exit ramps

there was stuff, and then something important, and then just...stuff

Fri, 06 Nov 2009 03:47:47 GMT

Dude. EVERY SINGLE '80S SITCOM I EVER WATCHED. They don't still make sitcoms like that anymore, do they? I kinda stopped watching the genre sometime in the '90s.

And KITT. KIIIIIIIIIIITT. "Eat me." Yay, Sam. The sound cut out on my cable during most of the Dr. Sexy and game show stuff, and I'm not entirely sure which procedural crime drama they were spoofing there (I was hoping for either X-Files or Buffy, but noooo), but the sitcom & KITT made me happy. Weirdly, considering how much I now reject the '80s.

In other news, there is no other news. Oh. Except that the Governor of Massachusetts is apparently thinking about shutting down the State Library, which is kinda not cool. I mean, you don't just toss out almost 200 years worth of something, just like that. (Though I'd like to see some other verification of this; the news I was seeing on Google all seemed to be about statewide budget cuts to library funding and nothing specific to the State Library.) I'm not even going to talk about my own state where that certain sneaking deathly fear has once again blown in amongst my colleagues due to all the revenue shortfall and expected budget cuts.

You know what? I'm sick of the shitty economy. I'm sick of blaming everything on the shitty economy. I'm especially sick of people using the shitty economy to cut cultural institutions. I'm sick of this being the norm, and I want some damned better resolutions. Now if only I could think of them.

Also, ABC has apparently pulled their online Eastwick episodes, which is just doubly shitty since that's the way I've been watching the show. Wah. Woe me. I need to get my priorities back in order. I also want to burn something in effigy. Hmph.

I'm still gonna go eat worms.

Wed, 04 Nov 2009 00:47:11 GMT

I have a long and highly personal relationship with Gravity. It mostly consists of Gravity throwing things at me and me telling it sweetly, "Fuck you, Gravity."

I just had a different sort of pear with my dinner tonight that I picked up at the store on a whim. It was the most boring fruit I have ever tasted. I didn't know fruit could taste boring. So it was disappointing on multiple levels.

This was also a very stupid day at work. Not finding the paperwork I needed; collections popping up in places they shouldn't or not being where they should; hauling boxes down from the fifth shelf and scraping my arms and fingers on the cardboard and the metal; the ladder catching on boxes as I shoved it down the too-narrow aisle; the stupid laptop running slowly or not at all; nothing new or unusual in all this but I just was not in the mood for it today. And then to top it all off I lost my key card. Which somebody promptly found and returned, thank goodness, but at that point I just sort of wanted to call it quits, go home, and crawl under the covers.

Actually, that still sounds like a good idea.

Fic: Invisible Man, "Thick-Skinned"

Tue, 03 Nov 2009 00:32:49 GMT

Title: Thick-Skinned
Author: aces
Rating: G
Warnings: um, spoilery for “Flowers for Hobbes,” but if you haven’t seen *that* ep by now…
Prompt from the hot_donuts ficathon: Bobby & or / any, cooking
Word count: approx. 1900 words
Summary: “I mean, you went from you to Super-Genius you to you again, all in a couple days. There’s bound to be some kind of existential whiplash with all that, I figure.”
A/N: Thanks to jenlev for looking this over and making some suggestions. You’re a savior as always!

Bobby was moving a little slowly. Taking his time. He was in no hurry, had nowhere to be tonight. Didn’t feel like going to the bars. He needed some time to readjust to himself again. Get the feel of his old mental landscape, settle back into his old skin. Something like that anyway.

He was just starting to cook dinner when the doorbell rang. “Ahh, dammit,” he sighed, looking between the browning onions and the kitchen doorway. Somebody started pounding on the door, and he cursed again but more half-heartedly. He’d recognize that knock anywhere.

“Coming!” he yelled and strode into the living room. He opened the front door. “Fawkes. Come in. Close the door behind you,” he added over his shoulder as he headed back into the kitchen.

“Hobbes. Uh, hi?” Darien trailed after him. “Nice to see you? What’s going—on,” he stopped when he saw Bobby standing at the stove. “You cook?”

“Whattya mean, ‘you cook?’” Hobbes was offended. “Of course I cook, who doesn’t cook, what do you take me for?”

Darien came up and sniffed over the skillet in curiosity. “What are you cooking?”

“A chicken curry,” Bobby rolled his eyes. “Do you want some or something?”

Darien wrinkled his nose. “I don’t know.”

Hobbes glared at him. “What do you want, partner? Why’d you come over?”

“What, I can’t just come visit?” Darien protested.

“No,” retorted his partner. “You don’t just come visit. I’m the one who ends up visiting you, remember?”

“Yeah, but you’ve never very neighborly when you visit,” Darien pointed out, still staring in fascination at the skillet.

“Neither are you.” Hobbes started dumping in curry powder, paprika, cinnamon, sugar, salt, minced garlic. “I’m fine, Fawkes. Still me. Not gonna solve any big scientific mysteries like the Agency’s budget anytime soon. Is that what you were worried about?”

“Of course not.” Even Fawkes seemed to realize how lame his protest sounded. He shook himself a little and turned around, leaning his back against the counter next to the stove. He was still wearing his corduroy jacket over his shirt and jeans. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I mean, you went from you to Super-Genius you to you again, all in a couple days. There’s bound to be some kind of existential whiplash with all that, I figure.”

“I’m fine.” Bobby shook his head as he started stirring in the diced chicken and coconut milk and yogurt and a dab of tomato paste. “Jeez, Fawkes, c’mon, you know me. Bounce back from anything.”

“This wasn’t just anything.”

“It never is,” Hobbes muttered and stirred. “I’m fine, Fawkes. I’m just…taking it easy tonight. Lying low. Nothing wrong with that.”

“Absolutely not,” Fawkes agreed. “Good idea. And it’s probably easier to lie low if I’m not around bugging you, right?” Bobby looked up at him out of the corner of his eye but didn’t say anything. Darien sighed and nodded. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” He clapped Bobby on the shoulder. “I’ll see you at work tomorrow, right?”

Bobby turned the heat down on the skillet to let it simmer, setting the timer on the microwave. He finally turned away from the stove, relieved on the one hand that Fawkes was leaving, already missing his company on the other hand. “Of course you will, Fawkes. Think I’m gonna take a day off? Fatman would never give me sick pay.”

Darien snorted and followed Hobbes out of the kitchen. “Yeah, I know; he’d weasel out of it somehow. Okay, okay, I’ll leave you to your curry. I just wanted—”

“I know.” Hobbes opened the front door. “And thanks, partne—Claire!”

“Oh!” The Keeper’s hand dropped away from the door buzzer before she could press it, and she looked at the two men in embarrassed surprise. “Hello.” She quickly recovered and smiled at them. “I see you had the same idea, Darien.”

“For crying out loud,” Hobbes said under his breath. He stared at her and thought he might have felt either a little flattered that she’d come to check up on him or a little hurt that she didn’t think he could look after himself. Or maybe both. Bobby Hobbes was a man who could juggle multiple conflicting emotions. “You too, Keep?”

“Professional courtesy call,” she held up a hand solemnly. “Honest.”

Fawkes looked between them. “Hobbes is cooking chicken curry,” he said suddenly.

Claire blinked, and Bobby hoped he wasn’t blushing. “I’ve always enjoyed a good curry,” she said cautiously, and now Bobby really hoped he wasn’t blushing.

“I—it’s not—I’ve never made this recipe before,” he blurted out. “I—um—oh, hell. Do you both want to stay?”

“Are you sure?” Claire said, a little frown creasing her brow, and that tiny line between her brows always made his heart jump a little, and Bobby Hobbes had hoped that by this point in his life his heart would stop doing silly things like that.

