Written for @x-wingkc, for the prompt Narim (following a creepy aliens discussion on Twitter.)
It’s all fun and games until the alien with a seemingly harmless crush does something creepy. Like... record her voice without her knowing, and use that recording to create a whole artificial intelligence that he has conversations with.
Creepy.
The guys are amused. Well, Daniel is. Teal’c just arches an eyebrow and gives Narim a look that Sam can’t decipher. Jack - Colonel O’Neill - is amused in that it’s something he can tease her about, but when he sees she’s uncomfortable, he starts to think about it more and when his eyes narrow speculatively, she sees that he’s followed her line of thought and no doubt reached the same disturbing conclusion.
What does Narim say to it? And, more importantly, what does he programme her voice to say back?
At least, she thinks, on the way back to the Stargate after Skaara is freed, it’s just her voice he’s using, though even that feels like a violation.
Maybe it’s normal on Tollan - Tollana. Maybe men and women make their computers and in house systems talk to them in a voice that reminds them of someone they like - care about. Maybe it’s so normal that they don’t see a problem with it, don’t feel the need to ask for consent or whatever.
But it still creeps her out. As nice as Narim seems, and as flattered as she is by the interest, she doesn’t like the idea of her voice saying things she wouldn’t say to him. Of him using her voice to do... things.
Someone, the Colonel or Teal’c, must point out how disturbed she is by it, because Daniel is apologetic when she next sees him after they’ve returned to the SGC and meet in the briefing room after their post-mission showers and medical checks.
She tries to put it out of her mind, telling herself Narim wouldn’t mean anything nefarious by it. It’s all innocent, she’s sure. Absolutely. Uh-huh. She has to think that, because if she doesn’t, it’ll creep her out and she won’t be able to put it out of her mind.
The following morning, she gets to her lab and finds a bunch of flowers and a card. It’s not signed, but Daniel lets it slip that it’s from the guys when he asks her if she liked them over lunch. From the way the Colonel kicks him under the table, she guesses he wasn’t supposed to confirm her suspicion that it was from them.
The note on the card is simple, and makes her smile:
“Imitation might be the sincerest form of flattery, but a copy can never compete with the original.”
They’d been JOKING about it for ages, little comments here & THERE between stolen moments. They’re not DATING, but things feel a LITTLE bit domestic, which is why Bucky finds himself bringing ART SUPPLIES over in his bag some nights. Connor’s not ASLEEP, but he’s sprawled out & the light looks almost as RADIANT as he does. Bucky digs the sketch pad out, looking him over.
Qui-Gon humms noncommittally, pushing a lock of hair behind his ear, his eyes locked on the immense vastness of the nightsky. “Are you?” he wonders. The grass is soft under his back and the breeze is gentle on his face. He knows what Tony is referring to, and he can’t find it in him to agree with the statement. Tony is many thing, but not a fool.
“I don’t think you are,” the Jedi Master says. The sky is so full of stars he fancies he can pluck them from the firmament just by reaching out with a hand. The nightsky might look black, but there is no darkness once one manages to see the lights of the stars.
(There might be a metaphor in there, somewhere.)
Qui-Gon doesn't look at Tony - he might lose his courage if he does. “I’m glad you paid it,” he admits, trusting his words to the night breeze. I'm glad I have the chance to be with you.
What’s one more secret in front of the endless lights of the galaxy?
A/N: Wizards didn’t catch us up on what’s going on with other planes, and somehow neglected to mention how exactly Jace is taking care of his responsibilities to Ravnica (if at all?). So I wrote a thing.
The lab was quiet, save for the humming whisper of electricity. With a tired sigh, Ral Zarek reached for a manaline and prepared to connect it to the power cell of his latest device, then paused. The connection didn’t fit--was it the wrong kind of manaline?
He bent over and investigated more closely. No, the overall shape was right; it was just that the conduit to the power cell was bent. Either it had overheated or he’d bashed it with something moving it around the lab--it would have to be straightened out before it was usable.
Lightning crackled along his back, leaping to his gauntlet, but it flickered out as suddenly as it had appeared, and Ral threw down the manaline with an exclamation of disgust. It was no use. His brain wasn’t going to do the work.
