dayspassquicker

Laws of Motion (Sanctuary)

2009-12-06T10:16:48Z

Laws of Motion

Sanctuary. Magnus, Will. G.

summary: It's almost like everything is normal again

story notes: Major Season 2 spoilers up to 2x07 'Veritas'.

Laws of Motion

-Every object persists in its state of rest or uniform motion in a straight line unless it is compelled to change that state by forces impressed upon it.-

Kate settles in, and it's almost like everything is normal again. Magnus has a tightness to her voice and new lines around her eyes, but she's careful not to let them see the cracks.

It's Will's job to see them. Tiny fissures. The way open files pile up across her desk, (distracted); the way she rests her head against her hand as she works, (not sleeping). He can count on one hand the number of meals he's seen her eat.

Weeks pass. The Big Guy gets better, Magnus leaves her office more.

Henry fixes the EM shield, the old fault lines rendered invisible. The Sanctuary is whole and safe again.

And it's great, it's fine. It's just that when Kate walks into a room, Will still looks up and expects to see a different face.

*

-Force is equal to the change in momentum per change in time.-

The only honest advice he can give is that it doesn't get better. It just gets further away.

He grieved for his mother in a blur of white beds and whiter rooms. Child psychologists wrote down phrases like 'false memories' and 'delusional' while telling him it would be okay. He cried so much he thought his body was going to cave in on itself. He cried so much he thought she might come back.

Time passes, everything fades. Magnus knows this more than anyone.

(There are still nights Will wakes up suddenly with the sheets twisted around him, tears heavy in the back of his throat. Itsgoingtobeokay.)

It doesn't get better. It does get quieter. Like you're underwater and somebody's screaming.

*

-For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.-

Something happens on her trip to South America that she doesn’t talk about, but the second Will walks into her office he can tell something in her has shifted right way up again.

Magnus never tells him the real story, but she touches him now more than she used to. A hand on his back, a squeeze of his shoulder. She practically throws herself into his arms after the Big Guy's non-murder, although in retrospect that one might have been bug-induced. The rest is real; her fingers grazing against his wrist to get his attention, the way she lets her shoulder press against him as she leans over to see something.

Will doesn't bring it to her attention in case she stops. Her hand around his feels the same as his hand around hers. The body tries to compensate for loss.

In Space No One Can Hear You Scream 'Connie Chung' (Murphy Brown/ ST: Voyager).

2009-01-28T06:50:54Z

In Space No One Can Hear You Scream 'Connie Chung'.

Murphy Brown/ ST:Voyager, G.

story notes: For my buddy fuyu_ginga, who probably shouldn't have encouraged me. This is crack!fic. I accept no responsibility for any headaches caused by trying to follow "story logic". And yes, I know Janeway is breaking the Prime Directive. I went to nerd school too.

Frank has spent his life chasing adventure, but this tops everything. Space. None of his childhood dreams had done it justice. He wants to remember everything about this moment, the hum of a starship engine beneath his feet, the way the artificial gravity pulls oddly at his bones. The taste of recycled air in the back of his throat. The sound of...slurping.

"Unbelievable." Frank turns away from the observation windows and towards the source of the noise.

"What?"

"You." He watches forkful after forkful of...something disappear into Murphy's mouth. "You'll eat anything if it's free, wont you?"

Murphy shrugs, poking at the plate with her fork. "It's not that bad."

"It tastes like dirt. Like sweaty dirt." He shudders again at the memory. "How can you even eat at a time like this? We're in Space! We're about to meet people from four hundred years into the future. This is huge!"

Murphy rolls her eyes and carries on eating.

Frank pouts a little. "Well excuse me for thinking you'd be more excited about meeting Kathryn Janeway."

"Oh big deal, Frank. The woman takes a wrong turn and gets lost for seven years. When she does get back it's to the wrong century. I mean, look at all of this." Murphy gestures around the room, packed to the brim with press representatives from almost every country. "The world is so desperate to catch any pearl of wisdom that might fall from this woman's lips that we all run up here like sheep as soon as we get the go-ahead, despite some of us having some pretty sweet non-refundable basketball tickets, yet no-one's thought to consider that Kathryn Janeway might not be the sharpest tool in the box."

Frank rests his head against the cool glass of the window. It makes a nice thunk. He closes his eyes.

"More leola root, ma'am?"

There's a pause. Then the slurping starts again.

*

Miles is barely through her office door before the tirade begins.

"Connie Chung, Miles."

He can't see her. He hates it when he can't see her. "Mur--"

"Connie Chung, Miles." Her head appears over a stack of papers, and he tries not to jump. There are pencils in her hair and a wild look in her eyes.

"Murphy, come out and let's talk about this. It's going to be okay." He keeps his voice soft, just like the HR guy told him to. "So another reporter gets this *one* interview. It's okay. We carry on. Onwards and upwards."

"Miles." She stands up, and he doesn't realize he's moving until he feels the doorknob hit his back.

"I went up there. I missed my basketball game. I took a three hour tour of the ship. I listened to multiple science lectures. I was nice. I smiled. I made small talk, Miles. Janeway said I could have the interview. Now maybe over the next four hundred years there occurs a loosening of morals and standards that makes that kind of backstabbing acceptable in the 24th century, but here in the 20th century it's going to require a little payback."

"Payback!" She's standing very close to him now, and Miles tries to laugh, but the noise that escapes is unrecognizable. He suddenly notices several color-coded charts stuck to the wall, and in the corner, some sort of blueprint spread out across the floor.

"Murphy, they're riding around on a ship that has the power to blow up the entire planet. They have technology beyond our wildest dreams, and you want to mess with them a little?"

She grins. "Yes, Miles. Yes I do."

This was not good.

*
Miles lasts a week before calling the rest of the team to a pre-work emergency meeting. All three of them are late. While he waits he drafts a memo on the importance of punctuality and wonders nervously if Murphy has started sleeping in her office.

