diversions

I have an announcement to make.

Sat, 14 May 2005 03:01:11 GMT

I am DONE with law school.

This is the best feeling ever.

So, I hear it's your birthday...

Wed, 04 May 2005 02:32:58 GMT

Super secret message:

Happy Birthday pathstotread!!

To celebrate, someone managed to get you the best hour of television all season. You, my dear, have friends in high places.

P.S. Check your email.

Baaaaaaa

Sat, 05 Mar 2005 21:38:48 GMT

Yes, I am a sheep. "So...Good Talk" post-ep.

Pairing: Like you need to ask.
Rating: PG-13, for the inevitable language
Disclaimer: Gilmore Girls and its characters are the property of lots of other people. Still a student. Still poor.
Summary: Nothing you haven't seen before.

******

She lost track of the minutes that passed after she shut the door, not she was counting -- or thinking at all, for that matter -- but it seemed so long and still too soon when they pulled apart a bit, their breathing uneven.

She, as always, was the first to speak.

"Not that I'm complaining, but where the hell did that come from?"

He let out a long breath, forehead tipping down to rest against hers.

"This month has been hell." His voice was low and gravelly, with too much of an edge.

She nodded, just the slight motion of her forehead rubbing across his, her hair brushing against his skin.

"I'd say that covers it." The words came out too low, more serious than she'd intended. He'd been gripping her arms with both hands, and now he let them go and slipped his arms around her back, drawing her closer to him. She turned her head and let herself lean into him, cheek against his chest. She took a long, shaky breath, feeling the fabric of his still-cool army coat against her cheek. It was rougher than she remembered, and still smelled like everything else in his closet, like the warm air that blew out of the heating vent, rustling his clothes at night. She pressed her lips together at the memory, a motion that had become a habit over this long month, holding it all in. She clenched her hands, palms resting on his back, pulling the fabric taut in her fists. He rubbed one hand across her shoulder in response, fingers kneading her skin.

"So, is this..." she let herself trail off, too afraid to ask the question. Part of her felt silly for stating the obvious, but the rest of her just needed to know.

She felt the shift of his throat, adam's apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed.

"I thought it was pretty obvious."

She choked back a jarring laugh. "You're very, very clear with your intentions?" She meant it to be funny, meant to joke the way she always did, but her voice was still unsteady, too high and too thin. She felt, rather than heard, his laugh, his breath warm against her hair.

"Something like that."

She nodded again, her face scraping across his jacket. "Okay." She pressed her lips together again, fell silent for a moment, wondering whether this was the right time for what she wanted to say next.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, so low she wondered if he would even hear.

"Don't." He relaxed his grip a bit, pulling back just enough to press his lips to her forehead. "Don't."

She nodded, her forehead now scraping across the rough stubble of his chin. The sensation brought back a wave of something she wasn't quite ready for, something too vivid after a month where nothing seemed vivid at all. She stiffened against him, balling her hands up more tightly.

"You okay?" He didn't move away, lips still brushing her skin as he spoke.

"Yeah."

"You want this, right?" She could hear the uncertainty creeping into his voice; he spoke slowly, as if he wasn't quite sure that he wanted to ask the question.

She tilted her head up, kissing him again, softly this time. "I think that's pretty obvious."

"You want me?" His voice was even softer this time, words that she felt, rather than heard, mumbled against her skin.

"Yes."

"Okay." He kissed her again, gently, and she could feel him shifting his weight as he finally relaxed. She closed her eyes, lashes brushing his skin, and heard him say it again. "Okay."

And for the first time in weeks, she believed it really might be.

******

He was in the kitchen when she came downstairs, the contents of her fridge scattered across the counter. She slipped her arms around him from behind, pressing her face against his t-shirt. He reached up to rub one hand across hers, fingers still warm from working over the stove.

"You have nothing in your kitchen." He waved the slotted spoon he held in his other hand for emphasis.

She breathed deeply, taking in the scent of coffee and cotton t-shirt and...something else. She pulled back sharply, peering around his shoulder.

"Are you making me tater tots?"

"You didn't have any potatoes, so I couldn't make hash browns. And it's a good thing eggs keep, because everything else in there was green. Or purple." He sighed, poking at the frying pan the slotted spoon. "So, yes, I'm making you tater tots."

She laughed, harder than she probably should have, and he pulled away just enough to slide the entire contents of the frying pan onto a plate. He turned to hand it to her, and she frowned. "You're not eating anything?"

"I have to open the diner."

She set the plate down on the counter, pulling him into a hug. "Don’t go." She hadn't really thought about the words before she said them, and didn't want them to sound as needy as they probably did.

He kissed her lightly on the forehead. "I have to open up the diner."

"You don't."

He didn't respond, just pulled away and carried the plate over to the table.

"You really don't. Watch." She was over to the phone in two strides, dialing as she formulated a plan. She was lucky enough to get the voice mail, rather than the night manager or a very angry Michel.

"Hey, Sookie, it's me. I'm, uh, not feeling well--" here, she gave a very unconvincing cough "-- and I'm coming in late today. Call me if Michel manages to fire everyone or burn the place down." She clicked the phone off, and shot him a look of triumph. "See? Easy."

He didn't have a response ready, which she took as a very good sign. Grinning wickedly, she started to dial again. He made a half-hearted grab for the phone, but she pushed his hand away. Again, she was lucky enough to get voice mail.

"Hey, Lane, this is Lorelai. Luke's not feeling well, so he's coming in late today. Call him if Cesar manages to fire everyone or burn the place down."

She disconnected and flashed him a brilliant smile. The look on his face alternated between pissed and amused, with sort-of-pissed finally winning.

"Very subtle."

"But effective."

"You realize the whole town's gonna know what's going on."

"Then we shouldn't disappoint them." She said it in her most suggestive tone, stepping in close to him. He just sighed. "Hey, it could have been worse. I could have called Taylor."

"That is the least sexy thing you have ever said."

She smiled even more broadly, relief pouring through her. This was how it was supposed to be. The easy banter, him pretending to be pissed, her showing off – this was them. She reached for his hand, pulling him to her.

******

"Emily came to the diner?" She spit the name like a profanity.

Luke was watching her warily, jaw tight. "Last night."

"Last..." Lorelai trailed off, taking a step backwards. He reached out with one hand and grasped her elbow, fingers sliding down to her wrist.

"She came to the diner, she kicked Kirk out, she talked to me, I ignored her, then she left."

"And you came over here."

He paused for a second, wishing he could make it sound better than it actually did. "Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I'd been fucking miserable for a month."

"And because my mother came to see you." She pulled her wrist away and folded her arms across her chest, waiting.

"Because your mother was desperate. She came to see me, and she hates me, and if she was that desperate I thought maybe there was still a chance."

"You're gonna have to back up the thought train there, because that did not make any sense."

He looked down at the floor, sighing heavily. "Whatever went on with you two, it must have been pretty bad. And I thought if you were still that pissed with her, maybe..." he broke off, looking up at her, willing her to just get it, for once.

"Maybe..."

"Maybe it was because you were miserable, too." He shrugged, realizing how suddenly stupid it all sounded. "It made sense to me. I've been pissed at everybody."

The corner of her mouth twitched up. "So I've heard."

He rubbed one hand across his neck, mostly to have something to do. He glanced down at the floor, not quite wanting to look at her when he asked her this. "Do you want this to work?"

Her voice was calm and suddenly serious. "Yes."

"Then can we stop fighting about your mother?"

"Please." She moved toward him a bit, then stopped. "You know this won't be the last time she does something awful."

"I know."

"And you want to do this, anyway?" He could hear the soft edge in her voice, the tremble of something uncertain. He met her eyes this time, and didn't try to glance away.

"Yes."

She nodded slowly. "I'm sorry," she said, her voice going soft.

He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into his chest. She relaxed against him, and he knew he might be squeezing too tightly, but today nothing seemed close enough. "Me, too," he said, lips against her hair.

They stood that way for a long moment, arms too tight and breathing too shallow. He could feel her cheek, damp against his collarbone, wet lashes brushing his skin. She was doing this because of him, and that knowledge was as painful as anything else he'd been through in the last month. But this time, with her here, the pain was somehow different.

He wouldn't give it up for anything.

******

It was late when he finally left for the diner, even later when she was finally ready to leave the Dragonfly that night. She had to make up for the time she spent away that morning -- hazard of owning your own business. She was planning to go straight to Luke's (she'd already been in for a late lunch, and boy did that raise some eyebrows), and she slipped in an empty room to glance in the mirror, patting down her hair and wiping away smudged eyeliner, happy to have an excuse to worry about this again.

She saw the dark outline of his back as she opened the front door, and was only a little surprised. He was sitting on the front steps, arms resting on his knees. Two white take-out bags rested on the step beside him.

"You should have a bad wig and a 900 number."

He looked up at her with a self-satisfied grin. "I don't think I want to know."

