Title: What Became of the Likely Lads
Subject: General
Fandom: The Brothers Bloom
Warnings: Language, mature themes, allusions to child abuse.
Notes: A fanmix for a film I fell in love with, The Brothers Bloom. The mix deals more with the brothers than with Penelope, because I don't tend to see the film as being particularly romantic, or about being about Penelope and Bloom's relationship especially, but more as a film about the relationship between two brothers who want very different things out of life. As such, my focus tends to lie on Bloom and Stephen rather than Penelope.
A note that some of the quotes may be slightly off, as I was using the script as reference, and the script is not the same as the finished film, sooo... it happens.
For nakitamanomiko, because life sucks sometimes and I wanna make it better. ♥




( Liar, liar, you're such a great big liar, with the tallest tales that I have ever heard... )

Title: From the First Hello
Subject: Aaron Hotchner & Spencer Reid
Fandom: Criminal Minds
Warnings: Slash, slightly disturbing themes. AU.
Notes: For nakitamanomiko. Some relief from the D: of 5x02. From our own canon, more or less, comes this. :3




( I'll tell you all of the things that you'll never forget... )

Title: The Perfect Crime
Subject: The Team
Fandom: Leverage
Warnings: Allusions to a threesome/OT3. Implied spoilers for some of the characters' backstories as far as we know them.
Notes: For nakitamanomiko, who has yet to murder me. Yay for Leverage! :)
Pairings included: Nate/Sophie, Elliot/Parker/Hardison, Elliot/Parker, Hardison/Parker, Elliot/Hardison.
If a song's not labeled for an individual character, it's for the team as a whole.



( [[ it is the moment you remember you're alive ]] )

Apparently I'm not immune to Christmas in July. That, or I need to stop listening to Vienna Teng's "The Atheist Christmas Carol". Random aw!Teamfic.

They come in on Christmas Eve because there's a serial killer in Delaware writing letters threatening mass murder on Christmas day, on the eve of the new year, and the authorities wanted their help catching him. They go in, of course; there is no such thing as a holiday from the BAU, and the winter holidays are in no way immune to the symbolism and drama that inspires drastic actions from the unsubs they haven't caught yet.

They leave behind family, call from out front of the airport to let family know not to bother picking them up, make excuses not to attend a dinner they weren't going to anyway. They're secretly glad no one expects them, that it's not their week to be responsible, that they aren't going home to anyone but a book or their own reflection in the mirror.

The office shows signs of JJ's presence and Garcia's exuberance, and no one can help smiling when they see that the briefing room has been decorated for the holiday, a squat plastic tree with tinsel sitting in the center of the table, gifts wrapped in bright metallic prints left on each desk. There are cookies, a little burnt but good, with frosting in red and green, and Morgan taunts Reid by pulling them away, keeping them from him.

They bring the cookies and the presents on the plane with them, tucked into carry-ons or held in hand like the most precious gifts, and as they discuss the case, Reid picks at the edge of the paper, not trying to open it, but not accustomed to its presence. Prentiss reminds him not to open it until tomorrow, and he smiles, says he knows.

In the end, they don't unwrap the gifts until they wrap up the case, until they're back in the office in the conference room around Garcia's tiny plastic tree (rescued from her apartment). JJ comes bearing food, and they try not to question where Morgan found an open liquor store on Christmas, and they have a holiday of their own.

They celebrate like family, and could not ask for a better one.

"You got your wish," he says to the empty room, the photograph by the side of the bed, crosses to it and his gaze slides away, unable to really look at it. He reaches out, touches the glass before he turns it down, facing the table, where it won't haunt him when he sleeps. If he sleeps. That's becoming less and less of a certainty lately, but he never looks like he's slept anyway, so it's not like anyone's going to notice him looking more like death warmed over in the department's crappy microwave.

He lies down and doesn't rest, closes his eyes and doesn't sleep. Sooner or later he has to, though. And sooner or later he has to live again. And sooner or later he has to go to work again. And...

