drabblepost, and I need a Leverage icon
For teh_slush because she loves this show just as much as I do: gen (Parker/money); Leverage; PG. [303 words]
They have to take turns on stakeout tonight. Nate has decreed that no one gets to go home and sleep in their own lovely warm bed unless he gets to go home and sleep in his lovely ("cold, lonely, empty," Sophie mutters) bed too, and because he's stuck in this damn van for the next who-knows-how-long, so is the rest of the team.
Parker gives Sophie her sparkly tragic little girl eyes for a span of about three seconds before Sophie gives her own decree that whoever's not currently watching over the senator's daughter gets to sleep in the back of the van. Hardison slaps Parker a high-five. Eliot rolls his eyes and pretends (badly) not to be just as exhausted as the rest of them.
"Wait, wait," Parker says. "Nate. If we're sleeping over can I go back and get something really quick? Please?"
Nate blinks at her. "What- No!"
Parker gives him the sparkly tragic little girl eyes too.
Nate rubs his temples and looks world-weary. "Parker, what the hell is so important that you need to desert the rest of us for it?"
Well, when one parent says no. "Sophie, please? My shift isn't for another three hours."
Sophie gives Nate her best 'you're-a-terrible-father-to-our-children' look and smiles indulgently at Parker. "If you can be back in forty-five minutes."
***
Parker knocks on the van door exactly thirty-seven minutes later, smiling like a smug kitten and carrying a worn-out stuffed rabbit that looks about as old as she is.
"A rabbit," Nate says flatly. "Really?"
"I don't sleep without Bunny," Parker answers, not quite flouncing over to her corner of the van.
"See, I didn't think you'd be the bunny rabbit type," Hardison muses. "Maybe something with more teeth. Or poison."
"Or a bag of money," Eliot snorts.
"Bunny's stuffed with hundred dollar bills," Parker says happily, snuggling the stuffed toy.
"...There's something wrong with you," Nate says.
Leona McCoy/Jamie Kirk; Star Trek genderswap AU; PG-13. [161 words]
Orgasms, Jamie Kirk decides fuzzily, orgasms are awesome, and if everyone was having them all the time the universe would be a much happier place.
She shares this line of thought with the deliciously naked woman she's currently lying half on top of. Leona McCoy snorts and rolls her eyes.
"Brat," Leona says, and there's that note of gruff fondness in her voice that is as close as the older woman will ever come to chocolate and flowers. "Get some sleep. You've got an entire damn starship to run and you can't do it on the number of hours you've been getting lately. And you can consider that an official order from your doctor," she adds when Jamie pouts at her.
Jamie just laughs and snuggles closer against her CMO's breasts. "Sure thing, Bones," she says, just to be obnoxious, and shuts her eyes with a contented sigh.
The last thing she feels before she drifts off is Leona's hand, gently combing through her hair.
Original; PG. [257 words]
You're tired - so, so tired, all these long months on the road suddenly seeming to catch up with you and commanding your eyelids to slip shut. And no matter how you try to shake yourself awake, they only close with more force, and you can almost hear that ever-present bitch we call Gravity laughing at you as your head feels heavier and heavier. There's no way, not in hell or heaven or whatever this earth is, no way you can let yourself go, because there's so much left to do and mama always said no rest for the wicked.
Your best friend's fingers strum idly at the noble strings of her guitar, cradling it with her body like some priceless artifact from some lost civilization of sound, and you should write a song about that, something abstract and strange. But her tune is only urging sleep's horses on faster, they'll be knocking on the big impassive door to your brain in a matter of minutes, turning it small and breaking it down, you can just tell-
She looks over at you, that best friend of yours, and laughs her clear, sweet little laugh, nothing like Gravity's. "My man," she says, "you are righteously sleepy," and she pulls you over and lets your head rest beside her, tugs a blanket over you and lets your breathing even out to serve as the bassline for a new steady river of notes. And as Sleep gracefully descends from her chariot, smiling gently and taking your hand, the world's ugliness falls away.
Original; PG-13. [350 words]
The brush feathers across the paper - not canvas, you're not nearly serious enough for that. This isn't even a hobby. It's a passing fancy that likes to reappear and be indulged every once in a while. You know that one-night stand you can never get rid of, because maybe you picked her up once in college and then the next day she turned out to be your cousin's friend's sister that you didn't even know liked girls, and then she keeps showing up at parties and shit, and maybe these days you drink at more or less the same bars so meeting up now and again is kind of inevitable, and hey, who says the 'no repeats' rule isn't more of a guideline anyway?
Yeah. You and painting are like that.
God, but you miss junior high and its laid-back mandatory art classes. All of the lovely supplies and none of the stifling requirements. You got to work in liquid silver foil stuff once. It looked, if you do say so yourself, fucking awesome. And you do. So.
Your elbow decides at that precise moment to get itself acquainted with your palette of acrylics, and you swear softly, fumbling for a paper towel. You remember vaguely that your teacher used to let you paint in ink. Those were your favorite classes. You'd write out a long, formal letter - from a lover to his beloved, from a king to his general, from a daughter to her mother - the kind you imagined they must have written in Heian era Japan or revolutionary France or medieval England, and then you'd cover it in other colors and other mediums and see if the original jewel tones of the ink still shone through. Your best one, you remember, was a letter from a dying poet to his muse, the fairy queen, coated in blue and green watercolors and blurred beyond all legibility. The stain of the words had looked like a pair of wings, and for a moment you wonder just where that painting ended up.
