open request!
8/2/06 14:45![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
schmericaI have a paper and lots of homework to do today; this means I have to make my short internet breaks really count. Friends list, I come to you in my time of need! Comment to this entry and entertain me? Picspam, comment fic, jokes, personal anecdotes, things you squee about, things you wanna rant about, reasons you love me, quotes from books or stories, recipes, links to cute pictures of baby animals, celebrity gossip -- seriously, whatever! I'm gonna need distraction.
*smooches you all*
Edit: First homework assignment, done. Woot! Wulf and Eadwacer is really pretty, yo. I think it might be my favorite of the poems we've translated this quarter (and no, not because it is really short).
Edit 2: Ha! I have defeated my slavic languages reading, too. I know your tricks now, Czech and Slovak! Do not even front! Now, dinner and then onto The Stupid Stupid Paper That Should Have Been Done Two Months Ago.
Edit 3: I hate Fanny Price so much that just looking at the cover of this edition of Mansfield Park now makes me twitch. I don't know anything about you, random 1800s painting, but I HATE YOU ANYWAY.
*smooches you all*
Edit: First homework assignment, done. Woot! Wulf and Eadwacer is really pretty, yo. I think it might be my favorite of the poems we've translated this quarter (and no, not because it is really short).
Edit 2: Ha! I have defeated my slavic languages reading, too. I know your tricks now, Czech and Slovak! Do not even front! Now, dinner and then onto The Stupid Stupid Paper That Should Have Been Done Two Months Ago.
Edit 3: I hate Fanny Price so much that just looking at the cover of this edition of Mansfield Park now makes me twitch. I don't know anything about you, random 1800s painting, but I HATE YOU ANYWAY.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
8/2/06 23:08 (UTC)2. I love you because you have the heart of Fraser - strong, pure, loyal - and the manic excitable *genius* of Kowalski. And because through you I met the Foxlet.
[cont'd in next comment]
The Group of Six is known for its cultural acumen.
8/2/06 23:11 (UTC)*
Oftentimes, the afterlife is enough to make Bob wish he was truly dead. Dead as you always fear it will be - the dark and solitary long, lonely sleep. There are highlights, of course, most of which center around Ben. Most of the drawbacks, strangely enough, *also* concern Ben.
This is one of those times, however, that has nothing to do with Ben, yet is making Bob long for the dirt nap. Geordie MacLeod had the brilliant idea of making the first Friday of every month the Group of Six Salon. Cultural luminaries will address the group on a variety of topics before an open discussion is convened.
It sounds splendid in theory. In practice, it can make a ghost suicidal.
Especially when that ghost is crammed onto a godawfully narrow bench between Geordie and the capacious bulk of Luc Pensee, listening to some blowhard Ontarian with a beard like Merlin's blather on and on about not very much a'tall.
It doesn't have to be this bad. Geordie might have booked an interesting fellow - loony Riel, or Mack King's mum, even a Molson - but politics and mass culture fall outside the Group's mission statement. That was news to Bob, but he did miss a few meetings here and there.
He shifts again, elbow in Pensee's womanly hip, when MacLeod shoots him a warning glance. Bob is ready to bolt, sunk through with unhappy memories of a boyhood summer spent down in Kamloops with his Aunt Eunice. She took him to church three times a week, twice on Sundays, and *those* hot, sticky hours were brief and breezy, damn near refreshing, compared to this.
Sleepy lassitude battles utter unrest, yet every time he so much as *sighs* or blinks, MacLeod nudges him. Shoots him a *look*.
Bob smiles at him and crosses his arms. Everyone knows Geordie's been just half a man since the war, not to mention a failed poet, but that's no excuse for subjecting the rest of them to this horror. The old blowhard drones on; Bob is certain he wouldn't last two days in the real Canada, the Canada lies far outside this dolt's Montreal-Toronto-Ottawa triangle.
Look at him, chin wagging, presumption and pretension dripping in equal measures from his nicotine-stained teeth as he "discusses" - lectures, more like, as if they're schoolboys slow in the head - Jungian examples of the transformation of provincial folklore.
Great Scott. No wonder no one reads CanLit. If this is its face, and apparently this *is*, Bob can hardly blame them. Old Davies looks to have some sort of nervous condition - thin blood, most likely, and city-soft feet - but even if he was hale and hearty and strapping, that personality would be enough to sour everyone he met.
Bob wishes - though it is, at base, unkind to wish for anyone's death, he cannot help himself - that young Pete Berton would hurry up and kick off. *He* always had the damnedest stories, not to mention a supply of homegrown B.C. "tobacco" that Bob invariably managed to ignore *and* sample.
