Well, in case you failed to notice; in case you failed to see...

ohnixie @ 2007-11-18T04:14:00

2007-11-18T09:28:34Z

So...

Hi. I'm back. I've been lurking for... *checks* 14 weeks. But I finally had to break down and beg for some good bandom fic, so...

Question. How did everyone in the spn fandom make the jump to mcr? Was it like, "Oh, you know what reminds me of two hot brothers and ghosts and angst? My Chemical Romance."

...actually, when I think of it that way, it makes much more sense. Honestly, my personal progression was more like. "JaredJaredJaredJaredJaredJar--well, hello there. ...is that a neck tattoo?" Basically, Frank Iero is my new fandom boyfriend, I think he's hotter than Las Vegas in August, and I'm deeply, deeply shallow. And I'm totally in love with Gerard Way for about thirty different reasons (one reason: hamster love. My hamster is my favorite. <3 <3) And Mikey! And alright, seriously, all of the boys.

So that's it. Cute boys who do cute things and make music I actually really, really love.

So what's new?

all around me. BSG. Lee/Kara, Dee.

2007-08-10T08:46:51Z

all around me (thickening the air i'm breathing)
Lee/Kara, Dee
PG-13? For language, maybe?
493 words
A/n: Spoilers up until... Maelstrom, I suppose. It's post-Maelstrom, so I don't think there's anything from after that... First BSG fic, no beta, yaaay? haha.

Three days, six hours, twenty-four minutes.

Twenty-five minutes.

Twenty-six minutes.

He’s not counting, not really. He looks at the hands on his watch and swears he’s not counting.

**

“Are you okay, Lee?”

Dee finally catches him alone. She doesn't say anything until he steps out of the shower and watches him look everywhere but at her with level eyes. He meets them in the mirror and a distant piece of his mind wants to chuckle. He ignores her for a second, one hand on the edge of his towel, the other on his toothbrush, and stares at his reflection while he tries to think of the right answer.

I’m fine.

Liar.

Don’t worry.

No one ever listens to that one.

I lost my best friend. It feels like something’s missing inside and there’s nothing you can do about it.

“I’m fine,” he mutters, and bends to spit in the sink.

“Is it just me, or does she look a little relieved?”

Kara cocks her head to the side and narrows her eyes at Dee. She’s perched herself on the top of a low cabinet by the door, leaning back with her palms flat on the surface behind her. Her hair is longer, not short and slicked back like it had been when she crashed, but just long enough to pull back. Lee freezes over the sink.

“Not about you, I mean. She thinks you’re frakking losing it. Look around the eyes, though. They’re less… squinty.”

He stares at her in the mirror, hears Dee say his name. Kara grins at him, bright and wicked and alive as the day--

As the day she died.

“I think she’s glad I’m gone,” Kara says softly.

**

He sees her... everywhere. Playing cards with Helo, in the halls, in his dreams. There one moment, gone in an instant, pale hair flashing in the corner of his eye.

He's convinced he's losing his frakking mind.

He catches a nugget by the arm in the hall outside the bathroom (I think she's glad I'm gone) and spins her to face him. He stutters out an apology when the woman's eyes go wide and locks himself in his quarters with his arm thrown across his face as soon as he can get away.

"Losing my motherfrakking mind," he says to himself, flat on his back in his bunk without even removing his shoes. The bed rustles slightly next to him.

"It happens."

He lifts his arm slightly for a second and drops it when he sees her, groaning.

"You're not really here."

"Do you really care?"

His throat is tight. He swallows around the lump.

"Yes."

She's silent, but solid. Still sitting beside him, her fingers working the blanket near his hip.

Liar.

"Stay."

"For as long as I can," she says. She curls beside him on the bed and he smells smoke in her hair.

i feel you on my fingertips. SPN. Sam, Dean, OFCs

2007-08-10T08:31:35Z

i feel you on my fingertips (my tongue dances behind my lips)
or Six Girls Sam Winchester Sees In His Head, and Five Girls The Winchester Brothers Don't Save In Time
SPN. Sam, Dean, OFCs.
PG-13
516 words
A/n: Soundtrack is, without a doubt, Flyleaf's All Around Me. I didn't quite know how to end it. It started out as "Heroes don't always make it in time" and ended... well, there's angst, and then there's hopelessness. The boys are heroes for a reason, right? So they must get the bad guy? Right...?

He sees their faces, one after another like a projector on insane fast forward. He only has time to catch a piece of what they look like, an impression--never a full, good look.

A birthmark above one’s lip. Blue streaks in one’s hair. Gold flecks near a pupil.

The projector flies on. Their faces cut with new images, different images, and he know they’re not the same girls. A tiny star tattoo behind an ear. Cracked green nail polish. A scar. He sees tiny details magnified, the smallest traces registering in his mind.

But never complete.

Never a whole.

Evie Sanders. 22. The tattoo behind her right ear is blue, green behind, and fades into the (peach, pink, golden brown) grey skin around it. They’re a day too late, and the crime scene photos are horrifying and brutal.

They found her body in a barn and for the next three nights, Sam hears her crying in the dark.

Dylan Corerra. 18. There’s more photographs, and Dean’s hand hovers over a close-up of her face. Sam reaches out, grabs his hand, holds the photo under the lamp.

Her eyes are brown, dead, lifeless. Even in death, though, you can see the gold in her eyes.

Cora Matthews. 24. The photos don’t do the apartment justice. Sam stands in the hall and stares at the stains, and it’s only when he sees it up close that he realizes how hard she fought back. Broken glass makes a sparkling carpet on the floor, refracting rust-colored streaks and pools. There’s a handprint on the wall. In the photograph, her fingers are curled into her palm and covered in blood, but he can still see the green sparkles at the top of her nail bed.

Her hand was half the size of his.

He measures.

