She's Now Taking Requests!
Feb. 26th, 2006 06:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
in_the_blue...or at least I was. As promised.
Spike and Faye, requested by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
glued2desk415
Maybe Faye could get by on looks alone (though he doubted it), but Spike knew he couldn't. For one, he was too damn recognizable. For another, he wasn't ever so very subtle. Not that subtlety was a Faye specialty by any stretch of the imagination: no, Spike likened her to a flash, an explosion that had moments before been covered in ice. He wasn't exactly the quiet delicate type, but neither was Faye. Hell, her temper was just as bad as his.
This time, he didn't need her for backup and he didn't need her for distraction and he didn't need her to catch this bounty head: every man -- or woman -- for himself.
It wasn't just theW7,000,000 reward. It was a matter of pride and Spike knew he'd share anything he got with Jet: that's the way he was. And if Faye helped, well... she'd get her share. If she didn't, then no race track for her this time. That's all there was to it.
In his workshop, Spike made a few tiny but critical modifications to his Jericho: adjusted the timing on the trigger, cleaned the sighed, oiled and lubed it. Fastest gun in the west, he thought with a grin.
And grabbed a pocket full of grenades.
And strapped a freshly-sharpened throwing knife to the back of his waist.
And picked up the very nice rifle ready and waiting. Jet's words echoed in his mind: "It's not a competition, kid. Don't let Faye get to you." He knew Jet was right: they were partners for a reason and had been since they took down their first bounty together three years ago. Neither of them had needed Faye or her help back then, and Spike really doubted he needed it now.
Besides, Faye's words echoed: God, men are such babies. Look at you two. What did you do before I got here?
Survived just fine, Faye. No thanks to you. Checking his gun one last time, Spike set it into his holster. He had the info, the location, the details, and his partner for backup. His real partner, not the one who'd invited herself along for the ride.
Timing was everything. When he left the Bebop, Faye had her laundry in the machine and her nose in a magazine. She'd find out too late that he'd left, and thatW7,000,000 was looking pretty good.
He waited for Jet's voice: "Cleared for takeoff. And hey, kid: don't blow it."
"I won't blow it this time." Spike nodded grimly, unfolded the Swordfish's wings, and took off. It wasn't until almost fifteen minutes had elapsed before he radioed back in, only to hear Faye bitching in the background. "He left without us? Without telling me? He'll never be able to catch that bounty by himself, he's such a lunkhead! He'll lose that reward for all of us: I thought we were partners! Jet, are you listening to me?"
Spike snapped the radio to the off position and lit a cigarette. By the time Faye even got ready to leave, he'd be back with that nice fatW7,000,000 payoff.
And he wouldn't have to share it with her at all. Not a single damn Woolong.
Howl, requested byshellebelle93 (Howl's Moving Castle spoilers)
Only one thing could be worse than the Witch of the Waste finding this place, Howl knew, and that was Sophie finding this place. He could imagine her tottering in, walking stick in hand, muttering under her breath while she banished every last spider out of the corners. And a room without spiders was a truly regrettable thing.
Clearly Sophie was under a spell; he knew only too well how those worked. But the specifics of a curse could be dashedly hard to unravel. He knew that first-hand; he himself was under a curse from the Witch of the Waste and she was his single most formidable foe.
Not as formidable as Sophie, however, and Howl couldn't quite figure out why. He supposed in a resigned sort of way that he might find out when his curse was finally broken. But to break the curse meant an awful lot of study and focus, and Howl simply wasn't in the mood for that. Not while he had the opportunity to study the end of the universe over a pint: that seemed to be a far more appealing proposition.
So Howl waited and he watched and he drank his cider, and he pondered things. He was always pondering things: the puzzle that was Lilly Angorian. The bad mood Calcifer had been in of late. Prince Justin's disappearance and the clear kidnapping of Wizard Suliman. Then there was Lettie Hatter and the way Michael blanched at the mention of her name, and the flower shop they were to open in Market Chipping, and the look in Sophie's eyes when he told her of the place.
