mrwubbles: (SENTINEL Sandburg)
Title: Idle Conversations: Romper
Fandom: The Sentinel
Rating: G (all ages)
Category: prompt, humor
Summary: Sometimes, it's like working with children.
Spoilers: none
Word Count: 1017 words, Complete
Disclaimer: The Sentinel is owned by Pet Fly Productions and their mutual affiliates. This is for entertainment purposes only. 
  Of course everyone heard because spirit guides were never quiet and completely inconsiderate to the fact captains just want to have uneventful days.  )
 
Simon clamped down on the unlit cigar. He liked to pretend he could smoke it in a flip show of defiance to the 'No Smoking' sign across his desk. He finished his call with the commissioner. For once, it ended congenial and his Major Crimes department's budget wasn't threatened during the phone conference. All parties were happy about the case's progress, the D.A agreed to take the case, and his best team (but you didn't hear that from him) were on their way to pick Bronson up.
 
So why the hell were there a black jaguar and a wolf staring at him from under the meeting table?
 
"What are you two doing here?" Simon hissed around his rolled up tobacco. The last time they were here, it was because Sandburg was being held hostage by a paranoid suspect and Jim was hanging out a third story window because the fool thought he could get in from the outside. That was the last time Simon ever did a favor for the A.D.A.
 
The wolf, with its damn startling blue eyes, raised its disinterested gaze at him and huffed once; just a short puff of breath substituting as a bark. Then, it grinned, sat up, and wagged its elegant tail. It gave another happy bark before tilting its head back and howled.
 
"Sandburg, knock it off!" Simon hissed, glancing over nervously at his shuttered blinds.
 
The jaguar lifted a mighty furry black paw, let it hang in the air for a second, and then swiped the back of its companion's silver head. Hard.
 
The surprised half yelp, half squeak rose Simon to his feet. His cigar hung off his lower lip. "Jim!"
 
Bored, the jaguar looked at him, its paw squashing down on the hapless canine. The pointy furry ears flattened and the wolf looked up pitifully at Simon. It whined "You see that?" to Simon before it slouched lower under the feline's paw. The cat simply rolled its eyes.
 
Simon blinked. The jungle cat looked about ready to yawn at him. "What the hell's matter with you?" Great, it must mean those two yahoos were arguing out there somewhere; just what he needed. Their shouting matches always meant his mediating presence; whether they wanted it or not.
 
"Look," Simon began, showing his hands towards the pair. "Why don't you just let Sandburg be? Whatever it is…" Maybe he could fix this now. Hey, worked for Androcles. If he could just get that wolf out from under its paw…
 
The low rumble from the cat's throat was equivalent to a dismissal. Simon backed a step. His chair rolled back behind him. Spirit animals don't bite, right?
 
The wolf shoved its muzzle under the jaguar's chin, snuffed once, then wiggled out from the paw. "Free!" it barked. It gave a full body shiver (Simon hoped spirit animals don't shed or get spirit fleas for that matter) and circled the large cat. Sandburg's wolf stopped, cocked its head and considered the large sleek cat. Then, without warning, it bit down on the cat's tail.
 
"Sandburg!" Simon swatted a hand towards the two as the jaguar yowled. It sprang up on all fours and zipped towards the wolf with a snarl. Sandburg's spirit guide yipped what could only be "Oh shit!" in canine-speak, and darted under the meeting table.
 
Chairs flew to the side as the wolf avoided another paw by barreling into the furniture.
 
"What the hell's wrong with you two!" Simon exploded. He hopped back a step to avoid a giant ball of silver fur that whizzed between his legs like a lightning bolt. He flailed as the jaguar knocked into his legs and he fell into his chair. The jaguar skidded on the linoleum as it made a sharp turn, pounced the wolf, and the two went tumbling into his bookcase with an impressive crash and a couple of startled yips.
 
The padded leather cushion deflated with a loud whoosh when Simon stumbled back. Simon stared blankly at nothing in particular, his arms hung out of the chair. He really didn't want to move. It was such a nice day before.
 
Simon's nostrils flared as he could hear the two swatting paws at each other. There should be a laugh track somewhere.
 
"Will you two knock it off?" Simon bellowed from his seat.
 
The two beasts froze when Simon's intercom buzzed.

"Captain?" Rhonda could be seen standing up from her chair outside. She craned her neck to try to peer between the gaps of the blinds.
 
"What is it, Rhonda?" Simon mumbled. He kept his eyes on the two furry culprits. Sandburg's spirit guide sat on its haunches, head stooped low as if chastised.
 
"Uh…is everything okay in there? We…um…heard shouting…well…everything alright?"
 
Of course everyone heard because spirit guides were never quiet and completely inconsiderate to the fact captains just want to have uneventful days. Simon glowered at the two. "Spayed and neutered," he mouthed. The wolf's eyes crossed. Out loud, he steadied his voice.
 
"Everything's fine." Simon coughed.
 
"We heard…"
 
"It was a rat," Simon returned flatly.
 
"A…r-rat?"
 