"I meant because you're psychic," she said, lifting the bags as she sat down beside him. "But yes, dirty." She reached into the first bag, came up with a cheeseburger, and dug in. "You could have come inside, you know," she managed between bites.

He shrugged, his arm brushing against hers. "It's nice out."

"I was going to come by the diner."

"I thought you were working late," he said, fidgeting with the cuff of his sleeve.

"I was going to come." She put the cheeseburger down long enough to meet his eyes. He just looked away, nodding. He reached for something in the shadows under the porch rail, pulling out a tall styrofoam cup. She snatched it out of his hand, pulling off the lid and taking several deep gulps.

"I'm surprised you didn't smell it."

"You distracted me with the cheeseburger." More gulps.

He wrapped his free arm around her, resting his hand on her waist, fingers toying with the hem of her shirt. She leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder.

"I really was going to come." He nodded again, chin scraping across her hair. They were quiet together for a moment.

"I missed you." His voice was low, gravelly. She squeezed his knee with her free hand, running her thumb over the worn-soft denim.

"We're okay now," she said, and it was still too tentative, but it wasn't a question.

"We're okay." She felt the press of his lips against her hair, the way his hand curved around her waist as he squeezed her tighter.

"You know--" he broke off, drawing in a long breath against her hair. "You know I love you."

She felt her eyes burning, began blinking it away. "Yeah, I know." She squeezed his knee more tightly, fingers digging into his leg. "I know."

She set down the cup she'd been holding, reaching up with her free hand to touch his cheek. He dipped his chin down to hers, kissing her softly. "You know--" she said, lips still brushing his. "--you know." He kissed her again, more firmly this time.

"I know."

Lorelai let her eyes fall shut, face warm, eyes still burning. Finally, finally, there was nothing more to say.

******

Weekend thoughts & Eternal Sunshine

Sun, 06 Feb 2005 22:39:15 GMT

Have had a lovely relaxing weekend to make up for a rather lengthy week. The hearing on Thursday went well, so I'm relieved to have that done. Maybe I can actually go to all my classes this week!

Went on a lovely shopping expedition yesterday that involved scouring the clearance racks, and came home with three lovely (and ultra-cheap!) shirts. Now I'm searching ebay for matching necklaces. I think I'm going to skip the Superbowl party; I'd rather stay here and get ahead on my reading between commercials. Who knows, might even get a little bit of the 3L paper done!

Last night, I *finally* saw Eternal Sunshine. Would someone please tell me what the hell I was waiting for?? I'm going to watch it again this week, possibly tonight. Absolutely fabulous.

I'm burned out on traditional romantic comedies. It used to be that even a lackluster chick flick was good for a few smiles, but now I've grown tired of them. Only a really exceptional romantic comedy can still get my attention -- something as well-written as Notting Hill or as funny as Love Actually.

While I still enjoy happy endings (I'm sometimes wary of art-house films, since I don't always like to leave the theater depressed), I'm more and more drawn to unconventional romances that don't promise happily ever after. The most romantic film, to me, is one that touches a nerve -- something that gets at the truth about love and, yes, loss. A single sweet moment, grounded in reality, is far more touching than a film full of schmaltz.

Eternal Sunshine got me thinking about this because it's easily the best romance I've seen since Lost in Translation. Inside its truly bizarre premise is a remarkably thoughtful and mature look at relationships: how they change us, why we leave them, the odd moments we can't quite leave behind. The movie is outwardly strange, and inwardly more genuine than anything I've seen in a long time.

I find myself drawn to complex, dark romances across the board. I don't like angst for angst's sake -- forced melodrama is just as bad as syrupy saccharine -- but I do like fiction (be it movies, television or literature) that doesn't shy away from the difficulties and, in fact, embraces them. Confronting the hard questions makes the romance more real -- and, in the end, more romantic.

Okay, I'll stop gushing now, and return you to your regularly scheduled post.

Flist changes

Fri, 28 Jan 2005 03:03:09 GMT

I haven't been adding to the flist regularly for a while (especially since I haven't been around all that often lately), and I've decided to narrow things a little further to better spend the little time I do have online. So tonight, I went back through the flist and pruned it a bit. If your journal was removed, it was because:

(1) Our interests don't overlap as much as they used to.
(2) We don't comment in each other's journals.
(3) We don't communicate outside of LJ.

If I did de-friend you, it's nothing personal, simply that we don't seem to be interacting much.

Post-ep S/V fic.

Thu, 27 Jan 2005 05:16:02 GMT

This is what comes of TWO snowstorms and being sick. A angsty-schmoopy S/V post-ep. You've been warned.

Title: A Thousand Gaps
Ship: S/V
Rating: G
Summary: "A hundred gaps, a thousand places in his life where Sydney should have been, but never was. It became habit, after a while, to fill her in."

He never bought a ring.

Ask him in the right moment, when his guard is down, and he'll tell you this much: he never bought the ring, but he wishes he had. Ask him in the wrong moment, and he’ll look at you strangely and ignore the question altogether.

He had hired the chef, though, and reserved the presidential suite. That much was true, that much he didn't have to improvise. He'd planned the trip to the Biltmore, ordered a four-course meal with matched wines, even bought the tickets to the zoo. Some of this, he doesn't need to imagine.

After the fire, after she was gone, it was never the time they spent together that haunted him. It was the time they didn't. A hundred gaps, a thousand places in his life where Sydney should have been, but never was. It became habit, after a while, to fill her in. She was scent, or light, or fog, something that filtered into his memories everywhere, filled every empty space. Sometimes, in his less sober days, he forgot which memories were real and which were only imagined. He'd find himself flipping back through a date book, a calendar, a PDA. He knew the date of the fire, would try to remember the date of his memory, and match the one to the other. It was the only way.

He invented the ring months later, a little flourish on the memory. It needed something, just a little something more, to make it perfect. In his dream, he saw her smile. He saw her face light up when they arrived at the hotel, hands running over the silk bedding, laughing as she drew a bath in the jacuzzi. He walked beside her on the beach, barefoot, of course, stopped at a tiny stand for tacos and bought two-dollar flip flops for the walk back to the hotel. They'd stayed out much longer then they'd planned.

He walked with her at the zoo, watched her laugh like a child, tried to remember the last time he'd seen her like this, tried to remember the last time they'd both felt this free. He was getting nervous by then, pulse speeding up, feeling the weight of the ring in his hip pocket. It was getting heavier.

She grabbed at his hand when she laughed, nails digging into his skin, unaware that she even did such a thing. She made him stand for ten minutes watching the monkeys, made him stop to buy a disposable camera to snap more pictures. He offered to buy her a cheap plastic mold out of the machine, and she actually thought about it a minute before refusing.

She was holding the camera while she stood to watch the giraffe, repeating some inane giraffe joke from her childhood, from a time when she laughed easily. He doesn't even remember the joke now. He only remembers her laughing and the giraffe ducking, reaching out its enormous crooked neck for food. And he thought she looked beautiful, and thought the moment was perfect, and he reached out and slipped the disposable camera out of her hand.

She gave him a strange look, asked him whether he wanted a picture of the giraffe, too, and he could only shake his head. He slid the camera into his pants pocket and slid out the tiny wooden box. He pressed it into her hand, and gave her a crooked smile, and her eyes went wide.

"We have a four-course dinner back at the hotel--"

And that was as far as he got, because the box was open and her eyes were wide and a tear was sliding down her cheek.

"Is this--?" she asked, because that was all the question she could muster.

"Yeah," he said, because that was the only word that seemed to be left in his vocabulary.

And then he hugged her and she kissed him, and she cried and he laughed and some kid in a Spiderman t-shirt tugged at their clothes and asked Sydney if she was okay. And then she laughed, and he laughed harder, and he decided the grand speech he planned out would just have to wait.

They were late to the dinner, and wore their zoo clothes. The waiter gave them a look, but didn't say a word, and they sipped wine on the balcony in their flip-flops and t-shirts and he smiled, and apologized, and told her all the things he would have said.

Sydney said she wouldn't have it any other way.

She said it to him a hundred times, a thousand, late at night and into the day. She said it to him when he was drunk, mostly, and occasionally in his dreams. When he was asleep, he dreamed of ashes, pungent smoke and flashing blue lights and the sound of phone calls made too late. When he was awake, he dreamed of warm sand and the smell of good wine and crooked-necked giraffes. It was the only way to smooth the surface of his life, too fill in all the should-have-been's and meant-to-be's.

His life was littered with a thousand gaps, places where she should have been. It seemed natural to plug each one with some dream, some imagined memory. It seemed right, somehow, to bring her with him, to let her live the life she never had, to have the future that was surely meant to be.

Catch him in the wrong moment, now, and he'll still have trouble sorting it out; he'll still pause for a split second, straighten his collar, and pretend to take a breath. He'll say it plainly, without emotion or embellishment, tell you what really happened. He'll never tell you what he was thinking, the things only he can remember, the memories that were surely meant to be.

