rivkat | Eight Crazy Nights: Seven (SPN, Fringe, XF, SPN/Firefly)

suzumi_tori: a continuation of the Supernatural/Firefly crossover.

“Winchester!” Mal bellowed, because if there was anything he knew after six months, it was that the brothers were even more likely to be the cause of his troubles than the Tams.

Dean came out onto the walkway, looked down, and yelled, “Sam!” the way Mal would have yelled ‘Incoming!’ a lifetime ago. Mal thought about reaching for his boot knife, but he was already pointing his gun at the stranger, and scrabbling for the knife might be taken as a sign of weakness. The coat, suit and tie the stranger was wearing could have come from the Inner Planets, at least by way of a roll in a ditch. He had nothing in his hands, but that coat could have concealed anything up to the Operative’s fancy sword.

Mal heard the clatter of feet as crewmembers arrived from all directions. The intruder didn’t react. Truth be told, he looked a mite amused, though the expression on Dean’s face was something like a man witnessing the approach of Reavers. Mal’s stomach did that little flip that signalled the coming of violence the way some men’s bones ached when a storm was coming.

“There is a man on my ship,” Mal announced to all present. “I’m getting a mite tired of people showing up on my ship as I didn’t approve or allow.”

“I’m sorry to intrude,” the stranger said, his voice rougher than Mal would’ve expected. “I had no choice.”

“Cas,” Dean said, like he was holding his guts in with his fingers. Sam was instantly at his brother’s side, glowering down at the stranger; when this was over, Mal was going to have to have a talk with the two of them about mentioning things like knowing folks who could appear without notice out of the vasty deep.

Which was a reminder: “You had no choice but to show up on a ship floating in the middle of space,” Mal said, putting much of his disbelief into the words. Still, he let his gun arm relax—looked like they’d have some call to bandy words about before the violence, and it’d do him no good to have a gun hand too worn out to aim. “Kaylee, can you figure out just where this fellow attached his ship to mine?”

“He didn’t,” River said, stepping out from behind Simon.

Cas, who’d been staring at Dean like Dean was oxygen and fresh fruit and a stack of gold all wrapped in one, snapped his head around quick as an owl.

“Prophet,” he said.

River’s face twisted in a snarl, and Mal brought his gun right back up and thought that next time he wouldn’t bother to drop it. “I’m not your prophet,” she spat.

“So said Jonah,” Cas said, “and you are adrift on a wider sea.”

River shuddered. Simon put his arm around her shoulders, but she shook him off like he was a spider dropping from the ceiling. “I don’t consent,” she said, high and frightened. Anything that could terrify River was likely to be either mortal danger or a child’s toy—experience ran about half and half, and Cas didn’t look to be selling trinkets. Mal caught Zoe’s eye and shook his head just a bit: not yet.

Cas tilted his head. “Prophecy is a human capacity and requires no consent.”

“Okay!” Dean barked and came clattering down the stairs to put himself in between Cas and River. Mal dropped his gun arm again, seeing as how Dean had taken away his line of sight, which might have been a-purpose. “Leave her alone,” Dean ordered, which was almost funny; Dean knew by now that if River wanted to move a man, the man got moved. “How’d you find us?”

Cas frowned, giving Dean the kind of look Mal was more used to seeing on Sam’s face when Dean was dragging his heels just for the joy of it. “That’s not important now. You need to know: Lucifer is not far behind.”

“Lucifer?” Inara asked; the rest of his crew had the same question written across their faces. Well, to the extent he was thinking at all, Jayne only wanted to know how many people he’d get to hurt on account of Dean and Sam’s old friend, but other than that they were united in a powerful need to know what kind of mess this was.

“How?” Dean demanded. “It was supposed to—you guys were fighting over Earth, okay, it’s Earth-that-Was now. Isn’t that enough?”

“I am sorry,” Cas said, no hesitation about it like most men would have. Dean shrank back a mite, though Sam had joined him now and Sam looked as angry as Mal had ever seen him even after that mysterious apology. “I have much to tell you. Is there a place where we may—sit down? Also I would like a hot beverage.”

“You ain’t related to River, are you?” Kaylee asked, then gulped.

Cas turned to see her and smiled, about as convincing as a scarecrow. “Not exactly,” he said. “But perhaps when you hear my story, you will better understand the relationship.”

