WiP Meme

[elucreh.livejournal.com]

Wow. This is. Um. This is a little embarrassing.

...I had to narrow it down to fics that haven't been impossibly jossed in the intervening time, and which I still want to finish.

...There's still seven of 'em.


******

Jared opened his eyes to bright sunlight, and winced, and closed them.

The knocking came again, and he moaned some high-pitched approximation of "come in." If that was Chad, he was going to be mocked before his coffee...fucking Chad never got hangovers.

The door swung softly open, barely creaking as it opened. Not Chad, then. Chad was a banger.

"Drink this," a voice suggested as a cool glass pressed its way into Jared's hand.

In no position to disobey any kind of order, Jared did. The tangy slime slid down his throat, leaving a wholly disturbing searing sensation behind it. He whimpered as the stuff set off some kind of explosion in his stomach, shooting fire back up his throat and into his sinuses. He shook his head violently to clear the sensation...and realized that he could. Shake his head.

He opened his eyes to see an angel in white standing over him with an amused expression. His mouth fell open slightly. "What?"

"Good morning," the angel said, raising an eyebrow.

"...God sent you to cure my hangover?" Jared husked out, wide-eyed.

The angel grinned. "...in the sense of CW Studios being God, which is fair enough--yes, I suppose so." He extended a hand. "I'm Jensen. The studio gave us to understand you needed a new assistant?"

Jared shook hands half-heartedly, trying to clear the cobwebs from his brain. "Yeah, man, the last one was selling my socks on Ebay. Tell me that's not creepy."

Jensen cocked his head. "Were they clean or dirty?"

Jared grinned. He liked this one. "They may have come one washed and one sweaty in a pair."

"Okay, yeah, that's gross." Not an angel. Jared has never been given to understand that angels have a sense of humor.

"My little pick-me-up do the job, or are you going to recline on your fainting couch all day? Because the studio gave me a copy of your schedule, and trust me, it'll be hard to get done from there."

Right. Schedule. Fuck. Today was gonna suck goat balls. Jared made a face. "Hit me. What's first?"

"Lucky for you, first off we have pencilled in coffee, coffee, get-to-know-new-assistant, and more coffee. Sound about right?"

"Whether you're technically an angel or not, I think it's safe to say that heaven is smiling on me."

*~*~*~*



"You know," Dean says, appearing in the doorway of the bathroom. Sam cuts himself and swears under his breath. "I bet your date'll love seeing you in that monkey suit."

"Shut up, fucker."

"Oh, I have no intention of letting Bela near my dick. Like as not she'd bite it off and put it on e-Bay as the world's most amazing cock. I'd never see it again. I need my dick, Sam."

Sam would so be rolling his eyes right now if he didn't need to focus on the tricky bit of his jaw.

"No, if anybody's earning that title tonight, s'gonna have to be you, Sam."

"I'm not gonna fuck her, Dean, now get out." Sam shakes the last of the cream out of his razor.

"You aren't intimidated by a woman of experience, are you? Have you forgotten everything I taught you? If she's been around she can do things to you those thigh-welded babies never dream of, and wrinkles--"

"Are just another thing I can trace with my tongue, yeah, yeah." Sam sucks in a breath and plunges his head into the water pooled in the sink. Fortunately it's cold enough to settle any notions his body might have of responding to the idea of running his tongue over--Ms. Case. He stands up straight again and shakes off like a dog, groping blindly for a towel.

Dean hands it to him."Yeah, well, don't think you're gonna hide it from me. I can smell it when you get hard, you know."

"Dean." Sam waits until Dean meets his eyes in the mirror. "That is really fucking creepy, man."

Dean lifts his eyebrows. "Whatever, bitch." He smacks Sam's ass on the way out the door.

Sam sighs, and plunges his head again.

Thank god for cold water.

*~*~*


:-:-:-:-:

Bobby thought he'd never be able to repay the man who'd come busting into his living room, spraying holy water and Latin prayers, and set his wife's body free of the relentless spirit that was plaguing it.

"James Murphy, Blue Earth, Minnesota," he'd said, in reply to the question, breathing hard and swigging the holy water past its usefulness now. "Parishioners call me Pastor Jim."

