remindmeofthe | (no subject)

offspeed both did "'If I write it down and stare at it, maybe I will be forced to actually finish these fics" posts while I was sleeping, so i figured I'd join the party. I've been so unproductive ficwise the last couple of weeks.

None of these have titles because I don't title stuff until it's done. Not because I don't think I can capture the proper flavor of the fic until then or whatever, but because I just hate titling stuff and I like to put it off as long as possible. This makes it really interesting trying to figure out what randomly named file is what, so I'm just listing these alphabetically according to file name rather than attempting to group them together by fandom or anything.

* More Doctor Who/Iron Man crossover. This has a possibility of being finished, though likely not until I've seen Iron Man again.

Tony leans against a wall in the back, listening as Martha tells the refugees her story. Her demeanor has changed completely from the business-like woman he spoke with in his office. Now her eyes are shining and her face animated, her voice rising and falling earnestly as she talks.

The story's a little different too. It's got most of the same details, the Doctor and Archangel and the date and time she's giving to everyone for the psychic revolution, but the telling is different. She spends more time on the Doctor, on how he's saved the Earth so many times already, and the way she looks as she talks about him leads Tony to suspect that this Doctor is a very lucky man. Relatively speaking, at least.

* Supernatural/Dead and Breakfast crossover. Yeah, there's a theme here. I haven't given up on this fic yet, though what I've got so far is going to need an overhaul, and I need to rewatch some early episodes of SPN to remind myself of the boys' characterizations back in the days when the biggest source of angst was Jess's death. Remember those days? Good times. (Also, the Hall of Records lady totally has a name, why didn't I know this? It's too bad, I liked calling her Melindy. Oh, well.)

Their powerlessness was the worst thing of all. The townsfolk looked up to them, because they'd battled through the Incident, protecting Lovelock as best they could. The Sheriff had helped find what was needed to perform the ritual that ended it all, and Lisa's handiness with her armory had saved lives. Including his. One of those dead bastards had had him by the neck when she'd showed up, gun in hand, and shot it down just as cool as you please. She'd shot a hole in his hat in the process, and the town budget had gone down the drain so fast that he'd never gotten a new one, but that was all right. One of the out-of-towners, the little girl who was so smart she could turn a length of pipe into a homemade gun, she'd turned out to be just as good with a needle and thread, and she'd patched it so nice that it didn't hardly show. She'd said it was in thanks for his help, and he'd tried to tell her that protecting Lovelock was his job, and just because the job description didn't say nothin' about zombies didn't mean he was going to cower under his bed, but she'd just given him a kiss on the cheek and said that she hoped he didn't take offense when she said that as long as he stayed in Lovelock, she hoped never to see him again. He'd just smiled and said he couldn't rightly blame her. In truth, that suited him just fine. It might have been one of his people that had gotten the ball rolling on the whole mess, but when all was said and done, it was those out-of-towners that had opened that box and let the shit start flyin'. He didn't mind seein' the back a them one bit.

* Torchwood. . . . I don't know. It was supposed to be a drabble, but then it kept going. This is a look at one of the issues Owen might have had if he'd been brought back to proper life. I know what my plans are for it, but I can't figure out how to make the transition. It's going to be short - this snippet is probably half of it.

It's recovering his sense of touch that has the most profound impact on Owen. Everything feels good. He fiddles with a biro while he talks to Tosh. He runs his fingers over the cool metal surfaces of his medical bay. He loses track of what's going on in meetings because he is so aware of the rustle of his clothing against his skin each time he shifts positions. He wraps his hands around the mugs of coffee Ianto brings, scorching them on the hot ceramic.

The others are kind enough to ignore it after the first couple of days. He knows they've all noticed that he's a bit more physical with all of them than he used to be, touching shoulders and backs and arms in conversation, but after the initial surprise they pretend not to see it. He suspects Jack is taking advantage a bit, probably thrilled to be around someone lacking in the natural British reticence for a change, but he doesn't mind. He likes the texture of Jack's greatcoat and the faint body warmth that escapes through the fabric.

