yet looking lost and abandoned. It’s the way the light filters through the curtains to fall on Holmes’ restless fingers; it’s the betrayal that flashes clear over his face whenever he looks at Watson, which he doesn’t even try to hide.

It’s Watson packing away the last of his effects and pretending he isn’t noticing any of that. It’s him failing, again and again and again. It’s his hands curling as he tries to ignore Holmes’ jibes, it’s the anger that rises unbidden as the day progresses until it is simmering just under his skin, waiting for any excuse to come out.

Holmes knows, of course—when does he ever not?—and pushes and pushes, until Watson cannot help but snarl back. “What do you want?”

The answer is not really surprising, but nevertheless makes him flinch: “You.”

Holmes advances on him, mouth drawn thin; it takes a conscious effort not to step back.

“You owe me this, at least”, Holmes says. There are so many words rising in Watson’s mind right then, protests and rebuttals—I owe you nothing, You have no right, What makes you even think?—that they all catch in his throat, and Holmes keeps going, now pressed against him with his hands closing, deceptively gentle, over his shoulders. “Tonight. One last time.”

A pause. Their eyes lock, brown on blue. Then, very softly, “Please.”

Watson is no idiot. He knows the word is just another weapon in Holmes’ arsenal, another way of making him comply. He knows it, and closes his eyes. Breathes yes.

And then Holmes is closing what little space remains between them, what sounds like a thank you but could just as well be a finally tumbling from his lips, hands flying up to undo Watson’s collar and progressing down as he unbuttons his shirt with an ease that speaks of long practice. Holmes’ fingers trace random circles on his chest, his ribs, his flanks; trail down to his hips, fumble with the catch of his trousers then pulls them down. He does not look so dejected anymore, but focused instead; that single-minded attention, usually reserved for cases, is now fully centered on Watson. There is also a measure of satisfaction there, that Watson notices when Holmes glances up; a quirk of the lips that he catches sight of for a moment before the detective smoothly falls to his knees.

Then Watson has to take hold of Holmes’ shoulders in order to stay standing, because the man never does anything by half and has just taken the full length of him at once, as though trying to prove that gag reflexes were for lesser men. Then he starts humming low in his throat, and Watson cannot hold the moan that rises to his lips, nor the jerk of his hips. His grip on Holmes is tense, but the detective does not seem to mind. If anything, given the way he bobs his head and licks and sucks, he takes it as encouragement.

And it takes ridiculously little time before Watson’s breath comes short and his legs are shaking, a soft jumble of profanities falling tangled from his mouth. Holmes is using every trick in his repertoire to bring him closer to the edge then drawing back just enough to prolong it all a little more, until Watson manages a “Holmes” from between clenched teeth. It does not have the intended effect. With a smug look Holmes pulls away, drawing a tiny, hungry sound from Watson and, before the doctor can muster the force to demand an explanation for this sudden and unwarranted interruption, yanks him down to the floor.

Watson catches himself in time to avoid falling in a complete heap on Holmes, but the effort is invalidated when the detective grabs at his open collar and pulls him down for a kiss; not the gentle, exploratory ones they share on lazy afternoons, but more akin to the biting, bruising ones stolen between chasing crooks and running for their lives. Watson returns the kiss, pours his frustration and his resentment in it. His hands move from Holmes’ shoulders, rise to tangle and twist in the messy hair. He can taste himself on Holmes’ tongue.

Then Holmes breaks the kiss and angles for Watson’s chin, his neck. Watson, however, objects; forces him to keep his head where it is, and is the one to press his mouth to the underside of the other’s jaw, to lick a line down his throat with a small pause to feel the throbbing of his pulse under the skin. This too is familiar, and he closes his eyes for a second at the thought that this might be the last time. When he opens them again the desperation is back, no longer turned against Holmes but on him. His teeth leave a mark at the man’s collarbone (when did his shirt come undone? Watson has no memory of it happening), and he sucks at it, making blood rise and bloom in a bruise that will certainly linger for a few days.

Holmes makes a very interesting noise at that. It makes Watson want to repeat the gesture, and he is moving to do so when Holmes somehow breaks from his grip and flips them over in one quick move. Watson grunts as his back hits the ground, but is promptly distracted by the fingers prodding at his backside. Holmes quirks a brow when subjected to a glare, but is otherwise fully engrossed in his study of Watson splayed like this under him, shirt falling open and pants half-off, skin flushed and lips bruised.

That, and also very deftly slipping two spit-slick fingers in Watson’s arse, crooking them just so in a way that has him arching up with a sharp, bitten-off cry.

The smugness is back. Watson would slap it off his face, but that would be going against his interests. He jerks his hips instead, fucking himself on Holmes’ hand in a very pointed demand for more, even as he tilts his head to nip at the corner of Holmes’ mouth. The most surprising here is that Holmes complies, adds a finger and bites back: never before has he been so accommodating. He has always preferred to drive Watson mad with need first, turn him into an oversensitive wreck before even thinking about really fucking him.

Clearly Watson is not the only one thinking about the finality of what they’re doing tonight. He wants to say something, do something, but does not know what. When he tries to meet Holmes’ eyes he fails, and not for the first time mourns that the man is such a consummate actor.

Tonight is the last night, he thinks, and it’s like a revelation. In the morning he will leave this house and this man for the woman he loves. Even as Holmes makes him buck and gasp, his mind brings up a picture of Mary, soft hands and quiet confidence, smooth skin and clear voice; unable to help himself, he draws comparisons. A traitorous, detached part of him wonders which of them he’s cheating on.

He only realizes his eyes are closed when he hears Holmes growling in his ear and has to open them to see him. “Stop thinking about her”, he says, eyes dark, and drives himself into Watson in one brusque, punishing snap of the hips.

It hurts, but he supposes he deserved that. Not that he’ll just take it. His hands are back to Holmes’ shoulders, nails digging into the skin and leaving red crescents and rosy scratches, and he meets every thrust halfway, giving as good as he gets. They smile at each other, and it isn’t loving so much as challenging. That’s fine. Watson can live with that.

Their mouths crash together again with a snap of teeth and a clash of tongues, passion and desperation mixed together. Watson can feel bruises rising on his hips where Holmes is pressing too hard, treasures the sensation. His breath hitches as Holmes rams into him hard, sending a great shudder through him; he retaliates by clenching against him, and swallows the man’s ensuing moan. Under his palms he feels the play of lean muscles, the stretching of a scar he can still remember sewing up; a history of thrills and dangers at his fingertips.

And it’s Holmes with his head bent over Watson’s chest, gasping short, trembling breaths; it’s Holmes rocking against him, thrusting into him, holding onto him like a man about to drown; Holmes dropping the mask for once, fingers shaking from something that is neither lust nor anger and eyes closed, and giving one last, great shudder before collapsing.

It’s Watson arching up, head thrown back and mouth open; it’s him coming untouched, a sound like a broken prayer rising from his lips. It’s his thumb rubbing against the shallow grooves of Holmes’ spine, the gesture oddly gentle, his legs coming to tangle with the detective’s.

This was the last time, he thinks again. His arms, crossed over Holmes’ back, tighten their grip, like he’s trying to pull the other into him, like he can’t get enough of him.

“Stay”, Holmes asks finally, spent and breathless as he lies atop Watson, mouthing the words in the hollow of his neck.

For the first time in days, Watson relaxes, and chases away the guilt that rises in him.

He answers, “No.”

five times they didn't speak, and one time they did

2010-03-14T15:44:25Z

Six hours after Part IV of the kinkmeme opened, my to-write list was a page long. One down, many more to go.

Holmes’ brows rise in question when Watson strides into the room and makes his way to his customary chair to sink into it, hands rising to his face in an unfamiliar gesture of exhaustion. There is a question hovering at his lips, but he holds it in, not blind to the way usually steady hands are shaking or to the flecks of dark red still spotting the edge of a sleeve. A child, he surmises, or perhaps a woman. Watson loathes the helplessness that comes with those cases, and they affect him more than any other. Nothing Holmes says can have any effect, he knows, so instead he picks up the violin and starts playing, a soothing little tune that lifts and trills, and smiles, as Watson ever so slowly starts to relax.

ii.

