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fic_promptly prompts. Thanks to scribblesinink, who betaed all the pieces. Lengths are 625, 320, 335 and 220 words.
Author's choice, author's choice, repeat the beat
Business As Usual
Duke picked up the card the salesman had left on the bar, glanced at it briefly, and then tossed it in the trash. The shot glass into which the guy had poured a measure of the liqueur he'd been trying to sell to Duke by the case—brand new; your customers will love it!—went into the bus bin next to a shot glass that was already there. It was only mid-morning and Duke couldn't remember serving anyone a short, but maybe he'd found the glass when opening up and automatically stuck it in there.
Squatting down, he went back to restocking the cooler.
A cough from above interrupted him when he'd only added a couple more bottles. "Excuse me?" a tentative voice asked.
Duke bobbed up, a welcoming smile on his face. "What can I get you?" he asked the man in a gray suit standing on the other side of the bar. Duke thought he looked familiar, but he couldn't place him—and his features were so unremarkable that likely he was simply mistaking him for someone else.
"It's what I can get you." The man smiled at him, producing a bottle from behind his back with a flourish. "A brand new liqueur, fresh on the market. Your customers will love it. And very keenly priced."
Duke raised his hands. "Sorry, I don't—."
"Let me pour you one." The man was already uncorking the bottle. "Have a taste. I guarantee, you'll change your mind." He waggled the bottle invitingly.
Duke shrugged. The Gull was its usual dead self at this time in the morning and what did he have to lose? He reached for a shot glass and placed it on the bar.
The salesman filled it with an amber-colored liquid and pushed it in Duke's direction. Duke took a cautious sip. The taste was pleasant, somehow reminding him of summers past. He tossed down the rest, the memory growing clearer as the liquor slid warmly down his throat: lying in the long grass at the top of the cliffs as a kid, looking up at the clouds drifting slowly above him, the scent of the sea and summer flowers all around him.
"So, you'll take a couple of cases?" The salesman held out his hand for Duke to seal the deal.
Duke looked at the hand. A deal. He never made a deal without being absolutely sure not just what he was buying but what he was going to get out of it. He never made a deal unless—.
The lingering memory of his childhood vanished from his mind. He shook his head. "Thanks, but I've got all the stock I need."
"I see." The man gave a slight shrug and reached into his jacket pocket. "Well, here's my card if you change your mind." He held the card out to Duke. When Duke didn't take it, he laid it down on the bar and sauntered out.
Duke picked up the card the salesman had left on the bar, glanced at it briefly, and then tossed it in the trash. The shot glass went into the bus bin next to—.
Duke looked at the two shot glasses already in the bus bin and at the one in his hand. They'd only had a few customers in so far that morning, and all of them had wanted coffee.
Carefully putting the shot glass next to the others, he reached for his phone and punched up Audrey's number. As the call connected and Audrey's phone began to ring, there was a cough and a tentative, "Excuse me?" from the other side of the bar.
Not looking at the speaker, Duke held up a hand for him to wait.
"Audrey? I think we've got a Trouble...."
oOo
Author's choice, author's choice, postcards from abroad
Wish you were here!
Evi turning up on the Cape Rouge wasn't so much of a surprise, really. Oh, her arriving right then was a little unexpected, but she'd always known where to find Duke. Just as she'd always made sure he'd know how to find her if he ever felt tempted to return to their old life together. Always offered him plenty in the way of temptation.
The picture on the front of this postcard shows a silhouette of pyramids and camels. The familiar scrawl on the back exclaims Wonderful museums and sites—so many artifacts. Am enjoying exploring off the beaten track! He wonders briefly exactly how many export licenses she hasn't obtained for illegally excavated treasures, before he sticks the postcard in the rack where he keeps the others.
Three months later, it's a glittering Hong Kong skyscape. Who knew high finance could be so fascinating? Shopping excellent. Sugar daddy or some kind of investment scam? He isn't sure if it's worse to have your heart or your wallet broken—and, God knows, he didn't enjoy either experience.
