Posts tagged prompt.
From Nem: And Sarge/Tex, with him trying to convince her to join Red Team. Yes.
"You want to be on the winning team," Sarge said. It had always convinced him. He wanted to be a winner, and be on the winning team, so obvious that was Red Team. Because he was a winner, and he was a Red.
Tex laughed at him. “Any team I’m on is the winning team.”
"Exactly! Glad we’re in agreement!" He looked her over as she stood there, confused. "Your armor isn’t really red, but we let Grif stay here and he’s orange, so we can make an exception."
"I thought he was more yellow," Tex corrected. "Anyway, I’m a freelancer. I’m not on anyone’s team but my own."
"Exactly!" he said triumphantly, and Tex was starting to consider leaving the conversation. "And your own team should be the best team around! Which is my team. Red Team. You should join us."
"We win more than 70% of our battles, unless you ask Lopez, but I think his wiring is a little funny. He keeps saying 33%, and we all know that can’t be right."
"I’m going to go back to Blue Base now."
"Well, think about it," he yelled after her. "It’s a limited time offer!" It always seemed like deadlines were what motivated people. They always motivated him. He nodded in self-satisfaction. She’d be back this afternoon to take him up on it, for sure.
The Kind You Want to Tell
From Nem: I also request Wash telling Internals that someone besides CT was the traitor.
It would be a really simple lie. He knew how to be dishonest. Like when his mother made meatloaf and he told her it was his favourite food. It was basically the same thing, wasn’t it? When he met with a bunch of high school girls from a different district and he awkwardly told them he was two years older, eighteen, almost graduated. Or when he fed his peas to the dog for half a year straight and got congratulated by his mom, then yelled at by his dad when he got caught. Or how he tells North that he likes Captain America better even though Superman is clearly the superior superhero.
It was just like a white lie. Well, maybe slightly grayish.
"I think you should take a closer look at Wyoming," he said in one controlled breath. There. It wasn’t that bad.
It was just like telling Connie that he didn’t mean it when he said “I love you.”
I saw this list of 30 day cheesy trope challenge for shipping, but since I’m a lazy loser how about you just throw a ship/bromance and a number in my ask. K? K.
- Coffee Shop AU
- Anonymous Love Letters
- Angel/Demon AU
- Bartender AU
- Spin the Bottle
- Stuck Someplace Together in Winter
- Sex Pollen AU
- Matching Soulmate Markings
- Deserted Island
- Meet in a Dream
- Arranged Marriage AU
- Handcuffed Together
- Stripper AU
- Office Romance AU
- Seven Minutes in Heaven
- Noble/Peasant AU
- Orphan AU
- Vampire AU
- Magic Spell
- Superhero AU
- Online Relationship
- Mythical Creature/Human
- High School AU
- Elevator Meeting
- Body Swap
- Genderbend AU
- Clothes Sharing
- Zombie AU
Might be doing this with RvB characters. Maybe. Probably. Possibly.
I’ll go in order for as long as it holds my interest. But if you want to send a prompt for a specific pairing/subject, please do!
The “Object on Your Right” Challenge
Happy Trial Tuesday! What is Trial Tuesday? Hop on over here to find out.
So what is the “Object on Your Right” challenge? Well, it’s simple. Look to your right. What’s the closest thing you see? Remember it.
Now, take that thing you saw and be creative. Write about it. Draw something inspired by it. Sculpt it out of macaroni. It doesn’t matter what you do, just be creative about it, and have fun!
"This one isn’t right."
He rolled his eyes as she put down another pillow, still in its plastic casing, and picked up the next one in the aisle. “Come on, just pick one. I haven’t slept in so long.”
"Nineteen hours," she corrected, and he frowned at her.
"It feels longer. Come on, it’s a bunch of feathers stuffed into a sheet, how much can it matter?”
She inspected the object in her hand critically before putting it down with a shake of her head. He sighed as theatrically as he could. “I’m almost done.”
"I don’t believe you," he warned, looking around at the other objects in the aisle. Pillows stacked on top of each other, most of them unimpressive and white. Some were decorative, which was another word for useless, but he’d told her she couldn’t have any of those when they moved in together. She’d ignored him and bought five, and he kept the fact that he liked them to himself.
She tapped him on the shoulder as he was hating himself for thinking that the small red one would look good in the middle of their two-seater couch. “Found it,” she said with a smile.