Catch him in the right moment, when his guard is down, and he'll tell you he bought a ring.

Why yes, I'm STILL at home.

Mon, 24 Jan 2005 18:25:17 GMT

Decided to heed all the advisories today and not venture out onto the snow-covered streets. Some kind people who live closer to work are covering for me, so I'm going to stick to things within walking distance today and go back into work tomorrow.

I put this up on FF.net last night, but I'll go ahead and post here as well, if only to have one correctly formatted version out there. It's a brief and very spoilery bit of GG spec, brought on by the blizzard. What can I say? At the moment, there's nothing more attractive than a man with a snow shovel.

Title: Snow Shovels and Silence
Rating: PG
Pairing: LL
Spoilers: Through ep. 101 (5.14, I believe)

Summary: He fit so neatly in her life that, sometimes, she forgot to acknowledge he was there. This is the problem with things that fit neatly into her life: they never lift neatly out.

******

The snow has been shoveled.

It's single-digits outside and the wind is still blowing and the damn blizzard hasn't even quit yet, and someone has shoveled her walk. There's a trench three feet wide and two feet deep where there ought to be nothing but a bright expanse of white yard and a Jeep-shaped snowbank.

She knows it's him. She knows it's him and she can't acknowledge it, can't even say it out loud; she's afraid if she lets the idea out it might not be a reality anymore, it might freeze in the cold air, cracking in two. She can't see him and she can't even speak to him and yet he came here, to her house, before the snow even stopped and shoveled her walk.

It's always been that way between the two of them: he existed in the background, at the edges, shoveling her walk and fixing her roof and cooking her food and drying her tears. He fit so neatly in her life that, sometimes, she forgot to acknowledge he was there. This is the problem with things that fit neatly into her life: they never lift neatly out.

******

He could barely look at her when he said it. She hadn't caught the words, not all of them, she heard problems and mother and Hartford and break, and before she knew it she was walking outside in the cold, walking away from the diner in the middle of the night, purse clutched in one hand and knuckles so tight she thought they might swell.

She was still wearing his flannel.

******

He'd implored her to say something, anything, after it happened. He asked in two phone messages and a note in her mailbox and one phone call at the inn. He asked on a slip of paper in a to-go carton, dutifully delivered by Rory. He asked in a hundred, silent ways, eyes darting toward the street every time someone walked by, head snapping up every time someone walked in. But still, she was quiet.

And for the first time, Luke was afraid of silence.

******

She was tired of television. Lorelai, tired of TV. This was something she never thought she would say. (She was tired of other things, too, but not tired enough to admit it: the Dragonfly, Sookie, cupcakes from Westin's, people with sympathetic eyes, and phone messages that never said the right thing.)

So she was tired of TV, and not tired enough to read, and tired of work and friends and play, and a blizzard was coming. She was going to be caught in the house, here, alone, when she was tired of everything. It was the worst possible timing and yet, somehow, fitting.

******

Why did you shovel my walk?

His fingers clenched around the stub pencil, still poised over the order pad. It was the middle of the lunch rush, at the only place in town to open after the storm, and he'd been ready to take his thirty-second phone order. And there she was, after six days of silence, on the other end of his phone.

He couldn't think of a thing to say.

Luke? I asked you a question.

Yeah, give me a second.

He pulled the phone into the storeroom, sinking down on a crate, putting the notepad down and picking it back up, running his free hand through his hair and replacing his hat again.

It needed shoveling.

It was all he could think of to say.

So, you just thought you'd come to my house in the middle of a blizzard and shovel it for me?

You don't own a snow shovel.

And that's it?

He nods for a second before remembering that she can't hear that through the phone. Yeah, he says. That’s it, he says. What else did you want me to say?

That's a very long list, she says, and he hears the bitter edge in her voice. He knew it would be there, knew to expect it, but it hurts him still. He had hoped this would be brief, necessary, the drastic step it took to make all the pieces fall into place. But he can see it now, can hear her on the other end of the phone, not talking, pulling into herself and pulling away, away from him, away from anything that might hurt too much or be too hard or cause both of them pain. He hears it, and sees it, and is afraid. She is burying whatever might have been there deep, too deep for him to find.

Bye, she says, and the phone has clicked dead before it even registers, before he can think of another thing to say.

******

She hears the sounds and tries to ignore them, pulling a pillow and thick comforter over her head. It doesn't help; they're back again, a rhythmic scraping and thumping filtering up through her window and into her sleep. She stumbles out of bed, down the stairs, pulls on the coat hanging on the doorknob, and walks outside.

What the hell are you doing?

He's standing beside her jeep, where a snowdrift used to be. He's cleared a trench around the jeep and shoveled most of the snow from the top and he's working on a deep, wide path to the street.

Your car needs shoveling. You'll never make it to work, he says, and lifts another shovelful.

So you thought you'd come over here in the middle of the night and dig it out? He shrugs, at least she guesses it's supposed to be a shrug, and dumps another shovelful of snow.

Luke, come inside.

She's dropped her voice low, into the serious-mommy tone that never failed to get Rory's attention. It gets his, too, because he stops mid-scoop, back tense and straight. He stands that way for a moment, face turned away, fighting some internal battle she can't see. Finally, he turns, drops the shovel, and trudges past her, up the steps, and inside.

******

He's perched on the edge of the couch when she closes the door, staring at the floor and clenching and unclenching his hands. He watches her from the corner of his eye as she comes into the room, taking her time, slipping out of her coat and shoes. She sits across from him and just a little bit down, on the edge of the coffee table, and waits for him to speak.

This was supposed to make things easier, he says. She snorts.

Luke, breakups never make things easy.

He just swallows, and nods.

I don't know how to fix this, he says, and his voice is low and scratchy. He takes a deep breath, then adds: but I don't want to give up.

So that's why you're out there shoveling my car in the middle of the night?

He nods.

She stares at her hands, tangling and untangling her fingers. I'm mad, she says. I'm mad and I don't remember ever being this mad at you in my life. He flinches, as if she's struck him. Perhaps she has.

I didn't want-- he breaks off, working his jaw, and tries again. I didn't want to ruin everything. I just didn't know how to sort all of this out.

Well, you did a pretty crappy job of that. Her voice begins to break when she says it, and she shuts her mouth again, drawing in a long, deep breath.

I'm not good at fixing things, he says, still staring at his hands. Pipes, yeah, toasters, fine. But I don't know how to fix this. Any I'm trying.

You want to fix this? she asks; there's a challenge in her voice, and he looks up to meet her eyes. You can't just quit. I thought you were the one who was committed, I thought you were the one who was all in, I thought if anyone was going to walk away, if anyone was going to completely screw this up, it was gonna be me. That's what I do, Luke, I leave. I've made an art form out of it. Don't-- she pulled back her arm, away from him, he'd barely been aware of reaching out his hand. Don't. She drew another long, slow breath. I didn't think you would leave. You're not that kind of person. You're not the one who leaves.

Her voice breaks fully, now, and she turns away from him, swiping at her cheeks. It's only a moment until she's composed again, looking down, twisting and untwisting her hands.

I don't want to leave. His voice is thick and raspy. I don't want to leave.

He reaches out his hand again, slow, tentative, afraid she might pull away further, afraid she might bolt. She doesn't move, still staring at her hands as he slips his hand between both of hers, grasping her fingers and squeezing them lightly.

I'm sorry, he says. It--it was the wrong thing to do.

Shoveling in a blizzard? There's a teasing note in it, but something else, as well, something bitter. She's giving him an out.

Asking for a break. His voice is lower, then, even quieter than before, and he's perfectly still, holding in a breath. It's in his posture, the way he sits, every muscle tense. He's afraid that if he moves the moment might pass away.

She sits for a long moment, and waits, and then squeezes his fingers lightly.

You realize you'll have to dig me out of this storm and every one that comes after it.

His whole body shudders with the breath he lets out.

I'll drive to New Haven and dig out Rory.

Every storm?

Every one.

Good, she says, and her voice wavers again. Then he's pulling towards her and she's pulling towards him and he misses the coffee table and she misses the couch and they both slide down to the floor together, him wedged between the furniture with her in his lap, arms around his shoulders, and he's holding her so tightly he can feel the knobs of her spine beneath his palm. Her face is against his neck and he can feel the wet tear-tracks on her cheek. He doesn't know how long they sit there, after a while his knees begin to ache, and then his shoulders, and he doesn't dare move because if he does he might be further from her, her face might not fit into his shoulder, his arms might not fit around her back. He doesn't know how long it is until she moves, standing up, and he pulls himself up with her.

She kisses him, twice against the neck and once on the mouth, the moment is long and slow and strong. He cinches his arms around her, again, afraid she might slip further away, afraid he'll never quite get her close enough. She stands on her tiptoes and rests her arms on his shoulders and her face against his ear. She says it so quietly he almost doesn't hear; he's afraid he's made it all up, it's certainly too good to be true. But his grip stiffens and hers softens and she relaxes against his chest. He's blinking his eyes and working his fingers, the material of her shirt bunching beneath his grip. He draws in a long breath, and rubs one hand slowly across her back, and tries not to stumble across the words. I love you, too, he says.

