:looks shiftily around: Challenge accepted.
There's a very similar prompt not too far back this round non-anon if you missed it.
http://scribe-protra.dreamwidth.org/306.html?thread=580146#cmt580146
http://scribe-protra.dreamwidth.org/306.html?thread=580146#cmt580146
:OP waves hands in delighted anticipation:
Fill: Side Effects May Include... [6/7-8?] (Okay, I LIED.)
(Anonymous) 2011-03-11 03:23 am (UTC)(link)After a brief nap – and lunch – I slipped into my lab again to talk to Bob.
“I can’t do this,” I told him, once the lights had brightened enough in his eyes that I was certain he was fully awake. “I can’t go around not remembering.”
“What’d you see?” Bob asked. “Was it kinky? You were moaning, you know. Gives a spirit shivers.”
“Wrong kind of moaning,” I told him, and if my voice was a bit sharp he pretended not to notice. “I saw Mickey, but he was older and – and in pain.”
“The Nightmare,” Bob said, a bit of curiosity in his voice. “Interesting.”
“What’s a Nightmare? Well, besides the obvious.”
“Technically, there are two kinds of nightmares – excluding this one. There are bad dreams, which mortals call nightmares, and the actual creature called a nightmare. Magical horse-like creatures, black as night, always female, and right nasty pieces of work. This thing you called a ‘Nightmare’ because that’s what it did – it gave you the vanilla nightmares.”
“That was more than a dream.”
“Well, yes, it was. It ate a good chunk of your magic at one point too.”
I felt my jaw drop a little. “And I did what? Let it?”
“Not really; it ate it in a dream, which was a little more real than the vanilla version.”
I sighed, and leaned back against the table. “I really can’t do this.” My head was hurting already – subconsciously searching for memories, maybe? Or maybe not – and we hadn’t even gotten into the details of one event yet. “Look, it’s obvious we don’t have the time or the capability to go through each memory one by one and have it retold to me, and I can’t pass out on the floor every time one hits me, either, or I’ll end up dead when someone decides it’s time to get rid of the wizard.” There was too much to remember, and too many things that I might forget that no one could tell me – like why I’d taken the potion in the first place.
Well, I was an investigator. It was time to investigate.
Marcone was first on my list, since he was the only one I actually had contact with who knew what had happened and wasn’t a spirit inhabiting a skull and withholding information. “What happened with Victor Sells?” I asked him, being sure to stay only on the threshold of his office. It wasn’t a threshold like the threshold to a home, but somehow I felt more grounded with him a good distance away from me in this setting.
I had a feeling we got up to more than just work in this office – or maybe I should say a different kind of work – and it was giving me an itch in places I wasn’t sure I was comfortable having an itch.
“I thought you remembered that much,” he asked.
“So what?”
Marcone didn’t look offended at my non-answer. He just smiled a little indulgently and answered. Smug bastard. “You were found outside the burning lake house owned by Mister Victor Sells approximately twenty minutes after the fire was believed to have been started, and only five minutes after police arrived on the scene. You were free of serious burns, but unconscious. After the fire was put out, Mister Sells remains were discovered in the building along with a substantial amount of the three-eye drug, which had been made unusable by the fire. It was concluded that he had been producing the drug. The case was closed. Mrs. Sells moved shortly after, I believe to a small town in Kentucky.”
I tried to picture the woman I had seen in Kentucky. It wasn’t working very well. Monica had reminded me of PTO meetings and cupcakes, a city mom who went to the meetings to listen to chatter and not participate, who liked having people around but not talking to them. She was nervous but organized – the definition of a city girl.
But they did have cities in Kentucky, and even if they weren’t safer, you didn’t hear about them as much on the news. No one would connect her with the Chicago Three-Eye Producer.
“Why wasn’t I charged with anything?”
He hesitated a moment. “Why would you be?”
“I was considered a suspect for a considerable amount of time during that case. I had to escape police custody to solve it, because it was very literally life or death for me. I can still smell the smoke, Marcone – I feel like I was just there last week, choking on fire and willing my gun not to misfire. I remember the ambulance, getting into it, but not once did the police approach me. If I asked Murphy, would my name even show on the report?”
I’d hit on something, I knew it. He was debating something silently.
“Have you told me before?”
He stood, then, and ushered me out of the office. “This isn’t a discussion for idle chat,” he said. “And the answer is no. Let’s get a bit more comfortable first.” He hesitated again. “Are you certain you don’t want to wait for your memory to return?”
“Why don’t you want to tell me?” His hand was warm on my back – warm and gentle.
“I don’t want you upset,” he finally said, quiet, as if he didn’t want to say it. “You were not known for being very accepting of my help during the period you remember.”
I had a feeling I was never very accepting of his help, but something in my gut told me the reasons had changed over time. That changes happened when you saved each other from certain death over and over again.
And that thought made me a bit dizzy, because I didn’t remember saving Marcone from death – didn’t remember facing death myself that often – but I knew, somehow, that I had. That I even kept count somewhere, possibly through Bob.
John’s arm held me steady as I swayed a bit, and I let my forehead rest against his shoulder. I was a bit too tall for it to be completely relaxed and comfortable, but it was enough to let me get my feet under me again.
“Sorry,” I said, and for some reason that caught in my throat, choked me up.
“Let’s get you to bed,” John offered. “You don’t sleep enough anymore.”