He holds his up to the wall. Eighty-seven hours.

Laurel Ashby. 22. She’s already in the ground; they’ve laid sod over the dirt, etched her name in marble. In the file they steal, the first photograph is her senior picture. She looks hopeful and happy, bright. Sam thinks the investigator put it there on purpose. The photos below it make Dean’s fingers spasm, a reflex he hasn’t conditioned out of his system yet, but Sam keep his eyes on her smile. On the birthmark above her lip.

He doesn’t look at the others. He knows what he’ll see.

But she still cries out to him anyway.

Whitney Adams. 19. There’s a few strand of blue caught on a knee-level bush.

A rain washed away the rest. Only a few tangled hairs left behind are any indication that she’d been there at all. Until he looks up.

Until he sees the yellow knot where the police had cut away their tape.

Six days. Six days too late. There’s copper at the back of his throat, but she doesn’t cry when he closes his eyes.

Somehow, it’s worse.

The projector flicks on. One picture, repeated infinitely, cut with a new smile. Cut with grey flecks in sky-blue. Honey hair. A scar.

ohnixie @ 2007-03-07T03:07:00

2007-03-07T08:10:39Z

THAT'S IT, I GIVE UP!

*pushes all of the boys in the UNIVERSE across the table, crosses her arms, turns her back*

Take them all! One for everyone! I don't want them anymore--you can have them. Seriously, just... just make them go away. I don't even want to look at them anymore.

I think I'm gonna be a nun.... Yeah. I think that's a good idea. A nun. Let me look into that... *headdesk*

ohnixie @ 2007-02-26T10:34:00

2007-02-26T15:40:29Z

So, I have this theory, right? Sometimes Izzie falls asleep in the hospital, right? And Denny--Denny is stuck. Denny can't move on, and he's still sorta hanging around the hospital to be with her, and when she sleeps... well, she'd dream about him, right? I mean, hello--JDM. Hell, I'd dream of him. So yes. That's where this came from...

love, pull your sore ribs in
Grey's Anatomy. Izzie/Denny. PG
190 words. Spoilers for the last episode.
Notes: for tigre86, even though she has no idea (surprise!). Now write me some more! haha *smushes*

Fifteen minutes. Just fifteen minutes.

He’s smiling when her eyes close. He grins and watches her with his thumbs tucked in his pockets from the end of the hall, but doesn’t move any closer.

“Missed you,” he says. She smiles.

“I told you I’d be back.”

“That’s my girl,” he says. His voice is rough, aching. Her arms won’t move when she tries to reach out to him. Something flickers across his face, like a reaction, like distraction, for the fraction of a moment. When it passes, his smile’s a little sadder.

“Time to go, pretty girl,” he says softly, and the look on his face breaks her all over again. She wants to tell him no, wants to tell him that she wants to stay, but he closes the distance between them. She finally reaches out, closes her eyes when she feels his shirt beneath her palms.

When she opens them again, he’s gone.

There’s a whisper of a touch on her cheek, the ghost-echo of lips on her neck, and when she jerks awake, there’s something twisted in her gut and the empty room smells like Denny.

a kiss with open eyes. OTH. Lucas/Peyton, Brooke/Nathan

2007-02-22T01:37:19Z

a kiss with open eyes
OTH. Lucas/Peyton, Brooke/Nathan. PG-13ish.
655 words. Spoilers for Sad Song for Dirty Lovers.
Notes: thanks to the fantastic tigre86 for typo-catching and general awesomeness. References B/L and P/N. Not really written as a sequel to it takes my pain away (Brooke/Nathan), but titles are taken from the same song and, well, yeah, I guess they are sorta linked, aren't they? :)

“Peyton…”

She pulled her jacket tight against the night chill and didn’t look back.

“Peyton, will you just stop? Baby, talk to me.”

She could hear Luke’s boots against the asphalt, the jingle of car keys in his pocket. She could smell smoke from a fireplace and she could see stars twinkling in the sky through the gaps in the trees above her. She could feel, she could touch, she could hear as clear as a bell, but never had she felt so alien in her own skin.

All she could taste was bitterness at the back of her throat; all she could feel was anger and shame and hurt in her chest. From the second her lips first touched his, she had told herself that she was a horrible person. Who would do something like that to their best friend? she asked herself. There must be something wrong with her, something broken and faulty inside of her that never healed right after she lost her mom. Good girls don’t kiss their best friend’s boyfriend. Good girls don’t lie to the people they love and hurt the people who care about them.

Good girls with good parents and good lives don’t do bad things.

So what was Brooke’s excuse?

Oh, my mommy doesn’t hug me enough. Oh, my daddy works and plays golf and fucks his secretary instead of coming home to his family. What the hell ever. At least she had a mom. At least she had a dad who didn’t spend ninety percent of his life on water. At least she had a hundred different boys who would’ve filled that void, but no--she had to choose the one who was off-limits.

She stumbled when her Chuck caught a crack in the road, and the physical near-fall pulled her out of the emotional one she was working on.

Brooke cheated with Nathan. Peyton cheated with Luke. They were both guilty.

But I never slept with Luke, Peyton reasoned to the rational voice in her brain.

Does it matter?

Yes.

What mattered was the Brooke had sat on her holier-than-thou throne and made her feel like pond scum for months. What mattered was that she groveled and begged and prayed for a little understanding from her life-long friend while that busty hypocrite had the nerve to treat her like a French Revolution-era traitor. She was convinced that Brooke would’ve gladly beheaded her if it wouldn’t interfere with the morals clause in her contract, when in actuality, Brooke Davis herself was the one who deserved the Marie Antoinette treatment.

And Nathan. Nathan fucking Scott. That bastard. How could he?

