catko: (clubs)
For holiday prompts...

Title: Boston in July
Fandom: Leverage
Characters/Pairing(s): Nate, Sophie
Rating: G
Word Count: 463
Words/Prompts Used: Ribbon, Ornaments, Icicles, Mistletoe, Elf, Tinsel, Jingle, Gingerbread, Wrapping Paper, Presents

"Whoof, bloody hell, it's HOT," huffed Sophie as she strolled into the pub, the blazing afternoon sun streaming in behind her as the door wheezed shut. She walked over to the bar, where Nate was staring into a tall glass filled with ice and something bubbly. ​He turned to watch as she scrabbled​ in her large handbag, finally pulling out a long ribbon threaded through with tinsel, which she used to tie her hair up.

He tipped his glass in welcome. "It's summer in Boston, get used to it." He took a swig as she mock-glared at him. Tone switching to serious, he asked, "Did you get it?" She reached back into her bag and pulled out a package in brown wrapping paper which she placed on the bar. "Yes, and it meant three more sweaty ​blocks to walk​. I should have taken a cab." She patted the package then sashayed around to behind the bar. "So ​much secrecy, darling: no sign on the door, and not a word from your man there." She filled a glass with ice and club soda. "What is it, presents for the team?" She gave him a bright, hopeful glance. "Early Christmas elf, are you?"

"It's JULY," he said, and slid the package off the bar and into the bag near his feet. As she continued to look inquiringly, he added, shortly, "It's for a job." "Oh, more mystery," she said lightly, and rounded back around to sit next to him. She put the damp glass against her forehead and sighed. "God, this dreaded humidity," she groaned, "Never would I think I'd wish for winter, but what I wouldn't give now for some snow and jingle bells and ho-ho-ho."

He quirked an eyebrow at her. "You? Ms. Cynical, longing for the Christmas season​?" "Oh I know, I'm not usually one for holiday cheer. Except the gift-giving. Ah yes, nothing wrong with that." She instinctively reached up to touch her ruby earring, and her eyes got a faraway look. The ice in her glass clinked, and, brought back to the present, she groaned, and reaching​ in her bag, pulled out a cut-glass bottle​ and proceeded to spray a fine mist around her face and hair.

Nate felt a bit of the mist tickle his nose. "Smells like gingerbread," he murmured, resisting the impulse to sway in towards her.

"Gingerbread? Darling, it's Guerlain. ​Now y​ou're the one that's got the longing​ for Christmas​." She spun on her stool to face him directly. "And in that case, it's too damn bad we don't have some mistletoe handy." She glanced up at the ceiling and back at him, impishly. ​The shiny ribbon in her hair ​shimmered, and the ruby earrings sparkled like ornaments.​​ "What would you do then?" she purred, parting her lips​.

Her look would melt an icicle, which Nate -- in Boston in July -- decidedly was not.  He leaned closer.
catko: (cookies)
Title: The Dove Escapade
Rating: G
Word Count: (all lengths welcome)
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction created for fun and no profit has been made. Rights belong to the respective creators.
Notes: Written for prompt #50 "Give Yourself The Day Off" for the [ profile] dove_drabbles comm, which gives monthly prompts based on the phrases inside the wrappers of Dove chocolates.

“Da-da-da-da. Da-da-da-di, only the good die young….” Hardison sang tunefully as he moseyed into the main room. Pulling the Beats off his head,  he shook himself slightly, eyed the computer set up, and prepared to settle down at the table, feeling just a bit put upon. “At work at 8 am on a Sunday, man, either I got weak or Nate’s a total jerk,” he muttered. “‘Get the sweep done before Monday,’” he mimicked to himself. “Well okay, bossman, here I am.” He gave a look around the empty room, and his eyes lit on a glass bowl on the table. “Yeah, yeah, now that’s just what I need.” He reached over and plucked a foil wrapped candy, and held it up to his gaze. “Lil bit o’ chocolate to speed me on my way.” He peeled off the foil and was about to pop the candy into his mouth, when the inside of the foil caught his eye. He peered closer. “What’s this? A message in a wrapper? "Give yourself the day off”?” He looked from side to side, then at the computer, then at the chocolate. “Y’know what, my friend…” he flipped the foil over, “my friend Dove? I believe I will do just that.” Popping the chocolate into his mouth, he shouldered his backpack, flipped on his headphones, and sauntered out the door.

Parker pulled the hood of her sweatshirt off her head as she strode into the room, glaring at the digital clock on the wall, blinking 9:00. She parked herself on the edge of the table, swung her bag onto her lap, and began scrabbling around inside, lips moving in not-totally-silent cursing. Finally her hand grasped the desired object, which she pulled out with a glare and proceeded to turn the dials on what looked to be a very complicated combination lock of some kind. As if realizing this would take some time, she dropped resentfully into a chair, put her legs up just barely not on Hardison's keyboard, and prepared to apply herself to the lock. She'd show him, demanding this on a Sunday, stupid idiot, and here she'd planned to test out some new climbing equipment, and she'd never been any good at multi-combos, and ARGH! She slammed the lock down on the table. At the sound of a rattle, she quirked her head at the glass bowl and bent forward to grab a foil-wrapped object. Moments later she was up and out of the room with nary a look back at the lock sitting solidly on Hardison's mousepad, thinking about her climbing gear and a real nice rock wall at the gym on 12th Street.