“It makes plenty,” he assured them both after swallowing. “You’re both here now, you might as well stay.”

Darien and Claire exchanged looks, and then she smiled at Bobby again. “I’d love to stay,” she said, and then she looked dismayed. “Oh dear, I didn’t bring any wine or anything.”

“Not a problem,” Bobby held the door wide and swept both his guests back into the living room. Everyone carefully did not look at the empty space where his glass coffee table had been. At least he’d gotten the floor swept and vacuumed before they showed up, though he probably wasn’t going to go around the living room barefoot anytime soon. “I have a well-stocked liquor cabinet.” He walked back into the kitchen, both of them following. What a way to settle back into your skin, he thought as he stirred the curry. Two of your best friends hovering while you cook. “Fawkes, could you set the table? There’s plates and cups in that cupboard.” He pointed with his spoon. “Claire, there’s a salad bowl in the refrigerator; could you take it out and put it on the table?”

“Of course, Bobby,” the Keeper smiled. For a moment, both his friends were in the dining area off the living room, and Bobby took a deep breath. Still getting the hang of being himself again. Fawkes was right about there being a little—what’d he call it, existential whats-it—but maybe having his friends around would help after all.

Seeing as how they were the ones who’d put him back in his skin in the first place.

Hobbes turned away from the stove and went to the little breadbox to pull out the fresh naan he’d picked up at the market on his way home from work. His hands were shaking a little and he stared down at them, willing them to still. “Need any help, partner?” he heard from the doorway, and he didn’t turn around, didn’t jump externally even if he stopped breathing for a moment there.

“Nah, it’s covered.” Hobbes closed his eyes for a moment before turning around. “But you can take the bread into the other room, since you’re here. Hey, Keep!” he called as Darien slipped back into the dining area. “Open a bottle of whatever takes your fancy.”

“Alright, Bobby,” he heard her call back, and he went back to stirring the curry.

“Mmm, that smells delicious,” Claire said from the doorway, judging by how close her voice was.

“Thanks.” He didn’t want to sound shy around Claire. Why was it he could chat up any woman he met in a bar or behind a receptionist’s desk, but the instant he was in the same room as the Keeper he turned to mush? That was a real pain in the ass. Fawkes now, Fawkes had no trouble talking to the Keep, and she was cool as a cucumber talking to both of them. Not even remotely fair. “I hope you like it.”

“I’m sure I will.”

“Of all the things I imagined you cooking, Hobbes—and I’ve never actually imagined you cooking—chicken curry never fell into that nonexistent list,” Darien said, leaning against the other side of the kitchen doorway from Claire. Bobby glanced back at them both, bookending each other. For a moment he wondered if they’d planned this, accidentally running into each other looking in on him, but he couldn’t see either of them being quite that sneaky.

Probably.

Hobbes told himself to pull away from Paranoid Plaza. “Oh, what, I’m not allowed to have international tastes?” He added some freshly-squeezed lemon juice and cayenne pepper to the simmering mix. “You two can quit hovering, you know. I told you, I’m not going anywhere.”

He saw them exchange glances again, out of the corner of his eye. He took a deep breath, rather than slamming the heat off on the stove or doing something else he might regret. “You don’t have to be so careful,” he muttered and grabbed a trivet, carrying it and the skillet into the other room and setting them down on the table.

“We’re not,” Claire said, turning around in the doorway to keep watching him. “We’re just worried about you, that’s all.”

“You don’t have to do that either.”

They both looked at him, sympathy all over Claire’s face and something more indefinable but partially worry all over Darien’s. “Well, come on then,” Bobby said, sitting down at the head of the table and gesturing to the spread. He was tired, and he still couldn’t tell if he wanted them to go or stay. “Might as well eat.”

It was quiet for a few minutes, as they filled their plates and started eating. Fawkes sat up straight, all polite and on his best behavior; Claire picked at her food daintily, even though Hobbes had seen her chomp down on a burger more than once. Bobby’s hands were still shaking a little, and he couldn’t look at either of his friends as he gnawed at a carrot in the salad. And then Darien said through the silence, “Did you hear what Eberts wants us to do now when requesting reimbursement for stuff?”

“I know!” Claire sounded indignant. “And in triplicate! I told him it’s a waste of paper.”

“Eberts,” Bobby agreed darkly, even as his mood lifted a little.

Claire looked between the two men, a forkful of curry halfway to her mouth, and smiled, brilliantly. She put down the food and held up her wine glass. “I propose a toast,” she said.

Fawkes and Hobbes obediently lifted their own glasses. “To friendship,” she said, and Bobby swallowed past a lump that had just appeared in his throat.

“To two of the best friends a guy could ask for,” he said, and manfully didn’t mind when his voice choked up a litle.

“To being above average,” Darien said, looking at Hobbes steadily.

“To getting paid,” Claire said, “even if very badly.”

“To forms in triplicate,” said Darien.

“So long as the copier doesn’t break down,” Bobby added.

“To us,” Claire said, and they clinked their glasses.

Darien started talking about the prank he’d pulled on one of the other agents, and Claire was halfway between laughing and admonishment, lecturing Darien for wasting the quicksilver like that. The curry was well and truly demolished, barely any salad was left, and Claire was tearing one of the last pieces of naan into smaller and smaller bits, occasionally actually eating one of the pieces. Darien sprawled in his seat, legs everywhere, just like usual; he and Claire at least were already back to normal.

Bobby poured himself some more wine and watched his friends and thought about what he could muster up for a dessert so they wouldn’t leave too soon. He was still tired, but his hands weren’t shaking anymore, and he could feel himself relaxing, muscle by muscle, releasing the tension.

Yeah. They’d help him settle back into his skin.

Wed, 28 Oct 2009 03:42:25 GMT

Oh, oh, troyswann, if only I could have put you in my pocket and brought you with me tonight! I went to see Tap Dogs, this tap dance extravaganza that completely blew my mind. The one really hot guy kinda reminded me of Ioan Grufford, and the main guy looked like he belonged in...1965 was the year I finally settled on. His style was completely different from the other five dancers; he was, like, Rat Pack smooth. It was interesting. Also, I love artistic types. "Let's look like we're welding stuff! While we're tap dancing! While this guy dances in the middle of the sparks! Awesome." The set was industrial-functional, the drummers were fantastic, and there was a bit where the only light onstage was the six flashlights the dancers were holding and turning off and on rhythmically. FREAKING AWESOME. (Also, they were sort of dancing on walls. And a ceiling. A CEILING. So cool.)

I was out of town over the weekend, I've got choir rehearsal tomorrow night and I had it last night, I had to go out of town tonight for this concert and I'm going out of town Thursday for a symposium (somebody else is driving, thank the gods). Friday my plans after work consist mostly of collapsing and dying. I'm holding out for that.

lips that taste like Girl Scout mint cookies

Wed, 21 Oct 2009 22:48:07 GMT

I'm sick! Just in time to go out of town this weekend for Homecoming! On a road trip in a car with three friends!

I'd better feel better by tomorrow. OR ELSE. (It's just a cold. Not swine flu. I checked the symptoms on the state health department's website. After I went to work, of course, because I'm just that thoughtful.)

So instead of going to choir tonight and singing my heart out, my plans are a) take bath, b) curl up on couch, and c) watch old Buffy episodes. And Eastwick since, hey, I'll be home tonight. I should probably also work on my DW femmeslash ficathon fic, but that shall probably depend entirely on my ability to concentrate and not hold a tissue for more than two minutes at a time. And also actually coming up with a scenario to write. Oh yeah, that.

may or may not be related

Sat, 17 Oct 2009 23:43:06 GMT

There was a time, back in my early teenage years, when I never left the house except to go to school. I didn't want to go out in the world because everyone was looking at me.

