what_we_dream (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
what_we_dream) wrote2010-09-05 10:39 pm
what_we_dream) wrote2010-09-05 10:39 pm
Drabbles/Meme
A "what I've got on the burner" meme. Fandoms: Gintama, Petshop of Horrors, MGS, Saiyuki, Yes Minister, FFVII, Hornblower, Hogan's Heroes, SPN. I suppose if anyone's more interested in one than the others I could potentially focus on it more heavily. :D No pairings or warnings, rated G.
GINTAMA: THE ONE WITH THE HAUNTED HOUSE (AGAIN)
On the floor in front of him Zura sits up, rubbing his head. “What are you doing here, Gintoki? And it’s not Zura, it’s Katsura.”
“I should be the one asking that.” Leg muscles wobbling like jelly due to being marinated in adrenaline, Gintoki drops to his haunches and rests some of his weight against his bokutou. “The hell are you doing, wandering around this mansion like goddamn Okiku?”
Zura brushes his hair out of his face, expression flat as always. “As it happens, I was having a nap. My apartment was recently discovered by the Shinsengumi, and I haven’t been able to secure a new one yet. It’s too dangerous to sleep on the streets, and the Jyoui facilities are currently under renovation; we had an incident last week with a time bomb.”
PETSHOP OF HORRORS: THE ONE WHERE LEON KEEPS TRYING TO STAY WITH D
“You impressed T-chan,” says D, while he drinks the soup. “He says you ordered him to call an ambulance rather than listen to him.”
“I would have thought he thought I was a headstrong idiot,” says Leon into the cup.
“Oh, certainly,” agrees D, weaving his fingers into a platform to support his chin and smiling. “But even they usually back down in front of him.”
“Yeah, well,” says Leon, because it fills in just about any gap. Yeah, well, I didn’t. Yeah, well, T-chan’s an idiot. Yeah, well, you were dying.
MGS: THE ONE WHERE EVERYONE THINKS GREY FOX IS A GHOST
It is still a dozen yards from the tank when the hissing begins. The creature’s voice slips in between the cracks in the metal beast’s hide, creeps with malevolent ease down through minute fractures and crevasses widened by the shifts from the heated hanger to the frozen exterior. The whispers are dry and brittle as they wrap around them, slithering and coiling as twining serpents, their pitch rising and falling with the unsteady shuffling pace of a broken mind. First soft as rabbit feet on powdered snow, then hard and anxious as caribou over shale, the irregularity strains Raven’s nerves and makes his head ache.
The hissing grows louder as the ghost approaches, the sounds taking on an almost physical presence, constricting, suffocating, choking. They are naked hands against the throat, snake scales slipping over skin, twine rope twisted about the neck. Outside, the creature begins to circle the tank, the ceaseless susurrus wrapping tighter as it mutters and hisses to an arrhythmic metallic jingling. Inside the very air seems to be closing in, tight and hot and stifling.
Think it over, Snake! Hahahahaha! Do you hear that sound? Snake! It’s me. It’s me. Over and out! Over and out! Hahahahaha!
SAIYUUKI: THE ONE WHERE GOKU GETS WHUMPED
Hakkai forbids their smoking in the room, so they take turns in the hallway while the green-eyed man sits in a chair by Goku’s bedside and listens to the wetness of his breathing with an mannequin’s expressionless face.
Goku slips in and out of consciousness but rarely approaches lucidity. He calls for Sanzo when he has the breath to speak, and moans wordlessly when he doesn’t. Although his voice is too soft to be heard across the room, never mind through a wall, if the priest is in the hall when Goku wakes he unfailingly returns. Steps back in with a hastily ground-out cigarette between his fingers and the glower that’s the closest he can currently come to neutrality. And unfailingly, when Sanzo places a light hand on the boy’s head, he calms for a moment.
YES MINISTER: THE ONE WHERE THE DAA ALMOST GETS ABOLISHED. AGAIN.
“The silly season,” repeated Hacker blankly.
