kriadydragon | Ficlet Meme

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Ficlet Meme - Prompt me!

Snurched from

tj_teejay. I don't know why I'm doing this since I have enough on my plate as is, so please be kind with your requests.

The first five people to comment on this post get to request that I write a ficlet of any pairing/character of their choosing. In return, they have to post this in their journal, regardless of their ability level.

Fandoms: White Collar, Suits, Dr. Who (10th Doctor. Not quite comfortable writing 11th yet) and I'm also willing to try Haven if it's Nathan related. And I must apologize profusely for not including SGA. I'm a bit SGA'd out at the moment and really need to try and save my energy for that poor, neglected amnesia story.

And gen requests only, please.

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I am so glad that I'm awake!

Ah... can I be presumptious and prompt a crossover? Suits/White Collar.

Mozzie runs a con (small one) on Harvey who picks up on it, so Mozzie calls in the cavalary i.e. Neal. Bonus if the 'Suits' square off :)

The problem with going up against lawyers was that they were chatty and annoying and generally wasted your time. The problem with going up against a competent lawyer was that they were like hitting a brick wall of legal terminology.

All Mozzie wanted was time enough to clear out Friday before the place was hyper-renovated into yet another place of mass-habitation (like New York didn't have enough of those already). Yes, he couldn't argue against providing the low-income masses affordable but decent living conditions, but it had been his living condition first, and he had made himself extra comfortable thinking the place would never be sold. That meant a lot of stuff to be moved.

Moz's own fault, Neal had said, for making it his home slash storage unit for high-tech Russian surplus, much of which was heavy, most of which couldn't be moved in broad daylight. He needed time, and he had thought tossing a few ancient native American arrow heads and a necklace into a hole the construction guys had dug would buy him that time.

The landlord's attorney - Harry, Henry, Harvey, whatever Specter - wasn't buying the artifacts let alone buying Mozzie as an expert in ancient antiquities (which Mozzie was the most offended by. He'd worked hard on those credentials, had to splurge on special inks and papers and do some all-night hacking to make it happen).

They met in semi-private at Specter's request, a nice little outdoor restaurant in Soho. Mozzie argued, he thought, smartly, creating a maze of legality and political correctness and academia. Harvey argued just as smart, backed up by the little verbal pitbull pup that had accompanied him. The kid had looked like the proverbial deer-in-the-headlights, the naive noob up until Harvey asked him to quote word for word this article or that past case. And the kid did, perfectly, and, oh, it was on. It was so very on.

They hit a stalemate and promised to finish it tomorrow at a restaurant of Mozzie's choice, within Neal's two mile radius. It was with much bribery (wine, finding dirt on a very scary guy for a case Mozzie had wanted nothing to do with, and accompanying Neal to an exhibit Mozzie also wanted nothing to do with because it was boring, and he was sure Neal making him go was for revenge on being forced to spar with lawyers, not for company) that Neal accompanied Mozzie as his associate - associate in academia but it wasn't Neal's knowledge in law Mozzie was after, it was his silver tongue.

...

They hit another stalemate, albeit a far more cheerful stalemate, in which Neal invited Harvey and the pup known as Mike to a natural history exhibit nearby. But Mozzie couldn't go, Neal said. He had something he needed to do.

"And how is leaving you alone with Specter and his walking legal encyclopedia a good idea?" Mozzie demanded.

Neal, smiling like a parent indulging a child, replied breezily and with a shrug, "Just being friendly, showing them the importance of preserving history, buying you time to do what you need to do." He clapped Mozzie on the shoulder, and winked. "Just leave it to me, Moz."

Mozzie did, because when Neal was that kind of confident, though it always made Mozzie cringe, it also meant nine times out of ten that success was theirs.

Success isn't theirs. Harvey acts understanding (because when around Neal, friendliness is contagious) but it's not the same as compassion - Harvey's a pitbull, too, but hasn't been a pup for some time. The motion goes through, the future landlord wins. But time was bought, Friday emptied, with extra time on Neal's hands to find Mozzie a new Friday (Mozzie doesn't question how Neal multitasks like he does, juggling the lawyers and the suits and everything else without dropping a single ball). Neal even helps Mozzie move in.