They finally trickle in together, and he stands by the coffee station and tries to look imposing. They don't seem to notice, so he starts to stride around the table.

The trick to authority was to project an aura of confidence. He stands as tall as he can, clears his throat, and begins to address his team.

"Guys, I need one of you to talk to Murphy for me."

No response. Jim opens his paper, Frank starts picking through the donuts, and Corky yawns behind her hand.

He clears his throat again. "Please?"

Nothing.

"Guys. Guys! She's out of control! I had to beam up there, do you know what that is? They rip you apart molecule by molecule, shoot you to a different place, then smash you back together again. I had a cell phone in my pocket when I beamed up, it was gone when I came back down." He looks off into the distance. "Now every time I sneeze I hear a dial tone."

He decides to reach out to Jim first, goes to place a hand on his shoulder, then thinks better of it. "Jim! You're like a father to her, there's no one whose opinion she respects more. She'll listen to you!"

Jim just sighs and shakes his head. "Miles, you're playing with forces beyond your control. You have to let this one play out."

Miles falls into the seat opposite Frank, trying not to let his desperation show. "Frank! Frank-a-rooni, mi compadre! You guys have been best friends for, what, fifty years? How about you just go in there and have a talk with her?"

Frank bites into his danish and heads towards the coffee. Miles puts his head in his hands and tries not to cry.

"I'll talk to her, Miles."

He looks up at Corky's smiling face. Sweet, innocent, loveable Corky. Who could say no to the Corkster? It-it might just work.

"You will?"

It only takes a second for her face to twist. "No! Serves you right for not even asking." She stands up. "I would have been great, too."

His head returns to the table. Maybe if he just closes his eyes for a while.

*

Miles is congratulating himself for making it through one more day without an aneurysm when Kathryn Janeway walks into FYI.

He's pouring a cup of coffee as she steps off the elevator, and the thing is, he just keeps pouring. The liquid spills over the cup and onto his shoes before he thinks to stop.

Her eyes catch his, and he fights the urge to hide. "Mr. Silverberg."

She strides towards him, holding out an object. "Kathryn Janeway. You left this on my ship."

Now that's how you stride, he thinks.

Miles tries to look as dignified as one can whilst also covered in coffee. "You came all this way to return my cell phone?"

"No." She smiles. "Tell me," she leans against the counter, and Miles is reminded of nothing more than a snake uncoiling. "Is Ms. Brown in?"

He swallows dry air and lifts his cup in the direction of Murphy's office. This was bad. This was very very bad.

*

Miles was worried. It had been an hour. He'd ordered everyone home in case the fighting got dirty. Death-rays, alien knives, phaser-guns, and God knows what weapons Janeway had at her disposal. Instead it had just been...quiet. Too quiet.

Murphy's door begins to move, and he quickly looks at the papers in front of him. Shuffles them around for good measure.

"Oh, hi Miles."

He looks up as the two women move towards the elevator. Both seemingly in possession of complete sets of limbs.

Murphy turns to him as the doors begin to close. "Kathryn and I are going to Phil's for a bite. See ya tomorrow." The doors shut on two smiling faces.

Kathryn?

Miles' stomach begins to churn, and he reaches inside his suit jacket for his antacids.

Somehow, this was worse.

Practice Resurrection (Battlestar Galactica)

2008-08-03T10:42:31Z

Practice Resurrection

Battlestar Galactica, Adama/Roslin, PG.

summary: four second chances.

story notes: Written for the Christmas in July challenge at adama_roslin. Prompt: A story dealing with the fact that Laura is apparently not the Dying Leader and what that means for her relationship with Bill.

Practice Resurrection

1.

"Do you miss me?" she asks, pressing her face into his jacket.

He smells like smoke and skin, and she takes a deep breath. Of all her indulgences tonight, this is by far the most dangerous.

"Miss you?" His free hand brings the cigarette to his lips, and he takes a long slow drag. For a second she hates herself for asking.

His breath is warm against her hair as he exhales. "Remind me who you are again?"

Laura tilts her head up, sees the edges of his grin disappearing under his moustache. This man, so unexpected sometimes. She props herself up to meet his gaze, head spinning slightly with the effort. Tries to look stern.

"Laura Roslin? Ex-president of the twelve colonies of Kobol and this here godsforsaken rock?"

"Hmm." He pulls her closer. "Not ringing any bells." They are almost nose to nose.

"Laura Roslin? Ex-prophet, ex-dying leader?" Her tone is light, but his hand still comes up to touch her face.

"Do we have the same dry-cleaner, maybe?"

She smiles, big and bright. Affection pools in her belly, warming her against the cold night air. She settles into him again, forehead pressed against his cheek this time. "Maybe that's it."

"Wait a minute." His lips brush the bridge of her nose as he talks. "Aren't you that lady who got me stoned and took advantage of me?"

Her laughter bubbles then breaks. "Must be some other ex-president".

"Ah. Too bad."

She looks up. Their bodies are level, hips and lips. It would barely take anything. In the east, the bottom of sky is changing color. It's a new day.

2.

It's different the second time.

"Diloxin," Cottle says. He has the nerve to look optimistic.

It will be easier, she tells herself. This time there's no reason to keep her cancer a secret. No reason she can't hold a press conference, carefully use the words 'options' and 'treatment'. Gain sympathy. Gain back leverage with those she somehow failed by not dying the first time. She won't have to worry about the military, won't have to sit through briefing after briefing with silence resting like cold water against her ribs.

This time she already knows the feel of a crowd as it begins to surge, hands pulling and grabbing. She remembers how not to recoil. How to smile at a frightened child as it is thrust into her arms. The soft thump of people falling to their knees. The weight of all that need.

It will be easier. It has to be.

"Diloxin," she answers.

