is totally a fandom. Sssh.
: Mel Fray/Michealangelo and Indiana JonesWords
: 284Author's Note
: Gift for sir_gareth
. And I realise in retrospect this must have been what precipitated the acquistion of the first Senior Squeakins. The things you learn about your own characters 2 years after the fact.
The living room floor is a maze of parts. Screws, poles, hinges, laid out across the carpet in a number of piles. And in the middle sits Mike, surveying his empire of little metal pieces, awaiting instructions.
“Insert thingy A into whatsit B,” Mel says from her position: lying upside down on the couch with her hair brushing the floor and her feet kicking out above the seat back.
Mike looks over. “It say what thingy A looks like?”
“Ummm… like a small duck? Or maybe a puppy? With a thin bit to be inserted into whatsit B,” Mel supplies, vaguely, waving a hand to illustrate what she means. Mike sighs dramatically and scrambles over to see.
Oh,” he says, retrieving the appropriate item and waving it in front of Mel’s face. “You think that looks like a duck? We need to introduce you to real ducks.”
She pulls a face. “It does from this angle…”
He grins. Far too innocently. Nothing good ever came from a grin like that. And then he grabs Mel by the shoulders. She’s too quick even for him, though, and flips him over instead, throwing him over the back of the couch and following him to land on top of him.
“Well hello there,” he says, grinning. All part of his evil plan.
Indy’s warning apparently comes just that little too late and two heads shoot up from the couch just in time to see the miniphant stampede across Mike’s painstakingly organised chaos, sending screws and bolts flying. Indy himself is standing in the doorway, shaking his head in desperation.
“You two still not finished yet? Should never have expected you to do anything on a Thursday.”
: Claire Littleton, Eskarina SmithWords
Authors Notes: Gift for lone_lilly
The problem with coming up with a different cocktail each week is the names. So many cocktails have suggestive names.
At one time she’d tried not telling Eska the names of the drinks she serves, but the wizard always asks, is always eager to learn.
And there’s no way out. And Claire has to explain. The “Screaming Orgasm” was bad enough. Just for the Look on her face. But that’s not even the worst.
The worst is when Claire finds herself having to explain the pun. “Sloe Comfortable Screw Up Against a Wall” had her turning as bright red as the drink itself as she floundered her way through the double entendre. And then Eska just listening, not blushing at all, but with her lips getting thinner and thinner.
No, this time she’s sticking to nice safe ones like “Cherry Popper”…
Claire’s throwing away this cocktail book.
: Mel Fray/Lilly KaneRating
: 100Author's notes
: Gift for emmlet
"Vampire. Vampire. Vampire. Tim Hunter. Vampire."
"That one. Tim. He shot me. With bullets."
Lilly stares. "Tim shot you?"
"Four times. Only it wasn't really him. It was this scary-ass alternate version of him. During the war."
"OK," Lilly says. "That is definitely a story I'm hearing later. You have any more?"
Mel looks down at herself, and winks at Lilly. "Nope. I think you've got them all. Want to count them again?"
Y'know, I think I just might," Lilly says evilly, "just to make sure I've got them all. In case there's a test later or something."
Why I'm never around on MondaysFandom
: Melaka Fray and MichaelangeloWord Count
When I was new, I liked to go an’ sit in one of the darkest corners in the rafters, just crouch up there for hours and watching stuff goin’ on below me. I still do that from time to time.
Sometimes I know he knows I’m there. Sometimes I’m convinced he’s forgotten. It doesn’t matter that much: he respects that I wanna be alone, and that gets on with whatever he’s doing, whether it’s serving, preparing or just hanging around the bar, chatting to people.
I’m watching his smiles. He has one for every person he talks to. I don’t know if anyone’s ever noticed this, or whether I’m spun for thinking it, but he does. For Ace, it’s mischievous and animated. For April it’s concerned and clowning by turns. For that girl with the strawberries it’s warm and soft.
I dunno, maybe I am spun. Because each of those smiles is constantly changing with jokes and moods and the tone of the conversation anyway, but I swear, if you showed me a scope of just his face as he talks to someone, with the sounds turned right down – and I’ve always been useless at lip reading anyway – I could tell you who he’s talking to just from his smile.
And his smiles are the source of mine.
Those Things That Landlords DoFandom
: MelWord Count
: GAuthor's Notes
: Once upon a time I said I'd never unBind Mel. And here's why. ('Course, I changed my mind. But only after killing Harth.)