He doesn't ever forget. Never forgets. Like torture, like trauma, the mind never forgets love, whether one has an "edge" on it or not. It tears him apart and he lets it, he rebuilds and he lets it make him better, he lets it make him good at his job, untouchable. "The elusive Doctor Reid," he's dubbed by one of the later members of the team, while they pretend not to notice how much of himself he keeps from them. They all hear it from Morgan sooner or later, the only other one still there, who didn't burn out or die or transfer, the story of his loss, his private tragedy that's public knowledge.

Two days of the year he takes off, holes up in the apartment and does nothing. Thinks, remembers. Does what he has to do. They don't ask, they know. He puts in for the time off months in advance, the same two days, every single year.

Eventually, Spencer gets his wish, too. And no one is left to survive him.


-------------------------------------------------


Set after 3x16: "Elephant's Memory".

It's a long while before Aaron speaks to him again. He understands, he's been spoken to about this already, but it still grates in a way, that he doesn't seem to get it, the hole the case tore in him. The memories too vivid for him to stand. But he allows the silence, holds it until they get home, back to Spencer's apartment where they've both been living for a while now, for long enough that it doesn't take question, no matter the situation.

They're barely in the door before Aaron surprises him with arms around his waist, pulling him close from behind. "You scared me out there today," he says, admits, quiet, holding. He's shocked quiet for a minute, can't move and doesn't know if he wants to, tries to relax some of the tension singing in his bones.

"I'm not sorry for what I did," Spencer says finally, the words feeling clumsy, not sounding right. Too quiet and of an awkward tenor. He swallows, adds after a moment, "I'm sorry I scared you." It's not enough, exactly, but it's the truth. That's all that's ever been asked of him. That's all that he can give.

Aaron stares at the far wall over Spencer's shoulder and sighs, doesn't let go because he wants to hear his heartbeat for a little while longer, know that he's alive. That the worst case scenario hadn't come true. That it had, somehow, improbably, turned out okay. When he speaks again it's low, and it takes him several breaths to remember that he needs the words, that Spencer needs to hear them. "I understand."


------------------------------------------------------


The hotel room was nice. By Bureau budgeting standards, it was palatial. In reality, it was a one-bedroom with a clean bathroom and comfortable sheets, but again - by Bureau budgeting standards. He'd foregone the usual attempt to air out the bedding and crawled under the blankets as soon as he'd managed to get out of his clothes, taking advantage of the warmth there that didn't exist outside. The heating was, he noticed, working perfectly.

Spencer Reid was beginning to believe that he was in the Twilight Zone.

They had been working all day on a particularly grisly series of murders, and by the time they had gotten the profile out and were able to come back and catch a few hours' sleep, it was nearing dawn, and he knew they would have to be awake in time for the press conference JJ had arranged at noon, hoping to draw out their killer. It was routine. This was how they operated. And if he was honest, it was not such a difficult case, except in the sense that all of their cases were difficult, but some moreso than others, and this was not one of the ones that was more difficult.

Still, having this nice a bed to sleep in for those few hours was definitely new and unusual.

"I'm not leaving," he announced from halfway under the covers, feeling more than he saw the pre-dawn light as it got cut off, the curtains drawn closed. He smiled, listening to footsteps.

Again, he felt rather than saw - as his eyes were closed, that would have been difficult - Aaron sit down on the other side of the bed, probably getting undressed so that he could join him without getting kicked out for being a thoroughly uncomfortable human pillow (the suit was not that comfortable, really). "I don't think we have a choice in the matter." He could hear the smile in his voice, though. Knew it too well.

"The press conference is outdoors, right?" Reid's voice edged on a whine, purposefully, much less serious than he pretended. "JJ will understand.." He had never liked the cold. They had more or less figured that out the hard way, because he got cold easily. Morgan had informed him that it was because he was too skinny, which had very nearly gotten a mitten thrown at him.

