[Beyond the Rift] Not Alone in This Story's Pages
Title: Not Alone In This Story's Pages
Fandom: Beyond the Rift
Feedback: ... Is loverly.
Word Count: 1527
Rating: PG
Characters: Sark, Natasha, Mat, Jack Bristow, April, Vincent, Missy, Shane, Hawkes, Dmitri, Des, the Doctor.
Summary: Eight unrelated Rift drabbles
Disclaimer: Natasha, Vincent, Missy, and Des are mine. Sark, Jack Bristow, Hawkes, Shane, and the Doctor know who they belong to. Mat and April belong to Evie. The Rift owns you.
Author's Note: I have this thing with drabbles where I like posting them together even if they're unrelated and that's kinda dumb to avoid... Spammage. Most of these are inspired by prompts I got from Evie and Aubrey.... In fact, all but two are. One of them was already posted, but I deleted it and just added it to this collective, because I'm awesome like that... And stuff. Yeah... And meanwhile I'm having a hell of a time writing things that don't make me want to punch kittens, so... That may mean I need to not write for awhile.
There's always been some dismal part of Sark's mind that always expected April to grow out of him and leave him behind, but after spending most of his life in various states of abandonment, he's come to expect that somehow even when it's not likely. It would hurt, it would probably break him and send him back over the edge again, but it would be understandable.
Maybe he just doesn't have as much faith in human compassion as he should, because she keeps proving him wrong. He betrayed her and she forgave him, she still calls him her brother even though he thought that was some sort of childish fancy she'd eventually abandon when logic took over, and she visits him in prison as often as she can, even if it's just to curl up beside him and not say a word for an hour or so. By now, he really should be convinced of her loyalty.
And yet he constantly stares at the door to his cell and wonders if there's going to be a day when she moves on and decides not to come anymore. It's melodramatic and some part of him knows that such thoughts are idiotic, but considering how often he's been left behind.... It really wouldn't surprise him.
Somehow he's still not convinced he wouldn't deserve it.
~*~
"I wanted to be a dancer." And Natasha's spinning on her toes under the starlight in a crude imitation of a ballerina, nearly toppling over like a newborn fawn and Mat sweeps to her rescue, catching her in his arms as she falls. She laughs, clear as a bell, and he has to wonder when the last time she's had reason to laugh is. Luther's dead and gone and she's free, and it took a long, hard, broken road to get her back to this point, but it's almost like she's normal again. Functional.
Mat takes pride in the fact that he had a big part in helping her along with this.
"Never got the lessons though," she smiles sheepishly as she rights herself again.
"You could still be a dancer," Mat points out. It doesn't occur to him that dancers have to train for years or that Natasha's human now and only has so many years left to her- all he knows that he wants her to be happy, simply because she actually can be happy now.
There's a look of realization on Natasha's face as if it's just hit her that she can do whatever she want now, because Luther's gone and no one holds sway over her. "I could," she says, laughing a little and throwing her arms around Mat like he's just given her the best gift she's ever received.
~*~
On a list of things that Jack Bristow expects to see looking at him like they're judging whether or not he's the worst rat bastard that ever lived, tiny little girls (or at least perceptibly little- she was probably eighteen, if not older).... Actually rank fairly high. Usually, of course, he knows or at least understands the reasons why aforementioned little girls would be looking at him like that and usually they're at least slightly familiar, but apparently he isn't granted that much of a grace in this situation.
He stares. She stares back. He waits for her to explain herself, and she apparently figures she can take her time with that. After a moment, he decides this entire scenario was a waste of time and energy and attempts to move past her. She doesn't stop him physically, but rather calls after him, her words giving him pause enough to stop and actually contemplate them.
"You're not a bad cap'n, I don't think. You're still learning."
~*~
It's a fucking miracle when that helicopter comes- it's not that they expected to be left behind, because that just wasn't something that was done, but the area's dangerous and there were rumors that sending an extraction team would damn near impossible. Leave it to Vince to beat the odds.
