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My Year in Fic, part the Second: Fics and WiPs 2005
OK, that ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
skewedbelievers New Year's/January challenge fic that I was ignoring in favor of playing with the previous meme? Has turned into a 3000+ word angst-fest. Because I like my Jack and Sam when they suffer, baby. ;)
So in an effort to avoid it yet again tonight, I present my tally of 2005 Fics and WiPs. I included a couple of the Secret Santa fics I wrote last year as well -- I hadn't posted them until the first week of January anyway, thanks to my computer having a massive meltdown around that time, so I figured they count. ;)
Completed Fics, by Fandom:
Profiler:
Crack-the-Whip (R, John/Frances, Drama/Romance) - 5904 words
Once They Built a Railroad (PG-13, Jack/Samantha, Drama/Angst) - 2143 words
Veronica Mars:
Call it an Adventure (PG-13, Veronica/Logan, Angst/Comfort/Friendship) - 2201 words
Dead Like Me:
Holes (R, George/Rube, Romance/Angst) - 356 words
Star Wars/Return of the Sith:
Keeping Up Appearances (R-ish, Anakin/Palpatine, Parody) - 4787 words
Sex and the Sithy, Part 1: Scenes from the Cafe Galactika (P-13, Cast, Parody) – 2488 words
By my calculations that makes a total of 17879 words - so, not as much as I'd have liked to write, but a respectable amount and a pretty reasonable goal to exceed this year, I think. ;)
WiPs, with snippets:
“You have got to be freaking kidding me.”
“Do I look like I’m kidding, Mr. Newquay?” The familiar-looking dark-haired man sighed irritably as he leaned back in his chair. “Let me present you with the evidence – five minutes ago you were standing in a graveyard in Atlanta pouring your heart out to your reluctant lady love. Two minutes after that your heart’s contents were pouring out of you, and now you’re standing in front of my desk whining at me with a bullet-sized hole in your chest. If that’s not dead, I don’t know what the hell it is.”
Jack of All Trades (occasionally and grudgingly known as Albert Newquay) stared down at the hole in what had formerly been pristine grey cashmere, right where he’d been shot point-blank by…
“Samantha! Damn it, she shot me!” He fingered the torn fabric, one part of him angry that she’d actually raised a weapon against him, another part of him proud that she’d had the guts to do it.
And then there was that other part of him that was vaguely surprised to discover there wasn’t a single drop of blood oozing from the wound. Tentatively, Jack pressed his wrist for his pulse points. When that proved futile, he jabbed in a panic for his carotids.
“Feel free to poke away, but you won’t find anything.” The dark-haired man looked mildly amused. “Dead men don’t have pulses, Mr. Newquay.”
***
The winter-brown grass crunched under her feet as Samantha walked the grounds of the Ketterley Psychiatric Institute. The gardens were a focal point of color and group therapy gatherings in the summer, but this time of year found them largely deserted, with most of the residents and visitors preferring to stay inside rather than brave the February winds. Of course, even by institutional standards Elliott Wyckoff wasn't like most people.
She traversed a small incline and caught sight of the large oblong koi pond in the center of the gardens. Some landscape architect had obviously been well paid to recreate a trendy feng shui environment that would appeal to Institute board members; Japanese grasses and lily pads dotted the water in the summertime, and ornate iron benches with matching Asian-motif lanterns were sprinkled around the pond's edge. On one bench, nearest the water and a next to a clump of spiky dead grass, was perched a slender, fragile-appearing man in a battered brown coat and old felt hat. An open sketchbook lay forgotten in his lap as he peered intently into the depths of the half-frozen pond. He looked as if a strong enough gust of wind could send him toppling headfirst through the ice, but beneath the brim of his hat glittered eyes of almost fierce intelligence, hinting at the strength of spirit that inhabited the frail body. Samantha broke into a broad smile at the sight of him; it was the first time she'd felt truly happy in weeks.
"Elliott!"
Her voice punctured his ruminations; Elliott Wyckoff broke into a similar radiant smile and jumped up to embrace her tightly.
"Samantha! I missed you. I was beginning to worry something had happened."
"I'm sorry, Elliott. I should have called, at least. Things have been really busy."
"No matter, no matter," he responded, patting her hand. "Do you mind sitting outside with me? If you're cold we can brave the crowds indoors."
His nose wrinkled in the slightest gesture of distaste as he spoke, and Samantha chuckled. Elliott was a consummate gentleman, and they replayed the same conversation every time she visited him. While he'd gladly sacrifice his comfort for the sake of her own, he certainly hadn't lost the more reclusive aspects of his personality in the year and a half he'd lived at Ketterley; she knew how much he detested being around large groups of people and she'd rather shiver a little than watch him be miserable inside. Besides, Elliott was something of a minor celebrity at the institution; he tended to attract an audience during his rare public appearances, and she'd rather have her friend all to herself today.
"I wouldn't think of going in," she replied, sitting beside him on the bench. "It's lovely out here -- you can almost feel a little bit of spring in the air. It looks like you've been busy this morning." She indicated the sketchbook with a slight nod. With a few deftly rendered charcoal scratches, Wyckoff had recreated the frozen koi pond. An observer's casual glance at the sketch revealed only a still winter landscape; a closer look, however, suggested something sinister and foreboding hovering just beneath the icy surface, as if some force of evil were waiting to lay claim to anyone who got too close. Sam hesitated, not sure whether to admire the work or be alarmed. It seemed that Elliott was still fascinated with his Abyss.
Wyckoff saw the concern flash across her face as she stared at the sketch. He grinned wryly. "My doctors think I have too much doom and gloom in my sketches. Personally, I've always believed that art should imitate life, but I'm thinking of pleasing them for once. Maybe I'll draw a fluffy bunny on one corner -- or better yet, I'll draw myself with a big smile. I'll call it 'Still Life with Mental Patient.'"