It felt like something he’d said a thousand times before, something I had an automatic response for – teasing, and comforting, and familiar – but when I opened my mouth nothing came out, and that disappointed mask fell over his face again. “Come on,” he said. “Before you fall again.”
I let him lead me, feeling strangely disappointed in myself as well.
Anon!Note:
It turned out to be a bit longer than I expected this part, so I didn't quite get to where I wanted to finish things up. Oops.
Additionally, I'm going out of town for the weekend and while I will have my laptop, I most likely won't have time for writing. So it might be a bit longer before I get to the end. (And hopefully, at that point, I will remember where I was going. This Anon is sometimes plot-forgetful.)
“I can’t do this,” I told him, once the lights had brightened enough in his eyes that I was certain he was fully awake. “I can’t go around not remembering.”
“What’d you see?” Bob asked. “Was it kinky? You were moaning, you know. Gives a spirit shivers.”
“Wrong kind of moaning,” I told him, and if my voice was a bit sharp he pretended not to notice. “I saw Mickey, but he was older and – and in pain.”
“The Nightmare,” Bob said, a bit of curiosity in his voice. “Interesting.”
“What’s a Nightmare? Well, besides the obvious.”
“Technically, there are two kinds of nightmares – excluding this one. There are bad dreams, which mortals call nightmares, and the actual creature called a nightmare. Magical horse-like creatures, black as night, always female, and right nasty pieces of work. This thing you called a ‘Nightmare’ because that’s what it did – it gave you the vanilla nightmares.”
“That was more than a dream.”
“Well, yes, it was. It ate a good chunk of your magic at one point too.”
I felt my jaw drop a little. “And I did what? Let it?”
“Not really; it ate it in a dream, which was a little more real than the vanilla version.”
I sighed, and leaned back against the table. “I really can’t do this.” My head was hurting already – subconsciously searching for memories, maybe? Or maybe not – and we hadn’t even gotten into the details of one event yet. “Look, it’s obvious we don’t have the time or the capability to go through each memory one by one and have it retold to me, and I can’t pass out on the floor every time one hits me, either, or I’ll end up dead when someone decides it’s time to get rid of the wizard.” There was too much to remember, and too many things that I might forget that no one could tell me – like why I’d taken the potion in the first place.
Well, I was an investigator. It was time to investigate.
Marcone was first on my list, since he was the only one I actually had contact with who knew what had happened and wasn’t a spirit inhabiting a skull and withholding information. “What happened with Victor Sells?” I asked him, being sure to stay only on the threshold of his office. It wasn’t a threshold like the threshold to a home, but somehow I felt more grounded with him a good distance away from me in this setting.
I had a feeling we got up to more than just work in this office – or maybe I should say a different kind of work – and it was giving me an itch in places I wasn’t sure I was comfortable having an itch.
“I thought you remembered that much,” he asked.
“So what?”
Marcone didn’t look offended at my non-answer. He just smiled a little indulgently and answered. Smug bastard. “You were found outside the burning lake house owned by Mister Victor Sells approximately twenty minutes after the fire was believed to have been started, and only five minutes after police arrived on the scene. You were free of serious burns, but unconscious. After the fire was put out, Mister Sells remains were discovered in the building along with a substantial amount of the three-eye drug, which had been made unusable by the fire. It was concluded that he had been producing the drug. The case was closed. Mrs. Sells moved shortly after, I believe to a small town in Kentucky.”
I tried to picture the woman I had seen in Kentucky. It wasn’t working very well. Monica had reminded me of PTO meetings and cupcakes, a city mom who went to the meetings to listen to chatter and not participate, who liked having people around but not talking to them. She was nervous but organized – the definition of a city girl.
But they did have cities in Kentucky, and even if they weren’t safer, you didn’t hear about them as much on the news. No one would connect her with the Chicago Three-Eye Producer.
“Why wasn’t I charged with anything?”
He hesitated a moment. “Why would you be?”
“I was considered a suspect for a considerable amount of time during that case. I had to escape police custody to solve it, because it was very literally life or death for me. I can still smell the smoke, Marcone – I feel like I was just there last week, choking on fire and willing my gun not to misfire. I remember the ambulance, getting into it, but not once did the police approach me. If I asked Murphy, would my name even show on the report?”
I’d hit on something, I knew it. He was debating something silently.
“Have you told me before?”
He stood, then, and ushered me out of the office. “This isn’t a discussion for idle chat,” he said. “And the answer is no. Let’s get a bit more comfortable first.” He hesitated again. “Are you certain you don’t want to wait for your memory to return?”
“Why don’t you want to tell me?” His hand was warm on my back – warm and gentle.
“I don’t want you upset,” he finally said, quiet, as if he didn’t want to say it. “You were not known for being very accepting of my help during the period you remember.”
I had a feeling I was never very accepting of his help, but something in my gut told me the reasons had changed over time. That changes happened when you saved each other from certain death over and over again.
And that thought made me a bit dizzy, because I didn’t remember saving Marcone from death – didn’t remember facing death myself that often – but I knew, somehow, that I had. That I even kept count somewhere, possibly through Bob.
John’s arm held me steady as I swayed a bit, and I let my forehead rest against his shoulder. I was a bit too tall for it to be completely relaxed and comfortable, but it was enough to let me get my feet under me again.
