remindmeofthe | (no subject)

Supernatural/Dollhouse, Sam/Claire. Orrr Buffy/Gossip Girl, Serena/Buffy.

The bad news is, the revelation that Dr Saunders never leaves the Dollhouse stymied my efforts to make it work, so have some gen instead.

"This is freakin' crazy. So it's the same chick over and over, but different people."

"Yeah. And it's not just some scam, either. She really does become all these people."

"So, what, like a reverse shapeshifter?"

"Maybe? Or a series of possessions?"

Paul Ballard's eyebrows climb higher with each sentence as he listens to the young men at the table across the way. The diner he's in is a dive, one of those places where the waitress never looks you in the eye, and the sense of anonymity is something Paul's been craving since he learned the truth about Mellie. November. He knows by now that he can't really hide from the Dollhouse, and he doesn't want to, but being able to pretend for half an hour or so is refreshing.

Or it was, anyway, until he tuned in to this crazy conversation. Weird fairytale shit aside, it sounds like they're talking about a Doll.

Maybe, he thinks, as he always does when he thinks of the Dollhouse, about Caroline.

"Someone who's a magnet for demons? You ever hear of that before?"

"No." Paul risks a glance over; the guy who's talking is taller, the food in front of him barely touched. He's shaking his head, rejecting his own suggestion. "Demons don't play that nice. Anyone who got possessed that often would end up dead."

"Who says she isn't?" The other guy is applying himself busily to a burger. "Or maybe she's got something they want. Something they can't get any other way."

Paul can't listen to this anymore. They might know something helpful, but he'll never get to it just eavesdropping if they keep it up with this Exorcist angle. He gets up and goes over to their table, sliding into the taller guy's booth.

"Excuse me, gentlemen. Paul Ballard, FBI. I don't have my badge on me, so you'll just have to take my word for it.

"What the hell -" Burger Guy begins, but Paul talks right over him.

"I couldn't help but overhear your conversation, because I was listening. I think I can answer some of your questions, but I'm going to need to know what you know about this woman."

Eeee. This is kind of awesome. :D I definitely think you could turn this into a longer fic.

Hee. It hasn't gone any further in my head, but I like the idea of crossovers where the boys are after something that looks supernatural, but in reality is a property of the other canon and they're totally off-track. Or, alternately, it is supernatural and it's the other canon's characters who are off-track.

Les Mis/ANYBODY XD Erm. Les Mis/Supernatural, since I actually kinda-sorta know the chars in that. Kinda XD

In case you don't know: Mary is Dean and Sam's mother. We learned this season that she came from a family of hunters, and she ended up making a deal with a demon to save John's life.

Local legend held, in a quiet, low-key sort of way, that this section of the Seine was haunted by a policeman who'd drowned there well over a century ago.

The policeman's legend amongst hunters was much greater, known worldwide, because this particular spirit wasn't a typical ghost at all. Spirits who lasted that long became scattered, lost who they were, turned violent and angry and forgot his own name. This ghost, on the other hand, was calm, coherent, violent only when preventing a would-be crime in progress, and gave his name as Inspector Javert.

It was also worth noting that his death had been the last to occur at that part of the Seine.

In 1969, when the Campbells took a vacation in Paris, there hadn't been a reliable sighting of Javert in years. That didn't worry Mary much - a reliable sighting, in this instance, was a sighting by a hunter, and they didn't seek him out often. Why would they? He didn't cause any harm, and French hunters turned to more efficient sources of information first. (And, of course, no hunter would be caught dead sightseeing at a haunted area.) Mary didn't care much about any of this, though. She was, at that age, already tired of the endless same patterns of the hunter's life, and she wanted to see something different. So at the first chance she got, she snuck out of the hotel room and went down to the river.

She had only been there a few minutes when the temperature made a sharp drop; Mary shivered, pulling her jacket tighter around herself, and turned.