He looked at the pillow, folded over in her hands, and raised an eyebrow. “What makes this one better than any of the other ones?”
She smiled in that way that meant she bit her bottom lip to do it and her tongue licked her lips before she answered, “it’s long enough for both of our heads.”
He looked at the pillow, slightly longer than the rest of its companions, and put his arm around her shoulders. “So we’re going to share a pillow,” he said as he kissed her left temple and gently led her towards the cash register. “You know you hog the blankets, right? We’re going to be fighting over it all night.”
She shook her head. “Of course we won’t. You’ll be too tired.”
"What an evil plan," he muttered with a smile, noticing how pleased she looked with herself.
RvB Prompt: (Conversation)
On their mission to find the Director, Carolina has been using Tucker to distract herself. Along the way she finds out York isn’t quite as dead as she was told. Do as you will. *staples fingers* - delkios
"I thought you were dead." (I mean, I’m happy. I’m so happy you’re alive. But you found me here with your stupid talent for the worst timing ever. You found me scrambling for my shirt, and you’re alive, and I’m happy, but I was scrambling for my shirt, goddammit.)
"Obviously." (How is it that you haven’t changed? I would’ve expected your hair to dull. I don’t know why. I don’t know why I thought it couldn’t keep that violent, vibrant shade after I thought your dead for years. I don’t know why when Wash told me you were alive, you were in the base, why I expected something different. Something sadder. Streaks of gray. Yet here you are, vibrant and violent and glowing, here you are with someone else. I don’t know why I didn’t expect that, either.)
"I didn’t mean for you to find out." (It’s not fair that you’re alive. Not fair for you to find me like this. I didn’t have warning. I didn’t have time. I can’t pull myself back together if you don’t give me time. I’m not Carolina anymore. Not really. But you need Carolina. You want Carolina. …You loved Carolina.)
"You mean you didn’t mean for me to find out like this." (Why did I just think she’d be like I left her. She wouldn’t have changed. She’d be herself, too hard to let anyone in, too proud and competitive and too guarded. I haven’t exactly been a saint, and neither of us thought there was anything to be faithful to, but…but I was the only one who scaled those walls, once. The only one.)
"It’s been years, York." (Years in which I’ve built myself back from where I was left. Years in which I didn’t have you by my side. Years in which I slowly thought everyone dead. And now, months since Wash confirmed it. Told me you were dead. Told me you were gone. Months and I couldn’t take it, so I took him, because it was easy, because it was selfish. Because he let me. And now you’re back. Years, months, and now, minutes that you’ve been back.)
"I know. I guess I should have expected it." (I grieved for you for years. I didn’t do it alone, it’d be naive to think I would do it alone. I found comfort in people, in contact, in things I knew you could never give me, because you were dead. So why am I sitting here, dazed, sitting here unable to deal with the fact that you needed the same thing.)
"Didn’t you?" (I don’t want to know how many girls you found after me, like I never want to know how many girls you had before me. I don’t want these things in my head, York, but now that I’ve stuffed one of me with someone else down into your memories, I can’t help but think of them. Shouldn’t I deserve to feel what you’re feeling right now? The sting of betrayal from an all-too-real ghost.)
"So you’re the guy she thinks of." (I wonder what you look like. I really do. I wonder if she’s been fucking me these past few months because I remind her of you.)
"What?" (I’d forgotten you were in the room. You, whose name I don’t know. You, who didn’t seem to think you should put your shirt back on.)
"You’re York." (God, how often have I heard that fucking name and pretended it was mine.)
"Tucker." (I had completely forgotten that you were here. Still here. Watching this. Watching my moment.)
"No, no, this is interesting." (Fuck this, Carolina. If you wanted me to keep quiet, you should’ve never started this.) "Come on, man, show us your face. I’m dying to know what you look like.”
(My god, he looks so skinny. His cheeks curve in. His eyes are so sunken. I knew I looked worse for wear, but what has he been doing. Sacrificing. Why is he like this. Why is he so frail.) “You look good.”
"Always the great liar, ‘Lina." (I thought she’d flinch or something. Something at the name. But no. She smiled. She smiled back at me. She smiled like an echo.)
(He doesn’t look anything like me.) “You don’t look anything like me.”
(Did he really just say that?) “That was the point, Tucker.” (Why did I have to hesitate in that sentence. Why does his memory always make me so self-conscious. He never did that, not the real him. And here he is, real, alive. Am I still looking at a memory?)