He's standing in the back, the door thrown open, balancing himself with practiced ease as the helicopter hovers, the ladder waving back and forth invitingly as the archangels nearly tumble over themselves like overeager puppies trying to reach it. They don't dally for a second, pausing as they make it inside the helicopter only briefly to show their thanks to their fearless leader.
There's an explosion nearby- the force of which nearly throws Vincent out of the helicopter. "Son of a bitch," he snaps to nothing in particular. He looks down to see the last of his kids- a little blonde thing whose barely seen combat at all- clinging desperately to the ladder. Another explosion hits- this one too close to home- and she very nearly falls, but Vincent leans down and snatches her hand, pulling her back up to safety.
"Nobody falls on my watch," he tells her reassuringly as soon as he gets her into the helicopter.
~*~
For the past two years there's been an unexplained phenomena of teenagers disappearing on Halloween only for their mutilated corpses to turn up weeks later. It's gotten to the point that curfews have been invoked and expected to be strictly adhered to, but that insinuates that teenagers in Malibu have any regard for the rules that authority sets up or any sense of self-preservation. They're young and they're immortal and they laugh in the face of death.
They gather on the beach in some private area where they can light bonfires and the police won't see them- most of them are wealthy enough that they believe the law won't touch them anyway, but no sense flaunting it. It's after midnight and they've been prodded into elaborating on the local legends of the Halloween beast that preys on the young and mischievous. Everyone has a different spin, but when the torch is passed to a girl with dark brown hair and brown eyes, she just gives them a wicked grin.
"I know what the monster is," she says, voice practically sing-song.
There's a horrible crunching sound like bones popping and shifting and then the night is pierced by terrified screams and one, low bloodcurdling howl of triumph and bloodlust.
~*~
Shane can't actually remember what Coop was talking about and he might have just been talking for the sake of it, because talking is about the only damn thing they can do right now, all things considering. Whatever subject he happened to be rambling about, however, is so far from her mind, it might as well be back on the Saratoga, because all she can do right now is stare blankly at his feet, wondering if maybe she's really lost her mind.
"Coop?"
Hawkes blinks at her. "....Yeah?"
She frowns at his feet again and then looks up at his face, tilting her head up a bit farther than she would have had to do otherwise. "You're hovering."
"Vansen, if I'm botherin' you, you could just say-"
"No. Coop. You're hovering." She nods towards his feet, which are currently about two inches off of the ground and he follows her gaze, makes a strangled noise like ayelp, and then promptly tumbles to the floor in a surprised heap.
~*~
Jack's in the lobby with a newspaper when there's a muffled yowl of some kind somewhere near his feet. His immediate assumption is that Michael has somehow been deeply wronged by Fiona and expects him to deal with it, and lowers the paper with much trepidation, only to discover what appears to be a serval staring at him with a deeply contemplative expression. It's not so much the contemplative expression that draws his attention, however, as it is the white ferret dangling from her mouth, looking about as full of hate as a ferret can look.
The serval tilts her head at him as if asking, Look what I brought you. What should I do with it?
Jack just gives her a look that seems to suggest that there is nothing at all surprising about any of this, and then returns to his newspaper with barely another thought about the matter. "Try not to break his back, Lang."
~*~
Des isn't sure anymore what the exact sequence of events was that brought him to this point. All he knows is at this moment the Doctor's backed against the wall and he's the one holding him there, staring into his eyes and knowing that there is a great deal that needs to be said between them now that this whole Thane bullshit has been cleared up, and he intends to say it- his heart's on his sleeve right now, so to speak.
His initial intent was not to say it in the form of a song. Once he starts, however, it doesn't seem as weird as it should and when the Doctor's answering response is also in song... They both just wind up running with it.
Approximately four minutes and ten seconds later, both of them are on the couch, staring blankly at absolutely nothing and wondering what the hell just happened.
After a lengthy silence, Des looks over at the Doctor, "Would you call that a ballad or a breakaway pop hit?"