"Oh, stop that!" Sam scolded, swatting him affectionately on the arm. "How are things with you, really?"
"Better." He tested the word, rolling it around on his tongue with an introspective expression. "I'm really starting to feel better. They -- that ubiquitous 'they' -- think I've made significant progress over the past month. Rumors are even circulating that I'm to be allowed to go home for a weekend."
"And how do you feel about that prospect?"
"My, don't we sound like the proper professional psychologist?" He winked at her, then turned pensive. "I feel...like it's time. I know if I ever hope to have a life beyond these gardens that I have to rejoin the world. Of course, if you'll recall, joining the world is what got me in trouble in the first place, but I -- I'll never know unless I try, will I?"
His tone was light, but he deliberately looked away from her as he spoke, and Sam knew it was because he didn't want her to see the fear in his eyes. She squeezed his hand encouragingly, and they sat in silence for several minutes, lost in separate thoughts.
Of all the people that Samantha counted among her circle of friends, Elliott Wyckoff was the one who was closest to a comrade in arms. She had met him almost two years ago under the most somber of circumstances, when the well-known psychic ("empathic," he’d be quick to correct) who had devoted years to helping families of murder victims suddenly stood accused himself, suspected in the ritual murders of five people, including his own wife. The real killer had been apprehended by the VCTF and Elliott had been vindicated, but not before he had been completely consumed by the immensity of the evil that surrounded him. He had fallen headfirst into the Abyss, the private inner hell about which he had written and painted and dreamed so much, and into a complete catatonia.
She’d visited him often at Ketterley over the past eighteen months. Initially it was out of a sense of guilt; one of the last things Wyckoff had done before his breakdown was discuss Jack with her, and she felt somehow responsible for pushing the final button, as though she'd once again delivered an unwitting victim to the evil presence that grinned up at her from her own private Abyss. Sometimes she would talk gently to the broken little man, reassuring him that the murders weren't his fault, reminding him that he had done good and meaningful things and he had to get better because he was needed and missed. Other times she would simply sit quietly and hold his hand to let him know he wasn't alone. One day Elliott had squeezed the fingers that clasped his; a few days later he'd turned his head and smiled at her. Within a week he was speaking in halting sentences. He had progressed from there, initially speaking only to her but gradually opening up to the other inhabitants of his sequestered environment. And somewhere along the way, the frail psychiatric patient had metamorphosed back into a warm, humorous, accepting man who came to mean the world to her.
She'd kept her visits a secret from the others. Part of her simply didn't feel like having to explain why she felt more in common with an institutionalized empathic author than with the people she lived and worked with on a daily basis; she could just imagine the concerned theories and hurt feelings that little revelation would generate. But there was another, jealous part of her that wanted to protect her private time with Elliott from outside influences. Her life was one defined by barriers, some self-imposed, others forced on her by circumstances beyond her control. She could shed those barriers, mostly, when she spent time here; they might be waiting for her at the gates, but here and now, sitting in the feng shui garden with Elliott, she was safe, comfortable in her skin. She was almost Samantha again. And that was too precious to jeopardize.
“So, you’ve been busy,” Elliott began lightly. “It’s a good kind of busy, I hope? Your house, your daughter – everything’s fine?”
Sam nodded. “Chlo couldn’t be better. She loves her new school, she’s after me to have sleepover parties for her new friends every weekend. I’m still not used to Angel not being there, but she needed to take her life back, she deserved it after all this time. You should hear how excited she is when she talks about being back in the farmhouse, she just lights up. Paul’s newest theory is that hay and solitude are an artist’s best friends.”
Elliott chuckled, then looked at her pointedly. “You get a little glow when you mention this Paul – I’ve noticed it before. Is he someone special?”
She wasn’t sure about the glow, but his question definitely provoked a blush. “I’m – not sure yet, honestly. He’s a really great person, Elliott, he’s kind and he’s funny and Chloe thinks he’s great. But going beyond that to…more…it’s a huge step. I’m not sure I’m ready to risk that again, not with everything coming up.”
Wyckoff nodded in understanding. “The trial.”
Sam hesitated. “It starts in three months. Paul says it’s an airtight case, we have nothing to worry about. He should know, I guess. It’s just….”
Elliott shook his head, twirling the charcoal pencil in his fingers as he’d once twirled Jack’s rose. “It’s been a long process for you, coming through these dark times.”
“God, yes. It’s still a hard concept to grasp. It’s over, he’s in jail.” She tested the words carefully, just as Elliott had done earlier. “I’m almost afraid to say it too loudly, you know? Like I’ll wake myself up and realize it was all just a dream.”
“But it’s not a dream, Samantha.”
“I know, on some level I do realize it’s true. I guess I have my life back.”
“And if you’ll pardon my borrowing your phrase, how do you feel about that?”
Sam looked away. “How do I feel? I’ve thought about it a lot, what that day will be like. When they sentence him to death and I’m not running anymore, when I’m the one walking out of there free, not him. I must have played it over in my mind a million times by now.”
“I’m sure you have, Samantha, but that didn’t really answer my question.”
“I know.” She blushed and laughed, guilty at being caught. “Damned empathics, you know just how to cut to the chase, don’t you?” Elliott smiled kindly and squeezed her hand, and she plunged on, quickly before she lost her nerve. “Oh God, I’m scared, Elliott. I finally have the chance to help Tom and Coop and all of the others rest in peace, I can stop looking over my shoulder and worrying every time the phone rings that he finally got to Chloe or Angel. I can dump seven years of fear and second thoughts and learn how to just live again, and I’m scared to death because I don’t know if I can. Isn’t that silly?” Her voice caught on the last words and the little laugh she’d tried to add came out as a strangled sob. Elliott squeezed her hand harder.