Simon narrowed his eyes at the wolf and jaguar. The cat had its paws on the wolf's head again, squashing the poor canine belly down to the floor. The wolf, barely discernible under paws the size of its head, gave a whine and a growled warning to the cat. Jim's spirit animal did not look impressed. Its tail flicked and nothing more.
 
"Actually," Simon amended as he jabbed a finger to an empty spot in front of him. It was empty of chairs thanks to them. "It was two rats." He jabbed his finger at the spot again. "Two fat rats." Did Jim's spirit animal just growled at him?

"Oh." It was guaranteed Ronda was not coming in here now. Simon could see her sit back down again hastily. "Do you want me to call Pest Control?"
 
"More like Animal Control," Simon muttered. 

Sandburg's wolf yipped. Ellison's cat snarled when the wolf jumped it. More books fell.
 
Some days, it's like working with children.


Author's Note: I don't think it counts as a conversation per se, but there was talking...lol
mrwubbles: (SENTINEL Sandburg)
Title: Idle Conversations: Romper
Fandom: The Sentinel
Rating: G (all ages)
Category: prompt, humor
Summary: Sometimes, it's like working with children.
Spoilers: none
Word Count: 1017 words, Complete
Disclaimer: The Sentinel is owned by Pet Fly Productions and their mutual affiliates. This is for entertainment purposes only. 
  Of course everyone heard because spirit guides were never quiet and completely inconsiderate to the fact captains just want to have uneventful days.  )
 
Simon clamped down on the unlit cigar. He liked to pretend he could smoke it in a flip show of defiance to the 'No Smoking' sign across his desk. He finished his call with the commissioner. For once, it ended congenial and his Major Crimes department's budget wasn't threatened during the phone conference. All parties were happy about the case's progress, the D.A agreed to take the case, and his best team (but you didn't hear that from him) were on their way to pick Bronson up.
 
So why the hell were there a black jaguar and a wolf staring at him from under the meeting table?
 
"What are you two doing here?" Simon hissed around his rolled up tobacco. The last time they were here, it was because Sandburg was being held hostage by a paranoid suspect and Jim was hanging out a third story window because the fool thought he could get in from the outside. That was the last time Simon ever did a favor for the A.D.A.
 
The wolf, with its damn startling blue eyes, raised its disinterested gaze at him and huffed once; just a short puff of breath substituting as a bark. Then, it grinned, sat up, and wagged its elegant tail. It gave another happy bark before tilting its head back and howled.
 
"Sandburg, knock it off!" Simon hissed, glancing over nervously at his shuttered blinds.
 
The jaguar lifted a mighty furry black paw, let it hang in the air for a second, and then swiped the back of its companion's silver head. Hard.
 
The surprised half yelp, half squeak rose Simon to his feet. His cigar hung off his lower lip. "Jim!"
 
Bored, the jaguar looked at him, its paw squashing down on the hapless canine. The pointy furry ears flattened and the wolf looked up pitifully at Simon. It whined "You see that?" to Simon before it slouched lower under the feline's paw. The cat simply rolled its eyes.
 
Simon blinked. The jungle cat looked about ready to yawn at him. "What the hell's matter with you?" Great, it must mean those two yahoos were arguing out there somewhere; just what he needed. Their shouting matches always meant his mediating presence; whether they wanted it or not.
 
"Look," Simon began, showing his hands towards the pair. "Why don't you just let Sandburg be? Whatever it is…" Maybe he could fix this now. Hey, worked for Androcles. If he could just get that wolf out from under its paw…
 
The low rumble from the cat's throat was equivalent to a dismissal. Simon backed a step. His chair rolled back behind him. Spirit animals don't bite, right?
 
The wolf shoved its muzzle under the jaguar's chin, snuffed once, then wiggled out from the paw. "Free!" it barked. It gave a full body shiver (Simon hoped spirit animals don't shed or get spirit fleas for that matter) and circled the large cat. Sandburg's wolf stopped, cocked its head and considered the large sleek cat. Then, without warning, it bit down on the cat's tail.
 
"Sandburg!" Simon swatted a hand towards the two as the jaguar yowled. It sprang up on all fours and zipped towards the wolf with a snarl. Sandburg's spirit guide yipped what could only be "Oh shit!" in canine-speak, and darted under the meeting table.
 
Chairs flew to the side as the wolf avoided another paw by barreling into the furniture.
 
"What the hell's wrong with you two!" Simon exploded. He hopped back a step to avoid a giant ball of silver fur that whizzed between his legs like a lightning bolt. He flailed as the jaguar knocked into his legs and he fell into his chair. The jaguar skidded on the linoleum as it made a sharp turn, pounced the wolf, and the two went tumbling into his bookcase with an impressive crash and a couple of startled yips.
 
The padded leather cushion deflated with a loud whoosh when Simon stumbled back. Simon stared blankly at nothing in particular, his arms hung out of the chair. He really didn't want to move. It was such a nice day before.
 
Simon's nostrils flared as he could hear the two swatting paws at each other. There should be a laugh track somewhere.
 
