muir_wolf: (Default)
muir_wolf ([personal profile] muir_wolf) wrote2011-10-20 01:48 pm

assorted ficlets | mash, firefly, supernatural, bbt, late night talk show hosts,

Collection of tumblr fics/AUs I posted recently. None of the fandoms are mine, etc.

Also, nothing's rated over PG-13.

♥ thanks for the prompts lovies ♥

MASH; Hawkeye/Margaret; they're in Starfleet

“So why’d you join Starfleet?” she asks. They’ve finished a bottle of Romulan ale between them, and he’s just finished waxing poetic about his home in Maine, and maybe she’s a little curious about the CMO who flirts every time he opens his mouth but fights even harder for every patient on the table. Maybe she’s a little drunk. Maybe she’s just tired and worn out and worn thin by a grueling eighteen hours delivering immunizations and medical treatment to the epidemic-ravaged Sarn.

Hawkeye looks over at her, his uniform hopelessly wrinkled and his untidy hair standing up all over. He knows why she joined; she’s Starfleet to a fault, down to her very bones, and she’s proud of it, and he’s not surprised she asked. She’s certainly not the first person to wonder why someone who hates rules and regs as much as he does signed on.

He pauses, though, and looks at her, at her blonde hair and her smile and all that caring that she can never quite bury deep enough, and for all that they fight and bicker and get at each other’s throats, he gives her something he’s never given any of those other people that asked; he tells her the truth.

Firefly; Mal/Simon; Simon is the Independent veteran and Mal is the doctor from the Core, but they're still who they always were

The thing about Mal is he’ll go on about the Hippocratic Oath and how he can’t do no harm, and then as soon as the bad guy with the gun starts getting bored of the sound of his talking, Mal will take the man out. There wasn’t a whole lot of honor in wartime, and Simon understands the concept of needing to fight dirty to get out of a jam, but as Mal says, affectionate despite the way he grumbles out the words, Simon’s always a bit too innocent and upstanding for his own good. Sometimes Simon wants to hear more about Mal, because doc from the core he might be but he’s got a mouth on him, and he never once thought twice about using his credentials to get Simon’s sister out, and Simon’s got a steadfastness deep inside himself, a depth that he keeps buried, because you don’t live through war, you don’t live through Serenity Valley without coming out changed, but Mal’s wicked and foolish and can always be counted on to get you caught up in a fight and then patch you up afterwards, and Simon wants to know how that happens. They’re not too sure how long the doc plans to stay on board, not least because with River here they’re all a bit too wanted for any of their tastes, but Mal loves Simon’s ship just as much as Simon does, and maybe Mal loves other things too, like the width of Simon’s smile and the way Mal, laughing teasing Mal, can lift some of the darkness from Simon’s eyes.

BBT; Wil/Sheldon; 19th Century Explorers!AU

Wil hadn’t expected to be saddled with a ridiculous scientist when he received his assignment from Jefferson to survey the Northwest territories. Sure, the man had an uncanny sense of direction and had apparently memorized everything, little as it was, that they knew about the area, but he also complained relentlessly and seemed to view Wil as his own personal servant/bodyguard/bodyheater. Which, all right, when it’s pouring down with rain, and they’re huddled underneath a makeshift shelter and trying to ignore the wind that’s making a fair attempt to tear their clothes off, he’s not protesting the way Sheldon leans in against him as if Wil’s proximity alone is enough to keep him safe, and Sheldon’s nose pressed into his collarbone, his shivering lanky handful of body tucked into something small and curled into Wil’s, it’s not such a burden. Unfortunately, the man doesn’t seem capable of shutting up for a second, and when he gets it into his head that Wil’s purposefully insulted him, matters get out of hand. It’s not until they’re stuck in a tree while some beast tramps around below, looking for them, that Wil finally finds out one way to quiet him—Sheldon, clinging to the branch, eyes wide and water catching on his bottom lip, sleeves shoved up to just above his forearms, opens his mouth to speak, and Wil covers it with his own. Sheldon makes a surprised, intensely interested noise, and the rest, as they say, is history.

BBT as Mobsters

She laughs and tips back the shot, the alcohol hitting her tongue and then the back of her throat; she keeps a straight face and slouches back in the chair with an easy smile, ignoring the weight of the gun in her waistband. Unwillingly, her eyes slip away from Howard and Raj and Leonard, those laughing drunken boys who bury their hard edges under jokes, and up to the man sitting at the bar and nursing his coke. Sheldon’s watching them all coolly, studying them in a way she’s yet to become accustomed to, and she fights down the hot flare of interest that hits her as his eyes meet hers, reminds herself sternly that he’s a very bad man, that she’s undercover, and that she’s going to take him down.

