Aug. 23rd, 2020 02:05 pm
Sunday Snippets
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thrillingdetectivetalesIt's that time again! I bring you a handful of snippets from a selection of current works in progress.
Developing Hannigram to cross off the "secret twin/doppelgänger" square on my Trope Bingo card.
“How interesting,” he observed, “that you and Will both found yourselves drawn to the civil service.” He tilted the pan one way and then the other, watching the contents as they slipped and tumbled, picking up color as they went.
“Oh, sure,” Charlie joked, “regular tender hearts, the two of us.” He ducked into a lower cabinet to retrieve a large plastic mixing bowl and scooped the vegetables into it with the flat of his knife before lining up the first of the herbs.
“You disagree?”
“Adrenaline junkies, more like.” Charlie made quick work of the rosemary and thyme, and left them gathered in misshapen oblongs on the cutting board’s surface. He turned around when he was finished, leaning back against the counter with his fingers curled over the lip. “Only difference is Willy gets his kicks from corpses and I prefer mine with a pulse.”
“It’s very in keeping with the classical tradition.” Hannibal spooned the remaining lamb onto the plate alongside the rest of the meat. “One brother watching over the living, while the other tends the dead.”
Charlie laughed, a brasher, brighter sound than the breathless, rasping mirth in which Will only very occasionally indulged. “That’s awful Greek of you, doctor.”
Galahad being sassy from a Tristan/Galahad alt-history period romance AU.
“Say it is Woad magic,” Lancelot piped in, meeting Rufinus’s eye over Arthur’s shoulder. “What would you have us do about it?” He flung a hand toward his assembled brethren. “We are none of us sorcerers.”
“No,” Rufinus agreed. “But your cohort is unparalleled in combat against the Woads. Let them perform their parlor tricks until their faces are struck blue with exhaustion rather than that hellish dye. I believe we may yet solve this problem with judicious application of good Roman steel.”
Galahad snorted and muttered under his breath, “Good Roman steel in better Sarmatian hands.”
Agravain, positioned just behind him, dug a warning elbow into the tenderest part of Galahad’s back, just above his hips, but he was fighting a grin when Galahad turned to glare at him.
The next chapter of my outsider POV Nick/Monroe fic.
Nick steeled himself for a second, bracing for pain, and said, “Juliette left me,” all in a rush, like he was ripping off a Band-Aid.
Hank nearly choked on his macchiato. “What?”
Nick rolled his gaze back to his computer screen and huffed a sound that was altogether too bitter to be called a laugh. “Yeah,” he sighed, “that’s what I said.”
Hank knew he was gaping, but he couldn’t quite wrangle his expression back under control. His heart felt twisted, like it had flipped over on itself, and his stomach dropped away entirely, sinking straight through the floor and leaving a sucking pit in its place.
“Shit,” he said, helpless.
The ghost of a smirk, sharp and agonized, deepened the shadows at the edges of Nick’s mouth.
“Pretty much,” he agreed.
And last but not least:
Snippet #1
Don wakes in the milky dawn to the ringing buzz of an alarm clock. He swipes at the nightstand until he can get a hand on it and turn it off, before sinking back onto the mattress with a groan. His body aches and his eyes are stinging with exhaustion despite the fact that he slept through the night, solid and dreamless. It takes him a second to remember where he is—a roadside motel just off of Route 6 in Fort Wayne, Indiana. When recognition hits him, Don reaches up to scrub at his face and sighs at the ceiling.
He sits up and swings his legs over the mattress, shuffling his way across the scrubby brown carpeting to the bathroom. A bare bulb in a long-broken fixture hums overhead when he turns it on, flooding the room with sallow light.
Don studies himself in the mirror. There are bags under his eyes, blooming like bruises, and a two-day beard shading his jaw. He ought to shave before he gets on the road. He scrubs a hand over his chin with a sigh and turns to get on with his morning ablutions.
It’s something of an acrobatic endeavor. The bathroom is about the size of a broom closet, all told, but the water is steaming hot when Don climbs into the shower stall and that’s worth having to be wary of his elbows while he washes up.
Snippet #2
The invitation arrived on a Tuesday, tucked between a bill from the power company and a three-page coupon catalogue for the local supermarket. Don tossed both the bill and the catalogue onto the counter, for later perusal, grabbed a beer from the fridge, and sat down at the table with the final envelope. It was a plain white square, sealed with a foil sticker and addressed in elegant, swirling copperplate to Mr. Donald Malarkey.
Don tore the flap at the back up with his thumb and upended the envelope, squeezing slightly to allow the contents to slide free. A sheet of expensive cardstock fluttered onto the table alongside a smaller slip of everyday letter paper. The latter was folded in half and bore a familiar, looping scrawl that Don recognized from his Victory Mail exchanges with Faye Tanner.