It's different the second time. She has to find the words. Bill's face buckles for a moment, right before he reigns himself in. She steps towards him. The look in his eyes is almost too much to bear.

3.

"I'm sorry," he says later, breath still sour with alcohol. "If I could take it back I would."

Her smile is tight and ugly. "You shouldn't. You were right. The Dying Leader, a dying leader. The end result's the same."

His head falls into his hands and she can't look at him anymore. Her hair is falling out, and her body's so tired she can't even will herself up from the couch. Just for tonight she wants to break something and leave it broken.

"Laura." His voice, like sandpaper, cracks over her name. "You have to fight this. You have to believe you can win."

She’s not sure if it’s anger or desperation that makes her grab at his hand, makes her pull it towards her until his palm is flat against her breast. He starts to pull away in shock, but she closes her other hand around his wrist, locking him there.

"Bill, I'm dying."

He thinks that faith can keep her alive, but she knows that the best it can do is keep her upright. It's the steel in her bones on the days when all she can feel is the artificial gravity of the ship pressing her down. She's tired of telling him. Tired of meeting the same line of resistance, over and over.

"I'm dying." She presses down against the top of his fingers. Maybe this time. "It's not the prophecy that's killing me. If none of this had happened, the cylons, Kobal, none of it, I'd still be dying. I'd be dead. You can't keep--"

His mouth is on hers before she can finish, and she knows he hasn't heard a word. She breaks the kiss.

"That won't help."

"Laura-"

The heat of his hand is still heavy against her heart. She doesn't know how to make him understand. Faith is not immutable. Love is not a guarantee.

4.

His face, his face against her neck, his fingers soft against her back, and she wonders how she has been so blind. He pulls her in tighter, torso to torso, and something in her stomach loosens and shakes. She kisses everywhere her mouth touches, the skin of his cheek, the top of his shoulder. Has it been this simple all along?

Just love someone.

all those fires and floods (24)

2007-05-27T05:35:17Z

all those fires and floods

24, Karen/Bill, mild-R.

summary: sometimes lonely hearts they just get lonelier.

all those fires and floods

It’s not that it’s not love. It’s just that some mornings you wake up expecting to see the ceiling of your old apartment, and for a second everything is wrong.

**

In the end, the press breaks the story before you do. Your own face staring back at you from the TV screen as you leave message after message. It’s an old picture, longer hair and a sterner smile. He comes home late.

"We’ve only been married a month," he says, like you’ve forgotten. Like you forget everything that doesn’t require a security clearance.

**

One morning, Tom follows you into your office. It’s 7 AM, and you’ve been awake for five hours. A delayed connection, and there was barely enough time for you to brush your teeth in the airport bathroom before running for a cab.

He starts speaking before you can turn around. "Karen, this job isn’t part-time. Either do it or don’t."

It’s still dark outside. You throw your coat down onto your chair, and he’s gone before you remember to say 'get out'.

**

Sometimes when you fight, sometimes when you have to leave early, sometimes when your mind is ten other places, Bill will say: "Karen, if you want this to work, you have to choose it."

You’ll be frowning into a file you don’t remember reading, one with your signature at the bottom and your own handwriting cramped into the margins.

All you will think is: I did.

**

When the attacks get worse, you stop flying back at weekends. Some nights you don’t even make it to your hotel, and there are missed calls on your cell phone, and voicemails that you forget to check.

He deserves more than you, but you were always careful what you promised.

It doesn’t stop you being sorry. He visits, and you spend the night kissing a thousand apologies into his skin. Knees either side of his hips, pushing down hard, trying to make a mark. You close your eyes and make it hurt. He doesn’t stop you, but there’s a ghost of a touch on the inside of your wrist, his thumb drawing slow circles. It’s too much. You jerk your hands away and shift your hips closer.

You don’t open your eyes until he comes. You breathe out, and it’s worse, and he’s looking at you like you’re breaking his heart.

**

You fire him and he stops answering your calls. You’d wondered what it would take.

**

Afterwards, for days, the air smells of smoke that you know isn’t there.

You stop watching the news. You call the front desk and cancel the morning paper. You still dream, long heavy nights full of tangled sheets and bombs that never stop exploding.

**

They reopen LAX within the week. He’s waiting at the gate, hands jammed into the pockets of his coat, and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

"You’re here," you say. His smile almost breaks you.

You save the world and lose your job. You lose your job and save your marriage. You keep getting it wrong, even when you get it right.

**

It’s not that it’s not love. Some mornings you wake up with his hand warm against your hip, and the angles of his body against the bed are the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

Some mornings he presses kisses along your jaw. "Thank you for coming back to me."

You slide your arms around his waist. Absolution.

You don't say: it wasn't my choice.

if a body meets a body (ST:TNG)

2007-04-22T20:59:17Z

if a body meets a body

Star Trek: The Next Generation, Riker, PG.

story notes: Post "The Host". For nothing_hip Week 2: 'Slide' by the Goo Goo Dolls. (Do you wake up on your own / and wonder where you are?)

if a body meets a body

He wakes up and starts to forget.

Nurse Ogawa discharges him while Beverly is still in surgery. He goes to the bridge to finish his shift, and when he comes back she’s gone. He sees her the next day at the morning briefing, but she sits at the other end of the conference table, and by then he can’t remember what it was he was going to say.

He’s supposed to keep track of any after-effects. Doctor’s orders. There are a few minor things here and there, and he logs them for the article she’s writing. Some things he erases before he sends the report to sickbay, like how his walk still feels wrong, or how he can’t quite figure out what to do with his hands when he talks.

Picard doesn’t call him ‘Number One’ for three days.

He schedules time with Deanna. She asks what it felt like, and he says: I don’t remember. It’s a lie, but she’s the first one to ask, and he’s been practicing the answer.

Data finds him everything Starfleet has on the Trill. He falls asleep with a PADD in his hand and dreams of all the wrong faces.