SPN; Castiel appears BEFORE Dean makes his deal and straightens things out (S2)

Dean drives too fast, embracing the feel of the car shift beneath him, the way his Impala flies down the asphalt until he hits dirt roads, his fingers gripping the steering wheel too tight and his eyes searching beyond the road in front of him. He fumbles for the coffee in the cupholder and burns his tongue on it but swallows down the pain; he knows where he’s going, he knows there’s no going back from this, but there’s nothing else to do. He pulls his girl up short at the crossroads and stumbles out, his feet unsteady on the ground, his stomach churning. He falls to his knees, but his hand pauses in the dirt as he digs the hole, his heartbeat loud in his ears and hot tears spilling down his cheeks. He doesn’t pray, not quite—it’s please that spills out unbidden over his tongue, please please please.

A hand on his shoulder, and a man stands behind him, blue eyes kind. “Dean,” he says. “Dean, it’s going to be all right.”

The man holds out a hand, and Dean is kneeling, his brother’s blood on his shirt and dirt underneath his fingernails, and he knows he should go for his gun, knows that only the dark things know his name, and only they can help him, now. Dean knows there is nothing good left hoping for, but the man’s eyes are kind and his hand is steady, and Dean reaches up to take it.

FakeNews; Jon/Stephen; Jon and Stephen in the 1950s

It’s a small town, unfortunately. Jon works at the only high school; he’s not sure if he makes a difference and the hours are long, but no matter how many times he swears he’ll give it up he never does. Evenings he’ll lean over the kitchen table and grade papers, waiting for Stephen to come in with a six pack of beer and an easy smile. Stephen works at the local new station and keeps long hours, but he always comes home (to Jon’s home, not to theirs, because Stephen is a renter, nothing more, nothing more). Jon never does give up his job, no matter how many time he rants to Stephen late at night before they both fall into Jon’s bed (not theirs, not theirs, the world can never know), because someone has to teach the future generations what acceptance means, and Jon isn’t sure how he got roped into that job, but Stephen’s words lilt softly into Jon’s ear, and Jon does his best to work the impossible. (It’s not enough, it’s never enough, but Stephen’s hands on his skin and Stephen’s open-mouthed kisses along his throat, and he has to try, he always has to try.)

Viggo/Conan; tell me, would you?

Set in December of ‘01, with Elijah’s interview on LNw/COB.

Viggo has a stillness about him; it settles deep in Conan’s chest, a pressure he can’t escape. Viggo smiles easily, but sometimes there’s a reserved look in his eyes, a secret to the curve of his lips; it’s distracting and it’s unfair and Conan remembers, uneasily, how little Viggo ever played by the rules. It’s been years since they’ve seen each other, and he didn’t expect to see him tonight—this is Elijah’s interview, after all—but there he is, leaning against the wall of the trailer while Billy and Dominic cackle over in the corner and Elijah struggles with his tie. It should be endearing how they’re still traveling in packs, how they can’t let each other go, but Conan’s too struck by Viggo’s eyes meeting his. Conan flushes, stumbling over his words as he forces out a greeting; he’s always been so erratic and uncertain in the face of Viggo’s peace.

(And he can remember Viggo laughing, chasing him as Conan ran like a newborn foal, that one summer and the first weeks of autumn, before the trees had quite changed, before Conan left for New York and Viggo for Thailand and a quest for understanding Conan had never quite understood. But then, Conan has always felt a step or two behind Viggo. He thinks, maybe, most people do.)

Viggo smiles when he sees him, slow and smooth and familiar, and it hurts a little with its affection. “Conan,” he says, stepping closer, enfolding him in a hug before Conan can quite steady himself. Viggo smells of pine, somehow, and open sky, and it twists in Conan’s gut. His arms tighten around Viggo for a beat, and then he lets him go. (And he has spent a lifetime letting him go, he has spent years giving him up.)

“Viggo,” Conan says, and his voice is steady, he thinks, steady enough, and then Viggo cups his cheek and presses his forehead against his and says “I missed you.” And Viggo has never played by the rules, has lived outside those rules, has walked down paths and stared through windows from the outside, searching for some hidden clue, some unseen path, and Conan has never been able to fault him that, never been able to keep him from something more.

He can hear the sounds of Elijah and Billy and Dominic’s quiet talk, and he knows it’s about them, but Viggo tugs Conan’s shirt and smiles that lopsided smile, and Conan lets go, gives in, gives up; Viggo’s smile is too wide and his eyes too dear and hearts, after all, must be made to be broken, or they wouldn’t break so well.

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