Peyton was just getting ready to work herself up enough to pop when someone grabbed her arm. She spun, furious, ready to turn on whoever had dared interfere with her righteous indignation, and stopped cold when she saw the worry in Luke’s eyes.

You can’t help who you fall in love with. Brooke wasn’t in love with Nathan, but Peyton… She pulled Lucas’ arm around her back and tucked herself against him. She buried her face in his t-shirt and wound her own arms around his waist.

“She didn’t love him,” she said into his chest, her voice muffled by muscle and fabric. His arms came around her, warm and tight, and she held on to him like it was the only thing keeping her in one piece. Hell, for all she know, it probably was. The boy did make saving her a habit, after all.

“I know.”

“She slept with him and she… she didn’t have any reason, Luke. She just did it. She didn’t… she didn’t even care.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Why? Why would she do that to me if she didn’t love him? Why couldn’t she have loved him?”

“Not everyone’s as lucky as we are,” he said softly, and she felt very small and very sad when she realized he was right.

Heh...

2007-02-22T00:42:42Z

I want an icon of Brooke looking really cute and brunette and perky and awesome with the name "Busty McHypocrite" written across the bottom.

it takes my pain away. OTH. Brooke/Nathan.

2007-02-21T08:44:51Z

Hmm. Spent the night writing fic and shaking my fist because OMG I HATE THAT IT ISN'T OTH NIGHT. How awesome was last week's ep? Awesome times a hundred, that's how awesome.

...and then I ended up writing SPN fic instead. Hmm. Odd. Anyway, this is the tiny little OTH ficlet that I need to post before tomorrow because I have a feeling it will be waaaay not canon after the next ep. It's Brooke/Nathan

it takes my pain away
OTH. Brooke/Nathan. PG-13
215ish words. Spoilers for the last episode.
Notes: title from Pain by Jimmy Eat World, because Futures has eaten my brain, but I'm saving the Night Drive lyrics for a different fic. No beta, no edits, written really quickly. I wanted to work in something with the camera, but I fail, so maybe next time...

So here’s the thing.

She never meant to hurt Peyton. They’d been partying and had too much to drink the first time something happened between them. Nathan had kissed her in the rain while Peyton was passed out in the passenger seat of her car. It was quick, it was electric, and when it was over, there was a light in Nathan’s eyes that was miles from regret.

She never meant to hurt Peyton. Not when she’d called Nate and told him she was dropping some pep rally stuff off at his house. Not when she spread her butcher paper out in his driveway and innocently remarked that his house had more space. Brooke hadn’t even been thinking about anything but yes when Nathan crowded her against the wall and ducked his head low to kiss her collarbone. It was soft lips and boysmell and the way the bricks felt when they caught the fabric of her coat.

She hadn’t felt guilty. She’d just wanted more more more and later, when he was tugging her shirt over her head and tracing her hipbones with his thumbs, she wasn’t thinking about Peyton at all. She just bit his lip and chuckled when his breath caught.

She never meant to hurt Peyton. Except maybe for the time where she did.

ohnixie @ 2007-02-15T01:39:00

2007-02-15T06:45:29Z

I don't wanna go to wooooork. You can't make me! Oh, yeah, and I totally got a raise last month and no one told me about it. Fun.

Hmm. Deadly peanut butter. Really, FOX News? There's nothing better to talk about? Tell me a little more about Anna Nicole Smith. I don't think I've quite OD'd on the coverage yet.

Am getting a new tattoo. Kinda stoked. Also, having parents finance important doctor-y matters so I don't have to. Gee, I love being twentysomething and spoiled.

Have fic. Should post. Am feeling very apathetic and franky, a little emo at the total lack of comments on all four Miami fics. Let's be honest--fic writers are comment whores at heart. That's totally okay, too--feedback is vital to a lot of people's creative process. It's natural. I know the fandom is sorta dormant, but still. Maybe I'm just spoiled by the awesome peeps in SPN and OTH...

Yawn. Still don't want to go to work. Need to shower. Hmm. Gonna go do that. Niiiiiiight.

ohnixie @ 2007-02-10T19:38:00

2007-02-11T00:39:15Z

Ordered Chinese from That One Place That Always Makes Me Sick and--surprise!!--got sick.

Am going to crawl into bed and die now. Plz send Pete Wentz and William Beckett to cuddle and make me feel better.

get up, come on (stop crying your heart out). CSI: Miami. Calleigh/Speed.

2007-02-10T21:03:45Z

get up, come on (stop crying your heart out)
CSI: Miami. Calleigh/Speed.
840ish words. PG.
Notes: postthree. Character death referenced. Title from Oasis.

The sun was almost obscenely bright. She smelled grass and water, heard birds in the trees that lined the road. The grass beneath her calves was itchy; she was slightly allergic and there would be a blotchy red rash down her legs for a few hours once she got up.

She didn't think she could quite bring herself to get up just yet.

She didn't cry the day he died. Not out of any sort of stoicism or steely resolve to move on; she'd been too concerned with covering his ass, plain and simple. She cared abut Tim Speedle too much to have something stupid tarnish his memory the way an (honest) accurate report would have. Horatio too. He knew about why Speedle's gun misfired and she knew he had gone out of his way to prevent it from happening again. Watching Tim die was enough; she didn't want him to feel guilty over something he, in all actuality, had no control over.

After all, when it had come down to it, even Calleigh hadn't been able to prevent it from happening.

She heard the grass crunch behind her, but didn't turn to look at who was standing by the road. She'd been ignoring similar sounds for hours. It was Saturday and cars had been driving by all morning, carrying friends and relatives to the peaceful cemetery by the water.

Tim had liked the water. And the sun. It was too cold in New York to ride a bike without leathers during the wintertime, but in Miami… he liked Miami. He'd settled there. Sometimes he'd bitch about the heat, but she'd laugh and pull her hair away from her neck and tell him he hadn't seen real heat until he'd stood in the South in the middle of August. He would insult the South in some other way and she would call him a "goddamn Yankee", and he would grin at her over the top of his sunglasses. It was his way, it was their way, and the memory of it hurt.