Round about noon, Eliot could be seen hustling out of the building, security maps forgotten, romance on his mind and a small ball of foil rolling between his fingers.

Running her fingers through her hair, Sophie lounged into the empty room and looked around with an air of slight surprise. Thought Nate had laid down strict instructions that they were all to meet, Sunday notwithstanding, due to the rather massive failure of their recent caper. Sure, he'd said in the morning, but really, Sunday mornings were for beauty sleep, and after all, not like what she did needed practice, or homework, or anything tedious, not like the others, who, true, could stand to brush up on their skils, if the latest debacle was any indication. Even Nate wasn't here, and if the Taskmaster couldn't be bothered, then why should she? Still, a twinge of guilt, or maybe call it accountability, made her resigned to sit and listen to some dialect podcasts. Good to be sitting here working when Nate came back from wherever in a foul mood. As she bent to turn on the desktop computer, her eyes lit on the glass bowl. "Oooh, Dove candies, how do you do," she purred under her breath. Plucking one of the golden bits, she slowly unwrapped it and, as was her wont, checked the inside wrapper with her usual superstitious thought to take the self-esteem message to heart. "Give yourself the day off." Her lips curved in a smile. "Ah, well, when fate sends a message, who am I to resist shoe shopping?" With that, she slung her purse back on her shoulder and headed out.

Upstairs, Nate dozed in between reading the latest Jack Reacher, glancing at the security cams that intermittently framed his team moving in and out of the place, and occasionally nibbling on one of a pile of Dove chocolates that did not have "give yourself the day off" written on the inside of the wrapper.
catko: (joe_s)
Title: The Red Caper
Fandom: Leverage
Exact Word Count: 500
Does each drabble have exactly 100 words?: Yes
Word/Prompt Used?: Red!

Nate peered at the wall screen. “We gotta get these guys,” he muttered. “But it won’t be easy. Scam a scammer, needs the right angle.”

“Story of our lives,” proclaimed Hardison, as he scrolled on the laptop. “With the number of innocent people these dudes have ripped off, we gotta get em good.”

“I always fancy Red Tiara. Valuable artifact, lost heirs, great fortune?” Sophie looked seductively at Nate. “Me, lapsed royal, just needing a small investment from my long lost cousin. Best, it’s direct. Just get the money from the mark. Easy peasy.” She twirled her hair, looking pleased.

“There’s also Red Gem. Work on their business greed. Set up a fake import-export business, talk these guys into investing with us…make off with their loot. I don’t know. These dudes are pretty tough, and there’s always that one dicey point in the con where you might just have to fight…” Nate rubbed his jaw, perhaps remembering past adventures.

“Well that’s no big, we got Our Man here! Just get him to see red!” Harrison slapped Eliot on the back, lurching him forward.

“I’ll show you red,” grunted Eliot, punching his right fist into his left hand, as Hardison grinned.

“We could always go to the classics. Sherlock Holmes, The Red Headed League. Keep the mark busy with some faked-up, well-paid gig based on one of his distinguishing characteristics, while you dig a tunnel under his office.”

“A tunnel?”

“Well, just a metaphor. In this case, it’d be ‘buy time; hack into their database and get the incriminating evidence.’”

“Ah.” Hardison nodded. “Now you’re speaking a language that I understand.”

“Of course a more modern, tried and true version of this is the Caribbean Cruise. But getting these dudes tickets for a junket just won’t do it in this case.”
“All right, focus.’ Sophie began pacing around the table. “What’ll it be. The Red Tiara, The Red Gem, or The Red-Headed League?”

Nate ticked off his fingers. “Red Tiara: Sophie gets to play royal, but it means singling one out from the others, yet working them all at the same time. Could be tricky, especially if they don’t trust each other much. Red Gem, takes product to set it up, and the aforementioned risky part. Red Headed League, keep ‘em busy while we get the evidence. More straightforward, but…not much glamour.” He looked at the others, who all shrugged half-heartedly.

Eliot glared. “Gad, I hate it when we can’t figure which plan to use. It’s like, we go in wishy-washy, it’s never gonna work out.”