And he's no longer afraid of the silence.

Returning from oblivion, with Lostfic in tow.

Sat, 22 Jan 2005 17:18:13 GMT

Sorry to have been absent for so long; in addition to my normal hectic schedule, I've been out of town with spotty internet availability for the last month. Since the coming snowstorm has driven me indoors for the weekend, I've taken a stab at a (very brief) bit of Lostfic.

Title: Blueprints
Rating: PG
Ship: None really, hints of S/S
Spoilers: Through "Hearts and Minds".
Summary: She's stored that part of her life away, rolled it in a tube beneath an old coat and two boxes of out-of-season shoes. Post-series, Shannon POV.

She remembers in flashes, disjointed bits of life that never add up to anything whole.

She was sitting on the beach and the sand was cold, too cold for this place, she wore two shirts and an airline blanket and still it wasn't quite enough.

She was digging in the earth and it was hot, too hot, air so thick she could barely feel the sweat on her skin, rivulets running down in the dirt on her legs. She was digging, digging because it was all she could do, digging like the only thing that mattered, but for what? She can't remember.

She hates dirt beneath her fingernails. She hates dirt anywhere, and this is what bothers her most. It must have important; it must have mattered somehow.

But she only remembers the digging.

She was standing in the rain and the tarp wasn't doing much, it just channeled the water into thick streams that fell into the cave and ran across the ground, soaking the food. She was holding all her clothes in her arms, holding them off the ground.

She was sitting beside a man with warm skin, her arm was bare and so was his, and who was he? She remembers only the skin; if she touched her arm, she thinks it would be warm still.

They told her it was natural, told her it made sense. A fever, they said. Drugs, they said. Ever taken hallucinogens? She snorted. You think I'm going to answer that?

And so she sees in flashes.

She has a tube in her apartment, and no one knows it's there. She has a piece of paper rolled up inside, thin tracing paper like blueprints; she writes on it in pencil. She pieces it together alone, late at night, when she can't sleep. The timeline is not right, and it never has been, but she tries to place the flashes.

Some of it she remembers well. She hasn't been on a plane again. There was a helicopter from the rescue boat to the hospital, she was told, but she wasn't conscious for that. She remembers chaos and screaming and turbulence and blackness -- blackness and warm sand beneath her cheek.

She remembers the first days, gathering food and finding clothes and hoarding the only decent hairbrush. She remembers French translations and asthma and the smell of eucalyptus in the air.

She remembers fear. She remembers being truly afraid, for the first time, how it caught her off guard and felt nothing like she had imagined it would. It was not panic, pressure crushing her chest and blocking the air, it was much worse than that. It felt like vertigo, like the world had slanted and everything was somehow wrong.

It felt like falling.

She doesn't remember much after that -- only the flashes. Bright and dark, the scent of thick mud, the feel of cold water from the stream. Fruit with the skin still on, meat too fatty and hot off the spit. Her stomach rumbled; she threw it up.

He told her to eat again.

She got a phone call once, late at night. The connection was bad and it crackled and scratched like she thought it only did in old tv shows. She only said hello once; maybe she heard voices on the other end, maybe it was only background noise.

She knows who it was, or at least thinks she knows, and that's certainty enough. It's better he didn't speak, better the line went dead. He's nothing more than part of a dream; the kind of thing that could never happen in reality.

(Which, perhaps, is why it happened, in that unreal place.)

They buried her brother in a quiet spot near the beach, on private property where they could keep the paparazzi away. They were everywhere, then, reporters and photographers and agents wanting interviews. She still gets the calls, occasionally, someone dogged enough to find the unlisted number and the new city. The story is too old for reporters, anymore, mostly writers looking to do a book or a treatment and scholars looking to do a PhD. She blows them all off, sometimes after leading them on, tells them no with words she knows they won't print in the paper.

They buried him and her mother wept and her father cried and she was silent. She was done with him, through, and she lied even about what little she could remember. Better they didn't know, better they dreamed. Better he remained who he had been, not what he became.

She got a subpoena once, just before the trial. She threw it in the trash with a credit card application and a department store ad. There's probably a warrant out over that, somewhere, but so what? Just one more state to fly over.

She hears about the others occasionally, bits and snatches she mostly tries to avoid. She knows enough to be sure none of them live here; this city is safe, cool with glass and steel and anonymity.

She doesn't want the accident, doesn't want the chance. Doesn't want to run into one of them at the department store or the end of the bar or somewhere crossing the street. She gets phone calls occasionally -- answering machine messages about birth and death and people feeling guilty enough to dial. She doesn't answer the messages, and after a while they taper off.

They haven't gone away completely; she's afraid they never will.

She's stored that part of her life away, rolled it in a tube beneath an old coat and two boxes of out-of-season shoes. She only takes it out late at night, only when she can't sleep, unrolling it across the table and plotting the flashes across it like scattered stars.

The rest of the time she's normal; the rest of the time she is her. Her father said she should have changed, her mother said she should have grown. (Her brother said nothing; he never will, and she cried for that, twice, when she was alone.)

Normal is safe, flimsy and needless, with nothing to plan beyond the immediate day. The only change is the money, more regular now, and the men, more rare. The cash is nice, guilt money and blood money pushed into her hands. The men are less so, but she never keeps them long enough to notice. They're a lacquer, a façade -- something to seal the surface and coat the corners. It's all she needs, really, a polish and shine. She stays away from the family, doesn't come home too often or stay too long. Doesn't let them watch her spend and watch her squander and watch it all drift away.

She's always looked better from a distance, she knows: bright and vibrant and unlined.

She saw a man on a street once, here where that accident is never supposed to happen. It was his posture, perhaps, or his gait, something enough to catch her attention, less than a memory, more than a flash. He was standing outside her building, standing with hair that shielded his face, then he was turning and walking away. Then he was a part of the crowd, swirling and pulsing and moving at its own pace. She wonders whether it was real, wonders whether it's her eyes or her mind, wonders what she swallowed last night.

She feels her still-warm arm, and wonders if it is the press of his skin she remembers there.

She unrolls the paper that night, flat across the table with four mismatched glasses to hold it down. She empties a mechanical pencil and switches to bright blue pens. She makes the notes neat and small, next to each dot, each flash. She crosses them out and begins over again.

When the sun hits the first glass, she knocks it off the table with the back of her hand. It shatters, no problem, one more task for the maid. The paper rolls in; one corner, and then the other, and she's stuffing the whole thing back into a tube again. She's cold, too cold for this place, even with two shirts and a blanket around her shoulders.

This is what she fears: that the dark spots have a reason for being dark, that it's more than bad jungle weeds hiding beyond the edges of her dreams. But she knows the numbers already: deaths, injuries, accidents, breakdowns. (Hers included.) Someone filled those spots in, a thousand someones, in every news headline for all the world to see. She knows the worst, then, doesn't she? That people are craven, and broken, and dark. She learned that long ago. So what more is there? What more is there for her to see? The flashes are frustrating; the flashes are infuriating.

The flashes are safe.

She puts the tube away, packs it deeper this time: behind a box of paperwork from the accountant and a bag of bad Christmas gifts she forgot to return. She throws away the stub pencil and two blue pens. She scrubs the ink off her fingers and fixes her nails, puts on new clothes and pulls back her hair.

This is life, her life, the way she keeps it. Everything at a distance, everything at arms' length: bright and vibrant and unlined.

Believe!

Thu, 21 Oct 2004 04:37:46 GMT

One word:

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Cingular is a four-letter word.

Thu, 19 Aug 2004 03:52:26 GMT

Thanks to all of you who gave me cell phone advice. Unfortunately, I ended up taking none of it because Cingular screwed me over.

Hello, Verizon!

The short version: if you have problems while outside your home area, Cingular can't do a damn thing to help you.

So my faithful Nokia bit the dust over the weekend. I don't know why; it just stopped holding a signal for more than ten seconds at a time. It's two years old and been dropped many times, so I'm annoyed, but not surprised.

I've got (had) a Cingular plan with nationwide roaming, and I was really happy with it. I travel frequently and move during the summer, so I need a phone that will go with me anywhere. In fact, it's my only phone. Why pay for a regular line?

Great plan, until my phone died. I *need* a working phone, and I need it yesterday. So I went to the Cingular store today at lunch.

They can't help me. They couldn't even access my account, because I'm (say it with me now) outside my home calling area.

So I go back to the office and call Cingular's customer service. They say, sure, they'll hook me up with a new phone, I just have to go to a store in my home calling area and pick one up.

I explain this is not possible for another two weeks. I ask them to ship me a phone.

They say, sure, they can ship the phone, but I can't activate it when I'm outside my home calling area.