He’d had a lot of bad days lately, days where his mind felt coated in grey sludge and he could barely drag himself out of bed, much less make progress on his experiments. Maybe it was that the city was quiet, the kind of oppressive, lowering quiet that arrived before a storm broke out, shattering the haunting stillness with angry, lashing wind and rain and lightning. Maybe it was just a bad time. He’d had bad times before, as a child, as an adult, weeks lost to grey fatigue and stymied questions.
Maybe it was because Jace was gone.
Morosely, Ral kicked at a spanner on the floor, but missed and only succeeded in stubbing his toe on the ground. It wasn’t as if he spent time with the Guildpact--it was hardly an easy thing to arrange an audience, after all, and what would he say? ‘You’re the only one who understands what it’s like’? It was fucking laughable. But he knew Jace was off-plane, had been for weeks now. His secretary--the Azorius woman, whatever her name was--was beginning to look more and more harried (not that Ral was watching her, not that he paused outside of the Senate whenever he had a chance, just glancing in, just to see if maybe, maybe he’d catch a hint of swirling blue). Where was he?
The ache that grew in his chest made no sense. He’d been fine before he’d met Jace. He’d known other planeswalkers, before, a few--all of them kind of pricks. But he’d never worked that closely with someone before, had he? Someone who understood all the little discrepancies that made life as a planeswalker so achingly, frustratingly lonely. He’d never understood someone as well as he had in those few, snatched, secret moments. I’m Ravnican to the core, too.
Well, if he was Ravnican to the core, where was he? He was the Living Guildpact, the arbiter of law between the guilds, the incarnation of Azor’s millennia-old will. And he was missing.
Ral stared out the window, feeling a solitary spark crawl across the back of his hand. Whether the Guildpact had vanished because of carelessness or because there was something really wrong, he was the only person on Ravnica who stood any chance, no matter how remote, of finding Jace Beleren.
Ugh, Ral thought. Tanit, I hate planeswalking.
If he wasn’t feeling better by tomorrow, he promised himself, his next stop was the Blind Eternities. Surprisingly, the thought was almost encouraging. He turned back to the broken manaline to find the grey clouds lifting, just a little bit.
[x] Quickie.[x] Tongue.[] Softly bite your lip.[] We wouldn’t.[] Long and meaningful.[x] Let’s hit up the bedroom.[] You remember last time?[] Awkward…[] Lol no.Would I go out with you?[x] Yes, definitely.[] No.[] I want to, but it wouldn’t work.[x] Maybe. [] Nope, you’re like family.[] You’re cute, but probably not.[] Just simply not my type.[x] If I knew you better.[] Already did.[] I don’t know.If we took a picture together, we’d be…[] Hugging each other.[x] Just chilling.[] Holding hands.[x] Kissing.[] Acting dumb.[] Normal picture.[x] You holding me from behind.You are…[] Cute/Pretty.[] Good looking.[] Sexy.[x] All of the above You + me + room = …[x] Movies.[x] Cuddling.[x] Hanging out.[x] Kissing.[] Playing games.[] Everything.[] Wouldn’t let you in.You should…[x] Hit me up.[x] Be mine.[] Marry me.[x] Reblog this so I can send you a heart. (which you already did oohoh)[] be studyingIf we got married, I’d…[] Divorce you.[x] Make kids. (If TC wanted sparklings)[] Take your money and bounce.[] Smash every day.[] I would cheat on you.[x] Be faithful.[] Kill you in your sleep [] We wouldn’t
My brain just farted. This is a multifandom...something. Slightly shippy in places. Probably not what you expect. Poor Anders.
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Mistletoes on Midwinter
Maybe it was a mistake, Anders thinks hazily while looking into soft brown eyes. Maybe I shouldn’t have put up this mistletoe. I don’t believe in such stuff after all. But Mitchell asked so nicely, and how could I not…?
The clinking of glass to his left lets him look up for a second. Anders is a bit worried about his champagne flutes. Two of his, uh, guests don’t seem to be good at handling tableware, if the shards in the waste bin are any indicator. But no, it’s only the dark-haired, curly-headed Irishman who looks so much like Mitchell. Just that Mitchell is at the other side of the room, talking to the short blond in the blue shirt – the short blond who looks so much like Anders.