Fandom: Beyond the Rift
Feedback: ... Is loverly.
Word Count: 1527
Rating: PG
Characters: Sark, Natasha, Mat, Jack Bristow, April, Vincent, Missy, Shane, Hawkes, Dmitri, Des, the Doctor.
Summary: Eight unrelated Rift drabbles
Disclaimer: Natasha, Vincent, Missy, and Des are mine. Sark, Jack Bristow, Hawkes, Shane, and the Doctor know who they belong to. Mat and April belong to Evie. The Rift owns you.
Author's Note: I have this thing with drabbles where I like posting them together even if they're unrelated and that's kinda dumb to avoid... Spammage. Most of these are inspired by prompts I got from Evie and Aubrey.... In fact, all but two are. One of them was already posted, but I deleted it and just added it to this collective, because I'm awesome like that... And stuff. Yeah... And meanwhile I'm having a hell of a time writing things that don't make me want to punch kittens, so... That may mean I need to not write for awhile.
There's always been some dismal part of Sark's mind that always expected April to grow out of him and leave him behind, but after spending most of his life in various states of abandonment, he's come to expect that somehow even when it's not likely. It would hurt, it would probably break him and send him back over the edge again, but it would be understandable.
Maybe he just doesn't have as much faith in human compassion as he should, because she keeps proving him wrong. He betrayed her and she forgave him, she still calls him her brother even though he thought that was some sort of childish fancy she'd eventually abandon when logic took over, and she visits him in prison as often as she can, even if it's just to curl up beside him and not say a word for an hour or so. By now, he really should be convinced of her loyalty.
And yet he constantly stares at the door to his cell and wonders if there's going to be a day when she moves on and decides not to come anymore. It's melodramatic and some part of him knows that such thoughts are idiotic, but considering how often he's been left behind.... It really wouldn't surprise him.
Somehow he's still not convinced he wouldn't deserve it.
~*~
"I wanted to be a dancer." And Natasha's spinning on her toes under the starlight in a crude imitation of a ballerina, nearly toppling over like a newborn fawn and Mat sweeps to her rescue, catching her in his arms as she falls. She laughs, clear as a bell, and he has to wonder when the last time she's had reason to laugh is. Luther's dead and gone and she's free, and it took a long, hard, broken road to get her back to this point, but it's almost like she's normal again. Functional.
Mat takes pride in the fact that he had a big part in helping her along with this.
"Never got the lessons though," she smiles sheepishly as she rights herself again.
"You could still be a dancer," Mat points out. It doesn't occur to him that dancers have to train for years or that Natasha's human now and only has so many years left to her- all he knows that he wants her to be happy, simply because she actually can be happy now.
There's a look of realization on Natasha's face as if it's just hit her that she can do whatever she want now, because Luther's gone and no one holds sway over her. "I could," she says, laughing a little and throwing her arms around Mat like he's just given her the best gift she's ever received.
~*~
On a list of things that Jack Bristow expects to see looking at him like they're judging whether or not he's the worst rat bastard that ever lived, tiny little girls (or at least perceptibly little- she was probably eighteen, if not older).... Actually rank fairly high. Usually, of course, he knows or at least understands the reasons why aforementioned little girls would be looking at him like that and usually they're at least slightly familiar, but apparently he isn't granted that much of a grace in this situation.
He stares. She stares back. He waits for her to explain herself, and she apparently figures she can take her time with that. After a moment, he decides this entire scenario was a waste of time and energy and attempts to move past her. She doesn't stop him physically, but rather calls after him, her words giving him pause enough to stop and actually contemplate them.
"You're not a bad cap'n, I don't think. You're still learning."
~*~
It's a fucking miracle when that helicopter comes- it's not that they expected to be left behind, because that just wasn't something that was done, but the area's dangerous and there were rumors that sending an extraction team would damn near impossible. Leave it to Vince to beat the odds.