“You’re preaching to the choir, my dear. I’d be the last person to deny the terrifying nature of everyday life, I’d worry if you weren’t a little scared. You have a lot to re-learn after seven years.”
“I think that’s the part that scares me most of all. What if I can’t adjust to normal life? What if I’m not normal enough to be normal again?” She ran a hand through her hair in frustration. “I guess I sound ridiculous.”
Wyckoff made a dismissive sound. “Not ridiculous – you sound like someone who’s been through exactly what you’ve been through. Evil marks us, you know. Once we’re exposed to it it changes us, leaves a scar that never really fades. It might not be visible, but it’s there, internal. And the evil that you’ve faced….” He broke off, shaking his head and gesturing at the koi pond as though searching for words. “Most people live in ignorance of the ugliness surrounding them, unless it draws them in and touches them. And for them, that’s normal. For you and me, Samantha, normal changed a long time ago. If it does come back to us, it will hold another meaning altogether.”
“The voice of reason in my life, as always.” Sam sighed and leaned in to rest her head on his shoulder. “I don’t suppose you have any brilliant ideas as to how we find out exactly what that meaning is?”
Elliott grinned and threw an arm around her shoulders, drawing her near in a fatherly hug. “All I can do is tell you what works for a half-crazed old man, my dear: hold tight to your friends, and take one little step at a time."
***
"Parents or police?"
The words stopped her as quickly as any hands around her throat would have, left her rooted to the spot swallowing back panic. She had to turn around slowly, just to be sure that he wasn't strangling her for real, but he was still just there, just leaning against the wall, looking.
"Wh-what's that supposed to mean?"
A kindly smile, only the quirk of one pale eyebrow letting on that he wasn't buying the bullshit. "You're obviously running from someone important. I figured those were the top two choices."
"You don't know what you're talking about. I'm here because I want to be." Oh yes, and if she spoke with a bit more conviction and practiced until she was thirty, those words would still fall about a mile short of sounding convincing.
"An attractive young woman who has an eye for fine watches chooses to hang out in a combat zone and take a bottled-water bath courtesy of some sweaty boy on an E high? I like my theory better."
Every word out of her mouth put her more in danger of giving herself away, and damn if she didn't know that; but the sarcastic tone was just a little too familiar, a little too paternal for her to let it slide. Arms folded, she mimicked his slouch against the wall and did her best to look down her nose at him, difficult given his height advantage. "Hey, pick whatever theory you like. Maybe you just don't get the scene. It's not my fault you're too old for dangerous chic." And, oh holy shit, had she really just quoted Trent?
Something flickered across his face at the phrase, a mix of anger, amusement, and something else, something dark and unreadable and able to quite irrationally scare the shit out of her for the split second it was there. Then his features relaxed into the same old well-bred blandness. "In that case I'd better let you get back to all this ambience. One for the road?" He held the silver case out to her, and as she leaned in to take a cigarette he leaned with her, close enough so his words and his breath traced a pattern on her cheek. "A word of advice, though? If you want people to believe that dangerous-chic line you have to look a lot less terrified than you did when you walked in here."
A tangled panicked image of sirens and gunshots and blood rushed through her mind as she jumped back from him. "You were watching me?"
He quickly brought both hands in front of him in a placating gesture, the burning cigarette still trapped between two tapered fingers. "Relax, relax -- I wasn't following you, if that's what you're getting at. Look, I'm not a pimp or a cop or anything, OK? I'm not even a dirty old man hitting on a pretty girl. The bathrooms are near the entrance, I was coming out and I noticed you when you walked in, that's all. I noticed that you didn't fit this scene any more than I do."
"Yeah, right --"
"What, do you want examples? For starters, you looked like you couldn't stand the fact that you had to blend in with all the sweat and the drugs and the grime, but it was better than whatever you were running away from out there. When that idiot made you drop your cigarette you looked like it was the perfect end to a perfectly bad day. You're aware that this is exactly the type of place that brings out the perverts and the pimps, so your radar is on high. You'd be happy if the walls just swallowed you up, but since that's probably not going to happen you're hoping your jacket will be a warm enough blanket for the rest of the night, just as soon as it dries out and as soon as you find an empty corner or a bathroom stall someone hasn't puked in yet."
She could deal with the reality, she told herself -- it was just the descriptions being so fucking close to the mark that hurt so much. Shifting on one hip, she swallowed back the sudden pathetic urge to cry, focusing on his shoes until her mascara wasn't quite so damp. "That's pretty colorful. Not that it's right or anything."
Another secret grin around the cigarette, white teeth flashing in her peripheral vision. "Yeah, well, people are sort of my hobby."
***
“No, stop! Stop it, please don’t – shit!”
The curse coincided with a loud thump as a blanket-wrapped bundle hit the floor; Frances Malone had just had another nightmare from hell.
She sat up awkwardly, rubbing her left elbow with a grimace and thankful that her father had already left the house. His early morning meetings were saving them both a lot of grief this week – if he caught her in the midst of one of these scenes he’d throw a fit, probably think they were in need of family therapy ASAP, when the truth was that this was light-years away from any kind of flashback. Not that she hadn’t had her share of dreams about past badness, actually still did sometimes, but these images were something different altogether. How exactly did you describe a collection of disturbing, nonsensical scenarios that ended with waking up face-down on the floor for the past five mornings in a row? Hell, if she stopped too long to try to analyze it she’d be the one freaking out.
