ekaterinn: (shiny! (by lindr_jax))
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Here's the first four completed drabblets. Torchwood, Doctor Who, House M.D.

For [livejournal.com profile] kat_lair, Torchwood, Jack/John, Good Friday, annoyance.



“No.”

“Oh, c’mon, Jack, it’ll be fun.”

“Go away. I’m trying to fix this temporal electromagnetic poly…thingie.”

“Just think about it, Jack. Ireland. 1916. Good Friday. All those bright brave lads, dying for the Republic. All is changed, changed utterly/A terrible beauty is born.”

“…”

“And if we happen to pick up a few priceless artifacts on the way, well, we‘re bound to make it back to good old 51st some day, and there‘s that lovely black market on S‘Quon.”

“Oh, do shut up.”


For [livejournal.com profile] aishuu, Torchwood, Ianto, Valentine‘s, high.


Ianto’s smiling to himself, sitting in a quiet corner of the Hub. He’s maybe a wee bit buzzed, but that’s okay, he has time. Time to wait for the alien drug to wear off, time to think about this day last year. Buying groceries at Tesco with Lisa, running home just barely ahead of the rain. The way they touched each other, casually, painlessly, while they made dinner. The way they traded kisses like currency they would never run out of.

Across the way, Jack watches him with concern, but Ianto doesn’t notice. It’s half past nine on February 14th, 2006 and he’s fine.

Ianto Jones is just fine.


For [livejournal.com profile] beccadg, Doctor Who, Jack/Doctor, longing.


Jack slides his fingers up the Doctor’s jaw line, pulling him close.

He woke up alone on the station. When he realised how quiet it was, he cried.

Jack kisses him with undemanding deftness.

He burned out his vortex manipulator, landing in the middle of a war. The soldiers looked more like children, but at least the uniforms were handsome.

Jack steps back.

He got shot too many times to count, took an axe to the head, and fell off a cliff in every country he’s fought in. But he’s only been buried alive once, and it’s an experience he took care not to repeat.

Jack says goodbye.

He breathed in the crisp Cardiff air. This year, he thought, it’s got to be this year.


For [livejournal.com profile] lazzchan, House M.D., House, Christmas, frustrated.



“The MRI turned up nothing,” Cameron says.

Foreman adds, “Her bloodwork is still clear, and before you ask, there was nothing more toxic in the house than burned brownies.”

“I talked to the grandmother. She seems convinced that the patient has no sexual history. Old girl’s got a wicked way with a handbag, by the way,” Chase chimes in, rubbing his arm.

House glares at them all. “Did I ask you to bring me a bunch of negatives?” He leans more heavily on the leg. The sharp pain gives him the vitriol he needs to make his point. “If Collapsed Girl is going to be able to force overcooked baked goods down her throat with Grandma this Christmas, we need at least one theory, people.” House turns to face the white board, the black letters as dense as his mind feels right now. “Let’s go over the symptoms again.”


More to come tomorrow!
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