[the 'ships i want' meme]

[newschool]

from here:

► spies. they're undercover (either having to pose as a married couple or siblings) and things spark.
► something unhealthy. the two partners genuinely love each other but they're just really bad for each other.
► dealing with workahol. most of my characters love their jobs (to the point where if the option was available, they would marry them) and need to be dragged away.
► one-sided love. one's in love, the other's faking it.
► vampires.

Comments

q and agent day ► spies

[newschool]

[doubleohsass]

This is awkward. Or maybe it isn't. Or shouldn't be? Day isn't entirely sure whether it's all in her head - well it is - or just one-sided, specific to her. She's long since gotten used to ignoring the desire to fidget in her restlessness, but is still unlearning the habit of going too far in the other direction. Sitting statuesque on a bench, with a bag of bread in her lap, looking out over a duck pond. There aren't any ducks, but she doesn't look out of place with bread as an accessory.

Day knows he's there even before he's announced himself. She's used to him from her time in Q Branch. The sound of his footsteps on the path behind her, she see the way he carries himself in that without turning to look. The scent of his aftershave - cologne? - on the wind. Her powers of observation aren't so much a credit to her training as a spy, but rather the fact that it's always beneficial to know the signs of your boss approaching if you're not being 100% diligent at work. Sometimes even if you are.

"'Lo." There's no pretending that she's as posh as she polishes up to be these days. She's still the girl who obsessively chewed stick after stick of bubble gum while tapping away at her keyboard, or testing the latest gadget. It's hardest to convince her former colleagues that she's actually a proper agent. It's not exactly common to make the leap from behind-the-scenes to the field.

Half obscured beneath the partial loaf of bread is a passport. "Don't suppose you're the one who came up with Daisy?" She's not entirely unamused with the alias she'll be answering to for the foreseeable future, but she's almost physically pained by the play on her actual name. It's too perfect to be anything but intentional.

[newschool]

"Do you like it? I thought it was clever." Q sits next to her, crossing his legs as he looks over the quiet duck pond. At first, he'd opted for 'Daisy Lowe' because he liked the way it sounded, but then one of the more tabloid-savvy members of Q-branch had pointed out that that was the name of Gavin Rossdale's lovechild and Agent Day would kill him when she realized. She'd ended up as 'Daisy Fitzpatrick' instead, but Q still missed the rhythm of Daisy Lowe.

"...so," he says, a moment later. "This assignment." He resists the urge to touch the passport sitting in his own pocket, made out to one Nicholas Fitzpatrick. "I'm going with you."

peggy and donna ► spies

[keptwatch]

peggy and steve ► spies

[keptwatch]

john and rachel ► spies

[blogged]

Re: john and rachel ► spies

[gotbottle]

The best cover stories, according to Her Majesty's Secret Service, are the ones born of a grain of truth. When recruited, John Watson had been a military doctor of uncommon valor, level-headedness, and resourcefulness, a smart tactician and strong leader; Rachel Conway had been a fresh-out-of-journalism-school investigative reporter with as scary a knack for winning people over as for unearthing secrets and following even the faintest bread-crumb trails between facts no one else could connect.

So they'd been allowed to carry on, in order to support their covers. Rachel had worked for various outlets in Belfast, before joining an online media group (neatly created by MI-6) while John had gone into practice. Should anyone want to dig around in their pasts, they've each got the sort of background you can't fake, the envy of Six's old-school operatives who either have to learn a new cover story each time out or simply do without.

But they were more than a successful doctor and a keen reporter: they were also both field operatives, fealty sworn to the secret service. They were ready and willing to give all and be anything in service to Queen and country.

Which is how they wound up married. And living in Amsterdam.

Fifty years ago, Communist China, backed by the Soviets, had tried to turn Amsterdam into a free port for espionage. They'd taken advantage of the city's ports, the huge trade industry with nations all over the world, and the country's very laid-back attitudes about many things to try to make inroads into Europe. That had been countered by the Swiss, the Americans, and of course, MI-6.

Now it was happening all over again, and no one could get a bead on who precisely was behind it. Black market shipments, money being laundered, people turning up dead, secrets being cracked and scattered to the internet winds before anyone could stop it. All put in motion by shadowy figures smart and connected enough to catch on to any typical lone operative sent in to counter their crimes.

So Six decided to send a pair of agents. Savvy spies would expect a lone agent. Might suspect even a distinguished doctor, or a driven reporter. But not both, not a married couple.