There are weekly check-ups for a while. Beverly does them all, her smile too bright and too hard. She talks a lot, like she’s afraid to stop. She tells him all about the paper, Neural Symbiosis and something. He doesn’t always listen, just leans back on the bio-bed and watches the insides of her wrists as she moves above him. Sometimes he remembers the taste of her skin, sudden and sharp, like a breath he can’t catch.

Every time he showers he notices the small scar below his navel, a faint puckering of flesh. He wonders if she left it there on purpose.

Scenes from a Marriage (24)

2007-04-08T07:42:59Z

Scenes from a Marriage

24, Karen/Bill, PG-13.

Scenes from a Marriage

"When did you know?" she asks.

Washington is cold, and leaving California took everything she had. Her last cell phone bill cost more than their wedding.

"When did you--"

"Right away. The moment I saw you."

She laughs. "Liar." She hears him walk upstairs, hardwood creaking. "Was this before or after I put you in handcuffs?"

"Well, that's when I realized some additional things." She hears the smile in his voice and can't help but smile back. She won't be distracted.

"Bill, when did you know?" Her fingers press absently against her lips. She misses the weight of him, the curve of his throat against her cheek.

"When you said yes." The line crackles as he moves around. "I didn't dare--"

He stops. The city swims outside her window, streetlights and sirens as far as the eye can see. She imagines the stars clear and bright above him.

"I love you," she says, into the silence.

**

Places they've had phone sex: His office, her office. His house, her apartment. He caught her in traffic once, and she trusted in the tint of her windows and the tilt of her knee to keep her out of the tabloids. Or jail.

It's not even the sex. It's the sound he makes, she misses that. It's worse somehow, afterwards. Not being able to fall back into him, not being able press her mouth into his hair. The sharp snap of the cell phone as it closes shut. Her tired fingers and empty hands.

**

"Hi," she yawns into the phone.

He hates to wake her, she knows this, but between their jobs and the different time zones they're not left with much. She keeps her cell on the pillow next to her so she can answer it before he changes his mind.

"Karen? Were you sleeping? I'm so sorry." His voice is cracked and tired. "It's just… I've been missing you all day."

"Who is this?" she teases.

He laughs. It's going to be okay.

**

"When did you know?" he asks.

The sun is coming up. They'd promised each other they wouldn't do this anymore. Both of their jobs require their full attention.

"God, I have to be at work in two hours." She sits up in her bed, thinks about running water for a bath. "You're in so much trouble."

"Alright." He doesn't sound sorry. "I should let you go."

Neither of them move, his breathing steady against her ear. She could listen to it forever. Light is spilling through the window. It's so easy to be in love.

"I didn't want to leave, and I knew.” She shifts back onto the bed. “All those hours, all that chaos, and I didn't even want to go back to my hotel. And now I can't hang up the phone. Go figure."

It hurts again. Three thousand miles of dirt.

"I love you," he says, and she wants to hear it over and over and over.

Five Meals Karen Didn't Raincheck. (24)

2007-02-05T07:57:19Z

Five Meals Karen Didn't Raincheck.

24, Karen/Bill, PG.

Five Meals Karen Didn't Raincheck

1. Some restaurant in LAX. Her bag is at her feet, and Bill is walking towards her with two styrofoam cups, and she doesn't know what this is. They talk awkwardly about nothing, and she wonders if breakfast at the airport was a stupid idea, even though his knee bumps against hers perhaps more than is strictly necessary. There's a baby nearby that won't stop crying and a boarding announcement three gates away that seems to go on forever, but when they call her flight he kisses her, just like that, and the business card she was about to hand him drops to the floor.

2. Her Washington office. He makes an appointment to see her without letting her know. It's an ordinary day, and she's coming from one tedious briefing to what she assumes is another, until her assistant hands her an updated schedule and it reads: 'Lunch meeting - Buchanan, CTU'. She catches herself smoothing down her jacket and stops immediately.

3. Bill cooks her lobster for her birthday. She's forty minutes late, and when he opens the door she can tell he thought that she wasn't going to show. He waves away her apologies with a tight smile, and she wonders when she started being able to read him. She walks inside. His house is beautiful. All the candles on the table are burning low. He kisses her cheek and takes her coat, but she feels like she's ruined something. "Bill?" she says, following him into the kitchen. He turns to face her. "It's going to be like this, sometimes," she says, stepping closer. The tips of her fingers are resting against his shirt. Bill doesn't say anything, but he doesn't move away. She doesn't know what else to do, so she kisses him.

4. Room service arrives while they're both still catching their breath. It's a close call. The cart is covered in roses, the Honeymoon Special. Her own hastily-bought bouquet looks small and plastic on the table next to them. Bill almost trips trying to put his pants back on in time, and she rolls her face into the pillow so he can't hear her giggle. She feels like a teenager. The waiter leaves, and Bill turns and grins at her, smiles so wide she'd marry him all over again. She sits up, tucking the sheets around her, and laughs. He walks over, calls her Mrs. Buchanan and kisses her shoulder. She calls him Mr. Hayes and kisses back. She'd thought she'd missed all this for good.

5. A new restaurant on Sunset, to celebrate. Bill won't look her in the eye. She hates that he's upset, even if it's not at her exactly. It's not like they were two ordinary people before they met. "You think I should have turned it down?" she asks, pushing her salmon around her plate. It's dry. The water here is seven dollars a glass. She puts down her fork and reaches across the table. "I can fly back on weekends, or you could come up to Washington," she says softly, like they both work nine-til-five. He squeezes her hand. She doesn't know how to fix this.

but liquor is quicker (Murphy Brown)

2007-01-01T23:05:33Z

but liquor is quicker

Murphy Brown, Murphy, PG-13.

summary: All reporters drink.

story notes: Written for yuletide 2006

"I never got on that plane to Panama. But I did get on a plane to Betty Ford. And it was the hardest thing I've ever done."

