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a mite whimsical in the brainpan ([info]tigerkat24) wrote,
@ 2007-12-31 12:00:00

Previous Entry  Add to memories!  Tell a Friend!  Next Entry
Entry tags:crossovers, doctor who, dresden files, fanfiction, firefly, harry/murphy, ian/barbara, meme, pimpage

more fic will it never stop

Karrin Murphy only barely resisted the urge to lock the door and put her back up against it. Instead, she closed it as carefully as she could (considering it was Harry’s half-broken door) then stood facing it for a moment.

They’d gotten away, she reminded herself. More, they’d won. They’d defeated a freaking rakshaha and come out alive. She still felt like someone had a gun pointed at her back, though. That tingling between her shoulderblades...

She leaned her forehead against the cool steel of the door for a moment, then turned around. Harry looked away immediately, focusing with furious concentration on taking his duster off.

And just what the hell, she wondered, a touch uncharitably, was wrong with him? He’d been moody lately—or, no, not precisely moody. Remote, less communicative. He drifted in and out, except for the times when she caught him watching her with an indescribable expression on his face, always too fleeting to really classify. Yearing, pain, fear, resignation...she’d thought on and on, and she still couldn’t put a name to it.

He shouldn’t have been morose now, though. After defeating something that strong, without anyone getting hurt, he should be jubilant, or maybe falling-down tired. This...this was neither.

“Harry,” she said.

He froze mid-motion, but didn’t look at her.

She frowned. “Harry. What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing,” he said, and finished folding his duster. Which was another thing—he never folded that damn coat. Half the time he hung it on a coat rack; the rest of the time it got dropped on the floor until she picked it up or his cleaning service got there. “I’m fine.”

“The hell you are.” She pushed away from the door and moved over towards him. “You’ve been quiet all day. Come on, tell me. What’s wrong?”

Harry shook his head, laid his duster on the side table atop his mail and walked away from her before she touched him, heading for the square of kitchen. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Murph. Want a Coke or something?”

“I want you to talk to me.”

“Dammit, Murph!” He slammed his hand onto the counter. “There’s nothing wrong with me, all right? Leave it alone.”

She jerked back, startled. He never responded that violently, never this early in a conversation.

“Okay,” she said, slowly, “now I know there’s something up.”

He made a harsh, ugly noise she hadn’t known could come from his throat. “Oh, sure, there’s something up, and it’s got nothing to do with you, all right? The world does not revolve around you.”

Weary and worried though she was, her own temper flared in response. “I never thought it did,” she snapped back. “Something’s wrong with you, and I’m your friend, Dresden. I’m worried about you!”

“I can take care of myself.” He leaned over his scrap of counter, kept his back to her. “You don’t need to worry.”

“That’s what friends do,” she said. “Harry, what’s wrong?”

He was silent for a very long moment, and finally said, “You shouldn’t have been there tonight.”

Now that gave her pause, if only so she could figure out what he was trying to say. Not that it wasn’t her job to be there, surely, and not that he hadn’t wanted her to be there... no, this had to be some kind of obscure guilt-trip he was pulling on himself. He did that much too often.

“Yes, I should have,” she said, “because it’s my job and you’re my—“

He didn’t give her a chance to finish.

“It is ¬not your job to butt in on my business!” he yelled. “Goddamnit, can’t you keep your nose out of what doesn’t concern you?”

Murphy kept her temper by the thinnest of margins, and only because she knew something was seriously, horribly wrong, because this was Harry and he would never say something like this if everything was right. “There was a rakshasha in my city,” she said, as calmly as she could. “It was threatening the people I swore to protect. I think that concerns me.”

“Rationalization,” he snapped, and reared away from the counter to face her. “That’s all you do, rationalize and rationalize until you’ve got an excuse to do any damn thing in the world. So what’s your rationalization for pushing your way into my cases and getting dozens of innocent people killed?”

What the hell was he...

“You were so busy excusing your own actions you couldn’t bother to listen to me.” Harry advanced on her, one deliberate step at a time, but she stayed right where she was, chin up. “And if you keep that up you’re just going to get more people killed!”