Nate shrugged. “Here’s to letting fate decide. Or Parker, whichever comes first.” Just then, there was a rattle at the door and a a cheery “Yoo-hoo! Sorry I’m late, you wouldn’t believe the line at—What?” as she noticed they’d all turned to stare at her, open-mouthed. She paused. “It’s…just for fun. They call it ombre.” Quirking a grimace at their stunned expressions, she twirled awkwardly as her long, bright red hair spun out around her.
catko: (joe_s)
Fandom: Leverage
Characters/Pairing(s): The Whole Team
Rating: G
Word Count: 601
Words/Prompts Used: let the cat out of the bag (and more)

Nate stroked his chin slowly. "I think this situation calls for Letting the Cat Out of the Bag." He leaned back in his chair, took a swig of iced tea, and glanced across to Sophie. She looked thoughtful for a moment, gazed at the flatscreen, and nodded. "Ah, yes, indeed, Very appropriate. The Pig in the Poke. I can totally see it."

Read more... )

Castle Fic

Sep. 28th, 2016 11:40 pm
catko: (Castle Martha)
Title: The Third Act--With Dessert
Fandom: Castle
Word Count: 381
Words/Prompts Used: All, underlined

Castle opened the door into the loft and began pulling off his necktie, mulling that the toughest part of testifying in court was that he had to wear a stiff suit and a noose around his neck. A loud cacophony of whirring startled him from his plaint, and he was startled to see his mother, in a tall white hat and apron, at the kitchen counter running a food processor and loudly proclaiming "Heat it slowly, Alexis dear, you want to carmelize the sugar without burning it!" as Alexis, hair tied in a checkered scarf, hustled around behind her waving a large spoon and peering over the stove where something was steaming.

Pausing with his tie half-tugged, Castle stared and approached the counter warily. "Um, Mother...what is...I've never seen you...what are you doing? COOKING?" His incredulity was papable.

Martha looked up and smiled brightly. "Not cooking, dear, and don't sound so surprised. I'm schooling myself to learn to bake.  I predict great things." Gazing at the dough in the Cuisinart, she nodded decisively and began to spoon it out onto a wooden board.

"Baking?" Castle couldn't hide the tone of incredulity (nor did he try to). Martha paused as she reached for the rolling pin, put her hands on the counter, and looked him in the eye.  "Yes," she said with an actress's emphasis. "Baking. A Tarte Tatin. That's apple pie to you. But with an added finesse."  She gave a dramatic gesture and proceeded to roll out the pie crust. “If there’s one thing I know at my age, Richard, is that one must keep the spirits alive with new things. It’s the Third Act!” Again she gestured, this time spraying a mist of flour around her.

“Third  Act? Aren’t you up to more like the Fifth Act?”

“Hush, dear, don't be vulgar. Take one of these to sweeten your sour words.” She pointed to a plate. “Homemade chocolate truffles with nougat, no less. Dessert first!” Castle tentatively sampled the morsel and was amazed to find it was delicious. Hmmm, he thought to himself, getting up to go change, maybe this 3rd Act of Mother’s wouldn't be all that bad, and promised himself to up his personal trainer to four days a week.
catko: (Default)
Title: At the Movies
Fandom: Elementary
Characters/Pairing(s): Joan and Sherlock
Rating: G
Warnings: Spoilers for the movie they are watching; see icon. Note: I didn't know how to resolve the "meta" elements, so I didn't try...
Word Count: 503
Words/Prompts Used: Movie Theater

Joan reached in the bag for another handful of popcorn--buttered, but why not--when she heard a snort from her left. Glancing over, she saw Sherlock hitching forward in his seat, finger raised, and mouth opening to (presumably) launch into some sort of commentary. Dropping the few kernals of popcorn, she quickly grabbed for his hand and quickly flashed the 'shush' gesture. He grimaced and subsided in his seat, drawing his knees up and glaring at the screen. Catching his eye, she gave a questioning look. He leaned toward her and blurted, while waving at the screen, "This is patently ridiculous. To approach the detection with such a single-mindedness, and for people to revere this insanity." Joan shrugged and whispered, "It's the only movie playing, and better this than wait out our confrontation with Landegris in his waiting room or lurking on the street corner for an hour. Anyway, I think it's fun." She settled back in her seat and munched some more popcorn. "It's a respite from thinking about how to catch a human trafficker."

Sherlock glowered and wagged his head from side to side as he tracked the dialogue of the characters on the screen. "In any case, it's specious to pit one form of detection against another. A good detective uses physical evidence, logic, and knowledge of human behavior. It would be totally ineffectual to only select one approach."

"Well, it's just a movie, and anyway I think it's a neat conceit. Famous psychiatrist, famous deductive detective, matching wits. The only one I don't care for is the sidekick. They make him out to be such a dolt." Joan picked up her Slushie and took a sip.

"Oh, I disagree entirely," said Sherlock, "I find that character to be the most believable, almost appealing. And the actor, Duvall, is incomparable." Joan glanced at her watch. "Well, too bad for you, because it's time to go. Landegris should be getting back to his office by now." As she gathered up her belongings, Sherlock jumped up, pushed past her, and began striding up the aisle. "However shall I survive, not knowing the conclusion to this half-baked affair!" he muttered. Joan trotted to catch up with him, and as they exited the theater, said perkliy, "Well, full disclosure, I read the book, decades ago, so I know how it ends."