--Murphy Brown, "The Memo That Got Away"--

**

All reporters drink.

**

Twenty-three hours until the plane leaves. She's not changing her mind.

The morning is excruciating. She walks in clutching coffee, eyes still bruised with sleep. Her secretary hands her so many phone messages Murphy considers using the brightly colored paper to barricade her door closed while she takes a nap. A brilliant plan foiled only by the people already waiting in her office. The new secretary was not off to a good start.

Enough is enough, and at ten o clock she makes photocopies of her arm, scar pressed up against the glass. She writes under the image in bright red ink: "BULLET WOUND, AFGHANISTAN" and tapes it to the coffeemaker. It doesn't stop the nervous looks, but she laughs when Carl spills coffee across his shoes.

**

All reporters drink, it was part of the job. Sources live in smoky bars, relationships are poured over ice. No one spills secrets over Cokes.

At first she drank like little girls play dress-up, swallowing fast and tripping over her heels. The taste got better, her lip stopped curling. She smoked her first cigarette at fourteen, in front of the mirror. She smoked her second one straight after, without coughing.

It was right then she knew she was going to make it.

**

Jim is in her office for the second time that day, and it's not even lunch yet. He paces in short, stiff steps, a rare sign of agitation.

"A phone interview, perhaps? Or they have those video-conference things now, I believe. We could get you wired up and do it from the studio."

He was born to be a newscaster; Murphy couldn't look at him and not think it. She missed out on Murrow but she got Jim Dial. She pictures a small child in a three-piece suit thanking his parents for the informative bedtime story and then signing off for the night. Murphy had swapped her easy-bake oven for a typewriter, a lifetime full of negotiating.

"Jim, I'm fine, I can do this. Don't make me show you my Woman of the Year cover again."

The pacing stops, a small victory. "You keep that thing in your purse, don't you?"

Murphy grins. "It gets me out of tickets."

**

All reporters drink, and foreign correspondents drink more than most. Vodka in Moscow, baijiu in Beijing. The Cold War was one long trans-Siberian bar crawl.

Murphy loved the routine, the rhythm of the road. Scrambling to file a story on time, and then out to the bars with the crew. Long nights and early mornings. She was one of the boys, and it was wonderful.

She calls her mother, at four dollars a minute, and tries to be a better daughter. Sometimes she even does it sober. When the disappointment is too much to take, Murphy pictures the ground she's standing on as it looks from the air, city lights breaking through the holes in the clouds like stargazing in reverse. She hangs up smiling.

She's young and abroad and good at her job. Nothing else matters.

**

Frank is standing in front of her desk, in clear violation of the 'do not disturb' sign Murphy has taped to her door. Apparently the photocopied scar can't even keep people out of her office. She's going to have to shred the other ninety-eight copies. Or make them into Christmas cards. She starts speaking before he can even say her name, rounding her desk to push him out of the door.

"No, Frank, no. Not you. I can deal with Jim, I can deal with Miss America, I can deal with four network executives, three insurance guys, and what I'm pretty sure was the cast of Cats. But if you tell me not to get on that plane, I might just unravel. So beat it."

"Finished?" He waves a folder at her. "This is from your secretary, you asked for it. For some reason she was afraid to come in. I can't imagine why."

Murphy takes the file and sits back down. Breathes out. The panic was starting, pressing against her ribs. "You're not here to tell me this is a bad idea?"

"Interviewing Noriega, are you kidding? I actually came in to tell you I heard more about Walker and Kozak."

"You got the details?"

"I heard two million and exile in Switzerland."

Murphy scribbles furiously on a notepad for a second. "I heard the same thing, but Spain. I'll double check." She stops a second. "Frank?"

"Murph, you're gonna be great."

She smiles. "Thanks, Frank."

He turns to leave. "Just don't get yourself killed. You still owe me twenty bucks."

**

All reporters drink, except lately she's the last one at Phil's, and Phil looks at her like he wants to say something.

She tells herself it's the Noriega interview, the long nights forcing it together, the struggle to make the pieces fit. She's still missing the question, that one perfect question she can hold safe in her mind as the cameraman counts down to air. The one that keeps her breathing steady, her eyes focused.

At night she dreams of plane crashes and equipment failures. Wakes up and starts again.

A drink to let it go. A drink to get it back.

**

Nine hours until take-off.

Her office is dark, the building finally quiet. She needs to think. Murphy takes a bottle of scotch from the bottom left drawer of her desk, pours a measure into the crystal glass she bought with her first paycheck.

There was no `making it'. There was only the next story, and then the next, and then the network will hire a fucking beauty queen anyway.

She just needs one question. One perfect question to prove them all wrong.

Nine hours. Her fingers are cold. Her throat is dry.

too much, too little (The Good Life aka Good Neighbors)

2006-03-18T06:36:35Z

too much, too little

The Good Life aka Good Neighbors, Margo, PG.

summary: The saddest part of a broken heart / isn't the ending so much as the start.

story notes: Written for yuletide 2005

That morning, for no reason, Margo takes off her wedding ring.

Her hand feels light, unburdened. She can't stop gazing down at it, flexing her fingers, twisting her wrist.

She makes scones without worrying about flour getting trapped underneath the metal. She does the washing up without her rubber gloves.

At eleven o clock the phone rings, and she drops a plate like she's been caught.

*

Town is busy. She needs candles and silver polish, and maybe Jerry's suit is ready to be picked up from the cleaners.

She's never had an affair.

"Not even a quick tumble?" asked Mrs. Peters from the Music Society, and the other ladies laughed into their teacups. Mrs. Peters wore dresses with the security tags tucked into the sleeves, and was easy to ignore.