There’s a case and they’re standing back-to-back in a filthy back alley by night, surrounded by a group of rather unsavoury characters. There is no time for words; a shared look suffices. With spare, calculated strikes Holmes disables two of their opponents, and behind him Watson’s cane cuts through the air and sends three more to the ground. The one man left standing stares for a second, then turns on his heel and starts running.

The lamplight casts its pale glow over them. Their eyes meet again. They smile, and take chase.

iii.

It starts out as a simple argument over the dog again, then somehow degenerates into an all-out fight, punches thrown and snarls volleyed from either side as they grapple over the tigerskin rug, words tossed aside to let fists do the talking. Watson is taller, heavier, but Holmes is all wiry strength and dirty tricks; a vicious jab at the doctor’s bad leg has him flinching back, and it is all Holmes needs to get the advantage, flipping them over and pinning Watson under him. They are both flushed, both breathing a little heavily. Now would be the time for Holmes to apologize, maybe, or gloat, but he does not. Instead he leans in, hands still firmly holding Watson down, and kisses him.

iv.

Then they move to the bedroom, where it is no longer a fight but a dance, body against body, mouth against mouth; hands light and gentle over bruised skin, arms and legs tangled awkwardly and moans muffled by kisses, an eager, desperate study of longing and pleasure and dependence. There are no words here; it is too fragile a peace, too much of a beginning.

The wedding is a quiet, solemn affair. The sun falls in delicate colors through the stained glass, paints the scene in half-tones and muted shades. Watson’s eyes, Holmes notices, are very blue as they flash to him. He nods minutely in answer to the question implied in that glance; breathes, closes his eyes, and holds his peace.

.i.

Watson finds Holmes near collapsed in yet another damp alley, only standing out of sheer stubbornness and dripping blood all over the pavement. Exasperation wars with worry, to be chased away by what feels suspiciously like sorrow when dark eyes blearily focus on him then blink, suspicious and disbelieving. “Didn’t think you’d come back”, he manages to rasp out. “Why’re you here?”

Watson would roll his eyes if he weren’t so stung. “You bloody idiot”, he says, and proceeds to drag him away, towards the cab waiting for them. “I’m taking you home.”

Many a musèd rhyme

2010-03-10T00:25:01Z

Yet another fill for the meme. I'm slowly getting myself to actually post the completed fics on this journal. Been lurking so long it feels unnatural.

many a musèd rhyme

Watson has not lived this long with Holmes without picking up some observation skills of his own. It was but a week ago that Lestrade came to ask for their assistance in the Ripper case, his lip curled in scorn at that name but using it for lack of a better denomination. Holmes had been dismissive, of course, but there had not been a single case in the past two months and the inactivity had very obviously driven him near-insane, despite the doctor’s efforts to keep him distracted, so that he did not overly protest when roped into the investigation.

Watson would have been relieved, really, had he not started to pick up on small details, little, seemingly-unconnected events that had thus far gone on unnoticed: Holmes’ continued insomnia, the marked circles under his eyes which he had previously attributed to one of those moods that took him when bored; the razors and scalpels mysteriously vanishing from his effects, which he’d simply thought misplaced in the infinite clutter of the apartment before a thorough search expedition yielded no results; the dog’s sudden skittishness around Holmes, attributed to one experiment too many… All small things that alone would not have warranted a second look, but that together weaved to form a disturbing picture.

He dismisses it as the product of an overtired mind at first, the idea so very absurd it is laughable. Then he wakes up one night to find the side of the bed unoccupied, and can find Holmes nowhere in the house; he goes back to bed, but the remainder of his sleep is disturbed by dreams of shadows and flashes of dark eyes. In the morning Holmes strolls in, hat askew and missing his coat, and smiles and laughs, hands aflutter like sparrows taking wing, and Watson chases the dark of his thoughts away to joke back, and all would be well but for the news, received in the evening, of yet another victim found, throat ravaged and sliced open from neck to groin.

Watson’s mind, treacherous thing that it is, cannot help then but to circle around memories of that morning, that image of Holmes sprawled on his chair and laughing: the open face, the easy smile, the mud spotting the hem of his trousers, the dark stain lingering on his sleeve.

Then Holmes comes home with an unexplainable cut twisting over his upper arm, and while Watson is silent as he cleans the wound, he is attentive, carefully looking for any sign that something is wrong. Nothing. He tells himself he is relieved, and insists on accompanying him to investigate the crime scenes. The resistance is minimal, Holmes visibly pleased to have him along, and Watson gets his first close look at one of the victims. Doctor though he is, and even having seen grotesque wounds at war, he still recoils a bit at the sight: the woman is a mess of congealed blood and lacerated skin, entrails exposed and organs torn apart. Under what once was her stomach and is now so much tattered meat he glimpses white; the spine, he thinks, and has to look away, ever so briefly. Holmes is busying himself with examining the surroundings, and when he does get to the corpse his mouth twists in what Watson recognizes as disappointment: not at the victim, but at the perpetrator—it is the expression Holmes reserves to those who he thought would offer a good challenge, but fall short of his expectations. A small part of Watson sighs in relief then, appeased. The rest of him watches, and watches, and waits.

And, disappointed or not, they still cannot find him. The police is on alert, the populace wary and jittery, Holmes makes derogatory comments on the Ripper’s complete lack of subtlety. Still he eludes capture.

Watson decides, finally, that Holmes knows nothing. He complains of tiredness, does not seem to remember anything of his night-time disappearances and stares at his breakfast like he has no idea when he even sat at the table, and even he is not so great an actor as to being able to fake his way through days and days. So Watson says nothing, and does not think of how yet another scalpel has disappeared, or how he once said that Holmes could have been the greatest criminal in the world. That way lies madness, he thinks, and does not stop to ask himself if perhaps madness has not waited for him but come in uninvited, and there to stay.

He does not think, when the mattress dips under Holmes’ weight at three thirty in the morning, about where he could have gone to these past five hours. He does not wonder, as rough lips gently press on his, why the smell of formaldehyde clings to his clothes, and is content to sigh into Holmes’ mouth, pliant and eager for contact. He does not ask about the dark ink that stains the tips of those thin fingers, just arches into the touch and bites his lip to hold sound in, brings his hands to thread through the messy (wet) hair, spreads his legs a little wider and mouths noiseless nothings against that warm skin. When Holmes makes love to him Watson looks into his eyes and searches wildly, desperately, for the monster he fears, suspects (knows) lurks under the face of the man he loves, but finds nothing but affection there, and perhaps a quiet sort of desperation which does not even know itself.

On his skin Holmes’ hands dance like birds in flight. Watson closes his eyes, and hopes they never land.

Unfinished Duet

2010-03-09T00:27:06Z

Written for the kinkmeme. It's nice to know that my four years of violin lesson weren't a complete waste of time :D

unfinished duet

Holmes realizes ten minutes after leaving the apartment that he has forgotten his hat. While this usually only a minor concern, easily brushed aside, today it seems like an intolerable oversight, and so it is that he finds himself back at 221B. It should have been simple: walk into the sitting room, rummage through the clutter until the missing item is found (or, were that to fail, borrow one of Watson’s) and leave again.

Instead he stops as he reaches the sitting room, head tilting in puzzlement as what sounds suspiciously like someone drawing sounds from his violin. He cannot help the irritation that bubbles in him at the thought; he has always been territorial when it comes to possessions, and the violin is sacred. It is unthinkable that any hands but his should ever touch it.

Or so he thinks, before he peers into the room and is forced to reconsider his stance on the subject. For there sits Watson, facing away from the door, fingers plucking at the strings and looking determined, and Holmes is too busy wondering what on earth Watson is thinking to hold onto his anger.