Sometimes they'd trade stories about home, about growing up New York and Louisiana, going to school at Colombia and Tulane, but they always came back to Miami. Always come back to the sun. He would've been glad they didn't take him back to Syracuse, she decided, swallowing around the lump that had formed in her throat. And the bike. He would've wanted someone to take care of the bike. She hadn't really met his family--didn't have to guts to speak with his crying mother or devastated father--but they seemed like good people. They'd know what Tim wanted.

The person behind her shifted uncomfortably. She heard the grass rustle again.

"Hey, Cal."

Delko.
He hadn't said anything about going by the cemetery when she brought it up a few days ago. She was pretty sure he hadn't been there since the burial, but that was only a week ago, so she couldn't really hold it against him.

"Eric. Hi."

She turned and smiled over her shoulder. Her hair lay against her cheek. She could almost feel a ghost hand brush it away. Something squeezed in her chest.

"Didn't know you would be here," he said, and she turned away with a soft huff of laughter. Still be here, he meant.

"Just saying hi," she said softly.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing," she smiled up at him when he crossed the space between them to stand next to her.

"They put the headstone in," he noted, folding his sunglasses into the neck of his shirt.

"Yeah. Yesterday," she said.

"Looks nice," he said softly, and Calleigh tried to smile. They stared at the headstone for a long time, barely exchanging fragments of thoughts or observations. Mostly, she kept her eyes trained on the fresh etching and tried not to hate herself for silently wishing him away. Grief, for her, had always been a private thing. Intruding on others was distasteful and often a part of her job, but it didn't make it any easier to share her own. Eric must've felt the same way. After a few more bird calls, a couple more lazy breezes, he turned to leave.

"I miss him," Eric confessed quietly, not looking her in the eye, and walked away.

She hadn't cried the day Tim Speedle died, but when the bagpipes were finally quiet and the gunshots had stopping ringing in her ears, she put her head down on the steering wheel of the rented black SUV and sobbed until she ached. The burn in her chest, the sting of grief and loss and anger, didn't fade. It was there when she clung to the wheel until the joints in her fingers hurt. It was there when she woke up and got ready for work the next morning. It was there when she processed a liquor store robbery scene three days later.

She sat in front of the hip-high slab of marble, listened to Delko get into his car, and wondered if it would ever really go away.

Heat. CSI: Miami. Genfic.

2007-02-10T20:39:55Z

Heat
CSI: Miami. Genfic.
870ish words. PG.
Notes: Pre-s3, otherwise known as "prethree". ;D Just a quick little ficlet, but I like it.

Miami was sticky-hot and fuming under the pressure of it. Speed pulled his shirt away from where it stuck to his back and adjusted the focus on his camera. Eric was fingerprinting the door behind him, and he heard him sigh a little when the curtains rustled in a tiny breeze. The air inside the room was still and stuffy. The smell of old blood was foul, and he scowled down at the casings at his feet.

"Man, this fucking sucks," he muttered and raised the camera to snap a shot. Eric chuckled behind him.

"Should break tomorrow."

"They've been saying that for a week."

"Yeah, well. Welcome to Miami."

"Where's Calleigh? Wasn't she supposed to be here too?"

"Got held up at the lab. She'll be here."

The lab. The nice, cool, air-conditioned lab. Speed lowered the camera and glowered at his reflection in the filthy, bloodstained motel room mirror. Man, he hated motel rooms.

"Just be thankful they found the body before it started to…" Eric trailed off and had a slightly nauseated expression. "In this heat? Man, forget about it."

"That's disgusting."

They worked in silence for a few more minutes. The only sound came from outside the open door, where sirens screamed by and babies cried loud enough to be heard an entire parking lot away. Speed paused every few minutes or so to tug on the hem of his shirt and tried not to think of the glorious, quiet, Batcave-cool call of his Trace lab.

Of course, the Ballistics lab was even cooler. And even more Batcave-y. Speed narrowed his eyes.

"Cal's here," Eric called over his shoulder when a car door slammed below them. Speed didn't turn around, but he caught Eric's back retreating through the door out of the corner of his eye in the mirror. He just fidgeted when sweat dripped down his neck and ignored Calleigh's silver-bell laugh when Eric called down to her from the top of the stairs. He heard her heels against the concrete stairs. The sound paused when she reached the top and she and Eric chatted for a minute.

"Speed's in a mood," Eric warned her, his voice pitched low enough for him to think he hadn't been heard in the room.

"I am not," he called over his shoulder.

"You are too."

"I hate hotel rooms."

"We know," Calleigh sighed as she stepped inside. "Just be thankful--"

"I know. Don't remind me. The flies are bad enough."

Calleigh grinned and tried to look sympathetic when she patted his arm. The shirt clung to his skin where she touched him. Her hair was pulled back in a sleek, honey-blonde ponytail that was still smooth and perfect even in the ridiculous humidity that hung in the air. Speed swiped at his forehead with the back of his wrist and sighed. Calleigh chuckled and ducked down to examine a hole in the wall.

"Cal, I'm going to grab some more… things out of your truck," Eric called from outside. Speed lowered his camera in mid-shot.

"I swear to God, Delko, if you sit in that truck with the AC on for more than five minutes, I'm coming out there after you," he yelled after him. Eric laughed. His footsteps disappeared down the stairs.

"Grumpy," Calleigh murmured, a small smile on her lips while she dug through her kit.

"I am not. Why does everyone keep saying that?"

"Because you've been acting like a grizzly bear for three days."

"I have not."