She untangled herself enough to crawl back onto the edge of the bed, then pushed dark tousled hair off her face in frustration. Each time, she remembered one or two additional details, not that they really helped her understand any better. The same person was always there, a young blonde woman about the same age as Frances herself, but no one she’d ever seen before. She was standing at the edge of a rickety platform, looking at something far below her that was glowing orange. Suddenly Frances found herself standing beside the stranger at the edge of the platform – never mind the implausibility of that, as she was always paralyzed with fear around heights. She realized the glow was from a fiery pit, and as she looked back up the stranger nodded, smiled and launched herself into the fire.
That was usually when she woke up, but today she seemed to recall a new part to the dream, a second scene where she was standing in a dark alley surrounded by high stone walls. Despite the change of scenery she was still begging the blonde not to jump, but now there was a new feeling too, a sense of dread that she was about to face something in that alley that was far worse than any fire. She turned around – and was suddenly back in her room nose-to-nose with the oak floorboards.
She shuddered involuntarily at the recollection of the new part of her dream, then yelped in surprise as the doorbell sounded. Shit, she was supposed to be on her way to class ten minutes ago.
Jenna Pierce jumped back at the sight that greeted her at the door. “Holy crap, Frannie, you look half-dead! You do realize we’re supposed to be in that meeting with Draper in, like, twenty minutes, right?”
Frances sighed. “Yeah, and I know this will just give her the millionth reason to hate me, but I’m not going to make it. Jenna, could you just tell her that I had car troubles or a sick aunt or that I died or something? I’ll meet you in class at nine – if I don’t have a shower life will be over.”
Her friend nodded. “I think a shower is probably a good idea,” she allowed, surveying the damage in front of her. “But you do realize this isn’t going to get you out of coming with Russell and me to the Glow Club tonight, right? It’s going to be awesome.”
“I know, I know, awesome. And I fully intend to be there if Draper doesn’t kill me first. If she does you can prop my body at the bar, OK? Go on, go to your meeting.”
She closed the door behind Jenna, then stumbled toward the coffee-maker for her morning’s life-blood. Still half-asleep, she managed to stub her toe on the baseboard just as she crossed into the kitchen. It was definitely a good thing her father was at work – he probably wouldn’t approve of his daughter cursing like one of his fellow Marines.
“It’s too early for today to suck this much!” She yelled to the empty house as she cradled her sore toe. For good measure, she smacked the drywall with her fist, then stared in dismay at the hole she’d just created. Apparently her father was right – the house was getting a little old and fragile.
“OK, I give up!” She announced to whatever Powers-that-Be were pissed off at her that morning. “Draper thinks I’m an unredeemable felon, and now I’m an unredeemable felon who oversleeps. My dad will think I’m having issues with anger management. And I’ve had a week’s worth of bad-trip nightmares without benefit of LSD. Will someone up there give me a freaking break until I get a shower, please?”
She didn’t get an answer, but she was able to pour coffee without spilling it on herself or breaking her father’s favorite VCTF mug, so she took that as a good enough sign to make the trek from the kitchen to the bathroom. Like it or not, her day was about to begin.
***
Lucas Boyd wears many titles in his unlife.
If you ask his boss, he’s the go-to guy, the one to call when things get dicey. So your underling fucked up and booked the Apocalypse a day early? Some annoying little hottie of a priest thinks he can go all Exorcist on your ass and vanquish evil with a prayer, a smile, and all those feel-good vibes from his little shit-hole town? Is the Dark Side looking a little dingy? Just call Boyd, and before you can say "Mephistopheles" all will be right with the underworld again.
If you ask his dearly departed Holly (who hasn’t been dear to him for awhile if he’s honest about it, and who really should just fucking depart already), he’s a lying, murdering bastard and a general corporate suck-up. Frankly, the suck-up comment grates on him a lot more than the rest – hell, he knows he’s a murderer, and if anyone in the vicinity doesn’t think he’s a bastard they really haven’t been paying attention. As far as the corporate part goes, well, semantics and soullessness notwithstanding, it’s all one huge food-chain anyway, and who in his right mind wouldn’t enjoy being the biggest bad-assed fish in the pond?
Oh, not that it didn't take some time for him to get comfortable in the role, mind you -- there were years (decades) when he’d have given anything to hear Holly say she understood why he made his choices (even then he was too smart to think he’d ever hear her say she forgave him for making them), to snatch some scrap of acknowledgement that perhaps they were both victims of the same mess.
And then one day, on the fortieth or fiftieth little adventure that found him rescuing her sorry ass from her latest favorite biker bar, he suddenly realized he didn’t much give a shit anymore whether she understood him, liked him, or said a fucking word to him ever again, because he wasn't really into the whole martyrdom scene any more than he was into dodging the vomit on the sidewalk in front of the Titty-Twister Boardwalk Bang-Out. Who knew demonhood had a learning curve?
“Victim” and “martyr” are two words that Christina Nickson would never associate with him. Mind you, if you’d asked her last week, she’d have supplied plenty of other titles along the lines of “lying, town-destroying, wife-strangling, priest-killing, idiot-boyfriend-threatening, cramping-my-style bastard.” She probably would've left out the “idiot” part, as that’s Boyd’s little pet name for Jesse Parker, and she would have supplemented the “bastard” part with whatever slang terms the kids were using nowadays. Oh yes, given their history, she would have supplemented that part a lot.
If you asked her this morning…fuck, he’d lay odds that she’d say the exact same thing.
And as strange as that might be, it's even stranger that Lucas Boyd, man of many titles and few regrets, doesn't have a damned clue how he's supposed to be feeling about adding "antichrist's fuck-buddy" to that busy little list last night.
