Test 1, 2, 3.

"The answer is obvious, O'Neill," Teal'c said in that imperturbably confident way of his.

"Oh?"

"You are in love with Daniel Jackson."

Of all the things Teal'c could have possibly said to Jack, that.. that didn't even make the list. He opened and closed his mouth a few times before settling on an eloquent, "What?"

Teal'c inclined his head, "My apologies, O'Neill, I know that your culture has taboos about warriors in such a relationship. I should not have said anything."

"Yeah, yeah, you're forgiven," Jack said with a wave of his hand as he tried to wrap his mind around the concept of being in love with Daniel.
Jack makes one final stab at retaining his sanity, "I don't suppose you were talking about brotherly love?"

"I was not."


***


Carter hesitated before finally admitting, "Everyone knows, sir."

"Everyone?"

"Everyone, sir."

"Frasier knows?"

"She was actually one of the first people to figure it out, sir."

"If Hammond knew, I wouldn't be here having this ridiculous conversation!"

Carter shrugs, "Don't Ask Don't Tell, sir."

"The Tok'ra!" Jack says triumphantly in his best 'gotcha' voice.

"When I say everyone, I mean everyone, sir," Carter is apologetic, but there's an annoying twinkle in her eyes.

"The Asgard?" Jack practically begs.

"Actually, I think Thor's starting to get a little impatient. He doesn't really understand homophobia," Carter pauses, "Well, he knows what it is, he just thinks it's primitive and silly."

Jack glares at her until she adds a belated, "Sir." Which was not what he was glaring about, but fine, whatever.



***


Jack swings around the doorjamb of Daniel's office, "Did you know that we're in love?"

Daniel glances up from the photo he was staring at, and goes back to examining it before he's even finished saying, "Oh, hi Jack."
Daniel compares a symbol in the photo to a symbol in the open book on his desk before processing Jack's initial question and startling up to peer at Jack confusedly, "Wait, what?"

"That's what I said!" Jack moves further into the office.

Daniel eyes the open door behind him, "Uh, is this something we should even be talking about here?"

"Apparently, everyone already knows, including our alien allies. Thor thinks homophobia is primitive."

"Well, actually, many older civilizations had much more accepting attitudes towards all forms of sexuality as well as gender expressions. European colonization and cultural genocide is responsible for a lot of modern-- Wait, why are we talking about his again?"

"Because we're in love."

"And everyone knows this?" Daniel asks with raised eyebrows.

"Yep."

"Except for us."

"Apparently!"

"Huh." Daniel's eyes glaze over in that way they do when he's thinking about something.

Jack sits down in the inevitably available chair that he always sits in when he's loitering in Daniel's office and waits.

Jack O'Neill has never been a patient man. "Daniel..."

"Jack..."

The next "Daniel," translates more or less to 'Whatcha thinkin?'

"Thinking about what- well, what about our behavior might lead someone --or 'everyone'-- to think that about us."

"I've been wracking my brain since yesterday. I got nuthin."

"I mean, we care about each other... because we're friends, right?" It ought to be a rhetorical question, but Daniel manages to put that little quaver of doubt into it.

Which compels Jack to say "Right," very firmly.

"Hey Daniel- oh, hi sir," Carter stops in the doorway, "I can come back another time if--"

Daniel perks up, "Is that the..?" he gestures to the folder in Sam's hands.

"Parchment fragment, yes. I sent the analysis to your email. The animal isn't native to earth, and the ink has naquadah in it." Carter enters the room and makes her way toward Daniel's desk.

Daniel looks intrigued but Jack snatches the folder from Carter as she reaches to hand it over. "Naquadah?" he asks suspiciously, "Does that mean it's going to explode?"

"Uh, not unless you light it on fire, sir."

Daniel reaches out his hand to Jack and makes a 'gimme' gesture, "I promise not to read it in the vicinity of Teal'c's quarters."

Jack sighs and hands it over.

Carter makes her excuses and leaves to go work on her latest doohickey.

Jack looks at Daniel.

Daniel looks at Jack.

Daniel clears his throat, "Well, uh, even if everyone is right about um, 'us', we wouldn't be able to do anything about it."