Steady. Steady, Karrin. Something was wrong with him, she just had to concentrate on that. “I’ve helped you save lives,” she told him, and cursed her traitor voice for shaking even a little. “You said that yourself. You...”

He rolled his eyes, a gesture so unlike him she stopped dead in the middle of a sentence. “I said that,” he said, sarcasm dripping from every word, “because you were so desperate to feel like you were making a difference I thought I ought to indulge you.”

That was it. She clenched her fists and snapped, “Indulge me? Me? I’m the one who’s out there arresting vampires and trolls and taking care of the business you can’t be bothered to look at, Dresden! When the fuck did you last save someone when you didn’t have to?”

She regretted saying it almost immediately, but too late; his expression froze. “Projecting a little bit, are we? At least I actually help people instead of getting them stuck in red tape.”

Murphy laughed in his face. “You’re kidding, right? With all the rules I’ve broken for you?”

“And what rules would those be?” Harry asked, looming over her. She’d never really noticed how tall he was until he started using it against her. “Huh? The ones that don’t really matter? The ones that don’t cost you anything? You never do anything unless you’re sure you’ll come out smelling of roses!”

“How the hell can you say that?” she exploded, actually pushing him back a step. “I gave up my career for you!”

He looked at the wall above her, his eyes flat, his face calm. “It’s not enough,” he said.

She stared at him, and gasped for air.

“You’re not enough.”

She couldn’t breathe, why couldn’t she breathe...

“Get away from me,” he said, in a low voice. “Get the hell away from me and don’t come back.”

She stared at him, her breath trembling in her throat, and didn’t realize her hand had flown out until she heard it strike his face.

He flinched, but did not look at her, didn’t even reach up to touch the red mark standing clear on his face.

She turned on her heel and fled, slamming the door behind her, knowing that if she stayed she would cry, and she would not cry in front of him, would not give him that satisfaction. That bastard. That bastard. He’d lied to her, led her on, made her even think he might—that they might—but no sense dwelling on that now, not when he was really such a goddamned bastard...

The warm wind dried the tears on her face almost before she noticed them. Not quickly enough. She sank down against his front door and wept silently into her hands, hoping he wouldn’t hear, hoping he’d stay in his little apartment until she could get away. Oh, God. It was such a beautiful night too, a half moon and all the stars out, and the summer wind warm off the lake. Such a beautiful night and she’d been so proud...

Murphy had no idea how long she cried there, though she suspected it wasn’t very long. Her nose hadn’t even began to run when she heard it, a hoarse, rough sound on the other side of the door.

She muffled her tears as quickly as she could, scrubbing her hands across her face. If Mouse wanted out she had better get gone, before he came out and noticed her there and realized he’d made her cry...

No, she thought, as the sound came again. That hadn’t been Mouse. Dogs didn’t cry.

She pressed her ear against the door and listened as hard as she could. No, she hadn’t been wrong; that was a harsh, ragged sob.

That son of a bitch.

Murphy stood up and, hoping that he hadn’t locked the door, because if he had what she was about to do would just look really silly, yanked on the door with all her strength. It flew open and a very surprised Harry sprawled backwards, landing at her feet, tear-tracks still clear on his face and utter shock changing to horror. “Murphy...” he began, and stopped when he saw her face.

“You son of a bitch,” she said, slowly and clearly, enunciating every word.

Harry shoved himself up, masking the horror with shaky anger. “How dare you...”

She cut him off. “You son of a bitch!” she screamed, forcing him back into the apartment with the sheer force of her rage. “What the hell did you think you were doing? Did you even think?”

He got to his feet and backed away from her, looking anywhere but at her. Unreasoning anger and hurt choked her throat, curled her hands into fists. “You lied to me,” she snarled. “You lied to me! You vicious, heartless, cruel bastard! What the fuck were you trying to do, huh? Drive me away?”


“No, you know what?” she interrupted him. “Don’t even try to explain. I don’t think I can even listen to you anymore.” She shoved him back against the wall and he went, stumbling on the edge of the rug and slamming into his tapestries with an audible thump. Her hand itched; she was on the very edge of slapping him again when she met his eyes, and everything stopped.