In response to her partner's inquiring look, she continued. "The crux of the story is that the psychiatrist determines that the detective is deluded about the Master Criminal. That obsession, his desire to become a detective, and his--" she paused slightly, "his drug addiction, all stem from a childhood family trauma." Her companion paused as they reached the sidewalk. "Indeed. Well, perhaps that is a neat conceit. At any rate," as he began to stride on, "If from such trauma, good works come, who are we to question." Joan smiled to herself as she again trotted to catch up. "Sure. And speaking of good works...what's our approach to Landegris?"
catko: (Elementary Joan)
Missing Moments Challenge: Write about a missing scene; Wordless: Dialogue-free Challenge
Fandom: Elementary
Warnings: Spoilers for Season 4 finale
Word Count: 467

Joan tapped the glass, gestured toward the curb, and shoved a twenty into the slot as the cab slowed to a stop. She barely noted the cabbie's grateful wave as she gathered herself to step out onto the street. Unusually for her, she stumbled on the exit, and, steadying herself on the open cab door, realized that she was light-headed and bone-tired. She took a deep breath, closed the car door, and took three firm steps to the sidewalk. Looking up at the brownstone steps, she realized that it had been scarecely more than 48 hours ago that they'd gone home to find a homemade bomb in their parlour, and that the ensuing hours had been so strenuous--stimulating at points, yes, she had gotten a charge out of the caper with Vikner and the phone, and horrible, too, seeing that self-same man's body crumpled in the warehouse. Oh, god, the relief that it hadn't been Morland Holmes lying there dead. She'd been so drained by it that she'd barely registered Sherlock rushing off with hardly a blurted word--though it did occur to her that perhaps that had been his response to the relief, needing to get away so his emotions wouldn't show--leaving her test her calm by spending an hour and a half debriefing with Agent Burke back at headquarters. In her still-heightened state, it was a challenge that she had rather relished, and accomplished smoothly as far as she knew, but no doubt it had contributed to her current sense of depletion.

As she willed herself to mount the steps to home, she caught a flash of  movement out of the corner of her eye, and turned to see a figure move out from the shadows of the side passage. She gasped, and the figure turned toward her, just as a black SUV rounded the corner, shining its headlights on the face of -- Morland Holmes. Joan faltered as the flash of the expression on his face caught her in alarm--the intense, deep, unguarded sadness. She parted her lips to call out, but as the car pulled up, the face was once again in darkness, though she was sure she could see the eyes glittering, as Sherlock's father turned fully toward her, bowed deeply, then moved to be shephered briskly into the SUV by two looming figures. As the car pulled away, only just not screeching the tires, she was sure she saw a hand raise in the back window.

She actually watched the car recede down the street, realized her mind was at the moment completely blank, and looked up at the door of the brownstone, wondering what she would find behind it. Quickly trotting up the stairs, she found a sudden reserve of energy, and decided firmly that hot fudge sundaes were very much in order.
catko: (Castle Martha) progress...

Fandom: Castle
Characters/Pairings: Miscellaneous
Bingo Prompt used: See subheads
Word count: 277 so far
Note: If you want a visual, check out this recast I did once…

Gender Bender
Castle brushed her hair back and stared in the mirror. Presentable enough for a day trailing around Detective Beckett at a grimy crime scene. Now come on, Ricki, she admonished herself, you asked for this. Make the most of it. She strode out into the living room, where her dad and son were huddled over coffee cups at the counter. “I’m out of here,” she sang out, scooping up her shoulder bag and heading toward the door. They both waved, and went back to their musings as Castle exited the loft, checking her phone for the text that Beckett had sent with the address.

In The Beginning....
The cab pulled up next to the alley, and Castle hopped out, spotting Beckett and his team crouched over what must be the body near a large dumpster. Buoyed by an innate self-confidence, Castle strode forward and bent to scoot under the caution tape. "Hold on there, ma'am," interceded a uniformed officer. "It's okay, they're expecting me," Castle said brightly, mid-scoot. "Sorry, can't allow anyone in, official business only." The officer's raised voice drew the attention of the cluster around the dumpster, and Castle caught the eye of the man now straightening and grimacing. The man gave a few quick words to the two women bending down near him, and walked over toward Castle and the officer. "See, he'll tell you, Detective Beckett, I'm allowed, right?" Castle said as she slipped into the circle. The man nodded briefly at the officer, who retreated, and fixed Castle with a glare. "Yes, Ms. Castle, you're allowed. But over my strong objections. So you'd better not mess up my crime scene."


Everybody Hurts


Difficult Decision


24 Hours Earlier

Day Off Difficulties
catko: (Castle Martha)
Challenge for [ profile] gameofcards to write a fic using two randomly chosen prompts from a list of events and themes. Mine were ​One or more characters wake up with superpowers (event), and Jealousy (theme). I always think of Castle when it comes to this kind of thing.