John and Rachel had been tossed together here and there over the last year, running brief operations together, or one joining in when the other needed some temporary support. They'd gotten along well, had some decent chemistry, and had been able to work together effectively. Throw in their near-bulletproof covers, and they would make an outstanding stealth two-person team.

So there had been a whirlwind courtship in London (mostly the two of them poring over each other's lives and backstories), a quiet ceremony at City Hall (for the paper trail, of course), and a honeymoon in Gibraltar (where they'd spent the week learning to be comfortable sharing a bed to sleep at night and existing in each other's space, sharing bathrooms and cooking and all the things real couples did).

And then Dr. Watson had been invited to an eighteen-month fellowship (neatly created by MI-6) at the Universiteit van Amsterdam's Academic Medical Centre, and he'd brought his bride, who would be filing freelance travel and personal interest stories, and writing the occasional "Irishwoman at large on the Continent" columns for her old media group. They had built-in reasons to look into deaths in the city, to take trips as needed, all neatly tied into a bow with their cover professions. And they each were the other's backup.

It's been three months, and to Rachel, at least, the act doesn't feel so forced anymore. She's maintaining her professionalism, don't misunderstand, even if her thoughts stray at times, even if there's the occasional wistful what-if. (Look: he's attractive, he's very kind, he's even sort of funny sometimes, and he doesn't seem to mind making her laugh. He keeps his things neat thanks to his military training. He's quiet and respectful. As far as fake husbands go, she couldn't have done much better.)

It's a matter of practice. Do something often enough, and it becomes second nature, unconscious. Pretend the man that comes home most nights is your husband, and it becomes easier to buy into the story, and sell it, too.

So her delighted surprise when she comes through their apartment door to find him on the couch is a lot more effortless than it used to be. "You're home!" It's later afternoon, and John's home. It's a rare thing that his job--either of them--doesn't require something out of him at least until dinner, often until after.

"This is a nice surprise." She drops the mail and her bag on the table near the door, moving to where he sits, leaning down to plant a kiss on the top of his head.

(Keep the act up at all times, they'd been instructed. You never know who's watching. And if you try to relax when you're in private, the public performance becomes strained.)

"Quiet day at the hospital?"

[ooc: I was inspired by this; perhaps we could use it for some basic "this is why they're here/what's going on" purposes?]

[blogged]

John would be lying if he acted like this was anything other than a nearly ideal assignment. The work isn't particularly difficult or anything out of the ordinary from his time in the military, he's living in bloody Amsterdam of all places, and pretending to be married to a beautiful redhead isn't precisely what he'd call a hardship. He keeps those thoughts to himself, though, and always comports himself with perfect professionalism: always kind, always conscientious, but never overly affectionate - a textbook British husband who loves his wife but does not truck with sentiment.

He gives her a smile as he looks up from his laptop where he'd been poring over a newly released medical journal. "Yeah, they let me go home early; not enough people getting sick to keep me around."

His sharp eyes take her in, filing anything interesting away for analysis. "How about you? Good day?"

louis and john ► vampires

[depointedulac]

[whatcanailthee]

He won't do it. He won't give in.

London, 1816, finds John Keats stumbling out of the Galatea--the pub under London Bridge, the lair for the city's neffers, those who would sell their souls for five minutes of what he desperately wishes he could escape.

They're not vampires, the nephilim. They're older. Stronger. They drain your very life force, not merely your blood. Yes, they confer protections on those they favor: they're kept from harm, their lives are lengthened (though John suspects it's only so they can continue to feed). And they can give their favorites such creative power.

But at such a cost. They're jealous lovers of a sort, but their protective urges are powerful. Terrifying. Fatal. They kill those who would stand between them and their chosen ones. And even accepting their gifts means the eventual loss of one's own essence, his very life.

The poor sods at the Galatea, they've no idea what it's like. What they're trying to invite. They envy him what he has, but it burdens him. He made no invitation, unlike most; he had the misfortune to be born on All Hallow's Eve, when the veil between world was weakest and one of the nephilim could choose instead of being beckoned.

He's been marked all his life.

She comes to him more strongly now, more regularly. Nearly every night in dreams, now that he no longer studies medicine, now that he's devoted himself to his poetry. His first works, released to absolutely no notice.