Tonight I'm going to a play, by myself, that is sold out, and I'm going to be one out of a couple hundred people there--it's a small theatre--and I'm looking forward to being that stranger that nobody cares about. Just another face in the crowd. I've learned to love the anonymity.

Hmmm.

*

The play I'm going to see, by the way, is Evil Dead: The Musical. And last night I saw Zombieland, which was really quite good and involved the classic Road Trip trope that I probably should have expected but didn't and hey, I can get behind most any road tripping.

I really, really like running away.

Wed, 14 Oct 2009 03:45:38 GMT

For one week, recommend/share:

Day one: a song
Day two: a picture
Day three: a book/ebook/fanfic
Day four: a site
Day five: a youtube clip
Day six: a quote
Day seven: whatever tickles your fancy

Driving home from my aunt's house, I decided: fuck this shit, let's have some fun.

So, have Well, Did you Evah? from High Society, as sung by Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra.

And you might as well have Always Look on the Bright Side of Life, from Spamalot, too.

And here, possibly the most random picspam ever in the history of random picspams:

Little amuses me more than Illya Kuryakin with alcohol.

I love it when Silver's a totally smug git.

Pet therapy. But who's the pet?

Fairly limited gene pool.

PATCHES. A cat belonging to one of my aunts. We decided the monitor must be giving off some good heat. She was very happy back there.

Forget Gene Kelly, forget Fred Astaire, GIMME DONALD O'CONNER. Oh yeah.

Mmm. Partners.

Ben'n'Polly, still fabulous after all these years. And even in poor resolution.

Because Abby and McGee together never gets old.

A fence my great-great grandfather helped build. I love rock fences.

Stephen Campbell Moore is awfully pretty in weskits.

Yes, YOU can be a hobbit too.

Mason is saddened that he's still not nearly as cool as Fitz Kreiner. Or maybe it's the other way round.

Parker: still awesomer than everyone else.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, concludes this meme.

I have no idea what I'll do tomorrow. Something brilliant, I'm sure.

Mon, 12 Oct 2009 22:48:38 GMT

For one week, recommend/share:

Day one: a song
Day two: a picture
Day three: a book/ebook/fanfic
Day four: a site
Day five: a youtube clip
Day six: a quote
Day seven: whatever tickles your fancy

From The Art of Travel by Alain de Botton, concerning holidaying at Barbados:

It would have seemed to observers that I was where I lay. But 'I'--that is, the conscious part of my self--had in truth abandoned the physical envelope in which it dwelt in order to worry about the future, or more specifically about the issue of whether lunches would be included in the price of the room. Two hours later, seated at a corner table in the hotel restaurant with a papaya (lunch and local taxes included), the I that had left my body on the deck chair now made another migration, quitting the island altogether to visit a troubling project scheduled for the following year.

It was as if a vital evolutionary advantage had been bestowed centuries ago on those members of the species who lived in a state of concern about what was to happen next. These ancestors might have failed to savour their experiences appropriately, but they had at least survived and shaped the character of their descendants, while their more focused siblings, at one with the moment and with the place where they stood, had met violent ends on the horns of unforeseen bison.
(pp. 22-23)

It's the unforseen bison that get me. Really, it's an excellent book, asking us to think about why we travel and what we really want when we get there and why it rarely ever quite goes the way we planned and dreamed. I'd definitely recommend reading it.

so how good are my embedding skills anyway? not good enough, apparently.

Sun, 11 Oct 2009 17:28:40 GMT

For one week, recommend/share:

Day one: a song
Day two: a picture
Day three: a book/ebook/fanfic
Day four: a site
Day five: a youtube clip
Day six: a quote
Day seven: whatever tickles your fancy

Youtube, you say? Oh, Youtube. You terrible thing.

Dave Allen Dalek sketch

Because Dave Allen and a Dalek NEVER GETS OLD. (This should be the Dalek meme for me, shouldn't it? I just love them cropping up unexpectedly and/or in unexpected ways.)

That said, I'm on a DW kick, so have Harry Sullivan and the Doctor skipping rope:

Right here

Because you know what? THAT NEVER GETS OLD EITHER.

(Be grateful, I could have given you "I'm Gonna Spend My Christmas with a Dalek" instead.)

already failing at this meme! awesome!

Sat, 10 Oct 2009 23:47:01 GMT

For one week, recommend/share:

Day one: a song
Day two: a picture
Day three: a book/ebook/fanfic
Day four: a site
Day five: a youtube clip
Day six: a quote
Day seven: whatever tickles your fancy

Since I missed yesterday, I shall CHEAT and do both days three and four in this post. (It doesn't count when it's honest cheating. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.)

Any fic I could rec? Has probably already been recced by the fandom in question to death, since I usually come by fic via other people these days, rather than seeking it out myself. (Apparently, in college? I had a lot more time to goof off online seeking fic. Which astonishes me since I remember never having any time when I was in college.) So, a book that I like to mention every once in a while: The Shoemaker and the Tea Party by Alfred Young. I do not actually own a copy of this book, and that should probably be rectified, which is why I have just added it to my Amazon wishlist. A treatise on memory, memorialization (that is too a word), who makes history, and how we write about it. Oh, and a bit on the American Revolution too.

Other history books I'd recommend: The Refinement of America by Richard Bushman, looking at material culture and how during the colonial period Americans acquired more beautiful things and why they did it, and Gay New York by George Chauncey, which would probably be incredibly helpful if somebody wanted to, I dunno, write about Jack Harkness in New York City in the first half of the twentieth century. Just a thought. Ho-hum. I would whistle innocently here, if I could whistle.

Now, for a site recommendation, and this is probably also a CHEAT since it could possibly go with the book/fic/ebook recommendations instead: Girl Genius comics. Agatha rocks like a rocking Mad Scientist, and I kinda love it when Gil is a complete dorkface. They've been working on this comic for I dunno how many years now, so there's a lot of canon to work through, but I've honestly forgotten probably most of what happened in the early stuff and am still enjoying the hell out of the storyline currently going on.

Okay, an "actual" site I'd like to share is IDEA, which gives you sample dialects from around the world of individuals speaking English. Very cool, and very useful particularly for VA and writery things (or, okay, that's what I think of when I think to use it). Also, I just today noticed it was housed and operated by the University of Kansas, which is probably cooler than it should be.

day two of the meme that will make me speak

Fri, 09 Oct 2009 01:07:44 GMT

Possibly not think, since thinking right now is kinda bad, but whatever.

For one week, recommend/share:

Day one: a song
Day two: a picture
Day three: a book/ebook/fanfic
Day four: a site
Day five: a youtube clip
Day six: a quote
Day seven: whatever tickles your fancy

Instead of a single picture, I shall do a tiny spam. Of DALEKS. But not the way one typically thinks of Daleks, oh no.

If the Daleks had cheeks, I would totally be pinching them. Also, I have no idea where I stole any of these pictures from, as it's probably been years.

Wed, 07 Oct 2009 23:53:59 GMT

Meme dawdling its way across my flist, which I have just spontaneously decided to do in order to GET ME TO POST ALREADY, DAMMIT:

For one week, recommend/share:

Day one: a song
Day two: a picture
Day three: a book/ebook/fanfic
Day four: a site
Day five: a youtube clip
Day six: a quote
Day seven: whatever tickles your fancy

So, today, a song: Lovestain, by Jose Gonzalez. This guy is awesome. Beautiful guitar, gorgeous lyrics, very haunting. The other morning on the way to work, I was listening to "Teardrop," and I was singing along to that line, "Feathers on my breath," and it was cold enough my breath was feathering, and it was pretty wicked.

There. I posted. Nothing of substance, but I'll work my way up to it.