"It’s interesting, what we find to busy ourselves with." (Oh, he took offense to that, but I don’t think he’ll do anything about it. He’s not going to challenge a freelancer. Even a broken, skinny, shallow shell of a one.)
"Yeah, well, we were fucking in the middle of something, so if you could just leave…" (This is the guy she thinks of. The name she calls out. This is who she sees when she turns out the light and tells me to shut the fuck up. This guy. Right here. And I always squint in the dark to see her face. Her hair. I stay quiet just so I can feel her. And she thinks about this skinny ass motherfucking freelancer from her good old days the whole goddamn time.)
"Tucker." (Tucker, we’re done. Tucker, thanks for the impersonal sex. Tucker, good job on staying quiet while I got off on a memory. Tucker.) "Get out."
"Fuck this. You two deserve each other."
(I probably shouldn’t have smiled as much as I did.)
completelysane asked: okay i'm sortof out of lyrics but honestly i have been thinking about a character who no one fanfics about and you're going to be my victim of this prompt. I want you to write something relatively serious from the point of view of Junior.
Blarg blarg honk blarg honk?
(I’m just kidding.)
(Yes, I know I’m not funny…anyway here’s the real one!)
There was a primal instinct in him, somewhere. He was confused, because all the stories that Tucker had told him said that this primal instinct was supposed to be an attachment.
Tucker was his mother. Or father. Parent. Tucker was his parent, and every child had a kind of love for their parents, something hard wired in their biology.
Then again, he supposed his biology was a little different than anything Tucker had seen before…
There was a primal instinct in him, alright. It came up every time Tucker was near him, got stronger when Tucker would show off for him with the sword. It overwhelmed him with such authority that it had to be primal, unconscious, instinctive. But it wasn’t love.
It was the desire to kill.
Junior hadn’t met any other aliens. He didn’t know if they usually killed humans, especially the humans who gave birth to them. He supposed they probably did. They probably didn’t form attachments. They probably came out of the womb swinging.
He came out of the womb to meet a well-meaning pacifist and an unconscious parent. That probably had something to do with it, that’s probably part of the reason why.
Why Junior can ignore this instinct, primal, strong, complete.
Ignore the desire to kill, and learn the ability to love.
completelysane asked: P.S. in response to your Topher fic, I secretly ship Topher/Ivy (even if only one-sided from her) and you could write that if you want?
The great Topher Brink was out of fucking juice boxes and it was somehow her job, her, the one with the years of study and prestigious experience, how the hell did he think she got this job anyway, by proving how fast she ran out to the grocery store at a moment’s notice?
But he had called her “babe” and what did that matter anyway, she never liked that word, “babe”, she wasn’t a baby in any way and who was he to say that to imply that, the being a baby or even implying their relationship was one where he had the right to make the mistake of calling her that and -
Ivy sighed as she looked at the text message she just received - “Ivy, I lied, get grape instead. I’m not feeling the apples atm.”
She never knew he was afraid of rats, but she was too busy being nervous at seeing him freak out to laugh at how quickly he climbed on top of the furniture, how frantically he pointed at the creatures as they scurried. She laughed later, after he had stormed out of the room like a scared child, after they had all been contained, she looked at the footprints on his glass desk and laughed.
He was behaving oddly, oddly for Topher, which is astronomically oddly for anyone else. It worried her, it freaked her out, and even though she was laughing there was that edge to her voice at secret he kept. The one that made him itchy and jumpy and
and how fast he jumped on that desk once they spilled out of the cupboard and he wouldn’t tell her who put them there even though he called the person and she overheard he was too busy being scared to care and she overheard and there was that edge of anger and then the odd twinge of guilt. (It had to be guilt, what else could it be? It had to be guilt because she’d never heard it from Topher before.)
Later, when Dr. Saunders left, she pieced it all together and really wished she hadn’t.
Something was different after DC. He wouldn’t talk about it, and neither would Victor-Topher, but she could tell something had happened.
Victor-Topher was an odd thing to behold for her, all mannerisms and quirks and manners of speech but coming out of a different face it was so surreal, he even called her “babe” and she wasn’t sure why but she snapped and said she was going for a walk and she got to the elevator and rode it up and down for ten minutes, getting off again and apologizing and blaming it on the fact that she was bitter Victor was even called in when she could have taken over just as easily, if not better, blaming it on a thing she knew was a lie because he had called her “babe” but Topher didn’t know that and she wasn’t about to tell him.