Event and Theme Used: ​One or more characters wake up with superpowers (event), and Jealousy (theme)
Fandom: Castle
Word Count: 1751

Prologue: "C'mon, guys, it'll be fun!" Castle wheedled as he shepherded the somewhat reluctant group across the street from the pub to the park, where a decidedly rag-tag looking carnival was set up. "It's not even 8 pm! Let's keep the party going! Nothing is too much for my beloved's birthday," he added, as he put his arm around Beckett's waist.
Read more... )
catko: (Sherlock Think)
...for [ profile] gameofcards.

Words Used: contract, boxing, fireman, motorcycle, tsunami, marble, smoke, bus
Title: Just Another Day at 221B
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Word Count: 519

“What the bloody hell happened here!?!” John expostulated, as he looked around the flat from the doorway. “Sherlock! The place looks like it was hit by a tsunami!” He strode into the room. “Sherlock! Are you here?”

Read more... )

catko: (hammer save)
Title: Tick Tock Castle
Fandom: Castle
How Does the World End?: Time Travel Disaster
What Do the Characters Do? Seek a Cure/Fix
Word Count: 625

"What the..." )
clubs catko
catko: (Sherlock)
We got several clusters of prompts to write a fic: I decided to try to use all the prompts, in order. (They are italicized.) Fun!

Title: Night In
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Pairing(s): Sherlock/John pre-anything
Rating: G
Word Count: 569
Set # & Words Used: I used them all!

“Let’s not mess about with the law, Sherlock, yes? Why not just go file the report at the station? You’ll have to do it sometime,” John called from the kitchen. Sherlock barely flicked his eyes from the microscope. “If by ‘law’ you mean ‘Lestrade,’ John, I absolutely refuse to cater to his absurd strategy of containment.” He raised his hand in a dismissive wave. “You can’t know me at all if you’d think I would.”

John stood for a moment at the entrance to the sitting room, then strolled toward Sherlock, depositing a mug of tea on the table. “I’d say I know you as well as anyone does, despite our almost complete lack of…” His voice trailed off into a shrug. Sherlock looked up this time, cocking an eyebrow as he watched John take his seat by the fire, his hair glowing gold in the flickering light. Sherlock glanced out the window at the darkening sky, and decided to turn the tide.

Reaching under the table for the bottle of Scotch, he went and sat in the chair opposite John. “I simply can’t do any more close work this evening,” he said in a studiously idle tone. “My mind is awash with annoying facts and observations.” He placed long fingers over his eyes, then peered between them. “Talk to me, John. Tell me the mundane doings of your day; perhaps that could serve as a palate cleanser.” He lolled back in the chair, but his eyes were brightly fixed on the man opposite. “Yeah?” John shifted in his chair. “All right then, well, I did have a bit of a day with the cleaners, getting the woollen jacket done, good old thing.” Sherlock suppressed a grimace at the thought of said jacket, but made an encouraging sound. “Then, way home, would you believe, a cat stuck in a tree by the park, managed to coax her down, right enough.

“Picked up a package for Mrs. Hudson from her crony at the bakery—didn’t look like baked goods, curious—then had to stop a young mischief-maker throwing a pebble over the roof at the corner; helped a foreign chap read the bus schedule, trying to get to the university. Just your average London afternoon.” He nodded happily, drained his tea, and held out the mug toward Sherlock, gesturing toward the bottle in his hand.

Mundane indeed, but it occurred to Sherlock as he reached over to pour the Scotch, he would gladly, and most surprisingly, endure daily such tedium to see that smile on John’s face. Blinking slightly at this realization, he murmured, “Kind of you to be a guide to the lost, to those about to make a mistake, and such a general dogsbody to the City of London. Making sure everything is ‘right as rain.’ ” He tried for a slightly ironic tone, but even he could hear the fondness. John paused mid-swig and his eyes shone with surprise. “Well, then, ta, mate,” he said softly, raising his mug. “Not such a robot when it comes to nice feelings after all.” Their eyes locked for a few long seconds, then both looked away. “So, not going to the Yard, what’s on for tonight then?” asked John, reaching for the paper. Sherlock poured them both another splash of Scotch. “I was thinking about a quiet night in,” he said softly, as he set down his mug and went to get his violin.
catko: (Castle Martha)
Castle and Beckett go camping.

Fandom: Castle; Castle/Beckett
Rating: PG
Words: 609
Prompts: Mask, frame, green, animal, water, childhood hero

“What was that?” Castle jerked, and Beckett could feel him patting the ground around him—and her leg—then a fumbling sound, a click, and an edge of glowing light around the sleeping mask covering her eyes. She sighed, and simultaneously lifted the mask with one hand while pushing away the light source with the other.

“C’mon, Castle, I’m trying to sleep here!” She cracked an eye at the alarmed face looming above her.

“How can you sleep? Can’t you hear the danger lurking just outside the perimeter?”  he hissed. He made a sweep with his arm around the inside of the tent.