"The chief of police, unfortunately, will not," Aaron paused, mid-sentence, as he got into the bed himself, touching Spencer's arm to let him know that he was there, so that he could move closer, and continued, "understand why I'm not there."

Shifting so that he could lie more properly in Aaron's arms, which made the already-comfortable bed even more comfortable, Spencer wondered for what was at least the fifth time why it was that he had to become involved with the Special Agent in Charge for the BAU. It complicated things. Not that Aaron wasn't worth a little complication, of course... that was undeniable.

"I don't think that's fair. JJ's doing all the talking, anyway." It was a protest for protest's sake, one that was silenced fairly quickly by a kiss, and Spencer opened his eyes to see Aaron's smile when they parted. They both knew it was a joke, that Reid would never shrug off the job that easily. And it helped, in a way.

"It's our job," Aaron reminded him, though the smile didn't fade. Spencer grinned, returning the kiss - reciprocating it, and accused, "Killjoy."

Hardly.

Title: Hardcover Books and Long Nights
Author: Ry (curseangel / dreamsforlease)
Rating: PG
Warnings: Romance, angst, the usual.
Characters/Pairings: Aaron Hotchner and Spencer Reid. Hotch/Reid established pairing.
Summary: When the nights are too long and too dark, they find solace in each other and in the words of those who came before. Hotch/Reid established relationship fic, about five years post-canon.

( Number every page in silver, underline in magic marker... )

Random, because Garcia is both adorable and awesome.

Penelope Garcia had always been a holiday person. She loved holidays: Christmas, birthdays, Halloween, New Years. She dressed up. She had themed earrings and socks. She gave holiday greetings and celebrated. And since taking the job as Technical Analyst for the BAU, she had not spent one single holiday with her actual, blood-related family.

That was okay. Because she got a smile out of Hotchner when he was upset about missing his son's first actual trick-or-treating Halloween when she showed up in full costume. Because the presents she buys Reid for Christmas still show up from time to time, a sweater or a tie slightly off-sized but well-worn and kept. Because JJ loved the three-pair set of brightly colored butterfly earrings she got her for her birthday. Because Morgan put off a late briefing in the middle of a case to come down and make sure they both got their champagne and New Years' kiss.

She had a family who needed her more.

AU from mine and Hakura's storyline. I... really don't know where Morgan came into this, lol.

It's not as if they don't notice, but they don't make it known. It isn't obvious, because they don't want it to be - know it might make things considerably worse, given the circumstances and the people involved. And as long as nothing goes wrong... well, they're both for the better with it.

At any rate, when Hotchner returns from six months at a field office in Illinois, without any warning, just suddenly there... no one's particularly surprised when Spencer freezes up, stares. They're less surprised when his first actual action is to nearly stumble to him, wind his arms around him and hold, tight, hiding his expression against Aaron's lapels. Mouths, "I thought you weren't allowed back yet," low enough that Hotch is the only one who can hear.

They're right in the middle of the office, but neither of them seems to notice that, at least not at first, too involved in one another, in the distance and time that had been between them.

"Adorable," Morgan decides, mostly sarcastic, announcing it loud enough for them to hear.

He grins when Reid turns bright red and steps away. He won't admit it's a little good to see that while Spencer lets go, Hotch doesn't.

So he's a little protective. With Reid, Morgan had found, you kind of had to be.

Freaking Spock-muse will not leave me alone, lol.

"Tell me what you're thinking." It's almost a plea, for some transparency, something to tell him what's going on in that mind.

He shakes his head, just slightly, barely movement, goes to stand in front of the view screen, the empty hole in space where only a few stars had dared to take up residence yet in the wake of what had come before. "That would be... ill-advised," he says finally, choosing his words carefully, his tone more even than it had any right to be.

Kirk sighs at that, goes to stand behind the Vulcan, wrap his arms around his waist and try not to be disappointed when he doesn't relax, doesn't let this be comfort. "It was your home," he says, soft, not trying to open old wounds but trying to speed along the healing process, if it was even possible. "You have the right to be upset. It's okay to be sad."