"It's late, Mademoiselle," Javert said. Mary knew some French, from classes, but it didn't seem to matter at that moment; the words bypassed her ears, untangling in her brain, and later she would never be able to figure out if she had heard English or understood French.

"Yes, Inspector." Entrenched hunter's training sent Mary's hand into her pocket, where she always had a vial of salt. She knew she wouldn't need it, but she wrapped her fingers around it anyway without even thinking about it.

Javert glanced toward her pocket, then turned and looked down the street the way she had come.

"Someone has followed you."

"I know how not to be followed," Mary said, but her heart rate spiked and she straightened up, scanning the area.

"There," Javert said softly, gesturing with his chin and drawing his cudgel out from the folds of his jacket. Mary let go of the salt and slipped her hand under her jacket instead, drawing a knife. Javert raised an eyebrow at the blade; Mary raised hers right back, challenging, and Javert looked back toward the shadow with a faint smile.

For a long, tense moment, nothing happened at all. Both of them, almost simultaneously, adjusted their grips on their weapons in readiness.

Then the shadow made an irritated sound.

Mary relaxed with a long sigh. "Dad?"

Samuel Campbell stepped out of the shadow, hands held open and empty in front of him.

"It's all right, Inspector." With the initial flash of relief past, Mary could feel her face getting hot. She should have known that she'd gotten past her parents and out of the hotel way too easily. She should have expected her father to be following. "He's my father." She put her knife away, and Javert followed suit with his cudgel.

"You're not good enough to sneak past me yet, Mary." His tone was neutral in deference to the fact that they weren't alone, but Mary could still hear how much trouble she was in. "I apologize for my daughter's disturbing you, Inspector. She's got the knowhow, but she hasn't picked up the common sense about when to use it yet."

"She has to learn somehow." Javert turned to Mary and studied her, cool and assessing. "Be mindful, Mary," he said after a moment, looking into her eyes with a stare that pinned her to the spot. "Think very carefully about the choices you make."

Then he was gone.

Edited 2009-04-22 17:40 (UTC)

:: finally discovers this is HERE XD :: I really need to switch my LJ notifications over to my gmail account, since I actually CHECK that :P

In response to the actual fic: SQUEEE ghost!Javert is really, really awesome <3 I actually quite liked this. Like, he saves people from drowning, since nobody ever drowns there? XD It's like he got a second chance, he gets to be the GOOD kind of lawful good, that he didn't get to be in life since he got so obsessed and narrow-minded....

Very awesome :) Thank you!

Exactly. :D Death does put things in perspective. And SPN ghosts are supposed to degrade over time and turn mindlessly violent, but you just know Javert is too stubborn for that shit.

And yes. He prevents accidental drownings and he chases away potential suicides. He has probably also stopped more than one attempted murder. I think it's all his way of atoning for his life, and for the innocents he no doubt did put in prison because he wouldn't listen, or believed that the letter and the spirit of the law were one and the same.

I'm glad you liked. :D

Torchwood/Angel. Jack/Wesley, if at all possible.

Dr Who/Red Dwarf.
The Fix/The Sarah Jane Adventures
Supernatural/The Fix

ETA: They can all be gen if you want. Although Violet/Sarah Jane would rule.

I also want The Fix/Watchmen because, um, politicians having to deal with superheroes tactfully gets me hot.

Edited 2009-04-14 19:05 (UTC)

Supernatural/Gossip Girl, Dean/Serena

ETA

Good Omens/Supernatural :P

Edited 2009-04-14 20:48 (UTC)

Doctor Who/Les Mis since that seems like it would work and really I leave all the details to you.

Making my way through these, slowly but surely.

The Doctor leaves Chiswick, spinning the TARDIS blindly through time and letting it land where it will.

"Where it will" turns out to be Paris, 1917. The Doctor wanders through the streets, watching without seeing as people flow around and past him. His attention is elsewhere, several elsewheres - at least, it is until something small careens into his legs. He blinks, snapped into his current present, and finds himself looking down into a pair of wide blue eyes. He smiles, crouching down to their owner's level.