Bernard nodded, shifting his grip on the large leather diary. “The one time of the year you can get … well, interesting submissions in. The House isn’t sitting so there can’t be awkward questions, and most of the public is on holiday so no one’s reading the papers anyway. And, since we’ve just had an election and now’s the time to get all of the unpopular policies out of the way, it’s going to be an especially busy summer.”
Hacker looked down at the papers on his desk in front of him again, and then back up at his Private Secretary in suspicion. “Are you telling me these are courageous decisions, Bernard?”
“Good lord, no!” The man looked genuinely shocked, mollifying Hacker. “Just more sensitive than what might otherwise be put out in the year.”
FFVII: THE ONE WHERE ATHENA TRIES TO WORK IN NORSE MYTHOLOGY
In his other life – the life on the other side of the tarnished mirror, all cigarette smoke and blue serge and her – he thought humans by their nature reserved a corner of headspace for religion, a corner which by its very existence held a gravity strong enough to pull in something, even if that was firm denial. But then he was a Turk, and was as such outside the rules of nature, a law unto himself written in blood and fallen cartridges.
On this side of the musty years, he doesn’t bother to think anything; facts are either known or make no difference. Thought has outlived the brief candle of its usefulness and left him in the darkness of dull certainty; he has instincts enough to keep him alive and Hojo’s assistance to ensure he kept on living whatever his desires. He has a heavy purpose engraved in him by the daily passing of a pendulum, and when that is finished he has his nightmares to return to; atonement to which to shackle himself.
HORNBLOWER: THE ONE WHERE HORNBLOWER AND BUSH WORK TOGETHER
The fog is rolling in thick, now. They can hardly see the Hotspur’s topsails from here, and she can’t be more than two cables out. The bag-men finish filling and loading the sacks they’ve brought, and are ordered back into the boat by Orrock. Foreman gets the marines back in, and Cummings organises the rest of the men to shove the boat out into the surf. Bush sits back and lets the boys scramble with the tiller and the sails, aware that a good part of their success in sailing the craft can be accounted for not by their orders but by the experience of the seamen whose obvious readiness to raise or set the sails at the appropriate time prompts the boys’ instructions. He can hardly berate the men for it, but if they make another expedition of this type it might be better to see that the cutter’s manned by less experienced hands.
The sea breeze is weak, and the cutter is making wide, ugly tacks in an efficient attempt to catch it. They nearly find themselves in stays twice, a notable feat for such a small craft, with Cummings at the tiller putting her about at the wrong time and the hands making things worse by trying to reset the sails at the correct time and losing the poor craft what momentum she has left. Bush, fuming silently, tells himself that he’ll see Prowse is sent next time. The dour-faced master, always bothering the captain with his gloomy predictions and trying to eke out more authority for himself, can see how he likes being trapped in a cutter with his students.
HOGAN'S HEROES: THE ONE WHERE CARTER CROSSDRESSES
“Right, sir.” He turned to Carter, still fiddling with his bag. “Oh, for – give me that.” He took it, snapped it open and tucked the papers inside.
“What a gentleman,” said Kinch; both Newkirk and Carter stopped and glared.
Hogan crossed his arms, checking his watch. “Alright, get going. It’ll be dark enough. Remember, if anyone comes along, you’re just two lovebirds out for a walk.”
“Yes, sir. After you.” Newkirk waved towards the ladder.
“And let you look up my skirt? Fat chance,” scoffed Carter. Newkirk rolled his eyes and shoved the man’s bag back at him as he passed.
“Last time I try to be a bally gentleman.”
SPN: THE ONE WHERE CASTIEL LIVES ACCORDING TO THE 7 VIRTUES
Angels do not understand humans. They watch them, they manipulate them, on occasion they even guard them, but they do not understand the intricacies of culture and morality. They are capable of recreating any human action they care to, of spitting and lying and tripping and falling, but no angel would ever spontaneously do any of these things. They are aware of the values of human society, but they are unable to reconcile the big picture with individual lives.
They know, but they do not understand.