Fic: Leverage, "Choose Your Own Theft"

Wed, 30 Sep 2009 23:55:03 GMT

Title: Choose Your Own Theft
Author: aces
Fandom, characters: Leverage and...a bunch of other fandoms. Ahem.
Rating, warnings: All ages; not really spoilery for anything
Word count: approx. 2500 words
Summary: A study in the power of objects. No, really.
A/N: This all started with a comment I made in lyssie’s LJ a while back. I’d say it was all her fault, but I was the one who made the comment, so.

Parker (alias; no first name necessary) has always been a remarkably gifted thief. Even as a small child, she had skill.

For example, when still quite small, she stole MacGyver’s duct tape.

And his Swiss army knife.

MacGyver (not an alias; first name embarrassing), a usually easygoing man, would probably have shrugged, demanded the knife back and bought new duct tape, had she not stolen them exactly when he needed them to create a diversion so that he could escape a particularly nasty group of drug smugglers in Chicago.

Parker, a precocious child in some respects, was so impressed by what he managed to pull off just with the gum, cigarette lighter, utility knife, and bottle of mineral water, that she slipped the knife back into his pocket when he wasn’t looking.

*

The school had a secure room in the library. It was practically begging for Parker to practice her lockpicking and stealth skills, since that weird group of kids were always barging into the library at all hours and the little cage wasn’t exactly in an out-of-the-way corner of the library.

There were weird books in the locked area. Of course, Parker supposed, but why the hell any high school library would have so many books in Latin and Greek and what couldn’t even be human languages Parker couldn’t fathom. Not that she cared all that much. She picked what looked like the prettiest book of the lot. She left the weaponry. She found that stuff a little too weird.

A week later, as the Scooby gang frantically searched through every book they could find looking for information on an Alkesh demon, Rupert Giles tore through the books he kept in the cage and cursed with a fluid inventiveness that shocked Willow and deeply impressed Xander.

*

Parker bumped into the tall, thin man with really weird hair and slipped whatever was in his pocket into her own, mostly out of habit. His pockets were surprisingly full, so she just grabbed whatever came to hand first. If she was actually working at it, she would have been more picky.

“This?” the Doctor said ten minutes later after he and Martha had been thrown into a locked basement after being discovered by the impossible-to-say-with-only-one-throat alien race who were attempting to use the Sears Tower as a very large antenna to call the rest of their fleet to come invade the planet. “This will be easy to get out of, Martha! All I need is my sonic scr—what?” He pulled his hand out of his pocket, empty. “Where is it?”

*

On some of these for-hire jobs, Parker didn’t think too hard about what she was stealing. It wasn’t like a diamond, or some other pretty gem, or even beautiful money itself; not when it was plans, or some stupid painting, or a piece of sculpture some other person wanted. So she just got on with the job and didn’t think about it much.

Even when she was breaking into an ultra-secret scientific think tank full of all kinds of interesting prototypes and technological bits’n’pieces. Parker’s interest in technology typically only went so far as to figuring out how she could thwart it.

Their security was pretty impressive, actually; she almost wished she had some kind of computer hacking skill, or knew somebody who did. But she just shrugged and figured out a way to bypass those particular locks and controls.

Whatever she was stealing was small and lightweight and silver. There were a lot of small, lightweight, silver things lying around this lab, but she had a picture. She was just putting it into her backpack when she heard something else that sounded small and lightweight and somehow silver shatter behind her.

“I really wouldn’t take that if I were you,” a guy said, but Parker didn’t bother turning around.

“Why not?” she asked. “It’s not yours, is it?”

“Well, no, but it’s not yours either,” the guy said.

“Yeah, I know; I’m not taking it for me, I’m taking it for somebody else.”

There was a pause. Parker swung around to look over her would-be—rival? He was tall and thin and had really weird hair. Parker didn’t really note much about what people looked like, unless she thought they were hot. She didn’t find too many people hot.

“That’s better how?” he asked, frowning.

“I get paid for it,” she said. “A lot of money.” She looked him over. “I didn’t see or hear you anywhere; how did you do that?”

He half-smiled. “I have my ways of moving around covertly too.” He nodded to her backpack. “I can’t let you take that.”

“How are you going to stop me?”

“Well,” he said doubtfully, “if you won’t come quietly, I guess I could knock you out.”

She blinked. “You’d seriously hit a girl?”

“I don’t like to,” he sounded defensive. “I don’t make a habit of it. Usually I'm the one getting the crap kicked out of me. I could just let my partner shoot you. Would you prefer that?”

“No,” Parker had to admit. “How did you not set off any of the lasers or cameras?” She squinted at him. “Are you a thief too?” He had a deer-in-the-headlights look; Parker could recognize those because she’d seen them a lot. “You are, aren’t you!” she crowed. “Are you here to steal it too? I’m sorry, but I got here first.”

“No, I’m not here to steal it! I told you, I’m here to make sure nobody steals it. And yes,” he added uncomfortably, “I used to be a thief. I’m strictly legit now. What’s your name?” he added suddenly.

“Parker,” she said, daring him.

“Oh no,” he said. “No way. I’ve heard about you. The Fredonia Bank job. That was you.”

She grinned. “What’s yours?”

“Uh…” He looked sheepish. “Darien Fawkes.”

“Fawkes.” She thought for a moment. “Oh yeah, I heard about you. You were the one who molested that old g—”

“That was all a lie,” he cut her off, “I was giving him CPR.”

“You were a pretty crappy thief,” Parker said critically. “It’s a good thing you’ve gone legit.”

“Look, would you just give me the damned backpack?” Darien held out his hand. “The future of the whole country is at stake or something, so you really don’t want to steal that little—thingy.”

“If you don’t even know what it is, how could you know the future of the country is at stake?” she asked reasonably.

“I just know, okay? Please?”

Parker gave it back, but only so she could steal it again later in peace.

*

One moment, Jack’s pie was sitting on the table where it should have been. The next, it wasn’t.

He’d only looked away a moment, to see what was taking Teal’c so long in grabbing his dinner. He stared at the empty table in bemusement. “What the hell?”

Daniel wasn’t around to steal his pie. Carter wasn’t around. Teal’c was still in line, apparently debating the finer points of broccoli or mixed vegetables. The SFs at the next table over wouldn’t dare touch his pie. What the hell?

Somebody was leaving the cafeteria. Jack followed.

She was small, wore black, and was starting up one of the emergency ladder shafts that definitely should not have been unsecured. “You stole my pie!” Jack accused her, though in the back of his mind he was thinking, There are bigger issues here, O’Neill. He had a feeling Hammond would not have agreed with his priorities.

It’d looked like really good pie.

Her mouth twisted a little, wryly. “It looked like really good pie.” She climbed out of sight. Jack headed for the ladder. Her head popped out from above, and Jack reeled back for a moment in surprise. She stared at him, fiercely. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

Before Jack could come up with a suitable answer, she disappeared again. He immediately called Daniel and Carter to take inventory. Just in case she’d decided to steal more than only his pie.

*

“What’s wrong with McGee?” Tony sidled up to Ziva’s desk and would have reached for her stapler if she hadn’t swiped at his hand without even looking where to aim. Tony drew his hand back and kissed his own knuckle.

Ziva looked over at the probie, who sat dejectedly tapping at his computer keyboard with a single finger, his other hand holding up his chin.

“Somebody stole his typewriter,” she said.

*

Parker ate cereal at a diner in Seattle. She was going to meet a potential client that afternoon and had time to kill, so she listened into the group sitting at the booth behind her. They talked about death a lot. Parker found it a little weird.

Parker got up to leave just as one of them did the same, a girl around her age, dressed in business casual. She held something in her fingers; Parker took it, almost entirely by accident. Almost.

A yellow post-it note.