“Sorry,” I said, and for some reason that caught in my throat, choked me up.
“Let’s get you to bed,” John offered. “You don’t sleep enough anymore.”
It felt like something he’d said a thousand times before, something I had an automatic response for – teasing, and comforting, and familiar – but when I opened my mouth nothing came out, and that disappointed mask fell over his face again. “Come on,” he said. “Before you fall again.”
I let him lead me, feeling strangely disappointed in myself as well.
Anon!Note:
It turned out to be a bit longer than I expected this part, so I didn't quite get to where I wanted to finish things up. Oops.
Additionally, I'm going out of town for the weekend and while I will have my laptop, I most likely won't have time for writing. So it might be a bit longer before I get to the end. (And hopefully, at that point, I will remember where I was going. This Anon is sometimes plot-forgetful.)
Re: Fill: Side Effects May Include... [6/7-8?] (Okay, I LIED.)
(Anonymous) 2011-03-11 03:29 am (UTC)(link)that was totally posted to the wrong comment. Oops.
Oh well; just slightly out of order. :)
Oh well; just slightly out of order. :)
Okay, you know I like this because i just told you over dinner, but.
His voice was rushed and unhappy, thick with a miserable need
That is why I like it, right there. It's just *hands*. You can lead the wizard to communication, but you can't make him etc.
His voice was rushed and unhappy, thick with a miserable need
That is why I like it, right there. It's just *hands*. You can lead the wizard to communication, but you can't make him etc.
Okay, so, uh, I usually try not to post overly-detailed prompts? But I really, really want this story to exist, and I am never, ever going to write it, so I am posting what I know about it here, in hopes that somebody else decides to write it for me. (And if you want to use only bits and pieces of the idea and ignore any parts you don't want, that is fine.)
So Harry Dresden has set up the Paranet, which connects low-level practitioners, mostly women, it seems like, in an effort to make it easier for them to find help. And he gets a call from the University of Iowa that there is a spirit haunting their Special Collections reading room and stacks. And at first it seems like a pretty standard haunting, and not really worth Harry himself going all the way to Iowa City, especially since they can't pay his usual rates, but then he starts getting phone calls from people begging him to take care of it.
Because, you see, when people come into their power, they stop being able to use computers. And this usually reaches the critical point when they have to give up the internet when they're around their late teens or early twenties, which means there's a whole cadre of magically talented women who were just getting into fandom when suddenly, their only source for fic became the 'zine archive at UI (which obviously has a secret 'zine-lending service just for practitioners who can't go online). So everyone from Elaine to Molly to Georgia to Ivy to Luccio (who is asking for her trainees, not herself, clearly) to Lara to Lily and Maeve are begging him to handle this ghost personally, because the safety of the zine archive is really, really important if he cares about preserving the emotional stability of magic-practicing women all over the Midwest.
...and so he gives in, and then I am not sure what happens, except the archivist who is acting as his guide is (clearly) also a fangirl, and obviously the ghost winds up being the spirit of a fangirl who started her fannish career publishing in those early slash 'zines, who has recently died and is haunting the zine archive because she has passionate yet conflicted feelings about her art becoming part of the public historical record, and obviously there is a lot of squeeing about Harry being a total woobie and full of whumpings, and Harry has to learn at least the basics of slash fandom just so he can communicate with this woman (much to his own sheer embarrassment and Bob's joy, and if you can work him being obliviously slashy in front of the ghost with Marcone or -- ooh! Kincaid, showing up to keep an eye on things for Ivy, and maybe pick up some zines for her! -- or Michael who is wondering why Molly and Charity are so totally invested in this case! -- or Thomas, who Lara has sent along to check into his progress! -- into it that would be awesome,) and oh! It would be really cool if the resolution involved something about truenames and fractured identities - like, he has the spirit's legal name, but he can't lay her with that, because so much of her is bound up in her fandom pseudonyms which are just as much her as her legal name, and he has to trace down all her identities through all the things she's created, because she bound a bit of her soul into every fanwork and every fandom ID, so he has to work out a new theory of names (maybe with the help of Ivy or Murphy or a couple of the more internet-savvy Carpenter kids, or, hey, bring in chat-verse and Butters), that would be so much fun.
...anyway,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
darksnowfalling just posted a really neat account of a visit to the UI 'zine library: http://darksnowfalling.livejournal.com/1904.html : if you want actual locational details to work into the story. Because somebody is going to write this, yes? Please?
p.s.: I will beta read if you want. :D I have never been to the IU special collections, but I have been to the UMD one, while it was being run by fangirls. ^_^
p.p.s.: Captcha is 'Lash adept'. Yes, sorry, Lash, dear, I clearly shouldn't have left the Denarians out of this either, I'm sure you read Aziraphael/Crowley whenever you get a chance.
So Harry Dresden has set up the Paranet, which connects low-level practitioners, mostly women, it seems like, in an effort to make it easier for them to find help. And he gets a call from the University of Iowa that there is a spirit haunting their Special Collections reading room and stacks. And at first it seems like a pretty standard haunting, and not really worth Harry himself going all the way to Iowa City, especially since they can't pay his usual rates, but then he starts getting phone calls from people begging him to take care of it.