Fear. Love and fear and self-hatred, guilt and anger and horror. She saw him, kneeling in a lake of blood, surrounded by all his private little nightmares—Jennifer Staunton and Linda Randall; Kim Delaney; Susan; Elaine; a pair of kids, torn apart; poor Carmichael with his stomach ripped out; dozens more she didn’t recognize. All the people he couldn’t save, all those he’d hurt, some he’d killed, and in the center of all those visions herself, lying across his lap, her eyes empty and blood all over her chest. And Harry, clutching her to his chest, guilt and rage and anguish mixing in his eyes, one hand reaching for his staff. To keep fighting or to end everything, she couldn’t tell.

The soulgaze broke and she stumbled backwards, her head reeling.

The silence held and stretched, tight as a piano wire, until he broke it. “You died,” he said, harshly. “You died right there in front of me and I couldn’t save you. I couldn’t even go to you. You were only there because of me.”

She couldn’t think, could barely speak. “When...”

“We were helping Jessie,” he continued. He wouldn’t look at her now. “She saved you, Jessie, I mean, she brought you back to life and everyone else. She said she took the memory away from you, so I lied to you. I told you you’d only hit your head. But you shouldn’t have even been there to begin with, and you wouldn’t have been there if I hadn’t been so goddamn selfish.”

Selfish? She opened her mouth but he ran right over whatever she would have said. “So now you know. So now you can leave. This is it, no lies, no manipulation. I can’t protect you. Get away from me or you will die.”

If she was smart, she would have left. He was right, after all.

She’d never claimed to be smart.

“I don’t need protection,” she said, quietly. “And you’re a fool if you think I do.”

His eyes snapped back to hers—he would never avoid them, never again, not if she could help it. “You died,” he said.

“Obviously not for long.” She regretted the flippant remark almost as soon as it was out of her mouth; he looked like he’d been struck.

He reached out, grabbed her shoulders and shook her gently, so gently; but then he’d never raised a hand to her, not even in the blackest of anger. “You died. You will die again and there will be no one to save you.” She heard the tremor in his voice.

This would keep going, she realized, suddenly. If she didn’t do something to stop him now, this would keep going. He would continue to push her away, keep throwing himself between her and danger, and someday he would get killed, or else she would die trying to prove herself and he would never forgive himself for it, which would amount to the same thing. Unless she did something about it.

She took a deep breath. “I just told you I don’t need saving.”

“Murph...” Desperation in his voice now. She cut him off again.

“Stop it,” she said, as sharply as she could. “I don’t need protection and I don’t need saving. It looks to me like you do.” And before he could say or do anything else, she kissed him.

It only lasted a moment before he pulled away, but she noticed with pleasure that he’d let himself respond for a heartbeat, and even when he ended it he did not let go of her. “No,” he rasped. “Murph, no. You said...”

“I know what I said then,” and hadn’t she been stupid, but at the time it had seemed like the right idea. She’d thought he would forget her and fall in love with someone else, along with dozens of other reasons, none of which seemed terribly important now. “Listen to me now.”

He shook his head, stubborn to the end. “I don’t want your pity.”

That word pity sparked her temper, and all of a sudden she was furious with him again. “It’s not pity! You damned stubborn oblivious bastard!”

Harry opened his mouth again with his mulish expression on. It was his last mistake.

She kissed him fiercely, winding her hands into his hair and pulling his head down to hers with a sudden jerk. Startled, he grabbed at her waist to keep his balance, then tried to pull away again. It didn’t work—she had too good a grip for him to get away without losing half his hair, but he was still too tall for this to really work unless he cooperated. She scowled under his mouth and tugged hard.

For some reason, that had an effect when the rest of her attack didn’t. His hands on her waist suddenly came to life, one sliding down to cup her bottom and the other (the left, she noted with a corner of her mind) pressing between her shoulderblades, pushing her up towards him. He growled something into her mouth that she couldn’t understand, then tugged her against him, falling back against the wall for support.