"I know." For a moment Jim can almost feel Spock's resolve waver, falter, but it doesn't last. It rarely does.

"Spock." It's funny how his first officer's reticence, his reluctance to show or even let himself feel whatever had to be going on in there when the space his planet once occupied was right in front of him, when they were passing right by... hurt him. Like some strange transference, he couldn't stop thinking about it.

Like it's giving, a cable losing its support and going slack, the Vulcan brings a hand up to cover Jim's.

His grip is tight enough to hurt, but the captain says nothing.

Inspired by late-night chat with nakitamanomiko. Spence needs to learn to keep his mouth shut sometimes...


"No, there's not, it's - it's manipulative," Reid is protesting, his back to the wall and hands raised as if in surrender, and looking like nothing so much as a student protesting being chosen for a lead role in the play.

But Hotchner humors him anyway, careful not to betray that's what he's doing. "How is it manipulative?"

Spencer takes a deep breath, and Hotchner mentally prepares himself for what he's certain is an ensuing lecture. He's not disappointed. "It causes a- a physiological reaction, you know that," he says, not quite meeting Hotchner's eyes. "Stimulates production of.. of oxytocin, serotonin, dopamine, all of which effect the feelings a-and decision-making ability of the other... person." He nearly trails off into uncertainty, picks it up again.

Aaron resists the urge to tell him that it makes him more agreeable, and settles for kissing the younger man, if only to keep him from talking about the efficacy of kissing in winning arguments.

He had to pick his battles, after all.

Title: Before the Day Breaks
Author: Ry (curseangel / dreamsforlease)
Rating: PG
Warnings: Slight angst.
Characters/Pairings: Aaron Hotchner and Spencer Reid. Could be seen as slightly Hotch/Reid, but you'd have to squint.
Summary: Hotchner gets wounded in the line. It's been a hell of a long day. So of course he gets a phone call at one in the morning. Takes place circa season one.
Title and cut-text from Daughter Darling's "Absconding".

( In the visions of the dark night, I have dreamt of joy departed.. )

Title: Cope
Author: Ry (curseangel / dreamsforlease)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Angst, dark.
Characters/Pairings: The team, a la season one (Gideon, Hotchner, Morgan, Reid, Greenaway, JJ, and Garcia).
Summary: There is a small death that occurs when they leave work, like they left part of themselves in an office filing cabinet, on their seat on the plane. My first Criminal Minds fic.
Cut text from Eve 6's "Promise".

( I am all bone, I am two-tone, red as a newborn, white as a corpse. )

Title: Until My Heart It Breaks
Subject: 4x16: "On the Head of a Pin"
Fandom: Supernatural
Warnings: Spoilers for the named episode.
Notes: As with my other new mix, I've been working on this for a while, but life (read: finals and a move) got in the way. An angsty, slightly grungy mix for "On the Head of a Pin", mostly concerned with Dean and his feelings through the episode, with a smattering of Sam and Castiel for good measure.




( My engine's running on dry, my head's so fucked up inside... )

Title: And You Wake Up
Subject: 4x17: "It's a Terrible Life"
Fandom: Supernatural
Warnings: Spoilers for the named episode.
Notes: I've been working on this for a while, but life (read: finals and a move) got in the way. Kind of a nice little mix for all the complicated stuff going on between Sam and Dean in 4x17, including the possibility of it ending differently, depending on how you look at the songs.




( Got a suit and tie and a record with winners... )

Short, train-of-thought style scene-fic thought up while reading a thread about kids taking care of their parents. Pre-series. Dean is maybe 12 in this, Sam 8.

"Go back to bed, Sammy." Dean's voice iss sharp, and cuts right through the sleepy haze he'd been waking through, making him blink his way into awareness. He can hear Dean muttering something he couldn't make out, the sound of their father's voice answering. Their tones told him more than he needed to put together what had happened.