He let it slip, the name, “Bennett”. She went on the database that night, secretly, quietly, looking up Rossum employee photos until he got to Halverson, Bennett.
"She’s pretty," she said the next morning, awkwardly, accidentally, and she was treated to a stream of praises he couldn’t say fast enough and the odd, so-very-Topher statement of "I really wish I didn’t have to punch her."
She watched with an odd, curious, forced smile as he stared at her, at Bennett as she tried to put Caroline’s wedge back together again. She smiled because it wasn’t like her to do anything else when he waved her off with “take a message”, when he continued to stare and she had to get out before the grin fell, before it came to her that Topher was capable of liking people beyond ordering them around, beyond “babe” and juice boxes and reluctant, roundabout praises, praises because they weren’t insults, he was capable of loving someone, it just wasn’t her.
She came back to the muffled sound of a gun, just one shot, just one needed, to Topher and blood spattered on his face, to Bennett and her head bent back in the chair, to a computer screen covered in red. She called out, she got help, but it was far too late and she was sitting in the chair Topher had a few minutes ago, in that vacant chair because Topher was behind her muttering, mumbling, Adelle comforting him against seeing Bennett die, as if words could ever do that, could ever comfort that.
Her hands were shaking and she knew she could do this, she had to do this, she had so much training and she knew the wedges inside and out but she’d never had to reconstruct one and she was still an assistant, she was still very definitely not Bennett, whose blood was next to her head, whose brain had been splattered on the wall and the air smelled of iron and death and her hands shook
He put a hand over hers, and she stared, unsure when he had gotten up or when he had sat down next to her in the chair (in her chair), but she’d been chanting to herself without knowing, and now his hand was over hers.
She stared as he gripped her, such intense contact, such intense need, such longing she had wanted to feel at his hands but not now, not here, not like this, she couldn’t leave him, but he pleaded, he pleaded with “Ivy, don’t become me.”
So she left. She left because she couldn’t see him lose his mind, not like this, not over someone else. She left and she tried to pretend that she left for his good too, she tried to pretend that if the same ugly death had happened to her, he really would have lost it. She tried to pretend she meant something as much to him as he meant to her.
completelysane asked: okay okay so I just noticed that you put anything Joss Whedon in your fandom lists. so can i just demand something about Topher?
((OH MY GOD YES YES YOU CAN <3 I LOVE TOPHER YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND.))
Morals are what happened to other people.
That was the Dollhouse’s motto. As DeWitt explained it, anyway. She’d never said it outright, not to him, not until that day with Sierra. But it was a truth, undeniable, unrelenting, uncomfortable. He had probably known it when he accepted the job, heard it somewhere in the back of his mind in between criticizing their implantation set up and making fun of Dom. It hadn’t mattered then.
He was Dr. Topher Brink. Back then, morals were for people who lacked curiosity.
Alpha taught him that curiosity was only good if you were still alive to explore it.
Saunders showed him that guilt was something that very much happened to him.
Sierra taught him to take a stand.
Echo…Echo taught him how to be a decent person. Echo taught him morals.
Now, imprisoned and made to research, engineer, create, imprisoned and tortured by the ghosts of all the people who suffered when he wasn’t smart enough, by the sounds of their pleading and of the guns that silenced it…
Now he tried to convince himself, to remember that morals are what happened to other people.
He found with disappointment and unraveling sanity that it was too late.
queen-of-france asked: fjsdkfns sorry to request again but BUT I MUST ASK: Grif and Simmons get reassigned to different outposts.
"You…replaced me?” Grif said as Simmons jumped into the Warthog. “I can’t believe you replaced me!”
"I didn’t replace you," Simmons said tiredly, noting that Sarge hadn’t explained anything past "the blues are reassembling! We must take the glorious and noble fight to them, Simmons!" Simmons guessed the man didn’t really need to, with the speed he had hopped into the car a verbal "yes sir" would have been redundant.
"You did, you replaced me with that guy in the yellow armor!" Grif pointed accusingly.
"…Morgan?" Simmons said, following the glaring finger. "You think I replaced you with Morgan?"
"I saw you two. Hanging out. Talking. Not working.”
"Saw us? How could you possibly have seen us, you and Sarge only drove in to kidnap me half a minute ago."
