Tales From An Alternate Reality

Title: Something Like A Second Chance
Fandom: Justified
Characters: Raylan, Boyd (PG)
Summary: The story of Raylan and Boyd is far from over.
Author's Note: A Yuletide Madness treat for pampermousse. Also for writers_choice (this is "fresh").

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The way Raylan saw it, they were supposed to be enemies. Hadn't he been sent to Harlan solely for Boyd, tasked with bringing him in when other agents had failed?

Raylan couldn’t entirely blame those agents, because he knew how it was. You might have some notion of what Boyd was up to, but try to catch him red- handed and he'd just slip through your fingers. You could never pin anything on him. Hell, Raylan knew Boyd better than most, and he was having as much trouble as anyone.

Boyd's daddy was brutal and belligerent, but Boyd's wiliness was almost worse. You could set trap after trap for Boyd, and somehow, he still escaped. That dinner at Ava's should have been the end of Raylan's whole "Hillbilly Whisperer" mission, with Boyd drawing his gun and Raylan firing off the first and only shot. That shooting was self-defense, fully justified—at least on paper. The truth was, he should have tried to talk Boyd out of turning things into a standoff, though he'd hoped Boyd was just joking—right up until Boyd slipped through Ava's door, loaded for bear.

Afterward, Boyd had seemed almost betrayed by Raylan shooting him, and Raylan had found himself half-regretting the showdown he'd let Boyd provoke. Neither of those reactions was what he'd expected.

Boyd survived that gunshot. Was it a second chance or just more of Boyd's unbelievable luck? In the prison hospital, Boyd had thanked Raylan for sparking off some newfound epiphany. Raylan didn't believe in such things, but maybe Boyd did. Boyd had seemed sincere enough.

That was probably the strangest part of all.

Weeks later, Raylan was thinking that Boyd's newfound religion could either be real or just be a clever ploy for more of the same Boyd bullshit as ever. There was no way of telling, though Raylan had his suspicions as to which was true.

The one thing he was sure of was that he had a lot more time now to figure all of that out. Truth be damned—as onetime friends and not-quite-enemies, this could be a chance for the two of them to take a step back and start things over again.

For the first time in his life, Raylan was happy he'd failed at something—or failed enough, at least, that he happened to aim just a few inches to the left of deadly.


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Title: Bon Appétit
Fandom: White Collar
Characters: Mozzie and Neal (Gen)
Rating: PG
Summary: You can always do things the normal way, but where's the fun in that?
Note: I missed the deadline on the 24-turnaround and then some, but this was written for runthecon and the prompt of "Legal crimes."

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"What is that monstrosity in your living room?" Mozzie asked.

"God, not this again." Neal shut his apartment door, and placed the sauvignon blanc in the refrigerator to chill. "You were the one who introduced me to Danish modern."

"Yes, as an aesthetic." Mozzie surveyed the half-finished painting on Neal's easel, which appeared to be Portofino. "But you have to eventually sit in chairs. That one is designed to create new customers for chiropractors."

"It's not that bad," Neal said.

"Really? Have you ever spent an evening reading a book in it?"

"Well, no," Neal admitted. He put a green apple on the cutting board. "Brie?"

"Yes, please." Mozzie examined the chair again. "It doesn't even go with the décor."

"I'm willing to give it time." ( Read more... )

Title: Charon, In Reverse
Fandom: Pushing Daisies
Author: HalfshellVenus
Character: The Coroner
Rating: PG
Summary: It had never been a dull job, and now it was weirder than ever.
Author's Notes: For the writerverse "Character Spotlight" to focus on a secondary character.

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There was a possibility that Crazy Mofo was not an actual profession, just as there was a possibility (slim) that college tuition for the coroner's granddaughter might cost less than the GNP of several sub-Saharan African nations. The coroner was a man of science, however, and he preferred facts and simpler interpretations of reality.

The reality was this: Detective Mofo and his cohorts were straight-up nuts, but they were good at solving crimes and they also knew the value of cold, hard, tax-free cash.

( Read more... )

Title: If Pressed To Admit
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Author: HalfshellVenus
Characters: Sherlock, John (Gen)
Rating: PG
Summary: It is possible to impress Sherlock, not that he would ever say so.
Author's Notes: For desertport, who wanted 'something Sherlock admires about John.' Also for writers_choice (love, loyalty, and friendship).

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You ought not think of a person as pocket-sized, Sherlock knew. He tried not to. Still, while many were short-statured, John Watson was also fierce. On an especially bad day, he might tear your head off and feed it right back to you. He would strive to be fair about it, of course, and give you every opportunity to explain yourself first. But the man could be pushed too far.

Sherlock rather liked both of those qualities. Ruthless anger certainly had its uses, while restraint was an ongoing challenge. (Having grown up with Mycroft, Sherlock was no stranger to homicidal impulses).

Sherlock strove to be reasonable—mostly—as he generally had no wish to wake the tiger inside his friend. Still, he was well aware of his tendency to be vexing. John-inflicted bruises likely waited in his future.

But in the bargain, it would surely be worth it. A few lacerations and lumps were a pittance when compared to the rare value of having such a loyal and interesting friend.


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Title: Brewing Up Trouble
Fandom: House, M.D.
Author: HalfshellVenus
Characters: Wilson, House (Gen)
Rating: PG
Summary: Roomates, rogues… rivals.
Author's Notes: For firefly124, who wanted House, Wilson, and bad coffee.

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House picked up the coffee pot and smelled the contents. "Did you make this?"

Wilson stopped buttering his toast. "Is there someone else living here you've forgotten to mention? Of course I made it. Why?"

"I detect a certain bouquet of self-loathing and apology."

"I think that's just last night's takeout. So, does that mean you're not going to drink it?"

"Ehhh…" House said.

"Because I never get more than a single cup, and I’m the one who does all the work."

"It's probably not that bad." House filled a mug with coffee. "Mmm," he said drily, "yummy." He took a sip, and then spat it into the sink. "God, that is awful. It tastes like boiled mice."

"Maybe it is." Wilson finished his toast and re-folded the newspaper. When he left for work, House was making a new pot of coffee.

The next day, House complained that the coffee was gritty and stale, and the day after that he compared it to cough syrup. They went through double pots of the stuff every morning, with House throwing out the first batch and making his own.

On Friday, House was woken up a half-hour early by an excruciating leg cramp. He heard rustling in the kitchen, and decided he might as well get out of bed. The smell of fresh coffee flooded the apartment, a familiar lie.

He was about to step into the kitchen when he saw Wilson, hovering over the newly-made pot of coffee. Wilson poured coffee into his own mug, and then added something to the pot.

It looked like salad dressing.

Bastard! House jerked back around the corner, out of sight. He thought about the past week of Wilson pranking him into re-making coffee every morning, and exactly how vinaigrette-flavored coffee might have tasted.

This, he decided, means war.


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