When he can see clearly, he steps out of bed, creeps into the adjoining room, staying close to the wall to watch without, hopefully, being seen. The crappy motel they were staying in did have one thing going for it: carpet, which made it easier to get around without being heard. Dean doesn't even look up; he probably figured Sam had listened to his command, or else been too tired not to.

He can't see much of their father, in the chair with his back to Sam's wall, but he can see Dean, standing in the dim light of the lamp he'd put on, probably not risking the ceiling light because it might wake Sam. His brother has the first-aid kit open on the table next to the chair, and as Sam watches, he puts aside a blood-soaked towel, gets out needle and thread to stitch the wound left over from Dad's latest hunt together. He's meticulous, but fast, with steady hands and an expression of forced calm battling with worry. He's done this before.

This is the care Dean always gives to the wounds he cares for, whether they're physical or not. He's quick, to the point, steady and gentle; he doesn't draw it out, but he's not careless. His hands are warm, but they don't linger. It's how he handles Sam, and it's how he handles Dad, too. It's how he takes care of them, like a brother, like a mother, utterly unlike a son.

Dean apologizes when he pulls too hard, and Dad winces from it. He apologizes whenever anything might hurt, as if it's somehow his fault. Sam waits for him to speak again before he goes back to his room, feeling like he's intruded on something more private than he understands. More strange than almost anything else in their lives, and maybe even more wrong.

It's twenty minutes before Dean comes back in, cleaned up and things put away, to check on Sam. By then, his little brother is asleep again.

Inspired by a line in a movie my aunt was watching behind me. 4x22 AU, slight flavors of Castiel/Dean.

Castiel watches Dean tear himself up for them. He watches as each seal broken or saved takes something with it when it passes, a part of him left behind, something dark and hurting underneath, the weeping wound exposed for lack of flesh. Sam leaving tears the rest away, shows the injury for what it is, the fatal wound he hides behind smiles and sarcasm, winding around the tattoo he wears like a brand.

He can't stop it. He can't force away the hurt or the pain, or make Heaven stop. He does what he can, and it isn't enough.

In the end, Sam makes the choice they know he will make. The apocalypse comes, Hell comes. Castiel holds Dean as the world ends, as if his embrace can make up for what he has allowed.

Dean allows it, holds close, tight. Like he's all he has left. He doesn't let go, even when Sam comes back and he's talking practically through him, Dean close to Castiel and Sam's hand on Dean's shoulder, desperately seeking connection.

Castiel realizes too late that Dean is pressing his face into his chest because he's crying.


------------------------------


Post-movie Star Trek drabble. Kirk gets his ass kicked in a serious way. Kirk/Spock cute.

Bones is as sarcastic as usual, busy about the medical bay, surgical tools and medicines spread out on a small metal tray suspended near his bed. He doesn't talk much, mostly working, and tells him to shut up and rest when he tries to talk.

He doesn't get that he's serious until Spock comes down, and there's actual concern written on the Vulcan's features, subtle but clear as a bell to him - he knows how to read him by now. That clues him in, lets him know even better than McCoy's silence and the vague, morphine-blurred pain somewhere south of his heart that something's wrong.

Disoriented, he gropes for something to hold on to and comes up with Spock's hand, surprising his first officer and leaving traces of blood on his fingers as he misses and then tries again, doesn't the second time, holding as tight as he can.

"You will be alright." Spock sounds less certain than the words say, and he knows it's not logic talking. Logic would say this much blood loss means a pretty good chance of his not being alright. He makes a mental note to tease him about that later, but he can't find the energy, hand slipping before Spock tightens his own grip, just slightly. Just enough.

"Yeah," Kirk slurs, closing his eyes. "I know."

Follow-up to an earlier drabble (not posted here). Wherein Dean Winchester walks into Hell to confront Lucifer, alone, and walks out. Title from Dar Williams' "Mercy of the Fallen".

This is how the world ends: It ends in fire, in clouds of smoke that blot out the sun and a bare desert heat that feels like it's baking them from the inside, standing at the gates of Hell and waiting. Castiel is the one who keeps Sam from following him, though his expression betrays his desire to do the same, to betray his orders. He doesn't, and eventually the fire abates, all of it fading to glowing embers. This is how the apocalypse ends.