"Will you two knock it off?" Simon bellowed from his seat.
 
The two beasts froze when Simon's intercom buzzed.

"Captain?" Rhonda could be seen standing up from her chair outside. She craned her neck to try to peer between the gaps of the blinds.
 
"What is it, Rhonda?" Simon mumbled. He kept his eyes on the two furry culprits. Sandburg's spirit guide sat on its haunches, head stooped low as if chastised.
 
"Uh…is everything okay in there? We…um…heard shouting…well…everything alright?"
 
Of course everyone heard because spirit guides were never quiet and completely inconsiderate to the fact captains just want to have uneventful days. Simon glowered at the two. "Spayed and neutered," he mouthed. The wolf's eyes crossed. Out loud, he steadied his voice.
 
"Everything's fine." Simon coughed.
 
"We heard…"
 
"It was a rat," Simon returned flatly.
 
"A…r-rat?"
 
Simon narrowed his eyes at the wolf and jaguar. The cat had its paws on the wolf's head again, squashing the poor canine belly down to the floor. The wolf, barely discernible under paws the size of its head, gave a whine and a growled warning to the cat. Jim's spirit animal did not look impressed. Its tail flicked and nothing more.
 
"Actually," Simon amended as he jabbed a finger to an empty spot in front of him. It was empty of chairs thanks to them. "It was two rats." He jabbed his finger at the spot again. "Two fat rats." Did Jim's spirit animal just growled at him?

"Oh." It was guaranteed Ronda was not coming in here now. Simon could see her sit back down again hastily. "Do you want me to call Pest Control?"
 
"More like Animal Control," Simon muttered. 

Sandburg's wolf yipped. Ellison's cat snarled when the wolf jumped it. More books fell.
 
Some days, it's like working with children.


Author's Note: I don't think it counts as a conversation per se, but there was talking...lol
mrwubbles: (SPN Dean With Gun)
And yet another one for Idle Conversations...

Title: Idle Conversations: Shotgun
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: Yuma
Pairing: none, gen
Rating: G (all ages) One bad word.
Summary: Because it's only a promise if someone hears it…
Spoilers: minor third season spoilers
Word Count: 1100+ words, Complete
Disclaimer: Supernatural is owned by Kripke Productions and their mutual affiliates. This is for entertainment purposes only.
 Because it's only a promise if someone hears it… )
 
"Always have to be Mr. 'I Don't Need Your Help'." The laugh he made sounded forced. And inside the metal cocoon, the sound punctuated the silence. It only reinforced the insincerity. "He can't fool me. Never could." He looked to his left at the empty driver's seat. He was amused to see the door latched—as if he feared carjackers might come and steal both car and brother. In a fit of rebellion, he'd rolled down the window to let in the prairie breeze. The keys swayed off the ignition like a pendulum.
 
Staring at the keys, his amusement faded.
 
"He's scared." He closed his eyes and sank deeper into the passenger seat. The tiny fires from the beast's claw flared on his right side. It reminded him why they stopped, why there was a sudden craving for food instead of the hunt.
 
He wrapped an arm around his middle, cupping carefully over his bandage and the careful stitches. Fifteen in total. Maybe more. He wasn't sure; he had passed out when his brother began cleaning the third angry red slash that followed the contour of his ribs. He passed out and now they were here.
 
He snorted, reached out and drummed his fingers over a spot above the glove compartment. He was tempted to turn on the music, but was warned against it and threatened bodily harm if he didn't rest. The warning kind of defeated the purpose, but he chose not to say anything.
 
"He won't tell me, won't talk to me, but I know he's scared." The diner the car was parked in front was busy, far more busy than a diner should be at four in the morning. He watched his brother, his hip leaning against the garish red and black checkered counter. His brother waited with an impatience no one else would recognize but him. His posture was deceptively lax, loose-limbed, but even from here, he could see the tight jaw line, his chin jutted out just a little as he gritted his teeth. He was a hair's breath away from snapping at someone. His brother didn't want to be here.
 
"I know he can feel time ticking away," he murmured as he slid his left hand down to the bench. He tried to soak up the heat from the seat, warmed from hours of driving and companionship. He huddled into his jacket and thought he could feel the heat leeching out of him and into the car. It was like the car absorbed a part of them each time; just enough to leave a footprint of them both within its steel bones.
 
Somehow, it made him felt better; that they're leaving something behind.
 
"Take care of him," he rasped, his eyes drifting back forward to the front. "Six more months and we won't be watching each other's backs any more." He swallowed. "Alone. That's it. Just…alone." He shut his eyes. He tried to feel the Impala wrap around him like an embrace. "Watch out for him. Please." His voice cracked. "Do for him what I can't."
 
The hand he placed palm down on the seat curled, fingers clawed useless at the seams.
 
"Keep him out of hell," he whispered.
 
