FIC: Other (Converstaions with ...)
She wanders nonchalantly up to the desk and perches there, hitching herself up with a conscious grace that is meant to humble all viewers. “Howdy,” she says, friendly enough, while pushing off everything I had so thoughtlessly left on the corner of my desk to give herself more room. She smiles at the crash.
She is deceptively small, thin and wiry. Her hair is a deep color that can be black as shadows or flare like fire in the sun. Her short tunic is stained, filthy and ripped. Her feet are bare and bloody. Her pale skin is mottled with ancient dirt, and her hair is an unruly mass that hasn’t seen a brush… probably ever. When she smiles... there are too many teeth.
“Hey,” I answer back, carefully not meeting her overly intense eyes. Even after all this time, I still can’t tell you what color they are. Maybe it’s because they change, depending on her mood, like a cheesy mood-ring from a cheep trinket machine.
She has a deep gash along one clavicle. The blood has long since dried, though, and she obviously survived whatever it was. I know better than to ask. She’s licking something sticky and red from her fingers. It looks a little like strawberry jam. What the hell, for all I know it could be strawberry jam.
“I’ve been thinking,” she says. And I feel the old familiar sensation wash through me at the words. Half of me is excited, ecstatic. It knows the pleasure of this, the rush and ride of it. There is no denying that I love it. The other half of me quivers with fear. I know that whatever she says, no matter how much fun it sounds like, it will hurt at the end. It will be full of self-doubt, and fear, and rejection. Like a manic-depressive, I love the ups, but the crash that follows is usually not worth it.
“Whatever it is, I’m not interested,” I say, determinedly focusing on my screen. I type ‘the’ three times, every one spelled wrong. I backspace and succeed on a fourth try.
“Yes, you are,” she gloats, not kindly. “You’re always interested. Now whether you’re able is a different question.” She smiles, stretching and pushing more of my things off the desktop. She hates being ignored or denied.
I take a breath, misspell four more words, and decide to clean them up later. “You’re distracting me.”
“I’m trying to tell you something,” she says in exactly the same tone. The whine doesn’t sound any better on her than on me.
I sigh again, and fold my arms. She won’t go until I give her what she wants. It’s better to just give her the attention and then I’ll be able to refocus. At least, that’s what I tell myself. It has nothing to do with the thrill that she represents. She is that teetering point on the coaster, after the long haul up the hill, but right before the terror of the drop. That perfect moment of weightless joy…that’s what she is, and she doesn’t stay long. “Okay, what is it?” My new interest is completely because I want her to move on. It has nothing to do with me chasing the hill again. Nothing.
She tosses her head, offended. “Don’t do me any favors. I can go elsewhere. Somewhere where people will appreciate my presence.”
I feel a chill of real fear at that. I don’t want her to go away. Not really. I just wanted to focus today. “Don’t go. I do want to hear, really. I’m just so busy…”
“We’re all busy,” she says without compassion. She’s never been tolerant of whiners. “Get over your self.”
“Please.”
He word is enough and she smirks at me. “Good, Ubu. Now, I’ve been thinking. I’ve been thinking about what Niko Landros would say to Dean Winchester if they met.”
“Oh god.”
“Imagine it,” she went on, slithering off the desk to start pacing. “I mean, Dean called his brother a monster. A monster. He left him, abandoned him, and came back judging him for his grief. I’m pretty sure Niko would have some shit to say to that man -- about how calling a little brother ‘monster’ can open the door for him to be one, and about how not stopping him from calling himself one can finish the job.”
“I don’t have time for this,” I mutter, but I know it’s helpless.
She ignores me. “Think about it. Niko would be…less then sympathetic to Dean, I would guess. And what Cal and Sam would say to each other, that would be priceless,” she grins. “Maybe they could give each other tips on finding the best demon blood; ‘good bouquet on demon [A] but better body on demon [B]’.”
Gross. And funny. “They're different universes,” I point out.
“So?”
“So I don’t do crossovers!” I am a little desperate, I admit.