***
I didn't include a couple of WiPs that are more collections of sentences than cohesive stories at the moment; and I didn't include my 2005 Secret Santa fic because that's the one that I'm (hopefully!) going to finish and post this week. So help me out here, people -- should I continue these? And if the answer's yes, will you get out your Big Pointy Sticks andbeat on gently encourage me? ;)
skewedbelievers New Year's/January challenge fic that I was ignoring in favor of playing with the previous meme? Has turned into a 3000+ word angst-fest. Because I like my Jack and Sam when they suffer, baby. ;) So in an effort to avoid it yet again tonight, I present my tally of 2005 Fics and WiPs. I included a couple of the Secret Santa fics I wrote last year as well -- I hadn't posted them until the first week of January anyway, thanks to my computer having a massive meltdown around that time, so I figured they count. ;)
Completed Fics, by Fandom:
Profiler:
Crack-the-Whip (R, John/Frances, Drama/Romance) - 5904 words
Once They Built a Railroad (PG-13, Jack/Samantha, Drama/Angst) - 2143 words
Veronica Mars:
Call it an Adventure (PG-13, Veronica/Logan, Angst/Comfort/Friendship) - 2201 words
Dead Like Me:
Holes (R, George/Rube, Romance/Angst) - 356 words
Star Wars/Return of the Sith:
Keeping Up Appearances (R-ish, Anakin/Palpatine, Parody) - 4787 words
Sex and the Sithy, Part 1: Scenes from the Cafe Galactika (P-13, Cast, Parody) – 2488 words
By my calculations that makes a total of 17879 words - so, not as much as I'd have liked to write, but a respectable amount and a pretty reasonable goal to exceed this year, I think. ;)
WiPs, with snippets:
“You have got to be freaking kidding me.”
“Do I look like I’m kidding, Mr. Newquay?” The familiar-looking dark-haired man sighed irritably as he leaned back in his chair. “Let me present you with the evidence – five minutes ago you were standing in a graveyard in Atlanta pouring your heart out to your reluctant lady love. Two minutes after that your heart’s contents were pouring out of you, and now you’re standing in front of my desk whining at me with a bullet-sized hole in your chest. If that’s not dead, I don’t know what the hell it is.”
Jack of All Trades (occasionally and grudgingly known as Albert Newquay) stared down at the hole in what had formerly been pristine grey cashmere, right where he’d been shot point-blank by…
“Samantha! Damn it, she shot me!” He fingered the torn fabric, one part of him angry that she’d actually raised a weapon against him, another part of him proud that she’d had the guts to do it.
And then there was that other part of him that was vaguely surprised to discover there wasn’t a single drop of blood oozing from the wound. Tentatively, Jack pressed his wrist for his pulse points. When that proved futile, he jabbed in a panic for his carotids.
“Feel free to poke away, but you won’t find anything.” The dark-haired man looked mildly amused. “Dead men don’t have pulses, Mr. Newquay.”
***
The winter-brown grass crunched under her feet as Samantha walked the grounds of the Ketterley Psychiatric Institute. The gardens were a focal point of color and group therapy gatherings in the summer, but this time of year found them largely deserted, with most of the residents and visitors preferring to stay inside rather than brave the February winds. Of course, even by institutional standards Elliott Wyckoff wasn't like most people.
She traversed a small incline and caught sight of the large oblong koi pond in the center of the gardens. Some landscape architect had obviously been well paid to recreate a trendy feng shui environment that would appeal to Institute board members; Japanese grasses and lily pads dotted the water in the summertime, and ornate iron benches with matching Asian-motif lanterns were sprinkled around the pond's edge. On one bench, nearest the water and a next to a clump of spiky dead grass, was perched a slender, fragile-appearing man in a battered brown coat and old felt hat. An open sketchbook lay forgotten in his lap as he peered intently into the depths of the half-frozen pond. He looked as if a strong enough gust of wind could send him toppling headfirst through the ice, but beneath the brim of his hat glittered eyes of almost fierce intelligence, hinting at the strength of spirit that inhabited the frail body. Samantha broke into a broad smile at the sight of him; it was the first time she'd felt truly happy in weeks.
"Elliott!"
Her voice punctured his ruminations; Elliott Wyckoff broke into a similar radiant smile and jumped up to embrace her tightly.
"Samantha! I missed you. I was beginning to worry something had happened."
"I'm sorry, Elliott. I should have called, at least. Things have been really busy."
"No matter, no matter," he responded, patting her hand. "Do you mind sitting outside with me? If you're cold we can brave the crowds indoors."
His nose wrinkled in the slightest gesture of distaste as he spoke, and Samantha chuckled. Elliott was a consummate gentleman, and they replayed the same conversation every time she visited him. While he'd gladly sacrifice his comfort for the sake of her own, he certainly hadn't lost the more reclusive aspects of his personality in the year and a half he'd lived at Ketterley; she knew how much he detested being around large groups of people and she'd rather shiver a little than watch him be miserable inside. Besides, Elliott was something of a minor celebrity at the institution; he tended to attract an audience during his rare public appearances, and she'd rather have her friend all to herself today.
"I wouldn't think of going in," she replied, sitting beside him on the bench. "It's lovely out here -- you can almost feel a little bit of spring in the air. It looks like you've been busy this morning." She indicated the sketchbook with a slight nod. With a few deftly rendered charcoal scratches, Wyckoff had recreated the frozen koi pond. An observer's casual glance at the sketch revealed only a still winter landscape; a closer look, however, suggested something sinister and foreboding hovering just beneath the icy surface, as if some force of evil were waiting to lay claim to anyone who got too close. Sam hesitated, not sure whether to admire the work or be alarmed. It seemed that Elliott was still fascinated with his Abyss.
Wyckoff saw the concern flash across her face as she stared at the sketch. He grinned wryly. "My doctors think I have too much doom and gloom in my sketches. Personally, I've always believed that art should imitate life, but I'm thinking of pleasing them for once. Maybe I'll draw a fluffy bunny on one corner -- or better yet, I'll draw myself with a big smile. I'll call it 'Still Life with Mental Patient.'"
