Fanfiction
So, I wrote something. And finished it. It really has no plot.
Title: Ironic
Rating: PG (for no reason at all...)
Genre: General/vignette/drabble (Yea... so no realy genre, either)
Characters: George, Elliot, O/C
A/N: If anything in this contradicts anything in SVU, just call it an AU.
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Disclaimer: I’m still saving for the DVDs. Do you honestly think I own SVU?
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A/N: So, my incoherent babbling is on the internet-the place where incoherent babbling belongs. And in schools. But, I’ll stop babbling nonsense and babble fiction. That’s what you’re here to read, right? No? Whatever. Not my problem ;)
Anyway, this piece flows somewhere in season 6…and it was imagined during the song, Ironic, by Alanis Morisette-one of my favorite songs. References to 9-11.
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Ironic
He looks up from the case file on his desk, temporarily distracted from his work by the fourteen-year-old sprawled across the couch from which people would normally be spilling every detail of their personal lives. This young girl kicks the back of it, Birkenstocks swaying from her toes, shoulder-length black hair dangling from the edge. Her glazed, almond eyes skim over a book on adolescent psychology. Every once in a while she snorts, clearly tempted to contradict the author.
“Bored?” he taunts lightly. She groans, debating whether to hurl the book in his direction or to fall off the couch and lie until her demise. She lazily drops the book over her face instead.
“When’s Mom coming back from L.A.?” she whines. “That stupid Sigmund Freud guy who wrote most of your books is a quack. I don’t remember ever being infatuated with my father. Just because he had some sick obsession with his mom doesn’t mean he has to convince everyone else that they did, as well, just to keep himself from feeling like a pervert.” The book slides off her face into the floor.
He stifles a chuckle. He can’t help but think she and Elliot might get along quite well. “Sunday,” he reminds her. “Would you mind getting your shoes off of the couch? I have to do psyche evaluations in an hour, and I don’t need the couch to be muddy.”
She rolls her eyes, coupled with a melodramatic sigh, kicking the shoes across the room. They knock against the bookshelf, and then fall to the floor with a soft thunk. “What am I supposed to do?” she demands, followed by a yawn.
He points to her backpack with a pen. “Don’t you have an essay due?” he asks. “On the American Revolution, if I remember correctly.”
His niece moans, kicking the back of the couch. “Doesn’t this place have a radio?” she wonders.
He raises an eyebrow. “At Special Victims Unit?” he clarifies.
“Snack machine?” she pushes.
He sighs, digging in his wallet. “Unless you’re too tired to find it.” He lays a five dollar bill on his desk. “Ask Detective Munch to show you the way. Remember who Munch is?”
She nods, rolling off the couch and sliding into her shoes. “The grumpy old guy who asked me whether I was reporting a rape or selling cookies,” she grumbles, snatching the money. “I remember him.”
It sounds exactly like Munch. He can’t help but chuckle. He watches her as she trots out the door of his office, nearly running into one of the detectives. She looks exactly like her mother-petite form, wild black hair, and clearly chiseled features. He can hardly see any of his brother-in-law in the girl, at least as far as physical features go. His brother-in-law was outspoken, with a short temper and an ever shorter attention span. He used to be a fan of football and poorly written sitcoms, not to mention a lover of anything with James Bond. Last he remembers, the man didn’t care much for shrinks, either. The typical American man, more or less.
Didn’t. Used to. Was. All words that remind him of the tragic death of his brother-in-law-his sister’s husband, his niece’s father-just over three years prior, on September eleventh, 2001. Even though the two had never gotten along particularly well, the way it had affected his sister-not to mention his niece-had driven a nail through his heart. Ironically, that was only days before he was told he would be assigned to work with sex crimes.
They didn’t think he could handle terrorists, which was what he would have been assigned to otherwise. He’d lost a family member, and they had assumed he would get too close…and they were right. He needed to remain detached, and this was where the Bureau had seen best fit for him.
He glances at his watch. He had let his mind wander for too long-it’s ten minutes until five. He had wasted nearly fifteen minutes meandering-fifteen minutes he should have spent profiling the precinct’s current perpetrator.