Pastor Jim had been stalking this demon through six counties, and he'd been glad enough to accept a bed for the night, although it came with more questions to answer than a man after a hard hunt ought to face. But he'd been patient, and kind, and never tried to dissuade Bobby from pushing for the hard truth, and read a service over the grave they dug together.

"If you ever need anything—anything at all, Pastor," Bobby had told him, fervently shaking his hand after a promise of books and contacts, "you just let me know."

"Doing the Lord's work, Bobby," the man had said simply, tugging his hat more firmly on to his head, and never formally called in the marker.

By the time Bobby'd been driven to the point of aiming a shotgun at John Winchester, he felt he'd payed in full.

It was fortunate Pastor Jim had built up a lot of credit over the years, really, or Bobby might have refused to help him again at all, just for sending John to Singer Salvage.

:-:-:-:-:


Diane had been left with a vague feeling that something was wrong, which she put down to guilt. To make up to Boots for stealing his girlfriend, she threw herself into being his friend. Each time she managed to save a few cookies from hot sauce or curry powder, she earmarked a few of the finished batch for Boots--she knew he would share them with Bruno, anyway. They exchanged letters the following summer--”Cathy wrote to my parents telling them about us. I could have killed her! I think they’re okay with it…I hope so…but what was she thinking?” “I know…Bruno’s already scheming to get the food improved this year. I’m terrified we’re going to wind up with mud in the soup when the cafeteria ladies find out.” And when school started in the fall, they teamed up to protest as many schemes as their friends could dish out. It didn’t do any good…but they protested anyway.

Both of them drew a deep sigh of relief when the winter holidays were approaching. Diane even asked Boots to come and spend a few days after Christmas. He was glad to agree…Edward’s grades in math had slipped since Mary Lou Beakman had transferred to another school, and he was eager to escape his mother.

Somehow, Diane told herself, she should have been more surprised. “Boots? Greg?”

“Diane? Oh, God, Diane--” Boots’s face was white as it peered at her over her brother’s shoulder.

“Jeez, Diane, don’t you think I ought to have some privacy--”

“Don’t even think about it,” she commanded her brother. “I will deal with you later. And you’d better pray to God Cathy doesn’t find out about this, if this is what I think it is.” Boots’s eyes were still wide with horror. “Boots--come with me, please.”

“You don’t have to--” Greg protested, but he let Boots untangle himself. “I’ll still be here,” he told the ceiling, flopping back onto the bed. Boots seemed almost green as he pushed up to a standing position and followed Diane back to her room.

She shut the door behind them and motioned him over to the bed. Boots sat wordlessly. She stared at him in silence. The long pause stretched between them.

"Boots?" she asked, finally.

"Yeah," he muttered, let his head sink into shaking hands.

"Greg probably isn't the answer, you know."

"Well, actually, he kind of was."



*~*~*~*~*~*

Zack is carefully not noticing any changes on his bus.

He's got a rule—unless it escalates to placing them in the way of serious physical harm, he does not interfere between the artists. They're adults, and they are responsible for maintaining their private and professional relationships with one another.

Well, okay, no, technically they are babies who have made their living out of being melodramatic, but after two days the tattling was unbearable, so they're just having to grow up without his help.

Even when all of a sudden Spencer isn't fighting Ryan over which fast food place they stop at. Even when Brendon's starting conversations about the symbolism inherent in whatthefuckever. Even when Jon is constantly walking around with a disturbing smirk on his face. (Jon Walker is sly, okay, you can't let the weed and cat-loving fool you.)

Even when suddenly the Guitar Hero controllers are living in the cabinet under the TV, and all of the word games like Scrabble and Taboo and Scattergories are prominently displayed on the coffee table. Zack had been under the impression that Chris had been bribed with the last of Ryan's chocolate-covered coffee beans to leave the Scattergories box in that gas station in Nowhere, Nebraska while Spencer distracted Ryan with hockey reminiscences. Zack had been happy under that impression. There had sometimes been days at a time in which the unabridged dictionary went unopened.

(The worst of Ryan's word games obsession has always been his completely believable insistence that words like "quarzenous" exist. Zack put the unabridged dictionary on the list of tour essentials (under "extra fire extinguishers" and "crepe pan", but above "corn pads" and "tiara") after the infamous incident in which Ryan fleeced the entire crew out of a week's worth of booze through the strategic combination of a Scrabble board, Spencer's desire for sleep, and a supposed animal from the Amazonian basin. He got tired of the constant need to keep Ryan from standing under heavy objects.)