Sophie was a curiosity: a lady out of both time and place. There were secrets about her to be sure: more than he even knew how to start pondering. Angry and feisty and nosy and active, she was no ordinary old lady. No, there was something there, and that's why he'd allowed her to stay. After all, it wasn't just anyone who could cook on Calcifer, and Calcifer... there was yet another puzzle. Howl shook his head and wondered. The two of them were bound to one another, after all. Still, he had to be under contract to the single most obnoxious fire demon in the history of wizardry.
Something to ponder, all right.
Right now, though -- this very moment -- he was feeling more like Howell Jenkins, ex-winger from the south of Wales, than a wizard in the employ of the King. With a wary shrug, he tapped the bar for another pint: cider was good. It meant he didn't have to think quite so hard about the Witch or worry quite so much about Sophie walking through the door.
Still, his eyes flashed in that direction every time he heard the door open. And every time it wasn't her, he let out a small sigh of relief. It would happen one day, he was sure of that; hopefully it wouldn't be today. He just wasn't ready. Sophie demanded a certain something, Howl knew that. He also knew that whatever she did require was entirely and sadly out of his reach.
Turning to the window, he gazed out. All he could think about was this refrain:
Go and catch a falling star,
Get with child a mandrake root,
Tell me where all past years are,
Or who cleft the Devil's foot.
Teach me to hear the mermaid's singing,
Or to keep off envy's stinging.
And find
What wind
Serves to advance an honest mind.
Spike, requested byhfleming8
I like the way you move. Like you're dancing to music no one else can hear. Like there's a whole damn soundtrack in your mind. Like you're the inspiration for that whole she walks in beauty, like the night thing that Byron wrote. Hell, someone had to be. What if he happened into this place, just stumbled in one day, saw you, and went back to his reality to write that poem? Haunted by your beauty for the rest of his sorry 19th-century days?
It's kind of a fun concept. Maybe I'll even share it with you sometime. For now, though, I'm content as hell just to watch you and even though I've watched you get dressed almost every damn morning for nearly a year and a half, it never gets old. There's always some nuance, some movement, something new and thrilling.
Sometimes when I get thoughtful -- you might not know I do that as much as I do -- I wonder what it would have been like if by some circumstance we'd never met. I don't think about that a hell of a lot because it makes me sad, fills me with this kind of irrational dread. See, the past year and a half? Only time in my whole damn life I've been happy. Sure, things have happened here that weren't so great, but that's the way shit always falls out.
I never had a whole lot of regrets about my life. It happened the way it happened and I think I stopped questioning the why of it when I was around fifteen. These days, though, I know why. It all happened the way it did so I could end up here with you.
With you. Nowhere else I'd rather be, no one else I'd rather be with. We both have a hell of a lot of shit in our past but Beth, I wouldn't change a goddamn thing. If things had gone any differently I might not be here right now, watching you pretend that picking out a shirt is a tough decision, watching you dance to your inner music.
The scariest part of it all? If things were different, I wouldn't even know what I was missing.
And that would be a huge damn shame.
Gren, requested bydopplegl. Happy birthday, sugah! (Cowboy Bebop spoilers)
I had a thought once and it went something like this: If form follows function, what is it that follows form? Fantasy? Movement? Success? I still don't know the answer to the question. In fact, there are only a few things I'm sure of any more. One is that death isn't anything like I expected.
The other is that music is a whole lot like magic. I kind of knew that before, when I was still alive, because music is what kept me from going crazy. People used to ask me why Callisto? why Blue Crow? why the Rester House? Those answers are easy: Callisto because it was remote. Blue Crow because it was all men, a town where no one asked questions or came looking for people, a place to get lost. And the Rester House because that's where I could really disappear. For four nights a week, three sets a night, there was nothing but the blissful escape of music. In those hours there was no prison, no addictive drugs, no out-of-control hormones, no Titan.
No Vicious.
Not until you came along, and was that a surprise. In all those years I'd never met anyone else who knew Vicious.
Looking back on it, I'm not sure why I thought there might be something between me and him. I've always worn my heart right out on my sleeve; people have told me that what I lack in subtlety I make up for in expression. Maybe that's why I'm a musician: I don't know. I do know what kinds of things move me. Sometimes it's as simple as the unexpected twinkle of an eye or a casual unexpected hello.