Margo suspects she would dislike tumbling, she thinks it sounds sweaty and likely to wrinkle. She has her own pursuits. Music, pottery, an upstairs bathroom in major need of redecorating. Books of wallpaper samples and tile patterns fill her kitchen drawers, and it's easy not to notice when Jerry goes upstairs without saying goodnight.

It starts to rain. Margo is without an umbrella, and has already written to the weather department at the BBC twice in the past six months.

The candles prove troublesome to locate, forcing her into the supermarket across from the car park. The colours are garish, the aisles nauseating. She almost slips on the cheap flooring, slick with rain and mud. Another letter. The man who directs her to the candles calls her 'luv'. It's too much. She jams her naked fist into her pocket and hurries home.

*

Six o clock, a glass of gin and tonic, and Barbara comes over to borrow make up.

Margo sits on the bed and watches her play dress up, wedding ring locked back on to her finger and glinting in the light. It's best not to be ambiguous.

She finishes her drink before she gets up. Pulls a tissue from the silver box beside her bed and walks over to the mirror. "Barbara, that lipstick is far too dark for your dress."

Barbara takes the tissue and wipes her mouth. She giggles. "It's been a while since I've done this."

Margo crosses her arms, embarrassed. "You poor thing, you should have told me you'd run out of make up. I have three of everything, pieces I don't even use any more."

"Oh, Margo."

Their eyes meet in the mirror, and Margo has yet to figure out how Barbara manages to make feel foolish. Spoiled. She starts to feel angry, but Barbara grins just in time.

"You're too kind to us, Margo. Besides, Tom says he loves me without it, and the pigs don't seem to mind either way." She pauses and frowns. "The rooster can be quite mean sometimes, but I try not to listen." She turns her face.

"Better?"

"Much."

Margo takes another tissue and uses it to blot the corner of Barbara's mouth. Her throat tightens a little and she clears it.

"What time does Tom get back?"

"About an hour."

Margo nods. "I put the birthday candles by the front door. Matches, too."

"Thanks, pal."

Barbara hugs her quickly, tightly, and it catches her off guard. Margo smoothes down her skirt and blushes. "We'll be over at eight o clock sharp."

Barbara smiles and runs out of the door. Takes the stairs two at a time. "Jerry! Look at me all dolled up!"

Margo picks up her empty glass as laugher floats back up the stairs. Her stomach twists a little and she wonders why.

*

"You want to sleep with Barbara."

She'd said it once, just after they'd moved to Surbiton. They'd been fighting about a baby, an old fight that got sharper and left more scars every time they had it. That was back in the days when they really talked and really fought. Margo used to bang words together just to hear them smash.

She didn't bother after that.

Jerry had barely looked at her. "Don't be ridiculous," he said. Took the keys and went for a drive.

It was ridiculous. Jerry was loyal and traditional. Barbara was so completely Tom's that it hurt to see. But it was true anyway.

He was gone for three hours but brought back flowers. Kissed her on the cheek and she didn't ask again. He was a terrible liar.

Now Barbara is just another fight they never have. The rhythms of their life together have no substance. Margo's voice trills around the rooms of their house, a bird flapping noisily with no direction. Jerry reads his Financial Times silently in the kitchen, turning pages like a metronome.

*

Tom is just Tom, especially on his birthday. Full of homemade wine he leers at her across the room. Jerry has his hand on Barbara's knee, and she excuses herself to the kitchen for a drink of water. She runs her left hand under the tap, and twists her ring around and around.

The thing most people don't understand about Margo is she's not a prude, not in the bedroom. It's just a case of a place for everything and everything in its place.

Tom knocks before he comes in, and she turns towards him, resting her elbows against the sink behind her.

"I'm so sorry about Jerry, Tom. He's had too much to drink. I'll take him home immediately." Her voice sounds shrill and strange. She's not sure why she's nervous.

Tom can't seem to keep his smile on straight.

"It's no problem," he slurs, stepping towards her. Everything takes a lot of concentration. "Gives us a chance to catch up. Ey, Margo? Ey?"

He stands too close, and Margo has to lean back to stop their faces touching. She never understands this almost spiteful interest in her. Margo is tall and hard where Barbara is soft and small. Margo is cold and rigid, her consonants too sharp and her mouth too thin.

It's the second time he's almost kissed her.

The Good That Won't Come Out (Sex and the City)

2006-03-18T06:17:23Z

The Good That Won't Come Out

Sex and the City, Samantha, PG-13.

summary: Without the other two, they don't really work.

story notes: Written for yuletide 2004

Hotel sheets, she guesses, trying to get her bearings.

The shower is running. Tom? John? Samantha thinks for a minute. She checks her cell phone for messages.

"Hey, it's me. Just calling to check we're still on for coffee. I'm putting Brady down for his nap about eleven, so then's good. See ya."

Shit.

Another Saturday. She thinks about leaving Tom/John a note but decides against it. Instead she just finds her dress and leaves.

*

It takes her longer than usual to get a taxi, but she lets herself blame it on the weekend. It used to be a joke, Charlotte would look an outfit up and down and say: "Well, you'll have no trouble getting a cab." It used to make her laugh, because when had she ever had trouble getting anything? Now she has to ask nicely, she even smiles at the driver when he stops to let her in.

Samantha thinks that this is the worst part of getting older, you have to smile more.

*

Carrie was the first to leave, though they were used to it by then. Not that they said anything, but it wasn't the same after she came back from Paris. Where will the next one take you? California, it turned out. She calls a few times a month to say how she doesn't miss New York. How in love she is with Big.

Samantha knows Carrie thinks she can't come running back. Not again.

"We're always here," she makes a point of saying anyway. The line crackles and her mouth is suddenly dry.

"I know, sweetie. I know."

*

Miranda calls her again while she's in the cab. Samantha doesn't answer, she can't afford to waste the words. They never have enough to say to each other as it is, their lives no longer touch. They tell the same old stories, stretch them over a cup and a half of coffee, and Samantha has learned to check her watch at the precise moment Miranda lowers her head to pour a refill.

