mockturtle (hellblazer06) wrote,

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graveyard of unfinished fics

Lookit, found a folder of unfinished fics, some for very obvious reasons, like, OMG, what was I thinking, but never mind. Snippets here presented lazily as drabbles, because I'm bored, entirely unproofed as I've just been hit with a whack of work again...

SPACE: Above and Beyond

"Fix bayonets," Sharpe ordered. "Forward!"

The green jackets leapt out of the trenches, screaming, Sharpe leading, sword drawn, driving them on.

It was old fashioned, but it worked. The screams, the sheer animal ferocity of the volley then the charge unnerved the enemy.

Sharpe leaped forward, swinging his heavy steel down hard with a sickly dull thud into the first bastard who ntried to block his way. Gas and liquid spurted up into his face. He reeled back, eyes watering, then shook his head, tore his blade free, and charged onto the next, and the next, hacking and slashing, the screams and shots of his company barely registering as he pushed himself on. Only the battle existed for him now, his own battle, the blind rage let loose, to kill and kill again, moving without thinking, without needing to think. He'd done this so many times, before. He was a soldier, and he was good at it.

It was 2064 and Richard Sharpe had gone to war again.

X Files/Private Eye/Highlander

Mulder popped up from the back seat, resting his sig sauer at the back of Bett's head.

"Don't act surprised, and don't pretend that if I pull this trigger it will do anything more than give you a nasty migraine."

Betts's hands tightened on the wheel of the 49 Merc. "What the hell are you talking about," he demanded, glancing into the rear view mirror.

"This." Mulder tossed a file into his lap. "Seems there was a Johnny Betts known to the Tenessee authorities back in the Fifties."


"Looks a lot like you."

"What does that prove. It could be a relative, you know how we hillbillies are."

"Yeah, well explain how this Jonnhy Betts got involved in the murder investigation of one Duncan Macleod in 1957?"

Aliens ate my Buick (Due South/Forever Knight/Highlander/X Files/Starman)

Personally, Ray hated it. All this outdoorsman, back to nature wilderness stuff just rubbed him up the wrong way. He was a city boy, born and bred, he liked the finer things civilisation had to offer. like footpaths, hot and cold running water and flushing toilets. It wasn't for nothing that his ancestors had ploughed roads and aqueducts across the forests and fields of Europe. But whatever made Benny happy, he shrugged. away from the city, he dropped his reserved and stand-offish persona, and any environment that could turn Benny into an erotic and playfully sensual creature had to have something going for it. Ray didn't know what. Trees, mud and bugs, he had decided, irritated him intensely. On the pro side of course, being stuck in the middle of nowhere, no one, save maybe extras from Bambi, could hear him scream as he came into Benny. There was no need to bite down on his own fist to silence himself or restrain himself should the pumping bedsprings be a give-away. No one to overhear, no one to see, no one to judge. Perhaps it was this freedom Benny craved. Like Dief, the Canadian had never taken to kindly to the captivity that the city of greater Chicago amounted to.

Fraser observed Ray's peevish non attempts to gather any firewood with wry amusement. Ben, a natural woodsman, had already located enough for their present needs and therefore could afford to be indulgent towards his friend's deliberate disinterest in the essentials of camping. This little weekend trip had been his idea. Not enough time to fly up the cabin, he still had needed a break, sought relief from the city. He needed to breath air not thick with lead and rubber and other toxins, to be somewhere without a constant noise level well above the tolerance the human ear was designed for. He needed to escape from the city. And he had brought Ray with him. He was concerned about Ray. Lately, he had been more depressed and prone to bad moods, more reserved, distant almost, closing his eyes and heart to Ben, never looking into his soul as they made love. He turned his face away, eyes closed, and slept on his side. Something was terribly wrong, but Ben knew how Ray could get if he pressed where he wasn't meant to tread. He'd fallen into a waiting game instead, assure Ray would eventually reveal what was troubling him so, sure that their relationship wasn't that far beyond repair.

It wasn't like it had been easy for Ray. The Riv, Victoria, Francesca, the rape, the outing; Ben bit down the guilt that threatened to strangle his heart. He hadn't been easy on Ray. He knew that. The dark ness Lacroix had left in his soul, it was still there, only he'd learnt to live with it a little better, the way one learnt to live with a guilty conscience or physical scars. He'd tried wooing Ray, but his efforts had mostly fallen on stony ground. Still, if there was one thing Benton Fraser was , it was stubborn and persistent. Ray would have to tell him eventually. He would have to, because Ben couldn't pinpoint the root of Ray's sadness from all they had lived through.