"Oh, stop that!" Sam scolded, swatting him affectionately on the arm. "How are things with you, really?"
"Better." He tested the word, rolling it around on his tongue with an introspective expression. "I'm really starting to feel better. They -- that ubiquitous 'they' -- think I've made significant progress over the past month. Rumors are even circulating that I'm to be allowed to go home for a weekend."
"And how do you feel about that prospect?"
"My, don't we sound like the proper professional psychologist?" He winked at her, then turned pensive. "I feel...like it's time. I know if I ever hope to have a life beyond these gardens that I have to rejoin the world. Of course, if you'll recall, joining the world is what got me in trouble in the first place, but I -- I'll never know unless I try, will I?"
His tone was light, but he deliberately looked away from her as he spoke, and Sam knew it was because he didn't want her to see the fear in his eyes. She squeezed his hand encouragingly, and they sat in silence for several minutes, lost in separate thoughts.
Of all the people that Samantha counted among her circle of friends, Elliott Wyckoff was the one who was closest to a comrade in arms. She had met him almost two years ago under the most somber of circumstances, when the well-known psychic ("empathic," he’d be quick to correct) who had devoted years to helping families of murder victims suddenly stood accused himself, suspected in the ritual murders of five people, including his own wife. The real killer had been apprehended by the VCTF and Elliott had been vindicated, but not before he had been completely consumed by the immensity of the evil that surrounded him. He had fallen headfirst into the Abyss, the private inner hell about which he had written and painted and dreamed so much, and into a complete catatonia.
She’d visited him often at Ketterley over the past eighteen months. Initially it was out of a sense of guilt; one of the last things Wyckoff had done before his breakdown was discuss Jack with her, and she felt somehow responsible for pushing the final button, as though she'd once again delivered an unwitting victim to the evil presence that grinned up at her from her own private Abyss. Sometimes she would talk gently to the broken little man, reassuring him that the murders weren't his fault, reminding him that he had done good and meaningful things and he had to get better because he was needed and missed. Other times she would simply sit quietly and hold his hand to let him know he wasn't alone. One day Elliott had squeezed the fingers that clasped his; a few days later he'd turned his head and smiled at her. Within a week he was speaking in halting sentences. He had progressed from there, initially speaking only to her but gradually opening up to the other inhabitants of his sequestered environment. And somewhere along the way, the frail psychiatric patient had metamorphosed back into a warm, humorous, accepting man who came to mean the world to her.
She'd kept her visits a secret from the others. Part of her simply didn't feel like having to explain why she felt more in common with an institutionalized empathic author than with the people she lived and worked with on a daily basis; she could just imagine the concerned theories and hurt feelings that little revelation would generate. But there was another, jealous part of her that wanted to protect her private time with Elliott from outside influences. Her life was one defined by barriers, some self-imposed, others forced on her by circumstances beyond her control. She could shed those barriers, mostly, when she spent time here; they might be waiting for her at the gates, but here and now, sitting in the feng shui garden with Elliott, she was safe, comfortable in her skin. She was almost Samantha again. And that was too precious to jeopardize.
“So, you’ve been busy,” Elliott began lightly. “It’s a good kind of busy, I hope? Your house, your daughter – everything’s fine?”
Sam nodded. “Chlo couldn’t be better. She loves her new school, she’s after me to have sleepover parties for her new friends every weekend. I’m still not used to Angel not being there, but she needed to take her life back, she deserved it after all this time. You should hear how excited she is when she talks about being back in the farmhouse, she just lights up. Paul’s newest theory is that hay and solitude are an artist’s best friends.”
Elliott chuckled, then looked at her pointedly. “You get a little glow when you mention this Paul – I’ve noticed it before. Is he someone special?”
She wasn’t sure about the glow, but his question definitely provoked a blush. “I’m – not sure yet, honestly. He’s a really great person, Elliott, he’s kind and he’s funny and Chloe thinks he’s great. But going beyond that to…more…it’s a huge step. I’m not sure I’m ready to risk that again, not with everything coming up.”
Wyckoff nodded in understanding. “The trial.”
Sam hesitated. “It starts in three months. Paul says it’s an airtight case, we have nothing to worry about. He should know, I guess. It’s just….”
Elliott shook his head, twirling the charcoal pencil in his fingers as he’d once twirled Jack’s rose. “It’s been a long process for you, coming through these dark times.”
“God, yes. It’s still a hard concept to grasp. It’s over, he’s in jail.” She tested the words carefully, just as Elliott had done earlier. “I’m almost afraid to say it too loudly, you know? Like I’ll wake myself up and realize it was all just a dream.”
“But it’s not a dream, Samantha.”
“I know, on some level I do realize it’s true. I guess I have my life back.”
“And if you’ll pardon my borrowing your phrase, how do you feel about that?”
Sam looked away. “How do I feel? I’ve thought about it a lot, what that day will be like. When they sentence him to death and I’m not running anymore, when I’m the one walking out of there free, not him. I must have played it over in my mind a million times by now.”
“I’m sure you have, Samantha, but that didn’t really answer my question.”
“I know.” She blushed and laughed, guilty at being caught. “Damned empathics, you know just how to cut to the chase, don’t you?” Elliott smiled kindly and squeezed her hand, and she plunged on, quickly before she lost her nerve. “Oh God, I’m scared, Elliott. I finally have the chance to help Tom and Coop and all of the others rest in peace, I can stop looking over my shoulder and worrying every time the phone rings that he finally got to Chloe or Angel. I can dump seven years of fear and second thoughts and learn how to just live again, and I’m scared to death because I don’t know if I can. Isn’t that silly?” Her voice caught on the last words and the little laugh she’d tried to add came out as a strangled sob. Elliott squeezed her hand harder.