Then Watson stands, and for an instant Holmes is distracted by the way the motion ever so briefly pulls his shirt taut over his shoulders, hints at the shifting muscles and the surprisingly soft skin underneath. Watson’s subsequent tucking of the violin under his chin in a rather accurate imitation of Holmes’ stance when he actually bothers to stand up to play. It is, of course, not perfect: Holmes is quick to notice the hesitancy in the positioning of fingers on the strings, the subtle discomfort as Watson shifts to avoid putting to much weight on his bad leg. All in all, it is a commendable effort.

Holmes cringes instinctively as the bow starts moving, knowing all too well the horrifying discordances that can happen with an inexperienced player, then stops himself mid-wince, blinking, because while the sounds Watson is drawing out of the instrument are not quite harmonious, they are most certainly not the horrid screeches he expected.

He looks again, and feels like slapping himself for being an idiot when he notices what he should have seen from the beginning: this is not the first time Watson’s tried his hand at the violin. The bow moves in firm, though hesitant, strokes, and the fingers on the board are only off by a few millimetres. Holmes tries not to be delighted by the way Watson’s brows are furrowed in concentration as he tries to replicate by ear and memory one of the less complicated tunes Holmes likes to play, and fails miserably.

If he is honest with himself, there is also something incredibly appealing about the way Watson’s arm follows the bow’s slow motions, the arch of his wrists at the violin’s neck. The tilt of his head exposes a tantalizing portion of his neck, and Holmes can no longer resist.

Silently he steps into the room. Watson still hasn’t noticed his presence, too focused on the violin, and Holmes takes full advantage of the fact to creep behind the man and press himself against him, chin tucked over his shoulder and hands reaching for his. Watson startles against him, bow jerking in his hand and scraping against a string in a most unpleasant way, but does not react further. Holmes is secretly disappointed, but does not show it. He nips at the base of Watson’s jaw, playful. “How long have you been practicing?”

Watson chuckles, a low, lazy sound that curls delightfully in Holmes’ ears. “I wondered how long it would take you to notice,” he says. Then, just as Holmes starts to grow impatient, “Two months.”

Quick calculations: in the past couple months he has not been out of the house alone more than half a dozen times, and never more than for more than three hours, except for that one time he’d gone boxing and cracked a rib or two. Watson cannot have practiced all that much in that time. That he has at all makes Holmes extremely intrigued, and the images that drift unbidden in his mind, of Watson taking the violin up for the first time, reverent and not a little curious, blue eyes certainly sharp with focus, make him hot under the collar.

Then Holmes realizes that Watson is still, no longer playing. This, he decides, will not do. Shifting a little, he lays his right hand on Watson’s own, gently nudging his fingers into a more correct position and guiding them, and the bow, into resuming. Watson catches on instantly, and agreeably consents to being led through the motions. Holmes’ left hand snakes on the other side to the fingerboard, prods those thin surgeon’s fingers into their proper place, and he admires it all from where he stands, moulded against Watson’s back and not-so-secretly revelling in the heat that seeps through the thin layers of fabric between them.

“Why?” he asks, and Watson’s smile is, from this point of view, crooked but still brilliant.

“To better understand you,” comes the answer, and he is surprised at how much it affects him. He does not show it, of course, but he hums against Watson’s skin, and does not fail to notice how, slowly, haltingly, but surely, the violin starts to accompany his voice.

pulse [Sherlock Holmes][oneshot]

2010-01-27T22:02:28Z

New fandom, here I come.
Done for the sherlockkink meme, this prompt: anything holmes/watson, as long as it's written in the style of one richard siken.
Imitating someone else's style is hard, but fun. Warnings for weirdness. Structure and syntax heavily drawing on Richard Siken's "You Are Jeff".

pulse

There is a man sitting in the study. His sleeves are rolled up and he has wild hair, white teeth, dark eyes. There is another, standing by the doorway. He is taller, has dark hair, blue eyes. A thousand words and years of longing lie gutted between them. You should have let me go, we could have done so much, I’m not sorry—the silence thrums like a violin string drawn too tight. Look at the light coming through the windowpane. It throws their shadows over the table, the papers strewn over the floor, the dog that looks up at them and wags his tail. There is an ending here somewhere.

The man on the chair tears facts open and puts them back together. It’s what he does. He takes the truth and twists it until it does what he wants it to do. Under his fingers truth smiles, truth is a weapon, truth hurts, truth betrays. He calls it Friendship, when he calls it anything at all.

The man at the door has not smiled in a while. He has a surgeon’s hands, but there are some people he cannot help. Unfortunately for him, he still tries. Oh, how he tries. Not everyone wants to be fixed. The pocketwatch under his hands ticks and tocks the passing minutes, the unravelling seconds. You know this man. You see him every day from behind your window, your mirror, your eyes.

You try, you really do. You roll your eyes when he jumps out of the window and you put some order in his—your rooms, you walk the dog and patch him up when he comes back with his knuckles bruised and his ribs cracked. Under your hands his skin is a map, scars like train tracks and each cut a souvenir. You know bodies the way a watchmaker knows clockwork, but when it comes to him you feel like you’re learning something new every time. His heart beats as steady as the rain that falls against your windows at night.

And it’s three in the morning when you jolt awake. Breathe. There is no one here but you. Ah, but perhaps that is not true. You can still hear the gunshots, the screams. Maybe that makes them real. Maybe it does not. The rain pitter-patters at the windowpane and paints dappled shadows over the bedcovers. A violin sings in the dark, the notes rising like a wave to die as foam upon the shore at your door. Close your eyes. Listen. You’re still alive.

Some people are too broken to be fixed. He is not one of them. So you keep on trying, you can’t not try, and he lets you. His smile is a small thing, but you know him. You know the edges of his moods, you know the barbs laced in his words. This—this you are not sure of. Truth is his, now and always. But you find a piece of it in his smile, pick it up, and do not know what to do with it.

You are—angry, or maybe just tired. Three thirty in the morning and the rain hasn’t stopped, but the violin has. There is a taste of sand at the back of your mouth. Your lips are dry. The man in the mirror has eyes like a desert sky, blue and cracking at the edges. In the silence isolated notes take flight again. They part the shadows. The door beckons. The man in the mirror has a surgeon’s hands and a madman’s smile. Open the door.

There is a man sitting in the study. Open shirt, wild hair, dark eyes, bright teeth. There is a man at the door. Nothing between them but a strain of music, a sliver of night. This is what it always comes back to. Two men and the shadows over the floor. There are stories, you know which ones: you were the one to write them.

Imagine two men standing before you. They are brothers: dark hair, dark eyes, bright teeth. One will take you apart, break you open and make you his. The other will sew you back together, make himself the thread and needle, hurt you. One will toy with truth and wound you with it, the other will smile promises and make of truth a lie.

It’s one or the other. You could love either of them. Choose.

10.

Consider that door. Consider the dark wood, the polished knob from which the man with the blue eyes looks back. You could turn that knob, cross the threshold, walk that extra distance to see the man you might love. You could stay here, where the rain illuminates the room. You could keep on loving him. The man with the blue eyes has surgeon’s hands and sand and blood stuck at the back of his mouth. You wish you could fix him too.

11.

Also, that was a lie. They’re not brothers, they’re the same man. You knew that, just like you know him. He has picked you apart a thousand times. He has dragged you down in the depths of crime and injury and you’ve made it all into stories. The manuscripts still lie across the apartment, by your bed or in the sitting room or in the attic. All those silences, those instants of brilliance, of fear—you’ve ground them down to words, paper, ink. This is your story, and his. This cannot be the end. Not now. Not like this. They’re not brothers, they’re the same man. There is a choice to be made, but not the one you think. Now choose.

12.