She just waves a hand; that is totally inconsequential. “You want to.”
I swallow. “I wouldn’t know where to start,” I argue back. “I would have no idea how to even get them to meet.”
“Not so hard if somebody sends Dean after Cal. Say some feathered dickhead who thinks he knows everything but keeps messing the brothers up? What if something - say a big assed explosion in a dimensional rift in New York - has Cas all hot and bothered, and he sends Dean to hunt Cal.”
“That’s… just evil,” I don’t know if I’m more intrigued or appalled.
“Yep,” she says, unconcerned. She sucks a finger clean, bites, and spits a chip of nail across my room. “Who do you think would win in a fight? Nik or Dean?”
“Nik may be the better fighter,” I answer automatically, my thoughts still on Cas and Dean and Cal….
“Yeah, but Dean has guns…and he’d cheat.” She considers a second, then shrugs. “It could go either way, really.”
“What about Sam and Cal?” I ask before I can think about it, getting pulled in.
“Sam,” she answers quickly. “Sam would win…unless Cal used his heritage …or opened a gate.”
And suddenly I can see them, not Cal and Sam, but Sam and Nik, accidentally sucked through… and Dean and Cal forced to work together to get them back. Dean forced to be supportive to a young man who hates his demon blood… while Sam finds a weird sort of acceptance for who he is, not just who he should be, from Nik.
I groan, knowing I’ve been sucked into her little games again.
“But what about Alistair?” I ask, a little desperately.
“I’m bored with Alistair.”
“You weren’t bored last night!”
“That was last night,” she shrugs.
“The two worlds don’t work together!” I shout, a last defense to stop this madness. “Nik and Cal’s world doesn’t even have ghosts!”
She smiles like a predator. “If that’s your only issue, you don’t really have an issue.” She jumps up, starting to walk to the door.
“I can’t write this! I have to finish the VS! I can’t do anything until I finish that!”
“You said ‘until’,” she calls over her shoulder. "So you will write it." She’s giggling manically as she flitters out of the door as quietly as she came in.
I feel like sobbing. I lay my head on the desk instead.
“Fucking muse.”
She is deceptively small, thin and wiry. Her hair is a deep color that can be black as shadows or flare like fire in the sun. Her short tunic is stained, filthy and ripped. Her feet are bare and bloody. Her pale skin is mottled with ancient dirt, and her hair is an unruly mass that hasn’t seen a brush… probably ever. When she smiles... there are too many teeth.
“Hey,” I answer back, carefully not meeting her overly intense eyes. Even after all this time, I still can’t tell you what color they are. Maybe it’s because they change, depending on her mood, like a cheesy mood-ring from a cheep trinket machine.
She has a deep gash along one clavicle. The blood has long since dried, though, and she obviously survived whatever it was. I know better than to ask. She’s licking something sticky and red from her fingers. It looks a little like strawberry jam. What the hell, for all I know it could be strawberry jam.
“I’ve been thinking,” she says. And I feel the old familiar sensation wash through me at the words. Half of me is excited, ecstatic. It knows the pleasure of this, the rush and ride of it. There is no denying that I love it. The other half of me quivers with fear. I know that whatever she says, no matter how much fun it sounds like, it will hurt at the end. It will be full of self-doubt, and fear, and rejection. Like a manic-depressive, I love the ups, but the crash that follows is usually not worth it.
“Whatever it is, I’m not interested,” I say, determinedly focusing on my screen. I type ‘the’ three times, every one spelled wrong. I backspace and succeed on a fourth try.
“Yes, you are,” she gloats, not kindly. “You’re always interested. Now whether you’re able is a different question.” She smiles, stretching and pushing more of my things off the desktop. She hates being ignored or denied.
I take a breath, misspell four more words, and decide to clean them up later. “You’re distracting me.”
“I’m trying to tell you something,” she says in exactly the same tone. The whine doesn’t sound any better on her than on me.