"Hello."

The little girl, not at all perturbed to find herself at the center of a stranger's attention, smiles back joyously. She's very small, two years at most, and her clothes are too clean and elegant, her face too round and well-fed, to be an abandoned child.

"What are you doing here, then? Shopping by yourself?" the Doctor asks, musing to himself more than he's addressing her. The answer comes a second later in the form of a woman's voice calling out,

"Cosette!"

The Doctor looks up at a woman winding her way through the crowd toward them. She's clearly the child's mother; her hair is blonde, a rich color echoed in her child's hair.

"Oh, thank you, Monsieur," she says, breathless, giving him a smile that shows perfect teeth as she reaches down to take Cosette's hand. "I didn't know she could go so fast, it seems like just yesterday she learned how to walk and now she's running all over!" She's still smiling as she talks, and the look she sends her daughter is one of pride rather than vexation. The Doctor straightens up, saying,

"Can't take your eyes off them for a second."

"I don't know how I'll get any shopping done, then," she laughs. The Doctor chuckles with her; Cosette watches the adults for a few seconds, then joins in with delighted peals of laughter. The Doctor grins down at her, and she reaches out with her free hand and grabs a fold of his coat.

"Oh, she likes you," says the mother. "But we can't keep the nice man to play, Cosette, we must be getting home. Papa has a surprise for Mama tomorrow, and she needs her sleep."

"Ah. You heard your mother," the Doctor says. "Maybe next time, Cosette."

The mother picks her daughter up, smiling and thanking the Doctor again. He smiles back and watches them go.

"A surprise," he says aloud. "Isn't that nice."

No one answers. The Doctor's smile fades, and he turns and starts making his way back to the TARDIS.

>____> How familiar are you with Good Omens? If you're willing to write fic for it, I would love to see you have a stab at a Good Omens/Les Mis crossover. Based on the remark that Crowley slept through the entire 19th century, except once in 1832 when he woke up to go to the bathroom (and, presumably, found himself in the middle of a bloody street riot).

Edit: Bonus if there is argument about whether Aziraphale or Crowley gets to take credit for Javert. Not necessary, if you get a plotbunny leading in a completely different direction, but it would be immensely entertaining.

Edited 2009-04-14 19:32 (UTC)

0_0

...Oh God I want to read that last LIKE BURNING.

I LOVE Good Omens and those are both awesome ideas. I'll see what I can do.

I APPROVE OF THIS IDEA. DO IT, CATHRYN, DO IT.

In the end, Robespierre got completely out of hand.

After Crowley finished dealing with that, he decided a nap was in order. Humanity scared the he - the heaven right out of him sometimes, it really did.

*

Above the Cafe Musain was a small attic. Curiously enough, for the entirety of the nineteenth century, not a single human being noticed it was there. It was occupied for that span of time, too - except for about half an hour or so in 1832.

The interesting thing about adopting human habits like sleeping and eating and so on is that sometimes you didn't get to pick and choose. If a demon slept long enough, his body would, without consulting him, decide that it had a bladder, and that said bladder needed emptying, and there was little the demon could do except comply. So, in 1832, Crowley woke to answer Nature's misplaced siren song.

As he did so, it occurred to him that there was some kind of ruckus going on. This was nothing unusual; Paris was, in Crowley's experience, a ruckus-prone sort of city. But this, it seemed to him, was a very specific-sounding ruckus. Once he noticed that, of course, it was all over - it pushed him just far enough into wakefulness that there was no way he was going to get back to sleep until things quieted down. Resigned, he shuffled downstairs.

It didn't surprise him overmuch to find the place mostly full of students. Nothing much good ever came of putting ideas in young people's heads, which was why Crowley was such a fan of education. As long as it was properly administered, at least. He looked around for a moment, trying to decide which of them was least likely to try to kill him. He could keep himself shielded from their notice, but once he drew someone's attention he couldn't necessarily control how they responded to him. Being on the wrong end of a gun in a twitchy student's hands was just a bad idea, especially when that student didn't know him from - well. Anyone.