Angels are not human. Sometimes, though, they pretend to be. Castiel turns his back on his brethren to help Dean Winchester, and outcasts live after the manner of their comrades. He does not understand what it is to be human, but he knows, at least, where to find instruction. There is a guide in the night-stand of every motel room.
GINTAMA: THE ONE WITH THE HAUNTED HOUSE (AGAIN)
On the floor in front of him Zura sits up, rubbing his head. “What are you doing here, Gintoki? And it’s not Zura, it’s Katsura.”
“I should be the one asking that.” Leg muscles wobbling like jelly due to being marinated in adrenaline, Gintoki drops to his haunches and rests some of his weight against his bokutou. “The hell are you doing, wandering around this mansion like goddamn Okiku?”
Zura brushes his hair out of his face, expression flat as always. “As it happens, I was having a nap. My apartment was recently discovered by the Shinsengumi, and I haven’t been able to secure a new one yet. It’s too dangerous to sleep on the streets, and the Jyoui facilities are currently under renovation; we had an incident last week with a time bomb.”
PETSHOP OF HORRORS: THE ONE WHERE LEON KEEPS TRYING TO STAY WITH D
“You impressed T-chan,” says D, while he drinks the soup. “He says you ordered him to call an ambulance rather than listen to him.”
“I would have thought he thought I was a headstrong idiot,” says Leon into the cup.
“Oh, certainly,” agrees D, weaving his fingers into a platform to support his chin and smiling. “But even they usually back down in front of him.”
“Yeah, well,” says Leon, because it fills in just about any gap. Yeah, well, I didn’t. Yeah, well, T-chan’s an idiot. Yeah, well, you were dying.
MGS: THE ONE WHERE EVERYONE THINKS GREY FOX IS A GHOST
It is still a dozen yards from the tank when the hissing begins. The creature’s voice slips in between the cracks in the metal beast’s hide, creeps with malevolent ease down through minute fractures and crevasses widened by the shifts from the heated hanger to the frozen exterior. The whispers are dry and brittle as they wrap around them, slithering and coiling as twining serpents, their pitch rising and falling with the unsteady shuffling pace of a broken mind. First soft as rabbit feet on powdered snow, then hard and anxious as caribou over shale, the irregularity strains Raven’s nerves and makes his head ache.
The hissing grows louder as the ghost approaches, the sounds taking on an almost physical presence, constricting, suffocating, choking. They are naked hands against the throat, snake scales slipping over skin, twine rope twisted about the neck. Outside, the creature begins to circle the tank, the ceaseless susurrus wrapping tighter as it mutters and hisses to an arrhythmic metallic jingling. Inside the very air seems to be closing in, tight and hot and stifling.
Think it over, Snake! Hahahahaha! Do you hear that sound? Snake! It’s me. It’s me. Over and out! Over and out! Hahahahaha!
SAIYUUKI: THE ONE WHERE GOKU GETS WHUMPED
Hakkai forbids their smoking in the room, so they take turns in the hallway while the green-eyed man sits in a chair by Goku’s bedside and listens to the wetness of his breathing with an mannequin’s expressionless face.
Goku slips in and out of consciousness but rarely approaches lucidity. He calls for Sanzo when he has the breath to speak, and moans wordlessly when he doesn’t. Although his voice is too soft to be heard across the room, never mind through a wall, if the priest is in the hall when Goku wakes he unfailingly returns. Steps back in with a hastily ground-out cigarette between his fingers and the glower that’s the closest he can currently come to neutrality. And unfailingly, when Sanzo places a light hand on the boy’s head, he calms for a moment.
YES MINISTER: THE ONE WHERE THE DAA ALMOST GETS ABOLISHED. AGAIN.
“The silly season,” repeated Hacker blankly.
Bernard nodded, shifting his grip on the large leather diary. “The one time of the year you can get … well, interesting submissions in. The House isn’t sitting so there can’t be awkward questions, and most of the public is on holiday so no one’s reading the papers anyway. And, since we’ve just had an election and now’s the time to get all of the unpopular policies out of the way, it’s going to be an especially busy summer.”