Dear Donny, it read. I hope you will not find it upsetting to receive this invitation or think it strange when I tell you that it would be my greatest joy to have you in attendance. Our relationship is an unusual one, but it has been a light during the darkest time of my life, and I am eager to share a brighter moment with you, if you would allow me. I know this is not the wedding you would have wished to attend, but Samuel is a good man and I hope you will come anyway.
With all my love,
Faye Tanner
“How interesting,” he observed, “that you and Will both found yourselves drawn to the civil service.” He tilted the pan one way and then the other, watching the contents as they slipped and tumbled, picking up color as they went.
“Oh, sure,” Charlie joked, “regular tender hearts, the two of us.” He ducked into a lower cabinet to retrieve a large plastic mixing bowl and scooped the vegetables into it with the flat of his knife before lining up the first of the herbs.
“You disagree?”
“Adrenaline junkies, more like.” Charlie made quick work of the rosemary and thyme, and left them gathered in misshapen oblongs on the cutting board’s surface. He turned around when he was finished, leaning back against the counter with his fingers curled over the lip. “Only difference is Willy gets his kicks from corpses and I prefer mine with a pulse.”
“It’s very in keeping with the classical tradition.” Hannibal spooned the remaining lamb onto the plate alongside the rest of the meat. “One brother watching over the living, while the other tends the dead.”
Charlie laughed, a brasher, brighter sound than the breathless, rasping mirth in which Will only very occasionally indulged. “That’s awful Greek of you, doctor.”
“Say it is Woad magic,” Lancelot piped in, meeting Rufinus’s eye over Arthur’s shoulder. “What would you have us do about it?” He flung a hand toward his assembled brethren. “We are none of us sorcerers.”
“No,” Rufinus agreed. “But your cohort is unparalleled in combat against the Woads. Let them perform their parlor tricks until their faces are struck blue with exhaustion rather than that hellish dye. I believe we may yet solve this problem with judicious application of good Roman steel.”
Galahad snorted and muttered under his breath, “Good Roman steel in better Sarmatian hands.”
Agravain, positioned just behind him, dug a warning elbow into the tenderest part of Galahad’s back, just above his hips, but he was fighting a grin when Galahad turned to glare at him.
Nick steeled himself for a second, bracing for pain, and said, “Juliette left me,” all in a rush, like he was ripping off a Band-Aid.
Hank nearly choked on his macchiato. “What?”
Nick rolled his gaze back to his computer screen and huffed a sound that was altogether too bitter to be called a laugh. “Yeah,” he sighed, “that’s what I said.”
Hank knew he was gaping, but he couldn’t quite wrangle his expression back under control. His heart felt twisted, like it had flipped over on itself, and his stomach dropped away entirely, sinking straight through the floor and leaving a sucking pit in its place.
“Shit,” he said, helpless.
The ghost of a smirk, sharp and agonized, deepened the shadows at the edges of Nick’s mouth.
“Pretty much,” he agreed.
And last but not least:
Don wakes in the milky dawn to the ringing buzz of an alarm clock. He swipes at the nightstand until he can get a hand on it and turn it off, before sinking back onto the mattress with a groan. His body aches and his eyes are stinging with exhaustion despite the fact that he slept through the night, solid and dreamless. It takes him a second to remember where he is—a roadside motel just off of Route 6 in Fort Wayne, Indiana. When recognition hits him, Don reaches up to scrub at his face and sighs at the ceiling.
He sits up and swings his legs over the mattress, shuffling his way across the scrubby brown carpeting to the bathroom. A bare bulb in a long-broken fixture hums overhead when he turns it on, flooding the room with sallow light.
Don studies himself in the mirror. There are bags under his eyes, blooming like bruises, and a two-day beard shading his jaw. He ought to shave before he gets on the road. He scrubs a hand over his chin with a sigh and turns to get on with his morning ablutions.
It’s something of an acrobatic endeavor. The bathroom is about the size of a broom closet, all told, but the water is steaming hot when Don climbs into the shower stall and that’s worth having to be wary of his elbows while he washes up.
The invitation arrived on a Tuesday, tucked between a bill from the power company and a three-page coupon catalogue for the local supermarket. Don tossed both the bill and the catalogue onto the counter, for later perusal, grabbed a beer from the fridge, and sat down at the table with the final envelope. It was a plain white square, sealed with a foil sticker and addressed in elegant, swirling copperplate to Mr. Donald Malarkey.
Don tore the flap at the back up with his thumb and upended the envelope, squeezing slightly to allow the contents to slide free. A sheet of expensive cardstock fluttered onto the table alongside a smaller slip of everyday letter paper. The latter was folded in half and bore a familiar, looping scrawl that Don recognized from his Victory Mail exchanges with Faye Tanner.
Dear Donny, it read. I hope you will not find it upsetting to receive this invitation or think it strange when I tell you that it would be my greatest joy to have you in attendance. Our relationship is an unusual one, but it has been a light during the darkest time of my life, and I am eager to share a brighter moment with you, if you would allow me. I know this is not the wedding you would have wished to attend, but Samuel is a good man and I hope you will come anyway.
With all my love,
Faye Tanner
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