"Kinsey would kill for the ammunition," Jack muses.

"Right."


***


Years later, Daniel is sitting at the desk of his home office, current translation forgotten, contemplating Jack's recent retirement announcement, when he is interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Think of the devil and he shall appear," Daniel mutters as he walks over to the door. He opens it, and, as expected, Jack is standing there with a bit of a smirk on his face.

"Did you know that we're in love?"

Daniel smiles, "Yes, I did know that."



[Context: I've been rewatching SG-1 from the beginning and yesterday I read several fics that had Daniel and Jack both being aware of their feelings but unsure about how the other felt until being awkwardly forced (usually by aliens) to admit it to each other. And now I want a fic where everyone knows except them.]

I'm not even sure anyone reads this anymore, but...

Spoilers for Captain America: The Winter Soldier!

( Invocation )

To my fannish_library_fest posts:

Fannish Bindings for a Fannish Library

A Lyrical Ode to Libraries
And I've got two more to add: White Blank Page by Mumford & Sons and Do It Anyway by Ben Folds Five ("sometimes you'll like the cover and that's precisely why you'll love the book").

[Almost] forgot the ficlet.

So, I'm coming up with prompts to leave at spn_bitesized's current theme of Death, and I'm about to put "Death dances" as a prompt when this happens:

Death dances, Death sings,
"Mortals kill all the things
that they hold dear
as they clutch them in fear
of the unknown that awaits
at the gates
of their inevitable fates.
For all mortals must die
and that's when I,
Oh I,
an eternal sleep I bring them
with the lullaby I sing them."
Death Sings, Death Dances
for all of the chances,
for the hours and minutes and days
that might have been spent in other ways.
Death dances to the beat
of endless defeat
for no one can escape,
not the highest power now the lowliest ape.
Every microbe and cell
one day ceases to dwell
on this Earth that we know
we are part of Death's show.
Death dances with us.

---

And then I didn't entirely like that, so I grabbed the last line and started over:

Death dances with us
Though we do not know the steps
[Death Knows]
So we balance our toes on his shoes
As he shuffles about
We cling to his waist
As he turns and bows
To each of us
We know the Dance is done
But there are always others
Death dances with them.

---

More modifications:

Death dances with us
Though we don't know the steps
[Death Knows]
So we balance our toes on the tops of his shoes
As he shuffles about
We cling to his waist
Till he pries off our embrace
And we are forced to return to solid ground
[Lost and now Found]
The Dance is over.

---

And I'm still not happy with it, so I think I'll leave the prompt after all and see what someone else comes up with (if anyone responds, anyway).

PoFic?
Whatever it is called, I seem to write it (especially when responding to spn_bitesized prompts).

Theme: Angels & Demons
Prompt: "Ruby prefers blondes. But she can make an exception." from morebutterflys
Title: Exception

Ruby's original meat-suit was blonde.
Way back when.
Before hell.
(And she got up off that Rack the first time they offered.)
But blonde is a bit too on the nose for Sam Winchester.
A bit too burned up on the ceiling.
Twice now.
So she goes dark.
And dead.
(In some ways it's almost better: no screaming, raging, crying, sobbing, "Let me out!")
(In some ways it's almost boring: no screaming, raging, crying, sobbing, "Let me out!")
Why be sentimental about an old meat-suit anyway?


Theme: Poetry (<-- I've got an excuse for this one)
Prompt: "any, 'It is a heart, this holocaust I walk in.
O Golden child, the world will kill and eat you'
-Mary's Song by Sylvia Plath" from later_tuesday
Title: Mary's Song

Golden hair meets golden flames
To lick and curl and turn to ash

Raised to kill by childish names
Hurled by fate into the clash

Made a choice she thought was free
Left behind the family trade

But the intervention of angels and destiny
Unmake the choices she might have made.

and Cinderella was going to lose her foot instead of her shoe. But the dialogue was all "Uuuuungh" and "Aaaaaagh" and that got old fast.

As is, I'm inclined to blame Shoshana for this.