"You were slacking off with him, Simmons. I expected better. I know a guy who avoids work when I see one.” Grif crossed his arms in the passenger’s seat with a sigh.
"Like you didn’t make any friends at your base," Simmons muttered under his breath. Grif turned in his seat to face the man.
"All I did was hang out with this annoying computer nerd," Grif said angrily. "He kept asking me for orders, like I’m going to fucking give orders, that definitely sounded productive.” He settled back down in his seat and added, “he was fucking regulation red, too. What’s up with that?”
Simmons just smiled under his helmet. “Wait,” he said after a few minutes of riding in silence, Sarge’s favourite driving song in the background. “Wait, he was asking you for orders?”
"That’s what you do with the CO, Simmons. Did you hit your head or something?"
"Why didn’t he just talk to the CO, then-“
"-He was talking to the CO. I’m Sargeant Grif. Didn’t you get promoted too?” His words were met with incoherent mutterings from the driver of the jeep. “Sarge is still having some trouble understanding it,” Grif said, indicating the man, the muttering, and the shaking of the head with his thumb.
"Oh," Simmons said at first, then added almost too hastily, "yeah, of course I got promoted."
It was Grif’s turn to smile. “Glad to know your vacation didn’t make you a better liar.”
"Shut up," Simmons said quickly, easily, falling into old and familiar habits. "Sarge, are we leaving or what?"
RvB Prompt: Relative Sanity
Oh I do have one scene idea too, I’d love to see your take on York surviving and finding blueteam!Wash years later. - ichidou
"You’re supposed to be dead."
"And you’re supposed to be gray,” York returned easily. “Hi, Wash.”
"You’re supposed to be dead," the ex-freelancer repeated.
"Give it time, buddy, I’m sure it’ll happen sooner rather than later."
"I saw your body - I blew up your body - how…” Wash was suddenly very glad the rest of the blue team was nowhere near his little scrap of canyon at this moment.
"You blew up my armor. I bet you didn’t even check it beyond what Delta told you, and seeing if my healing unit was still there.”
"Wyoming has never been that good at close combat anyway. Remember Tex and the training session?"
"You’re wearing your armor now."
York just stared at his old friend, a smile on his lips. “Why are you fighting this?”
"Because you’re not real," Wash admitted. Because York couldn’t be real. Because he had to be a hallucination, something left over from Epsilon, something spurred by fighting Epsilon on the side of that mountain.
Wash was not crazy (anymore).
York put a hand on his shoulder (a very solid hand, not that it meant much), and Wash looked up at the possibly (probably not) real man.
"Hey," York said, letting the full weight of his hand rest on Wash’s shoulder. It’s odd how familiar the pressure is, even after years. "I’m here. I really am. Promise."
"I just…I can’t," Wash said, shrugging off the hand. Reluctantly. "You’re a hallucination."
"Man, so what," York said finally, which caused Wash to snap his head up in surprise. "Not that I am, but even if I was, so what? I’ve been looking over you guys for the past few days, and let me tell you, even if you were seeing pink elephants riding unicycles all the time, you’d still be the sanest person in this canyon.”
Wash couldn’t argue this. Instead he settled for a smile. A tired, surrendering smile. “Fine. So you’re real.”
"What’ve you been doing all this time?"
"Oh, you know. Picking locks, getting shot at." He paused for effect, just like he used to while they were playing cards and he was telling one of his stories from before he enlisted. "Getting coffee. You?"
Wash smiled. It already felt like…like comfort. Real or not, it already felt like home. “Oh, you know,” Wash said with a shrug. “The same.”
They both looked at each other in silence and then laughed, hands on knees, doubled over, until tears came from their eyes. They both laughed for the first time in years.
*hijacks your words* “Washington, the terrible chicken raiser” What now? That is my new prompt for you
"Put your back into it!"
Wash paused in his efforts to give Sarge one long, appropriately timed start for that comment. “Put my back into catching an escaped chicken?” he repeated, deadpan.
Sarge didn’t hesitate or pause or really seem to mind the ridiculous factor his words carried. “Maybe try to lure it back with a chicken dance.”
Wash stared again until Sarge stopped giving suggestions. It took about two minutes. “Look, first you saddle me with this chicken coop that I have no idea how you got-“
"It was a donation from the tooth fairy," Caboose interjected. "I lost my tooth one time when I fell really hard going up stairs at the base and I asked for a chicken instead of a dollar. Yep. She was probably just slow getting here because she had to bring it a house, too."