Because, you see, when people come into their power, they stop being able to use computers. And this usually reaches the critical point when they have to give up the internet when they're around their late teens or early twenties, which means there's a whole cadre of magically talented women who were just getting into fandom when suddenly, their only source for fic became the 'zine archive at UI (which obviously has a secret 'zine-lending service just for practitioners who can't go online). So everyone from Elaine to Molly to Georgia to Ivy to Luccio (who is asking for her trainees, not herself, clearly) to Lara to Lily and Maeve are begging him to handle this ghost personally, because the safety of the zine archive is really, really important if he cares about preserving the emotional stability of magic-practicing women all over the Midwest.
...and so he gives in, and then I am not sure what happens, except the archivist who is acting as his guide is (clearly) also a fangirl, and obviously the ghost winds up being the spirit of a fangirl who started her fannish career publishing in those early slash 'zines, who has recently died and is haunting the zine archive because she has passionate yet conflicted feelings about her art becoming part of the public historical record, and obviously there is a lot of squeeing about Harry being a total woobie and full of whumpings, and Harry has to learn at least the basics of slash fandom just so he can communicate with this woman (much to his own sheer embarrassment and Bob's joy, and if you can work him being obliviously slashy in front of the ghost with Marcone or -- ooh! Kincaid, showing up to keep an eye on things for Ivy, and maybe pick up some zines for her! -- or Michael who is wondering why Molly and Charity are so totally invested in this case! -- or Thomas, who Lara has sent along to check into his progress! -- into it that would be awesome,) and oh! It would be really cool if the resolution involved something about truenames and fractured identities - like, he has the spirit's legal name, but he can't lay her with that, because so much of her is bound up in her fandom pseudonyms which are just as much her as her legal name, and he has to trace down all her identities through all the things she's created, because she bound a bit of her soul into every fanwork and every fandom ID, so he has to work out a new theory of names (maybe with the help of Ivy or Murphy or a couple of the more internet-savvy Carpenter kids, or, hey, bring in chat-verse and Butters), that would be so much fun.
...anyway,
darksnowfalling just posted a really neat account of a visit to the UI 'zine library: http://darksnowfalling.livejournal.com/1904.html : if you want actual locational details to work into the story. Because somebody is going to write this, yes? Please?p.s.: I will beta read if you want. :D I have never been to the IU special collections, but I have been to the UMD one, while it was being run by fangirls. ^_^
p.p.s.: Captcha is 'Lash adept'. Yes, sorry, Lash, dear, I clearly shouldn't have left the Denarians out of this either, I'm sure you read Aziraphael/Crowley whenever you get a chance.
Seconded. Show the KC some love! Ooh, maybe The Crossroads or First Friday!
As it turns out, John is really, really ticklish. Hey Bob, know any tickle spells?
Oh my goodness, I love your brain. This is a brilliant idea.
And even ASIDE from all the delicious story you've got going on here, I absolutely adore your thoughts about names and identity, because SO MUCH YES.
And even ASIDE from all the delicious story you've got going on here, I absolutely adore your thoughts about names and identity, because SO MUCH YES.
Have you ever heard about how an awesome foot rub can be better than sex?
Harry getting off on a foot rub. Harry/Marcone or Harry/Thomas please.
Harry getting off on a foot rub. Harry/Marcone or Harry/Thomas please.
Dude, if you want to just write about the names bit - about somebody having to find a truename for somebody who's scattered personality fragments all over the place under different names - that would be awesome!
And now I have to add: I bet this applies to Marcone. I mean, Marcone's not his birth name, but the thing about mortal Names is that they change, and his Name has got to be at least in part Marcone - but he has something of himself locked away in his birth name, too - and then even if he isn't the chatbot I bet he has a few well-established alternate identities out there, on the internet or otherwise, where he can be the parts of himself that Gentleman Johnny can't be.
...huh, why hasn't there been a prompt about Harry acquiring Marcone's Name yet?
...huh, why hasn't there been a prompt about Harry acquiring Marcone's Name yet?
To add to thoughts, re: Marcone's Name-- There is undoubtedly the fact that mortal Names will change over time, but I don't believe it's the case with Marcone that his Name will shift to 'John Marcone.' Keep in mind that we learn all this in Even Hand, which also sets up that he suppresses much of his personality on a regular basis. He has impulses and urges that he smothers for the sake of being Gentleman John/the Baron of Chicago. There is a lot of him we don't see because he keeps a tight lid on it. So it's my headcanon that he might be able to maintain his original true Name because of that-- he man he once was is under all that exterior he's built.
Your mileage may vary, obviously.
Your mileage may vary, obviously.
I feel like there's a Pulp Fiction joke waiting to be made here :)
So....I, for reasons unknown, decided to watch the Blade Trilogy and really, how has no one made a crossover as yet? Vampires, check (this would have to be set before Changes, natch). Two guys who appreciate a good leather duster, check. And, in the case of Blade Trinity, Hannibal King (a personal favourite of mine) and Harry each get someone who gets their pop culture references! It's a win win situation! Aaaaaand GO!
Fill: We're Just Blowing Through Nap Time, Aren't We (1/2)
(Anonymous) 2011-03-11 06:21 am (UTC)(link)idek.
**
Former detective Karrin Murphy surveyed the perimeter with narrowed eyes.