And that's when you spill tea all over your paper.
They have to take turns on stakeout tonight. Nate has decreed that no one gets to go home and sleep in their own lovely warm bed unless he gets to go home and sleep in his lovely ("cold, lonely, empty," Sophie mutters) bed too, and because he's stuck in this damn van for the next who-knows-how-long, so is the rest of the team.
Parker gives Sophie her sparkly tragic little girl eyes for a span of about three seconds before Sophie gives her own decree that whoever's not currently watching over the senator's daughter gets to sleep in the back of the van. Hardison slaps Parker a high-five. Eliot rolls his eyes and pretends (badly) not to be just as exhausted as the rest of them.
"Wait, wait," Parker says. "Nate. If we're sleeping over can I go back and get something really quick? Please?"
Nate blinks at her. "What- No!"
Parker gives him the sparkly tragic little girl eyes too.
Nate rubs his temples and looks world-weary. "Parker, what the hell is so important that you need to desert the rest of us for it?"
Well, when one parent says no. "Sophie, please? My shift isn't for another three hours."
Sophie gives Nate her best 'you're-a-terrible-father-to-our-children' look and smiles indulgently at Parker. "If you can be back in forty-five minutes."
***
Parker knocks on the van door exactly thirty-seven minutes later, smiling like a smug kitten and carrying a worn-out stuffed rabbit that looks about as old as she is.
"A rabbit," Nate says flatly. "Really?"
"I don't sleep without Bunny," Parker answers, not quite flouncing over to her corner of the van.
"See, I didn't think you'd be the bunny rabbit type," Hardison muses. "Maybe something with more teeth. Or poison."
"Or a bag of money," Eliot snorts.
"Bunny's stuffed with hundred dollar bills," Parker says happily, snuggling the stuffed toy.
"...There's something wrong with you," Nate says.
Leona McCoy/Jamie Kirk; Star Trek genderswap AU; PG-13. [161 words]
Orgasms, Jamie Kirk decides fuzzily, orgasms are awesome, and if everyone was having them all the time the universe would be a much happier place.
She shares this line of thought with the deliciously naked woman she's currently lying half on top of. Leona McCoy snorts and rolls her eyes.
"Brat," Leona says, and there's that note of gruff fondness in her voice that is as close as the older woman will ever come to chocolate and flowers. "Get some sleep. You've got an entire damn starship to run and you can't do it on the number of hours you've been getting lately. And you can consider that an official order from your doctor," she adds when Jamie pouts at her.
Jamie just laughs and snuggles closer against her CMO's breasts. "Sure thing, Bones," she says, just to be obnoxious, and shuts her eyes with a contented sigh.
The last thing she feels before she drifts off is Leona's hand, gently combing through her hair.
Original; PG. [257 words]
You're tired - so, so tired, all these long months on the road suddenly seeming to catch up with you and commanding your eyelids to slip shut. And no matter how you try to shake yourself awake, they only close with more force, and you can almost hear that ever-present bitch we call Gravity laughing at you as your head feels heavier and heavier. There's no way, not in hell or heaven or whatever this earth is, no way you can let yourself go, because there's so much left to do and mama always said no rest for the wicked.
Your best friend's fingers strum idly at the noble strings of her guitar, cradling it with her body like some priceless artifact from some lost civilization of sound, and you should write a song about that, something abstract and strange. But her tune is only urging sleep's horses on faster, they'll be knocking on the big impassive door to your brain in a matter of minutes, turning it small and breaking it down, you can just tell-
She looks over at you, that best friend of yours, and laughs her clear, sweet little laugh, nothing like Gravity's. "My man," she says, "you are righteously sleepy," and she pulls you over and lets your head rest beside her, tugs a blanket over you and lets your breathing even out to serve as the bassline for a new steady river of notes. And as Sleep gracefully descends from her chariot, smiling gently and taking your hand, the world's ugliness falls away.
Original; PG-13. [350 words]
The brush feathers across the paper - not canvas, you're not nearly serious enough for that. This isn't even a hobby. It's a passing fancy that likes to reappear and be indulged every once in a while. You know that one-night stand you can never get rid of, because maybe you picked her up once in college and then the next day she turned out to be your cousin's friend's sister that you didn't even know liked girls, and then she keeps showing up at parties and shit, and maybe these days you drink at more or less the same bars so meeting up now and again is kind of inevitable, and hey, who says the 'no repeats' rule isn't more of a guideline anyway?
Yeah. You and painting are like that.
God, but you miss junior high and its laid-back mandatory art classes. All of the lovely supplies and none of the stifling requirements. You got to work in liquid silver foil stuff once. It looked, if you do say so yourself, fucking awesome. And you do. So.
Your elbow decides at that precise moment to get itself acquainted with your palette of acrylics, and you swear softly, fumbling for a paper towel. You remember vaguely that your teacher used to let you paint in ink. Those were your favorite classes. You'd write out a long, formal letter - from a lover to his beloved, from a king to his general, from a daughter to her mother - the kind you imagined they must have written in Heian era Japan or revolutionary France or medieval England, and then you'd cover it in other colors and other mediums and see if the original jewel tones of the ink still shone through. Your best one, you remember, was a letter from a dying poet to his muse, the fairy queen, coated in blue and green watercolors and blurred beyond all legibility. The stain of the words had looked like a pair of wings, and for a moment you wonder just where that painting ended up.
And that's when you spill tea all over your paper.