Hacker looked down at the papers on his desk in front of him again, and then back up at his Private Secretary in suspicion. “Are you telling me these are courageous decisions, Bernard?”
“Good lord, no!” The man looked genuinely shocked, mollifying Hacker. “Just more sensitive than what might otherwise be put out in the year.”
FFVII: THE ONE WHERE ATHENA TRIES TO WORK IN NORSE MYTHOLOGY
In his other life – the life on the other side of the tarnished mirror, all cigarette smoke and blue serge and her – he thought humans by their nature reserved a corner of headspace for religion, a corner which by its very existence held a gravity strong enough to pull in something, even if that was firm denial. But then he was a Turk, and was as such outside the rules of nature, a law unto himself written in blood and fallen cartridges.
On this side of the musty years, he doesn’t bother to think anything; facts are either known or make no difference. Thought has outlived the brief candle of its usefulness and left him in the darkness of dull certainty; he has instincts enough to keep him alive and Hojo’s assistance to ensure he kept on living whatever his desires. He has a heavy purpose engraved in him by the daily passing of a pendulum, and when that is finished he has his nightmares to return to; atonement to which to shackle himself.
HORNBLOWER: THE ONE WHERE HORNBLOWER AND BUSH WORK TOGETHER
The fog is rolling in thick, now. They can hardly see the Hotspur’s topsails from here, and she can’t be more than two cables out. The bag-men finish filling and loading the sacks they’ve brought, and are ordered back into the boat by Orrock. Foreman gets the marines back in, and Cummings organises the rest of the men to shove the boat out into the surf. Bush sits back and lets the boys scramble with the tiller and the sails, aware that a good part of their success in sailing the craft can be accounted for not by their orders but by the experience of the seamen whose obvious readiness to raise or set the sails at the appropriate time prompts the boys’ instructions. He can hardly berate the men for it, but if they make another expedition of this type it might be better to see that the cutter’s manned by less experienced hands.
The sea breeze is weak, and the cutter is making wide, ugly tacks in an efficient attempt to catch it. They nearly find themselves in stays twice, a notable feat for such a small craft, with Cummings at the tiller putting her about at the wrong time and the hands making things worse by trying to reset the sails at the correct time and losing the poor craft what momentum she has left. Bush, fuming silently, tells himself that he’ll see Prowse is sent next time. The dour-faced master, always bothering the captain with his gloomy predictions and trying to eke out more authority for himself, can see how he likes being trapped in a cutter with his students.
HOGAN'S HEROES: THE ONE WHERE CARTER CROSSDRESSES
“Right, sir.” He turned to Carter, still fiddling with his bag. “Oh, for – give me that.” He took it, snapped it open and tucked the papers inside.
“What a gentleman,” said Kinch; both Newkirk and Carter stopped and glared.
Hogan crossed his arms, checking his watch. “Alright, get going. It’ll be dark enough. Remember, if anyone comes along, you’re just two lovebirds out for a walk.”
“Yes, sir. After you.” Newkirk waved towards the ladder.
“And let you look up my skirt? Fat chance,” scoffed Carter. Newkirk rolled his eyes and shoved the man’s bag back at him as he passed.
“Last time I try to be a bally gentleman.”
SPN: THE ONE WHERE CASTIEL LIVES ACCORDING TO THE 7 VIRTUES
Angels do not understand humans. They watch them, they manipulate them, on occasion they even guard them, but they do not understand the intricacies of culture and morality. They are capable of recreating any human action they care to, of spitting and lying and tripping and falling, but no angel would ever spontaneously do any of these things. They are aware of the values of human society, but they are unable to reconcile the big picture with individual lives.
They know, but they do not understand.
Angels are not human. Sometimes, though, they pretend to be. Castiel turns his back on his brethren to help Dean Winchester, and outcasts live after the manner of their comrades. He does not understand what it is to be human, but he knows, at least, where to find instruction. There is a guide in the night-stand of every motel room.