They only got as far as the hallway. By the dim tallow light he saw Edrington throw Hornblower up against the wall, cover the boy's mouth and kiss him deep and hard enough to nearly choke him, all the while his hand in the front of Hornblower's trousers was pumping fast and furiously. Hornblolower's hips thrust up against him. He made a muffled noise under Edrington's smothering mouth and Edrington released him, rubbing Hornblower's sticky emissions into Hornblower's shirt, pressing hard over his chest in harsh circles.

Knowing his duty Hornblower sank to his knees and Edrington clutched at the dark head, twisting the curling hair in his fists, pushing himself into that hot, wet mouth. Hornblower choked and swallowed as Edrington bucked into him. He pulled Hornblower up again and they kissed open mouthed, pressed up against the wall, scrabbling at clothes. Edrington pushed open a door and they swung inside, slamming the door behind them.

Pellew imagined he heard the bed creaking over the din of the public house, imagined the smooth athletic bodies twisting and slithering together as Edrington slid down Hornblower's lean body, tensed and arched, making that body jerk and surge as he applied lips and tongues and fingers to those secret places, watching those dark eyes widen, those soft lips open, those long thighs parting, the proud young cock quivering, those young hips thrust up as Hornblower was penetrated, those eyes shut tight, his hands on Edrington's body.

Pellew closed his eyes to the vision, ignoring the cries he believed he could hear, sensitive to the sound of Hornblower's voice throughout the ship. He imagined he could hear it now; guttural, inarticulate, expressing animal pleasures. His Hornblower. Could have been his. Might have been his. The pain of knowing another shared an intimacy with Hornblower that Pellew could only dream of, in the few forbidden times that he allowed himself to, it burned and bled much worse than any physical wound. A wound in battle, that was a finite thing. The pain would ease, eventually. This was a pain he would have to live with, had lived with. It ate at him, gnawed at his sleep, his appetite, his energy, his mind.

He loved the boy with all his heart and Hornblower was as impossibly distant to him as the stars.


Mulder's hand twisted on the door knob to his apartment. Open. His whole body tensing, he drew his gun, using it to tap open the door slowly. Through the small open space, nothing seemed disturbed.

He slammed through the door, ready to shoot, landing on the intruder in a heavy tackle, gun at his throat, straddling him onto the floor.

His intruder just grinned up at him, pushing the gun barrel away with the wave of his hand.

"Careful, you could hurt somebody with one of those things."

"Yeah, you." Mulder threatened.

"Ooh, rough trade," teased the lithe young man he held between his thighs.

Mulder sat back, holstering his gun, affecting an attitude of peevishness.

"What do you want?" he asked, realising that he'd made a deal with the devil.

"We've got trouble."


"Blair Sandburg." Methos tapped the file. "I've met him once before. I've met ones like him before."

"Ones like what? What now?"

"A Guide."

"Like a scout or something."

Methos looked exasperated.

"Mulder, what you know and what you don't know never ceases to amaze me. Blair SAndburg is a guide, which means there's a sentinel in the picture. It's the way they work. Like 'and everywhere Mary went, her lamb was sure to follow'."

Mulfder just looked bemused.

Methos leant forward, annoyed.

"Mordern man has forgotten more than he'll ever know. A sentinel is a chosen champion for the tribe, with special abilities, oth physical and spritual in nature. No one knows much about them, they've been written off as extinct. But I've done enough research to think that young Mr Sandburg's partner in crime, one Detective James Ellison, is a sentinel."

Mulder leant close.

"That is really interesting, but what's it got to do with the case? I mean, do these guys have watchers?"

"No. But they should habe. Ellison is on the case. Sentinels can hunt down immortals like dogs."


"Oh." Methos agreed.



November 11, 2075
1900 hours

Nathan and Cooper shared a secret smile as they walked down the steps of Old Parliament House together, so close they were almost touching, surrounded by other dignitaries who nodded to Nathan in deference to the stirring speech marking both the anniversary of Chartwell's death and Armistice Day he had just delivered before the assembled crowd, relayed on the world's media.

Cooper was as horny as hell, but his senses still sharp, his InVitro ears hearing the sound of a round being chambered over every other noise, drawing his gun in response without uttering a word, grabbing Nathan by the arm and forcing him to the ground.