At last, though, he spotted a likely candidate fast asleep at a table, bottle of absinthe next to his head. A boy after Crowley's own heart, if he'd had one. He takes a seat and gives the boy a nudge.

"What is going on? Is this a revolution? Didn't you lot just have one of these?"

The boy blinks at him, going through the process of waking at a Crowley-assisted accelerated speed, then takes a breath.

All demons have a sixth sense for tedium. Tedium is a very important part of Hell. And for Crowley, there was nothing more tedious than a speech. The longer they went, the more he wondered if he'd been pulled back down to Hell without anyone mentioning it. Alarm bells clanged in his head and he glared at the boy, gving him the full force of his demon eyes.

"Ten words or less," he hissed. The boy pulled up short, blinked some more, then asked,

"Has the fighting started yet?"

Crowley sighed and gestured toward the bottle. "Are you going to finish that?"

...I love you so hard right now, you have no idea. ♥

Edited 2009-04-14 21:34 (UTC)

♥ Thanks so much for the idea. I never would have thought of it by myself.

Tedium is a very important part of Hell

~ROFL~ BRILLIANT. ~THROWS ROSES~

...I look at this list for one second and my brain is shouting "CAPTAIN JACK/GRAHAME CHANDLER" at me.

*grin* Oh, I snippetted that (http://catslash.livejournal.com/391677.html) a while back. It had to be done.

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

Jack would in a heartbeat. I mean, that applies as a general rule, but in this particular instance? Oh yeah.

I cannot stay away from the Harvard era.

Grahame hates parties. They're painless enough - all attention on Reed, with Grahame more or less left to his own devices after the token rounds of small talk - but they're a boring waste of time. There are always papers to write, reading to do, and Grahame just barely keeps on top of the double load of his and Reed's schoolwork as it is without losing time to fraternity nonsense.

But they both represent the family, and the Chandler image is key, so if Grahame is invited, then he goes and smiles and pretends to like it.

He's counting the minutes tonight until he can leave without causing too much talking, cataloguing the work waiting for him in the dorm room and organizing his thoughts for the paper he needs to start writing, when someone vaults over the back of the couch his sitting on and lands next to him. Grahame looks up, startled and annoyed.

"Hi." It's no one he's ever seen before. Grahame's immediate impression is of a white smile and perfectly blue eyes. "Jack Harkness." He holds out a hand to shake. Grahame accepts it automatically.

"Grahame Chandler." It has to be in his imagination that Jack Harkness holds on to his hand for an extra second before letting go. Wishful thinking. He glances away before he can start staring. "I don't remember seeing you here before," he says, inane.

Harkness's chuckle is quietly knowing. "I'm new in town."

"What brings you here?" To a party you're twenty years too old for? he doesn't add, because it's almost as rude as the fact that Grahame is scanning the room, not looking at Harkness as they talk.

"Boredom," Harkness says. "I'm looking for someone interesting."

Grahame exhales a short, mirthless laugh. "You've missed your mark, then," he says. He gestures toward Reed and his knot of followers. "That's where the fun is."

"Oh, I don't know." Harkness reaches over and runs his fingers over Grahame's sleeve, following the ironed-in crease. Grahame starts at the touch and looks up at him. Harkness smiles again, softer and more intimate than before. His voice, when he continues, is pitched lower, closer to a murmur. "In my experience, the most interesting people at parties are the ones who can't wait to leave."

He meets Grahame's gaze, his blue eyes so clear that Grahame can't look away from him any more than he could look at him just a moment ago. "You want to leave?"

Because it's an obsession of mine to get my two least favorite characters together (and preferably away from both shows)
Torchwood/House-Ianto/Thirteen-Song lyric prompt-"I know who I want to take me home."

