raven | fic prompts

James Bond/Judi Dench!M, accidental baby acquisition ;)

Alas, I do not know them well enough to write. anything else?

I prefer to think that you are writing my Nightingale genderswap fic as some kind of out-of-control epic, possibly featuring the Sherlock bakery fic I've also pestered you for :P

Amy, Rory and River fluffy family time?

That second list is interesting... how about Slings & Arrows, deserted island, with all the Shakespearean allusion that implies.

River arrived early one afternoon in the winter of 1934, the rain coming down in sheets behind her and the glitter of temporal flux dying down at her wrist.

"I got two tickets," she said, a little incoherently, and at once Amy realised she looked - younger. Not teenage and gawky, not quite, but with unformed spaces where delight and experience would one day live in her face.

"River," Amy said, "Melody..." - and because there was nothing and too much else to say, "two tickets to what?"

She held out a hand as she said it, reaching out to draw her daughter inside, out of the tumult of weather, out of the uncertainty outside, but River drew back. "Dad, you too."

Amy turned and saw, for a moment, the clear joy in Rory's face at the word Dad - and then he had hold of her hand and River had hold of her other hand and they were, after a boiling frightening indescribable few moments, somewhere else entirely.

"River, where..." Amy began, just as soon as she could speak, but River wasn't there. "River!"

"Shhhh," said the woman in the next box, and a person all in green, including their skin, scales and feathered tail, made a clicking sound that seemed to indicate severe disapprobation. Amy took a step back and looked up at the giant auditorium, open at two points of the sky so the light of two suns could permeate white and red into the space below. At the front, there was a stage, but no scenery and no altar. Nor - she squinted - an alien god demanding worship, nor a chorus line, nor anything but people, lined up in their best clothes.

"Rory," she whispered, "where..."

Rory said, "Shhhhh" - and handed her the programme. He started to cry not very long afterwards, quietly and heartbreakingly with a fist in his mouth, Amy squeezing his other hand in lieu of any other comfort to offer. River crossed the stage without looking back, or down, perfect on her heels. When they announced her admission to the degree of Doctor of Philosophy, she looked suddenly tiny under the weight of the robes, tiny and strong and more beautiful than anyone Amy had ever known.

Oh that was lovely. The Ponds deserve some family time.

Apropos of nothing, Geoffrey says: "They used to make me run corporate team-building seminars."

"I remember, Geoffrey," Anna tells him. "I was there, remember? There was that nice couple from Ottawa you made be Goneril and Regan." She pauses. "That worked pretty well, actually. The tall one really got into it, I thought I should let her go ahead of me in the line for the bathroom."

Geoffrey nods, although the firelight is very low and he's pretty sure she can't see him. "I bring it up," he says after a while, "because I think maybe we should have included other skills. Like, I don't know, navigating by the stars. Sending smoke signals. Telling edible plants from ones that will make you die horribly burbling about giant spiders."

"Geoffrey."

"Sorry," he says, quickly. He's flat on his back, eyes on the stars, crawling slowing around the North Star, but he reaches out blindly until he finds her hand to squeeze. "Sorry, Anna."

"That's okay." She sighs. "What do you suppose the others are doing now?"

"Hopefully" - Geoffrey looks at his watch, realises he can't make out the dial - "in between hissy fits about the forgeries of jealousy and torturing her understudy, my wife is starting to wonder where I am." He pauses. "Hopefully."

"She is," Anna says with unexpected forthrightness. "She doesn't do well without you, Geoffrey."

"Nor I, without her," Geoffrey says, comfortably. "I hope you're happy, being the only functionally sane person in my company, Anna. I hope... I hope you're happy."

"Yes," she says, instantly, and then, hesitantly: "But I would give a thousand furlongs of sea, for..."

"An acre of barren ground," Geoffrey says, still comfortably, "long heath, brown furze, green room, maybe that crappy coffee place down the street from the theatre, on soup day."

"They will find us, won't they," Anna says.

Geoffrey squeezes her hand again. "Take courage, dear heart. Ellen is likely weeping beautiful buckets over the provincial coastguard."

"Probably," Anna says, and louder: "¡No pasaran!"

"No pasaran," Geoffrey agrees, watching the sparks fly upwards, brightness into dark.

due South telepathy? With any characters you desire?

Oh, lovely lovely! "long heath, brown furze, green room, maybe that crappy coffee place down the street from the theatre, on soup day." Yes. These two are among my favorite characters ever.

Just spotted this on Monday morning, but if you're still taking prompts: Haven, Nathan, Audrey, Duke and "lullaby".

Still taking prompts, but alas I don't know who these people are. Anything else?

Oops-- that's what I get for looking at icons, rather than usernames-- turns out, there's more than one person on my flist that likes Amy Pond. What are the odds?

Then Fandom = Vorkosigan, Miles+others, prompt= werewolves or telepathy. Bonus points if Barrayans picked up some... interesting traits in their genome during the Age of Isolation.

Nightingale, Grant and May sounds like a law firm, Peter insists, but Lesley disagrees.

“It’s classic!” she insists. “Listen to the man who is not now, but will one day, be a million years older than you.”