The car didn't speak. It stayed as it were: hollow yet filled with more memories and more lingering emotions than he thought possible. It was hard to believe this car ever felt large. He remembering sleeping against his brother's shoulder in the backseat, watching the back of his father's head and thought their father was just as enormous as the Impala. But like their father, the years shrunk it and he outgrew the security blanket of the Impala. At least he thought he did.
 
"You're all we got left," he murmured. His hand relaxed and stroked the car seat in apology. "Stick with him a little longer, okay?"
 
The car settled, its engine cooling and gave a minute shiver old cars do when standing still for too long. But it sounded like a sigh and that was good enough for him.
 
"Thanks," he said hushed, his lips upturned at the corners of his mouth.
 
"You're welcome," was the dry return.
 
"Shit!"
 
Dean reared back, smacking the door and nearly slid down to the car floor in his shock. Sam, crouched down low enough to rest his elbows on the driver side open window, cocked his head to the side.
 
"Were…were you talking to the car?" Sam asked with that annoying little brother grin Dean knew he'd miss (he'll never admit it though).
 
"Did you get it?" Dean demanded, deflecting Sam's question with one of his own.
 
Sam rolled his eyes and raised the takeout bag before slipping into the driver's seat. "Yeah. Extra onions, too." He blew at an errant bang that kept flopping over his nose. He wrinkled his nose as the strand simply came back. The gesture Sam made flicking at it was something Sammy used to make. The memory made Dean's chest ache.
 
Dean covered the pang; he dove into the bags with a grumble about how long Sam took. He fished out the Styrofoam container with his burger and blinked when he realized the bag still wasn't empty.
 
"They had fresh pie, too," Sam explained as he unwrapped his chicken salad sandwich; a woeful pile of blanch food on white wax paper. Sam watched Dean a bit—he tended to do that a lot these days—before he took a bite of his food.
 
The car, once subdued before, filled with the cacophony of crinkling parchment paper, plastic cutlery scraping on pie filling, and loud, almost obnoxious, munching.
 
"Seriously," Sam began. He made a face when Dean burped with an unabashed grin. "Extra onions," Sam grumbled to himself. He turned sideways in the car, an awkward position for someone his size yet he made it look natural. The car was fitting around him. It was a bittersweet realization for Dean that he'd almost missed the question the first time Sam asked.
 
"What?" Dean covered his reverie with a mouthful of fries and ketchup. Sure enough, Sam scrunched up his face in disgust.
 
"Dude." Sam chucked a paper napkin his way. "I said, you were talking to the car, weren't you?"
 
Dean looked in front of him at the dashboard and remembered how she replied under his fingers. If it could, Dean suspected it would wink at him.
 
"Nope," Dean replied and swallowed. "Course not. It's a car, Sammy." He wiped his mouth clean of ketchup, wadded up the napkin, and tossed it back at Sam. 

The End.

Author's Notes: I took a different approach with this one. Whereas i didn't reveal whom/what the character was talking to, I did the reverse here. For myself, it was a surprisingly good exercise. I had started to write this under the intention of it being someone else.
mrwubbles: (SPN Dean With Gun)
And yet another one for Idle Conversations...

Title: Idle Conversations: Shotgun
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: Yuma
Pairing: none, gen
Rating: G (all ages) One bad word.
Summary: Because it's only a promise if someone hears it…
Spoilers: minor third season spoilers
Word Count: 1100+ words, Complete
Disclaimer: Supernatural is owned by Kripke Productions and their mutual affiliates. This is for entertainment purposes only.
 Because it's only a promise if someone hears it… )
 
"Always have to be Mr. 'I Don't Need Your Help'." The laugh he made sounded forced. And inside the metal cocoon, the sound punctuated the silence. It only reinforced the insincerity. "He can't fool me. Never could." He looked to his left at the empty driver's seat. He was amused to see the door latched—as if he feared carjackers might come and steal both car and brother. In a fit of rebellion, he'd rolled down the window to let in the prairie breeze. The keys swayed off the ignition like a pendulum.
 
Staring at the keys, his amusement faded.
 
"He's scared." He closed his eyes and sank deeper into the passenger seat. The tiny fires from the beast's claw flared on his right side. It reminded him why they stopped, why there was a sudden craving for food instead of the hunt.
 
He wrapped an arm around his middle, cupping carefully over his bandage and the careful stitches. Fifteen in total. Maybe more. He wasn't sure; he had passed out when his brother began cleaning the third angry red slash that followed the contour of his ribs. He passed out and now they were here.
 
He snorted, reached out and drummed his fingers over a spot above the glove compartment. He was tempted to turn on the music, but was warned against it and threatened bodily harm if he didn't rest. The warning kind of defeated the purpose, but he chose not to say anything.
 
"He won't tell me, won't talk to me, but I know he's scared." The diner the car was parked in front was busy, far more busy than a diner should be at four in the morning. He watched his brother, his hip leaning against the garish red and black checkered counter. His brother waited with an impatience no one else would recognize but him. His posture was deceptively lax, loose-limbed, but even from here, he could see the tight jaw line, his chin jutted out just a little as he gritted his teeth. He was a hair's breath away from snapping at someone. His brother didn't want to be here.
 