Everything seemed in order. Snack was over and the shades had been drawn, leaving only patches of grainy sunlight in the art corner. The easels were washed, pillows distributed, every door but the fire exit locked. Her charges, twelve in all and bundled two to a blankie, slept peacefully on the foam alphabet tiles. With their bedding pulled over their heads, they looked like little curled up pillbugs. Nap time, proceeding right on schedule.
As it should be. Children needed discipline, thrived on boundaries; their parents, too. There was a reason Loop & Loop Growing Garden opened its doors each morning at seven o'clock sharp and closed at noon on the dot.
Murphy had long found it was harder to train the adults than the kids. Bad habits ingrained by practice, she guessed, but that didn't mean their kids were a lost cause.
As if on cue, little Harry Dresden rolled over and stuck his nose in Johnnie Marcone's ear.
Murphy tried not to smile. Oh, Harry had yelped and hollered when he realized it was their turn to share a blanket, but in the end he'd snuggled up to Johnnie just the same.
Touchy and touch-starved, two sides of Harry in the same trick coin. He'd been at Loop & Loop three weeks, a rescue transfer from a state preschool. Didn't like being sneaked up on, didn't like people hanging out in his blind spots. No parents, no foster placement; he came and left every day in a white government van. When he drew, he rarely included himself. When he included himself, his shadow ran the length of the path, slender and serpentine.
He slept better these days. Better than he had on arrival, anyway.
As she scanned the playroom again, Johnnie's smile was suspiciously smug. She watched a moment. When he remained motionless, she gave up.
All quiet on the nap time front. With a sigh, Murphy holstered her baby monitor and retreated to the break room for a cup of well-deserved coffee.
**
Johnnie Marcone's eyes snapped open.
He lay still, listening hard for the telltale click of Ms. Murphy's coffeemaker turning on. Even without moving he could sense the room around him. To his left, Hendricks' feet stretched past the end of the blanket. To his right, Dresden clung with the force of barnacles on rock, face scrunched. Dresden had a cold, and his nose had been wet against Johnnie's cheek. It was...upsetting.
"Boss," Hendricks said, low enough to keep from disturbing his napping partner. Susan was probably awake anyway. She was nosy and hated to sleep before anyone else and wasn't afraid to cry to get her way.
Ms. Murphy never fell for it. She was smart for a grownup -- Johnnie narrowed his eyes -- maybe too smart.
"Now?" Hendricks whispered.
Johnnie slipped a hand from under the blanket, held up a finger. Wait.
Today the plan would finally be put in motion. It wouldn't do to get overexcited and spoil everything.
At the sound of coffee dripping, Johnnie extricated himself from Dresden's octopus arms and sat up. He used the corner of the blanket to wipe Dresden's nose, then tucked the blanket high up around his ears. Even in sleep, he looked disgruntled. Harry Dresden, Johnnie thought, just a little amused. Harry, Harry, Harry --
Hendricks coughed.
"Ah," he said, blushing. Hendricks was nice enough not to look at him. "That is--"
A chair scraped in the break room, and they both froze.
After a moment, Hendricks relaxed. "You're not taking the boys?"
Johnnie gazed at the others sleeping. "Too dangerous." If they were caught, Ms. Murphy would make them sit on the Bottom Stair of Discipline, maybe for an hour. He wouldn't -- couldn't -- risk his people for something so personal.
His eyes gleamed.
"Let's go," he said, "or we'll miss the express bus."
"Fire door's alarmed," Hendricks said grimly.
Johnnie pulled back the sleeve of his t-shirt to reveal a very sharp pair of what were definitely not safety scissors. He smirked. "Not a problem."
**
Susan Rodriguez sat up on high alert. What was that bang? Was it a ghost? It could have been a ghost. But maybe it was a vampire! She knew all about vampires; poltergeists and witches and fairies and evil godmothers too. But she knew more about ghosts, mostly because so many of them hung around her father's apartment. They lived in walls and couches and sometimes under the bed, and to make them go away, you needed to knock hard and make groaning noises until they got too scared and left.
Now Susan was a little scared.
Even so! Johnnie was gone, and so was his frowning friend. What if the ghost got them? What if it ate them and spit out their clothes and their clothes were covered in green goo and some of it got in Susan's hair?
She tied her sneakers tight and crept toward the back door Ms. Murphy had told them never to touch except in an emergency. But this was definitely an emergency, a ghost emergency.
Oddly enough, the door was already open, its wires sliced clean through.
**
"Sigrun, go," said Vadderung.
"Yes, sir."
She slipped out from under their blanket, clambered barefoot up the easel closest to the window and leapt through.
**
Jared woke up and sniffed their blanket; it smelled like playdo and juiceboxes, which was how he knew it had been Butters' the day before. He sniffed the air and he sniffed Ivy and he sniffed himself to know what Ivy was smelling and then he sniffed himself again, just to make sure.
Yep, he smelled like water from the pollywog pool. Stupid Nico Archleone, pushing him in like that. Joke was on him, though -- Jared could swim, and Ivy had noticed.
"Your butterfly is impressive," she said, eyes to the air as if reading an invisible tickertape. "Did you know it's the fastest of the swimming strokes?"
Then she met his gaze and smiled. It was almost enough to make him grateful to Nico or something.
Jared huddled back under the blanket. Ivy was awake, as he'd known she was.
"Johnnie and Hendricks are gone," he said. "Susie Q too." He didn't mention Gard. She could look after herself just fine, as she'd made clear on more than one occasion.