Even Service would have been preferable, with his abysmal imagery and clubfooted rhymes. "Oh outcast land! Oh leper land!", indeed.
*This* bastard isn't Canadian in any sense that Bob can see. Wants to be English, with his fairy-stories and soft porcelain skin. Victorian, more like, maiden-delicate and overread, schooled to within an inch of his life.
"...as my dear friend Peggy Atwood once observed in her inimitably dry and precise way, 'going mad is what you do in the North'."
Bob is on his feet, rocking back on the soft heels of his mukluks, faster than a blackfly in July. "Excuse me?" Geordie tugs on Bob's sleeve. "Unhand me, MacLeod. You, Davies, repeat that."
Davies crosses his small white hands over his belly and smirks through the dirty cloud of his beard. "I believe that the discussion period has not yet commenced, sir. As I was attempting to -"
"Say it again." Bob vaults past Pensee, who squeaks and trembles, then dashes up the center aisle. "Say it again."
Davies' lips are thin, bloodless, as he purses them and gazes down at Bob over the tops of his bifocals. "I do not tolerate interruptions, my dear sir."
Re: The Group of Six is known for its cultural acumen.
8/2/06 23:14 (UTC)Thank you so much, darling!
(no subject)
8/2/06 23:50 (UTC)Solace
9/2/06 00:16 (UTC)Clark settled beside him, looking out over those same rooftops silently for several minutes. Finally he felt the soft touch, the warmth of Clark's hand on his arm radiating heat even through the thickness of his gauntlet.
His voice was low, soft as velvet, concern clear in every syllable as he spoke. "Bruce..."
"Clark, no."
"But..." Bruce silenced him with a slight lift of his hand.
"No, Clark, it's not open for discussion. Dick made his choice. As did I."
"Choice? Hell, Bruce, you fired him, told him to leave. What'd you expected him to do, beg? You raised him to be stronger than that." Bruce heard the short, disgusted snort of laughter as Clark shifted where he sat. "You're both too damned stubborn for your own good."
Bruce sat silent, finally turning to look at his friend. "Did he get there safely?"
He knew from the subtle squinting of Clark's eyes that he searched his face through the mask. He pushed down his instinctive reaction of anger, knowing that Clark did it out of worry for his state of mind.
"Yeah, he's at the Tower. I made sure he was safely settled before I came to find you."
Bruce rose to his feet, his cape a blanket of night as it swirled around him in the wind. "Good."
Clark rose as well, still standing by his side. "You know it wasn't you fault, right, Bruce?"
Bruce stood unmoving, his voice clipped when he spoke. "Joker wouldn't exist, Dick wouldn't have been on the streets to go against him if not for me." Bruce raised his hands, regarding them darkly in the dim light. "The blood may not have been visible on my hands but it was surely there."
He took a step toward him, reaching out to touch Bruce again before letting his hand fall to his side. "Bruce, I…"
Bruce stepped away, firing his line out into the night. "Go home, Clark, you're not needed here. It's done." Without another word he flew, the wind rushing past his face. Bruce steeled himself, pretended not to care as he saw Clark flying past. If it kept Dick safe, it was worth it. No matter the cost.
The cold wrapped around him as he moved out into the silent streets, just another shadow in the bitter Gotham night.
Re: Solace
9/2/06 00:41 (UTC)(no subject)
9/2/06 00:44 (UTC)(no subject)
9/2/06 00:46 (UTC)(no subject)
9/2/06 01:17 (UTC)(no subject)
9/2/06 00:52 (UTC)http://raveninthewind.livejournal.com/412402.html?nc=2
(no subject)
9/2/06 01:19 (UTC)this has nothing to do with Wulf and Eadwacer.
9/2/06 04:30 (UTC)five kisses (http://darthfox.livejournal.com/560861.html).
Re: this has nothing to do with Wulf and Eadwacer.
9/2/06 04:39 (UTC)YAY KISSES.
(no subject)
Anyway. Have some Secret Mounties for your amusement, because I feel crackish and mutual avoiding of essays is always good.
"Er," Fraser says, not knowing where to start, and settles for "Ray, Superintendent Thatcher's come to visit." He yanks his trousers back up hurriedly.
"Yeah, got the memo, Fraser -- you gonna explain the pants to me?" Ray doesn't seem to know whether to be outraged or intrigued.
"Well, they're on, Ray."