Mozzie buys Neal three bottles of fine wine, finds enough dirt on the scary guy for Peter to put him away for good, and endures two hours of dull and then some, because Neal had invited the legal pitbulls (people who challenge Neal are never enemies, just future friends). If the attorneys don't believe Mozzie and Neal are historical academics (and Mozzie has the feeling they don't) they don't care.

And that's okay. Mozzie might not like hitting those brick walls, but you can't argue against smart.

The End

And now we do the dance of joy!

Thank you!

That was awesome. I'd loved Friday being under threat and Mozzie's POV of the whole situation. Just perfect

Thank you so much!

I'd like to prompt back if I may. Though feel free to skip it since I already had someone else write for me.

Prompt: Sweet, angsty, woobie Neal!Whump with a side Peter and/or El h/c, please.

What else could I request from the Queen of Whump? And I know it's cliché and has been done a million times before, but you do it so well, and I crave it so much. As for a situation, I'll leave that up to you, but if you need any pointers, how about: Neal gets hurt during an assignment while he is trying to protect Peter.

It was a plane that exploded, and Neal having a semi-panic attack (if you could have a semi-panic attack) that saved them, because it was that kind of day. The private jet's engines had whined, a face had been peering out the window - not Kate's face, not even a woman, just the guy they were after, but Neal had froze.

Then he started backing up, and Peter wondered not for the first time how emotionally stable Neal really was when the plane burst into a fireball, shoving Peter down and Neal into the hangar wall.

There'd been burns, mild, easy to deal with, a broken arm for Peter, broken ribs and dislocated shoulder for Neal, and Neal having trouble breathing. Peter had thought it was a punctured lung, the doctors blast lung, except Neal wasn't coughing up any blood. He laid there on the hospital bed next to Peter, oxygen mask strapped to his face, breathing fine, then fast, then gasping, struggling as he clawed at his chest. It kept happening what felt like every three minutes, with no rhyme or reason to it that the doctors could find, and getting to the point that they were threatening a breathing tube.

Peter couldn't really blame them - not the tube threat, he could blame them for that - but for not being able to figure it out. He couldn't even figure it out, not right away, even though he'd been right there, knocked off his game by deja vu. Neal didn't gasp and claw when he was awake, only when he was asleep. Awake, he just looked confused and scared.

When it happened again, Peter was ready - as ready as he could be, having no real idea of what would help. He unclipped his IV, swung his legs around and stumbled to Neal. He fumbled mentally for a moment before sliding his good arm under Neal, lifting and adjusting as carefully as possible, making enough room to let him sit on the edge of the bed.

Peter held Neal, possibly the most uncomfortable thing he'd ever done. Neal was a heavy, shaking, gasping weight against him, their combined heat making Peter's side clammy, soaking through the scrub shirt.

But Neal wasn't gasping so bad.

"Easy, buddy. Easy. I've got you. You're okay. I've got you."

Neal didn't say anything. He remembered how to breathe, then fell back to sleep. The doctors and nurses that had hurried in stood around as though they had entered the wrong room. Any attempt to get Peter back in his bed wasn't happening. Neither was it much of an effort. Instead, they helped make Peter more comfortable, while Peter made Neal more comfortable.

It was awkward and a little odd, and Peter hoped to hell El didn't walk in while he was asleep and capture the moment forever on camera phone, but Neal was breathing right, and no longer shivering. That made it worth it.

The End

Yay, the Queen of Whump delivers! Thank you! *smooch* This was excellent, and sweet, and makes me all warm and fuzzy. :-D

Awwww, I loved this. :) I love how Peter gets Neal, and does his best to help.

Ooh, I made it to the first five:-) I'd love to read a Suits fic from you. I don't care that much about details... hurt/exhausted/sick Mike, caring/comforting Harvey. If you could come up with a storyline that involves guilty feeling Harvey or a protective Harvey ready to get into a fight for Mike, it would be coool.
Okay, I'm now off to re-post this meme, then get some much needed sleep:-)

Warnings: vomit

Harvey hoped like hell they never had some kind of biological/hazard/whatever attack in the building, because they'd all be doomed, and not from the bio-whatever. Mike got up without an explanation, started to walk out of the meeting without permission, then dropped like a rock to his hands and knees where he promptly puked all over the once nice spotless carpet.