The door creaks open, revealing his niece, who is led by the hand planted firmly on her shoulder. Standing next to Detective Stabler, she appears even shorter than she really is, both because of his height, and the fact that she is slouched forward, hiding her face. She twirls a dark strand of hair in her fingers, her foot twitches. She can’t seem to hold still.
“You know this demon?” he asks, pushing her forward. “I found her snooping in Novak’s office. She says she’s with you.”
Her uncle raises an eyebrow. “Mind explaining, Amy?” he asks her. She winces.
“I couldn’t find the snack machine,” she grumbles, knowing he won’t believe her.
“Thank-you, Elliot,” he murmurs, nodding. The detective turns to exit.
“You have five minutes before your psyche evaluation,” George reminds him. Elliot winces.
“Thanks,” he says, grimacing. George smirks as his coworker exits the room.
Amy stands in front of his desk, looking at her feet. He can’t help but wonder if she sees anything of interest hidden in the leather of her shoes. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t call your mother and tell her about this,” he requests, looking absently through his case files. He sets his cell phone on his desk.
She bites her lip, thinking. “Because…I’m cute?” she finishes hopefully. He smiles. There’s no denying that-she is, after all, the spitting image of his baby sister.
“I’ll make you a deal,” he tells her. “Go get Detective Munch to help you with your essay and don’t bother anything for the rest of the day, and your off the hook.”
She smiles, nodding as she grabs her bag. She races out. “Hey, Gramps!” he hears her call out, “I have an essay on the Revolutionary War due. You should count as a primary source, right?”
He chuckles to himself, half-heartedly attempting to profile SVU’s current perp.
She was going to be a criminal psychologist. She was going to work for the CIA. And, she said, she was going to do it all to spite him.
He had once told a patient, “No matter how many times you break a mirror, it still reflects what it sees.”
As much of her father as he could see in his niece, he still managed to see pieces of himself lost amidst the broken mirrors in his niece’s eyes. She was always being broken, but broken things can always be fixed.
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A/N: Good? Bad? So-horrible-I-won’t-comment? Leave some feedback, people!
Title: Ironic
Rating: PG (for no reason at all...)
Genre: General/vignette/drabble (Yea... so no realy genre, either)
Characters: George, Elliot, O/C
A/N: If anything in this contradicts anything in SVU, just call it an AU.
-
Disclaimer: I’m still saving for the DVDs. Do you honestly think I own SVU?
-
A/N: So, my incoherent babbling is on the internet-the place where incoherent babbling belongs. And in schools. But, I’ll stop babbling nonsense and babble fiction. That’s what you’re here to read, right? No? Whatever. Not my problem ;)
Anyway, this piece flows somewhere in season 6…and it was imagined during the song, Ironic, by Alanis Morisette-one of my favorite songs. References to 9-11.
-
-
Ironic
He looks up from the case file on his desk, temporarily distracted from his work by the fourteen-year-old sprawled across the couch from which people would normally be spilling every detail of their personal lives. This young girl kicks the back of it, Birkenstocks swaying from her toes, shoulder-length black hair dangling from the edge. Her glazed, almond eyes skim over a book on adolescent psychology. Every once in a while she snorts, clearly tempted to contradict the author.
“Bored?” he taunts lightly. She groans, debating whether to hurl the book in his direction or to fall off the couch and lie until her demise. She lazily drops the book over her face instead.
“When’s Mom coming back from L.A.?” she whines. “That stupid Sigmund Freud guy who wrote most of your books is a quack. I don’t remember ever being infatuated with my father. Just because he had some sick obsession with his mom doesn’t mean he has to convince everyone else that they did, as well, just to keep himself from feeling like a pervert.” The book slides off her face into the floor.
He stifles a chuckle. He can’t help but think she and Elliot might get along quite well. “Sunday,” he reminds her. “Would you mind getting your shoes off of the couch? I have to do psyche evaluations in an hour, and I don’t need the couch to be muddy.”
She rolls her eyes, coupled with a melodramatic sigh, kicking the shoes across the room. They knock against the bookshelf, and then fall to the floor with a soft thunk. “What am I supposed to do?” she demands, followed by a yawn.