( Ashes, a post-apocalyptic retelling of Cinderella )

I'm seriously considering posting it to a Castle fanfic community anyway, in the hopes that someone will read it and think, "I can write better Esposito/Ryan than that," and then go ahead and do so because I need more Esposito/Ryan fic, dammit. *grumbles about small fandoms*

Title: That Way
Fandom: Castle
Pairing: Esposito/Ryan
Summary: Starts out angsty, an attempt at humor in the middle, then sappiness abounds.

( That Way )

gigglingkat and I had the following prompt conversation:
Kat: "Want a prompt to eat your brain too?"
Me: "Sure. Though to be honest, I might warp the prompt to go with an idea I've already had."
Kat: "oooo... OK then - your prompt is to make a TV Show out of the idea you have. GO!"

( And away we go... )

...that was interrupted by the joy of choking on the snot dripping down the back of my throat.
Anyway, Dead Guy apparently knew he was going to get killed, so he set things up to protect his boyfriend from being a suspect (I woke up before they* figured out how he did that). Despite this, they eventually wind up suspecting The Boyfriend anyway, but then when they interview his homophobic dad, who calls him Charlene instead of Charlie, something Homophobic Dad says makes them realize it was actually Dead Guy's maid/servant lady, who was jealous of The Boyfriend and worried about being cut out of the Will.


*It was a rather vague and ephemeral "they" doing the investigating. Apparently, my subconscious was unwilling to commit to a particular crime show.

And it's due tomorrow, so...

( Stargate: Atlantis, Teyla/Rodney: Dancing - 'The truest expression of a people is in its dances and its music. Bodies never lie.' -- Agnes De Mille )

Yeah, I'm having a hard time trying to figure out how to end it.

They gave him a name.
They gave him a name, and they killed him as good as dead.
It wouldn't have mattered what they told him after that: the same lies,
different ones,
the truth.
He was theirs when they named him.
No longer the anonymous Wraith soldier,
Michael.

In which the WB reruns the one episode I don't have on tape and things get mushy.
I've never been so lost,
I've never felt so much at home…
--Something Corporate

Sam closes his eyes and leans back. He lets his body fall to the mattress as he savors the taste of chocolate in his mouth. Something wet hits his forehead. A leak? He opens his eyes. And sees her. Bleeding. Burning. No!
He opens his eyes. And sees the dashboard of his brother's car. Through the windshield, he watches the blacktop roll underneath them. He sneaks a glance at his brother just in time to catch Dean sneaking a glance at him. Dean's eyes snap back to the road.
"You got a vision quest for us?"
"Nope."
They ride in silence for a while, until Dean reaches his hand to push the cassette tape back in and "Stairway to Heaven" gears up.
. . .
Sam lets his eyelids droop before he settles on the bed to wait for Jessica to finish her shower. He feels water drip on his forehead. He opens his eyes expecting to see her standing over him. Laughing as she wrings out her hair on his face. That is not what he sees. She is over him, but not laughing, dying. Obscenely defying gravity as the flames consume her. No!
Sam opens his eyes expecting to see Dean looking over at him from the driver's seat. That is what he sees. Dean turns the music back on.
"Have you ever loved a woman?" Sam asks before his brother can turn up the volume.
Without taking his eyes from the road, Dean smirks, "I love having sex with women."
"Would you stop being a macho ass for 5 seconds and answer the damn question!"
Now Dean spares his brother a glance, "Jeez man, what crawled up your butt?"
"Never mind," Sam huffs and turns to stare out the window.
. . .
He dozes in his bed. It's raining, but he's inside. This can't be right. He opens his eyes. It's raining blood and pain and death. Then the fire comes to take the rain away and- No!
He opens his eyes. It's raining plain, clean water. They're stuck in traffic.
"I'm serious about this Dean, have you ever," Sam searches for the right way to put it, "had something longer than a one-night stand?"
"Well there was this two-night stand-" Dean starts; then seems to think better of it, "I know where you're headed with this Sammy, and it's not your fault."
"But if this thing is after me--"
Dean cuts him off, "Then it's after you, but it's still not your fault. You were a baby when it took Mom, what could you have possibly done to make it your fault?"
Dean's words have that stubborn Dean finality in them, so Sam drops it.
. . .
His eyes are closed as he lies back onto the bed because on some level, he knows what's coming. When he feels the drips, he shakes his head as if to dislodge them. Finally, reluctantly, he opens his eyes. Jessica is sprawled out on the ceiling, as always. Her abdomen is sliced open, as always. And then the flames start, as always. And as always, his only thought is No!
He opens his eyes. It's only the dashboard, as always. Dean's concerned look returns to stoic calm when Sam looks at him, as always. And as always, Dean reaches over to start up the music, but this time Sam stops him.
"And Rockford?"
"What?" Dean is startled.
"Is Rockford my fault?"
Dean stares at the road like it's the most fascinating piece of pavement he has ever seen, but Sam prefers this to an instant change of subject or some wisecrack dismissal.
When Dean does speak, it's so quietly that Sam almost misses it.
"Do you really hate me that much?"
"No." Sam puts everything he has into that simple syllable. He wishes the word were longer, "Never." He doesn't dare look at his brother, until Dean does what Dean does best: makes Sammy feel safe.
"So Sammy," Dean drawls, "I called you 'Sammy' earlier and you didn’t correct me. Does this mean you're finally over the whole 'Sam' thing?"
"It's Sam, jackass." Maybe what Dean does best is make Sam feel like he's 12.
And Dean can't let his little brother have the last word, now can he? "'Jackass'? That's the best insult you can come up with? Did they teach you nothing in college?"