Or a sad smile and a requested song from the patron sitting on the corner bar stool. That's where you come in, Julia. And while I think a woman might be more forgiving about the reality of my body than a man, women still aren't my style. I've never been able to pretend to be what I'm not, and I've never wanted to pretend. I'm just the sax player with the long hair, blue eyes, and bounty on his head, for what it's worth in death as well as it was in life.
Spike and Faye, requested by
glued2desk415Maybe Faye could get by on looks alone (though he doubted it), but Spike knew he couldn't. For one, he was too damn recognizable. For another, he wasn't ever so very subtle. Not that subtlety was a Faye specialty by any stretch of the imagination: no, Spike likened her to a flash, an explosion that had moments before been covered in ice. He wasn't exactly the quiet delicate type, but neither was Faye. Hell, her temper was just as bad as his.
This time, he didn't need her for backup and he didn't need her for distraction and he didn't need her to catch this bounty head: every man -- or woman -- for himself.
It wasn't just the
In his workshop, Spike made a few tiny but critical modifications to his Jericho: adjusted the timing on the trigger, cleaned the sighed, oiled and lubed it. Fastest gun in the west, he thought with a grin.
And grabbed a pocket full of grenades.
And strapped a freshly-sharpened throwing knife to the back of his waist.
And picked up the very nice rifle ready and waiting. Jet's words echoed in his mind: "It's not a competition, kid. Don't let Faye get to you." He knew Jet was right: they were partners for a reason and had been since they took down their first bounty together three years ago. Neither of them had needed Faye or her help back then, and Spike really doubted he needed it now.
Besides, Faye's words echoed: God, men are such babies. Look at you two. What did you do before I got here?
Survived just fine, Faye. No thanks to you. Checking his gun one last time, Spike set it into his holster. He had the info, the location, the details, and his partner for backup. His real partner, not the one who'd invited herself along for the ride.
Timing was everything. When he left the Bebop, Faye had her laundry in the machine and her nose in a magazine. She'd find out too late that he'd left, and that
He waited for Jet's voice: "Cleared for takeoff. And hey, kid: don't blow it."
"I won't blow it this time." Spike nodded grimly, unfolded the Swordfish's wings, and took off. It wasn't until almost fifteen minutes had elapsed before he radioed back in, only to hear Faye bitching in the background. "He left without us? Without telling me? He'll never be able to catch that bounty by himself, he's such a lunkhead! He'll lose that reward for all of us: I thought we were partners! Jet, are you listening to me?"
Spike snapped the radio to the off position and lit a cigarette. By the time Faye even got ready to leave, he'd be back with that nice fat
And he wouldn't have to share it with her at all. Not a single damn Woolong.
Howl, requested by
shellebelle93 (Howl's Moving Castle spoilers)Only one thing could be worse than the Witch of the Waste finding this place, Howl knew, and that was Sophie finding this place. He could imagine her tottering in, walking stick in hand, muttering under her breath while she banished every last spider out of the corners. And a room without spiders was a truly regrettable thing.
Clearly Sophie was under a spell; he knew only too well how those worked. But the specifics of a curse could be dashedly hard to unravel. He knew that first-hand; he himself was under a curse from the Witch of the Waste and she was his single most formidable foe.
Not as formidable as Sophie, however, and Howl couldn't quite figure out why. He supposed in a resigned sort of way that he might find out when his curse was finally broken. But to break the curse meant an awful lot of study and focus, and Howl simply wasn't in the mood for that. Not while he had the opportunity to study the end of the universe over a pint: that seemed to be a far more appealing proposition.
So Howl waited and he watched and he drank his cider, and he pondered things. He was always pondering things: the puzzle that was Lilly Angorian. The bad mood Calcifer had been in of late. Prince Justin's disappearance and the clear kidnapping of Wizard Suliman. Then there was Lettie Hatter and the way Michael blanched at the mention of her name, and the flower shop they were to open in Market Chipping, and the look in Sophie's eyes when he told her of the place.
Sophie was a curiosity: a lady out of both time and place. There were secrets about her to be sure: more than he even knew how to start pondering. Angry and feisty and nosy and active, she was no ordinary old lady. No, there was something there, and that's why he'd allowed her to stay. After all, it wasn't just anyone who could cook on Calcifer, and Calcifer... there was yet another puzzle. Howl shook his head and wondered. The two of them were bound to one another, after all. Still, he had to be under contract to the single most obnoxious fire demon in the history of wizardry.