“The fuck she will,” Dean grumbled, almost under his breath. Then he squared his shoulders. “Cap’n?”

And even in the midst of all the commotion, Mal was just a little bit proud that he’d been able to beat the rules into Dean’s fool head. “All right,” he said. “Let’s all head up to the kitchen, and this Cas fellow can try to convince me why I shouldn’t put him—and maybe you--out the airlock, solve all our problems.”

Mal sighed and waited for the rest of them to traipse past. He’d thought the Winchesters were like to get them all killed, but only because of Dean’s wandering eyes. And hands. And other body parts. This was bigger trouble.

But they were part of his crew now, so he guessed he was just going to have to yell at them until they did something about it.

aloysiavirgata: I'd love to see a post-Orison fic with Mulder and Scully dealing with the immediate aftermath. Cleaning up her apartment, the emotional/professional ramifications of the shooting, that kind of thing.

“Where’s Agent Scully?”

Mulder had dropped his hand from his gun when he’d recognized the pattern of Skinner’s footsteps, but he couldn’t help the way his shoulders tightened. He didn’t want the man here, in her apartment. The crime techs had been all over like a herd of rhinoceroses, but that was different: they didn’t know her.

“I took her to her mother’s house,” Mulder said, and resumed sweeping. He’d made three passes already, but he wanted to be sure. This was Scully’s bedroom, where she walked without shoes, without armor. If even a fragment of the mirror was left, she might get hurt.

Yes, he was a trained psychologist. He had worse habits than trying to control small things as metonyms for the big things.

“How is she doing?” Skinner asked, using what passed for a soft tone for him.

“She’ll be fine,” Mulder said, dislodging a shard from where it was wedged against a leg of her dresser. “It was a righteous shooting, and she knows that.” He saw a flash of himself reflected—part of an eye, side of his nose—and he looked up at Skinner at last.

Skinner didn’t believe him, though that was SOP. The AD didn’t say anything more as Mulder pushed the furniture back into what was, judging by the marks on the floor, its proper configuration. “Is there anything I can do?” Skinner’s tone was still subdued.

“Unless you just happen to be carrying around putty and paint for the wall where the techs dug out the bullet,” Mulder told him, “I think that’s about it for tonight.”

“And how are you doing?” Skinner asked, which stopped Mulder in his tracks.

“Fine,” he said, not sure what Skinner wanted from him. “I wasn’t the shooter.”

“That’s why I’m asking.” Skinner wasn’t looking at him.

“Scully can protect herself,” he protested, because whatever he felt, whatever Scully needed from him (if she needed anything), none of that was for Skinner.

“I don’t disagree, Agent Mulder,” Skinner said, the title reminding Mulder that he should at least feign respect. “But it’s only natural when you’re the one who didn’t fire to wonder whether it should have been you.”

“I don’t,” Mulder said, and to his surprise he found that it was true. He hated Scully’s God-kicks, and he’d stuffed that down as far as he could (which meant, he acknowledged, that he’d made his skepticism into a jack-in-the-box, popping up when prodded), but Scully had to know that she wasn’t evil. She’d get over her qualms about the shooting soon enough, and she’d recognize that she’d faced down one of her worst nightmares and triumphed. She didn’t, they didn’t, get that with most of their personal X-Files.

“Nonetheless,” and now Skinner was almost apologetic, “I’m ordering you both to the mandatory counseling. You were in the room, and you saw what you saw.”

Mulder tried not to scrutinize Skinner too obviously. Was he suggesting that he didn’t believe the official story, thought Scully might have been taking revenge, and just didn’t care? Then he made himself stop wondering: it was too late to ponder Skinner’s motives. His back hurt from all the cleaning, and if he laid down now he might even sleep. “Fair enough,” he said, not bothering with rebellion. “Was there anything else?”

If Skinner wondered why Mulder felt free to dismiss him from an apartment that was, after all, not his own, Skinner didn’t reveal it. “No, though I’d appreciate a word with Agent Scully in the morning.”

“Of course,” Mulder said, and was suddenly so tired that he thought he might just pitch forward where he stood. Pfaster represented the kind of case that the FBI actually cared about, not to mention that taking him down had undoubtedly saved lives. And Mulder didn’t care, not one iota, except insofar as Scully had been upset.

I grow old, he thought.

“Mulder.”

He jerked his head up. “Yes, sir?”