After leaving the diner, and making sure the girl had walked the other way, she looked at it. A name—last name, first initial—an address, a time. Parker shrugged and dropped the note into a nearby trash can.

George had read her note before she left Der Waffel Haus, and she’d even remembered what she’d read, but she was still cursing as she ran that afternoon to her death date.

*

Parker, who particularly dislikes horses for several good reasons, is not overly fond of animals in general. She especially dislikes animals that can kill her with a single claw. She almost refused to take on this job, in fact, but the money was too good and the “impossible to break into” phrase had been thrown in, making the job almost irresistible.

Impossible to break into, hah. These people wouldn’t know the phrase “secret base” if it walked up and slapped them over the head with a fish. She was disappointed. She even thought about demanding more pay to appease her disappointment, and then thought her employers might not go for that so much. Probably.

So Parker did her job and delivered the goods, which was actually a hell of a lot harder than the breaking-into-the-secret-base-in-the-middle-of-Cardiff had been. “Next time,” she told herself as she washed the blood off her hands, “more sedatives.”

A few hours later, Ianto Jones hurtled into Jack Harkness’ office, shouting.

*

Two men slipped fairly quietly into the den where Parker was already at work; fairly quietly, but Parker could totally have done it better. And had already, in fact. Then again, they were both a lot taller than her. She didn’t know that anybody that big could be truly quiet.

“What are you doing?” one of them hissed when he saw her.

“What are you doing?” she retorted, not looking away from her task.

“I asked first!”

“So? I asked second.”

“Why are you taking that?” the really-freakishly-tall guy interrupted, throwing the other guy a look in the meantime. They were both carrying sawn-off shotguns.

“You know, most thieves don’t carry sawn-off shotguns,” Parker said as she wrapped up the small statuette. “They’re a little too obvious. We prefer—well, I guess I wouldn’t say subtlety.” She looked up at last from her work. “Who are you guys?”

“Why should we tell you that? You’re a thief!”

“He’s Dean,” said the really-freakishly-tall one, rolling his eyes. “I’m Sam. And you are?”

“Stealing this, so if you wouldn’t mind going away, I’d really appreciate it, thanks.”

“Listen,” Sam-the-really-freakishly-tall said earnestly, “you don’t want to take that. It’s not safe.”

Parker huffed out a breath. “Not safe? What, because I might get caught? I’ve been doing this sort of thing for years—”

“No because that statue could come to life and feed on your soul,” Dean snapped, and Sam hushed him, looking up the ceiling, above which was the second floor bedrooms where the household presumably slept.

“Oh please,” Parker said, “as if statues actually come to life and ea—”

It was at that precise moment there was a tiny flash of light in her hands, and then something happened, and Parker didn’t know a whole lot until about ten minutes later when the entire house was lit up, people were yelling and calling the police, and Dean and Sam-the-freakishly-tall were hauling her out of there.

“Wha-huh?” she said at last. “Wait. Did that really just happen? Did I really just have my brain sucked by a little crouching Buddha?”

“That wasn’t a Buddha,” Sam-the-freakishly-tall sounded like he’d had this particular conversation lots of times before, even as Dean said, “I said it looked like a Buddha, didn’t I? Didn’t I?” and Parker took the opportunity to bolt before they could stop her.

*

People had often asked Parker to steal really weird things for them, and usually at ridiculously exorbitant prices. But then, Parker liked money, and if they were going to hire the best, she might as well charge them for it.

Stealing a gun, though? Not what Parker usually did. Apparently this was a really special gun. Owned by a really special woman. Parker had a feeling the guy had some issues to work through concerning the woman.

Not that Parker couldn’t steal this piece fast enough. This town was weird. Nothing worked right, it was all too technological, and she had a feeling Hardison would be in love with the place. One dude had a mechanical dog. There was actually a flying car, or maybe more than one. Stuff like that. She was in and out as fast as she could make it. Besides, Nate kept demanding to know where the hell she was.

“Oh great,” Sheriff Carter said the next morning when he walked into his office and surveyed the damage. “Lupo’s gonna love this.”

*

It smelled like pork buns. Parker wrinkled her nose. This guy would have to live right over a gaudy Chinese restaurant that never seemed to turn its lights off. Not that it really mattered.

Stealing the article in question was actually much harder. That detective was a light sleeper. And slept in his chair a lot. It took all Parker’s skill to quietly and breathlessly get past him into the desk and take the yarn.

Apparently it was some kind of special yarn, with unusual tensile strength. Or something. Parker hadn’t really been paying that much attention to why her employer wanted it stolen.

Unfortunately, the PI woke up just as Parker was slipping out the window. “What the hell?” He stared at her, looked down at what she held in her hands. “Oh hell no! You come back here, woman!”

“Sorry,” Parker said and hauled herself up the side of the building. She considered using the yarn to haul herself down, to see if it really was that strong, but then decided against it.

*

Oh yes, Parker is an excellent thief. She could even be stealing your computer right now.

Yes, that one that you’re sitting at. You might want to turn a—

Fri, 18 Sep 2009 02:22:17 GMT

Okay, so I didn't really notice anybody saying anything last week when Larry Gelbart died. But today, the Shoebox blog informs me that both Mary Travers (from Peter, Paul, & Mary) and Henry Gibson also have died. And that? That is so not cool. Bang goes entire portions of my pre-teen and teenage years. And later. I wrote a paper on Laugh-In when I was in college. Fuck.

I liked what shoebox did in honor of Henry, though:

Today’s News in Rhyme:

My time was up,
But don’t feel gloomy.
The man upstairs
Just socked it to me.

Bugger.

Henry Clay is a mother****ing hero.

Wed, 16 Sep 2009 22:57:14 GMT

The Invisible Man comm hot_donuts is hosting a ficfest and is looking for prompts. You don't have to write in order to submit prompts. DOOOO IIIIIT!

(I should go submit some myself.)

Some of my best trip-planning happens almost entirely spontaneously. Just over a week ago a friend of mine said "We should do a road trip! STAT!" And instead of hemming and hawing as I normally would I said, "Tempt me some more!" And she said, "Long weekend!" And I said, "I could fly back instead of trying to drive back!" And now this weekend, I am going to Tennessee, Arkansas, and Louisiana. I've never been to Arkansas! I was in Tennessee for approximately three hours once! I was only in NOLA for about five hours once! This is going to be awesome. And dizzyingly quick.

One of my co-workers found a manuscript of a spiritual written in 1832. "Second Great Awakening!" I cried in excitement. Apparently the son or grandson of the guy who wrote this spiritual was an atheist. "Because he grew up during the Second Great Awakening!" I cried in excitement, and our supervisor laughed. Some days, going to work really is worth it.

Playtpuses?

Fri, 11 Sep 2009 02:12:45 GMT

I talked to four people on the phone today. No, wait, five. I never talk to that many people on the phone. Granted, they were all friends & family, but I actually called three of them, of my own volition, and that almost never happens. Of course, the last conversation lasted exactly one minute and thirteen seconds and the majority of it consisted of

Me: *picking up phone* Yeeees?
J: Playtpuses!
Me: Playtpi?
J: Think of something else!
Me: Uh...
J: Platypee?
Me: Mooshee mooshee?

I have no idea what I'm going to do at work tomorrow. NONE. I have a single task that will probably last me at most ten minutes. Perhaps I shall wander outside and pick the wild flowers. Speaking of wild flowers

I'd like to say, "Oh, look what I painted!" But really, it was just my crappy camera phone smearing everything.

This is your office. This is your office on archives. DON'T TRY THIS AT HOME, FOLKS.

(I should dig out the picture of my friend sitting on the piece of mining equipment we affectionately called the bastard. "Only professional curators should perform this stunt.")