Listen, you say to the man on the chair. Life for you isn’t life; it’s an experiment that simmers and bubbles under a magnifying glass. And love in all of that is just a stray spark, an unknown factor. It’s the missing gear in the assembly, the one that’s small enough not to make that much of a difference, so you notice because you have to and that’s it. You say to the man with wild hair and fingers that never stop moving, I’m tired. I am tired of waking up at night, of cleaning up your messes, of never knowing how to tell you what I think. I am tired of coming back to your jokes and your smiles which I cannot refuse. And I am tired of dancing around the issue, so here it is: I love you.

13.

Somewhere over your heads, where you cannot see, a bird comes to perch on the chimney. Under the moonlight it preens its feathers back. Then it chirps, very softly. You can not hear it. A cab horse snorts, four streets down, and shakes its tired head amid reins and harness. You can not see it. From a window rises a song, trailing like smoke in the cold air. You are not there. Outside, on the pavement, the stars shimmer from the bottom of a puddle. Inside there is you, the words now free from your mouth, ugly and fragile in the dark. This was a mistake, you know that already. But you’ve made your choice. Look. The world is still standing. The dog wakes up and wags its tail.

14.

And alright, we’ll say it’s your dog. You’ve fed him, played with him; you’ve almost killed him too often to count and I guess that makes him yours, all this—life and all the things within. This is what you do—you take things apart and you stitch them back together, except the pieces are never exactly the way they were before. It could be tragic, but when you smile it’s so easy to forget about it. The dog likes you. And all those things between us—the breaking, the fixing, the smiles, the dog—I guess they make me yours too.

15.

Consider the door. Consider all the choices, all the words. Consider all the years, all the failures, all the successes. Now close your eyes. Breathe. The sand on your tongue has melted to glass, sharp and fragile. The shadows are drifting across the floor. So many things come after this—the apologies, the regrets, the shouts. But that comes later. You are here now. Swallow the glass, swallow it all. Taste the blood. Forget about tomorrow. Forget about what happens next. Cross the room. Kiss him.

16.

Four thirty in the morning, when the world is asleep and the violin forgotten. Rain beats like a song over the windows. He lies still beside you. Under your hand his heart is like a bird about to take flight.

Forget about tomorrow. You haven’t written that story yet. Write this one instead.

Stockholm [KH][drabble]

2010-01-23T23:36:29Z

Stockholm

There are days when Marluxia is tender, almost, fingers gently playing in the girl’s pale hair and trailing down to the frail shoulders.

She is timid then, more so than when he is rough and snarling and tearing her sketches in tatters.

It makes Axel smile that jester-smile of his, and Larxene watches in approval at what she thinks are mind games.

They don’t know.

The truth is, Marluxia waits and hurts and cares and makes plans, and does not remember what to feel.

The truth is, he is but a caged eagle, and Naminé is holding the keys.

Into the Fire [KH][oneshot]

2010-01-23T23:34:56Z

Into The Fire

(in which we burn)

There is no wind in Castle Oblivion, no indiscreet drafts that would make her shiver, but sometimes, Naminé still finds herself blowing on her fingers, trying to warm them up. She should not be cold, but she is, and as she feels the inside of her wrist and cannot find a pulse, she knows why.

Then there are the times when she thinks she sees frost creeping on the walls and over the white marble roses, and with it snow lazily dancing over her head. Those are the moments when she wishes for Axel’s presence, for though she is wary of his Cheshire grin, he loves to paints flames and warmth in her rooms.

(empty and dark)

Naminé never goes to sleep of her own accord, draws until she collapses in exhaustion or someone, usually Marluxia, drags her forcefully to bed. Then she lies still under her blankets, stares at the shadows stretching on the ceilings and tries, very very hard, not to listen to Larxene, with her razor smile and fair face, who leans over her and whispers of monsters and spirits.
Do you fear the dark, Naminé?
Dredging up all of her courage, she shakes her head, no, and it is only when the last of the sharp laughter fades that she corrects, silently – Only when the darkness is you.

(choices & doors)

She only sees him once, a glimpse of black and gold through a crack in the door, and cannot get him out of her mind. He is like her, she is told, and his name is R-o-x-a-s. There is another name on her tongue, but it is like that other one she almost says sometimes when pronouncing her own name, that start with a K, that she should know, should remember. She does not, but nonetheless she dreams of sand and draws him, with the bright hair and the blue eyes, whispers, I will see you again.

Later, she remembers the two keys he held loosely at his sides, shadow and light, and she thinks, surely one of those can unlock the doors within me, surely he can help me find my heart.

(if you keep on smiling)

Once, Naminé was cold and stayed awake in the dark and wished for her heart. Now there is a heart-shaped moon over her head, and, holding her hand, is who she dreamed of, darker hair and fierce, gentle smiles. She feels her pulse under her fingers, subtle but burning against her skin, and feels herself trembling minutely, drawn closer and closer still to Kairi’s fire. Then comes Saïx, and she is not afraid. She follows her heart, in the girl’s arm, and is finally whole.

(under the sun)

There is the wind, and the sun, and warmth. There is the boy, blond hair superimposed on brown. There is her heart, beating, thud-thud, thud-thud.

Naminé sleeps.

(come on, come on, put your hand into the fire)

fin

Watchdog [KH][oneshot]

2010-01-23T23:23:04Z

Some more old!fic. Drabble-ish.

Watchdog

He is the one to stay behind when someone else joins the party.

He does not mind, knows that the others just feel like they have to run to places and stuff, adventures and fights.

Sora’s a good kid, a good friend, but he’s the hero and he’s gotta go onwards, and Donald’s far too impetuous to stay back and wait. That leaves him, to take care of supplies and securing a place to rest, when the world’s too big or the Heartless or the Nobodies too many to finish in one go.

Because, let’s face it, he knows he’s not that good in battle. Sure he’s the best when it comes to defence, and he’s useful to keep a number of enemies at bay so Sora has some breathing space, and he can hold his own in a fight, but he also tends to get in the way. Not that he’s really clumsy, but more that his style of fighting doesn’t always mesh well with the boy’s. So he stays, the rearguard, the watchdog.

He is not attack, not support. He is defence, he is the shield, the cover to which the others retreat back to. He watches them leave, and gives them his faith and his trust, and hopes with all his heart they’ll find what they’re searching for, and that they won’t get too hurt on the way.

And because it’s what he does best, what he feels the most comfortable doing, he remains behind, because even when the house is empty, someone has to keep it so when the others come back, it is ready for them, and so he keeps his stock of potions close at hand, just in case, just in case.

And so Goofy waits, fingers crossed, and keeps some place safe for the others.

He’s the watchdog, the shield, the guardian.

It’s what he does best.

.fin.

Wonders [oneshot][KH]

2010-01-23T23:20:25Z

Posting some old fic (this one's from 2007) just so my LJ at least has as much as my FF.net account.