“It’ll be better in the morning.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, the biggest lie he’d told yet. But Skinner turned to leave, and Scully’s couch beckoned, and if it wouldn’t be better in the morning at least there’d be Scully. Who was, Mulder knew, far more important than Pfaster or Orison or anyone’s delusional God.

He could only trust that she’d remember that, too.

jakrar: Fringe - It would be great to see your take on Peter finding out that Walter brought him to this world after his own son died. Also, should they be expecting any sort of repercussions from that any time soon...? See also:

ignazwisdom: FRINGE FIC! I have NO specifics, though. Just ... Fringe fic.

Peter’s elbows were propped up on the table, his face buried in his hands, when she entered the room. It had been designed for interrogations; the knob clicked shut behind her and the blinds clacked a little, the only sound in the room while the vibrations died down.

“Peter?” Olivia hesitated, then put her hand on Peter’s shoulder. He didn’t move; his muscles were like rock under her fingers. “Peter, as much as I’d prefer that you could deal with this in your own way and your own time, I know you understand how significant this revelation is. We need to see if there are physical signs, something that could be tracked, some evidence of the trauma of transitioning—”

She pulled back just in time to avoid Peter’s wild lunge, not an assault but a desperate bid for freedom, bolting towards the door. But he was shaking, so much so that he couldn’t manage the doorknob, and she managed to swing him around so that she was holding him, rocking him as he began to sob, open and desperate.

Her arms cramped and then her calves, but she stayed in position until he was quiet. Her suit was probably ruined. It wouldn’t be the first she’d lost to fringe science; it was the first she didn’t begrudge.

“You know the worst thing?” Peter asked, speaking into her shoulder. “The worst thing isn’t the lies, or the differences I thought were just me being crazy. The worst thing is that he did that to my mother and my father. My father was so selfish that he took me away from himself. What kind of man--?”

Olivia tried not to flinch. Her experience with fathers was not going to help her here, and until Peter had said so she hadn’t really put the pieces together. Two worlds but only one Peter. And if the other Walter had known the same things, shouldn’t he have crossed over to fight for Peter? Was there some barrier, some reason he couldn’t? Was this Walter smarter, or just more motivated?

She hugged him closer, curled over so that she could speak into his ear. She couldn’t say she was sorry, or that she understood. “Peter, you’re not alone. We will figure this out, and I will be with you every step of the way.”

He made a low animal sound, nothing like she’d ever heard, but he clutched at her as if he believed her.

“Maybe there’s not more than one of everything,” she said. “But we’re here, and we can fight. We can fight, Peter.”

When she felt him nod, she closed her eyes and just held him, letting him grieve. There’d be time for fighting soon enough.

thuviaptarth: Dean/Alastair or Dean & Alastair in hell. Note: I'm pretty sure Dean/Alastair is always implied; that's how it stays here.

Alastair didn’t want Dean to become a demon.

These are some of the things he said: You’re not ready yet. You’re an unhatched egg, you’re cookie dough. You think I want to waste all my hard work on some black-eyed nonentity? You’re something special, my boy, and I’m going to wait until I find just the right fate for you.

Alastair’s whim meant occasionally, randomly, being pulled out of the torture chamber. Sometimes Dean's face would be shoved in beauty like a puppy having its nose rubbed in its own mess—sunsets and symphonies and, once, dolphins, so beautiful that Dean cried, though honestly Dean cried a lot in Hell, it was kind of part of the program, so he didn’t see why that should matter. Dean figured they didn’t show him people because all he saw when he looked at them these days, whether they were celebrating a birthday or dismembering a prostitute, was bags of meat that maybe had something interesting inside, for the artist dedicated enough to bring it out with a knife.

After a while the nature stuff got pretty boring too, and Dean wondered whether Alastair really had the power to keep him from turning into a demon. At some point that had to be like trying to hold back the tide with your bare hands, if the tide were made of acid and your hands were eaten to the bone. Also, keeping people from becoming demons didn’t seem like it was a skill that got much exercise in Hell.

On the other hand, a lot of his training over the past thirty-odd years had been dedicated to making him believe in Alastair’s every word. Maybe it was that habit of obedience, in the end, that kept him human.

None of that stopped Dean from achieving excellence as a torturer. It didn’t even stop Dean from liking it.

Alastair knew as well as Dean that there was no torment a demon could inflict that a human couldn’t invent and improve.

END