The bullets sliced up the concrete steps towards them, stitching their way across Cooper's chest as he fired off a round in return. He fell back down on top of Nathan, covering him completely, hugging him tight, his body arching as the bullets slammed into it, until shots over their heads brought down the sniper.

Nathan rolled out from under Cooper to the sound of screaming around him. His face echoed the horror of what he saw; Cooper's shirt, blood soaked, torn open.

Their eyes met, scared.

Cooper clutched at Nathan's hand, blood bubbling up through his lips.

"Semper Fi," he choked, before his head lolled back.

"No!" screamed Nathan, hugging the bloody body of his friend.


Shade's Journal

I was bored, I guess. I decided to relieve my boredom, and, I hoped, other yearnings, by a visit to Jack. These visits were becoming more and more frequent, but I dismissed the troublesome thought from my mind as I appeared in the darkest corner of his apartment.

He was not aware of me, lying, trance like, before the soft flickering blue light of his television set, sprawled so endearingly across that ancient and uncomfortable couch he loves so much. His eyes are half lidded, he is close to sleep, but I detect movement, his hand, softly stroking across his groin, Jack barely aware of the movement, lost in his reverie.

I send my shadow seeping across the floor like an oil slick, trickling up the chair, sliding over his skin. Jack's muscles tighten for a moment, then he sighs, relaxing into my black embraces. Watching from my vantage point, I peel away his clothes, carefully now. Jack has already remonstrated me more than once when I have let my passions get the better of me, as his clothes apparently have great emotional, aesthetic and even monetary value. So I undress him with the utmost care. It requires great skill, a skill I delight in refining.

Naked, Jack writhes under black ribbons and coils as I fill him, enfold him, caress and tease him in a thousand places. Jack says it's like being fucked a hundred times over. His head whips back with a cry as his body succumbs to release. Only then, lying sweaty, naked and breathless on his couch, and I reveal myself to him.

I cradle him softly my arms. His blue eyes open and I must admit, even for this jaded old fool, he takes my breath away. Jack Knight is a handsome man. Not just a pleasing arrangement of flesh and bone, but the warmth of his smile, the mischievous light in his eyes. Jack has heart, and a good heart at that. This is why Jack is a hero and protector. Champion of my beloved Opal, my city, my home.

I slide a languid finger across his smooth abdomen, trailing through his cooling seed. I trace his lips and lean in to kiss him, tasting his seed on his lips. His lips are warm, his tongue soft, his kisses languid. I wonder if I am a cold, dead thing to Jack. His eyes are so alive. He closes them. His tongue darts with mine.

Sometimes I think Jack is curious. Sometimes I think my appeal is that I am another relic of a bygone age to be added to his collection. I confess, I do not understand why he welcomes my touch or my visits. I think it is curiosity. I think we both get something we want.

I mean to leave but Jack's hands are upon me, removing my shirt and tie, and the rest of my clothes soon follow. I had not yet wanted to expose myself to Jack, to be naked before him, in case I repelled him in some fashion. But he is like a blind fish, nuzzling and suckling at my skin, and I find myself falling, drowning, bathed in his light, his life.

I wake as if from a dream in his arms. We are lying, length to length, upon his couch, so casual is our contact.

"Where did you go?" he asks, eyes seeking mine.

"No where," I replied, truthfully.

"You looked like you were dreaming."

"I don't dream," I lied. I said it so forcefully even for a fool would know I was lying, and Jack was no fool. He let it slide by gracefully however.

"What do you dream about?" I asked, trying to turn the tables, feeling too naked and exposed, and uneasy because of it. The last time I let my guard down...

"Last night I dreamt I was a spy," Jack answers, a big little boy's grin spread wide across his face. "A Napoleonic spy. All swash and buckle. All dash and excitement. I was spying for Wellington in Portugal. Or maybe Spain."

"Do tell," I prompted, trying to settle comfortably beside him, being comfortable a near impossibility on that wretched couch.

Methos' Journal

There's only one good thing about riding into Wellington's camp, and that is knowing I should be gone again by the end of the week. These English like to fool themselves that they are educated having read the writings of a few Roman half wits. They should learn Roman discipline instead of Roman poetry. Then they might have a chance of winning their war.

Not that I care.

The only thing that draws me to this stinking, filthy camp is boredom and the hope that it will be relieved by Richard.

But it seems I have been away too long. Perhaps my absence has hurt Richard. Or else he has found someone else in camp.

Whatever the reason, I have been in Wellington's camp two days and I find my protege avoiding me, or at least finding some excuse, of his making or someone else's, to be busy and away from me. I am not about to lower myself and pursue Richard Sharpe.