"-just because I mentioned, mentioned, that I like cats. Which, for the record, does not extend to all animals.” Wash kept going through Caboose and every other interjection patiently. “We don’t do anything with the eggs because no one knows how to cook, and Caboose and Sister and Grif have told me I’m not allowed to kill it and roast it.”
"That’d be mean. Chickie is my friend," Caboose added again.
"So now I’m taking care of a live chicken, and you’re all not helping me get it out from under this tiny rock cave it ran into.”
"Hey, I suggested grenades," Tucker said with a shrug.
Wash stared. “That’s not the point.” He crouched down to peer under the rock, hearing the chicken flap its wings excitedly at the prospect of freedom. “Or helpful.”
"Hey, man, if you wanted helpful, you came to the wrong canyon.”
RvB Prompt: Castles in the Sand
AU where season 8 Wash finds CT alive in Sandtrap? for completelysane!
"CT?" he said, unsure, and for a second he thought he actually took a step back. Next to him, the Meta (or what’s left of him. The being next to him was halfway between the Meta and Maine, neither bit whole enough to know which name to use) rushed forward, correctly labeling their former teammate as the biggest danger in this desert. She didn’t have time to react as the tank hit her, pinning her to the wall and raising a gun to her face.
"Get off of me," she said, and Wash heard the regulation voice modulator (it was always easy to hear if you knew to look for it). She couldn’t struggle against the boulder that is Maine, and her team seemed to be nowhere in sight.
"What…what are you doing here?" Wash said slowly, walking to the pair. A quick snap of her helmet in his direction and his thoughts aligned themselves again. The momentary confusion that came with seeing her here (alive) was pushed to the side.
"Shut up you idiots," she said, now speaking directly to Wash. "Or they’ll hear you."
"Who?" Doc said happily from inside his little scrap of wall. "Are you guys old friends or something?"
"Or something," Wash said, his voice cold again.
"The aliens, jackass," CT said, and on cue four aliens came out from around the corner of the mountain. "Oh, fucking great." She turned to the Meta, and Wash could already hear her old voice again, beneath the voice modulator. "Look, I’m not going to fight or run, as long as you help me kill them." Wash saw the Meta’s head turn towards the aliens and he knew the other agent was considering her proposition.
"Do it," Wash said firmly. The Meta dropped his hold on CT instantly and ran off in a flurry of bullets and efficiency.
"Tight leash you’ve got him on," CT mutters.
"Hi, I’m Doc," the man in the wall tried to say, before Wash cut him off.
"Shut up." He turned to CT. Somewhere in the back of his mind, his memories screamed at him at the sight of her. Yet right here, right now, he looked at her, impassive, cold. He looked at her like a stranger. "Are you going to keep that voice modulator on?"
"I guess not," she said, and it was her old voice. The one he remembered. The voice in the back of his mind got louder. "Ever the Director’s lap dog, I see," she said and he could hear disappointment in her voice, plain as day.
"I’m looking for an AI unit," he said, ignoring her accusation. He saw her shoulders droop, ever so slightly, and he’d only caught it because he knew to see it, because she used do that same thing, years ago. When she was trying to warn him. When he didn’t listen.
She laughed. He frowned at her, not that she could see it. “Oh, yeah? Which one have they got you hunting, Wash?”
He looked at her for a moment, unsure how much he should tell her. “That’s classified.” She scoffed at his words.
"I thought we were looking for Epsilon?" Doc said confusedly. Wash dropped his head, closing his eyes against the thought that Doc was still right there, stuck inside the wall. The medic took note and a small scrap of his survival instincts begged him to keep quiet from now on.
"Epsilon? You’re looking for Epsilon.”
"It’s for the Meta anyway, I’m not going to-"
"Oh, yeah, because giving Maine AIs has worked so well in the past."
"I don’t have to explain myself to you. Last I checked, you were our hostage." He raised his gun at her and he saw her take an instinctive step back.
"Come on, Wash. What are you going to do? Shoot-"
“Don’t test me, CT.” She shut up and he knew she could hear it. She could hear how much he’d changed. She could see that all that power she had over him is a distant memory now.
Now he was the one with the gun.
"What are you doing here?" he asked carefully, the sounds of the Meta disposing of the aliens still in the background.
"Making sandcastles," she said evenly, and it seemed to Wash that she hadn’t even changed a bit, still as stubborn as ever. That’s probably why she left in the first place. Because here, she could be herself.