And it's not that she doesn't like Miranda, though there have been times when that was true. Times when Miranda used to join them late from the office, all sharp angles and short spiked hair, and Samantha had thought: What are you trying to prove? No, Miranda was vital back then. Clear-headed with a dirty laugh. Someone to roll her eyes at when Charlotte or Carrie were wrapped in some fairytale romance.

It's just, without the other two, they don't really work.

*

It wasn't marriage they lost Charlotte to, that was a battle they had won before and were ready to win again. Motherhood was a different thing though, and it took her from them like a tidal wave.

"I just can't raise my baby in the city," Charlotte had said, and there was no way to argue. Besides, it was just her and Miranda then, and Miranda was in Brooklyn, and it wasn't nearly enough to make her stay. Off she had gone. Occasionally Samantha gets an elaborate invitation in the mail, a dinner party here, a luncheon there, but she can never quite make it.

Charlotte calls her more than Carrie does. Listens more when she calls. But something in her voice has changed.

*

The cab is stuck in traffic, just like every Saturday. Samantha considers telling the driver to turn back around.

The thing is, when Smith left she called Carrie. But it was Miranda who showed up with vodka, on a work night, without the kid. And when Charlotte told her that Steve's mother had died, Samantha had gone to the hospital and taken Brady for the day. The thing is, there's just the two of them now, and they have a history if nothing else.

So once a week she goes to Brooklyn to drink coffee that she doesn't want. She tries to thank Miranda for being the one who stayed.

*

Except Miranda didn't stay, not really.

She stopped caring about being made partner at her firm. "There are more important things now, " she had said, refilling her cup and bringing the baby monitor across to the table. Samantha was sure she was telling the truth, but she had stopped pretending it was still Miranda after that. Stopped thinking she could make things fall back into place.

And Miranda even looks different, rounder, softer. She's turning into the kind of woman people behind counters call 'sweetheart.'

No one calls Samantha 'sweetheart.' Even when she smiles.

*

Samantha's body is changing too, but from the inside, where she can't keep track. She used to check for cellulite, tan lines. Now it's for lumps and bumps, fingers lightly running across her breasts in the shower as she holds her breath and prays. The doctor will say: "Is there anyone you can call?" She thinks, 'who will I call?'

Not her assistant, late twenties with a smile that could punch through walls. Samantha had hired her because she liked to think the girl reminded her of herself. Which was stupid, because now she had to watch her back. Not a current fuck, talk about killing the mood. There's less choice than there used to be. She can't make her body work right these days, like she's forgotten the secret to a trick she was never shown to begin with.

No, she needs to hold tight to Miranda.

*

Outside the cab, and the sunlight plays across the brick walls and invites her inside. Samantha checks her watch and smoothes her dress.

She rings the doorbell and remembers to smile.

And now it's night (Losing Chase)

2006-03-18T06:09:22Z

And now it's night

Losing Chase, Chase/Elizabeth, PG

summary: This is the start of life after Elizabeth.

story notes: Written for the Free Verse Challenge

*
Today you cleared your throat a hundred times.
Agreed with twenty cliches. Made toast.
You looked at your watch five times an hour.
You are that fool. And now it's night.
- from Wasting a Day by Paul D. McGlynn
*

(I. Parting is such sweet sorrow.)

There's an accident at the corner of Lexington and Ninth, traffic backed up both ways for miles. The radio hisses, the sun beats down on the car and this, this is the start of life after Elizabeth.

"It wasn't love," Richard says, flicking the air-conditioner on and off with his thumb. He won't speak after this, all tense shoulders and tight jaw. You turn to face the window, watch the ocean sparkle in the sun.

You want to run, wonder if you still can, wonder if it's as easy as running to the top of a lighthouse and refusing to come down. Your fingers dance across the door handle, but the locks are automatic, childproof. The doctors are just waiting for you to try it, needles for you and a smile for your husband. Not again. In the mirror you see little Richard smirking.

You will not cry.

(II. This too shall pass.)

They'll never give you another chance no matter how prettily you smile.

You could try. You could become mother-of-the-fucking-year, bake pies from scratch and help run carpools to the sailing club. Call Cynthia, invite her and the girls round for drinks, let it all drive you crazy quietly this time. Instead you give the kids burned toast for lunch. They eat half of it before Richard sees and takes them to McDonald's.

The car pulls out of the driveway, gravel crunching under the wheels. For a second you're not sure if they'll come back. You rest your forehead against the doorframe and have to try hard to breathe.

The phone rings, but it's not her. "A salesman from Boston broke my heart," you'd say if she were here, not there. If things were different. Maybe she'd laugh and it would be easy again. You wouldn't have to clear your throat a hundred times before you answered a call. Maybe she'd laugh at that too.

You check your watch five times an hour. She doesn't call.

(III. Every cloud has a silver lining)

The day drags on. You take the sheets off her bed and carry them across to the laundry room. Scrub the bath. Empty the trash cans. Take her half-eaten tub of yogurt out of the fridge. You find one of her rings on the kitchen counter, sweep it into the utensil draw with your hand then slam it shut. Open it again and slam it shut louder. Again. It doesn't help. You smash a plate into the sink and one of the pieces cuts your finger. This makes you cry.

The kids come home to find you lying on the couch, half asleep, half numb.

"Dad says he'll be back later," little Richard yells as he stomps upstairs. You don't know how he manages to stay angry at you twenty-four hours a day. It must be exhausting. Jason disappears and comes back minutes later with a glass of milk too big for his tiny hands.

"Drink this Mommy, it'll make you strong." His face lights up as you take the glass from him. He was always so easy to please. When he was a baby all you had to do was walk into his bedroom and he'd stop crying. You want to tell him not to care so much, that you'll figure out a way to hurt him if he does.