"They're on a quest for love," Ivy said. Under the covers, her eyes were big and clear and dark, like those shooting marbles with the clouds of galaxies inside. Jared had one until he'd shot it off a bumper car and the glass cracked down the middle, spilling out bits of gold and black iron.
Teasing, he said, "How do you know?"
She smiled. "I read it in Johnnie's diary."
**
Harry woke muttering from an UNPLEASANT dream about STUPID Marcone and his STUPID silver hair Harry didn't care if it RAN IN HIS FAMILY finger quotes it was still DUMB and since Marcone was STUPID that made him twice as DUMB as the next STUPIDEST thing in the room no matter what room he was in.
He paused.
Patted the foam tile beside him. Patted the other half -- okay, quarter -- of the blanket. Nothing.
He squeezed his eyes shut. "Johnnie?"
Nothing. His sleeping buddy had vamoosed and left him holding the blankie.
Ms. Murphy was going to KILL him.
Harry knew it was wrong, knew he shouldn't. It was an unspoken agreement between MEN, and you didn't even have to be friends for it to apply. But from where he was sitting, there was only one way to keep Ms. Murphy from calling his social worker and telling her how bad he was and making him leave forever:
Tattling.
**
"Ms. Murphy!"
She heard a quick patter of footsteps down the hall and slammed her romance novel shut. The cover was not fit for children's eyes. She suppressed a cringe as Harry peeked around the doorway slow, like he thought she might throw something at his head.
"Ms. Murphy," he said, clutching at the doorjamb.
Murphy tried to make herself look warm and understanding. It gave her a cheek cramp. "What's wrong, Harry?"
"I--" He averted his eyes and bit his lip. "Um."
"Yes?"
Harry shifted his weight from side to side, uncomfortable, hands locked behind his back, and --
Oh. "Did you wet the bed?" she said gently. "It's all right, we'll get you cleaned up right away."
He turned red as a boiling teakettle. "I didn't," he sputtered, "I haven't done that in a long time!" He held up fingers, checked to make sure it was the right number, then thrust them at her. "I'm four."
"Yes, I know," she said. "Even big boys have accidents, Harry."
He studied her a long time. Harry had strange eyes, dark and heavyset and creased in ways they shouldn't have been, not on a kid. Like he had spent years in a corner squeezing them shut with his hands over his ears; like they hadn't been sealed tight enough to keep it out. Murphy was old enough that she had seen what iron looked like when passed through fire, she knew how the ring of the hammer on glowing metal sounded. True -- sometimes when Harry stared at her, it felt like he was seeing straight to the bottom of everything.
After a while, he shrugged, wiped his nose on his sleeve.
"Okay," he said.
Murphy let out a breath. "Okay."
"But that's not what I," he said, faltering. "Um -- you're gonna be mad."
She rose from the chair, let her shadow stretch over him.
"How mad?"
**
Former detective Karrin Murphy stood in the playroom with her hands limp at her sides. If she were the kind of woman to gape, she would have been.
She counted again. And again.
A pulse throbbed in her temple. "When I get my hands on those twerps -- "
**
Three miles away in the lobby of the South Central Home for Orphaned and Needy Boys, Johnnie Marcone sneezed.
tbc, lol
**
Former detective Karrin Murphy surveyed the perimeter with narrowed eyes.
Everything seemed in order. Snack was over and the shades had been drawn, leaving only patches of grainy sunlight in the art corner. The easels were washed, pillows distributed, every door but the fire exit locked. Her charges, twelve in all and bundled two to a blankie, slept peacefully on the foam alphabet tiles. With their bedding pulled over their heads, they looked like little curled up pillbugs. Nap time, proceeding right on schedule.
As it should be. Children needed discipline, thrived on boundaries; their parents, too. There was a reason Loop & Loop Growing Garden opened its doors each morning at seven o'clock sharp and closed at noon on the dot.
Murphy had long found it was harder to train the adults than the kids. Bad habits ingrained by practice, she guessed, but that didn't mean their kids were a lost cause.
As if on cue, little Harry Dresden rolled over and stuck his nose in Johnnie Marcone's ear.
Murphy tried not to smile. Oh, Harry had yelped and hollered when he realized it was their turn to share a blanket, but in the end he'd snuggled up to Johnnie just the same.
Touchy and touch-starved, two sides of Harry in the same trick coin. He'd been at Loop & Loop three weeks, a rescue transfer from a state preschool. Didn't like being sneaked up on, didn't like people hanging out in his blind spots. No parents, no foster placement; he came and left every day in a white government van. When he drew, he rarely included himself. When he included himself, his shadow ran the length of the path, slender and serpentine.
He slept better these days. Better than he had on arrival, anyway.
As she scanned the playroom again, Johnnie's smile was suspiciously smug. She watched a moment. When he remained motionless, she gave up.
All quiet on the nap time front. With a sigh, Murphy holstered her baby monitor and retreated to the break room for a cup of well-deserved coffee.
**
Johnnie Marcone's eyes snapped open.
He lay still, listening hard for the telltale click of Ms. Murphy's coffeemaker turning on. Even without moving he could sense the room around him. To his left, Hendricks' feet stretched past the end of the blanket. To his right, Dresden clung with the force of barnacles on rock, face scrunched. Dresden had a cold, and his nose had been wet against Johnnie's cheek. It was...upsetting.