Okay, so maybe what Mike ejected being reddish was a little disconcerting, but still not reason enough to practically stampede from the conference room and shut the doors on Harvey and Mike. Not locked, but it still felt like abandonment, and that was just damn rude. Plus the vomit was a little too neon to be anything other than man made and not biological - not unlike the color of Mike's energy drink of choice of the day.

Harvey, retaining better control than everyone else even though he had about as much tolerance for vomit as a smug Louis, was next to Mike easing him the rest of the way to the floor when the kid started to sway. He was warm, Harvey could feel it through Mike's jacket, pale, and dazed from utter misery.

"Headache?" Harvey asked.

Mike nodded.

"Since this morning?"

When Mike nodded again, Harvey rolled his eyes. "Then why the hell did you come in!"

Mike flinched in pain, forcing Harvey to grumble an apology.

"Wasn't that bad," Mike slurred. "Jus thought I wasn't... getting nuff water or... something."

Harvey grudgingly admitted it was understandable. He'd been there, so caught up with what was happening outside himself he didn't realize what was happening inside himself. Every headache, every dizzy spell, every moment of queasiness was blamed on not enough of this or not enough of that until he blinked and, suddenly, it got a hell of a lot worse.

Jessica returned, risking contamination and her own dislike of bodily fluids to bear a wet washcloth and news that someone had called an ambulance.

Because Mike's sudden spill and expulsion of stomach contents was so, well, sudden - and because biological contamination wasn't a laughing matter - everyone was asked to remain in the building until they were sure no one was contaminated.

Two hours later, everyone was reassured that, no, no one was trying to kill them with super diseases but they may want to get a flu shot.

"No 'may' about it," Jessica announced. "It's mandatory."

Everyone groaned.

"And anyone who tries to blame Mike for this," Harvey added. He smiled, "Will be asked to get a tetanus shot as well."

Everyone shut up.

It was just the flu, and Mike was kicked out of the hospital to go home, rest, drink lots of fluids, rest, eat, and rest. Harvey picked him up; like hell he was letting the kid bike home in his condition where he was liable to plow head-first into a lamp post or car.

"But you puke on the seat, I'm stuffing you in the trunk," Harvey warned.

Mike snorted like it was an empty threat, which it was, but it was still annoying to be snorted at by your underlings. But Harvey spared Mike the I-am-not-amused glare of warning since it wouldn't have any affect. Mike wasn't just sick, he was pared down, exhausted, running on too much energy drink and not enough actual nutrients. It happened, Harvey knew. Part of learning to do the job well was learning to find balance, to stay aware of what was happening inside yourself while you continued to focus on what was happening outside yourself. Which sounded zen and cheesy and something Harvey wouldn't say out loud in a million years, but it was the truth.

What he did say out loud as he drove a pale and exhausted Mike home was, "You need to take better care of yourself." Which was cliche and completely unhelpful, but no less true, either. "Health always comes first and energy drinks aren't going to cut it."

He glanced at Mike, who in the glow of the street lamps looked gaunt, eyes squinting against the pain of a light-sensitive headache.

"I'm serious," Harvey said, more kindly than intended. This was supposed to be a lecture, damn it, not comfort. "I know that sometimes it seems like you don't have time to so much as go to the bathroom, but you figure out how to make it happen. Anyone tries to drag you somewhere or makes you do something during lunch you better ask that lunch be included or be extended, and that includes if I'm the one doing the dragging. Got it?"

Mike nodded heavily.

Harvey continued to lecture all the way to Mike's, and somewhere along the way it turned into giving him advice - grabbing naps when you could, food when you could, keeping snacks at your desk, knowing the difference between a stress headache and a sick headache - that kind of thing. Maybe it was the trick of the light, but Mike seemed to perk up.

"And don't come in until you're better. Not a little better, not mostly better, I mean better," Harvey said when Mike was dropped off. Mike gave him a semi-jaunty salute and his admit-it-you-totally-care smile, then went inside.

Harvey shook his head and headed home.

