14 Valentines 11: 3 Ficlets to Make Up for All the Angst (John/Rodney, Cat/Raven, Brendan/Emmett)
Title: Flying High
Rating: G
Word Count: ~350
Warnings: None.
Summary: Borrowing wasn't usually something Rodney excelled at, although he was good enough for a grudging nod from Granny Weatherwax.
Title: Bedraggled
Rating: G
Word Count: ~650
Warnings: None
Summary: Now, if you have ever tried to bathe a cat that did not want to be bathed, you can imagine Mr. Fluffles's expression as he takes his first step into the puddle.
Title: Cartoon Crazy
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~450
Warnings: None.
Summary: It had seemed like such a good idea at the time.
Notes: A few more prompt-fics I've been owing people for about a year now. Beta-read by broet-chan. I hope this is a little more uplifting than the other stuff I posted recently. :)
14 Valentines Essay: Day 11: Voting
~~~
Flying High - For jimandblair: John/Rodney, Broomstick (picking up after High Stakes)
Rodney had always liked cats. They were clean, nice to look at, and apart from the occasional insane leap perfectly content to stay on the ground. Rodney liked the ground. He liked it even more when he was standing on it, not watching it fall away from the literal bird's eye perspective of a Lancre mohawk*. But John had taken to flying like, well, like a bird to the air, and his open smile did strange things to Rodney's heart rate, so here he was. Trying to keep up with the speeding broom, fighting the urge to simply dive down and dig his talons into something small and furry.
Borrowing wasn't usually something Rodney excelled at, although he was good enough for a grudging nod from Granny Weatherwax. John's manoeuvres had quickly become too daring for his delicate stomach, so he had switched to alternative ways to accompany the assassin on his flights instead of clinging to the broomstick and praying to every god there was that he wouldn't fall down.
John, on the other hand… John seemed to be born to the air. He steered the broom with the ease of someone who'd been using it for years instead of a few weeks, flying through almost every weather. He was reckless, daring, suicidal. And happy. Rodney didn't think he'd ever seen anyone look so delighted as John did when he could leave the ground behind.
The broom took a sharp turn left and dived straight down. Rodney let the Mohawk follow, answering John's whoop with a high-pitched cry of his own.
He'd never admit to it, but he was having the time of his life.
+++
*The Lancre mohawk is small compared to other hawks and not commonly used as a hunting bird. Come mating season, the males fight each other for the females, often going for the rival's head. The result is usually a nearly bald bird with a short strip of feathers down the middle of its scalp. Inexplicably, a proverb from Slice occasionally calls someone "as horny as a mohawk" although the mohawk has no horns at all.
~~~
READ LOW PROBABILITY
~~~
Bedraggled - For emeraldteal: Cat/Raven, Float (picking up after The Cat and the Raven)
Mr. Fluffles is, even for a cat, highly intelligent. So he can't help but wonder what, exactly, made him leave a moderately comfortable home to roam around the wilderness with a bird that can't fly.
Oh, of course the raven claims that he can fly just fine - he just doesn't want to - but as I said: Mr. Fluffles is a highly intelligent cat. He knows an excuse when he hears it. He has noticed the strained flutter when the raven is in the air for more than two minutes. He sees the bird sometimes holds his wing stiffly, at not quite the same angle as his good one.
He can connect the dots.
So really, he has to ask himself what he is doing here. A cat. Outside. In the middle of a rainstorm. Looking for a goddamn bird, and not even to eat it. The only reason he can think of is that he must have gotten used to the company. To the mischievous croak of "Mr. Fluffles!" that makes him roll his eyes so hard.
I would love to tell you that Mr. Fluffles found the raven after a mere few minutes, croaking down at him from the shelter of a tree, black eyes holding the smirk that his beak cannot form. But I can't, because I would be lying. Mr. Fluffles has to keep looking for over an hour while the rainstorm keeps getting worse, and when he finds the raven it's not on a tree.
It's in the middle of a giant puddle.