Ah, there it is -- the scowl. Fraser knew it'd come along eventually. "Yeah, now they are -- what, you got a guilty conscience or -- "
"Gentlemen," the Superintendent interrupts impatiently. "We haven't got all day. In fact, we have only slightly upwards of two hours -- "
"Wait, wait, slow the fuck down -- what's happening in two hours?" Ray demands, taking an aggressive step toward the Superintendent. "Nobody told me nothing about this -- "
"Yes, well, there would be a reason for that, Detective Vecchio," the Superintendent says, rather sharply.
"Kowalski, Ray Kowalski -- " Ray corrects, pride wounded. Thatcher just looks at him pointedly. "What? What? -- oh." Ray's face goes completely slack with astonishment. "Oh. Fraser -- " and now he's turning to Fraser, looking slightly desperate -- "you can't. You're not. You -- what about us, what about -- "
Oh, dear. "I'm -- I'm sorry, Ray," Fraser says softly, not knowing what to do. "I -- Canada needs -- "
"Fuck, Fraser, you spent four years in Chicago 'cause you thought Canada needed -- "
"Ray, I -- "
"This is our time!" Ray explodes, flinging his arms out violently. Thatcher opens her mouth to speak, but Ray holds one finger up, not giving her the option. "You, shut the fuck up," he snaps, takes two strides toward Fraser, and grasps his shoulders in both hands. "Fraser, this is our -- our -- whatever, our happily ever after, riding off into the sunset -- goddammit, Fraser, don't you know when to quit?" He punctuates this with a not entirely gentle shake.
(no subject)
9/2/06 05:50 (UTC)Put that way, leaving -- even on an assignment from the CSIS itself -- seems reprehensible. But -- there is a difference between desires and duties, and it is his duty to leave. "I'm sorry, Ray," Fraser whispers, swallowing hard and fighting to remain impassive -- because Ray's right. They had something here, something that was just theirs and no one else's. And now they have to give it up. For Canada. Only for Canada. "I'll -- I'll be in touch," he promises shakily, because that's the only way he knows how to make it better.
"Fraser, you can't," the Superintendent protests, but Fraser ignores her.
"I will," he tells Ray firmly, looking into his dear face. He hesitates for a moment before touching him, because the Superintendent's watching, and he knows it; but in the end, he reaches up and cups Ray's face in his hands anyway, running his hands over the hard angle of his jaw and the disappointed wrinkles around his tight mouth. If she's going to intrude on his privacy, she can damn well tolerate a show of affection. "I don't care what they tell me to do, I will."
Ray's eyes are flat and flinty with rage. "Yeah? How long? How long you going under for, huh?"
Fraser nearly chokes. He doesn't know. He can't even estimate, because he doesn't know what -- what the hell he's doing in Iran, anyhow. "I -- " he starts, and his voice cracks slightly. "I don't -- if you want to leave," he blurts out, "you -- I won't -- you can -- "
"Aw, fer -- " Ray sighs, then jerks his head around to look at the Superintendent. "Get out," he says, bluntly.
The Superintendent looks shocked. "You can't -- he has to -- "
"Cool it, lady, I'm givin' him back -- just get out for a minute, okay?"
The Superintendent's eyebrows shoot up, nearly reaching her bangs. "Oh. Oh, I see. I -- all right, then, I don't suppose -- " She pulls her coat on, looking oddly flustered, and heads for the door.
The hinges have barely squeaked their way shut when Ray's mouth is on Fraser's, hard and hot and persistent, aggressive to the point of almost being painful but god, so good, because -- because Ray can't kiss him like this and leave. He can't.
What on earth did Fraser ever do to deserve this?
~~~
He emerges approximately half-an-hour later, wearing the suit and carrying a duffel bag. Even after two years of being home, he hasn't quite forgotten how to pack sparingly.
The Superintendent is shivering slightly; her parka is not designed for these low temperatures at all -- and she looks quite grateful when she sees him. "I'll just get my things, shall I?" she says, and shuffles through the snow to the cabin door.
Fraser can't hear what happens inside, because Ray has finally mastered the technique of quiet fury -- but when she returns, she looks utterly miserable. "Sir?" he inquires.
"Don't call me sir," she says, setting her bags down on the ground and standing up straight.
"Understood."
"Don't -- "
"Don't what, ma'am?"
"Fraser -- " she snaps, then folds her arms and looks up to the heavens, as though they might provide her with some remedy for her troubles. "I'm sorry, Fraser," she says finally, very quietly. "You understand that, don't you?"