I explain I can't wait two weeks. They explain they can't activate the phone outside the home calling area. Maybe I could ship it to someone in Boston, who could activate it and ship it to me?

You have got to be kidding me.

I ask about a new account. Sure, I can get a new account with a new phone number. A Washington number!

I hang up.

I call Verizon.

Me: "Hey, I need an account with a Boston number, but I want you to give me a phone in Washington and I want it to work right now. And I want it to be free. Can you do that by yesterday?"

Verizon guy: "You want a new Boston number or your old one?"

I think I offered to have his children.

So Verizon gave me a new account for the same price as my Cingular one, with all the same features and a few extra minutes. And I decided to shell out an extra $50 to upgrade to a camera phone! I didn't order the internet service for the phone, but we'll see how long it takes me to give in.

Oh, and Cingular? Bite me.

Help me find a cell phone!

Wed, 18 Aug 2004 03:12:04 GMT

My longsuffering Nokia appears to be dead, so I'm in the market for a new phone. The good news is that my Cingular contract is also up, so I'm hoping to wheedle a new phone out of them. So I'm opinion-shopping:

View Poll: LB

All of the above are (more or less) free with the contract. I've always taken the free handout, so I know *nothing* about phones. Any advice you guys have for me would be very helpful.

Sun, 08 Aug 2004 01:21:24 GMT

I have three words for all of you:

Go. See. Collateral.

Love, love, love. I could rave about Michael Mann, Tom Cruise and Jamie Foxx all night, and probably will. Just not here. Suffice to say it's beautifully made and brilliantly acted. The climax is a bit overblown, but that's my only gripe. The characters are well-drawn and the plotline is, for the most part, blissfully unpredictable.

It's also got the best score since Ocean's 11. Better. The music shifts genres and decades from scene to scene, and every single song is excellent. Rock, techno, jazz, anything, doesn't matter. It's excellent. The ultimate cruelty? The soundtrack isn't on iTunes! I might be forced to travel to an actual store to buy music. I hope I'll remember how.

My kingdom for the name of the song playing while they're in the club -- the second one. It's not on the soundtrack and I want it. [/whine]

ETA: Nevermind, found it! Turns out it is on the soundtrack, and I'm being a blonde. It's a Korean remix of Paul Oakenfeld's "Ready, Steady, Go", if anyone was wondering.

L/L ficlet.

Sat, 07 Aug 2004 17:13:29 GMT

Don't know where this came from. I'm on cold medicine.

Not that you should assume the two of those are related.

Title: Not While the Toaster is Watching
Rating: G
Pairing: L/L
Summary: Sometimes, he thinks it would be easier to just kill her and have it done with. But then he'd have to find a place to hide the body. (1/1).
Disclaimer: Not mine. Don't sue.

Nicole traces her fingers along the edge of his collar, and he pulls away.

He knows, by now, a certain number of appropriate excuses for such a thing. Not that he does this a lot (he is, after all, human), but when things are too weird or too strained or simply too late, he knows things to say.

I've got a headache being the stereotypical one, so he doesn't use it; I've got an early delivery tomorrow works better.

Or I'm coming down with a cold (the problem being, then you actually have to come down with one), or I've got a strained muscle in my leg, or my back is out. The back being out is naturally the best one, as it's non-specific and flexible on time.

The one thing he can't say, and he knows it: because the toaster will see us.

******

"Luke Danes?" The guy in the brown shorts raises his voice at the end, turns it into a question.

"I don't have another delivery scheduled today," Luke says, and goes back to taking an order.

"Where do you want it?" The UPS guy asks, undeterred, and starts toward Luke with one of those annoying electronic-sign things. Luke's never trusted them.

"What is it?" Luke, against his better judgement, tucks the order pad into his belt and takes the box in his hands. It's got his name on it and the return address is a pre-printed label from some frou-frou yuppie kitchen store Nicole's always raving about. He's never had any interest in the place, it's filled with muffin pans shaped like flowers and multi-colored spatulas and other useless things, the kind of place where they paint a perfectly good mixer purple and then charge you an extra hundred bucks because it's purple. He wants nothing to do with it.

"I didn't order this," he says, and sets it down on the table. Which is a mistake, it gives brown-shorts guy an opening to shove that electronic-signature thing at him.

"I just deliver. You'll have to take it up with the sender."

"I can send it back?"

The guy shrugs. "If you didn't order it, I guess."

Table four is shooting him death-glares by this point, and a guy at the counter is not-so-subtly playing with his empty coffee cup, so Luke sighs and signs the damn thing and carries the suspicious package back to the storeroom.

It's another fifteen minutes before he gets a break -- not that he's really trying -- and gets a chance to open the unwanted box.

It's a toaster. Stainless-steel and modern, it's got knobs and dials and a little light to let you know when the toast is done. In case you case you can't seem to figure that out when it pops up, he guesses. There's an instruction book to go with it, packed in the bottom of the box. An instruction book. For a toaster.

Looks like the kind of thing Nicole would order; looks like the kind of thing she would love. What he can't figure is why she would have it sent here.

That's when he sees it -- a tiny white card sticking up out of the styrofoam. There's a note.

Congratulations.

-Lorelai.

Sometimes, he thinks it would be easier to just kill her and have it done with.

But then he'd have to find a place to hide the body.

******

"Coffee, and a burger, and extra fries on the side."

She sits at the counter, and that's the only thing she says for a minute. Not a hi, not a hello, just an order. Which wouldn’t be remarkable, except that those are the first words she's spoken to him in three weeks.

He has to step closer to her to fill the coffee mug; it can't be avoided.

"So, did you get it?" She's not meeting his eyes.

"Get what?"

"It. It. Your townhousewarming present."

"Oh. Is that what that was?"

"Well, it could be a wedding present, but it's a little too late for that. You're supposed to send it within a month of the wedding. Or is it three months? My mother would know. It could be a year, but then you've only got a year to write the thank-you cards, so I guess if you're a troublemaker you slip it in under the wire and then the couple has to write the thank-you note immediately or face some sort of Miss-Manners-approved punishment. Like being uninvited from the DAR luncheon."

"I got the toaster."

She looks at him over the edge of her cup, eyes half-hopeful. "Did you like it?"

He should, really, know how to answer this question, but he's not sure at the moment if did you like it means did you like it or will you forgive me or are we okay now or hey, you want to kiss me now? But now he's thinking like her, and he's pretty certain he just made that last one up.

So he shrugs. "It came with an instruction book."

"Fifty pages. And on the reverse pages, it's in French."

"I don't speak French."

"Nicole might."

"Nicole does."

She seems, inexplicably, disappointed in this.

"Well, that's good then, she can read the French part and you can read the non-French part."

"I don't think we need instructions for a toaster."

"It has dials. And lights."

"It makes toast."

"But, it might not make that toast perfectly without the dials and lights. They might be vital to the proper toast-making operation."

"Eat your burger." He grabs it from the pass-though and sets it down in front of her. The one good thing about Lorelai's appetite: she occasionally has to stop talking long enough to eat.

******

"Why? Why don’t you want me to move?"

"Because you'll be living with Nicole." She practically shouts it, and her face is twisted, as if she's confused, or about to scream.

He shuts up at that, mouth still part-open, sucking in a deep breath.

He doesn't get the chance to move before she starts toward him, and he's still frozen when she reaches up and takes his face in both hands, pulls herself towards him, and he thinks--

"Lorelai--"

She freezes, and there's an expression on her face he's never seen, and then she jerks back.

"--what are you doing?"

"Nothing, I'm--" she steps backwards. "Nothing."

She turns around and practically runs out of the church.

So he does the only thing he can do: pick up his toolbox, curse at the floor, and break the bells.

******

Lawnerd alert!

Fri, 06 Aug 2004 01:48:07 GMT

Today's must-read news story is (belive it or not) from USA Today.

It's about juries and the so-called CSI-effect. There is not enough Word in the world for this article. I enjoy CSI, too, but it has skewed peoples' understanding of criminal investigations horribly. This should be required reading in jury rooms.

A parting vignette: I participated in a mock trial last January which, like most trials, involved some pretty well-balanced evidence. The jury (eleven boys from a local middle school) voted, rendered their verdict (guilty on a lesser charge) and filed out. I was thanking the jurors as they left, and one of them turned to me and asked, "Did we get it right?" I shrugged. "You know everything we know," I told him.

He expected to get an answer from me -- he thought there would be a definitive story out there, a wrong or a right. Needless to say, he was wrong.

That mock trial? Was a real case. Down to the crime-scene photos in my coursebook.

Draw your own conclusions.

In which I gush and say 'thank you' a lot....

Wed, 04 Aug 2004 02:29:07 GMT

Congrats to everyone involved with the Festival of Fic -- those who won, those who were nominated, those who worked hard to put it all together. There are so many amazing authors and so much amazing fic out there -- you all deserve congratulations.

Also, to those of you who voted -- seriously? Um, wow. Thanks.