For a moment, Mr. Fluffles is convinced that his heart has stopped as he stands rooted to the spot, staring at the soggy black lump that is floating on a broken branch, unmoving, feathers clumped together by mud and water. He calls out, his voice breaking on a hoarse meep he cannot feel ashamed for, because the raven doesn't so much as twitch.
Now, if you have ever tried to bathe a cat that did not want to be bathed, you can imagine Mr. Fluffles's expression as he takes his first step into the puddle. The water is dirty, cold, and deeper than he thought, and he has to start swimming to get to the floating branch. The raven still doesn't move, not even when Mr. Fluffles nudges him with his nose, but he is breathing. Relieved, Mr. Fluffles takes the branch between his teeth and pulls and drags it out of the puddle, wishing he could complain about the taste in his mouth but not daring to. Once he's back on solid - if muddy - ground, Mr. Fluffles carefully picks up the bird and carries him to a thick cluster of bushes, into a small space that is still mostly dry. There he lays him down and starts to groom himself to pass the time. Waiting has never been Mr. Fluffles's strong suit.
Night is falling when the raven finally moves, a shudder running through the sleek body as it twitches its way to wakefulness. Mr. Fluffles is glowering when the raven opens his eyes, pretending like only a cat can that he wasn't concerned at all. The raven tries to croak something, but his voice is raw and he gives up, resigned. Mr. Fluffles resumes his grooming, perhaps leaning over a little further than he should because his leg ends up pressed against the raven's shoulder. The raven blinks, then struggles upright and slowly starts to clean his feathers.
It takes him half the night before he's done, and by then he is tired enough to lie straight down again, never mind that he is hungry. The rain still hasn't stopped, pattering down on the leaves above, and Mr. Fluffles curls up around him.
But only because cats so easily get cold, you know.
~~~
Cartoon Crazy - For tipsywitch: Brendan/Emmett, Music
Emmett didn't make mistakes very often, but when he did they were usually pretty spectacular. Like not checking the oil in his pick-up before driving all the way down to Big Bend. Like letting the FBI use Betty as a track hound. Like trying every dish at his first Randolph County International Ramp Cookoff and Festival.
Like giving Brendan Cartoon Network's Cartoon Medley for his birthday.
It had seemed like such a good idea at the time. Brendan loved cartoons, Emmett loved Brendan, and Freya kept complaining that Brendan usually had the same song stuck in his head for entire days at a time, so why not give him more variety? And the way Brendan had smiled at him when he'd unwrapped the CD - brightly and unreserved and so fucking beautiful that Emmett had dragged him off to the bedroom before Brendan had even finished taking the breath to say thank-you - had in no way hinted at the fact that buying that particular compilation might well have been the biggest mistake Emmett had made in his life.
If he had to listen to the Animaniacs theme song one more time, he'd snap and kill someone.
Instead of playing the songs every now and again, Brendan seemed to have them on a constant loop. Emmett ached for the times when he'd come home and kick back to a bit of Cool Jazz - Miles Davis, Gerry Mulligan, oh, Chet Baker - and maybe forget a little about how tiring it was to juggle insufficient government grants. Now, he came home to find Brendan playing air guitar to the Swat Kats intro.
Emmett had been tempted more than once to accidentally-on-purpose stuff the damn CD into the dishwasher and see what would happen. With his luck, nothing at all, plus then he'd be on a sex embargo for the next two months at least. Not that Brendan held grudges or anything.
Still, he probably would have tried to get rid of the CD anyway, if not for the way Brendan would sometimes wait for him at the door, insane saxophone-and-trumpet-driven music already playing, and drag him into their apartment. The way he'd hum and press his cheek against Emmett's as he led them through some crazy, made-up dance that took them around the dinner table, through the kitchen and into the bedroom. The way he'd grin down at Emmett and proceed to make him forget all about the hated tunes still playing in the background.
If Emmett had to listen to the Animaniacs theme song one more time, he'd snap and kill someone.