. . . not that he would admit to any of it under pain of redeath. If the others can pretend nothing in Owen's behavior is out of the ordinary, then so can Owen. Another thing he wouldn't admit to is that he's grateful to them for doing it. He feels enough like a child unfamiliar with the world at times as it is without having attention drawn to it.

* Torchwood. The fucking recent-past 'verse, you guys. I am so, so stuck. I have a long way to go and I don't know if I'm gonna get there.

"Jack - fuck! No. No, he can't find out." The hope ignited by Ianto's words is crushed almost immediately as Owen realizes what's likely to happen if Jack sees him up close enough to realize that he's - different now, and god, it would be nice to save himself like that, but he did the reading when he signed on. He knows better than to create a time paradox.

"Why not?" Ianto asks in surprise, and some wariness.

"There are things he can't know," Owen says simply, not quite successful at keeping the disappointment from his voice.

Ianto raises an eyebrow. "And I can?" he says, making no apparent effort to keep the skepticism from his.

Owen would like to think it won't come to that, but Ianto knows how to fit things together. Eventually, it will come to that. But that prospect doesn't send up the same warning flags in Owen's mind as does the thought of Jack finding him and working it out. "Yes," he says. "You are, in spite of all current evidence to the contrary" - he glances pointedly toward Lisa's door - "the sensible type. Jack - isn't." Which was putting it mildly sometimes.

Ianto nods in agreement, or at least understanding, with a promptness that forces Owen to stifle a sudden grin. He knows his Ianto is under no illusions about Jack, but he had assumed that development came about as a result of their esteemed leader's recent absence. He hadn't known it had started a bit earlier than that.

* Torchwood. My sekrit fic that only

nightanddaze knows the details of, so as not to spoil the surprise. I am still actively working on this. And you guys know better than to think I would write a self-insert OC, so just trust me, okay?

"You haven't had a go at me all day. Are you feeling all right?"

"Had a good night," Owen says, throwing in a lewd wink just to make Ianto wince in distaste.

Ianto obliges. "Please, don't elaborate." He pauses for a few seconds, then adds, "You've had quite a few good nights lately, then, haven't you?"

Owen hesitates. "Hit a lucky streak, I guess."

Ianto raises an eyebrow, but doesn't comment further. Owen finishes his work silently and goes home.

He thinks long and hard as he drives. About Katie. About how long it really hasn't been since Diane. About Michael's things all over the place in his flat, an extra toothbrush in the bathroom and a change of clothes or two in the closet and a cache of those weird little aniseed sweets he likes in the kitchen. Owen even gave him a spare key the other day. What was he thinking? A regular shag's one thing, but this is - it's too much, is what it is. It's dangerous. He doesn't have time for this.

Michael will have to understand. If he doesn't, then sod him. Best to get that sorted now before it really becomes a problem.

(So guess who my favorite Torchwood character is, you guys? Damn.)

* Torchwood/The Sarah Jane Adventures. I have actually restarted this fic because the first version of it required too many implausible character decisions and also displayed my lack of remembering exactly when the timeline restarted at the end of Doctor Who's series three. I'm posting a bit from the old version anyway, because it's not all going to get scrapped and because I like it. I don't know if this one is going to get finished, but it'll probably get more added to it whenever I've watched some SJA. In which Torchwood has learned of Sarah Jane's alien stash, they go to have a look, and Alan gets caught in the middle. Implied spoilers for Whatever Happened to Sarah Jane? and The Lost Boy, so if you're not caught up, you may want to skip over this.

The silence stretched out for a moment, the two of them staring into each other's eyes. Alan tamped down a nervous urge to keep talking. He could not afford to be the one who blinked.

"Keep directly in front of me and keep your hands in the air," the Welshman said finally.

Alan couldn't suppress the relieved exhale. "All right." He turned back to the door and slowly pushed it open, then even more slowly stepped inside.

