Sunday Snippets

[thrillingdetectivetales]

I've mostly been working on original fic for the past little while—hence the lack of fic, comments, and general fandom interaction—but I can't keep myself from picking at fic projects in the meantime, so here's a peek at what I futzed with this week while dragging my heels on my origfic.


The Hannigram secret twin/doppelgänger fic yet lives.

“So, Willy. You get your man?”

Will shrugged, gaze fixed on the flood of burgundy as Hannibal apportioned his wine. “More or less.”

Hannibal passed him the glass and their fingers brushed. It was warm in the kitchen, but not quite enough to excuse the faint pink flush that spilled across the bridge of Will’s nose at the contact. Hannibal smiled at him and nodded when Will murmured his thanks.

“How do you ‘more or less’ subdue a serial murderer?” Charlie drawled.

The soft pleasure in Will’s face sharpened to his usual irritated wariness. Hannibal took a few careful steps toward the little two-top against the wall under the guise of fetching his wine. It had the added benefit of putting him just beyond striking range of the lesser Graham, as he was nearly overcome by the sudden impulse to bend Charlie’s head back until he choked from the pressure and forcibly remove his tongue with the nearest workable implement.






Hannigram for the prompt: 'Farmer's market AU where Will and Hannibal get stuck sharing a booth.'

“Um,” Will said, “excuse me?”

The man turned, and any doubts Will may have had as to whether he might be the proprietor of whatever strange business had mistakenly overtaken booth C27 evaporated as soon as he got an eyeful of the garish paisley tie the man had tucked into his off-white waistcoat.

“I’m sorry,” the man said, offering a polite retail smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m afraid I haven’t quite finished setting up yet. If you would be so kind as to return in ten minutes, I’d be happy to - ”

“Um,” Will said again, interrupting him. “No. I, uh - ” He glanced at the tall PVC frame at the back of the booth, searching for the printed number in a plastic sheet protector that should be strung up at the top, and found his investigation stymied by another billowing expanse of black velvet. Will sighed and tilted the dolly forward to rest against the floor, so he didn’t have to continue balancing the weight of four fully packed Igloos under his own power. “Is this C27?”

“Yes,” the man supplied, expression tightening just enough to sink faint shadows at the corners of his mouth and the center of his brow.

Will nodded. He flicked his eyes up to meet the other man’s, just for a second, and explained, “I think you’re in my spot.”






The upcoming chapter of the Hank POV Nick/Monroe fic.

“So,” he demanded, “where are we taking you?”

Nick frowned and didn’t look up. “What?”

“For your obligatory post break-up Boys’ Night,” Wu explained. “Brews, bros, and bitching. It’s a complimentary service.”

Nick shook his head, still staring despondently at his report. “Nothing to bitch about.”

“Please,” Wu snorted. “You just got dumped. And even if you hadn’t, I know where you work.” He cast a judgmental look over the bullpen. “There’s always something to bitch about around here.”

“I’m good,” Nick deflected, tone short though one side of his mouth had started to curl.

Hank hoped that the deep furrow of his brow and the stinging width of his eyes was enough to accurately convey how desperately he wanted Wu to stop talking and let it alone. Wu met his gaze, arched a single, severely unimpressed eyebrow, and heaved himself up off the desk.

“One drink,” he wheedled, circling around to lean in and sling his arm over Nick’s shoulders. “Thirty minutes of your life.”

“Look,“ Nick said, “I appreciate the offer - ”

Wu waved a hand to cut him off. “You turn me down today, I’m just gonna ask again tomorrow.”

Nick tilted his head back, jaw tight as he sighed through his nose and glowered at the ceiling. He closed his eyes for a long, pained second, and then hunched forward again, muttering, “Fine. One drink.” He held up a single finger for emphasis. “And then I’m going home and we’re never talking about it again. Deal?”

Wu nodded, solemn, and patted Nick’s shoulder twice. “Good man.”






The start of what may wind up becoming the epilogue to a long form Charlie Countryman/The Path fic I'd like to write where Cal leaves the Meyerists, recovers from spending most of his life in a cult, and falls in love with a Romanian ex-thug.