Beckett closed her eye, sighed, then levered herself up to sit crosslegged inside their double sleeping bag, noting again that the cushioning beneath them was not, indeed, very cushy.

It had been her idea, of course—to celebrate their anniversary by getting away from the city and civilization—no spa, no Spago, nothing fancy. Just the two of them and nature. The Great Outdoors. Of course, by “nothing fancy,” she had been thinking of, say, a tent cabin with cots and a wood fireplace. Or at least the kind of modernish equipment  they’d had the last time she camped with her dad and uncle Jack: pop up tent, memory foam bedding, and even a generator to power lamps and electronics.

But, once she’d overcome his initial misgivings, Castle became very engaged in doing all the planning: looking at catalogs, calling rental agencies, and nailing down a really sweet location—more rustic than Kate had intended, but a beautiful spot. He really got into all the preparations, so much so that Kate let him have his way and do it all on his own.

It wasn’t until they arrived at the campsite and unpacked the SUV that she realized that he, for some inexplicable reason, had gone full-on retro. As she stared at the heavy green canvas tent material, bundled together with huge aluminum poles that needed to be winched together to form a frame, and the stove that needed liquid fuel to be pumped up, and the lantern with cotton mantels…she couldn’t help herself. “Castle, what on earth…did you go back in time to get this stuff?”

Castle rubbed his hands together delightedly. “In a manner of speaking. Army Navy Surplus!” He started pulling out the tattered waxed cardboard boxes. “I remembered this as a kid, going to one of these upstate with my buddy Joey Richman — and his dad, Doc Richman, he was kind of my….childhood hero. So much cool stuff! I even had one of these!” He held up a battered canteen in an army green canvas sleeve. “I carried water in this to school every day! Until it got moldy and Mother threw it out.” He was so eager that Kate didn’t have the heart to complain, until later, when they were struggling with hoisting the heavy-ass tent canvas on the dented frame. And even then, she kept it to a loud groan and eye roll.

Which she repeated now, as it occurred to her that a more comfortable bunk would probably have led to a sounder sleep for her companion, instead of this nervous watchfulness. She summoned up her compassion and cupped his face with her hands. “Relax, Castle. It’s probably just some local animal foraging at night. Harmless. Let’s just cuddle ourselves back to sleep.”

Castle’s hyper-alert expression softened as he let her coax him into lying back down. “Mmmm, you’re probably right,” he murmured. “A good night’s sleep, wake up with the sun…”

“A hot cup of coffee to greet the dawn,” she said softly.

“I love camping,” said Castle sleepily.

“Me too, baby, me too.”

catko: (Castle Martha)
A couple of prompt fics for [ profile] gameofcards.

Fandom: Castle; Castle/Beckett
Rating: G
Word count: 200
Prompt: "ache"

   Closing her book, Kate mock-glared over at the other end of the couch. "Castle! What is that? Are you humming, growling, or purring?" Castle looked up from the sports page, surprised. "Wha- oh. Sorry, didn't realize. Bad?" He quirked an eyebrow at her affectionately.
   Kate's gaze softened. "Well. It's rather tuneless. Not that I'd mind if you were purring. I like my men to be content." She grinned, and rubbed his thigh with her foot.
   Castle gaze drifted for a moment and he seemed to be replaying something in his mind. "Doo-do de-doo. De doody doody do. Just can't take it anymore....Ah. That's still stuck in my head. From the elevator earlier. Damn ear worm."
   Kate squinted. "What is it?"
   Eyes brightening, Castle leapt up, put his thumbs in his belt, and began sashaying around. "Don't break my heart/My achy breaky heart/ Just can't take it anymore!/You're tearing me apart/ My ach-"
   Yelping, Kate flung a couch pillow at his head. "No! Stop it. Go back to purring. Or else!"
   With a grin, Castle leaned over her and nuzzled her shoulder. "Grrrrrrrrrr. Whatever you wish, my lady," and pressed her back against the cushions in a kiss.

Prompt was to choose a Friends title ...
Episode Title for Inspiration: The One with the Princess Leia Fantasy
Fandom: Castle; Castle/Beckett
Rating: PG
Word count: 250

   "C'mon, Castle, 'fess up. Star Trek or Star Wars?" Beckett looked over the rim of her wine glass with curiousity in her eyes. Castle took a swig from his own glass and leaned back. "Oh, that is an easy one. Han Solo all the way, baby!" He made a move as though he was shooting under the table, then mimicked raising the gun and brandishing it dramatically. "And, by the way--Han shot first." He spun his imaginary pistol on his finger, then holstered it.
   Beckett grinned, then licked her lips. "Well. I always did have a thing for the swashbuckling type." She looked thoughtful. "I've got an idea. We have the whole weekend to ourselves. What do you say to a little....role-play?"
   Castle's eyes lit up. "You're brilliant. Because the only thing better than a Han Solo is--" he gestured over his torso, then around his ears. "Princess Leia with the cinnamon roll hair."
   Beckett grinned. "You're on, pal. You get the costumes, I'll set the scene." Castle was already pulling out his phone and heading toward the door, when he stopped and looked back. "Wait a minute, just so we're clear. I'm Han, you're Leia...right?'
    His wife slinked up to him and slid her body against his. "Well, we can start off that way. But I gotta say--I have a powerful hankering to see you in a gold bikini."
    Castle gulped, considered, then absolutely ran out the door, calling out, "Siri! Costume dealers, midtown Manhattan!"
catko: (buffy cordy narcissist)
This was fun. We used a random number generator, then went to this page (warning: NSFW), and there was our prompt. Mine had to do with guilt, so [ profile] blue_sunflowers aptly suggested Angel.