When they were both in the room, he heard a soft gasp behind him and risked a glance back. The Welshman's gun was steady, but his gaze was flickering, trying to take in the wealth of alien goods around him and stay on Alan at the same time.

Perfect.

"Mr Smith," Alan called, "I need you!"

The Welshman's jaw dropped as the fireplace façade unfolded, steam hissing out through the cracks as the computer emerged.

Alan, on the other hand, didn't pause to take in the view. Instead, he took full advantage of the Welshman's stunned distraction, whipping around and lunging at him.

* Supernatural/Grey's Anatomy crossover. I was plugging along quite nicely on this when I got sick in February and couldn't concentrate enough to write. I lost the flow of it entirely, and now to get restarted on it I would have to watch some GA to reacquaint myself with the characters, and I never want to watch that freaking show again. So. Unfinished. VERY likely to stay that way.

Sam smiled, instinctively putting on his most harmless and open talk-to-me expression. "No problem. I know a thing or two about a lousy day at work. You a doctor?"

"Intern." George took a swallow of his drink. "M'patients are okay, though. 'Sjust." He stopped, apparently not too drunk to reconsider what he was about to say. That alone caught Sam's attention in a whole different kind of way.

"Just what?"

George shook his head with the care of one who isn't entirely certain that the gesture wouldn't send him toppling off his stool. "Nothing. It's crazy. Didn't. Didn't happen."

Alarm bells started sounding in Sam's head. "If it didn't happen," he asked gently, "then why are you drinking so hard?"

George frowned at his glass, stymied by Sam's unassailable logic. "It," he tried. "It's crazy."

"Why don't I be the judge of that?" Sam fell quiet and sipped at his beer, letting a moment pass to see if he would need to push any harder.

* Oops, I lied. Totally random Superntural/Torchwood crossover. This is the entire bit, written just to get it out of my head. There will never be any more of this.

"Wow." Dean studied Owen's broken finger and the cut in his palm, already ragged around the edges from tearing loose of its stitches. "That's gotta be a bitch and a half."

Owen shrugged with a nonchalance that fooled neither Winchester. "I work around it. Doesn't hurt, anyway."

Dean looked up at his brother. "Hey, Sam, doesn't Dad's journal have -"

Sam was already nodding. "- a spell for knitting dead flesh? Yeah, I'll go look it up." He got up to retrieve the journal as Owen said,

"Wait, a what?"

Dean gave him an irritable look. "Okay, you know what? Let's make a deal. I'll pretend I believe in aliens if you pretend you believe in magic."

Owen was silent for a moment. "So you cast spells often, then?"

Dean shrugged. "Nah. Never been much good with the witchy crap. But it's a simple spell. Dad wouldn't have copied it down if it wasn't. He was even worse with magic than I am." He gave a crooked little smile.

"Oh, that's reassuring. So what happens if you fuck it up? The universe explodes? That's usually what happens on telly."

"First, it's gonna be Sammy who casts it, so if anyone fucks it up, he will. Second, don't believe anything you see on television. Ever."

"Third, I'm not gonna fuck it up," Sam called from the doorway, where he stood with the journal open in his hand. "And it won't destroy the universe if I do. It'll just kill all the living flesh in your body."

"Ah." Owen's expression went suddenly blank in his second failure to fool any nearby Winchesters in the past five minutes. "No problem there, then."

* Torchwood fic, taking place post-Exit Wounds. Spoilers for that, of course. In which everything is grim and depressing. :D I'd like to finish this one, if Rhys would only cooperate with me. Oh, and for extra bonus points, see if you can spot where I borrowed from Border Princes.

Rhys Williams came home that day to find his wife on the floor, sobbing in her employer's arms. Jack Harkness was holding Gwen gently, cradling her. His expression was blank, tears falling down his face into Gwen's hair.