"I know he can feel time ticking away," he murmured as he slid his left hand down to the bench. He tried to soak up the heat from the seat, warmed from hours of driving and companionship. He huddled into his jacket and thought he could feel the heat leeching out of him and into the car. It was like the car absorbed a part of them each time; just enough to leave a footprint of them both within its steel bones.
 
Somehow, it made him felt better; that they're leaving something behind.
 
"Take care of him," he rasped, his eyes drifting back forward to the front. "Six more months and we won't be watching each other's backs any more." He swallowed. "Alone. That's it. Just…alone." He shut his eyes. He tried to feel the Impala wrap around him like an embrace. "Watch out for him. Please." His voice cracked. "Do for him what I can't."
 
The hand he placed palm down on the seat curled, fingers clawed useless at the seams.
 
"Keep him out of hell," he whispered.
 
The car didn't speak. It stayed as it were: hollow yet filled with more memories and more lingering emotions than he thought possible. It was hard to believe this car ever felt large. He remembering sleeping against his brother's shoulder in the backseat, watching the back of his father's head and thought their father was just as enormous as the Impala. But like their father, the years shrunk it and he outgrew the security blanket of the Impala. At least he thought he did.
 
"You're all we got left," he murmured. His hand relaxed and stroked the car seat in apology. "Stick with him a little longer, okay?"
 
The car settled, its engine cooling and gave a minute shiver old cars do when standing still for too long. But it sounded like a sigh and that was good enough for him.
 
"Thanks," he said hushed, his lips upturned at the corners of his mouth.
 
"You're welcome," was the dry return.
 
"Shit!"
 
Dean reared back, smacking the door and nearly slid down to the car floor in his shock. Sam, crouched down low enough to rest his elbows on the driver side open window, cocked his head to the side.
 
"Were…were you talking to the car?" Sam asked with that annoying little brother grin Dean knew he'd miss (he'll never admit it though).
 
"Did you get it?" Dean demanded, deflecting Sam's question with one of his own.
 
Sam rolled his eyes and raised the takeout bag before slipping into the driver's seat. "Yeah. Extra onions, too." He blew at an errant bang that kept flopping over his nose. He wrinkled his nose as the strand simply came back. The gesture Sam made flicking at it was something Sammy used to make. The memory made Dean's chest ache.
 
Dean covered the pang; he dove into the bags with a grumble about how long Sam took. He fished out the Styrofoam container with his burger and blinked when he realized the bag still wasn't empty.
 
"They had fresh pie, too," Sam explained as he unwrapped his chicken salad sandwich; a woeful pile of blanch food on white wax paper. Sam watched Dean a bit—he tended to do that a lot these days—before he took a bite of his food.
 
The car, once subdued before, filled with the cacophony of crinkling parchment paper, plastic cutlery scraping on pie filling, and loud, almost obnoxious, munching.
 
"Seriously," Sam began. He made a face when Dean burped with an unabashed grin. "Extra onions," Sam grumbled to himself. He turned sideways in the car, an awkward position for someone his size yet he made it look natural. The car was fitting around him. It was a bittersweet realization for Dean that he'd almost missed the question the first time Sam asked.
 
"What?" Dean covered his reverie with a mouthful of fries and ketchup. Sure enough, Sam scrunched up his face in disgust.
 
"Dude." Sam chucked a paper napkin his way. "I said, you were talking to the car, weren't you?"
 
Dean looked in front of him at the dashboard and remembered how she replied under his fingers. If it could, Dean suspected it would wink at him.
 
"Nope," Dean replied and swallowed. "Course not. It's a car, Sammy." He wiped his mouth clean of ketchup, wadded up the napkin, and tossed it back at Sam. 

The End.

Author's Notes: I took a different approach with this one. Whereas i didn't reveal whom/what the character was talking to, I did the reverse here. For myself, it was a surprisingly good exercise. I had started to write this under the intention of it being someone else.
mrwubbles: (NCIS Hands)
More under the prompt of "Idle Conversations". Again, drabbles, short. Whether they become fics later on is the big question mark.

Title: Idle Conversations: Do
Fandom: NCIS
Author: Yuma
Pairing: none, gen
Rating: G (all ages)
Summary: He wasn't really expecting an answer… Post "Hiatus".
Spoilers: minor Hiatus spoilers
Word Count: 1100+ words, Complete
Disclaimer: Navy NCIS is owned by Bellisario productions and their mutual affiliates. This is for entertainment purposes only.

Because he wasn't really expecting an answer…  )
 
For now hung heavily in the air.

Tony sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "I always figured I would just get my own team, you know? You know…head honcho, Madam, Director, coming over and slapping me on the back and say 'Good job, DiNozzo, we think you're ready.'"
 
With a snort, Tony paced in a tight, erratic line back and forth. He stopped, pivoted on his heels and stared in front of him. It didn't feel like an agreement was coming so he paced again, waving the bottle of beer he held in one fist helplessly in the air. His hand felt cool from the condensation that trickled down to his fingers from the bottle.
 