“Age before wisdom.” Nightingale smiles. “But surely, Peter, you acknowledge it has, um, a ring to it.”

Peter isn’t convinced until the sign painters have been and gone and it’s too late to object anyway, but he has to admit it looks good above the shop window in the flowing gilded script. And as he might have predicted, the people round about call it Nightingale’s – Nightingale’s the cake shop in between the grocer’s and the Buddhist centre – and that, Lesley does keep on saying, has just the right cadence, like Magnolia Bakery or something similarly artisanal.

“We’re not artisanal,” Peter says, sulkily. “We’re good.”

On that, at least, they are all agreed. They do tiny wedding cupcakes with delicate frosted patterns, they do children’s birthday party cakes featuring icing locomotives with in-built whistles, they do neon sheet cakes with glorious gore commemorating PUNK IS DEAD. What they all have in common is light-as-air sponge and buttercream to die for. “You don’t need magic for this,” Nightingale cautions. “At least… not Newtonian magic.”

Peter’s seen copies of his, Lesley’s and Nightingale’s latest MRI scans, and appreciates that no, cake-making is not something for which you risk those soft dark shadows – but for Nightingale at least, sometimes magic comes easy as breathing, and he suspects something more than wire holds up the very best creations. And perhaps it is worth it, for the edible pot-of-gold suspended at the end of the marzipan rainbow all dangled above the greenest, tackiest St Patrick’s Day cake the world has ever seen.

Peter practises small forma, in the back of the shop after night has fallen, while Lesley proofs tomorrow’s dough and Nightingale walks through the shop, closing up, carrying his own light. “Someone will see,” Lesley calls, but Nightingale smiles.

“For once I find I don’t mind,” he says, covered in glittering sugar, and Peter smiles back.

Ray Kowalski is an upstanding kinda guy. Kind of a hardass, and not quite in a league with the sharp, beautiful intellectual perfection of, to pick an example entirely at random, Assistant State's Attorney Kowalski, but streetwise. And able to roll with the punches, which is what you need in a detective. Both literally, and inside your head: you gotta know when something you thought all your life might not be true, like, also to pick an example entirely at random, when a pretty blonde girl and a drifter guy with anchor tattoos and a grizzled beard go into a dark Chicago alley, which one's the victim.

So this is maybe the third time he and Fraser have done... well. Have done that, and ain't it stupid, that he's still Fraser in Ray's head, but, hell, Fraser is Fraser, and a little mad, and bottomlessly bright, and his partner, the guy he's beginning to think he's always known, in some way or another; Ben will take some time to get used to, which they've got. They were out all day from early till way late when the summer sun was turning the sky over the lake red and the air was starting to feel like you could breathe it again rather than build bricks out of the humidity. They'd got their perp - so pretty, so blonde, so many knives hidden in the spaces of those boots - and afterwards Ray said, tentatively, "Hey, you wanna..."

And Fraser turned to him, looked at all softly and intensely with something very sweet in his expression, and said, "I'd love to, Ray."

Afterwards Ray fell asleep all wound up in the sheets and dreamed, like he always does when he's fallen asleep in Fraser's bed on a hot and sticky Chicago night. He dreamed of Canada, though he's never been to the far north Fraser tells him about, never ridden a sled or felt his feet crunch into rough ice. Before now he's figured that that's Fraser, that that's Ben - he's getting to know the shape of Fraser's body and the shape of this new thing they're working out between them, and inside his head he's getting to know the inside of Fraser's head. It makes sense that in his dreams he's seeing the wide open spaces that Fraser carries around with him everywhere, inside his head. It makes sense to dream of snow, and wake up suddenly from the dream because some guy out on the street below just had a disagreement with some other guy and that guy's car at ass fucking o'clock in the morning.

Right now Ray is standing in the bathroom, a little light creeping in from the shaded window, sodium-yellow, leaning on the sink edge, on the porcelain slightly warmed by this sweltering warm soup of a night. His other hand is in his own hair, feeling the roughness on his scalp, and the chill. He brings his hands together and watches the snow melt in his cupped palms. Right now Ray is looking through the open door to the bed, to what he can see of Fraser in the dull light, and thinking, this is another one of those punches: this is another thing you gotta roll with, another thing to knock you off balance like everything you ever believed or knew might not be right or true, another thing like falling in love.

Aw, this is perfect and lovely.

Oh my god, but this is gorgeous!

This is wonderful. You hit the alienness and discombobulation of River's offer perfectly, and the way that the familiarity of graduation hits Amy and Rory suddenly was a brilliant punch to the gut.

I've read this several times now. And it's still lovely <3

It makes sense that in his dreams he's seeing the wide open spaces that Fraser carries around with him everywhere, inside his head. It makes sense to dream of snow, and wake up suddenly from the dream because some guy out on the street below just had a disagreement with some other guy and that guy's car at ass fucking o'clock in the morning.

AUGH. This is so gorgeous.

Oh, I love this! You captured them beautifully.

Oh, this is just absolutely gorgeous. The whole thing piece seems almost dream-like, like it's just to the left of what canon shows but it's still somehow totally true- just like Ray says. <333

Ahhhhh, perfect. ♥

This is amazingly adorable. ♥

<3

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