He blinks once, twice, hoping it’s just the alcohol that lets him see things.
Mistletoes cut on midwinter night are magical. Mitchell had said with this smouldering smirk. They possess the power to open doors to..-
Anders hadn’t quite heard anymore what kind of door they opened, because Mitchell’s words had drowned in a moan. Honestly, how was he supposed to pay attention to nonsense magical talk in such a situation? Why was Mitchell talking about mistletoes, anyway, while buried balls-deep inside him? And that smoulder…
The wild-haired Irishman can do it, too, the Mitchell-smoulder. It’s uncanny; almost as if they were twins. Okay, well, one twin obviously possessed a hairbrush and the other doesn't. But the choice of wardrobe is mutually bad. Twins, definitely. Somewhere at the back of his mind, the hazy notion of a threesome appears. Double Mitchell? Wow, yes thanks, certainly. It would be like an early Christmas present.
One present that he hasn’t asked for though are the two short ones. Not the short blond doppelganger but the even shorter other two. The one with the long blond hair and the braids and the curious moustache is sprawled across Anders’ couch with his head in the Irishman’s lap. Both are wearing a crown of mistletoes. The other, brunet one, is standing in front of Anders. Well, not quite in front. More like…below. Someone has fetched him a box to climb onto, but he’s still too short. The top of his head barely reaches to Anders’ chin. That doesn’t stop him from saying things in a rough language and pursing his lips in an attempt to get a kiss.
Really, I shouldn’t have put up that mistletoe.
So far, it had been a normal Christmas Eve. Just Mitchell and him, a classy dinner, and afterwards – who knew. It had actually been the best Christmas Eve in ages. Until there was a knock on the door. Not the doorbell, no. A knock. More like a fist hammering against the door. Anders had opened, expecting to find a possibly drunken Axl and Zeb outside.
Feely and Keely, at your service, they had said, and strutted straight into his living room. He’d barely kept the brunet from wiping his dirty boots on Anders’ high-end stereo rack. Before he was able to find out who was Feely and who was Keely and, even more important, what they wanted in his apartment, the doorbell had gone off. Baffled, Anders had opened it to a suave blond with a smile that brought out the dimples in his cheeks.
“Ev’nin’,” he had said in a Kiwi accent not unlike Anders’ own. “Is Aidan already there?”
“Uh, what..?”
“Ah, nevermind.” The blond had replied and walked straight over to Mitchell, who was leaning against the kitchen counter with an amused smirk. Anders hadn’t had time to react because a pair of surprisingly strong arms tightened around his hips. The smell of leather hit is nostrils. A piece of metal dug into his hipbone.
“I really don’t think you can do that…ouch!”
A large hand had hit him right between the shoulder blades. Had he forgotten to close the door, or where did this last guest come from? Dressed in a hideous sweater and armed with a six pack of Guinness, this last addition to the mélange had greeted the dimpled blond with a nod and slumped down onto the couch. The mistletoe from above the door was tangled in his hair.
And now, some thirty minutes later, Anders is still puzzled and trying to fend off Keely who insists he must kiss him for good luck, while on the other hand keeping an eye on Aidan, Feely, and his champagne flutes – and not to forget Mitchell and the mysterious blond who haven’t moved from the spot ever since the blond arrived, or…wait, that hand there on Mitchell’s hip, that hasn’t been there before, has it? Oh, he must go and intervene; he can’t have someone touch his vampire like that, someone with blue eyes and dimples, that’s outrageous and – unf!
Somehow Keely has managed to get his kiss, and while Anders is still wiping his mouth and looking about as shocked as Axl upon seeing his first naked woman, all the others just break out in a good-natured laugh and go back to clinking their glasses and wishing each other a merry Christmas; and when Anders catches Mitchell’s eye over the head of the blond man, he sees the very same sparkle in them that says: I think our bed is big enough tonight.
Mistletoes cut on midwinter night are magical. They possess the power to open doors to other worlds.