A huge thank you to the judges -- I know you had your hands full this year, and your work is truly appreciated.

Hugs and kisses to my wondrous betas, carrielynnobu and ciachick711. You girls don't get enough love for your own wonderful fic, nor enough thanks for making my stories so much better.

If can can gush a bit more without getting too disgusting, I'm truly touched. With so many wonderful authors out there, I fell a little wierd about all this -- I can think of other authors who consistently amaze me and seem so much more deserving. There are just so many wonderful writers and fics in this fandom.

Thank you.

Let not the plot twist be seen. It attracts them!

Sun, 01 Aug 2004 03:48:51 GMT

This is belated:

Happy Birthday carmen_sandiego!

Saw The Village tonight. (Don't worry, I'll keep this non-spoilery.) After a good bit of thinking, I've decided I liked half of it. I'll say up front I love Shyamalan -- his movies never fail to be atmospheric and beautiful to look at. I love the was he structures his films as series of perfectly-matted pictures, with a sense of stillness and quiet, the way he bucks the trend toward ever-more kinetic directing. There's also a sense of craftsmanship, of meticulousness, about his work -- everything serves a purpose; even apparent missteps futher a deeper point. It's why I like his movies, even Unbreakable, despite its obvious flaws.

Which is why I partially like The Village. Particularly in the first act, he's created an eerie world that's a pleasure to be sucked into.

And then the twists start. There are several, only the first of which is actually surprising. Shyamalan has incredible gifts as a filmmaker, and I think we would all be better off if he would end his compulsion to deliver the shocker and if his audience would let him do so. He rests the film on a series of increasingly thin surprises, and in the process loses what was so enjoyable about it at the outset.

I sounds as if I'm being rather harsh, but I did enjoy much of this movie. I'd like to watch this movie again and turn it off at the halfway mark. The first half is an enjoyably creepy mood piece with solid performances and a romance that's just understated enough to be compelling. The direction is, no surprise, beautiful. I'm also developing a rather disturbing attraction to Joaquin Phoenix.

If any of you has seen it, comment here and let me know what you think. I'm curious.

It's about time I rented Signs....

Still alive, with birthday wishes and a twin.

Wed, 28 Jul 2004 00:37:35 GMT

Rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated.

After a super-busy week at work, the parents came into town for a long weekend, so I've been out working and/or playing tourist for the last six days. (Apologies to the flist; I'm horribly behind.)

International Spy Museum -- Heavy on the cheese factor, but they've also got a lipstick gun, so it all evens out. Stop by the gift shop, the Revolutionaries Finger Puppets are not to be missed.
National Archives -- Confirmation that I am the biggest nerd ever. I nearly squealed when I saw Marbury v. Madison.
The Jefferson Memorial -- Still my favorite.
The FDR Memorial -- Note to all damn tourists: it's a bread line. It's tragic. Stop taking your $*%^#@%& pictures lined up behind it.
The WWII Memorial -- Gorgeous, ornate, not as moving as Vietnam, but what is? Great job integrating it into the landscape.
Vietnam Memorial -- It's half-blocked off at the moment, but still gut-wrenching.
Korean War Memorial -- Anyone else spooked by this after dark?
Natural History Museum -- The geology exhibit never ceases to amaze me. This is my third or fourth time through the whole thing, and I'm still transfixed.
American History Museum -- Didn't see too much, the feet had given out.
Botanical Gardens -- Short and lovely. Check out the orchid room.

Also, it's Restaurant Week in DC, so I'm living it up. I had the best coffee of my life last night at Vidalia. (Yeah, yeah, the food was amazing, too. But the coffee!)

I have learned three things:
1. DC is my favorite city ever.
2. I will probably never walk normally again.
3. I am the biggest sap ever. ciachick711 and carrielynnobu accuse me of having a cold, black, empty heart (long story short: nothing fictional makes me cry), but plunk me down in front of a memorial, and I'm a wreck.

This was too good not to post:

Hee! Separated at birth, my dear. (Now, which one of us is lying about her age?)

And, last but certainly not least, Happy Birthday alikona727! I wish you your very own VaughnClone.

The moment you've all been waiting for....

Thu, 22 Jul 2004 02:24:08 GMT

I am unworthy to post such badness. Thank all of you for the screamingly funny badfic, you are sd-1 and ff.net rolled into one.

Drumroll please.....

seirina wrote A Little Ditty 'bout Jack and Diane
carrielynnobu wrote some requested Trory
delordra wrote A NIGHT AT THE OPERA
carmen_sandiego wrote I Still Remember
ciachick711 wrote L+L= tru luv
thestickywicket wrote Wolverine Was Mad
andsoitbegins wrote Evil Mr Sark
bbunny wrote some untitled badness
dianora2 wrote some WW badness
minion_mel wrote Spy High
redraidermush wrote U OUghtta Know
kiwikatzkatz wrote Irina's Happy Ending
scout27 wrote Plz reed me (or something along those lines)
kenya121 wrote Fight 4 Our Luv
magi_47 wrote hot mcvaughnald had a farm

annnnnd that's all, folks. (At least I think so.) Post, email or otherwise harass me if I've overlooked anybody.

On a personal note, I'm having something of a week, so thank you all for the much-needed belly laughs. Viva la suck!

The Badfic Continues!

Wed, 21 Jul 2004 04:06:07 GMT

I've been bowled over by the badness -- you all make me so proud.

A list of your truly terrible entries will be posted here later; I've unfortunately been swamped at work today and have no time to compile the links list right now. So, those of you tardy badficcers, get to work! You still have time to post your works of horror before the final list goes live.

Watch this space.

The Second Annual International Badfic Day

Tue, 20 Jul 2004 02:56:28 GMT

It's that time again, kids....

The Second Annual International Badfic Day

Those of you who were around for the first badfic day remember the joy, the pain, the exhilaration of scraping the bottom of the barrel, of stooping to reach the lowest common denominator, and succeeding.

Those of you who are new to the event...never fear! You, too, can achieve true badness.

Now, some of you are sitting at home, saying, wait, how can this be the Second Annual badfic day? The first one was only a couple months ago! To you, I say: this is the sort of logical, detail-oriented thinking that keeps you from true badness. Let it go! Toss Strunk & White in the corner! Throw Lynne Truss into the drawer! Let go of your petty obsession with grammar, your dalliances with characterization, your fixation on plot! Embrace the songfic, the deathfic, the Mary Sue!

Badness lies inside each of us. Yes, even you. Don't deny it any longer.

Write your badfic. Post your badfic. For the love of everything holy, don't beta your badfic. If you wish to share your badness, leave a comment here, and a list of links will be posted tomorrow evening.

Here's a little something to get us started:

Slave 4 U

Michael Vaughn walked out of Ops center, his thick-lashed emerald eyes sparkling in the even light. His forehead was wrinkled in deep though. He was sad.

He was sad because while Sydney was gone for two years kidnaped by the covenant (he didn't know she was kidnaped he thought she was dead) he had married Lauren Reed, but then Sydney came back, and he didn't know how he felt anymore. Lauren was so perfect. But the first time he saw Sydney, she looked into the depths of his soul with her chocolate orbs. And he just wanted to reach up and run a hand through her rippling fawn-brown tresses.

He got into the car and started dirving. He was driving home.

He reached over to the radio and turned on the cd player. He realized with a start that it was playing the Britney Spears cd Syd had given him for their first anniversary. He closed his verdant eyes and let the music wash over him like an ocean shore.

I know I may be young
But I’ve got feelings too
And I need to do what I feel like doing
So let me go and just listen

So he let go and just listened.

All you people look at me like I’m a little girl
Well did you ever think it'd be okay for me to step into this world
Always saying,"little girl don’t step into the club"
Well I’m just tryin’ to find out why cause dancing’s what I love

Get it get it, get it get it, whooah
Get it get it, get it get it, whooah (Do you like it)
Get it get it, get it get it, whooah (This feels good)

I know I may come off quiet
I may come off shy
But I feel like talking
Feel like dancing when I see this guy

What’s practical is logical What the hell, who cares?
All I know is I’m so happy when you’re dancing there

I’m a slave for you
I cannot hold it
I cannot control it
I’m a slave for you
I won’t deny it
I’m not trying to hide it

And then he ralized it and he knew. He was Sydney's slave. He had been her slave since the first time he kissed her and their souls joined together as their tongues lapped against each other like waves.

So he walked over to Lauren.

"Lauren, I want a divorce. I'm Sydney's slave."

Lauren started to cry. "Vaughn, how can you do this. We are married."

"But Lauren I love Sydney." he says.

"Okay but I will never forgive you."

"Okay." He said then he went to see Sydney.

When he saw Sydney he said "Sydney I love you and I got a divorce. Now we can get married."

"Oh Michael I'm so happy." Sydney said. She was so happy. "And now I can tell you I'm pregnant with your twins."