Here, have some more wild sunflowers:

I sent that one to my mom, actually, with a caption that said "HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MOOGIE!" Yes, I sometimes call my mother moogie. We are a proud family of geeks. Proud, dammit.

I woke up

Sat, 22 Aug 2009 13:22:23 GMT

with the Inspector Gadget song in my head. Whu?

Firefox users: how do I disable the auto-fill function for fields the browser recognizes? Usually I find it very helpful, but it's screwing things up at work for a lot of our staff. I didn't see anything that looked right on the Options menu, but I'm still something of a techno-peasant and could have missed it.

Thu, 13 Aug 2009 02:45:05 GMT

Leverage, "The Three Days of the Hunter Job":

I really, really want Parker/Eliot/Hardison again now. (Actually, I kinda want Sophie/Parker. Sophie *had* to do the makeup and hair for Parker for this job. Had to.)

Also, Hardison was drinking orange soda out of a wine glass. That is one classy dude.

I finally, FINALLY finished the last season of Slings & Arrows tonight, troyswann. I am ashamed how long it took me to do so. I rewatched the first episodes and then watched the ones I hadn't yet, all in the past, four nights. I wept uncontrollably during most of the finale. This seems appropriate. OTOH, it might have been sleep dep. This also seems appropriate.

You wanna know what to do with deposit agreements? I'm your woman.

Wed, 12 Aug 2009 22:16:13 GMT

I am not in Austin this week for the Society of American Archivists' meeting. I am not in Chicago this week for Vividcon. Instead today I:

* Got up before 5:30 in order to take a 100-question multiple choice exam in order to become a certified archivist
* Bought a DVD/VHS combo recorder so I can maybe finally transfer some stuff from tapes to DVDs (I'm looking at you, Homefront, oh god the quality's going to be total crap if this even works)
* Bought a stand thingy to put in my kitchen so that I can maybe finally have more COUNTER SPACE because I have not yet met a kitchen in an apartment or townhome that had enough counter space
* Went to the library and dropped off the interlibrary loan books on archives (and I am not reading another book on archives for a long, long, looooong time)
* Wandered around the gardens associated with a local house museum, and drove around some of the prettier and more historic neighborhoods in town, just because I could and rarely do
* Have remained awake all day, while probably everyone else who was up before 5:30 to take that exam with me went home to bed
* Went to Panera just so I could get an iced chai latte. I was hot by that point after all my wanderings and retail therapy.

I haven't had to take a multiple-choice test since the GRE. However, I am reasonably certain I passed. I probably shouldn't say things like that, since it will no doubt jinx me.

Freaking nap hangover

Sat, 08 Aug 2009 22:05:25 GMT

So! I pondered, and now I have answers concerning top 5 fannish things.

From kindkit:
Top 5 Fitz/Eight moments in the EDAs
1. “We should talk” from Fear Itself. (Really, just about every page of interaction between the two of them in that book, but that particular theme.)
2. After they reunite in Halflife and realize they’re acting like each other.
3. Talking to the Doctor in the bath in City of the Dead. Anji’s all “Nekkid!!!” Fitz is completely blasé.
4. It’s, like, one of all five scenes they have together in Frontier Worlds, but that first scene in the train car or whatever it is—the Doctor injured, Fitz utterly worried—is marvelous.
5. The begonias. I have to say the begonias, the start of something beautiful. (Though it’s a toss-up between that and the recorder at the end of the book. Still the start of something beautiful!)

From brewsternorth:
Top 5 Eight moments from the audios
[Note: Okay, this was ridiculously hard because I haven't listened to most of my Eight audios in a long, long time. Obviously something that should be rectified.]
1. In Mary’s episode from “Company of Friends,” when the past & future Eight are griping at each other—there is nothing I love more than Doctors being cranky at each other, and when it’s the exact same incarnation, that is just as awesome. (Same for "Caerdroia.")
2. Talking to Schroedinger’s Cat in “Zagreus.”
3. Can I mention “Shada”? Because, I mean, it’s Shada. And it’s brilliant with Eight. (Especially the whole “I’m dead” bit. And there’s a dead bit that’s really good in “Zagreus” as well. Huh.)
4. Actually, also the whole “Aww, give us a hug” bit between Fitz & Eight near the end of their episode in “Company of Friends.” So cute. And the banter with Benny in her episode. I really enjoyed that story, can you tell?
5. So much of “Seasons of Fear” and of “Chimes of Midnight”—the one for the dialogue, the other for the atmosphere.

From pontisbright:
Top 5 detectives
[Note: I might have cheated/hedged on how we define "detective." But then, they all do too, says I.]
1. Albert Campion. DUH.
2. Peter Pascoe. He’s no good without Andy and Wieldy—he really isn’t, as evidenced whenever Dalziel is out of commission—but of the Holy Trinity, he remains my favorite.
3. Ramses Emerson, Nefret Forth, & David Todros. I read the Amelia Peabody Emerson books for the second generation. (Sorry, Amelia. You just intimidate the hell out of me.)
4. Barney Miller. He is the most patient leader with a fabulous ability at getting people to cooperate. He also gets to have the most brilliant reactions when his detectives get themselves into messes. (He’s like the Sydney Freeman of detectives, come to think of it.)
5. Julian Kestrel. Mostly for the clothing.
Bonus: Teal’c, PI. (Indeed.)

From pontisbright (yay, again!):
Top 5 Team!TARDISes
1. Two, Ben, Polly, & Jamie. Let the teasing commence!
2. Four, Sarah, & Harry. More teasing!
3. Can I just have Five & Nyssa? “Arc of Infinity” really is lots of fun for them. Alternatively, Five, Peri, & Erimem.
4. Er, I actually really love Seven, Benny, Chris, & Roz.
5. And Seven, Ace, & Hex of course. (Even more teasing! Can we detect a trend here?)

This was fun. I'll gladly do more.

Someone is wrong on the Internet, take two

Fri, 07 Aug 2009 22:55:06 GMT

Shoebox blog: a bad way to waste even more time at work.

Also, I haven't seen anybody mention this about David Tennant, PBS, and Hamlet. Yay for next year?

I have reached the point at work where I am threatening to put a box on my head. An acidic one, naturally, as we have to save the acid-free ones for the records. Also, my cubicle, once pristine, now looks as if a state agency crawled in and died there. A small state agency, but one nonetheless, with really crappy acidic boxes. That I have so far refrained from putting on my head. (But it's been close.)

And finally, the meme du jour of the moment because I am BORED and avoiding doing other things: my fannish top 5 whatevers. Give me some to ponder. I shall gladly ponder.

Podfic

Wed, 05 Aug 2009 00:46:03 GMT

Um, I've never done this before. So there's that.

I read podfic! From kindkit's fic Twenty True Stories. (There are warnings associated with this fic, so click to the text to read if you want to.)

Here is the link to the audio version (6 mb, mp3 format).

And, uh, there you have it. Huh.