Your icon! I have that CD! :)

Did you see the Bruce Weber documentary about him?

Doctor Who/Supernatural! Because that would make me giggle.

Angel/Les Mis - as in, historical Angel and Darla come to Paris during that time period.

Supernatural/Doctor Who - Nine/John Winchester. Or any CE/JDM character but I only really know John and Denny well enough and somehow I have less trouble figuring out not!dead John than not!dead Denny.

Also did you know that both JDM and Burn Gorman had brief appearances in the movie Fred Claus? Burn was an elf.

The Fix/Firefly. YOU KNOW WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT AND IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT, TOO. :D

The Fix/Waywalkers, via Milliways. That one is also entirely your own fault.

Doctor Who/Torchwood/Sarah Jane Adventures, even if it is canon already: post S4, the companions have to save the world. Sometimes, the world can best be saved by gossiping. Bonus points if Donna comes back in her full supertemp-ish glory.

In two parts, because I could not shut up with the backstory.

Grahame Chandler has been working for about twenty minutes when he becomes aware that he's being stared at. He's accustomed to it at home - he's a Chandler, and a cripple into the bargain; there is always someone staring when he's out in public - but in Milliways, where he doesn't even break the list of top one hundred interesting things to look at, it's an odd sensation. He looks up to see a young teenage boy, watching him with a frown of confusion. It's a look Grahame is familiar with: where do I know you from? He experiences a split second of that confusion himself before he thinks he's about the age Cal would be and shock freezes him.

It's been nine years, almost to the day, since Grahame's four-year-old nephew disappeared. Officially, there is no explanation, no clues, no real theory; the case is still open, because they are the Chandlers, but no one expects answers anymore.

Unofficially, Reed came to Grahame's study one night, so drunk he had to hang onto the doorjamb to stand, and said You spent time with him, Grahame, did he ever talk to you about Milliways? Grahame said what? and Reed said I'll show you and that night Grahame saw Milliways for the first time.

The only thing Bar ever told them was He's happy where he is.

Eventually, Violet gave birth to a daughter (who looked nothing like Violet's husband), Reed devoted himself to the child with startling, uncharacteristic zeal, and Grahame was left feeling as though he was the only one who remembered Cal as anything more than a card to be played for public sympathy.

But this boy, thirteen if he's a day, has vivid blue eyes and Violet's way of pressing his lips together in thought.

"Cal?" Shock has stolen Grahame's voice and he can only mouth the name, but it's enough to clear the confusion from the boy's face. He gets up and crosses to Grahame's table.

"I do know you," Cal says. His eyes linger for a moment on the crutches propped on a chair within Grahame's reach.

"Yes." Still no sound; Grahame clears his throat and tries again. "Yes." Success this time, so he continues. "I'm your Uncle Grahame."

"From before." Cal sits, leaning on his elbows and propping his chin in his hands.

"Yes. Cal, where -"

"Cal." The new voice, a man's voice with a Western twang, comes from the front of the bar. Cal looks over, straightening up instantly.

"Yes, sir."

"Your mother" (Grahame's hackles rise) "needs you back on the ship."

"Captain -" Cal darts a look at Grahame, then looks pleadingly back it the man addressing him.

"Now, Cal. Milliways'll be here when you're done." The tone is more gentle, but still unyielding. Cal droops a little.

"Yes, sir." With one more look at Grahame, Cal gets up and leaves.

Edited 2009-04-27 18:10 (UTC)

Grahame is beside himself, reaching for his crutches. "How dare you - !"

"That boy's on my crew. That's where he's stayin'. 'Less you think he's better off back on your world, but I'll tell you, Mr Chandler - yeah, I know who you are - I can't say I much approve a' whatever went on in his life before Zoe picked him up. It ain't right for a little kid to be that quiet. So don't be gettin' your hopes up about takin' him away, because you ain't got a chance. We'll all see to that."