"Oh, yeah. You definitely have. Valera's stopped asking me if you're hung over, but don't be surprised if some AA pamphlets start showing up on your desk."

Calleigh chuckled when he groaned. She straightened up and smoothed a palm over his shoulder.

"I know, I know. You're not the only one. I was at that liquor store robbery yesterday and I was afraid Frank was going to charge the owner's smart-mouthed kid like a rhino. Thought I was going to have to shoot him in the leg or something if he attacked."

"I hate Miami."

"No you don't."

"I miss New York."

"No you don't."

"I hate the heat."

"It's not the heat, it's the humidity," she reminded him brightly; he tried not to scowl at her.

"Go get Eric," she told him, turning back to her bullet hole. "Let's wrap this thing up as quick as we can and get back to the lab. And tell him it's your turn to use the AC."

Speed sighed appreciatively and stepped carefully as he made his way out of the room. He paused in the doorway and turned to look at her. She was crouched by the wall and pulling on a pair of gloves. Her shirt was already starting to stick to the base of her spine.

"Have I really been an asshole?"

"Yeah, but don't worry about it. You're not the only one."

Calleigh grinned across the room at him.

"And you know you can always make it up to me."

"Ziti?"

"Lasagna. With the different cheeses. And garlic bread."

Speed smiled for the first time that day and headed down the motel stairs to kick Eric out of her truck.

on sleepless roads, the sleepless go. CSI: Miami. Calleigh/Speed.

2007-02-10T20:20:04Z

on sleepless roads, the sleepless go
CSI: Miami. Calleigh/Speed.
1150ish words. PG.
Notes: spoilers for the s3 premiere. Character death. Shameless theft of good music. You know, the usual.

"Do you believe in life after death?"

The question had shook her more than she'd thought it would. She'd looked at Ryan over the rim of her glass and hadn't answered. He'd held her gaze for a moment before dropping it, embarrassed.

She always thought she did. Now she wasn't so sure.

"Do you believe in Heaven?" she asked Eric as he helped her into her jacket. He'd paused, his fingers lingering on her collar, and she could see him frown in the mirror on the other side of the hall.

"Of course."

"So you believe in Hell, too."

"Calleigh, I'm Catholic. I believe in Hell more than I do gravity."

She only chuckled because she could hear the joke in his voice. She tried to push the nagging feeling out of her head and flipped her hair out of the neck of her jacket. When she turned, Eric was frowning down at her again.

"Why do you ask?"

"Huh? Nothing. It was just a question."

"Strange question. Something bugging you?"

"No. Not at all."

"Calleigh, here's a piece of advice. Try not to lie after you've been drinking mojitos. You suck."

This time her smile was genuine. She brushed her hair away from her cheek and grinned up at him.

"It's nothing, Eric. Just… something that's been rattling around in my head. It's no big deal."

He didn't look convinced.

"You sure?"

"I'm sure."

Eric studied her face and Calleigh could almost feel him forming the next question on his tongue. Don't ask that, Eric, she silently willed. He must've caught the hint, because after a moment of hesitation, he smiled.

"You good to drive?"

"Eric Delko," she chided playfully. "Never ask a Southern woman if she can drive after a night on the town. Just sneak her car keys out of her purse when she isn't looking and offer to call her a cab."

"What, not drive her home?"

"What kind of girl do you think I am?" she grinned, winking before digging through her purse for her keys. Eric kept a hand on her elbow and guided her down the sidewalk until she fished them out. "I'm fine. Really. I had two. It'll take more than that to keep a Duquesne down."

He stood by her car until she unlocked the door and climbed in, resting a hand on her door.

"Cal--" he began, and she frowned when she looked up and saw the same look on his face as before, when he was ready to ask her a question she wasn't ready to hear.

"Eric, it's--"

"I'm headed by there this weekend. Probably noonish on Saturday. Just, you know. So you know."

It never ceased to amaze her how little time it took for that lump to form in her throat. She nodded silently and turned away from him to slip the key into the ignition. Eric waited until the engine turned over and closed the door gently.

She drove for miles, silent and dark. As dark as Miami could ever be, anyway. The streetlights passed in an even rhythm, hypnotizing while she drove on autopilot. She caught green lights at every intersection and never had to hit her breaks until one blinked yellow, then red, and snapped her out of her trance in time to stop behind the white line. She glanced out of the window and saw sand stretch for yards and yards before it ended in ink-black water.

A memory so vivid it took her breath away flashed behind her eyes, and in that moment, the dark night and glaring streetlights were replaced with sunlight and yellow tape and a memory of him… laughing. Laughing loud and genuinely amused at one of Eric's jokes with the strap of his camera around his neck and his sunglasses pushed back on his head. She remember exactly what his t-shirt felt like beneath her fingers--it was the dark red one with Doors lyrics on the front and the weird Indian symbol between his shoulders--and how she brushed by him to fish a casing out of the sand where some frat boy decided to fire off a few rounds.

The memory was bright, warm, a lifetime away. It was somehow calm and still and nothing like the cold air on her cheek or the loud beachfront club across the intersection. It made her feel hollow and empty, like someone pulled a piece of her body away and she was learning to function without her arm or her eyesight.

She turned right without waiting for the light to change and pulled over on the side of the road just beyond the intersection. The light was still red when she hurried across. She heard a girl shriek from the top deck of the club and laughter over a throbbing bass line, but her eyes were fixed on a break in the low wall that ran the length of the beach and the cluster of palm trees just beyond it. Calleigh kicked out of her heels at the edge of the concrete sidewalk and walked barefoot in the sand until she made it to the trees.

"Hold on," he'd murmured, catching her hand when she ducked down next to him and reached for a casing. His fingers brushed the inside of her wrist and she'd smiled in spite of herself. "Not done photographing those yet."

His hand lingered, but neither pulled away until Eric turned around.