It had been over three months. Three months since the stoic, bittersweet farewell. Since goodbyes had been made, leave taken, and Duty explained again. This wasn't the first time she'd left, and it was becoming a little tiring. It's all very well saying goodbye, but when you might turn up again within a few weeks, it ceases to be as final as it might be.
But nevertheless, goodbyes had been said and she'd gone home. And as predicted, she turned up again within the fortnight, strolling casually in as she headed towards her rooms.
And then she found out she wasn't Bound. That she could come and go as she wanted. She could have both worlds. Erin, Indy, Lilly, Steph, Gunther, Legs. Grabbing and Slaying and Security. The rooftops and the lake. Milliways and Haddyn.
And she did, for three months. She moved back into 132, bringing her pet demon with her, and continued to see Mikey. She left the bar everyday to carry on with the work, to grab, to patrol, to Slay, and to protect her world. She even managed to get in some Security shifts as usual.
One thing was different though: she couldn't take things out with her. She noticed this first when she was plummeting off a building and went to pull out her skaterug, only to flounder when it wasn't there, and fall hard on her face. Initially, she'd assumed she'd left it in the suite; but when she tried to get food for some of the kids, she discovered that anything she acquired within the bar seemed to cease to exist as she stepped out into Haddyn. Food from the Bar; weapons from Tim or Raven; even the gold bracelet Arithon gave her: all vanished. She could bring her people no food, medicine, nor clean water. Every night she went home to a hot tub and ice cream with a Californian Princess, every morning she woke up in a warm bed next to a warm body and ate a substantial breakfast, and then she went out into her world, where she watched kids waste with malnutrition, saw people lose limbs and succumb to disease because they couldn't afford the healthcare, saw the way they looked at her because suddenly she was always clean and well fed, while they slowly rotted in the forgotten bowels of a corrupt city.
It took her three months to come to the decision. And she hated herself for not making it sooner.
Lilly took the news quietly. Sad, and accepting, she nodded and gave her roommate huge, tight hug. Then they curled up under the fluffy blanket together for one last movie and a gallon of ice-cream.
Indy got tetchy. He snapped at her, tried to persuade her otherwise. Brought up Kitty and Faith and other evil fighters who sustained the dual life, who never felt the need to choose between them. But he knew it wouldn't help. She never was one to buy into his reasoning, once she knew what she thought was right.
Mikey just nodded.
He'd come to the same conclusion long ago. Seen her dilemma before she'd even known she had one. Listened to her tales about the people she saw every day that she couldn't help, heard how detached she felt from them, knew how torn she was. Saw that, if she didn't make the choice, and soon, it would rend her in two. But still, he'd said nothing. Not – though he'd say it was – out of a need for her to come to the conclusion on her own, but for purely selfish reasons. He knew from the beginning what choice she'd make – that was, after all, one of the things he loved about her – but as long as he didn't say anything, there was always the possibility she wouldn't choose, or if she did, that she would choose otherwise. That she would choose Milliways, hot tubs and good food over Versi, crime and filth. That she would choose him.
He knew she wouldn't, but he had hoped, all the same.
So Melaka Fray shed her tears, made her goodbyes, handed in her badge, threw one last, legendary party, and then took her leave of Milliways bar for the last time.
Three weeks later she fell though the front door in a flurry of demon gore, landing heavily on her face and in clear need of a healer. And sure enough, she turned out to be Bound this time. When Tim Hunter heard about it, he swore that it was a plot on behalf of the Landlord to get her out of the bar for a certain length of time, and at the same time cause the maximum amount of grief and woe for everyone.
No one believed him.
: Mel/Mike, Tim Hunter, RamonPrompt
: 28 Flavours of Mel
: Pregnant Mel // Millirific42
: PGAuthor's Notes
: A gift for fightingthecageMedium Damn Table
It’s not a scream, it’s a roar, bellowed loud enough to shock the whole bar as she crosses it in a few strides, a brightly coloured force of nature bearing down on her victim
He’s barely got time for a “Oh hi, Me…” before he’s lifted up from his chair and pinned to a pillar, looking down a cocked fist.
“What the hell do you think you were doing? It never occurred to you to tell us that body you made was shooting live ammo?”
There’s little as satisfying as watching one of the Ladies blow her gasket Even if he had nothing to do with it and doesn’t know what it’s about., it’s still fun to watch.
“Do you know what that’s about, amigo?” he asks the stranger who joins him at the bar.