I sigh again, and fold my arms. She won’t go until I give her what she wants. It’s better to just give her the attention and then I’ll be able to refocus. At least, that’s what I tell myself. It has nothing to do with the thrill that she represents. She is that teetering point on the coaster, after the long haul up the hill, but right before the terror of the drop. That perfect moment of weightless joy…that’s what she is, and she doesn’t stay long. “Okay, what is it?” My new interest is completely because I want her to move on. It has nothing to do with me chasing the hill again. Nothing.
She tosses her head, offended. “Don’t do me any favors. I can go elsewhere. Somewhere where people will appreciate my presence.”
I feel a chill of real fear at that. I don’t want her to go away. Not really. I just wanted to focus today. “Don’t go. I do want to hear, really. I’m just so busy…”
“We’re all busy,” she says without compassion. She’s never been tolerant of whiners. “Get over your self.”
“Please.”
He word is enough and she smirks at me. “Good, Ubu. Now, I’ve been thinking. I’ve been thinking about what Niko Landros would say to Dean Winchester if they met.”
“Oh god.”
“Imagine it,” she went on, slithering off the desk to start pacing. “I mean, Dean called his brother a monster. A monster. He left him, abandoned him, and came back judging him for his grief. I’m pretty sure Niko would have some shit to say to that man -- about how calling a little brother ‘monster’ can open the door for him to be one, and about how not stopping him from calling himself one can finish the job.”
“I don’t have time for this,” I mutter, but I know it’s helpless.
She ignores me. “Think about it. Niko would be…less then sympathetic to Dean, I would guess. And what Cal and Sam would say to each other, that would be priceless,” she grins. “Maybe they could give each other tips on finding the best demon blood; ‘good bouquet on demon [A] but better body on demon [B]’.”
Gross. And funny. “They're different universes,” I point out.
“So?”
“So I don’t do crossovers!” I am a little desperate, I admit.
She just waves a hand; that is totally inconsequential. “You want to.”
I swallow. “I wouldn’t know where to start,” I argue back. “I would have no idea how to even get them to meet.”
“Not so hard if somebody sends Dean after Cal. Say some feathered dickhead who thinks he knows everything but keeps messing the brothers up? What if something - say a big assed explosion in a dimensional rift in New York - has Cas all hot and bothered, and he sends Dean to hunt Cal.”
“That’s… just evil,” I don’t know if I’m more intrigued or appalled.
“Yep,” she says, unconcerned. She sucks a finger clean, bites, and spits a chip of nail across my room. “Who do you think would win in a fight? Nik or Dean?”
“Nik may be the better fighter,” I answer automatically, my thoughts still on Cas and Dean and Cal….
“Yeah, but Dean has guns…and he’d cheat.” She considers a second, then shrugs. “It could go either way, really.”
“What about Sam and Cal?” I ask before I can think about it, getting pulled in.
“Sam,” she answers quickly. “Sam would win…unless Cal used his heritage …or opened a gate.”
And suddenly I can see them, not Cal and Sam, but Sam and Nik, accidentally sucked through… and Dean and Cal forced to work together to get them back. Dean forced to be supportive to a young man who hates his demon blood… while Sam finds a weird sort of acceptance for who he is, not just who he should be, from Nik.
I groan, knowing I’ve been sucked into her little games again.
“But what about Alistair?” I ask, a little desperately.
“I’m bored with Alistair.”
“You weren’t bored last night!”
“That was last night,” she shrugs.
“The two worlds don’t work together!” I shout, a last defense to stop this madness. “Nik and Cal’s world doesn’t even have ghosts!”
She smiles like a predator. “If that’s your only issue, you don’t really have an issue.” She jumps up, starting to walk to the door.
“I can’t write this! I have to finish the VS! I can’t do anything until I finish that!”
“You said ‘until’,” she calls over her shoulder. "So you will write it." She’s giggling manically as she flitters out of the door as quietly as she came in.
I feel like sobbing. I lay my head on the desk instead.
“Fucking muse.”