Damn him! I find this morning Richard and his motley crew have disappeared. Everyone is tight lipped about the apparent vanishing and Lawford is entirely smug. I suspect his hand in this. Wellington wants to see me this evening. More orders, I suppose.

Shade's Journal

Jack relaxed back against the couch, warming to his subject.

"My codename was Rosa. I can't remember why."

I make Jack tell me everything Sharpe did, and I echo his every move. I find myself thinking what a coarse and unrefined fellow this Sharpe was but then I stop thinking and lose myself in Jack, in the freedom. I thrust wildly. I hear him cry out in time. He's not crying out 'Sharpe'. He's crying 'Shade'. He repeats my name over and over as a mantra as I take him hard and it's glorious and I never knew I could feel such raw passion, that I could feel so alive.

Jack collapses under me. I cannot help myself. I need more. I rise him up above me, my shadows racing over his flesh, nipping and scratching. He writhes and the sight of his struggles makes me come again. Oh, God, Jack.

Jack reaches around and presents me with a rubber. I stare aghast at the thing in my hand. I want to feel Jack living and pulsing, surrounding me. When he's not looking, I toss it away. I won't hurt Jack, but I am above such mortal concerns. Jack is braced against the couch, ready, waiting.

I hold him aloft. Like a young god, I worship before him. My shadows move across his body like an ever changing, ever moving oil lamp effect, slick darkness swirls over his skin. He lashes back and forth and spasms, raining his seed down upon me. I touch it, taste it, then lower him gently to the ground, into my arms. I carry him through to his bedroom and lay him upon his bed. I can't resist. I nibble and tease his pliant form, biting and sucking upon his breast. But my young lover groans and tries to twist away. His body wants my touches, but he has grown fretful, like an irritable child. I have pushed Jack past pleasure and into exhaustion. I take pity on poor Jack and roll him over gently and soothe him with long soft strokes. in moments, he is sound asleep. I decide to take my leave, but I make the mistake of glancing back. He is so beautiful, and so vulnerable. I decide to stay and watch over him as he sleeps, and watch him sleep, and I wonder if he is dreaming again of being held in the arms of Richard Sharpe. I feel the tiny prick of jealousy and it surprises me. Could it be I have come to care for this man so very much, to call him friend, to love him? I think I have.


Without warning, Sharpe stopped in his tracks, and Methos cannoned straight into him.

Sharpe pushed him away, tred and cranky. "Will you fucking stop doing that."

Methos stood his ground, glaring. "Well, if you'd cease stopping short like that…"

"You're supposed to be paying attention, not plodding along some fucking braindead hiker. Knock off the amateur shit, right now, okay? I've got no time for it. I know're better than this. I don't have the time or fucking energy to carry you, just because you don't want to be here. Why did you bother coming at all then? You should have stayed at home and just let me get on with it. But no, you had to tag along, and you've done nothing but complain and fuck up since we got here. I'm on probation, you shithead. If I screw up one more time, I'm out. It might mean nothing to you, but this is my life. Can you get that through that thick skull of yours? Get your act together or get the fuck away from me." Almost shaking with rage, in fact, to the trained eye, he was, the pulled the map out again and studied it hard, not seeing,, but anything to not look at Methos.

Methos snatched the map from his hands, ripped it out of it's plastic cover, tore it into several pieces and threw them at Sharpe.

"Fuck your map. Fuck you." The last was said with real feeling. "Fuck everything. " Methos' voice was brittle and stilted. "I hate this fucking jungle, I hate your fucking army and I hate you."

Christ, it looked like he was going to cry. Sharpe had never seen…he'd never seen methos, never like this. He looked like he'd finally had it, the last straw. He looked tired, he looked old, and he looked very very upset. Not the cold fury Sharpe was used to, but geuine, confused distress.

Oh, god…


"You can't," argued Michael. "It's inhuman."

"That thing is inhuman," Angie argued savagely, then caught herself, shoving all the hate and grief back into it's dark little corner. "Look, we have a live specimen. I have to test the vaccine. I need a tst subject. You brought me one." She didn't even bother to tell him to stop being so weak and squeamish. That went without saying.

Jack was silent but his hostility and outrage was unmistakable. Cold bastards. More undead than the undead he thought at times. He dreaded becoming as cold and unforgiving as they were. It would happen, once his family had been killed in revenge, the hate would come easily to him.


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