"Oh, Speedle," she whispered. She sat down in the sand gently, her knees pulled to her chest. The ache throbbed dully, and she felt like she was seven years old.

"I miss you," she said softly, her cheek pressed into the soft cotton of the pants that covered her knees.

Do you believe in life after death?

The ghost of Ryan's voice breathed in her ear. She suddenly wished for it with every bit of her heart.

Yes. Yes, there has to be.

He couldn't be gone. She wasn't ready for him to be.

"Send me a sign," she whispered softly. "Tell me you're okay."

The music behind her faded. The new song was slow, gentle, like an answer to a prayer, like a quiet apology in the too-cold breeze.

It was a song she knew, a song she sang quietly to herself in her bare feet while fat rain drops fell on her roof. It was a song she sang while she waited in her kitchen for her coffee to reheat in the microwave and her hair hung down her back in a wet, just-washed curtain. It was a song she sang while she looked over her shoulder and watched Tim doze on her couch with a book on his chest and his face turned into the cushions.

It was the answer to a prayer, and Calleigh turned her face into the sky and prayed a thousand more that would never come true.

There's no one in town I know
You gave us some place to go
I never said thank you for that
Thought I might get one more chance

What would you think of me now?
So lucky, so strong, so proud
I never said thank you for that
Now I'll never have the chance

May angels lead you in
Hear you me my friends
On sleepless roads the sleepless go
May angels lead you in

What would you think of me now?
So lucky, so strong, so proud
I never said thank you for that
Now I'll never have the chance

May angels lead you in
Hear you me my friends
On sleepless roads the sleepless go
May angels lead you in

And if you were with me tonight
I'd sing to you just one more time
A song for a heart so big
God couldn't let it live

May angels lead you in
Hear you me my friends
On sleepless roads the sleepless go
May angels lead you in

May angels lead you in
Hear you me my friends
On sleepless roads the sleepless go
May angels lead you in

-Jimmy Eat World, "Hear You Me"

hey there, Delilah (what's it like in New York City?). CSI: Miami. Calleigh/Speed.

2007-02-10T19:44:01Z

hey there, Delilah (what's it like in New York City?)
CSI: Miami. Calleigh/Speed (pre-s3, obvs)
420ish words. PG.
Notes: short, fluffy Christmastime fic from, oh, two months ago? But it's happy, so I'm posting it.

"I've never seen snow."

Tim looked up from his battered paperback, blinked at her for a second.

"Well, that was appropriately random."

She grinned and smacked his shoulder with one of the throw pillows she'd tucked underneath her knees.

"I'm serious."

"And yet, still random."

The television cut to yet another department store Christmas sale commercial with laughing children and quietly content couples cuddling in front of a fire. The brunette actress smiled at her lover and rubbed her cheek against a pretty pink sweater. Calleigh arched an eyebrow and glanced toward the end of the couch. Tim had his feet on the coffee table and was already turning a page in his book, oblivious.

"What are you getting me for Christmas?" she asked, poking him with her toe.

"A pony," he replied, not looking up.

"Ooo, really? Can I name him Butterscotch?"

Tim chuckled and restrained her foot with his hand on her ankle when she toed him again.

"Stop, I'm reading."

"You're from New York. Surely you've seen snow before."

"Uh huh. Lots of it."

"What's it like?"

"Cold."

"No, really? How did I ever get through a physics degree without realizing that snow was cold? Try again."

Tim sighed and dropped the book into his lap.

"It's whiteish. It gets down your shirt. It makes driving hell. It's… you know. Snow."

"Have you ever made snow balls?"

"Uh huh."

"A snow fort?"

"Yeah. Well, a snow mound, anyway."

"A snow fort would be cool."

"Ladies and gentlemen, my girlfriend is officially eight years old."

Calleigh laughed and dug into his ribs with her toes until he squirmed.

"Stop! Alright, alright. Eleven."

She giggled and wiggled to avoid his grasp. In the end, she was half spread across his lap and his book and all of the pillows were spread across the floor. He leaned down and tucked her against him to keep her from rolling off the end of the couch.

"You've really never seen snow?" he asked.

"Never."

"Hmm."

Two days later, a small snowglobe appeared on her desk in the ballistics lab. Two tiny Eskimos nose-kissed in front of a silver-blue igloo under a clear glass dome, and when she lifted it, a slip of paper fell off of the desk and floated to her feet. Calleigh shook the globe gently and smiled at the little bits of plastic snow, then bent to retrieve the paper.

IOU one snow fort was scrawled in tiny letters across the page.

ohnixie @ 2007-02-10T14:11:00

2007-02-10T19:11:51Z

My best friend is a thousand miles away, my stupid new boy won't call me back, I'm eating strawberry frosting out of the container, and I've got the few Fall Out Boy on a loop.

Cue the emo.

ohnixie @ 2007-02-08T02:38:00

2007-02-08T07:38:28Z

Sooo... I kinda need a beta. Pretty bad, actually. I have 44 (44!!) drafts of stories saved in my gmail account (the writing one, not the actual e-mail one--otherwise knows as the "Hey, where'd my inbox go?" one), none of which have been seen by another living soul. It's kinda getting to me. I need feedback, but I don't feel comfortable posting things cold in communities. There's some CSI: Miami fics (Calleigh/Speed and Calleigh/Eric&Calleigh/Speed), a few OFC SPN fics (one 'cesty, one not, and one series-ish), and another part to the Chad/Hilarie RPF I posted oh, forever ago. The Sam/OFC fic I'm writing right now is killing me, so if anyone out there would like to volunteer, I would be more than stoked to pass it on.

ohnixie @ 2007-01-22T02:52:00

2007-01-22T07:52:41Z

Dear Slash Writers:

Please consider making the characters you're writing for LESS LIKE FOURTEEN YEAR OLD GIRLS.*

Thank you.