Wonders

Number one is just that – numbers. A stupid mistake, yeah, but then it’s Rai we’re talking about, so nothing new here. It’s not like Roxas ever cared about numbers (never mind thirteen, hovering at the back of his mind).
Two gets serious, and it’s all about shadows and reflections of reflections, but as he comes to (and even though he’s got some new bruises, that he’s sure weren’t there before), well, it was surely just too much sun beating and light in his eyes and his too-vivid imagination going wild again.
Three is Vivi. After all, Vivi by himself is quite a wonder, a curiosity, but a dozen? He’s having some sort of sickness, Roxas thinks, because anyway, Vivi had never been a good fighter (and no, that time at the Struggle tournament was just a fluke, he says to himself, as if trying to convince someone – him).
Then it’s four, and there are bloody balls flying through the damn wall, and he has to stop himself from telling his friend that no, that wasn’t him throwing that last one out, it came out of the wall, and something’s wrong, wrong, wrong, and no, it’s not him who’s got a problem, but he says nothing, because who’d believe him anyway? He doesn’t even believe himself.
Five, and yeah, sure, that was just a dog in the bag, and so what if he doesn’t think a dog would ever be able to jump and run like that with an adolescent boy on his back? Maybe it’s just a strong dog, maybe he just doesn’t know anything about dogs, and yeah, sure, it’s all normal (no it’s not, a whisper in his mind, banished in a heartbeat).
Six, and he’s counting all in his head, checks those wonders and thinks, well Roxas, school project’s going so great, uh? Because he could swear he’s seen the train, but his friends haven’t and it’s not at the station, so maybe yeah, sorry guys, must be one of my bad days, and no problem, everything’ll be just fine.
And there comes seven, and he’s standing in front of that creepy old mansion, and he knows there’s that girl-ghost (her name’s Naminé, he remembers, all pale hair and clear eyes) at the window, behind the curtains. There’s no one, Pence says, so Roxas says, okay, and lets it go.
And he thinks, well, with all those strange dreams (sora donald goofy and sand and sea and island and keys and heartless and all those things he does(n’t) know) I’ve been having lately, it’s quite possible he’s gone off his rocker.
Damn wonders those were, and it’s only later, when he’s seen the girl again and gone downstairs, and seen the computers and screens and finally, finally understands, looking up to that other part of him suspended in that crystal flower, that he realizes none of it was real and yet was very much so and -
The greatest wonder is that he can’t really bring himself to care.
(goodbye, his not-heart whispers to data-based people and friends and games and joys, but it’s only the space of a moment, before it’s swept away by a gust of nothingness and almost-darkness and not-quite-light)

Bulletproof III

2009-07-17T11:15:46Z

Warnings: This chapter contains character death.

Chapter III: Fall

Gilead is drawing near, but this is not where they are heading. They are going past the old glorious and now fallen walls, going west, to where John Farson, the Good Man, and his troops, are waiting, for that last, long awaited battle.

It is only the four of them at first, alone on the dusty roads, but every day one rider at least joins them, more often than not wearing a gun at his belt. The first thing those newcomers look at is the ancient battle-horn hanging at Roland’s side, and from there their eyes slide down to the old sandalwood grips and the smooth metal of the six-shots. Harry would have been surprised by the reverence the sight of these inspired to the gunslingers, some of them harsh and rough-looking men, had he not himself felt some kind of awe at them. And they had history, he has learnt from Bert – it was said the guns were Arthur Eld’s own sword, melted and reforged, and that was the horn of the Eld. Symbols, and if there is something Harry has learned in his life, it is the power of such.

By the end of the third week, they are a small army.

When the second month starts, they stop, only a couple of wheels from the place they call Jericho, the chosen place for the upcoming battle.

After a moment of deliberation, they decide to spread around, so as not to be too noticeable – the battle will happen when they are ready, not before, even though they know Farson has probably heard of their arrival.

On that evening, Jamie, a brown haired young man that had apparently apprenticed with Roland, Bert and Alain, meets with them, and, after a short surprised glance at Harry, starts discussing strategy with Roland. After a few moments, he leaves, and Alain, sharing a look of understanding with his two friends, goes with him. They will go check the status of the now scattered gunslingers, while Roland, Cuthbert and Harry will go on their way, set camp and plan the charge. They will see each other the next morning, for the final preparations.

….:--:.…

It is night. They have stopped by the side of an old unused road, and by the fluttering light of the fire the guns are cleaned with meticulous attention. Harry tends to the horses, then strays a bit away, sensing that the two others need some time for themselves – it is their fight soon, the one they have waited for so long, and, as much as Harry is their friend, as close as he is to their ka-tet, he is still an outsider to this world and this war. His reasons are not completely altruistic; this anticipation for battle, this look in the others’ eyes remind him of what he has lost (no, not lost, just misplaced for a while, he’ll find a way back), remind him of preparations before a raid, of midnight excursions and duels by moonlight and, above all else, of friends. Of home.

After weeks and weeks of almost dazed and thoughtless riding, on the eve of battle, the fact that he really is so far from everything he knew finally, completely sinks in. Literally worlds apart, and he unconsciously clenches his hands. His eyes prickle.

Don’t cry. It’s not the right moment. Don’t cry.

He is losing this battle against himself.

His eyes close. He breathes. Shifts. Transforms.

The change soothes him, makes those feelings simpler, easier to deal with. He remembers, with a pang, Sirius saying how he’d used this to survive in Azkaban.

There is a path leading further into the woods. He does not think, trots in, and breaks into a full gallop, the air cold in his face, the wind playing in his mane and the ground hard under his hooves. It feels like flying.

….:--:.…

Harry is gone, giving them space, and for that Bert is grateful. Somehow, he cannot stop smiling, and his fingers keep erring towards both his gun and his sling. Roland seems to be deep in thought, staring into the fire as though the Tower was hidden in it.

Cuthbert leans back, and watches the sky for a moment. “Hey, Roland?”

It takes a short moment for the query to register. Blue eyes snap up, flicker, finally focus on the speaker. “Yes?”

“The boy’s part of the tet, isn’t he?”

Boy. He doesn’t really know why they call Harry that – there is only a slight age difference. Maybe because as much as he’s already survived, he still doesn’t know real war, something they, on the other hand, have known for a long, long time.

“…He is. But not completely.”

“True. Wonder why.”

Roland has no answer, and so says nothing.

“Say, when the battle’s done… We’ll go to the Tower, won’t we?”

The blue eyes are grave, and a little bit sad, but there is also that fire that lights at that word.

Tower.

“Aye. We’ll go to the Dark Tower.”

If there is a when, the words hang unsaid in the air between them.

“Bert?” Roland has that thoughtful look, the one he has when he has something important to say.

“Yes?”

He watches as Roland gets to his feet and reaches to the great horn at his side, the gesture eerily similar to the one he had made weeks ago when reaching down for his gun, and as he extends his hand towards Bert, horn held lightly between his fingers, his eyes are softer than usual.

And Roland opens his mouth, hesitates, and before he can say what he means to he is interrupted by a thunder of hooves against the ground, coming straight for them.

….:--:.…

Harry almost does not hear the gunshots, taken as he is by this new sensation of going so fast without anything but his own muscles, but he does, and stops dead in his tracks, because something inside is telling him that this all wrong, and this, even though he does not even know what it is yet, should never have happened. He turns back, and runs.

When he arrives back to camp, having transformed back without realizing it, he almost wishes he hadn’t.

….:--:.…

The sounds are not coming from Harry, and no one is expected, so both of them have their guns out within seconds, and when the clatter of a horse spurred to full speed gets more distinct, the rider, barely visible in the dark, yelling something indistinct and holding a gun, they do not have to think – their hands, gunslingers’ hands, act almost of their own volition, and when the sharp detonations fade, both rider and mount are down, the former still moving, but only barely. They approach, guns ready.

The man is on his back, chest heaving slowly, his breathing loud and erratic, and as they get closer, they can see dark bloody stars bloom over the clear shirt.

Then they are too close, because they can see his face, and it is Alain, fair Alain with blood trickling at his mouth and a look in his eyes that is infinitely too forgiving for what they just did.

There is a muted gasp from behind, and Roland registers, as if from far away, that Harry has come up to them, but he is still reeling, there is a taste of ashes on his tongue, and his guns are heavy in his hand.

Not again, he thinks, and the image of his mother flashes in front of his eyes, before reality settles back and his friend lies at his feet, dying by his hand.

“Farson… coming tomorrow… I already warned the others,” Alain is whispering, voice raspy, and both Bert and Roland kneel by his side, and Cuthbert’s smile is gone.

“Thank you”, Roland says, the words coming slow. “And sorry.”

Cuthbert says nothing, just takes his friend’s hand. Alain smiles, the corner of his lips red and his eyes sad, and, weakly raising his other hand, beckons to the boy behind them, who until now has not moved, frozen and unbelieving.

So Harry comes, and he hears, in-between hoarse intakes of breath, whispers in the still air –

“Take my guns, Harry Potter, son of James.” The words are spoken in that which they call the High Speech, formal and solemn despite Alain’s current state. His clouded eyes flick over to Roland, then are back.