Quick Draw McGraw, however, had become pretty much pavlovian.
Rating: G
Word Count: ~350
Warnings: None.
Summary: Borrowing wasn't usually something Rodney excelled at, although he was good enough for a grudging nod from Granny Weatherwax.
Title: Bedraggled
Rating: G
Word Count: ~650
Warnings: None
Summary: Now, if you have ever tried to bathe a cat that did not want to be bathed, you can imagine Mr. Fluffles's expression as he takes his first step into the puddle.
Title: Cartoon Crazy
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~450
Warnings: None.
Summary: It had seemed like such a good idea at the time.
Notes: A few more prompt-fics I've been owing people for about a year now. Beta-read by broet-chan. I hope this is a little more uplifting than the other stuff I posted recently. :)
14 Valentines Essay: Day 11: Voting
~~~
Flying High - For jimandblair: John/Rodney, Broomstick (picking up after High Stakes)
Rodney had always liked cats. They were clean, nice to look at, and apart from the occasional insane leap perfectly content to stay on the ground. Rodney liked the ground. He liked it even more when he was standing on it, not watching it fall away from the literal bird's eye perspective of a Lancre mohawk*. But John had taken to flying like, well, like a bird to the air, and his open smile did strange things to Rodney's heart rate, so here he was. Trying to keep up with the speeding broom, fighting the urge to simply dive down and dig his talons into something small and furry.
Borrowing wasn't usually something Rodney excelled at, although he was good enough for a grudging nod from Granny Weatherwax. John's manoeuvres had quickly become too daring for his delicate stomach, so he had switched to alternative ways to accompany the assassin on his flights instead of clinging to the broomstick and praying to every god there was that he wouldn't fall down.
John, on the other hand… John seemed to be born to the air. He steered the broom with the ease of someone who'd been using it for years instead of a few weeks, flying through almost every weather. He was reckless, daring, suicidal. And happy. Rodney didn't think he'd ever seen anyone look so delighted as John did when he could leave the ground behind.
The broom took a sharp turn left and dived straight down. Rodney let the Mohawk follow, answering John's whoop with a high-pitched cry of his own.
He'd never admit to it, but he was having the time of his life.
+++
*The Lancre mohawk is small compared to other hawks and not commonly used as a hunting bird. Come mating season, the males fight each other for the females, often going for the rival's head. The result is usually a nearly bald bird with a short strip of feathers down the middle of its scalp. Inexplicably, a proverb from Slice occasionally calls someone "as horny as a mohawk" although the mohawk has no horns at all.
~~~
READ LOW PROBABILITY
~~~
Bedraggled - For emeraldteal: Cat/Raven, Float (picking up after The Cat and the Raven)
Mr. Fluffles is, even for a cat, highly intelligent. So he can't help but wonder what, exactly, made him leave a moderately comfortable home to roam around the wilderness with a bird that can't fly.
Oh, of course the raven claims that he can fly just fine - he just doesn't want to - but as I said: Mr. Fluffles is a highly intelligent cat. He knows an excuse when he hears it. He has noticed the strained flutter when the raven is in the air for more than two minutes. He sees the bird sometimes holds his wing stiffly, at not quite the same angle as his good one.
He can connect the dots.
So really, he has to ask himself what he is doing here. A cat. Outside. In the middle of a rainstorm. Looking for a goddamn bird, and not even to eat it. The only reason he can think of is that he must have gotten used to the company. To the mischievous croak of "Mr. Fluffles!" that makes him roll his eyes so hard.
I would love to tell you that Mr. Fluffles found the raven after a mere few minutes, croaking down at him from the shelter of a tree, black eyes holding the smirk that his beak cannot form. But I can't, because I would be lying. Mr. Fluffles has to keep looking for over an hour while the rainstorm keeps getting worse, and when he finds the raven it's not on a tree.
It's in the middle of a giant puddle.