“You’re preaching to the choir, my dear. I’d be the last person to deny the terrifying nature of everyday life, I’d worry if you weren’t a little scared. You have a lot to re-learn after seven years.”
“I think that’s the part that scares me most of all. What if I can’t adjust to normal life? What if I’m not normal enough to be normal again?” She ran a hand through her hair in frustration. “I guess I sound ridiculous.”
Wyckoff made a dismissive sound. “Not ridiculous – you sound like someone who’s been through exactly what you’ve been through. Evil marks us, you know. Once we’re exposed to it it changes us, leaves a scar that never really fades. It might not be visible, but it’s there, internal. And the evil that you’ve faced….” He broke off, shaking his head and gesturing at the koi pond as though searching for words. “Most people live in ignorance of the ugliness surrounding them, unless it draws them in and touches them. And for them, that’s normal. For you and me, Samantha, normal changed a long time ago. If it does come back to us, it will hold another meaning altogether.”
“The voice of reason in my life, as always.” Sam sighed and leaned in to rest her head on his shoulder. “I don’t suppose you have any brilliant ideas as to how we find out exactly what that meaning is?”
Elliott grinned and threw an arm around her shoulders, drawing her near in a fatherly hug. “All I can do is tell you what works for a half-crazed old man, my dear: hold tight to your friends, and take one little step at a time."
***
"Parents or police?"
The words stopped her as quickly as any hands around her throat would have, left her rooted to the spot swallowing back panic. She had to turn around slowly, just to be sure that he wasn't strangling her for real, but he was still just there, just leaning against the wall, looking.
"Wh-what's that supposed to mean?"
A kindly smile, only the quirk of one pale eyebrow letting on that he wasn't buying the bullshit. "You're obviously running from someone important. I figured those were the top two choices."
"You don't know what you're talking about. I'm here because I want to be." Oh yes, and if she spoke with a bit more conviction and practiced until she was thirty, those words would still fall about a mile short of sounding convincing.
"An attractive young woman who has an eye for fine watches chooses to hang out in a combat zone and take a bottled-water bath courtesy of some sweaty boy on an E high? I like my theory better."
Every word out of her mouth put her more in danger of giving herself away, and damn if she didn't know that; but the sarcastic tone was just a little too familiar, a little too paternal for her to let it slide. Arms folded, she mimicked his slouch against the wall and did her best to look down her nose at him, difficult given his height advantage. "Hey, pick whatever theory you like. Maybe you just don't get the scene. It's not my fault you're too old for dangerous chic." And, oh holy shit, had she really just quoted Trent?
Something flickered across his face at the phrase, a mix of anger, amusement, and something else, something dark and unreadable and able to quite irrationally scare the shit out of her for the split second it was there. Then his features relaxed into the same old well-bred blandness. "In that case I'd better let you get back to all this ambience. One for the road?" He held the silver case out to her, and as she leaned in to take a cigarette he leaned with her, close enough so his words and his breath traced a pattern on her cheek. "A word of advice, though? If you want people to believe that dangerous-chic line you have to look a lot less terrified than you did when you walked in here."
A tangled panicked image of sirens and gunshots and blood rushed through her mind as she jumped back from him. "You were watching me?"
He quickly brought both hands in front of him in a placating gesture, the burning cigarette still trapped between two tapered fingers. "Relax, relax -- I wasn't following you, if that's what you're getting at. Look, I'm not a pimp or a cop or anything, OK? I'm not even a dirty old man hitting on a pretty girl. The bathrooms are near the entrance, I was coming out and I noticed you when you walked in, that's all. I noticed that you didn't fit this scene any more than I do."
"Yeah, right --"
"What, do you want examples? For starters, you looked like you couldn't stand the fact that you had to blend in with all the sweat and the drugs and the grime, but it was better than whatever you were running away from out there. When that idiot made you drop your cigarette you looked like it was the perfect end to a perfectly bad day. You're aware that this is exactly the type of place that brings out the perverts and the pimps, so your radar is on high. You'd be happy if the walls just swallowed you up, but since that's probably not going to happen you're hoping your jacket will be a warm enough blanket for the rest of the night, just as soon as it dries out and as soon as you find an empty corner or a bathroom stall someone hasn't puked in yet."
She could deal with the reality, she told herself -- it was just the descriptions being so fucking close to the mark that hurt so much. Shifting on one hip, she swallowed back the sudden pathetic urge to cry, focusing on his shoes until her mascara wasn't quite so damp. "That's pretty colorful. Not that it's right or anything."
Another secret grin around the cigarette, white teeth flashing in her peripheral vision. "Yeah, well, people are sort of my hobby."
***
“No, stop! Stop it, please don’t – shit!”
The curse coincided with a loud thump as a blanket-wrapped bundle hit the floor; Frances Malone had just had another nightmare from hell.
She sat up awkwardly, rubbing her left elbow with a grimace and thankful that her father had already left the house. His early morning meetings were saving them both a lot of grief this week – if he caught her in the midst of one of these scenes he’d throw a fit, probably think they were in need of family therapy ASAP, when the truth was that this was light-years away from any kind of flashback. Not that she hadn’t had her share of dreams about past badness, actually still did sometimes, but these images were something different altogether. How exactly did you describe a collection of disturbing, nonsensical scenarios that ended with waking up face-down on the floor for the past five mornings in a row? Hell, if she stopped too long to try to analyze it she’d be the one freaking out.
She untangled herself enough to crawl back onto the edge of the bed, then pushed dark tousled hair off her face in frustration. Each time, she remembered one or two additional details, not that they really helped her understand any better. The same person was always there, a young blonde woman about the same age as Frances herself, but no one she’d ever seen before. She was standing at the edge of a rickety platform, looking at something far below her that was glowing orange. Suddenly Frances found herself standing beside the stranger at the edge of the platform – never mind the implausibility of that, as she was always paralyzed with fear around heights. She realized the glow was from a fiery pit, and as she looked back up the stranger nodded, smiled and launched herself into the fire.