“Oh, she’s just hormonal,” replies the insanely grinning blond. “Would you like a cigar? I’m practising.”
Hitching a RideFandom
: Melaka Fray, Wes JansenPrompt
: 28 Flavours of Mel
: Excited Mel // Millirific42
Word Count: 100
Author's Notes: A gift for djcatiMedium Damn Table
It might have been a bad idea. It might have been a very bad idea.
This is why he doesn’t regret it one bit. Even when she cheerfully insulted every officer in the squadron. Even when she started a fight in the cantina. Even when she managed to break off part of the visor.
Because the look on everyone’s faces when he flew through atmosphere with the crazy purple haired wonder squealing happily with her feet duct taped to the wings – that look of Kriff, he’s found someone even crazier than him
– that was, what’s the word? Oh yeah – rocketship
The Lock InFandom
Every bar has a closing time, eventually.
And what often happens, is some people stay on beyond closing time. Finishing off the stock, putting off the inevitable long trip home in the dark, trying to forget that it's over. It's the wake of the night.
The girl - the little one with the pretty face - was the first one behind the bar, having let the barman go on to where he was going, she promised to take good care of the place, and begun pouring out drinks for everyone. And everyone took one, even those that didn't usually drink. It was that kind of evening.
"These are onions, aren't they?" one of the customers complained, as he picked through a jar. "Got anything stronger?"
"I like onions," she protested, with a fond smile. "Are you even supposed to still me here?"
"'Course I am!" he squawked. "I've got diplomatic immunity, I have! I'm with the rat!"Squeak
, the rat confirmed. And she left it at that.
A good many of them turned up late, slightly the worse for wear. It's usually considered the height of bad manners to turn up late to a lock in, not to mention it defeats the point, but no one here had ever paid attention to locks. They were noted for it in fact.
Nevertheless, the hour of their arrival wasn't really appreciated.
"You're late," the girl complained, a little annoyed. She missed them.Shorry
, one of the late comers replied through a slur of drunken contrition. We werere… were r'ding ooout.That was millennia ago
, someone else pointed out. One of the less popular ones, watching from a corner.
WELL, said another of the newcomers, one which to all appearances might be the first speaker's twin, except for a subtle difference in speech. WE WENT OUT FOR A FEW DRINKSH AFTERWARDSH. YOU KNOW HOW WAR ISH. SHE WOULDN'T TAKE N…NO F'RAN ANSHWUR.Ish there any more t'drink?
His companion asked, staggering over to the bar. There was of course. There was the whole stock.
A bit later on, everyone
had had rather too much to drink, to be honest. Even the silent ones that sat in the corner playing chess to stalemate to stalemate to stalemate, looked like they were flagging, pale faces resting on boney fingers.
"You know vat thiz place needz?" The famous one spoke up suddenly. "Zome muzik!"
And at that he bounded up to the small stage, and pulled out a large double bass, on which he struck a dramatic power chord.
"All rriiight!" he screamed. "Letz rrrock and rrrolll!"
There was a strangled screech from the corner, and everyone turned to see the other young woman, who'd shot to her feet in outrage, three red marks throbbing hotly on her cheek. Not many people had noticed her there, but they all viewed her somewhat fondly as an interesting curiosity: she shouldn’t really be here, but no one minded.
She glared at the offending musician for a second, before turning on a polished heel and storming out of the bar.
"Honestly," muttered one of the women: the one who looked like most of her male and genderless compatriots, only female: curving where her form shouldn't be able to curve. "You know she has a history with that kind of music."
"Are you going to go after her?" the sweet girl asked the Rider.Do you think I should?
"Of course you should! Do I have to teach you everything about having a family?"
Loving and compassionate as always, there was still some hint of the heavy sadness in her voice that would touch even the heartless, and everyone heard it. Of all of them there, she knew family. She'd seen off six siblings - some twice.
So the tall one rose, followed his granddaughter out into the outside, and stayed there for quite some time. By the time they returned – her cheek still burning with three red lines – the joviality had returned to the party.
But, like all parties, like all lock ins, even this one had to come to an end. It was one of the silent ones: - the one generally looked down on as 'that delegator', that finally stood up, and started collecting the empties. Others followed, but it was his management skills that got them working together where they weren't used to it. The girl started washing up, the Power cleaned the pipes, and the rat collected all the debris from the floor.
Then, finally, they all filed out of the door, leaving nothing behind but a neat stack of washed and dried empties, and a neat little Post-it note marked:
To those who come next,
Please take care of this reality.