DISCLAIMER: Stuff herein belongs to Henson, Mutant Enemy, Rowling, Sorkin and Sherman-Palladino. It's just my way of saying thank you.
No. 1 (FS) - Bad Timing
No. 2 (WW) - Bartlet for America
No. 3 (HP/AtS) - GoF, Dead End
No. 4 (GG) - 2nd season finale
No. 5 (FS) - Promises
NOTES: This is a kind of self-indulgent combination of Unfinished Fic Amnesty Week, the drabble phenomenon, and the Five Things concept that's currently taken fandom by storm. A little editing was done to make each of these 200 words exactly, and bring them to a mostly satisfactory conclusion. (No. 3 is actually 400 words, but it's a crossover and was a bitch to pare down that far anyway.) The stories progress from least AU to most AU, and there's got to be a shorter way to say all of this.
(1) Orbiting Satellites: Miklo Braca
There is, perhaps, an echo of Lt. Teeg in the imperious arch of the Kalish's brow. Braca has always been drawn to a certain type of person: calculating, ruthless, very much in control. He watches them sometimes, the way they move, the way they slink around one another. Red on black on white. There is power contained in the smooth and precise motions of their limbs. Political power was something he'd craved in an abstract way, but never thought he would achieve, until the moment came. It is personal power that can seduce him in the space of a breath. Grayza was sloppy, and Scorpius did with glances and snarls what she relied on chemicals to accomplish.
Teeg had a bit of that in her. She would turn empty eyes on him, her face a cipher, and have him at her beck and call with nothing more than a raised eyebrow. And suddenly Braca would find himself hot and embarrassingly hard, ready to do whatever she asked of him. It is a fact he is now free to acknowledge, at least to himself: Braca likes to be dominated.
He lives to be dominated.
Fortunately for him, Scorpius lives to dominate.
(2) Holding Court: CJ Cregg and Toby Ziegler
"Where are we going, Toby? We have a lot of work to do, here."
"Yeah, but Leo threatened to fire everyone if we didn't all take a night off."
"He's done that before, and no one listened."
Toby smiled, pulling up to the curb.
CJ blinked. "You brought me to a high school?"
"It's a middle school, actually." Toby got out and grabbed something from the trunk, and CJ followed with a long-suffering sigh. It was his basketball, which he passed to her.
CJ caught it, but only just. "Oh, no. No. I'm not playing basketball with you. Especially since, you know, I suck at it."
He only smirked and started off in the direction of the gym.
She stood watching him a moment, then followed. "Toby, I applaud the idea, really I do. But I don't think breaking into a middle school gymnasium in New Hampshire is the best way to promote the governor's campaign."
By that time, they'd reached the door. It was unlocked, and the lights were on. He raised his eyebrows. "What do you know."
She was stunned. "How...?"
"Night janitor." His palm was warm on her hip. "I thought you could use a private lesson."
(3) Hands Across the Water: Peter Pettigrew and Lindsey McDonald
At first, he thought it was joy at the Dark Lord's return. That would explain the renewed depravity of his actions well enough. And who was he to question this enthusiasm for deviant behavior?
It wasn't until he started involuntarily scratching himself at Death Eater gatherings that he started to suspect something was wrong. Messing with his bits was where he drew the line. He had to do something about it.
But being Peter Pettigrew, and not motivated like a proper Slytherin, his idea of "do something about it" equated with "get thoroughly pissed." Nowhere in the Wizarding world was safe. He'd be recognized, by one side or the other, and then there would be far too many questions for his own comfort and well-being.
Which was how he ended up sitting in a Muggle pub, edging away from a good-looking bloke in a tight t-shirt. He hadn't thought this was that kind of bar.
The man coolly assessed him, gaze shifting to Peter's metal appendage. "Evil hand?" he finally asked diffidently.
Oh. Well then. Peter stopped edging away. "Yeah."
"Man, where do they come up with these things, anyway?"
Peter eyed the man suspiciously. "You have one?"
"Mystical lawyer," he explained.
"Evil..." Peter breathed, eyes widening.
"I'm Lindsey." He extended his hand to shake. Peter looked at it, but couldn't tell if it was the evil one or not. He settled for a friendly nod.
Lindsey took a swig of his beer and continued talking, like they were best friends all of a sudden. But then, he was an American, and Peter was given to understand that evil American lawyers with mystical hands were casual like that. "I keep having these nightmares where I cut it off, and it keeps running around on its fingers like Thing from The Addams Family. And then it strangles me in my sleep."
"I know exactly what you mean," Peter answered uncertainly.
"Well. No. But I couldn't exactly go home to the Dark Lord and tell him to take back his gift," Peter said.
Lindsey took another swig of his beer. "Dark Lord? I wonder if I've heard of him. I thought I knew all the guys evil enough to go by 'Dark Lord' in this neck of the woods. What's his name?"
"It's...V-voldemort," Peter whispered, glancing around.
Lindsey considered a moment. "What kinda fairy name is Voldemort?" he asked loudly.
(4) Fever Dream: Jess Mariano and Rory Gilmore
Her lips tasted like raspberry popsicles, of all things. Like childhood and sunshine and tall grass, even though that was the most erotic summer he'd ever spent, reading and kissing and never taking it quite far enough.
Near the end of a sweltering August he finally figured out that it was her lipgloss. He saw her putting it on one morning when they should have been getting ready for the new school year, but snuck off before Lorelai was up instead.
She wore short shorts that morning. Denim, and this little top that would have been trashy on anyone else. She wore it completely unknowingly, of course, which was what made the difference. She put her hands on her hips and rolled her eyes at him, and as soon as she opened her mouth, he forgot he was talking to a seventeen-year-old, forgot that he was seventeen himself. She was artless, and sharp as nails, and he thought vaguely that Nabokov would have loved her.
But her knowing eyes challenged him on that, and he sometimes wonders if she did it on purpose. To drive him completely out of his mind.
His blood still stirs when he tastes raspberry popsicles.
(5) A Pocketful of Mumbles: John Crichton and Aeryn Sun
Her voice from behind him. Rough and bitter.
"What have you done?"
"What I had to do. What have you done?"
She stood there wearing that new persona, expansive falsehood hiding dark things. Her face was open; her heart was closed. She shook her head.
"I did what I knew was right."
"That means you can't explain it to me? What, I'm too dumb?"
"Don't play that game with me, John, I haven't accused you of being --" She broke off abruptly, wouldn't look at him. Stared at the form on the ground instead.
Jaw set, John stepped over Scorpius' body. "I was gonna flush him out the airlock, but if he's your new best buddy, I'll leave you to arrange his burial."
He knew he'd regret the words later. He didn't turn around to see her reaction. Maybe she flinched. It seemed like a thing the new Aeryn would do. He hummed under his breath as he left.
"...or cut him till he cried out in his anger and his shame, I am leaving, I am leaving, but the fighter still remains, mm-m-mmm.."
As he turned the corner outside the maintenance bay, he heard the hiss of the airlock engage.
"I have squandered by resistance for a pocketful of mumbles, such are promises." - Simon & Garfunkel, The Boxer
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