Zack seriously reconsiders his policy the fourth time he has to put up with Wentz calling his phone because Ryan's is missing and inexplicably set to "silent," but then he remembers the time Brendon complained that Spencer wouldn't lend him the underwear that didn't give him wedgies, and promises himself that he will be strong. Even in the face of Wentz opening conversations by having his dog pant into the phone.

*~*~*~*~*


Spencer stops in the front doorway of the gymnasium and stares. He should have known better than to listen to Ryan.

The room is a riot of hot pink and lime green and shocking lavender. The few patches of wall not covered in mats (polka-dotted, hearts and stars, zigzags) are sparkly pink. The vaulting horses have a pony print, and the balance beam is covered in smiley faces.

A short guy in a unitard lopes across the mats towards him, perfectly executing a cartwheel and two front handsprings along the way. He lands directly in front of Spencer, arms outspread. "Welcome to Bird Gymnasium! I'm Brendon."

Fucking Ryan.

Spencer extends a hand warily. "Spencer. Spencer Smith. My friend Ryan said you--"

"Oh, you're Ryan's Spencer! The rollerblader, right? No wonder your hands are so rough, I don't often meet beginners with callouses like that, you'll totally have no trouble adjusting to the equipment. Let me give you a tour." His hand turns in Spencer's, but doesn't let go, and he tugs Spencer along behind him. Spencer can't quite figure out how to drop it without being rude.

"We've been in operation for about three years now," Brendon says, leading him toward the back. "All our staff have competed professionally and completed at least three state and two national teaching certifications, and we're mostly an adults-only place, but if kids bother you you'll want to avoid Saturdays and the Tuesday-Thursday tumbling classes—they're totally adorable and mostly well-behaved, but I know the airplane noises distract some people. You can sign up for a class if you work better with others or we offer private tutoring but not in rock-climbing since you shouldn't rock-climb alone anyway, because of needing somebody to get the ambulance when you fall off, not that you would fall off but it can happen, and then you need help, but you wanted beam and bar work and some tumbling, right, Ryan said you wanted to tighten your stunts, so it doesn't matter about the rock-climbing, unless you're interested in it as a hobby, but it's pretty time-consuming and I hear you have a competition coming up—Greta! Greta, this is Spencer, Ryan's Spencer."

It takes Spencer a minute to stop staring in fascination—how does this guy breathe?--and turn to smile at the pretty blonde hanging by her knees from a lime green trapeze. "Nice to meet you," she offers, twisting effortlessly up to perch like a bird instead. "Ryan's talked a lot about you."

"He has?" Spencer asks dubiously.

"Well...he smiles when Keltie talks about you," she corrects herself, smiling a little. "You compete rollerblading?"

"Yeah," Spencer says, glad to be back on firm ground. "Ryan and I skated together as kids, but he wound up going for the sport that involved costumes. I am in no way implying that I am more manly than he is."

She laughs. "Ice dancing is very manly," she agrees. "I see Brendon's giving you the grand tour."

"Yeah, I—I'm still thinking about it, I guess."

"Oh, no, Spencer Smith, this is the best possible place for you!" Brendon hastens to reassure him, and that's apparently his cue to pull Spencer all over the building


:-:-:-:-:

One of the funniest things about the Mating Dance is Ryan's idea of what will attract people to him. He spends extra time in front of the mirror, fusses with his clothes, like anybody would, but he's also under the impression that one of his greatest assets is his large vocabulary. (Not a euphemism.) He likes to accessorize with books--usually thick books meant to indicate that he thinks Meaningful Thoughts. It's astonishing how often it works, though--whether the prey are actually impressed or are just seizing the conversation starter, half Ryan's conquests have started with, "What are you reading?"

It's only been a few scattered special ones who merit a little tailoring, a little display of interest in their interests, like the pretty vet intern, Meg, who had Ryan conspicuously reading philosophy on his breaks at the clinic, like that short but painful period of paging through basketball magazines during gym class. (Hah. Like Tony DeMarco even knew how to read.) Spencer's never been entirely sure whether Ryan is trying to inform himself so that he can hold a conversation or whether it's just specialized window dressing, but he suspects the latter.