One Morning at Angel Investigations
Fandom: Angel
Rating: PG
Notes: Mention of killing
Word count: 507
Link to your randomizer screenshot:
Prompt: The prompt is in bold.

Cordelia pressed a stamp on the envelope and tossed it into the basket marked “Out” with a self-satisfied nod. One task for the day, and it was already completed. She contemplated the envelope, so crisp, so hopeful, with its neatly (well, neatly enough) typed address, and had a somewhat-uncharacteristic, philosophical thought that outgoing bills were truly a triumph of optimism over experience. And who better than she to represent that particular quality?

Perking up again at the thought of her own brash confidence, she reached for her mocha soy latte as Wesley walked into the office—slouched, actually, his customary primness quite worn around the edges. Cordelia fixed him with a look as she took a sip.

“Late night?” she asked pertly. “Something fabulous, I hope?”

Wesley dropped his backpack on the floor and slid into a chair. “If by ‘fabulous’ you mean ‘known in fables or folk tales’ then yes, or rather no, it was meant to be as such, but the rumored cadejo turned out to be a chimera, and that in the figurative sense, so it was all for naught.” He rubbed his hands over his face and closed his eyes. “Nothing but human yobboes out on a rampage. So pedestrian.”

Cordelia gazed blankly for a moment, then roused herself. Standing, she walked past Wesley’s chair, patting his shoulder as she passed. “Still hunting rogue demons, huh? How many times do I have to tell you. Paying clients, Wesley, paying clients.” She reached back for the envelope in the Out box and grabbed her purse. “What you need is coffee, and I could use a refill. You rest here and I’ll be back in a jiff.”

Wesley nodded apathetically then squinted past the darkened hallway. “Where’s the boss?”

Cordelia paused. “Finished a job last night…uh, had to kill a few, so, brooding, as always.”

Wesley huffed out a laugh. “Feeling guilty about the same shit as yesterday?”

Cordelia blinked at his bitter tone. “Mr. Wyndham-Pryce!” she said in a tone of mock-outrage, and a snooty English accent. “Such language! What would your forebears think of such behavior?!” By this point, her accent had slid into bad Cockney. Wesley winced and cracked an eye at her, but he was smiling beneath the hand covering his face.

She leveled a glance at him. “Well now you see why, instead of finding glory and riches as an actress, I’m stuck here as a receptionist for the least-successful paranormal detective agency ever. And say what you will about the Boss’s glum ways. At least when he feels guilty, it’s over stuff that brings in money.” She waved the envelope airly. “Well, hopefully brings in money.” As she headed for the door, she called back over her shoulder, “And you better rest up, because tonight we’re gonna have some well-deserved fun. I just heard of a new place. Karaoke!” With a whoop, she broke into a trot down the stairs.

Wesley pressed his hands over his face again and groaned. The three of them, singing? Now that would really give them something to feel guilty about.

clubs kara
catko: (clubs) [ profile] gameofcards. Sherlock BBC, Series 3. Can you guess which song I was thinking of for "lyrics?

Love Close Family Holidays Lyrics 
Dramatic Smile Dream Mystery Magic
06 dramatic 09 mystery 10 magic
11 fa 12 fav 13 fav 14 fav 15 fav
16 choice 17 choice 18 choice 19 choice 20 choice
catko: (clubs)
Holiday prompt fic for [ profile] gameofcards. All Mystrade!

Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Pairing: Mycroft/Lestrade, Mystrade
Rating: G
Notes: Prompt—“Christmas invitation (invited by the in-laws/family)” from [ profile] sa_brina86
Word count: 425

Mycroft deposited his umbrella and hat in their customary places in the entry, and brushed off some flakes of snow from his shoulders."White Chirstmas.... )
catko: (sherlock lestrade)
For a challenge at [ profile] gameofcards to pick something from Damn You Autocorrect as prompts for fics. I found three that were perfect for a developing Mystrade, hee hee.

Three Texts
Name: catko
Team: clubs
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Characters or Pairing: Mystrade
Rating: PG I guess
Warning/Notes: Three prompts, three chapters
Words: 834

Greg shoved his fingers through his hair and glared at the folder on his desk. Taking a deep breath, he reached instinctively for his mug of cold coffee, and just as he was about to take a no-doubt disgusting swig, was startled by a firm “Ahem!” at the door.