"I mean, it would have been nice if he said I was ready." Tony set his jaw. He dropped down on the stool and stared hard in front of him. He lifted the long neck bottle he'd been ignoring and took a long pull. He swiped across his lower lip clean of beer with his thumb. He made a face at the sour taste. Beer was never something he indulged in.
 
"You know," he tilted his head back a little to remember. "Some sort of gesture would have been nice. I'm not saying I need him to hand over his sword or salute or…"
 
Tony stood again, scrapping the stool legs against the concrete floor. The stool he was on danced on its legs; a compact twirl before it settled down to a docile state and waited.
 
"You'll do." Tony flinched when he said the words. It rang too much like an echo. It hung too much like a noose; it threatened to choke him for days after until finally, Tony found himself down in the basement, struggling to breathe. "That's what he said. He said 'You'll do.'"
 
The laugh that escaped hurt his throat. It grated like broken glass.
 
"I don't know if I will do," Tony confessed. Another swig made him sway on his feet. He set it down because his father never did.
 
No one contradicted him. Tony smiled ruefully at what was in front of him. He shoved his hands in his pockets.
 
"So you're just the strong, silent type, huh?" he joked.
 
A golden wooden skeleton of a boat—Gibbs' third catharsis for whatever that brewed inside the former Marine—stood stoic and ready in front of him. The tarp that covered it was peeled back by its visitor.
 
"I know how you feel," Tony murmured as he picked out frayed, thinned scraps of sanding paper from the work table and discarded them. He very deliberately set the new ones on the evicted spots. The number four over where the old number four was, the six, and so on. He circled around the skeleton and felt an odd twist of sympathy for it as he spied one rib half done. The powdery surface stopped midway to the coarse, splintered grain of drying wood. It made a jagged border between sandy smooth and coarse. It had the look of abandonment.
 
Tony scratched a nail on the transition line and watched golden ash rained down to the table. "He'll be back," he assured it. "He wouldn't leave you behind."
 
It felt easy to talk to the curves and flats of bound wood and polished grain than to anyone back at the Navy yards. It felt familiar. He never really expected an answer (but if he did get one, he was switching beers). The curved and finished wood didn't expect one, either. It sat there and waited for Tony to figure it out on his own; just like Gibbs.
 
The ex-Marine never said anything clearly. Five years under his tutelage gave Tony a nice abridged lexicon to Gibbs-speak. And the head slaps served as addendums. It used to be enough.
 
Used to be.
 
"I mean, come on," Tony pleaded to one particular exposed rib that was darker than all the rest; new and still damp. "I mean, he can be more cryptic than Yoda sometimes! Did he mean…I…" Tony stepped back. He leaned against the workbench shoved up against the wall. It doubled as Gibbs' media furniture; an old television that showed everyone in a hue of blue and green rattled on a hastily nailed up on a piece of plywood behind him.
 
"He knows I won't screw this up. Right?" Tony said finally. "Otherwise he'd be back from whatever umbrella drink island to kick my ass." He shrugged one shoulder. "Maybe…Maybe 'You'll do' was all he can say." It was a flimsy reason, but once he said it, Tony did feel a little better about it. It was something at least. Some never made an effort to even have a kind thought for him. It was the most concession Gibbs ever gave him. Maybe it would have to be enough.  
 
"What do you think?" Tony dared the wooden frame. It of course said nothing. Just like her owner.

Typical.
 
The phone in his pocket rang. And for one brief moment, Tony stared stunned at the boat until his fingers fumbled his mobile out of his pocket. When he replied with a short "DiNozzo" he thought he heard the boat's approval.
 
The teeny buzz in his ear hardened his eyes. Tony reached out and absently stroked one of the beams that circled around the ribs.
 
Instruction. They were waiting for instruction on the other side of the line. Tony's finger stopped, the pad of his index finger pressed into the wood.
 
"Get the truck out there and start sketching. Have Abby look up the site and feed a map of the grounds to McGee's PDA. I want a ToD from Ducky when I get there." The words slipped out easy enough, like reading off a script, but Tony looked over to the boat, not that he would get any affirmation from it. He brushed a palm across the surface, stroking it absently like a dog as he listened to Ziva gave him the bullet points. He noted some of the planks weren't completely dry; they were still cool and damp under his hand.
 
Tony studied his empty beer bottle, his lips pressed together. "It'll take me a few minutes," Tony reported. He absently tugged the canvas tarp over the exposed structure. "A friend," Tony answered cryptically to the buzz in his ear. His mouth twitched when he heard the exasperation. Odd to be on the other end of it now. "No, she's not old enough to drive me there." Tony patted the tarp. "I'll call a cab."
 
Tony shut the phone with a decisive snap before stowing it in his pocket. "Duty calls," Tony shrugged towards the boat. He retrieved the dark amber glass bottle, brushed his knuckles against the ship, and smiled. It felt wrong to pull the tarp over it; like a sheet over an ashen corpse.
 