She can change that, she whispers to him in his sleep, soft (scaly, feathery) skin sliding between his palms, her invitations enveloping him in even the most intimate ways, trying to entice. All he need to is embrace her, take what she offers.

He came to the Galatea tonight to remind himself of what accepting her affections would mean. Would do to him. He staggers out into a downpour, resolve set, taking a cloudy, gemlike stone from his pocket.

"I will not!" he cries at the pouring sky. He tosses the stone for emphasis, and it skids across the wet cobblestones before dropping into the water.

There's a flash of light.

The next thing John knows, he is sputtering awake in a puddle where the stones of the path dip. He drags himself upright, squinting, trying to make sense of the piles of clothing scattered about.

...There used to be bodies in those. They are bodies still, but torn open, all that made them men gone, torn to shreds.

John scrambles to his feet, and he is sure he can hear the soft slither of scales and whisper of feathers from somewhere in the rain.

He takes off running, as fast as he can manage over the wet stones, desperate to escape.

[depointedulac]

At first, of course, Louis is drawn to the scent of the blood. It is everywhere, forcing its way into his senses, filling him with a sort of ecstasy that he both loves and despises. Even as he curses himself for his damned weakness, he is stepping away from the flat he shares with Lestat, stepping into the downpour and breathing, breathing deeply as he did as a man, unable to get enough of that terrible, wonderful, scent. He follows the scent through winding streets, to a scene of carnage that, for a moment, he cannot even comprehend. He stops in the shadows, staring, heedless of the rain except when he blinks it away.

"Mon dieu," he whispers, and his hand moves, as though to cross himself, but he stops himself. But there is another scent, too: human, yes, mortal - but wrong.

Damned.

He lifts his head, tracking the scent. It isn't long before he is able to overtake the running man, put himself coming the other way, so they crash into each other, Louis letting out an all too human oof!

percy and john ► unhealthy

[aperfectthird]

[nastypieceofwork]

He drifts around the flat, readying himself. Consulting a book here, pulling a vial off a shelf there, pausing to take a drag off a cigarette or a gulp of gin from a glass.

He knows what he needs to do. What he's going to face. It's an old grudge come back to cause him new trouble, and these things never end well.

Well. For him? He always gets out mostly unscathed. It's the people in his orbit who don't escape.

He knows what else he needs to do. He's never been good at managing this whole existing with other people thing. He knows he should just quit while he's ahead--while Percy still stands a chance.

He knows.

And somehow he doesn't remember to move quietly around the flat, or just leave and gather what he needs at his own.

He's never been good at "should", he muses, as he hears a breath in the hallway beyond the study.

He pauses, and goes still, but he doesn't turn around, addressing Percy over his shoulder.

"You're supposed to be sleeping."

Percy can be forgiven if he thinks he hears, instead, I thought you were sleeping.

[aperfectthird]

"So are you."

Percy has never been the deepest of sleepers - it started out in the dorms, where social climbers thought that pranking the top of the class would help their ranking (somehow), and the war only made it worse. So when he'd heard footsteps, glass clinking against a table top, the creaking of the floor, he'd woken up, come out to see what was going on. He checks his watch.

"It's two-thirty in the morning, that's generally what people do at this time." Blue eyes dart around the room, taking in the small pile of things gathered.

"But perhaps you'd like to enlighten me on what you're doing at this time of night."

cedric and ginny ► workaholics

[toseektofind]

[hexuality]

[ Ginny wouldn't call what they have a relationship only because those, in the past, have consisted of going on dinner dates and spending time together that's actually fun. She would, however, call Cedric Diggory her boyfriend (at least in theory), because they fancy each other, have been one another's dates to work events (neither will quickly forget the Prophet holiday party) and they have shagged. Often. But as for doting on each other...

Not that it's anyone's fault. They see each other every day. Sometimes she has flowers on her desk or he has filthy little letters on his. They work together, after all. Two desks apart, to be exact. They go out to Quidditch matches together but often for work and they have lunch sometimes, if a deadline isn't too pressing or if one of them actually remembers to eat and reminds the neglectful one. That didn't happen today, though, the office in a mad flurry to get the next paper out on time.

It's very late at night when Ginny finally looks up from her typewriter and even then, it's just to give her eyes a rest. She's rubbing at them when she realises that there's the solitary clacking of another typewriter and she glances around the empty office—and there, two desks away... ]

Diggory. [ Soft, amused. ] Are you racing me to tomorrow's deadline?