That was usually when she woke up, but today she seemed to recall a new part to the dream, a second scene where she was standing in a dark alley surrounded by high stone walls. Despite the change of scenery she was still begging the blonde not to jump, but now there was a new feeling too, a sense of dread that she was about to face something in that alley that was far worse than any fire. She turned around – and was suddenly back in her room nose-to-nose with the oak floorboards.
She shuddered involuntarily at the recollection of the new part of her dream, then yelped in surprise as the doorbell sounded. Shit, she was supposed to be on her way to class ten minutes ago.
Jenna Pierce jumped back at the sight that greeted her at the door. “Holy crap, Frannie, you look half-dead! You do realize we’re supposed to be in that meeting with Draper in, like, twenty minutes, right?”
Frances sighed. “Yeah, and I know this will just give her the millionth reason to hate me, but I’m not going to make it. Jenna, could you just tell her that I had car troubles or a sick aunt or that I died or something? I’ll meet you in class at nine – if I don’t have a shower life will be over.”
Her friend nodded. “I think a shower is probably a good idea,” she allowed, surveying the damage in front of her. “But you do realize this isn’t going to get you out of coming with Russell and me to the Glow Club tonight, right? It’s going to be awesome.”
“I know, I know, awesome. And I fully intend to be there if Draper doesn’t kill me first. If she does you can prop my body at the bar, OK? Go on, go to your meeting.”
She closed the door behind Jenna, then stumbled toward the coffee-maker for her morning’s life-blood. Still half-asleep, she managed to stub her toe on the baseboard just as she crossed into the kitchen. It was definitely a good thing her father was at work – he probably wouldn’t approve of his daughter cursing like one of his fellow Marines.
“It’s too early for today to suck this much!” She yelled to the empty house as she cradled her sore toe. For good measure, she smacked the drywall with her fist, then stared in dismay at the hole she’d just created. Apparently her father was right – the house was getting a little old and fragile.
“OK, I give up!” She announced to whatever Powers-that-Be were pissed off at her that morning. “Draper thinks I’m an unredeemable felon, and now I’m an unredeemable felon who oversleeps. My dad will think I’m having issues with anger management. And I’ve had a week’s worth of bad-trip nightmares without benefit of LSD. Will someone up there give me a freaking break until I get a shower, please?”
She didn’t get an answer, but she was able to pour coffee without spilling it on herself or breaking her father’s favorite VCTF mug, so she took that as a good enough sign to make the trek from the kitchen to the bathroom. Like it or not, her day was about to begin.
***
Lucas Boyd wears many titles in his unlife.
If you ask his boss, he’s the go-to guy, the one to call when things get dicey. So your underling fucked up and booked the Apocalypse a day early? Some annoying little hottie of a priest thinks he can go all Exorcist on your ass and vanquish evil with a prayer, a smile, and all those feel-good vibes from his little shit-hole town? Is the Dark Side looking a little dingy? Just call Boyd, and before you can say "Mephistopheles" all will be right with the underworld again.
If you ask his dearly departed Holly (who hasn’t been dear to him for awhile if he’s honest about it, and who really should just fucking depart already), he’s a lying, murdering bastard and a general corporate suck-up. Frankly, the suck-up comment grates on him a lot more than the rest – hell, he knows he’s a murderer, and if anyone in the vicinity doesn’t think he’s a bastard they really haven’t been paying attention. As far as the corporate part goes, well, semantics and soullessness notwithstanding, it’s all one huge food-chain anyway, and who in his right mind wouldn’t enjoy being the biggest bad-assed fish in the pond?
Oh, not that it didn't take some time for him to get comfortable in the role, mind you -- there were years (decades) when he’d have given anything to hear Holly say she understood why he made his choices (even then he was too smart to think he’d ever hear her say she forgave him for making them), to snatch some scrap of acknowledgement that perhaps they were both victims of the same mess.
And then one day, on the fortieth or fiftieth little adventure that found him rescuing her sorry ass from her latest favorite biker bar, he suddenly realized he didn’t much give a shit anymore whether she understood him, liked him, or said a fucking word to him ever again, because he wasn't really into the whole martyrdom scene any more than he was into dodging the vomit on the sidewalk in front of the Titty-Twister Boardwalk Bang-Out. Who knew demonhood had a learning curve?
“Victim” and “martyr” are two words that Christina Nickson would never associate with him. Mind you, if you’d asked her last week, she’d have supplied plenty of other titles along the lines of “lying, town-destroying, wife-strangling, priest-killing, idiot-boyfriend-threatening, cramping-my-style bastard.” She probably would've left out the “idiot” part, as that’s Boyd’s little pet name for Jesse Parker, and she would have supplemented the “bastard” part with whatever slang terms the kids were using nowadays. Oh yes, given their history, she would have supplemented that part a lot.
If you asked her this morning…fuck, he’d lay odds that she’d say the exact same thing.
And as strange as that might be, it's even stranger that Lucas Boyd, man of many titles and few regrets, doesn't have a damned clue how he's supposed to be feeling about adding "antichrist's fuck-buddy" to that busy little list last night.
***
I didn't include a couple of WiPs that are more collections of sentences than cohesive stories at the moment; and I didn't include my 2005 Secret Santa fic because that's the one that I'm (hopefully!) going to finish and post this week. So help me out here, people -- should I continue these? And if the answer's yes, will you get out your Big Pointy Sticks and
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"'Book of Vampyrs?' Frannie..." *worried frown* "Are you into that Goth scene now? Is this something I should be worried about?"
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Gabrielle
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