"He'll be back," Tony said slowly. "He wouldn't leave you like this."
 
The boat didn't reply, of course, but Tony could have sworn the wood warmed under his knuckles. Somehow, it made him feel a little better. He straightened, did a quick check around the area before he went back up the stairs. Tony avoided the rickety fifth step that no one fixed and Tony figured he shouldn't either. He paused at the top of the stairs.
 
"Night," he called out. Oddly enough, it didn't feel weird and when he shut the basement door, he made a note to come back. Just to check the boat.

The End

* above icon was created by unfamiliargirl   
mrwubbles: (NCIS Hands)
More under the prompt of "Idle Conversations". Again, drabbles, short. Whether they become fics later on is the big question mark.

Title: Idle Conversations: Do
Fandom: NCIS
Author: Yuma
Pairing: none, gen
Rating: G (all ages)
Summary: He wasn't really expecting an answer… Post "Hiatus".
Spoilers: minor Hiatus spoilers
Word Count: 1100+ words, Complete
Disclaimer: Navy NCIS is owned by Bellisario productions and their mutual affiliates. This is for entertainment purposes only.

Because he wasn't really expecting an answer…  )
 
For now hung heavily in the air.

Tony sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "I always figured I would just get my own team, you know? You know…head honcho, Madam, Director, coming over and slapping me on the back and say 'Good job, DiNozzo, we think you're ready.'"
 
With a snort, Tony paced in a tight, erratic line back and forth. He stopped, pivoted on his heels and stared in front of him. It didn't feel like an agreement was coming so he paced again, waving the bottle of beer he held in one fist helplessly in the air. His hand felt cool from the condensation that trickled down to his fingers from the bottle.
 
"I mean, it would have been nice if he said I was ready." Tony set his jaw. He dropped down on the stool and stared hard in front of him. He lifted the long neck bottle he'd been ignoring and took a long pull. He swiped across his lower lip clean of beer with his thumb. He made a face at the sour taste. Beer was never something he indulged in.
 
"You know," he tilted his head back a little to remember. "Some sort of gesture would have been nice. I'm not saying I need him to hand over his sword or salute or…"
 
Tony stood again, scrapping the stool legs against the concrete floor. The stool he was on danced on its legs; a compact twirl before it settled down to a docile state and waited.
 
"You'll do." Tony flinched when he said the words. It rang too much like an echo. It hung too much like a noose; it threatened to choke him for days after until finally, Tony found himself down in the basement, struggling to breathe. "That's what he said. He said 'You'll do.'"
 
The laugh that escaped hurt his throat. It grated like broken glass.
 
"I don't know if I will do," Tony confessed. Another swig made him sway on his feet. He set it down because his father never did.
 
No one contradicted him. Tony smiled ruefully at what was in front of him. He shoved his hands in his pockets.
 
"So you're just the strong, silent type, huh?" he joked.
 
A golden wooden skeleton of a boat—Gibbs' third catharsis for whatever that brewed inside the former Marine—stood stoic and ready in front of him. The tarp that covered it was peeled back by its visitor.
 
"I know how you feel," Tony murmured as he picked out frayed, thinned scraps of sanding paper from the work table and discarded them. He very deliberately set the new ones on the evicted spots. The number four over where the old number four was, the six, and so on. He circled around the skeleton and felt an odd twist of sympathy for it as he spied one rib half done. The powdery surface stopped midway to the coarse, splintered grain of drying wood. It made a jagged border between sandy smooth and coarse. It had the look of abandonment.
 
Tony scratched a nail on the transition line and watched golden ash rained down to the table. "He'll be back," he assured it. "He wouldn't leave you behind."
 
It felt easy to talk to the curves and flats of bound wood and polished grain than to anyone back at the Navy yards. It felt familiar. He never really expected an answer (but if he did get one, he was switching beers). The curved and finished wood didn't expect one, either. It sat there and waited for Tony to figure it out on his own; just like Gibbs.
 
The ex-Marine never said anything clearly. Five years under his tutelage gave Tony a nice abridged lexicon to Gibbs-speak. And the head slaps served as addendums. It used to be enough.
 
Used to be.
 
"I mean, come on," Tony pleaded to one particular exposed rib that was darker than all the rest; new and still damp. "I mean, he can be more cryptic than Yoda sometimes! Did he mean…I…" Tony stepped back. He leaned against the workbench shoved up against the wall. It doubled as Gibbs' media furniture; an old television that showed everyone in a hue of blue and green rattled on a hastily nailed up on a piece of plywood behind him.
 
"He knows I won't screw this up. Right?" Tony said finally. "Otherwise he'd be back from whatever umbrella drink island to kick my ass." He shrugged one shoulder. "Maybe…Maybe 'You'll do' was all he can say." It was a flimsy reason, but once he said it, Tony did feel a little better about it. It was something at least. Some never made an effort to even have a kind thought for him. It was the most concession Gibbs ever gave him. Maybe it would have to be enough.  
 
"What do you think?" Tony dared the wooden frame. It of course said nothing. Just like her owner.