For a moment, Mr. Fluffles is convinced that his heart has stopped as he stands rooted to the spot, staring at the soggy black lump that is floating on a broken branch, unmoving, feathers clumped together by mud and water. He calls out, his voice breaking on a hoarse meep he cannot feel ashamed for, because the raven doesn't so much as twitch.
Now, if you have ever tried to bathe a cat that did not want to be bathed, you can imagine Mr. Fluffles's expression as he takes his first step into the puddle. The water is dirty, cold, and deeper than he thought, and he has to start swimming to get to the floating branch. The raven still doesn't move, not even when Mr. Fluffles nudges him with his nose, but he is breathing. Relieved, Mr. Fluffles takes the branch between his teeth and pulls and drags it out of the puddle, wishing he could complain about the taste in his mouth but not daring to. Once he's back on solid - if muddy - ground, Mr. Fluffles carefully picks up the bird and carries him to a thick cluster of bushes, into a small space that is still mostly dry. There he lays him down and starts to groom himself to pass the time. Waiting has never been Mr. Fluffles's strong suit.
Night is falling when the raven finally moves, a shudder running through the sleek body as it twitches its way to wakefulness. Mr. Fluffles is glowering when the raven opens his eyes, pretending like only a cat can that he wasn't concerned at all. The raven tries to croak something, but his voice is raw and he gives up, resigned. Mr. Fluffles resumes his grooming, perhaps leaning over a little further than he should because his leg ends up pressed against the raven's shoulder. The raven blinks, then struggles upright and slowly starts to clean his feathers.
It takes him half the night before he's done, and by then he is tired enough to lie straight down again, never mind that he is hungry. The rain still hasn't stopped, pattering down on the leaves above, and Mr. Fluffles curls up around him.
But only because cats so easily get cold, you know.
~~~
Cartoon Crazy - For tipsywitch: Brendan/Emmett, Music
Emmett didn't make mistakes very often, but when he did they were usually pretty spectacular. Like not checking the oil in his pick-up before driving all the way down to Big Bend. Like letting the FBI use Betty as a track hound. Like trying every dish at his first Randolph County International Ramp Cookoff and Festival.
Like giving Brendan Cartoon Network's Cartoon Medley for his birthday.
It had seemed like such a good idea at the time. Brendan loved cartoons, Emmett loved Brendan, and Freya kept complaining that Brendan usually had the same song stuck in his head for entire days at a time, so why not give him more variety? And the way Brendan had smiled at him when he'd unwrapped the CD - brightly and unreserved and so fucking beautiful that Emmett had dragged him off to the bedroom before Brendan had even finished taking the breath to say thank-you - had in no way hinted at the fact that buying that particular compilation might well have been the biggest mistake Emmett had made in his life.
If he had to listen to the Animaniacs theme song one more time, he'd snap and kill someone.
Instead of playing the songs every now and again, Brendan seemed to have them on a constant loop. Emmett ached for the times when he'd come home and kick back to a bit of Cool Jazz - Miles Davis, Gerry Mulligan, oh, Chet Baker - and maybe forget a little about how tiring it was to juggle insufficient government grants. Now, he came home to find Brendan playing air guitar to the Swat Kats intro.
Emmett had been tempted more than once to accidentally-on-purpose stuff the damn CD into the dishwasher and see what would happen. With his luck, nothing at all, plus then he'd be on a sex embargo for the next two months at least. Not that Brendan held grudges or anything.
Still, he probably would have tried to get rid of the CD anyway, if not for the way Brendan would sometimes wait for him at the door, insane saxophone-and-trumpet-driven music already playing, and drag him into their apartment. The way he'd hum and press his cheek against Emmett's as he led them through some crazy, made-up dance that took them around the dinner table, through the kitchen and into the bedroom. The way he'd grin down at Emmett and proceed to make him forget all about the hated tunes still playing in the background.
If Emmett had to listen to the Animaniacs theme song one more time, he'd snap and kill someone.
Quick Draw McGraw, however, had become pretty much pavlovian.