“I can’t… go to the Tower with him,” Alain tells Harry, “but you… maybe you can do it in my stead.”

Harry holds the tears that have sprung again, and nods, not trusting himself to speak without breaking down completely, steps back.

Then, to the other two, Alain says, “This is not your fault.” And, to Cuthbert humorless laugh and Roland’s disbelieving look, he only replies “Ka.”

His breath hitches then. He coughs, blood rising to his mouth again, and he closes his hand on Bert’s, grip tight for a minute or so before slackening.

The last three feel their tet break as Alain’s chest rises for the last time.

….:--:.…

There is no time to dig a grave, but they will not leave their friend’s body to the scavengers, so they burn it. The flames, born from a flick of Harry’s wand, consume, rising high above the pyre, and the three of them stand solemn before it for the time it takes to reduce it all to ashes. Only then do they step back, and, the moon low over the horizon, prepare for the morning.

Cuthbert holds Harry back, slowly and ceremoniously hands him Alain’s gunbelt, and the two guns themselves, the metal shining dully under the stars.

“These are yours, now.” Their eyes lock, and Bert smiles, sadly. “They are usually passed down from father to son, but there was no time for that. Wear them with pride, Harry.” You really are a gunslinger now goes unsaid. You are his heir is also implicit. Harry swallows, and nods.

Then the older man moves as if to leave, but stops at the last moment, gazing into the distance with much more gravity than usual.

“There’s no chance I’ll survive this battle,” he says, and Harry wants to protest, say that of course he will, but he knows battle, knows the odds, and can only remain silent, his heart heavy. “But… Protect him. He has to live through today.” There’s no need to ask who he is. “The Tower calls for him.”

“I will,” Harry answers.

“Thank you.”

….:--:.…

Hours later, just before dawn, Roland intercepts Cuthbert, and presents him his battle-horn.

Abrupt and to the point, as he usually is, though gentler in tone, he asks “Will you hold it for me, and wind it into battle?”

For once, Bert is lost for words.

Patient, Roland waits, until finally the other man nods, and grins.

“I will, my friend.”

….:--:.…

Then, as they prepare to leave, Harry stops Roland a short distance from his mount.

“You won’t be riding him today.”

Blue eyes meet green ones, a silent question in them.

Harry answers by transforming, and the two gunslingers watch him with slight fascination. The black steed now standing where the boy was, graceful and calm, marches until he is at Roland’s side, and his intentions are clear.

There is a momentary hesitation, a pause during which Roland and Harry stare each other down, but finally Roland relents, and somehow hoists himself up on the Animagus.

There is a ripple in what remains of their broken tet, the boy’s voice echoing faintly in their minds.

Don’t you dare die on me.

lights out - Okami

2008-04-05T21:43:00Z

Uh, I've had this idea for ages, but only recently got around to writing it. I'm not sure if it counts as crack or not, frankly.

Title: Lights Out
Fandom: Okami
Rating: PG
Word count: 313

.lights out.

Its birth is a simple matter of breaking the soft elastic shell of the egg and taking a first breath in the cold darkness.

The first days it does not eat, sustained by nutrients stocked during its development, and travels up, up and up, drawn to the soft pale light filtering through the trees.

There it slinks between shadows, watching and waiting, until its wandering eyes stop upon a flicker of gold dancing over the water. It coils, then springs, still clumsy but fast enough to catch the firefly, tasting the light on its tongue and in its mind, before sinking back to its domain.

It grows this way, year after year and firefly after firefly, until none remain to illuminate the cool currents of the lake. Then, hungering, it starts turning its gaze over the stars reflected, candle-like, in the mirror of the water, and one day it opens its mouth wide and swallows one of them. It is pure and burning into its stomach, but it sates its hunger for a while.

Later it does it again, and grows larger and hungrier as the stars go out one by one, its eyes dark and glittering feverishly through the shade.

It is a long, long time, more than ten times a man’s lifespan, before the heavens stop shining and become as dark as the place it was born in.

Then it grows restless, deprived of food, until one night the moon shines, silvery and cold enough to freeze, right over its head, shifting with the tide and the wind.

It is drawn to it, to the light and the frost that will soothe the fire burning within it, and with a mere whisper of parting water and a crest of white foam riding away to die over the sand, the Whopper rises over Agata Lake and devours the moon whole.

oneshot: dreams

2007-12-21T20:25:55Z

Title: Dreams
Fandom: Kingdom Hearts
Characters: Namine, mentions of Sora, Riku, DiZ and Marluxia
Rating: PG
Warnings: Spoilers for CoM?

Her nights are empty, save for the occasional flash of (sun sky sand) memories that are not hers. When she wakes, it is with the name of the boy with blue eyes on her lips and the sound of the silver haired one’s laughter still ringing in her ears, even though she has never met them. So she stops sleeping, fighting the weariness, and draws, draws the sun on the sea, draws the wind in the trees, draws an island she knows as well as her white room (and maybe even more), an island she’s never gone to (or has she?).

She draws, and the days go by, always the same, white rooms and blank pages and empty, empty spaces.

Until one day she learns from Marluxia that the blue-eyed boy is in the castle (Sora, Sora, and she repeats his name twice, thrice, and it feels more familiar than even her own), and he’s looking for her, and when she is told what to do, she almost, almost, protests, but then she resigns herself and starts erasing, changing his memories, and puts herself in them, and it feels both satisfying and horrible, and he’s coming, coming, for her (but it’s not really her he’s coming for, and she can’t even try to pretend otherwise) and she wants to stop, but she’s afraid to. And then Axel gives her the occasion, and she tries to help. And maybe it does help, at least a bit, but then as quickly as he’s come Sora’s gone (not really gone, but certainly not here), and she puts him in his crystal cocoon to sleep.

Riku helps, a bit.

At first he’s just there to comfort her when she’s too weary, too tired, too scared, a silent and sympathetic presence hovering around the empty spaces, when she’s standing in that white room, watching up at brown hair and closed blue eyes, before returning to her sketchpad. She makes him dream, and those dreams actually are those memories she deleted (and it’s a sign she's spent too much time near DiZ, that she thinks ‘delete’ instead of ‘erase’) and it often hurts to put these back (he won’t remember me anymore, he won’t love me anymore), but she keeps going, because she was the one to do the damage in the first place, and it’s only fair she has to make it better again. She’s surprised one day, when she’s gathered enough courage to ask Riku details about something (the islands, maybe, probably), to see his eyes, usually so dark, lighten, and she remembers having dreamt of those aqua eyes (but she’d seen them like that, in the replica, after she’d made him believe it was he the true one), and from then on she asks him more, and Sora’s dreams become more detailed, and Riku’s smiling more often, and she is (almost) as close to happy as she can ever be, and she’s feeling useful and not just a burden and everything’s fine for the moment, it’s all getting better, but now there’s one problem-

-she’s running out of dreams.

Note: already posted on my FF.net page.

Bulletproof II

2007-08-31T14:53:20Z

The two first chapters in a go. Before I forget.

Bulletproof

Chapter II. Nights

On the morning, they leave the clearing together, Harry mounted on what used to be the pack horse. It’s not that much of that inconvenient once the material it had born has been subjected to shrinking and feather-light charms. He is at first uneasy and uncomfortable, but his previous stints with hippogriffs and thestrals have at least, if only a little, given an idea of how to stay on the horse’s back. It, at least, is not flying.

They do not talk much while riding, Roland, Cuthbert and Alain apparently thinking about something important, Harry too busy taking in the immense open spaces they pass through – yellow-green fields and pastures, hills and valleys, and the dispersed towns and cities. It is a strange and awesome sight after a whole life spent between Surrey, London and Hogwarts, and he discovers he really likes this, this wandering on the dusty roads with only friends for company (and though he wishes his old friends were there with him, he refuses to believe he’ll never see them again – there is way to go back, there must be a way to go back).