"Boss," Hendricks said, low enough to keep from disturbing his napping partner. Susan was probably awake anyway. She was nosy and hated to sleep before anyone else and wasn't afraid to cry to get her way.
Ms. Murphy never fell for it. She was smart for a grownup -- Johnnie narrowed his eyes -- maybe too smart.
"Now?" Hendricks whispered.
Johnnie slipped a hand from under the blanket, held up a finger. Wait.
Today the plan would finally be put in motion. It wouldn't do to get overexcited and spoil everything.
At the sound of coffee dripping, Johnnie extricated himself from Dresden's octopus arms and sat up. He used the corner of the blanket to wipe Dresden's nose, then tucked the blanket high up around his ears. Even in sleep, he looked disgruntled. Harry Dresden, Johnnie thought, just a little amused. Harry, Harry, Harry --
Hendricks coughed.
"Ah," he said, blushing. Hendricks was nice enough not to look at him. "That is--"
A chair scraped in the break room, and they both froze.
After a moment, Hendricks relaxed. "You're not taking the boys?"
Johnnie gazed at the others sleeping. "Too dangerous." If they were caught, Ms. Murphy would make them sit on the Bottom Stair of Discipline, maybe for an hour. He wouldn't -- couldn't -- risk his people for something so personal.
His eyes gleamed.
"Let's go," he said, "or we'll miss the express bus."
"Fire door's alarmed," Hendricks said grimly.
Johnnie pulled back the sleeve of his t-shirt to reveal a very sharp pair of what were definitely not safety scissors. He smirked. "Not a problem."
**
Susan Rodriguez sat up on high alert. What was that bang? Was it a ghost? It could have been a ghost. But maybe it was a vampire! She knew all about vampires; poltergeists and witches and fairies and evil godmothers too. But she knew more about ghosts, mostly because so many of them hung around her father's apartment. They lived in walls and couches and sometimes under the bed, and to make them go away, you needed to knock hard and make groaning noises until they got too scared and left.
Now Susan was a little scared.
Even so! Johnnie was gone, and so was his frowning friend. What if the ghost got them? What if it ate them and spit out their clothes and their clothes were covered in green goo and some of it got in Susan's hair?
She tied her sneakers tight and crept toward the back door Ms. Murphy had told them never to touch except in an emergency. But this was definitely an emergency, a ghost emergency.
Oddly enough, the door was already open, its wires sliced clean through.
**
"Sigrun, go," said Vadderung.
"Yes, sir."
She slipped out from under their blanket, clambered barefoot up the easel closest to the window and leapt through.
**
Jared woke up and sniffed their blanket; it smelled like playdo and juiceboxes, which was how he knew it had been Butters' the day before. He sniffed the air and he sniffed Ivy and he sniffed himself to know what Ivy was smelling and then he sniffed himself again, just to make sure.
Yep, he smelled like water from the pollywog pool. Stupid Nico Archleone, pushing him in like that. Joke was on him, though -- Jared could swim, and Ivy had noticed.
"Your butterfly is impressive," she said, eyes to the air as if reading an invisible tickertape. "Did you know it's the fastest of the swimming strokes?"
Then she met his gaze and smiled. It was almost enough to make him grateful to Nico or something.
Jared huddled back under the blanket. Ivy was awake, as he'd known she was.
"Johnnie and Hendricks are gone," he said. "Susie Q too." He didn't mention Gard. She could look after herself just fine, as she'd made clear on more than one occasion.
"They're on a quest for love," Ivy said. Under the covers, her eyes were big and clear and dark, like those shooting marbles with the clouds of galaxies inside. Jared had one until he'd shot it off a bumper car and the glass cracked down the middle, spilling out bits of gold and black iron.
Teasing, he said, "How do you know?"
She smiled. "I read it in Johnnie's diary."
**
Harry woke muttering from an UNPLEASANT dream about STUPID Marcone and his STUPID silver hair Harry didn't care if it RAN IN HIS FAMILY finger quotes it was still DUMB and since Marcone was STUPID that made him twice as DUMB as the next STUPIDEST thing in the room no matter what room he was in.
He paused.
Patted the foam tile beside him. Patted the other half -- okay, quarter -- of the blanket. Nothing.
He squeezed his eyes shut. "Johnnie?"
Nothing. His sleeping buddy had vamoosed and left him holding the blankie.
Ms. Murphy was going to KILL him.
Harry knew it was wrong, knew he shouldn't. It was an unspoken agreement between MEN, and you didn't even have to be friends for it to apply. But from where he was sitting, there was only one way to keep Ms. Murphy from calling his social worker and telling her how bad he was and making him leave forever:
Tattling.
**
"Ms. Murphy!"
She heard a quick patter of footsteps down the hall and slammed her romance novel shut. The cover was not fit for children's eyes. She suppressed a cringe as Harry peeked around the doorway slow, like he thought she might throw something at his head.
"Ms. Murphy," he said, clutching at the doorjamb.
Murphy tried to make herself look warm and understanding. It gave her a cheek cramp. "What's wrong, Harry?"
"I--" He averted his eyes and bit his lip. "Um."
"Yes?"
Harry shifted his weight from side to side, uncomfortable, hands locked behind his back, and --
Oh. "Did you wet the bed?" she said gently. "It's all right, we'll get you cleaned up right away."