Looking up, blinking his eyes to clear them, he beheld a tall, lean figure, elegantly coiffed, dressed, and shod, holding in immaculate leather gloves two steaming paper cups, with the fragrance of—thank god!—very strong coffee.

He reached up to smooth his hair as he rose, groaning slightly at the stiffness. “Mycroft!” he said, hoping to sound natural, but instead sounding as he was, a tired, fed-up aging copper. “Wasn’t expecting you, what about your conference call?”

Mycroft gave a smile, somewhere in that magic zone between snaky and kindly, and moved toward Greg, set both cups on the desk and lowered himself into a chair. “Hello, Detective Inspector. You summoned me, did you not?” he asked smoothly, as he slowly removed his gloves, one by one, and simultaneously indicating one of the coffee cups.

Greg stood stock still for more than a moment, then, realizing he was staring, shook himself, and dropped into his seat. He reached out for the coffee and took a sip. The gloriousness of hot, well-brewed, high-quality coffee flowed through him. “Ta, ever so,” he sighed gratefully. “For this, and for coming, but me summoning you was more of a joke, really, didn’t expect you to show up. Even though you do know more about this case than I do.” He gestured dismissively at the stack of folders. “Anyway, my phone died right after I sent that text, didn’t see your response. And please. Call me Greg. We don’t need to stand on formality, we’re friends, after all.”

“Ah.” Mycroft set his gloves on the desk next to his coffee cup and reached into his breast pocket. Pulling out a mobile phone, he made a few movements, then, leaning forward further, turned the screen toward Greg.

Greg peered over, puzzled. Upon reading the line of texts, he felt a shockwave of panic. He looked across the desk, aghast. But when he saw the twinkle in Mycroft’s eye, he found himself laughing and laughing.
Text here.... )

goldfishGoldfish? Goldfish? Mycroft stared speculatively at the screen of his mobile. Of course it was patently ridiculous for Gregory to be considering doing anything with his hair, his beautiful hair. So could this banter be some form of code? Could he possibly know, had Sherlock mentioned anything about that absurd conversation they’d had, whatever had possessed him, goldfish, of all analogies to use. But if so…could Gregory be somehow hinting, referring to Mycroft’s position on not getting close to anyone, as some kind of-jibe? Perhaps he wants more, and fears Mycroft does not? Or, good lord, he is trying to tell Mycroft that he has no need for a goldfish either?

Mycroft found himself worrying the phone between his hands, uncharacteristically. He forced himself to still, to breathe deeply, and to consider rationally, as he would in any high-tension government negotiation or international crisis. Think, think. What would it be in Gregory’s nature to do?

They’d only been seeing each other for a few weeks, but from what he knew of Gregory, it wasn’t like him to run any kind of complicated word game. Nor psychological game. Certainly not. He felt a wave of relief pass over him.

And yet, that must mean…NO! he can’t be serious about coloring his hair. Thrusting the phone into his pocket, he swept up his coat and umbrella, and headed for the door. This insane idea must be stopped.

Greg pulled his sweatshirt closer and contemplated his phone. It would be a good warm up to check in with Mycroft, but he didn’t want to be a pest. Things had been going so great, so weirdly great between them, and he knew enough about his own feelings, and was a good enough read of others’, that he knew they were both caught in that zone of wanting more but being afraid to get it. He remembered this phase from past relationships, kinda fun, actually, the anxiety and anticipation. But in this case it’d come on fast and hard. Ever since that dumb handjob text had broken the ice, they’d become friends, then sex partners, and now…what? Close enough to think about each other between times? To have that sense of longing? To want more?

Ah, fuck it. He picked up the phone and started to text.
hit manHe was laughing yet again at the string of texts when the phone rang in his hand. Grinning, he answered. “Yeah? Is this the hit man I ordered? Or wait, is that hot man?”

A low murmur flowed into his ear. “You don’t know how right you are, Gregory,” the voice purred. “I propose you meet me at my place and I’ll show you.”

Greg’s eyes lit up as he jumped up to go.
catko: (clubs)
From a few months back, I forgot to post these prompt fics. Miscellaneous fandoms...
Mystrade, crossovers, bodyswap... )
catko: (harley quinn)
Fandom: Scorpion, Batman
Words: 679
Note: for [ profile] kat_leept, from her prompt “Scorpion + Batman: Happy Quinn + Harley Quinn--What's the connection?”

Happy wheeled out from under the van and rolled to her feet, staggering slightly. With a grimace, she pulled off her glove and wiped her face with her fairly-clean hand, and slumped back against the van’s grill.

“Hey, is that safe?” Toby strolled over from the workbench and gestured between the van’s suspended wheels and her resting place.

“Yeah, no worries, it’s secure.” Happy stretched her neck and unbuttoned the top of the coverall, peeling it off her shoulders. “Frickin’ hot in here, but that job’s done.”Read more... )

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