Fri, 31 Jul 2009 23:29:05 GMT

I'm a total sucker for fic-related memes. That one about the first sentence of your past 20 fics:

20. They would have started north out of the Springs, away from Cheyenne Mountain.
19. It had rained the day before.
18. There was somebody sitting outside Anji’s flat.
17. Anji was a *city* person.
16. The first time that Harry Sullivan lost his shoes—one cannot count the sort of childish scrape any lad might get into, though most boys probably would *not* lose a perfectly good pair of shoes by getting stuck in mud that acted more like quicksand—the first time that Harry truly lost his shoes was in medical school.
15. “Hogan, how many times must I tell you no?” Klink sits back in his chair and glares up at the American.
14. “I can’t believe Ziva told you,” Tony complained—for the dozenth time that day, he had to admit, but, jeez, she told and it cost him money and being nice to the probie, and when the hell did McGeek get good enough to pull one over on *him*?
13. They were late making it to the entertainment, which probably wouldn’t look good to their hosts or to General Hammond; but Jack’s reaction was probably even worse, from a diplomatic and aesthetic point of view.
12. Donald Strachey had a swagger, Tim decided.
11. “We are sent around the world,” Illya said contemplatively as he sat back on Napoleon's sofa, still nursing his first whisky of the evening, “to deal with organizations and individuals who threaten to bring down the entire delicate edifice that constitutes civilization on this planet.”
10. Mission Debriefing Report (Form MR-6073)
09. “It’s a festival of lights,” Daniel explained to the rest of the team as he rejoined them in the street.
08. Theta smiled in his sleep.
07. “Wait,” Mitchell said when Sam started telling him her and Vala’s plans.
06. Nyssa walked down the street, caught up in the chemical equations with which she’d been working right before she left the research labs.
05. “Oh—rabbits!”
04. The guitarist and the violinist were fighting in their music.
03. The bride wore a simple blue dress.
02. Fitzgerald Michael Kreiner.
01. “This is beautiful!” The Doctor laid back on the hill, spreading his arms wide to soak in more of the sunshine and allow more of the butterflies to land on him.

I like to start things off either with dialogue or with fairly simple declarative statements, huh? Except for Harry, of course. Only for Harry would I start with a run-on sentence. (It *would* have been a simple declarative, too.) I'm actually rather impressed with the variety of fandoms represented, even if approximately half the stories involve Fitz-bloody-Kreiner in some way. I'm also a bit shocked at how many weren't for ficathons--35% to be exact.

Speaking of Fitz, I've listened to the first two parts of "Company of Friends," with Benny and FIIIIIITZ. They were both magnificent and awesome and pretty much exactly what I would have hoped for, so I look forward to listening to the Izzy & Mary stories, since, er, I've never even thought much about them as companions.

Fic: A Pleasant Road (SG-1)

Wed, 29 Jul 2009 00:26:51 GMT

Title: a pleasant road
Author: aces
Fandom: Stargate SG-1
Rating: PG for language
Warnings: Spoilery for Continuum, including the fanon bits regarding what Colonel Mitchell did for ten years.
Word count: Approx. 2300 words
A/N: What can I say? I really like road trip fic these days. Title shamelessly swiped via Bartlett’s (I learned from Darien Fawkes), “I do not ask, O lord, that life may be / a pleasant road”—Adelaide Proctor
Summary: He would’ve taken Teal’c, he knew. If he’d had the chance.

They would have started north out of the Springs, away from Cheyenne Mountain. Cam would have been driving the Camaro, Teal’c in the passenger seat, their luggage thrown in the back. They wouldn’t have brought much; it would have been summer, and they would have had quarters for laundry. Both men had grown up and lived traveling light.

North on the interstate, through the clog of Denver traffic and the steady stream up I-25 past Loveland and Fort Collins and into Wyoming. That would have been the first day.

“I have never been to Wyoming,” Teal’c would have said, gazing out the window with all his accustomed serenity. The sun would have been setting as they headed for Caspar to stop for the night, spectacular shades of red and gold and blue over the hills and gathering mountains. “It is very beautiful.”

“You ain’t see nothin’ yet,” would have been Cam’s comfortable reply.

*

Into Montana, maybe hedge their way into Canada for a bit, just so Teal’c could say he’d been in more than one country on the planet. Cam knows not everyone collects trips the way he does--whether through the gate or across this planet to other states and countries--but Teal’c would appreciate it, Cam thinks.

Cam loves this continent. He loves every piece of Canada and Mexico he’s seen—even the bits he doesn’t remember, and he doesn’t remember a whole lot of some of Mexico, but that’s not an admission he would ever share with his grandmother—and he loves every U.S. state he’s ever lived in, flown over, or visited. He loves every other country and continent he’s ever visited too; hell, he just loves this crazy ol’ planet he likes to call home, and the only way to make sure of that is to go out and visit it some more and make sure it’s still there, maybe a bit broken but still going on.

He would have probably tried to articulate that to Teal’c, somewhere around Bismarck, maybe when they stopped for the night and Cam had a couple beers and Teal’c completely massacred him at air hockey. Teal’c would have inclined his head thoughtfully, and solemnly clinked beer bottles, and said, “Indeed,” and Cam would have known he’d understood.

Teal’c has observed and absorbed a lot about the country and the planet over the years. To have stuck around, he must have loved it a little too, Cam thinks.

*

East and south to Mount Rushmore, after going wherever else they felt like wandering. “I don’t think we’ll make it to Yosemite,” Cam would have worried one day on the road. “You haven’t seen enough of the mountains, Teal’c. You haven’t seen the Cascades. Or the painted desert, down in Arizona—hell, Teal’c, there’s too much, all this prairie in the middle.”

“I enjoy these grasslands,” Teal’c would have assured him. “It is a land where great battles could take place. The terrain creates an equality.”

Cam would have blinked, and shrugged, and nodded in eventual agreement. Cam tends to frame things through what his grandma would think, or through the terms of the fighter planes he’s trained on and spent so much of his life learning, so he supposes it only makes sense Teal’c would put everything in the context of battle tactic and strategy.

And Cam would have looked out over the plains and envisioned thousands and thousands of people in Goa'uld armor out there, facing each other like something out of one of the bigger-budgeted Hollywood blockbusters.

“Anybody ever tell you about the Civil War?” Cam would have asked Teal’c, soberly. “I don’t think we’ll get over to Gettysburg either.”

*

“It took me four days to hitchhike from Saginaw, I’ve come to look for America,” Cam would have sung along badly to the radio as they headed down into Nebraska. Cam would have taught Teal’c the three major rules of Road Tripping: 1) Nebraska sucks, 2) there is always a rest area right by the state border, except when you need one, and 3) singing, no matter how shitty your voice is, is perfectly acceptable on a road trip, even with the windows rolled down. They would have been making their way for Kansas, for Shawnee County and a farm near Auburn his parents had bought after his dad’s accident.

“Saginaw?” Teal’c would have questioned.

“Michigan,” Cam would have said. “You wanna go there?”

Teal’c would have paused and then nodded. “Yes,” he would have said, “I think I would like that.”

*

But first, home to see his family. Teal’c would have insisted on spending a day in Topeka, visiting the State Courthouse and going up all the flights of stairs to stand outside on top of the dome and survey all they could see.

It would have been a perfect, sunny day, Cam knows, because it would have been the middle of July, the intensity of the heat and humidity overwhelming. (It wouldn’t have stopped Teal’c, though, and Cam would have been sweating like a pig, but that wouldn’t have stopped him either.)

“I think we can see into Missouri,” Cam would have remarked at the top of the dome, and Teal’c would have said, “I believe that is actually Oklahoma,” and they would have shared a grin and then looked out over the city streets into the horizon.

*

Onwards, ever onwards, why stop when they were only in the middle of the country? Sometimes Cam would have let the other man drive, but Teal’c wouldn’t make demands the way Vala would have, or get fidgety the way Sam would have, or kept up an incessant stream of academic nonsense the way Daniel would have if he wasn’t head-down in a book. They would have sat quietly, together, and watched the prairies and the fields fly by.

*

Through the Flint Hills and the Ozarks, a stop in St. Louis for the blues, a stop in Springfield—the Springfield in Illinois, that is—because Teal’c would have insisted on visiting the Lincoln Presidential Library (Teal’c is a great admirer of Lincoln), a few days whooping it up in Chicago. Cam has always loved Chicago since he was a kid; he would have made Teal’c go to the Science & Industry Museum to go into the mine, and Teal’c would have insisted on seeing the Blue Man Group. And they would have enjoyed the nightlife, something Cam learned to love as an adult.