"Oh Sydney this is the best day of my life." He took her into his lean muscular arms and she looked deeply into his eyes that were sparkling pools of chartreuse, where she could see his soul. Then she kissed him and their tongues tangoed together in the twilight and he put his hands into her flowing silken waves of her hair. And their souls were joined together in an eternal bond.

How bad can you be?

A little late, but...

Mon, 19 Jul 2004 02:35:07 GMT

Eeep! I've been having internet issues, so please accept the belated wishes:

Happy Brithday jesouhaite47!

Luke/Lorelai Ficathon Story

Sat, 17 Jul 2004 05:49:16 GMT

The main ficathon page & links are here.

For themoonbar.
Requests: mutual physical attraction, Luke's hands, angst. (Hope I un-schmooped it enough!)
Other character: Jess.

Title: We Dance to Sad Songs, Too.
Rating: PG
Summary: If she could set their relationship to time, it would be a waltz. It makes sense, like that, two steps forward and a side-step.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Amy Sherman-Palladino's. Litigation is boring and dull.

******

They waltzed on their first date (him: first official date, her: classic non-date-date. We made it official later.) But official or not, she remembers the dance, and his smile, and her laugh, and his hand resting lightly on the small of her back.

One, two, up, one, two, up, one, two, up.

If she could set their relationship to time, it would be a waltz. It makes sense, like that, two steps forward and a side-step.

She smiled, and flirted, and admitted the dance had been her favorite part. Some part of her was just wrapped up in The Moment, some part wanted to step in closer and lean her head on his shoulder.

Things were simple, then.

******

She sidestepped him after their first kiss. That was simple -- there was Rory, which in those days screamed at her in capital letters, RORY, and there was the Dragonfly, and her parents, and somewhere way down the line, off in the distance, was her love life. The one thing she'd never been able to get quite right, and how could she expect to get that down, when everything she'd always been good at had fallen so spectacularly apart?

She lifted her hand to her lips once, to remember what it felt like when it had been him.

******

He tried to say it once, early on, before the world toppled and everything was broken. They were sitting together on her couch, arms and legs and blankets and pillows intertwined, nodding off through the last third of the movie. She let her head rock back on his shoulder, and he caught the scent of her hair.

She wound her fingers between his and studied his hands, tracing them lightly with her thumb. Kissed his fingertips, one by one, and he reached up to stroke her hair.

He wanted to tell her then, what he'd been thinking. That he didn’t know how you got from friendship to this, but he was glad they had, that he couldn't think of anything better than sitting quietly on her couch, watching the evening slip away.

That he could see himself doing just this, sometime a long time from now, with her hand still wound around his and his fingers still in her hair.

He wanted to tell her he was bad with words, worse even than with gifts, but good with her. The truth was, he'd never been better.

I love you, he thought, and wondered how to say it, whether his lips would form the words.

He fell silent a bit too long, because she tensed, twisted her body around to face him, and her fingers slipped from his.

She smiled and laughed and made jokes, kissed him, and what choice did he have?

(It was a distraction, a diversionary tactic -- he would realize this later.)

He wondered, later, when he'd seen it the first time: the way she laughed when she was nervous, the way her skin looked, too tight and thin, as if she was holding something inside.

******

She'd been the one to break the ice, after that night at the Dragonfly.

Weeks, long weeks of confusion where everything was awkward and everything was wrong, and then one morning she walked in to order coffee and Luke wasn't there.

Lane said he'd just gone upstairs for a minute, and Lorelai didn't stop to consider: she walked up the stairs and into his apartment.

He hit his head on the safe-edge when she walked in; he turned around so quickly.

Haven't you ever knocked? he said, and the frustration in his voice was too great, too much.

She reached over and knocked on the doorframe. Luke didn't seem amused.

Lane will get you coffee, he said.

That's not what I came for.

He stood perfectly still as she crossed the room, perfectly still as she reached out and took his hands.

You never did explain, she said, leaning closer.

Explain what?

When Kirk ran down the stairs, you said you would explain later. You never did.

So you came up here to talk about Kirk?

No, she said, and she smiled. I didn't come up here to talk.

She was holding his hands, she remembers now: tracing his fingers with hers, feeling every countour, every crease. It would become something of a habit, later, or a quirk -- something she did while they were together, something that was theirs. And later, after it all fell apart, something to remember: in the worst moments, she could close her eyes and remember the feel of his hands, the shape, this one small part of him she'd memorized, a tangible memory to carry away.

Then, it was not memory: she drew herself to him, and he let her come: waited for the right moment, standing still. Waited until she was ready. She drew his hands back, placed them on her sides, on her hips. Let him pull her in again, the way he had that night, felt the warmth of his hands and the press of his lips.

She wondered, then, what she'd been waiting for.

******

Jess was back again, and that was as good a reason as any for a fight. Not that she needed a reason, really, but she needed something to justify the throbbing in her heart, off-kilter beats that came in threes, the fear strangling up inside her.

He was too close and too much and all too soon. She needed to be her; she needed to be free; she needed to run.

She needed a reason. And Jess' standard growl and bad manners and general annoyance factor were enough to get her going, enough to start the fire.

I don't see why you put up with him, she said.

He's family and I'm going to be there for him, he said, incredulous.

He needs to fall on his face for once and find out what life's like when you're not around to catch him, she retaliated.

And you'd do that with Rory? He asked.

And on it went.

She slept alone that night, arms pulled tight around her chest.

Score one for Lorelai.

******

He looked up and saw Jess sitting in his hallway, and wanted to embrace him and wanted to curse.

It's about time you got off your ass, Jess said. Luke didn't ask about what: he'd seen Lorelai.

You ought to get off yours, Luke answered. You're in my hall.

Caught that, Jess said, and smirked. Always with a smirk.

Are you gonna talk to her? Luke asked later, and Jess stared at the table. He never did answer.

He's gone again, later, leaves town and Rory with the barest of goodbyes, a sideways acknowledgement to Luke, to all he's done.

He wonders, sometimes, whether they're so different. Whether he'll ever be able to get it right.

He knows this: things are unsettled, upset, strange. He feels them shuddering and feels them spinning and doesn't quite know how to stop them, how they got out of hand.

Lorelai smiles at him that night, kisses him half on the lips when she sees him, doesn't say goodnight when she leaves.

He leans against a window, wonders whether she'll come back at all.

Wonders about people and relationships that can't be fixed, how they walk around the world half-broken.

******

She came to see him on a Friday, and if he'd looked closely he would have already seen that she was breaking.

He should have seen it before, really, cracks around the edges, spider-webbed and thin like veins. He should have seen, and that let her blame him, let her say he was the reason it all went wrong, that it was all sure to slip away.

She told him this at the diner, sitting on Friday night over coffee and pie, side-by-side at one of the tables, because this was the way they ate now, one of the long list of things that had become unsettled now that they were together.

It couldn't work, she explained, and it was stupid even to try. Stupid to dream. Stupid to take a chance on someone who had always been a constant, a blur, a part of the background, anyway.

(Stupid to take a chance on herself, that she could learn how forever worked.)

He sat and listened with his hands clenching in his lap; clenching into fists, and his jaw was tight.

He was angry, like she'd predicted, and argued, like she predicted, and accused her of being afraid, which she didn't have much of an answer for. She said she needed to do this, to get away, to stop pushing and pulling and working on something that was never meant to be.

He sat seething at the table, shoulders hunched, and let her leave.

******

One, two, up, one, two, up, one, two, up.

She drove on their first (second) date, and he fiddled with the automatic windows. She could tell he was nervous, as nervous as she was, and she made bad jokes and he pretended to laugh, and it was all too nerve-wracking and all too serious and all too much, and when she tumbled over a parking barrier and landed on her knees, he lifted her up and half-supported her while they laughed and laughed. Her knees were still too sore to walk, and bloody from the fall, and he ran across the highway and jumped a concrete barrier to make it to the pharmacy.

He came back with a box of band-aids and a bottle of rubbing alcohol; she sat on the parking barrier and he knelt beside her, hands resting just above her knee, and she shivered at the touch. He dabbed her knees with alcohol and she pretended to cry over the sting; he promised her a lollipop if she was good.

He didn't even get a 'dirty' out of that one, because she fell silent when he leaned in close and blew on her skin until the stinging stopped, still silent while he smoothed a plain beige bandage over each cut. No Hello Kitty, she said accusingly, and he said it was plain or Scooby Doo. Always plain since the movie version, she told him, and he smiled and rested his hand again just above her knee.

She suggested they name the parking barrier, since it was clearly a magical jumping parking barrier to be responsible for her fall, and he smiled again and told her to stop talking, and there was no sting in his voice. He leaned forward and kissed her, balancing against the parking barrier, hand still resting above her knee.

She held his face close to hers, pulled him back in when he tried to pull away. Then she kissed him a third time, and he kissed her a fourth, and when she finally drew back he stumbled off-balance over the parking barrier and fell back into the car behind him, setting off the alarm. Lorelai threw back her head and laughed; he said he had a few names for the parking barrier, too.