"I really don’t have time for this."
"Neither do I. So tell you what, Wash. Why don’t you take your precious mission from on high and go about your business, and I’ll get out of your hair." He had the distinct feeling that she should be slamming her helmet into his chest right now. Remnant of a long-gone memory. "We won’t ever have to see each other again."
"Aren’t you getting a little tired of saying that?" he said, lowering his gun with a sigh.
"Aren’t you getting a little tired of letting me?" She turned, walking off and not caring that she was exposing her back to the man who had just been pointing a firearm at her. They both knew he wasn’t going to shoot.
When the Meta returned and growled his frustration at Wash, the freelancer just shrugged. “She didn’t know anything. She won’t tell anyone. It’s not a problem.” Another growl prompted Wash to stare his partner down. “It’s not a problem,” he repeated, his tone final. The Meta dropped it.
Wash sighed. He didn’t have time for this. Time for her. “Let’s see if a grenade will get Doc out of that piece of architecture,” he said, pushing all his thoughts aside again (he’d gotten so good at that). All, except one.
"Wait, wait," Doc said, ears perking up again, deciding it was safe to speak. "Wait, what?"
Anonymous asked: The one time North flew into blind rage when somebody dissed Captain America.
"Calm down, man," York was saying, but it was obvious that once North got to the point of punching, removal from the problem was the only possible course of action.
"You’re not even American, you-you ninny!” North called out while he was being dragged out of the room with the combined efforts of York, Wash, and CT. Wyoming merely stood up, dusted himself off, and grinned at his assailant with a wink, saying, “perhaps that’s what lets me see the sod for what he really is, mate.”
queen-of-france asked: I already left a prompt like that in Ichidou's askbox, but I think you won't mind? Director and Counselor dancing. The rest is up to you.
Even now, three hours into the director impatiently attempting to put him where he apparently needs to go (and continue to complain about the lack of gracefulness), the counselor had to wonder why it was this formal dinner that the director is suddenly so self conscious over his dancing for that he’s demanded a private lesson.
deerflow asked: IM ONLY DOING THIS BECAUSE YOU LIKE PROMPTS. not for my selfish desires at all nope nope nope. What about North, York, Wash and Maine having a really great sleep over and Wyoming is sad because they didn't invite him, and then things ensue. just because its so silly and ridiculous. <3
"Oh, come on Wash, what’s Carolina going to do?" North said dismissively. "Go to the Director in a huff and accuse us of having a slumber party?”
Maine grumbled a “do you have to refer to it like that,” unrolling the survival sleeping bag he was going to use for the night. North just grinned.
"Carolina would never let the words "slumber party" escape her mouth," York said. "We’re completely safe. She’s probably just mad that the girls don’t seem to be as willing to have a girl’s night in."
"Wait, really?" North said, pausing in his popcorn preparations.
"Fuck no, not really," York said with a laugh. "This is Carolina we’re talking about. As long as we keep quiet, it’ll be fine.”
"Were we going to invite Wyoming?" Wash said, taking a mental head count of the room. The others paused uncomfortably, North and York sharing a glance.
"His invitation got lost in the mail," Maine said. Wash opened his mouth as if to protest, then remember the last time Wyoming and alcohol got together, shut it, and nodded in understanding.
"Alright," North said, backing away from the small screen and the DVD played with a bowl of popcorn. "Ready?"
"Wait, let me get a second beer," York mumbled and nudged Wash, who tried to nudge Maine and eventually gave up, standing up and walking over to the cooler. North waited until Wash sat down and started the movie.
When they woke up the next morning, North’s hand was in a glass of water (and the resulting puddle on the bed was something the freelancer made sure to conceal before anyone else noticed), York’s hands and feet were tied together behind the man so his body arched in a slight semi-circle, and Wash was duct taped to the floor, sleeping bag and all.
"Wyoming," Maine muttered. The giant man was standing up and holding a note that had been left on top of the cooler. Maine still had strips of duct tape on his chest and pants. Apparently, the offending adhesive stood no chance when the agent decided to get up, because the parts of the tape that had touched the floor still remained, the rest of the strip torn away as Maine moved through it with ease.
Wash and York groaned, and North shuffled his bed sheet around in what he hoped was a completely normal manner.
"Fine, he’s getting invited next time," York said through his teeth. "Now will someone please untie me, I need to use the bathroom."