She was still angry at him, enough to land on him with all her weight. Harry grunted a bit, but caught her easily enough and took the opportunity to drag his mouth off hers and down her neck. She wasn’t tall enough to do the same for him, but she could rake her nails across his back. Not that it affected him any. The shirt, she decided, had to go.

The shirt presented a brief problem when Harry refused to either let go or stop kissing her long enough for her to get it off. Eventually she gave up and left it shoved up around his arms. What did it matter, anyway? She had the access she needed, and he...

“Goddamn buttons,” he mumbled into the side of her neck, and she laughed, a bit breathlessly. He’d gotten ideas from her.

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” she said.

“Deal.” He let go of her so abruptly she rocked back, and nearly ripped the T-shirt in his enthusiasm.

She left him to it and concentrated on getting her shirt unbuttoned as soon as possible. It really wasn’t fair; buttons took so much longer than just pulling a shirt off over her head, and she still had her bra to contend with, and Harry was trying to kiss her again.

Murphy shoulderblocked him away first, and then when he insisted on trying, said, irritably, “Patience is a bloody virtue, you idiot.”

“Not now it isn’t,” he retorted, but knelt to help her, fumbling at the zipper of her jeans with almost charming incompetence. He paused suddenly; she looked down to see what was taking him so long, and sucked in a breath of air at the expression on his face; he was looking up at her, and his eyes were full of awe.

“My God,” he breathed. “Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?”

“Shut up,” she said, not unkindly, and dropped to her own knees to kiss him again.

It began to blur after that, though there were moments as clear and sharp-edged as the soulgaze. His face when they came together... but other things, his hands, his mouth, she remembered only as fleeting impressions, trailing sparks across her skin. He closed his teeth on a nipple, she raked her nails across his back, his hips collided with hers, she knocked him to the floor. And somehow it turned softer, unspoken and mutual; his hands smoothed away red bite-marks on her breasts and belly, she kissed the hollow of his neck and caressed his shoulders.

She could have drowned in him if he hadn’t held her above his body, one hand on her hip and the other gone wandering between them. He might have dissolved and fallen apart if she hadn’t caught him within her and held him together. She could have burnt to ashes if he hadn’t closed his mouth on her breasts and kept her grounded. He waited for her, considerate and courteous, until she took him by the hands and pulled him after.

And in the end when their cries had faded and the sweat dried on her back, she felt as if nothing could ever part them again.


She rested her head on his chest and listened to his heartbeat settle, listened to his breathing slow and become regular again. His hands still moved in fitful, half-aware caresses on her back, more soothing than arousing, and she spread her own hand out over shoulder, over a fading scar.

“Murph....” he said, low and hoarse, and she knew what he was going to say. I’m sorry for this, it won’t happen again. Like hell it wouldn’t.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” she said, conversationally. “Or I’ll hurt you in ways you’ll enjoy. You are not wiggling out of this.”

He let out a dry laugh and protested, “I wasn’t going to try. I just... what happens now?”

She shrugged, an odd contortion while she lay stretched across his body. “Whatever we want to. I’ll tell you what doesn’t happen, though.”


Murphy propped herself up, ignored the elbows that must be digging into his chest, and looked him straight in the eyes. “You never, ever, ever try to drive me away from you again. Ever. Or I’ll hurt you in ways you won’t enjoy and then stay just to be contrary. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal,” Harry said, and pulled her back into his embrace.

You look for her and she is not there (she is falling with a scream, fading in the distance, simply not there), and it steals your breath, her absence. What are you without her, so dear and so familiar, her voice your own, her heartbeat your own? She twists to smile up at you and is suddenly gone, and you hit the ground hard.

It is your fault, this travelling, and you freely admit it. It was her idea, but she wanted to turn back, and you did not listen. You listen for her now, call her name, and cannot hear her calling back. Fear dries your mouth, or is it the dust, or the Doctor calling your name and hers, and getting only one reply? You do not know. You never know. She knows, but she is gone.