He points to her backpack with a pen. “Don’t you have an essay due?” he asks. “On the American Revolution, if I remember correctly.”
His niece moans, kicking the back of the couch. “Doesn’t this place have a radio?” she wonders.
He raises an eyebrow. “At Special Victims Unit?” he clarifies.
“Snack machine?” she pushes.
He sighs, digging in his wallet. “Unless you’re too tired to find it.” He lays a five dollar bill on his desk. “Ask Detective Munch to show you the way. Remember who Munch is?”
She nods, rolling off the couch and sliding into her shoes. “The grumpy old guy who asked me whether I was reporting a rape or selling cookies,” she grumbles, snatching the money. “I remember him.”
It sounds exactly like Munch. He can’t help but chuckle. He watches her as she trots out the door of his office, nearly running into one of the detectives. She looks exactly like her mother-petite form, wild black hair, and clearly chiseled features. He can hardly see any of his brother-in-law in the girl, at least as far as physical features go. His brother-in-law was outspoken, with a short temper and an ever shorter attention span. He used to be a fan of football and poorly written sitcoms, not to mention a lover of anything with James Bond. Last he remembers, the man didn’t care much for shrinks, either. The typical American man, more or less.
Didn’t. Used to. Was. All words that remind him of the tragic death of his brother-in-law-his sister’s husband, his niece’s father-just over three years prior, on September eleventh, 2001. Even though the two had never gotten along particularly well, the way it had affected his sister-not to mention his niece-had driven a nail through his heart. Ironically, that was only days before he was told he would be assigned to work with sex crimes.
They didn’t think he could handle terrorists, which was what he would have been assigned to otherwise. He’d lost a family member, and they had assumed he would get too close…and they were right. He needed to remain detached, and this was where the Bureau had seen best fit for him.
He glances at his watch. He had let his mind wander for too long-it’s ten minutes until five. He had wasted nearly fifteen minutes meandering-fifteen minutes he should have spent profiling the precinct’s current perpetrator.
The door creaks open, revealing his niece, who is led by the hand planted firmly on her shoulder. Standing next to Detective Stabler, she appears even shorter than she really is, both because of his height, and the fact that she is slouched forward, hiding her face. She twirls a dark strand of hair in her fingers, her foot twitches. She can’t seem to hold still.
“You know this demon?” he asks, pushing her forward. “I found her snooping in Novak’s office. She says she’s with you.”
Her uncle raises an eyebrow. “Mind explaining, Amy?” he asks her. She winces.
“I couldn’t find the snack machine,” she grumbles, knowing he won’t believe her.
“Thank-you, Elliot,” he murmurs, nodding. The detective turns to exit.
“You have five minutes before your psyche evaluation,” George reminds him. Elliot winces.
“Thanks,” he says, grimacing. George smirks as his coworker exits the room.
Amy stands in front of his desk, looking at her feet. He can’t help but wonder if she sees anything of interest hidden in the leather of her shoes. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t call your mother and tell her about this,” he requests, looking absently through his case files. He sets his cell phone on his desk.
She bites her lip, thinking. “Because…I’m cute?” she finishes hopefully. He smiles. There’s no denying that-she is, after all, the spitting image of his baby sister.
“I’ll make you a deal,” he tells her. “Go get Detective Munch to help you with your essay and don’t bother anything for the rest of the day, and your off the hook.”
She smiles, nodding as she grabs her bag. She races out. “Hey, Gramps!” he hears her call out, “I have an essay on the Revolutionary War due. You should count as a primary source, right?”
He chuckles to himself, half-heartedly attempting to profile SVU’s current perp.
She was going to be a criminal psychologist. She was going to work for the CIA. And, she said, she was going to do it all to spite him.
He had once told a patient, “No matter how many times you break a mirror, it still reflects what it sees.”
As much of her father as he could see in his niece, he still managed to see pieces of himself lost amidst the broken mirrors in his niece’s eyes. She was always being broken, but broken things can always be fixed.
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A/N: Good? Bad? So-horrible-I-won’t-comment? Leave some feedback, people!