Cal woke to a familiar heat at his back and the possessive weight of an arm slung low and heavy over his waist. He hummed and rolled his shoulders, wiggling back into the contact, and was rewarded with a rough grunt that burst in a hot gust across the nape of his neck.

“S’early,” Nigel murmured behind him, pulling Cal in even closer and nosing at his hairline, up behind his ear where he knew the sensation would make Cal shiver.

Cal turned his face just far enough to catch sight of the digital clock on the nightstand and said in a soft huff, “It’s ten-thirty.”

“That’s early, baby,” Nigel insisted. He shuffled a little and dropped a wet, lingering kiss to the bare curve of Cal’s shoulder. “Anything before noon is early on a Saturday.”






Character introduction for a text-based RPG I joined this weekend that I'm particularly fond of.

The heat of the day was still lingering like a shroud, the sun hovering oppressively a little way above the horizon, when a battered old VW van came trundling into the parking area at Kaw River State Park. It rolled into an open spot, wheels well over one of the neatly painted lines, and came to a creaky halt. The driver’s side door swung open while the vehicle was still rumbling, and a young man stepped out, preceded by a thin cloud of smoke and the tinny refrain of a Talking Heads album playing through the van’s static-riddled stereo system.

“Psycho killer,” Lucky Jones sang tunelessly to himself around the dwindling butt of a filterless cigarette. “Qu’est que cie? Fa-fa-fa, fa-fa-fa-fa-fa far better.”

For all intents and purposes, Lucky looked to be your average nineteen year old, living a life of lackadaisy during a self-imposed gap year—albeit not a particularly well-dressed one. He suspected that his hot pink jogging tights didn’t quite go with his customary combat boots—not that such a clash had ever stopped him before–and his once-pristine Lake Pomona Summer Camp t-shirt was thin and faded with wear. He’d cut the sleeves off of it some years ago, and had added another pair of holes at the back earlier this spring, to accommodate the wings jutting out from his shoulders.

They, much like the pointed ears sticking out from his mess of auburn curls, were a recent development. Pretty, but functionally useless, and long enough that the feathers were forever dragging, picking up all manner of dust and dirt.

Lucky rolled his shoulders, shook his wings out, and flicked the last remaining half-inch of his cigarette into the dirt before turning to reach back into the van and pluck the key from the ignition. There were three plastic bags full of neatly stacked takeout containers and an overstuffed cardboard drink holder nestled in the passenger seat. Lucky scooped it all up, taking a moment to situate it over his arms and in the crook of his elbow, and then nudged the door shut with his hip.

He squinted into the sun for a second, silently cursing his failure to remember his sunglasses for what felt like the fifteenth time that day, and made do with gathering his wings over his head like a parasol. It felt conspicuous, though Lucky knew now, after months of experimentation, that the average kayaker could stare him down for as long as they liked and would never even notice the extra appendages. He ruffled them again, stirring his hair for a second before settling them back into place, and started on a careful circuit of the grounds.

Though it could hardly be considered a proper residential address, the middle of a state park wasn’t the strangest locale Lucky had ever been summoned to deliver to—that dubious honor went to a burned out tenement building in downtown Topeka where a bunch of goth teenagers who had been skulking about reciting Dante’s Inferno to each other in the dark decided to order in from a twenty-four hour vegan diner at two in the morning. The young woman loitering at the river’s edge was infinitely stranger, up to her knees in mud and obviously waiting for something.

Lucky squinted at her, then spent a solid minute fishing his iPhone out from the skin-tight pocket at the front of his tights so he could check the delivery info. She was in the right approximate area, so Lucky strode over, wagging his phone and hollering, “You Carmichael?”

He didn’t give her time to respond before his gaze caught on the long, silky rabbit ears poking up out of her hair. “Oh, hey!” he grinned, brightening and picking up his pace. “You’ve got the, uh - ” He waggled the fingers of his free hand in the general direction of his head. “Yeah! Hi!”






I always like to toss ideas around and kick the tires on my writing, so let me know if you have any questions or if anything in particular strikes your fancy!