Typical.
 
The phone in his pocket rang. And for one brief moment, Tony stared stunned at the boat until his fingers fumbled his mobile out of his pocket. When he replied with a short "DiNozzo" he thought he heard the boat's approval.
 
The teeny buzz in his ear hardened his eyes. Tony reached out and absently stroked one of the beams that circled around the ribs.
 
Instruction. They were waiting for instruction on the other side of the line. Tony's finger stopped, the pad of his index finger pressed into the wood.
 
"Get the truck out there and start sketching. Have Abby look up the site and feed a map of the grounds to McGee's PDA. I want a ToD from Ducky when I get there." The words slipped out easy enough, like reading off a script, but Tony looked over to the boat, not that he would get any affirmation from it. He brushed a palm across the surface, stroking it absently like a dog as he listened to Ziva gave him the bullet points. He noted some of the planks weren't completely dry; they were still cool and damp under his hand.
 
Tony studied his empty beer bottle, his lips pressed together. "It'll take me a few minutes," Tony reported. He absently tugged the canvas tarp over the exposed structure. "A friend," Tony answered cryptically to the buzz in his ear. His mouth twitched when he heard the exasperation. Odd to be on the other end of it now. "No, she's not old enough to drive me there." Tony patted the tarp. "I'll call a cab."
 
Tony shut the phone with a decisive snap before stowing it in his pocket. "Duty calls," Tony shrugged towards the boat. He retrieved the dark amber glass bottle, brushed his knuckles against the ship, and smiled. It felt wrong to pull the tarp over it; like a sheet over an ashen corpse.
 
"He'll be back," Tony said slowly. "He wouldn't leave you like this."
 
The boat didn't reply, of course, but Tony could have sworn the wood warmed under his knuckles. Somehow, it made him feel a little better. He straightened, did a quick check around the area before he went back up the stairs. Tony avoided the rickety fifth step that no one fixed and Tony figured he shouldn't either. He paused at the top of the stairs.
 
"Night," he called out. Oddly enough, it didn't feel weird and when he shut the basement door, he made a note to come back. Just to check the boat.

The End

* above icon was created by unfamiliargirl   
mrwubbles: (TW Capt JH)
As I had lay there, I hear the technician mumbling to himself as he insert my IV. Since I doubt he was waxing Hamlet's "To be or not to be", I wondered who else in our lovely fandom worlds would do the same.; talk to him/herself or when they think they're alone The following I'll post during the week are just tiny drabbles, too short to be called fics. Everyone's seen and done drabbles at some point. Just dribbles of the brain; otherwise known as "drabbles". Just trying on as many fandoms as I can. Because I am out of practice. Hope you like. This journal needed to be filled with posts other than my homages to Bob Evan's open-faced pot roast in Lansing, MI. LOL.

Title: Idle Conversations: Number 7
Fandom: Torchwood
Author: Yuma
Pairing: none, gen
Rating: PG (pre-Teen)
Category: prompt, angst, hurt-comfort, mentions minor character death
Summary: Jack couldn't bear to think about it today. Or tomorrow. Or ever.
Spoilers: After season one "Out of Time". Mentions bits of season one. Vague bits though…
Word Count: 1400+ Complete
Disclaimer: Torchwood is owned by BBC, Russell T Davies, and their mutual affiliates. This is for entertainment purposes only.

Jack folded his hands over his stomach, closed his eyes and pretended. He pretended he belonged here. He could feel disapproval on him though and he mentally shrugged. He never let that stop him before. )

* This beautiful icon of a man (eg) was created by bmshipper_arts. Lovely.
mrwubbles: (TW Capt JH)
As I had lay there, I hear the technician mumbling to himself as he insert my IV. Since I doubt he was waxing Hamlet's "To be or not to be", I wondered who else in our lovely fandom worlds would do the same.; talk to him/herself or when they think they're alone The following I'll post during the week are just tiny drabbles, too short to be called fics. Everyone's seen and done drabbles at some point. Just dribbles of the brain; otherwise known as "drabbles". Just trying on as many fandoms as I can. Because I am out of practice. Hope you like. This journal needed to be filled with posts other than my homages to Bob Evan's open-faced pot roast in Lansing, MI. LOL.

Title: Idle Conversations: Number 7
Fandom: Torchwood
Author: Yuma
Pairing: none, gen
Rating: PG (pre-Teen)
Category: prompt, angst, hurt-comfort, mentions minor character death
Summary: Jack couldn't bear to think about it today. Or tomorrow. Or ever.
Spoilers: After season one "Out of Time". Mentions bits of season one. Vague bits though…
Word Count: 1400+ Complete
Disclaimer: Torchwood is owned by BBC, Russell T Davies, and their mutual affiliates. This is for entertainment purposes only.

Jack folded his hands over his stomach, closed his eyes and pretended. He pretended he belonged here. He could feel disapproval on him though and he mentally shrugged. He never let that stop him before. )

* This beautiful icon of a man (eg) was created by bmshipper_arts. Lovely.

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