Those places, though, are getting rarer and rarer as they go, replaced by empty, burnt fields and dry desert-like plains. The animals are almost all somehow mutated, with extra limbs and organs, or oozing wounds. The people are weary-eyed, but still strong, working diligently. Sometimes they meet some other gunslingers, and they stop to talk, or palaver, as they say. Directions are blurry, ever-changing, and what is east one morning can be south-east the next one.

It is only when they stop for the nights, beside the trail, with a fire lit and their dinner cooking, that they speak. Harry does it first, his eyes fixed on the flickering flames and the other three sitting nearby, tells them a story about a boy who lived with his uncle and aunt and cousin and did not know he was a wizard before his eleventh birthday and who went to school and learned he was famous.

He tells them about Hogwarts and the Houses and the Forbidden Forest and Hogsmeade and Quidditch and the nighttime adventures with his friends.

He tells them about Voldemort who was called ‘He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’ or ‘You-Know-Who’ and whose name was really Tom Marvolo Riddle and who had tried to kill him when he had been but a babe and who was the involuntary cause of his fame in the wizarding world, who was bound to him by a prophecy (neither can live while the other survives, he recites, and wonders suddenly if his dying means Voldemort is also dead).

He tells them about Albus Wulfric Percival Brian Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, wise old man and crazy old codger at the same time, too fond of sweets and, above all, lemon drops, who was sometimes like a grandfather, except not really, because grandfathers don’t really send the kids to save the world, even if one of the kids is called Harry Potter, and who had a phoenix and had told him about the twin wands and about the prophecy (late, always too late for it to make a difference).

He tells them about Ron and Hermione, about how they had become friends, how they had always been together at school when their only concerns were having good grades and winning a Quidditch and getting Draco Malfoy in trouble, then had together gone to fight a war they had never wanted, never asked for. About Ginny whom he loved, still loves, whom he left before departing, fearing for her safety. About Neville who is shy and has such a low self-esteem, even though all of them have seen what he can do when he put his mind to it. He tells about all of his friends of the DA, about how proud of them he is, even if he doesn’t always tell them.

Tells them about Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks who are in love, about paranoid old Alastor ‘Mad-Eye’ Moody who had been supposed to be their teacher (‘Cort’ Cuthbert says, and Roland and Alain snort in amusement), about Kingsley Shacklebolt who has died a few weeks ago during a Death Eater attack in Diagon Alley while protecting the civilians, about Molly Weasley who is almost a mother to him, about Sirius who was his godfather and could turn into a black dog and died under his eyes while rescuing him.

Tells them about the Death Eaters and the Order of the Phoenix and about Severus Snape who is a part of both, Severus Snape who killed Albus Dumbledore under Harry’s eyes, who turned out to have been doing it on the Headmaster’s own orders and who was their only spy and who hated everything Gryffindor and Potter.

Tells about that last battle when he and his friends and a part of the Order have been ambushed while searching for another Horcrux (“parts of a soul” he explains) and how he has been killed, how the twin jets of death-green were coming towards him, how one hit him before the other, how the green lights merged in one.

They listen well, in silence, with the occasional question when they need clarification (they don’t know about chess, which he mentions in passing while talking about Ron, but once Harry explains Roland likens it to a game they call Castles, and they go back to the story). The narration is a bit erratic, Harry sometimes backtracking to add details, or too flustered by something and hesitating before continuing, but he tells almost everything, and it does slightly lighten him. Helps get things cleared in his head.

It takes maybe three nights for him to say it all. Then Cuthbert looks at Alain, then at Roland, and, as they both nod, he talks.

Once, he says, there were boys in Gilead, gunslingers’ sons, raised and trained to be gunslingers themselves. Only few, Bert explains, have the right to wear the guns, and that right has to be earned. Oft together they were, these boys, friends from the beginning, before they even could walk. They had two teachers, and from them they learned fighting and diplomacy and everything they would need to know when (if) they’d take their fathers’ place.

Once, there was Hax the cook, who would nourish them in secret when they came to the kitchens, and whom they’d seen hang after it had been discovered he’d treated with one who was called the good man by some and Farson by others, and was planning to betray and poison them. They’d scattered crumbs of bread at the bottom of the gallows, under the dead man’s feet, then had gone back, and that had been the end of it.

Once, there was a boy with a hawk, (and the quick glance in Roland’s direction made it clear who exactly that boy was) who went and defeated Cort at the age of fourteen, the youngest ever to have made it, and had sacrificed David the hawk for it. He’d gone and taken his heavy ’prentice’s guns that day, leaving his amazed companions and bloodied teacher, and with his closest friend buried his hawk.

Once, only slightly older but all three hiding guns in their packs, they had gone away from Gilead on a mission to a place called Mejis, more to protect them than anything else. There one had fallen in love, and another had been somewhat jealous, and all had faced and battled Eldred Jonas and his Big Coffin Hunters, and had seen and found the pink crystal glassball and Rhea the witch. There they’d annihilated a whole troop of John Farson’s men, and when they came back it was too late and the girl (Susan, her name was, and as Cuthbert talks he shares a meaningful glance with Roland, and it’s a mix of resentment and friendship and anger and love) was dead, burned alive. They’d gone back to Gilead, oh sure, but it wasn’t really the same after that. And, he says, there’s the Tower, but a look from the others make him skip the subject and go back to Gilead. And then, and then, the war had begun and Gilead had fallen, gone up in flames, and now…

Now, he says, they are preparing a battle, reuniting the gunslingers. They are going to make their last stand, and come what may.

….:::---:::.…

They talk of less important things after that, but they are closer, Harry being more interested and asking to know of their plans, the three doing so and teaching him more about warfare than he ever knew.

And one evening, as they are unpacking, Roland walks to Harry and, taking out one of his guns, slowly presents it to him. Alain and Bert exchange an amazed stare. Ignoring them, Harry searchingly raises his eyes to Roland’s, and after a moment, reverently takes the weapon, the sandalwood grip smooth under his hand. It is heavier than he expected, but there’s no need of using both hands to hold it. He looks at Roland again, a silent question in his eyes. Not answering, Roland picks up a medium-sided rock, and, without warning, throws it high in the air. Automatically, green eyes snap up, following the object’s course, and, with Seeker-honed instincts, Harry pulls the trigger.

A fraction of second after the gunshot, the rock explodes in a shower of pebbles.

He looks at the gun, marvels at the way it feels so right in his hand, then gives it back to Roland. There’s silence for a while, broken only by Bert’s laugh.

“Well. Looks like we’ve found a new gunslinger.”

….:::---:::.…

From then on, the three alternatively hand him a gun, and teach him. Teach him the old gunslinger’s catechism –

“I do not aim with my hand; he who aims with his hand has forgotten the face of his father.

I aim with my eye.

I do not shoot with my hand; he who shoots with his hand has forgotten the face of his father.

I shoot with my mind.

I do not kill with my gun; he who kills with his gun has forgotten the face of his father.

I kill with my heart.”

- and as he says it he shoots the day’s targets, and he learns fast, and always it’s at least clipped. And whenever he’s holding one of those ancient revolvers he can feel his blood thrumming in his veins, something akin to joy (but oh so much wilder) and an almost overwhelming bloodlust pulsing through him. A gunslinger born, they comment, and it’s possibly one of the best things he’s ever heard.

And so Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived-To-Die shot, his hand steady, breathing in the sharp smell of gunpowder, under the watchful eyes of the gunslingers.

And so they teach him how to kill.

Bulletproof I (HPxDT)

2007-08-31T14:29:23Z

Title: Bulletproof
Fandom: Harry Potter x Dark Tower
Characters: Harry Potter, Roland Deschain, Cuthbert Allgood, Alain Johns
Rating: PG-13?
Warnings: Mention of past character death

Chapter I. Death

When he first opens his eyes, it is, judging by the sun’s position, early afternoon. He cannot remember how he came to lay here, over this soft grass (not that he remembers much right now) but he doesn’t really mind. It’s been a while (years) since he has been this peaceful, and he intends to enjoy this while it lasts. He closes his eyes, sighing contently, and listens to the silence before finally falling asleep.