He curls around you as you sit up to drink. You still have this.

(IV)

And now it's night.

(Tomorrow is...)

The telephone doesn't ring, keeps on not ringing. Jason goes to bed without being told. You leave little Richard with the television. He turns it up as you walk past. You're going to need another nanny. Old this time, with warts. One that will either scamper away when you glare or one that just bustles around and ignores you. One that won't read you to sleep with her hands in your hair and make you dream of sailing.

(Tomorrow is...)

Darkness makes you crazy. "Your finest hour, love," Richard used to say, then look at you like you didn't understand. You'd storm up and down the stairs, in and out of the kitchen. Bang pots and pans, wake up the children. Run outside in bare feet to pull up the garden while the rain forced mud between your toes. Watch her cry and scream, feel something in you break.

(Tomorrow is another day.)

You wonder if you'll ever remember how to wake up whole again.

Three Ways To Say I Love You (Will & Grace)

2006-03-18T05:46:11Z

Three Ways To Say I Love You

Will & Grace, Karen/Grace, PG-13.

summary: One day she's going to look at you and the world is going to crack.

Tequila

This is near the beginning.

You are forty-two and three quarters. You have a mansion on Park Avenue and a husband you don't love. When you fight he calls you a whore and you tell him how much you want to fuck your boss.

It's not true, not really. Fighting with Stanley, or worse, making up, his sweaty palms hard against your stomach. You think about her then. It's hardly anything and it blinks away in a second.

But then, there you are one morning, the wrong side of town. In her clothes, on her couch. Not entirely sure what you might have said.

These are the things you remember:

Shots in the living room, swallowing hard and thinking about what it would be like to press her bony frame into the carpet. Shots in the kitchen where you see her splayed against the counter-top. One in the bathroom, where for a second you are absolutely sure she would taste like ivory, cold and sweet.

Later you say "Let's swap clothes," with your fingers crossed, your eyes shut. They don't fit. Too long in the leg, too tight in the chest. Grace makes lame jokes about ex-boyfriends, and you are still mad at your husband and drunk enough to laugh. You maybe tell her about being forty-two and three quarters counting the nights you don't remember, and that some nights you don't remember any of it.

You're sure you said "Let's swap clothes," with your eyes shut, your fingers crossed. Then too quickly: "I want to feel a generic brand next to my skin." Grace had smiled and pulled the t-shirt over her head, ribs threatening to break through skin with the movement.

You blinked then counted every one, every one.

Vodka

This year has been the worst.

All your words have started to taste like metal, like the bottom of a badly mixed drink. In the tiny bathroom by the elevator you spend half an hour trying to sponge bile out of cashmere.

Jack helps the most. He keeps you busy, is distracting, exhausting. It's your favourite thing about him, worth all the money he leeches. You can take him back to the office for that last hour after lunch and watch him run in circles, round and round, and you forget to look at anything else.

You wear black to hide the weight. Lose yourself in every glass.

Once you thought to ask "Why do you let me drink at work?" but it was already too much. Your smile had become too big to work the words around, and you just stood there open-mouthed until Grace had started laughing.

And it's not about Grace, not at all, not really, except when your shoulders brush or fingers meet. Then everything is about the curve of Grace's throat and you think if you could just figure this out, even for a moment, everything would start to make sense again.

After work Driver takes you home in circles, there's never quite enough drink in you for the straight line to the door. Stan's kids stay away without being told. They never even come when you call them. Rosario carries you to bed one night out of three, sweeps you off the floor like crumpled paper.

Martini

You've become nothing but a caricature of yourself.

Still, things are easier this way, to say hello with perfect pitch like you down a shot without flinching. You can even walk in a straight line sometimes, miss the occasional pill. There's a method to it all. Take the voice up a few notches, think everything you say is funny. Grow to hate the sound of your own laugh.

You're so tired. So damn tired of everything.

Grace is perched on the edge of your desk, eating olives straight from the jar. You hear them crunch loudly under her teeth and remember all the things you hate about her. She leans towards you, long fingers taking an eyelash from your cheek, and you almost choke on your drink, almost blush under her fingerprints.

"I'm so taking this wish." She blows the eyelash into the air and grins at you. "I guess Stan is like your own frickin genie huh? Bet you had to rub more than his lamp!"

What you hate about her the most is that there are no questions in her dumb brown eyes. Nothing. She can't tell that one day, one day she's going to look at you and the world is going to crack.

She's still laughing at her own joke, pleased with herself. She'll probably repeat it to Will later, still laughing, still pleased. You forget why you're here, in this cramped office with this woman who laughs with her mouth full.

You drain your glass and make a face.

"What was that honey? I couldn't hear you over that blouse."

Grace rolls her eyes. You walk across the room to refill your drink. Your fingers ache and your stomach hurts and you smile and smile.

Gold Dust (Harry Potter)

2006-03-18T05:28:13Z

Gold Dust

Harry Potter, Hermione, PG.

summary: There's not a book for this

story notes: ficlet.

Hermione's sleeves are too long one week and too short the next. She tugs at them all through Spells, trying to hide her hands, trying to pull the hem over her fingers. She's a clever girl, but she can't figure this out. Her limbs won't conform to any kind of pattern she can catalogue and memorise.

On good days she felt like all the magic in the world was inside her skin. Breasts like rosebuds, hips beginning to sway and it felt like blooming, flowering, curling towards the sun. On bad days there was nothing left inside her that she knew, nothing but her ink-stained hands splayed across a splintered desk.

Boys start to look at her too long. She notices this. The soft scrape of lead on paper can't map the way her stomach twists, or the flush that rises in her cheeks. Hermione is waiting for hands that can take her apart and put her back together, but right this time, so her body makes sense again. Every day she hurries through the corridors with her hair in her eyes and books pressed against her chest.

There's not a book for this.