It seemed so simple, then.

******

He left her standing in the snow. She'd never been crushed in the snow before, but she felt it this time, cold that flaked around her shoulders and stuck in her boots, that melted and seeped into her clothes until she thought she would never be warm again.

The town was dark, and the snow was white, and she walked across the square in her slippers and into the diner, where he stood holding a dishrag.

His whole body tensed when he saw her, like he was preparing for a blow.

I made a mistake, she said, before he could say anything else. He stopped wiping the counter, stopped moving altogether.

So she plunged ahead:

I thought I could just walk away from you and make everything stop before it got too serious and too hard, and I couldn't. I don't want to.

He was frozen, still.

And I don't know how we put everything back and how I undo everything I was stupid enough to say, but it can't be harder than the way things are now.

He swallowed and lifted his eyes from the counter. They were dark, shadowed, flat.

She heard the words even before he said them:

It's over.

He didn't say another word, and, for once, she didn't argue. She'd seen him angry, seen him happy, seen him sad, but she'd never once seen him empty. His eyes were dark, and empty, and void.

She swallowed over the lump in her throat, blinked over the tears in her eyes. And she backed out of the diner, and into the snow, where it caked in her slippers and seeped in her clothes and froze her feet, until she thought she would never be warm again.

******

He didn't know what to say when Rory walked into the diner. She seemed tense and tight and older, somehow.

She still loves you.

She said it as he poured her coffee, after she ordered pie.

He froze, still half-bent over the table, not certain he'd heard what she just said.

I don't know what happened and I know it's none of my business, but she loves you and if you went over there, I know she would say yes. I know she would.

He wanted to say many things, to tell her she didn't know and it wasn't her business and how the hell could she still love him when she never had in the first place?

But this was Rory, and he couldn't find a way to yell at her. So he said, Oh, and stood half-bent over the table while she slid a ten beneath the cup and buttoned her coat and walked back out the door.

******

It snowed in April, when the trees were supposed to bloom. Everyone commented on New England weather and gray skies and what a pain it all was, and Lorelai scowled through the gray windowpanes and claimed she'd always hated snow.

She curled up in the dark house when she finally made it home, holding a cup of homemade sludge (substandard coffee mixed with three packets of hot chocolate) and the remote for the VCR. She cursed at the gray sky and the HBO schedule and the doorbell when it rang. She thought up a long list of names for Kirk and while she walked to the door, took a deep breath and opened her mouth to say every one of them.

Then she opened the door and saw who was on the other side, and all the words went flying out of her head.

I'm an idiot, he said.

We agree, she said, and her voice was low and bitter.

I don't know if you still want to hear this or if I even deserve it, but I screwed up.

She didn't speak, didn't move, didn't respond at all, and so he went on:

I love you.

He stopped, and she stared, so he drew in a shaky breath and finished:

And if this can work, I want it to. And if you still want to try -- his voice wavered -- I want to.

And she blinked and all the tears came at once and he just stood there, three feet from her, hands jammed in his pockets, watching her tears fall.

Well, she said, when she found her voice. Are you just going to stand there?

And it dawned on his face, slowly, like awe. He crossed the distance between them with one step and then she was in his arms, again, and his hands were in her hair.

She buried her face against his neck and wrapped her arms around him so tightly she wondered if she would leave finger-marks on his back. And he stood without moving and cradled her head in one hand and rubbed her back with the other, and her tears fell against his neck.

She whispered something then, so muffled the words came out thick, but he must have understood, because something like a shudder ran through him and he held her more tightly, until she thought he might leave finger-marks on her back, too. She didn't think she'd mind.

We can't do this again, she said later, when she was able to speak. It's too hard.

He simply nodded, rubbed one hand across her shoulders.

******

She fell asleep on his chest that night, wrapped around each other on the couch, just talking, whispering, trying to erase the last four months and somehow make everything right. She rested her head over his heart and heard it beat, and thought the rhythm was all wrong: it should come in threes.

One, two, up, one, two, up, one, two, up, one, two.

And she wondered where they were, then, at one or two, not at the sidestep any more. She closed her eyes, just for a moment, and drifted off with the rhythm running through her head.

******

She insisted he dance at Emily's Christmas party, and he refused, and claimed he couldn't remember how. She plied and bargained and pleaded, and in the end he waltzed her around the living room, and she taught him a box step. They stumbled over the rug edge and she laughed and asked if he remembered her bruised knees and their first date.

Second date, he said, and she laughed again.

He took another look at her skinned knee, and sighed, and went for band-aids. She leaned against him while he smoothed on one of her favorite Hello Kitty bandages, and with her head against his shoulder, he stammered and stuttered and told her what he was thinking: that he'd like to sit beside her and bandage her knees when she was too old to waltz around the living room.

Can I foxtrot? she asked, and he laughed nervously.

Okay, she said, and put her arms around him and pressed her face against his neck. He held her, as tightly as he could, and wondered whether his lungs would ever fill again.

She said: this means you'll have to do it right with the flowers and the ring and the dancing midgets, and he said he'd do it all except for the dancing midgets. Any maybe the flowers.

She squeezed him more tightly and then pulled back. She jumped up again, offering him her hands.

This means you have to learn to foxtrot, she said.

He smiled at that, and let her teach him.

*******

He asked her again on Christmas morning, which was a only little bit romantic and not at all surprising. He put the ring inside its box inside another, just so she wouldn't guess, and she opened it in her Johnny Bravo pajamas with Rory looking over her shoulder, eyes blue and round and wide.

Her hands slipped when she reached for the bow, and he thought she might have guessed, but he sat frozen and still and found he couldn't breathe. And she saw the ring and asked, where are the dancing midgets? And she told him there weren't flowers, and he pointed to the poinsettias, and then she wrapped her arms so tightly around him that all the air rushed out of his lungs. And she cried and Rory cried and he shut his eyes, and thought he might never breathe again, and knew he wouldn't care.

And so he held her hand when they walked to her parents' that evening, her right hand, because she kept lifting the left one up every few minutes and pretending it was a mirror, or signal, or turn light, in that order. And she made him dance around the ballroom, in the Christmas party that was held on Christmas for once. She twisted her fingers between his as they danced, tracing their edges, the way she always did. He rested his head against hers and caught the scent of her hair, and he thought about perfect moments, how few life has, and closed his eyes so he could memorize this one.

******

She said they should get married in the snow, and he thought that was silly. Her: it's romantic. Him: it's cold and the guests' feet will freeze.

You're no fun at all, she says, and he tells her she loves him because he's practical.

She says it's more of an in-spite-of-thing, but she'll marry him anyway.

She tells him they have to dance at the reception, picks out the song. She takes his hand and makes him practice:

One, two, up, one, two, up, one, two, up.

And the rhythm makes her think of them again. Things aren't so simple, now. Now that she knows where the pain is, how hard things sometimes are between them.

But the decision has been made, and she wouldn't trade this moment for anything she has, or even anything she's imagined.

Her head rests on his shoulder and his hand rests on the small of her back, and she thinks it just might be perfect.

******

This is a sad song, he says, when he listens to the lyrics.

But you're dancing with me, she whispers, as if that's all that matters.

And he feels her breath against his neck and her hand resting on his shoulder, and the even rhythm of their steps: one, two, up, one, two, up, one, two.

He realizes, then, that it does matter. That she is here and she's with him, because it's the choice they both made.

It does matter. Maybe it's the only thing that ever has.

******

Bizarre.

Thu, 15 Jul 2004 01:23:19 GMT

Three strange experiences today:

1. My cell phone no longer works. No explanation. The phone part works, but it won't connect over the network. Cingular can't figure it out, either.

2. Three different times, I ran into people I know walking down the street. People I know from Boston.

3. A neighborhood teenager came to my door this evening, selling something, and asked for my parents.

Point? You won't find it here.

Wed, 14 Jul 2004 03:21:06 GMT

Yeah, I'm just playing with icons. I finally broke down and got a paid account, and I lurve it. New layout, too!

To save this from being a total GIP, I'll ask a question of all you writers out there:

I find that I can write dialogue, or narrative, but not both at the same time. It's like my brain runs on one track or another. I have probably ten pages of pure dialogue for the GG story I'm writing, and I'm waiting for the narrative half of my brain to kick in and finish it off. Does anyone else have this problem? Or am I just wierd? Suggestions?

And one more thing: Damn you, Washington Post. You ran an article on Keane today, and now I'm at iCrack charging even more to my credit card. You're trying to bankrupt me, aren't you?

Party Time!

Sun, 11 Jul 2004 19:38:03 GMT

Happy Birthday ciachick711!

May your day and your year be as lovely as you are.

Who is your long lost Live Journal twin?
LJ Username
Your twin is:	carrielynnobu

This cool quiz by livelyhope - Taken 2589 Times. </a>