….:::---:::.…

He is brutally woken by the sound of a gunshot, and in an instant he is up on his feet, wand in hand. This time it is twilight, and he whispers a quick ‘Lumos!’. The magical light allows him to really look at his surroundings, and he can see he is in a clearing, a clear space surrounded by bushes and trees. The gunshot had originated from his left, he thinks, so he sets off that way, uncaring of danger, more curious than anything else. A few feet into the forest, and there is a light, a bit further. He goes.

As he gets closer, he mutes the light from his wand, and only the firelight –for it’s fire, he can see it now- remains, a vivid spot of orange-red in-between the trees. Without thinking, without any conscious decision, he begins to shift into his Animagus form. It is something he has practiced back home (and now he pauses slightly, Where is home?) with his friends, but has never been very useful. Now, though, he lets himself flow into his animal self, a heavy, tall, long-maned black horse. It may not be very stealthy, but would still look less threatening than a human to whoever was there, were he (they?) hostile.

He’s on the border of another clearing now, he sees, hidden in the shadows, on the edges of the flickering light cast by the wood. There are three men hunkered around it, one of them skinning a rabbit, the other two arranging bags and sheets into makeshift beds. He doesn’t move, stays in the dark, watching them. They don’t seem much older than him, maybe four or five years of difference, maybe even less. He takes a breath. Expires.

Moves forward, into the light.

….:::---:::.…

It is Cuthbert who first hears the nervous neighs of their horses, he who first raises his head to see something moving out of the darkness, and his hand instinctively drops to the gun hanging at his belt. A mere moment later, Roland and Alain do the same, and the three of them stand tense, ready to fire. One, two seconds, and they can finally see, and it’s just a horse, and after exchanging an incredulous look (but there’s a brief pause before, in case there’s something coming after the horse) relax. Cuthbert goes back to the rabbit, finishing the skinning. Alain sits back and watches Roland, who, after a last wary look around, approaches the animal standing there, looking calmly at them. Still, Roland’s approach is slow, his eyes all the way trained on the equine. He stops a few feet from it, and carefully extends his hand towards it. Unfazed, the horse just makes a few steps forward, seeming completely unafraid. Taking that as an encouragement, Roland takes a last step and begins to run his hand over the silky neck, still ready to pull back. No sign of fear from it. He ends up at its side, hand playing in the long mane.

Cuthbert, having decided he has done enough for the moment, interrupts.

“What’s a horse like that doing in the middle of nowhere? It doesn’t seem to have a master, but it’s obviously not a mutie, and anyway, there weren’t any traces of a herd around here…”

Roland nods.

“Don’t know. It doesn’t fear us.” A pause, then – “But if it belonged to someone, it wouldn’t have come all the way into the woods. Would’ve been found before.”

They fall silent, and the subject of the conversation stays unmoving, content with looking at them. And then Alain rises, approaches, and frowns.

“Something’s wrong…” He trails off, while the two others look at him. And, with a sign in the horse’s direction –

“It’s not a real horse.”

….:::---:::.…

The man closest to him steps back, his faded blue eyes suddenly wary. He doesn’t really stop to wonder how the third one suddenly knows; once again, he does not think, acts on instinct, and shifts back to human, to find, for the second time that night, three guns trained on him. He raises his empty hands, gives an easy smile. I’m no danger to you. They stare at him, until the one who had last spoken lowers his weapon. His companions look slightly puzzled, but follow suit when he nods slowly.

“No bad intentions against us”, he tells them, and they seem to trust him.

The blue-eyed man is looking at him still, and he doesn’t move while the other appears to be gauging, evaluating him. Then he turns and goes to sit by the fire, and gestures for him and the other two to come.

They come. Now he can see them more clearly, sees the curious looks the dark-haired, dark-eyed one sends in his direction. Blue-eyes’ hair is dark too, but the third one is fairer, clear eyes switching back and forth between his friends and him. Silence again, for a while. Then Blue-eyes speak.

“Who are you?”

His mind is still fuzzy, and he doesn’t know why exactly, and he had to think for a moment before the answer comes –

“Harry Potter.”

There’s no sign of recognition from the trio at his name. Vaguely, he feels there should be.

“What are you doing around here?”

“I don’t know.”

“How did you come here, then?”

He frowns. He doesn’t remember. Tries to. It feels like something’s blocking his memories, a mental wall of some sort, and he claws at it, thinning it, until it’s gone. And then – crashes. Shouts, jets of light flying, rebounding on the walls, red hair at the corner of his eyes, men in black robes, blood in his eyes, his scar hurting, then a high-pitched laugh, and two voices, one cold and high, the other deeper and not as cold, both familiar, the same spell, and two green flashes of light speeding towards him, too fast for him to block, and ‘Harry!’ called over and over and – black.

He blinks. Swallows. Blinks again.

Then, still composed, still calm, but on the inside watching the green approach, closer and closer still, all in slow motion, while –

“I died.”

….:::---:::.…

Alain, by nature, was never one to be startled easily. Still, the stranger’s – Harry’s – answer is so unexpected that he cannot mask a movement of surprise. Cuthbert, on the sides, does the same. Even Roland recoils slightly. A shared look. His friends, as unbelievable as it is, seem to accept that answer as the truth. He feels the same. He doesn’t need the touch to believe so; there’s some part of him that recognizes the younger man as someone to be trusted, someone who won’t lie to them, not on such a subject.

They look at him again, and nod as one. We believe you.

Then Cuthbert, always curious, voices what Alain’s thinking (he doesn’t know what Roland’s thinking, rarely ever did).

“That was magic, wasn’t it? The horse.”

It seems obvious, but they want to be sure. Alain detects flicker of surprise in the green eyes and is puzzled. What is there to be surprised about? It is only logic.

Hesitation, then a nod. “Yeah…”

They don’t pry further. They’ve always been on comfortable terms with magic, even though their experiences with it have not always been good.

Silence.

Alain uses it to look at Harry in detail. Green eyes, the first thing you notice when looking at him, too old in his adolescent’s face. Wild hair, falling on his forehead. And, just there, hidden by it, a jagged scar, rather small, but in the distinctive shape of a lightning bolt. He wonders how he came to get it. Asks the question.

Receives an astonished look.

….:::---:::.…

They know magic, yet do not seem to be wizards. They ask him who he is, then wonder about his scar. Something is wrong.

He looks at them.

“Where are we?”

They don’t seem fazed by sudden change of subject. Blue-eyes (and he still doesn’t know their names) is the one to answer.

“In the Outer Baronies, maybe a thousand wheels from where Gilead stood once.” There is bitterness in the way he says that name, Gilead, but not directed at him.

And… Something is very wrong.

“Where is that?”

They look at each other. Back at him.

“Where are you from?”

“England. I was in Diagon Alley when…” He trails off. Looks at their blank faces. Sighs.

“Great. No such place around here?”

A negative sign.

“Wonderful.”

The dark-eyed one grins.

“Looks like death isn’t what it used to be.”

Well. After wands and owls and flying broomsticks, he supposes even dying and waking up somewhere completely unknown where people are still travelling on horseback armed with guns (alternate universe, maybe, or something like that – he’ll have to ask Hermione for precisions, he thinks, before realizing the foolishness of that thought) doesn’t seem very strange.

He can’t stop himself from smiling back, despite being dead, despite not being sure he’ll ever see his friends again.

“And since it looks like I’m stuck with you, mind telling me your names?”

“I’m Cuthbert Allgood.”

“Alain Johns.” It’s the fair one, giving a smile of his own.

Then, Blue-eyes. “Roland Deschain.”