He turned red as a boiling teakettle. "I didn't," he sputtered, "I haven't done that in a long time!" He held up fingers, checked to make sure it was the right number, then thrust them at her. "I'm four."
"Yes, I know," she said. "Even big boys have accidents, Harry."
He studied her a long time. Harry had strange eyes, dark and heavyset and creased in ways they shouldn't have been, not on a kid. Like he had spent years in a corner squeezing them shut with his hands over his ears; like they hadn't been sealed tight enough to keep it out. Murphy was old enough that she had seen what iron looked like when passed through fire, she knew how the ring of the hammer on glowing metal sounded. True -- sometimes when Harry stared at her, it felt like he was seeing straight to the bottom of everything.
After a while, he shrugged, wiped his nose on his sleeve.
"Okay," he said.
Murphy let out a breath. "Okay."
"But that's not what I," he said, faltering. "Um -- you're gonna be mad."
She rose from the chair, let her shadow stretch over him.
"How mad?"
**
Former detective Karrin Murphy stood in the playroom with her hands limp at her sides. If she were the kind of woman to gape, she would have been.
She counted again. And again.
A pulse throbbed in her temple. "When I get my hands on those twerps -- "
**
Three miles away in the lobby of the South Central Home for Orphaned and Needy Boys, Johnnie Marcone sneezed.
tbc, lol
My brain went splort (in the best kind of way) when I realized who Marbas and Harahel were! I would lovvvvvvve to see more!
Re: Fill: We're Just Blowing Through Nap Time, Aren't We (1/2)
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
luciazephyr
2011-03-11 06:29 am (UTC)(link)
oh jesus christ :laughing forever: JOHNNIE WILL NOT SACRIFICE HIS PEOPLE. SUSAN IS OBSESSED WITH GHOSTS. KINCAID SMELLS THINGS. GARD IS A NINJA KID.
:puts head down and laughs:
:puts head down and laughs:
Re: Fill: We're Just Blowing Through Nap Time, Aren't We (1/2)
(Anonymous) 2011-03-11 06:31 am (UTC)(link)ROFLMAO
(AYRT) Ahaha, no, I have NO TIME to write that, and I couldn't do it justice even if I did. But someone else totally should. Names and identities fascinate me, and all the DF stuff about names is like my catnip.
Especially since as it stands in the books I don't feel like I believe it. It desperately wants to be tweaked until it makes sense!
Because when I was younger I went exclusively by a nickname, and if I was called the proper, longer version of my name it would actually startle me, because that wasn't me. So this idea that it's a person's FULL name in all its parts that has the power feels disingenuous.
But then these days I DO go by the longer version of my name, and not the nickname, and now the nickname would feel weird -- but the nickname is still part of who I am, because it is who I was.
And then there's also stuff about names that aren't part of one's legal name. And I have one of those too, a name given to me when I was a wee child, and it is connected to my identity, but would never be reeled off as a part of my name, because it's a separate name altogether and besides I never actually get called it.
And then there's the stuff you brought up in your original prompt, with having multiple identities through things like fannish behaviour, and I can totally identify with that too, because my fannish name is a part of me.
So it all makes me think that there isn't just a "Name" that can be recited, if you know the whole thing, and hold within it the entirety of one's identity. Identity, and names, are so much more complicated than that. And for more than just the odd person out. I know I have an unusually complicated name history, but I'm pretty sure that MOST people have a more complicated relationship with their name than DF's thing about Names would have you believe.
Er.
Sorry about the tl;dr. I, um, feel strongly about this, in case you hadn't noticed....
Especially since as it stands in the books I don't feel like I believe it. It desperately wants to be tweaked until it makes sense!
Because when I was younger I went exclusively by a nickname, and if I was called the proper, longer version of my name it would actually startle me, because that wasn't me. So this idea that it's a person's FULL name in all its parts that has the power feels disingenuous.
But then these days I DO go by the longer version of my name, and not the nickname, and now the nickname would feel weird -- but the nickname is still part of who I am, because it is who I was.
And then there's also stuff about names that aren't part of one's legal name. And I have one of those too, a name given to me when I was a wee child, and it is connected to my identity, but would never be reeled off as a part of my name, because it's a separate name altogether and besides I never actually get called it.
And then there's the stuff you brought up in your original prompt, with having multiple identities through things like fannish behaviour, and I can totally identify with that too, because my fannish name is a part of me.
So it all makes me think that there isn't just a "Name" that can be recited, if you know the whole thing, and hold within it the entirety of one's identity. Identity, and names, are so much more complicated than that. And for more than just the odd person out. I know I have an unusually complicated name history, but I'm pretty sure that MOST people have a more complicated relationship with their name than DF's thing about Names would have you believe.
Er.
Sorry about the tl;dr. I, um, feel strongly about this, in case you hadn't noticed....
Re: Fill: We're Just Blowing Through Nap Time, Aren't We (1/2)
(Anonymous) 2011-03-11 06:36 am (UTC)(link)OH MY GOD HOW SO PERFECT.
Re: Fill: We're Just Blowing Through Nap Time, Aren't We (1/2)
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
wintersjuly.livejournal.com
2011-03-11 06:38 am (UTC)(link)
THIS IS SO ADORABLE I MIGHT EXPLODE
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