In Indiana they would have gone to the Indy 500 racetrack, after making a stop up in Valparaiso because Teal’c was in a reminiscent mood and wanted to see the VU Chapel again, after stopping in the town in 1969; and of course they at least would have driven through Saginaw, just so Teal’c could say he’d been there. Eventually they would have made their way south to Kentucky, down to Paducah and into Tennessee, winding and meandering and following first one interstate, then a state highway, then another road. No rhyme or reason to their route; they didn’t need one, when they were there purely for the joy of it.

Teal’c would have accumulated hats, baseball caps and fedoras and sweatshirts with extra-long hoodies. Cam would have made a game out of finding him the best hat in whatever stop they made, the most perfect souvenir to remember their trip. They would have taken pictures of abandoned churches growing back into the earth, square dancers in colorful fluffy dresses and bright ties, burned-out farmhouses collapsing in on themselves and expansive fields of corn and soybeans, wedding parties and funeral processions.

Catalogers of other peoples’ lives, Cam might have said in one of his more whimsical moods, but maybe not; Teal’c would certainly have raised his eyebrow at him dubiously.

*

Eventually they would have had to turn around. Somewhere around Biloxi or New Orleans, maybe, or maybe they would have headed east and gotten as far as Georgia or South Carolina. Cam would have been determined to get to a coast before turning back. He hasn’t walked along a beach and swum in the ocean in years. And Teal’c has never seen either the Pacific or the Atlantic from the ground.

But they would have had to turn around at some point.

*

“We must go back, Cameron Mitchell,” Teal’c would have insisted one night in the motel, and Cam would have sighed and kicked the wall, lightly, and nodded.

“That does not mean we have to take the most direct route,” Teal’c would have added, and when Cam would have glanced at him swiftly, he would have seen the slow curl of Teal’c’s lips moving upward. Cam might even have been able to smile back.

*

And so they would have headed west again, but west and south, even if it meant going back through Louisiana, Alabama, Arkansas. Cam would not have looked north, toward Shawnee County; he would not have thought about wheat and soybean fields gently waving in a Kansas breeze (hell, he would have thought; Kansas wind, let’s be honest here). They would have gone through Texas, stopping at the occasional roadhouse and Cam letting his accent remain thick and honeyed. They would have kept going till they hit New Mexico and Teal’c would have insisted then that they turn north now, finally, at last.

Full circle.

*

They should have done it, Cam thinks mournfully as he drives his Camaro along I-70, heading for Shawnee County in the Sunflower state. He should have offered. Teal’c would have accepted with alacrity (alacrity, a good word; Daniel would be raising his eyebrows at him right now, if he were in this Camaro with Cam and not in some anonymous apartment drunk-dialing himself); Teal’c had a not-so-secret love for the oddities and eccentricities of his adopted planet, his adopted country, and it was a shame he had rarely got out of the Mountain to go anywhere other than DC. He would have loved another quintessential American road trip.

It would have been good, Cam knew. Right now, though, Teal’c is probably the First Prime to Apophis, still chafing under enslavement, if he isn’t already dead.

Cam pulls into a gravel driveway, parking near a barn and looking out over the wheat and soybean fields, gently swaying in the Kansas breeze.

He really fricking hates alternate realities.

He would have taken Teal’c, though, he knows. If he’d had the chance.

* * *

Cam Mitchell would keep thinking about that road trip throughout the next ten years, as he traveled the world, as he met and loved and fought with Amelia Earhart, as he waited for his opportunity. Even as he wrote his friend R.J., he scribbled mental notes to Teal’c. Saw Amelia again today. I think you would have liked her, T. Stayed in Bombay for the week; I don’t know what Chulak looked like, I don’t know what it was like living under the Goa’uld, but I think unfortunately I now have a clearer image of what it could have looked like. I was in South Africa this week, and, oh, Christ, Teal’c, Christ, how did you handle it all those years? How did you ever venture out of the Mountain when this was the world you found yourself in?

He would have taken his friend on the trip of both their lives. And it would have been good.

* * *

“Colonel Mitchell,” Teal’c’s voice was soft and firm as he made his way through the small and dwindling crowd of Tok’ra, Jaffa, and Tau’ri partygoers. Cameron had started out at the party in boisterous spirits, keeping the other guests laughing, but he had disappeared at some point and Teal’c missed his voice, some story about growing up and getting into trouble once again with his grandmother. It was always his grandmother in these stories, never his parents; it was rare that he told stories about his parents, his father.

He found the colonel sitting in a secluded corner with a drink untouched at his hand. “Colonel Mitchell,” Teal’c repeated, and Cam looked up at him.

“Sorry, Teal’c,” he said, sitting up straight; Teal’c sat down before he would have felt obliged to stand himself. Courtesy and training; none of the other members of SG-1 were nearly so formal with him. “Didn’t hear you. What’s up?”

“I merely wondered where you had gone. Is everything alright, Colonel Mitchell?”

“Yeah, of course,” Cam shrugged, “why wouldn’t it be? We won the day, fought the good fight, everything’s hunky-dory.”

Teal’c blinked and waited.

Cam was frowning down at the floor again, a look of profound thought on his face. Teal’c had no wish to disturb. So he continued to wait.

At last, Cam roused himself again, noticed the drink at his side, and downed it in one gulp. He set the glass down firmly, made a face at the taste, and looked Teal’c in the eye.

“I’ve been thinking about taking a road trip,” he said. “Whattya think? Wanna come with me?”

Teal’c’s eyebrow went up of its own accord. “A road trip where?” he asked.

“The U.S., mostly,” Cam said. “Maybe make it up into Canada. Whaddya say? You never get out of the Mountain much anymore, do you? C’mon, you’ll love it.”

“What has brought this urge on, Colonel Mitchell?”

Cam blinked. “I…don’t know, exactly. It’s been a while since I’ve done one, I guess. And I’ve been thinking I should take you somewhere, so you can see—more than you have.” He looked at Teal’c again, shaking himself a little, and Teal’c knew there was more unsaid. Maybe it would always remain unsaid. Maybe Cameron would tell him on this road trip.

Teal’c smiled. “When shall we start?” he asked.

Blueberry cornmeal muffins: surprisingly delicious

Thu, 23 Jul 2009 03:43:37 GMT

Who is your favorite lady detective from movies, books, or TV?

View 506 Answers

NORA CHARLES. Even if Nick is really the detective, she's still the best damn amateur around.

(Okay, actually, Nancy Drew is probably honestly my favorite. The older books that you can still find in hardback. Mmmm. Yay. Between the Boxcar Children and Nancy Drew, I was set on reading mysteries for life.)

In other news, this post is really all just an excuse to use the shiny new icon from lyssie. Oh yes.

Woah, unexpected Eliot love. Okay, unexpected to me. I've never been particularly interested in Eliot before, other than in the general "YAY, TEAM" sense, but tonight's episode--dude, go Christian Kane. The character-playing--so completely different from Eliot; I liked that simple vulnerability--and the conversations with Sophie, particularly that last one about control, and the Speech About Small Town Life. I need to watch that ep again from last season where he went home. That need to get out, run away, break free from that small town life, yeah, that was familiar.

Though, that said, TV PEOPLE, STOP DICKING AROUND WITH THE MIDWEST. Okay, fine, it was Nebraska, you can fuck around with Nebraska, I never liked it anyway. BUT STILL. (Wait, weren't they in Lincoln? I'm pretty sure Lincoln has more than pawn shops, what with it being the capital and all.)

Do other people hold grudges against states? When Hardison said the mark was crossing into Iowa, I thought, "Yeah, I haven't been overly fond of Iowa lately either." Good grief.