A sob catches in your throat--she was with you, she was!--but no longer, she is gone. The Doctor picks you up, half-carries you away, and all you can think to do is struggle to go back, to claw at the rock and try to get through to her because she is not dead. You would know if she was dead. All those times when she could have been dead, you knew she was not. Guillotines, insecticide, Daleks and murderous aliens could not take her from you, so a mere pile of rock has no chance. You know she is alive.

The Doctor is humoring you, and you can hear it in his voice, a little. We will go and look for her, he says, and there is grief in his voice, that is not all left over from Susan’s departure. It is becoming more and more evident to you that he does not know everything, and so you let it pass. Why should it matter? You know she is alive, and you will find her.

The swords create a small hitch in your plan.

You don’t die, though—the Doctor saves you, but you think that you could have saved yourself if it came to that. You think somehow that you cannot die, not while she needs you, not while you don’t know where she is. Your heart is banging in your chest, and you still cannot find her.

There is the sun and you are out, leaving the cave and the chasms and the things that lurk in the darkness. This is the right direction. She will be here, if she is anywhere, out in the sun. She found the sun for you, in the darkness of the caves. She finds the light for you when the darkness gets too much.

It is the least you can do, to find her now.

There is a scream; a girl’s scream, you realize, not hers, but not before your heart flies to your throat. The Doctor’s arm is on your sleeve and you look down, understand that you could have run off the ledge if he hadn’t stopped you. Her name is on your lips but you have not said it, thank God, though it would not change anything if you did; you look back at him now and realize he already knows.

Time is running short now. The path down the cliff is short and swiftly taken, even with the Doctor trotting along behind, white-haired and birdlike in his age. Your legs are longer and still he keeps up, his worry for her as strong as yours. He has lost Susan, by his own choice, and you do not doubt it was the right, the only choice to make, but neither of you are ready to lose her, and neither of you will allow it to happen.

The ship is ahead, five hundred yards, three hundred, one. You fly across the distance and somehow he beats you, cries, “Barbara!” and hugs her quickly and hard. You might have been jealous, but she looks at you over his shoulder and her eyes are warm.

I knew you’d come for me.

The Doctor releases her to question the girl, and she curls her hand into yours, squeezes gently. “I knew you’d come for me,” she says, and you smile at her.


1) Choose your favorite five stories that you've written and tell why they're your favorites. Not necessarily what you think is your *best* work, but your favorite stories.

1) Holy Wars, Dresden Files/Dogma. I'm so very fond of this. It was my first big multi-chaptered story that I finished. I see the flaws, but I got to play around with some of my personal religious beliefs, and I also got to channel the Metatron, apparently rather convincingly. Plus, it was just fun to write. And spawned a mildly ADD Messiah.

2) A Second Coming, Doctor Who. I just like this. Martha and Donna did not get enough decent screentime, so it was a pleasure giving them some more. I was also pleased with the way Ten came out. He's so cute, innie? I was also mildly over the moon when March Hare reviewed it favorably. :D

3)Flying Free, Star Wars. This is one of the oldest stories on my FFN account, and yet I still enjoy reading it, which is an accomplishment in itself. It also thumbs its nose at George Lucas a little bit and let me play around with a first-person dialogue format that I still like playing with. Ana is a bitter old hag and she was so much fun to write. Bless.

4)Inheritance, Firefly. One of the Sarie Tam series, and my personal favorite of the bunch. I connected with Mal rather unexpectedly, and this was the result.

5)Fellow Feeling, Dresden Files. Has a special place in my heart as the very first Dresden Files fic I ever wrote. It's flawed (and unbeta'd) but I liked playing with Young!Bitter!Harry and Young!Scared!Murphy so much. I should do something else in that universe, methinks.

Today was not a good day.

Of course, if you’re me, most days are not good days. I’m a professional punching bag for the universe. But today was really not fun, and for once it was not my fault, as I’d gotten ambushed. Unless you really believe that the Red Court is still angry about the Bianca incident some years back, and not just using it to prolong the war in an effort to annihilate the White Council.

Or maybe just me. I’m pretty sure they’d settle happily for just annihiliating me.