He walks out of that, clothing singed and battle scarred, his arm hanging useless by his side, but he smiles to see them. Grins, then grimaces as a false step jars a twisted ankle.

"Said you wouldn't wait for me," he says, voice hoarse, stumbling and shaking his head to the offered help.

"Yeah, well, I lied." Sam ignores the protest and grabs his uninjured arm to support him. Castiel just watches.

"Bitch," Dean mutters, leans against his brother anyway. "Yeah, I know," Sam replies, "Jerk."

Random train-of-thought fic. Seriously inspired by the Iron & Wine song "Freedom Hangs Like Heaven". Offer!verse. Sometimes Dean's sleep doesn't bring nightmares.
For nakitamanomiko ; may the second day be better than the first.

Mary, carry my name
[...]
freedom hangs like heaven over everyone
ain't nobody knows what the newborn holds
but a dollar says he'll lick that devil
and do it alone

The nightmares aren't an always. Once, he dreams, and he never understands his shaky memories when he wakes up, peace like an elaborate lie in the early morning hours with Sam's arm over his waist, brother sleeping quiet at his back. It's a little worse, almost, waking like that, because he's convinced it's a lie, a trap, that the grip will tighten and it'll be Hell all over again, Sam's blunt fingernails digging into the muscle on his stomach like it does when he has a nightmare of his own until they tear flesh, make him bleed.

It doesn't happen like that, and he lies very still and tries to remember what the dream was, what it meant because lately all of his dreams have been memories or worse, and he doesn't know what to do with the good one, except hold it in his mind like a favorite pillow, close and comfortable and white, smelling like the lavender his mother wore when he was only just old enough to remember, just small enough to think it smelled like home. He couldn't talk about remembering that, because Sam didn't and Dad was gone and hadn't spoken about Mary to him since he turned five and learned not to ask. It was the only thing he knew, intrinsic sense memory that had nothing to do with hunting or fires, that thought of lavender smelling like home when motor oil conveyed the same idea for a different reason.

Closing his eyes helped, the sleepiness of early morning making it easy to recall the last images behind his eyelids, the white and gold. The unfamiliar feeling of a hand on his forehead, forcing his eyes closed gentle like a nurse to a sick child, and arms around his shoulders like only Sam knew how to hold, just far enough that he didn't feel hemmed in, just close enough that he could move into it if he wanted to. He smelled lavender when she said his name, "Dean," soft like a plea, an apology.

He opened his eyes blurry with tears, and somehow that was worse than the pain.

Title: Response
Author: Ry (curseangel / dreamsforlease)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Chibi!Winchesters, angst, somewhat dark, "why does JW always sound like an abusive ass in my fanfics?".
Characters/Pairings: John, Sam, and Dean Winchester.
Summary: Pre-series. Sam gets sick.

( Let me bring you back again... )

Spoilers for Supernatural 2x20: The Rapture. I'm... honestly not sure where this came from, or where it's going.


Dean sits down outside the door, speaks to it rather than through it. He doesn't think Sam can hear him and runs through a litany of apologies anyway. He doesn't let Bobby pull him away, not even to eat; if Sam can't, he won't. He sleeps there, his back sore and aching. He feels like the only words he has anymore are a million ways to say he's sorry.

"You'll understand when you're better," he says to the iron, cold pressed against his hand, pressing back like a living thing, power in the wards touching off against nerve endings. "You'll get it, Sammy." There's no response, there's never any reply. Just silence and cold.

He doesn't go until he's forced, feverish and babbling to the door, driving himself to madness with it. He curls up under Bobby's rough blankets and asks for his brother in a way that betrays it more as a need than a desire. Please.

Sam doesn't come.

He leaves the iron door behind, leaves the panic room and Bobby's, but he doesn't go to Dean. He doesn't understand.

Dean doesn't get better.