Aw, loved the *contamination* scene, I could just imagine everyone running for their lives lol. But Harvey stayed... and then threatened everyone with a tetanus shot... and the gave Mike lots of advice:-) Thanks for the sweet fic:-)

I think I only counted 3 prompt requests up there. If I'm wrong, just ignore the rest of the comment below. ;)

I'd love some 10th Doctor. Something angsty, though a bit of whump is always good, too. I'm not too fussy about when -- something post-Donna, in that time between the end of season 4 and his demise, when he's lonely and melancholy is always delicious, but there's plenty of angst potential throughout his Doctor-age.

Warnings: Might be uber angsty.

The biggest lie the Doctor has ever told is that he prefers traveling alone. It's a personal lie, meant to make him feel better, said under the flimsy belief of being able to say something enough times until you believe it. But he's a bloody genius, can never truly believe it, yet while a part of him wonders why he even tries, the part that wants to believe keeps clinging to the lie like clinging to an eel wriggling to be free.

It's especially slippery on days like today, when he took a sting from a giant Eelax meant for someone else, because his system can handle it while the someone else's can't. His body is processing it and he won't die, but it hurts. He took it in the back near the spine, and that's not a good place to be stung. His backbone feels like it's being fused and the agony words quail at even trying to describe. All the doctor can do is curl up on the TARDIS floor and ride it out.

It's days like today that the very existence of the lie is an insult to him, because it's a big universe out there, that ball of wibbly-wobbly time immeasurable, and for all the greatness others heap on him he's still just one man, one life form out of trillions, one Time Lord all by himself.

He needs somebody, if just to hold his hand and tell him that everything will be all right. Someone to ramble to, someone to show the wonders of that great big universe to, someone, anyone.

He's so lonely.

He's so scared.

The pain passes, leaving him so exhausted he sleeps where he lays. Then he wakes up, gets up, sets off and lies to himself.

Oh, claps! Brilliant! Exactly what I was in the mood for. Thanks! :D

Ooo! I count four requests. But I'm tired, so I may be mistaken. But, if I am counting correctly...

I can has some half-drowneded Neal? Specifically, I'd like to see someone holding him under water (for whatever reason) and Peter come in and ~~kill the villain-of-the-day~~ save the day, and proceed with Teh Comfort. :)

You just made it :D

Neal swims for a variety of reasons. To stay healthy, yes, but he could just as easily to that jogging or doing sit ups. He likes swimming because he likes floating, likes the sensation that he's drifting along and can go anywhere, likes the how sound can be both muffled and amplified underwater, and likes the challenge of holding his breath for as long as possible.

Which comes in handy when someone's trying to drown you, but Neal's only reached over a minute when holding his breath and the guy trying to drown him is strong, persistent and patient. Neal's lungs start to ache, then burn, then feel as though they're imploding and he can feel and hear his heart galloping a mile a second.

He's pulled up but not long enough for a sufficient breath before he's submerged again. His lungs can't take it any more and pull an involuntary breath, filling him with water. He's fighting, flailing, struggling to survive, out of his mind with the need to live, live, live. He can feel the world fading and suffers the assault of a thousand regrets moving too fast to even know what they are. Then he slows, drifting, wishing for someone to reach up and pull him back down to Earth.

"Come on, Neal, breathe!"

A hard, sharp pressure on his sternum shoves water from his throat, bursting out of his mouth in a spluttering cough. His lungs spasm like an animal struggling to break free from the net.

The water clears. Air pours into his lungs, the membrane expands, his ribs spread, and the fire is smothered. Neal alternates between coughing and sucking more air with Peter hovering above him, smiling and laughing in giddy relief. Neal rolls his wide eyes to the right to see the man who had tried to take away his love of swimming lying unconscious and cuffed on the floor.

"Cutting it... kind of close... Peter," Neal manages to choke.

"Yeah, well, good thing you can really hold your breath."

Peter pulls Neal to his feet, supporting him so that Neal can focus on breathing, and takes him where it's warm and dry.

The end

Eee! I love it. I have been just needing a dose of good WC fic lately, and this was absolutely perfect. And such instantaneous service, too! *hugs you*

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