He frowns, therefore, when he spots Ryan with a copy of Modern Drummer magazine. First, it means that this is more than Ryan's eye being caught by something (someone) shiny. Second, it narrows the options down rather alarmingly. If it's Planet's Jeff or MCS's Tony or Darren (or, well, any of the Hush Sound, damn their multi-instrument-playing fingers), they're all screwed. Inter-band romances suck, tours and recording splitting up couples, pressing time and distance into all the cracks between people. The easiest answer would be one of the techs, of course, because they can be invited along, but Zack doesn't let Panic hire people stupid enough to fuck the talent, and stealing another band's beloved tech isn't something Spencer's anxious to do twice. It's bad enough facing up to Bill when he's drunk and unconvinced that Jon and Brendon are still sickeningly cute together.

Third, of course, it's Spencer's copy of Modern Drummer, and Spencer hasn't finished that article on the new bass design that's apparently going to give a sharper sound. They usually share magazines pretty freely on the bus, like food, like DVDs and video games, but some things are sacrosanct: Jon's nuclear relish, Brendon's extensively personalized copy of Mario Kart, Ryan's Chicago special edition, and Spencer's drumming magazines.

And maybe the reason Spencer's so prickly about his drumming magazines is because of the large number of drummers who live in his fantasy life, but that is his own business, thank you very much. It's really kind of a shame how much time he and Ryan spent whispering in the dim glow of moonlight, because if Ryan ever turns against him, he's going to have to kill him before any sleepover secrets can be spilled.

He walks over and leans meaningfully into Ryan's space. Ryan looks up.

"Did you see there's an article on Bob Bryar in here, Spence?" Ryan asks, blinking at him innocently.

Spencer looks at him levelly. No way is he discussing getting off to that photograph. Not in broad daylight. And not now that he is twenty years old. Not without a healthy dose of weed in him, anyway. "Was there something in particular you wanted to discuss, Ryan?"

"I just thought--" Ryan breaks off, and Spencer curls an eyebrows at him meaningfully. "I thought that, uh, what Bryar said about, about using shallower toms was really--interesting."

"Interesting." Spencer lets his tone hang heavy with skepticism. Ryan listens when Spencer gets excited, Spencer knows that really, but he's never quite comprehended the fiddly technical details. Ryan is not introducing this topic of conversation because he wants to talk kit. It's a toss-up whether he's just intent on mocking Spencer's thing for calloused hands or he's trying to distract Spencer from the fact that he never asked if he could borrow the magazine.

"Well, I mean, what he says about a different sound? It seems like it would be. Um. Different."

Spencer can feel his lip twitching, totally against his will. He should be madder, but Ryan's slithering out of trouble by being really fucking hilarious. He'll never forgive Spencer if his prey walks in on Spencer laughing at his utter ignorance when he's gone to all this trouble setting himself out all pretty and apparently knowledgeable. (Spencer is only allowed to sabotage during Stages Eight--for purposes of exposing Ryan's secretly adorable side--Twelve--to test commitment and tolerance levels--and Fifteen--because Fifteen is the last stage anybody's reached, Openly Declared Requited Epic Romance, and anybody who makes it that far knows not to take him seriously. Only Keltie's been there yet, and Spencer's still a little sad that she and Ryan had finally admitted that their work was too much pressure and they were better off friends. It isn't quite the same teasing her when she's just a friend.) None of Spencer's mental candidates are in the room, but that doesn't really mean much--they're pretty good friends with the other bands, with the techs, and people are in and out of their dressing room all the time. Ryan could be targeting anybody, and the anybody could walk in at any moment.


All things considered, Spencer will go and snicker in private, this time, although he can't quite stop one soft snort from escaping. "I'm going to go find Zack, okay? Just don't rip it." He pats Ryan's shoulder reassuringly and walks out, leaving Ryan to stare at the magazine in his hands like it's let him down somehow.

:-:-:-:-:

I'm not posting snippets from the IKS 'verse, because they are too small to allow snippets, but I will say I'm working on a Ginger (Panic at the Mormon church event! It's gonna be awesome. Ryan's gonna wear a bonnet), a Greta, and a Shane, and I'm THINKING about Pete. Maybe. I'm not really sure I can write Pete.