Something to ponder, all right.
Right now, though -- this very moment -- he was feeling more like Howell Jenkins, ex-winger from the south of Wales, than a wizard in the employ of the King. With a wary shrug, he tapped the bar for another pint: cider was good. It meant he didn't have to think quite so hard about the Witch or worry quite so much about Sophie walking through the door.
Still, his eyes flashed in that direction every time he heard the door open. And every time it wasn't her, he let out a small sigh of relief. It would happen one day, he was sure of that; hopefully it wouldn't be today. He just wasn't ready. Sophie demanded a certain something, Howl knew that. He also knew that whatever she did require was entirely and sadly out of his reach.
Turning to the window, he gazed out. All he could think about was this refrain:
Go and catch a falling star,
Get with child a mandrake root,
Tell me where all past years are,
Or who cleft the Devil's foot.
Teach me to hear the mermaid's singing,
Or to keep off envy's stinging.
And find
What wind
Serves to advance an honest mind.
Spike, requested by
hfleming8I like the way you move. Like you're dancing to music no one else can hear. Like there's a whole damn soundtrack in your mind. Like you're the inspiration for that whole she walks in beauty, like the night thing that Byron wrote. Hell, someone had to be. What if he happened into this place, just stumbled in one day, saw you, and went back to his reality to write that poem? Haunted by your beauty for the rest of his sorry 19th-century days?
It's kind of a fun concept. Maybe I'll even share it with you sometime. For now, though, I'm content as hell just to watch you and even though I've watched you get dressed almost every damn morning for nearly a year and a half, it never gets old. There's always some nuance, some movement, something new and thrilling.
Sometimes when I get thoughtful -- you might not know I do that as much as I do -- I wonder what it would have been like if by some circumstance we'd never met. I don't think about that a hell of a lot because it makes me sad, fills me with this kind of irrational dread. See, the past year and a half? Only time in my whole damn life I've been happy. Sure, things have happened here that weren't so great, but that's the way shit always falls out.
I never had a whole lot of regrets about my life. It happened the way it happened and I think I stopped questioning the why of it when I was around fifteen. These days, though, I know why. It all happened the way it did so I could end up here with you.
With you. Nowhere else I'd rather be, no one else I'd rather be with. We both have a hell of a lot of shit in our past but Beth, I wouldn't change a goddamn thing. If things had gone any differently I might not be here right now, watching you pretend that picking out a shirt is a tough decision, watching you dance to your inner music.
The scariest part of it all? If things were different, I wouldn't even know what I was missing.
And that would be a huge damn shame.
Gren, requested by
dopplegl. Happy birthday, sugah! (Cowboy Bebop spoilers)I had a thought once and it went something like this: If form follows function, what is it that follows form? Fantasy? Movement? Success? I still don't know the answer to the question. In fact, there are only a few things I'm sure of any more. One is that death isn't anything like I expected.
The other is that music is a whole lot like magic. I kind of knew that before, when I was still alive, because music is what kept me from going crazy. People used to ask me why Callisto? why Blue Crow? why the Rester House? Those answers are easy: Callisto because it was remote. Blue Crow because it was all men, a town where no one asked questions or came looking for people, a place to get lost. And the Rester House because that's where I could really disappear. For four nights a week, three sets a night, there was nothing but the blissful escape of music. In those hours there was no prison, no addictive drugs, no out-of-control hormones, no Titan.
No Vicious.
Not until you came along, and was that a surprise. In all those years I'd never met anyone else who knew Vicious.
Looking back on it, I'm not sure why I thought there might be something between me and him. I've always worn my heart right out on my sleeve; people have told me that what I lack in subtlety I make up for in expression. Maybe that's why I'm a musician: I don't know. I do know what kinds of things move me. Sometimes it's as simple as the unexpected twinkle of an eye or a casual unexpected hello.
Or a sad smile and a requested song from the patron sitting on the corner bar stool. That's where you come in, Julia. And while I think a woman might be more forgiving about the reality of my body than a man, women still aren't my style. I've never been able to pretend to be what I'm not, and I've never wanted to pretend. I'm just the sax player with the long hair, blue eyes, and bounty on his head, for what it's worth in death as well as it was in life.