So anyway. There I was, hanging upside down from one foot like some twisted parody of a Tarot card, while various thralls piled wood up around my head. Poetic justic— I had set a number of their ilk on fire over the years, so they were going to have themselves a nice little Harry barbecue, fun for the whole family. Woke me up for it, too. Turns out, since cars don’t have threshholds, I should not fall asleep on a stakeout when I’m the only one doing it.

However, I’d had a breakfast meeting with Thomas to discuss said stakeout, and when I didn’t show up, he must have called in the cavalry.

Just my bad luck that the cavalry shares my sense of humor.

The door burst open, part of the roof fell in and sunlight flooded the room. The one actual vampire gave a rattling scream before collapsing; the thralls huddled away from the light and the intruders. I glanced up—Murphy and Thomas in the doorway—craned my neck—Molly peering through the hole in the roof—and wanted to cry with relief.

“Hi, guys,” I began, prepatory to a wiseass remark, but Thomas beat me to it.

“Well, lookee here!” he bellowed. “’Pears we got here just in the nick of time! What does that make us?”

“Big damn heroes, sir!” Murphy and Molly said simultaneously, then Molly added, “Hey! That’s my line!”

Thomas, oblivious, continued. “Ain’t we just!”

See, this is always how my life goes. I’m hanging from the ceiling, blood rushing to my head, while my best friend, my brother and my apprentice reference science fiction television shows instead of, you know, letting me down.

“You’re on the roof and I’m more Zoë-like,” Murphy told Molly. “Thomas, quit overacting and let Harry down.”

Both Thomas and Molly objected to that, loudly and at the same time.

“I’m not gonna be Jayne! I don’t want to be Jayne!”

“Hey, I am not overacting.”

Murphy ignored both of them and settled serenely into guarding the thralls in their huddled bunch.

I groaned. “Guys, could you maybe quit fighting and let me down?”

“Yeah,” Molly said. “He’s our witch, so cut him the hell down, Thomas.”

My brother rolled his eyes, and asked, “Now who’s the line hijacker?”

“Guys!” I said again, louder. “Did you all watch that episode just so you could mock me? And Molly, the correct term is wizard. Witch is for Wiccans and people who read too much Harry Potter.”

Molly rolled her eyes. “No,” she said. “I’ll have you know we came straight here. Thomas has it memorized.”

“I do not.” He was dragging wood out of the way, though, so I didn’t feel right snapping at him. “You do. Harry, really, you should speak to your apprentice about laying blame on other people.”

“Murphy,” I pleaded. “Help me.”

“They’re doing a good job,” she replied. “Besides, it’s amusing to listen to.”

I groaned again. “Murph, I'm starting to see things.”

She lifted an eyebrow, still smiling serenely. “This is new for you?”


She laughed, but added “Cut it out, you two. Molly, go and see if Stallings has shown up yet, will you? We’ve actually got people to arrest this time, so I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to see you.”

Molly grumbled, but vanished, and Thomas went hunting for the other end of the rope that was holding me up. “What’d you do this time?” he asked me.

“Fell asleep at the wrong moment.” The little black coruscating dots were starting to obscure my vision. “You can get me down any time now.”

“I’ve got to find the... ha! Here it is! Now, let’s...”

I felt a sudden falling sensation, and then a painful thump. “Motherfucker!”

Murphy gave me a look of mild annoyance. “Language.”

“Sometimes you just gotta swear,” Thomas said. “Come on, Harry, let’s get you up.”

The ankle I’d been hanging from complained as soon as I put any weight on it. This was actually good, since it was the first feeling I’d had in it since I woke up. “Ow,” I said. “Ow. That hurts.”

“Well, isn’t that good?” Thomas said, brightly.

“Thomas?” I asked, leaning all my weight on him in a subtle act of revenge.


“I hate you.”

Murphy snorted.

“Glad to hear it,” Thomas said. “If you’re well enough to hate me then you’re well enough to go lie in the car and be ironical.”

I rolled my eyes. “If you keep that up, I will end you.”

Thomas grinned. “Don’t the Bible have some pretty specific things to say about killing?”


Dresden Files Comic Book Preview Art.

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