He's standing in the back, the door thrown open, balancing himself with practiced ease as the helicopter hovers, the ladder waving back and forth invitingly as the archangels nearly tumble over themselves like overeager puppies trying to reach it. They don't dally for a second, pausing as they make it inside the helicopter only briefly to show their thanks to their fearless leader.
There's an explosion nearby- the force of which nearly throws Vincent out of the helicopter. "Son of a bitch," he snaps to nothing in particular. He looks down to see the last of his kids- a little blonde thing whose barely seen combat at all- clinging desperately to the ladder. Another explosion hits- this one too close to home- and she very nearly falls, but Vincent leans down and snatches her hand, pulling her back up to safety.
"Nobody falls on my watch," he tells her reassuringly as soon as he gets her into the helicopter.
~*~
For the past two years there's been an unexplained phenomena of teenagers disappearing on Halloween only for their mutilated corpses to turn up weeks later. It's gotten to the point that curfews have been invoked and expected to be strictly adhered to, but that insinuates that teenagers in Malibu have any regard for the rules that authority sets up or any sense of self-preservation. They're young and they're immortal and they laugh in the face of death.
They gather on the beach in some private area where they can light bonfires and the police won't see them- most of them are wealthy enough that they believe the law won't touch them anyway, but no sense flaunting it. It's after midnight and they've been prodded into elaborating on the local legends of the Halloween beast that preys on the young and mischievous. Everyone has a different spin, but when the torch is passed to a girl with dark brown hair and brown eyes, she just gives them a wicked grin.
"I know what the monster is," she says, voice practically sing-song.
There's a horrible crunching sound like bones popping and shifting and then the night is pierced by terrified screams and one, low bloodcurdling howl of triumph and bloodlust.
~*~
Shane can't actually remember what Coop was talking about and he might have just been talking for the sake of it, because talking is about the only damn thing they can do right now, all things considering. Whatever subject he happened to be rambling about, however, is so far from her mind, it might as well be back on the Saratoga, because all she can do right now is stare blankly at his feet, wondering if maybe she's really lost her mind.
"Coop?"
Hawkes blinks at her. "....Yeah?"
She frowns at his feet again and then looks up at his face, tilting her head up a bit farther than she would have had to do otherwise. "You're hovering."
"Vansen, if I'm botherin' you, you could just say-"
"No. Coop. You're hovering." She nods towards his feet, which are currently about two inches off of the ground and he follows her gaze, makes a strangled noise like ayelp, and then promptly tumbles to the floor in a surprised heap.
~*~
Jack's in the lobby with a newspaper when there's a muffled yowl of some kind somewhere near his feet. His immediate assumption is that Michael has somehow been deeply wronged by Fiona and expects him to deal with it, and lowers the paper with much trepidation, only to discover what appears to be a serval staring at him with a deeply contemplative expression. It's not so much the contemplative expression that draws his attention, however, as it is the white ferret dangling from her mouth, looking about as full of hate as a ferret can look.
The serval tilts her head at him as if asking, Look what I brought you. What should I do with it?
Jack just gives her a look that seems to suggest that there is nothing at all surprising about any of this, and then returns to his newspaper with barely another thought about the matter. "Try not to break his back, Lang."
~*~
Des isn't sure anymore what the exact sequence of events was that brought him to this point. All he knows is at this moment the Doctor's backed against the wall and he's the one holding him there, staring into his eyes and knowing that there is a great deal that needs to be said between them now that this whole Thane bullshit has been cleared up, and he intends to say it- his heart's on his sleeve right now, so to speak.
His initial intent was not to say it in the form of a song. Once he starts, however, it doesn't seem as weird as it should and when the Doctor's answering response is also in song... They both just wind up running with it.
Approximately four minutes and ten seconds later, both of them are on the couch, staring blankly at absolutely nothing and wondering what the hell just happened.
After a lengthy silence, Des looks over at the Doctor, "Would you call that a ballad or a breakaway pop hit?"