-Nixie

*sheepish wave* Hey guys. Remember me? I used to, y'know, EXIST. I kinda had some stuff go down before Christmas that, combined with a total lack of access to a computer, made my fandom life go up in smoke. But I'm back! I hope! Please don't hate me! I also have seemed to deleted oh, everything in my e-mail. How I managed to do that using Gmail, the most idiot-proof e-mail service EVER, baffles me on a regular basis.

But I've written a little bit! In a totally new fandom! CSI: Miami has eaten my brain. Especially the first two seasons because, hello? Rory Cochrane? Is sorta hot. Love him. And Eric Delko is my post-Speedle boyfriend. And Horatio/Marisol? Is like, the most unexpectedly darling pairing ever. Marisol's sorta clueless, but Horatio is pretty much the best guy ever in a relationship. And Calleigh? Homg. Love. Her. Love Calleigh/Speed, love Calleigh/Eric, love Calleigh/Ryan. And Ryan! Love Ryan! He's got the best arms when he like, slams Brenden Fehr into the wall in that one episode (any more than that would be a spoiler)? Yum. Yuuuuuuum. I haven't read much over the last couple days, but I've noticed that there's a definite lack of Speedle!fic, as well as well-written and smoking hot het. Need this like breathing.

*I swear to God, if I EVER read about Eric offering to fluff Speed's pillows in another CSI: Miami The-Season-Three-Premiere-Never-Happened fic, it will be too. soon. EVEN IF IT'S NEVER. My biggest pet peeve in existence? Is turning perfectly masculine male characters into a) total girls or b) catty homosexual divas. If they wouldn't act like that in the show, DON'T WRITE THEM THAT WAY. /rant.

ohnixie @ 2006-12-06T16:36:00

2006-12-06T21:36:20Z

I've been totally MIA for like, two weeks now. That's a combination of my birthday, work, my family, and some other stuff. I know I haven't checked my e-mail in at least a week. So what happened?! Did I miss anything fun? Rec me some fics, rec me YOUR fics, show me some crazy links, bitch me out for being evil and falling off the planet, whatever. Fill me in.

ohnixie @ 2006-11-29T22:14:00

2006-11-30T03:14:26Z

Regarding tonight's

Insert the most emphatic, capslocked internet slang possible. I swear, y'all--I almost literally fell off of the couch when Haley got hit by the car. When Lucas went down, I yelled at the tv and realized that three out of four of my roommate's dogs were higing under the Christmas tree. Seriously? It was so. good. I made a sound that I'm pretty sure only the dogs heard when Lucas was all "Hey, have you met my girlfriend Peyton?" I was like, YES. YES LUCAS WE HAVE, and it is GOOD.

I don't even have anything else I can say. Talk to me people! Let us squee and be happy, for the end of the age of Brucas is upon us and I can finally stop hissing at Brooke every time Sophia Bush comes onscreen (disclaimer: I really do like Brooke--alone. But Brooke/Lucas? Just felt weird. And also? The girl loses her fool mind every time someone so much as looks at her man. Paging crazy, anyone?).

ohnixie @ 2006-11-26T01:58:00

2006-11-26T06:58:26Z

So, I don't want to seem like I'm ganking estrella30's awesome babyfic idea or anything, but I was fussing with some stuff last night and... well, this kinda happened. I feel like I ruined parts of it when I tweaked it a little and I don't want to post it as a fic or anything because it's not ready, but... well, feedback would be cool. I like it and I think I want to do more with it.

untitled.

The bunched-up fist on her breast is tiny, red, and wrinkled, and it rises and falls every time she takes a breath. Dean watches from the doorway, stares at the hospital gown that falls to her elbow, at the plastic bracelet on her wrist, at the bundle in her arms that's almost all blanket and no baby. All he can see of her-- her--is the tiny little hand against her mother's skin and the top of pastel pink hat. Lauren looks exhausted, with half of her hair falling out of her clip and dark circles under her eyes. He wants to trace his thumb under them, feel the soft, thin skin there, watch her turn her cheek into his palm. She hasn't noticed him standing at the entrance of the room yet; her eyes are glued to the tiny thing in her arms. She won't even move to brush the hair off of her cheek, even though he can see it catch in her eyelashes when she blinks. The baby makes a soft noise when Lauren's breathing deepens and falls somewhere between a sigh and a yawn. He watches the fist raise, hover, then settle back after a moment.

A tech with a heart monitor clatters against something in the hall behind him, loud and brash in the quiet, and her head jerks toward the door. He hears the baby whine and they're staring at each other across the room with silence between them until she fusses again. Lauren smiles, slow and sweet, and soothes her gently. She shifts the way she's holding her, cradles her head and rubs soft circles with her thumb while Dean pushes away from the doorframe.

"Shh, baby," she whispers softly. Dean releases a breath he hadn't known he was holding and crosses into the room slowly, quietly, like he's breaking into a house instead of walking into a hospital room.

"Shh, baby," she sighs again, and something goes tight and solid in his chest when he sees the small, red face and the way Lauren traces her fingertip across the back of her tiny hand. He stands by the bed feeling impossibly large and graceless and a little--alright, a lot--scared of less than seven pounds of baby girl. He doesn't realize Lauren's reached for him until he feels her fingers, warm and smooth, on the back of his hand and he almost jerks away when she pulls him closer. She guides his hand to the baby's arm, keeps her hand on his, and there's a moment of panic that hits him, well, like a Mack truck, actually, before his fingers touch soft, hot skin. Her forehead smoothes out and her hand opens, flexes, curls around his offered finger as a voice in his head whispers, Mine... ours. He rubs his thumb down the back of her arm and touches her cheek, her shoulder, her covered foot that pokes out when Lauren adjusts her hold on her and tucks the blanket back. When he can finally take his eyes off of her, Lauren's watching him with tired eyes and a ghost of a smile, and this time he reaches out. He brushes her hair back and she leans into it, sighs heavily. Her eyelashes flutter when he traces the pad of his thumb against her cheekbone.