Rhys knew immediately what had happened. He crossed the room and knelt next to them, putting his arms around Gwen. Jack sat back, relinquishing his hold. Gwen clung to Rhys, pressing her face into his shoulder and choking out his name.

"It's all right, Gwen, I'm here." He held her tight and looked up at Jack. Jack had composed himself and looked, aside from red eyes, as though he had never been crying.

"Who?" Rhys asked quietly.

Things beyond the obvious had changed after Toshiko Sato and Owen Harper had died. It wasn't just that Martha Jones and James Mayer had joined Torchwood, or that Gwen had struggled with grief and the accompanying moodswings that hurt Rhys to see. It was that she hovered closer to Rhys, touching him frequently, holding on for a few extra seconds whenever they hugged. It was that Jack and Ianto Jones started coming round, sometimes separately but mostly together, just to socialize, and as they all sat together and drank wine and avoided talk of Torchwood, Rhys watched the three of them stare at each other to make sure no one disappeared. Martha and James had come round a few times too - James had a knack for making Gwen laugh that made Rhys wish he would visit more often - but those visits were more relaxed. They were Torchwood, and Martha had met Owen and Tosh before, but they weren't part of what Gwen and Jack and Ianto carried with them any more than Rhys was.

Rhys listened to Gwen's sobs and looked at Jack's resolute face and thought, I liked Ianto.

* Torchwood/Kiss Kiss Bang Bang crossover. No, not the ep, the movie. Actively working on this one. Need to watch KKBB again, but then I find that the need to watch KKBB again is more or less a default state of being. God, I love that movie.

At around midnight, his phone rang. Perry thought nothing of it when he saw Harry's name on the display. The wife's boyfriend had probably made his appearance. Harry tended to be lucky like that, the bastard. If Perry had gone out himself, it would have been a fucking week before the baby daddy bothered to show.

He picked up. "How'd it go?"

"Um. It. Uh, I -"

Perry sat straight up, nerves prickling with dread. Nothing rendered Harry speechless. Ever. Fuck. "Okay, Harry, just slow down and tell me what happened."

"The wife. Is, is dead. There was, there were two . . . I, I can't, you know what, I got it on tape. I got it all on tape. I just, I'm gonna bring it over, um, and I got bit, so, so could you get the first aid kit out."

"What? You got bit? Harry -" But Harry had already ended the call. "Fuck!" Perry slammed the receiver down.

When Harry arrived twenty minutes later, he looked considerably calmer than he'd sounded on the phone. That didn't make Perry feel any better. He recognized that calm. It was the same sort of calm that tended to settle over Harry after he'd just shot someone.

Way too many fics going on there. It beats the zero I had before, though, and I still heart SPN for being the fandom that jumpstarted my fic muse after like two years of silence. And Torchwood for keeping it going. Also, what's up with me being the freakin' crossover queen over here?

Also, I'm probably gonna pull together all my non-recent-past 'verse drabbles to post to communities at some point today, so if you see a "new" fic post from me, don't get excited, because there's nothing new in it. Well, unless you missed my drabble spamming phase.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

* Torchwood/Kiss Kiss Bang Bang crossover.

FLAILY SQUEE ACCOMPANYING DEMANDS FOR MORE.

It tends to get that reaction. XD I'm getting off to a rough start with it, but I have a rough plot outline in my head, so at least I'm not jumping in blind.

LOL dude! Somehow you manage to drag me into crossover premises I wouldn't touch w/ a ten-foot-pole if someone else was writing. It's amazing how well Supernatural just fits everwhere. Made of win, yo! ;)

Isn't it? It can be crossed over with just about anything that doesn't have its own rules about the supernatural that would contradict SPN's. And even then there's always the Sliders approach. (That would be kind of an awesome crossover too, come to think of it.) Torchwood works almost as well for that, too. It's fun. :D

"pain of redeath" gave me a snicker.

Last night I referred to Tosh and Owen as "dead and redead, respectively." As a made-up word, it has great appeal when applied to Owen.

He's like... extra dead. Twice baked dead.