[toseektofind]

[In theory, Cedric is great at relationships. He's charming, he's friendly, he's thoughtful and kind, and because he's spent years at the Prophet making friends with the more senior reporters and a whole League worth of Quidditch players, he only has to put in a few words in a few ears, and strings get pulled that most people didn't even know existed to be pulled. In theory, he can get Friday reservations at the hot new place in Diagon Alley on Thursday night, or get top box seats to the big Quidditch exhibition held every year.

In practice, that Hufflepuff tendency to work hard is a curse more than a blessing, especially when you're dating a beautiful, clever, wonderful witch. It's so much easier to worry about a deadline than where you can take her out. It's simpler to obsess over word choice than if she'll like your gift. So much easier to embrace a challenge than embrace your girlfriend.

He tries, though. He does leave the flowers and he never throws away her notes. He brings her tea and makes sure she eats (even if he doesn't always extend that same courtesy to himself). But he does get wrapped up in his work, and sometimes he forgets about the world around him - at least, until someone speaks. He looks up, gives Ginny a small, crooked grin.]

Not really a race if we both know who's gonna win.

bones and kate ► workaholics

[aviophobia]

sam and maddie ► the mob

[couldbesaved]

[bestintention]

This assignment has been a long time coming. Maddie has done a lot of work in order to get here, a lot of overtime in order to prove that she was a competent agent, a lot of studying to prove that she knows exactly what she's getting into when it comes to Sam Winchester.

Seemingly normal guy. Smart, very smart, an almost Stanford graduate. But then, according to all resources, things changed. When Dad comes knocking, when Dad is as powerful a man as John Winchester, you answer. Maybe there's no concrete proof that Sam is now John's go-to guy, but that's what she and the other agents were trying to find out.

That's why she's going undercover for the very first time. If she was successful, if she was able to connect him to the murders that keep racking up, if she's able to put him behind bars, well ... her entire career would be made.

It was just a matter of getting close to him. That's why she was here, dressed down, behaving as any normal working person would, waiting for a train home. According to recent sightings ... he'd be here. And she ... waits.

[couldbesaved]

And, like clockwork, here he is. At first glance, he doesn't look like the son of one of the most notorious men in New York's criminal underworld. He looks like a regular twenty-something, practically indistinguishable from the hundreds of other young men just like him, wearing an olive-colored shirt open over a dark blue polo, jeans, and heavy brown boots. White earbuds snake out of his ears and the cord runs down his chest to one of the pockets of his jacket, and he moves through the crowd with the ease of someone who's done this enough that it's become muscle memory.

Though he looks relaxed, his dark eyes move constantly, taking everyone in, including her. His mouth quirks up at one corner in a smile, because she's a pretty young woman, and he's appreciative of that. There's no further contact than that, though, and he looks down the tunnel, waiting to see the lights of the train.

lily and aj ► workaholics

[instead]

[thislastrequest]

It's not that Abbie is a workaholic at heart - well, maybe that's not entirely true, she'd always gone above and beyond both at the library, and during school, and this was no different. She was brand new - brand new to the job, brand new to being a counselor, brand new to the school, and she wants everything to be perfect.

Although school is out for the summer, she still spends far too many hours in her office, pouring over files left over from her predecessor, decorating, making the room a comfortable, calming space for any child that might need to come and speak with her, while at the same time making it her own.

Maybe she's neglecting her home life, and maybe she's neglecting Lily, too, but it's not intention - could never be intentional. Which is why she's fully intending on leaving early today, on surprising Lily with something nice.

She makes one last cursory glance at her office, making sure her posters are straight, and her desk is set up precisely the way she wants, and she sends a little text, walking out to her car. You. Me. Lunch. Interested?

q and claire ► one-sided love

[newschool]

[caged_blackbird]

It hadn't always been this way.

Well ... obviously, otherwise this, whatever this was right now, wouldn't have gone on for so long. Some might say, if Claire were ever to divulge the situation, that they've just settled into their relationship.

But Claire knows differently. It's one thing to fall into comfortable, familiar patterns, and it's another when things have deteriorated to the point that the both of them are just ... bored with each other.

It's difficult to admit, even to herself, but that's got to be what this is. It's not ... good anymore, and she's not even sure if it's worth trying to save. Is there still a spark? When he looks at her, are there any good thoughts at all?

She's got the sniffles, that's all, it would be ridiculous to cry while doing the dishes.