"I like Claire," she says softly, finally.

She kisses the inside of his wrist and turns back to her daughter.

Also, moosesal did you still want to see more of that OFC fic?

ohnixie @ 2006-11-24T02:56:00

2006-11-24T07:56:02Z

So I'm sitting here, stressing about work right now, and my roommate just did the most hysterical and accurate impression of me ever. Tonight? Might not suck.

ohnixie @ 2006-11-17T18:12:00

2006-11-17T23:12:02Z

This morning went really, really, really well. The release was absolutely flawless and our sales numbers were ri.dic.u.lous. My supes were so stoked and the managers bought the people who covered the PS3 opening shift like, pizza and gift cards and candy. I was so sick and so tired (I slept less than three hours last night), but today was seriously like, the best day ever. People were keeping an eye on the news and the 'net, and every so often someone would page in about news relating to the release. Some guy got killed somewhere up north (some were saying NY, others Connecticut) because he cut in line. Two people out west got mugged or something. As for us? Well, our customers? Are fucking amazing. They seriously were more organized than some of my managers were. They had their own roll call sheet, their own policies regarding holding spots in line, and didn't try to pull anything crazy when we were setting up for opening. Today was one of those "I have the best customers EVER. No wait--I have the best managers EVER! No, wait--BEST. DAY. EVER." days, even though I felt like falling over dead most of the day.

*sigh* But they told me I have a meeting both Saturday and Sunday mornings at like, 7 and 7:30 respectively.

*falls into bed dead*

Just skip this. It's just me bitching because I don't feel good.

2006-11-16T22:11:59Z

So. I'm having the best week ever. I'm sick. It's cold outside. I'm working the PS3 release tomorrow morning. I'm taking an extra shift on top of all of my shifts next week--I had the most hours in the department to start with and now I get to tack on an extra 7 to that. I have one day off in the next 10 days or so. I get to work Black Friday morning from 4 am to whenever, since my GM is all, "If you can stay later, I need you to stay. See me and I'll give everyone who asks for it more hours." I want to stay in his good graces, so... yeah. I have a store meeting at 7am Saturday morning. I've had almost three hours sleep last night--raising my grand total to 7 1/2 in the last two days and a little over eleven in the last three. I kept sneezing all day today, coughed up a damn lung, and have a sore throat.

I'm exhausted, I don't feel good, and I'm pretty sure the air freshener in my living room is making me want to hurl.

ETA: Oh yeah, and I'm reading my old boss's quotes in the paper, too. Note to self and entire flist: never work for a politician. Cliches are cliches for a reason, people.

ohnixie @ 2006-11-16T01:03:00

2006-11-16T06:03:19Z

Four Thousand.
OTH. Lucas, Peyton.
PG.
427 words.
Summary: "She kept her eyes on his chest, watched the steady rise and fall, and counted every breath like they would stop if she didn't."
Notes: Written for prompt 2 of the Leyton Fanfiction Challenge, but I think some of it might've spilled over into prompt 6. *shrugs* To-may-toe, to-mah-toe. I don't know if I like some parts of this one--they feel cheesy and a little predictable--but I wanted to finish it and move on to the fifty frillion other fics I need to finish.

Three thousand, nine hundred, ninety-four.

Three thousand, nine hundred, ninety-five.

Three thousand, nine hundred, ninety-six.

She kept her eyes on his chest, watched the steady rise and fall, and counted every breath like they would stop if she didn't. They were slower than she remembered, the pause between each exhale and inhale a beat too long.

She could hear Karen crying in the hall behind her. They were deep, ragged sobs that she could imagine shaking Karen's whole body while the people who pass her in the hall look anywhere but at the small, dark-haired woman and her grief.

Keith should be here, a voice said in the back of her head and there was a twinge of guilt in her belly. Her cheek throbbed in a weirdly distant sort of way and she didn't know where the blood on her jeans stopped belonging to her and started belonging to Lucas. She could see it beneath her nails, but the thought barely even registered in her head.

Three thousand, nine hundred, ninety-seven.

The side of his face that she could see from her chair is fine, just a small nick in his eyebrow that she almost couldn't see from where she was sitting. She tucked her knees a little closer to her chest, wound her arms around her shins, and ignored her own ghost-white reflection in the window. The tube in his throat controlled his breathing, but she still sat up straighter when it seemed like the pause had turned into something longer. She hears footsteps in the doorway that don't sound like Karen's, but the reflection in the window is slim and dark-haired like his mother.

Three thousand, nine hundred, ninety-eight.

Three thousand, nine hundred, ninety-nine.

"What happened?" Brooke whispered. She didn't move out of the doorway when Peyton took a deep breath. She didn't say a word when Peyton told her about Derek. Peyton stared at the ghost image in the window and saw Brooke's hand cover her mouth when she slowly, methodically explained that Derek attacked her and Lucas tried to save her.

"Again," she whispered, and the sound felt like it echoed in the small space.

"How bad is it?"

"I don't know."

"Don't lie to me, Peyton."

"I don't know. No one does."

Brooke went silent after that.

"He was going to join the team again," she said softly. Something finally broke in her chest--she could almost hear it break free with a sickening snap--and she buried her face in her arms.

The ventilator hissed, but no one thought to count the breath.

ohnixie @ 2006-11-15T22:51:00

2006-11-16T03:51:44Z

I can't stop listening to a brand new playlist in my iTunes called "Music to Strip To/HipHawesomeness", and I totally blame the girls I work with. It's all their fault.

I draw the line at Chicken Noodle Soup, though.