"Nine years." While the captain was talking, Grahame was pulling himself upright on his crutches, and now he's moving toward the man with a speed that tends to surprise people who don't see past his disability. The words fairly explode as he speaks. "You're right about one thing, his father's an idiot and his mother's a raging bitch and between the two of them they couldn't raise a dog, but they were not the only people in his life before. I have been waiting nine years for him to show up while I was here and if you ever send him away from me again, I'll spend the next nine making as much trouble for you as I can, and don't think for a second that being on different worlds means I can't."

"He ain't leavin' with you."

"I just want to see him." Grahame doesn't say, doesn't even think I love him and I miss him - he can't, he's not wired that way - but something of it must show anyway, because the captain's hostile stance relaxes ever so slightly.

"So long's we're on the same page," he says. There's a moment of silence in which the confrontational tension eases into something a little more cordial, if still sharp edged, then, "I 'magine you're gonna wanna know what he's been up to all this time . . ."

Edited 2009-04-27 18:13 (UTC)

*SQUEAK*

*FLAIL*

Eeeeeeeeeee. So much love I printed it out earlier. ;) There's only one problem with your drabbles: I always desperately want more, and today there's even more of that than usual. Mal is perfect here, and Grahame's grief/bitterness/anger are really well portrayed. Poor bastard.

*flails*

Oh, good. :D I'm pretty comfortable with writing Grahame now, but Mal was a total shot in the dark. I had no idea if it sounded at all like him, or if it sounded more like a casual viewer's idea of how a Firefly character talks. I am glad it worked for you.

Poor Grahame. Though I wonder if he might not be better off in the long run in this universe - when Reed dies, he'll essentially be free to do as he chooses, and his relationship with Cal, filtered through Milliways and lacking in fucked-up power dynamics, will be better too. I don't know if he'd still end up attracted to Cal - it's hard to judge whether distance would make a difference there or not - but he'd sure as hell be more circumspect about it, and it might be easier to quash.

I love it. :D I just wish there was more.

*nods* And even if he *did* still have a thing for Cal - Cal would have an escape route instead of feeling trapped by it, and of course there'd be no reason for him to use it and reinforce it to try to establish any kind of hold over Grahame.

That icon always amuses me when I see it because it's from the same session as the one I used for Cal's first default icon. I recognize the backdrop color and the fugly-ass shirt.

This is all very true. And of course Cal only ever knew in the first place, Millicanonically anyway, because Reed told him. Probably a Cal raised on Serenity would be far more observant, but he still wouldn't be looking for that kind of thing in his uncle. And without that reinforcement, yeah, it probably would fade.

ASDFGHJKL:@ bastardly connection just flickered and lost me an almost-complete download. Just when I was all :D about having written over a tenth of my essay despite not being scheduled to start the actual writing until tomorrow, too. D<

Hee. For someone so stereotypically *fabulous* he really fails at fashion, doesn't he?

Also, if it ever did come out (ahem) Zoe would threaten to shoot Grahame lots. In a very calm, very serious voice, whilst pointing at least one weapon at him. I hear that kinda kills the passion a bit.

*pets*

Heh. Grahame would be like, "I don't actually need to be threatened into keeping my completely humiliating fuckedupness to myself, but thanks." Only phrased in a more Grahame sort of way.

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SPN/DH - the good news is, I have a new crossover OTP.

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In which I manage to subvert your choice by going kind of obscure, oops.

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Re: In which I manage to subvert your choice by going kind of obscure, oops.

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In which the fixation on Cosette's charming adorableness is totes canon, I swear.

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Crowley's unexpected bathroom break

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Buuut I decided to do another one anyway.

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In which it is painfully obvious that I have never written "Firefly" fic before.

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Re: In which it is painfully obvious that I have never written "Firefly" fic before.

Re: In which it is painfully obvious that I have never written "Firefly" fic before.

Re: In which it is painfully obvious that I have never written "Firefly" fic before.