"I -- "
"I didn't want this, Fraser. They asked for you; they asked for me. I don't wat to go, either. Not for my career, not for anything -- but I'm going. I'm in the same predicament as you are, Fraser; I want you to understand that."
Fraser takes a breath. "If that's the case, then why were you -- "
" -- so brash?" the Superintendent finishes, smiling sardonically. "I was trying to help. I thought he might be more angry at you if he thought I was forcing you to it."
"Ah." Perhaps that's even true. "I -- thank you, Superintendent Thatcher." She gives him an odd, half-fond, half-exasperated look. "Is something wrong?"
"Call me Meg, Fraser."
"I don't -- "
"You'll sound odd if you don't. And if you're going to be undercover, you need to learn how not to sound odd at all," she advises, sensibly enough.
"Ah. Understood."
(no subject)
9/2/06 05:50 (UTC)Meg nods. "Get in," she orders brusquely, lifting her bagsand doing so herself.
Fraser picks his bag up and turns -- and then he sees Ray's face in the window, eyes large dark pits in his otherwise pale face, watching the helicopter blow loose snow around it like some arctic hurricane. What will Ray do, all alone here? Even Dief will be lonely, but he'll at least have the other wolves to speak to. Ray will have no one -- and then Ray's eyes shift to look at him; he can't see Ray's eyes, of course, but he can feel them.
He turns his back to Ray and climbs into the helicopter, because he is a Mountie, and he can do such things.
The take off is relatively smooth; there is a thump, just as the helicopter starts to lift off the ground, but the pilot tells them it's metal fatigue, and nothing to worry about. And then the snow underneath them is fadng away into a textureless white blanket like clouds, Ray fading away with it.
Fraser closes his eyes and lets his neck go limp; Meg, good woman that she is, doesn't try to bother him.
~~~
They've been flying normally for about fifteen minutes when the helicopter tips alarmingly to the left, and then -- without any warning whatsoever -- the left side door is sliding open, blasting them all with sub-zero winds that stings like needles, pressing their eyes shut so they can't see anything at all --
Fraser presses himself close to the ground, to let the air blow over him him more than against him, and starts crawling towards the door --
-- and then suddenly, the blast stops. Fraser looks up reflexively, and blinks twice before trusting his eyes. "Ray!" he chokes, because that is Ray -- looking rather windblown and red-cheeked and thoroughly gleeful.
"Hey, yourself, buddy buddy," Ray replies, grinning down at him manically and sticking out a hand. "You need a hand there?"
"Kowalski?" Meg says, sounding befuddled.
"That's me," Ray assures her, hauling Fraser to his feet. "One and only. Okay, maybe not only, but -- "
"Oh my god, what -- "
"Hey!" the pilot hollers back, "what's going on in there? You okay?"
"Fine," Fraser assures him, staring stupidly at Ray. He suspects hes beaming at him, too, but then that's understandable.
"What do you mean, 'fine'?" Meg hisses furiously. "How are we going to send him back? We don't have time to turn around -- "
"Uh-huh," Ray says smugly. "Thought you wouldn't."
"Just -- all right. All right, well -- we'll tell someone to drop him off at the nearest city," Meg mutters, "when we reach the plane -- "
"Plane?" Ray repeats, looking even more pleased. "Hey, planes, no problem, I'll jump on those. I've even got practice with 'em." He winks at Fraser, and even though his cheek is really quite alarming, Fraser can't help but absorb his cheer. "Proper Preparation Prevents Poor Performance, right?"
Meg is in a truly pitiable state. "But -- but -- we -- "
"Hey, it's okay," Ray tells her, patting her shoulder condescendingly. "You just tell us where we're headed, 'cause I am on you like wolves on caribou, yeah?"
"I -- I can't," Meg protests, looking rather out of her depth. Under any other circumstances, Fraser'd reprimand Ray for being such a bother -- but just now, he can't bring himself to do it. "It's classified."
'Iran," Fraser inroms Ray, placidly. "We're going to Iran."
Ray gapes at him. "Iran?"
Thatcher's jaw drops. "Fraser!" she sputters.
Fraser just smiles at them both, ready to -- well, ready to face the music, with Ray at his side.
(no subject)
9/2/06 05:53 (UTC)*beams at you*
(no subject)
9/2/06 05:58 (UTC)...if I told you there's even more in my brain, would you remove my brains via my left nostril and incinerate them for the good of all mankind?
(no subject)
9/2/06 05:59 (UTC)(no subject)
9/2/06 06:06 (UTC)...
*sighs at your icon in an angsty way*
Um. Now is time for bed. But I will write it up later.