I like it but I'm not sure the format and tenses work outside my demented little mind:

The End.

The House.

Her grandfather built the house. He made it strong to withstand the elements. He made it stronger to withstand… other things. Runes and sigils are carved into every available surface. The windows and doors are masterpieces of warding. If a culture considers it a symbol of protection, he has carved it there in the wood. He's carved her name as well; in every alphabet he can find.
Her mother is dead, like the mother before her, and the one before that. But this time, Grandpa says, this time will be different.
Every November 2nd for as long as she can remember she has sat in the center of a chalked out pentagram, surrounded by a circle of salt and guarded by Grandpa and Great Uncle Dean. Great Uncle Dean is very fond of his full title. Something about being called great, he says.

The Chair.

She doesn't remember her mother, who burned up on the ceiling, but she remembers her father, who sat in the chair. Who came home late at night, if at all, smelling of sweat and smoke and gunpowder. And when she tells him she thinks there's a monster in her closet, the look in his eyes scares her more than anything that might be lurking behind her clothes. He teaches her what he was taught by his father, who was taught by the father before that.
Her father sat in the chair while she propped herself up in bed and fired six bullets into her closet.

The Car.

There wasn't a monster in her closet. The Winchesters buy salt by the bucketful and it's not for giving a '67 Impala traction in the snow. The old Chevy is unlike any other car she's seen. Its engine was replaced long ago, its axles and wheels updated, but the frame that is older than Great Uncle Dean is the same. Rusted and dented yet somehow still whole.
They put her father in the trunk the night he died. Grandpa holds her in the backseat, rocking her back and forth, telling her it's okay to cry as hot tears stream down his face and onto the top of her head. He doesn't even notice when Great Uncle Dean calls him Sammy.

The Guns.

She lost her father to a skinwalker. A pack of werewolves took Grandpa and Great Uncle Dean. Grandpa went down first. Great Uncle Dean knocked her to the ground. With a gun in each hand, he unerringly fired silver bullets into each heart. She picked off the few that went after her, but mostly they'd converged on Great Uncle Dean, ripping him up as he killed them all. Great Uncle Dean uses his last words to ask if Sammy is okay. He isn't.
For years she had begged to be allowed to go hunting on her own. When she realizes every hunt will be on her own, she throws up.

The Ceiling.

She sits in the center of a chalked out pentagram, surrounded by a circle of salt and guarded by no one. She wonders if it will come when there's no one left to drip blood on as she scuffs the lines of the pentagram with her shoe and gets a broom to sweep up the salt.
All that night and into the day she stares at the ceiling wondering what it will be like to be pinned up there, burning.
She is exhausted from fear but afraid to sleep. Afraid she might miss it. She dozes in fits and starts until she wakes up in the early morning of November 3rd. She isn't sure whether to laugh or cry.
Years later she will fall in love with a man who will die burning on the ceiling.