The next one is from somewhere in southern England he's never heard of: chocolate box cottages and green rolling hills. Getting used to the English accent and grad student life. My very kind host has an interesting library. She always did have a knack for unearthing and then charming old duffers with priceless family heirlooms. For a moment, he remembers the buzz of watching her do her thing, and misses it—and then he recalls all the reasons he doesn't miss it at all. All the reasons why he prefers being mired in Haven, keeping his promise to Dad.
Suddenly, he realizes six months have gone by without a postcard. Maybe someone somewhere has caught up with her or caught on to her at last. And then he steps on to his boat one day and finds—not a postcard—but that she's caught up with him again.
oOo
Author's choice, author's choice, free agency
Puppet on a String
Duke had believed his legacy didn't control him. That it was his decision what he did with it and how he used it and how he lived his life. Hadn't he proved as much to Audrey when he'd helped her save Daphne? Proved it to himself.
Except now he wasn't so sure. Everything he'd done back in the past, in Sarah's time, had only led to the same result.
According to Audrey, it had also put the world back to the way it was supposed to be, which she and Nathan and everyone else seemed to think was a good thing. But he felt more than ever like a puppet, with someone else pulling his strings, in a play where he mouthed words written for him long, long ago.
He reached out and picked up the bottle of whiskey from the nightstand and poured himself a measure. Putting the bottle back down, he spread his hands, contemplating what they'd done and what they could do.
All his life, he'd called himself a free spirit, a free agent: going where he wanted, doing what he wanted. Yet, for most of it, he'd been driven along by currents and winds not of his own making. His decision to leave Haven; his reasons for coming back; half the scrapes and scams and experiences he'd been involved in during the years between.
Yet there'd been times when he had faced a choice. Maybe his actions each time had been driven by the greater forces that had shaped him into the man he was—but wasn't that true for everyone? And even if his fate was already decided, down to the manner of his death, at the hand of a tattooed man, was that any reason not to try to change it?
Tossing back the whiskey, he grinned to himself. Maybe he couldn't change his fate, but he wouldn't be who he was if he didn't at least try to buck the system and wriggle out of paying his cosmic taxes.
oOo
Supernatural, Dean Winchester, To those who know the family business, we're the fourth emergency service
First Responder
His cellphone pulls Dean from deep sleep. He gropes blindly for it on the nightstand and grunts as he fumbles it to his ear and answers.
"Good to speak to you, too," Bobby grouses at the other end of the line.
Dean holds the phone away from him and checks the time, before putting it back to his ear. "It's frickin' three am, Bobby." Which means he's been asleep for about an hour.
"Gotta report come in—."
"Jeez, give us a break." Dean's already sitting up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "We only just got in from the last job."
"Yeah, I know." Bobby does sound a little apologetic. "But I got a report of a group of demons 'bout an hour from you. Think they're the ones I've been tracking. Might be able to catch 'em before they move on again."
"Yeah, yeah." Dean pokes Sam, who rolls over, eyes scrunched up as Dean switches on the light.
Dean mouths Bobby at him and Sam nods. Shambling out of bed, he begins to pull on clothes. Dean's busy writing down the address Bobby's giving him.
"Okay, got it." Dean snaps the phone shut.
Ten minutes later and they're out of the room and on their way.
fic_promptly prompts. Thanks to scribblesinink, who betaed all the pieces. Lengths are 625, 320, 335 and 220 words.Author's choice, author's choice, repeat the beat
Business As Usual
Duke picked up the card the salesman had left on the bar, glanced at it briefly, and then tossed it in the trash. The shot glass into which the guy had poured a measure of the liqueur he'd been trying to sell to Duke by the case—brand new; your customers will love it!—went into the bus bin next to a shot glass that was already there. It was only mid-morning and Duke couldn't remember serving anyone a short, but maybe he'd found the glass when opening up and automatically stuck it in there.
Squatting down, he went back to restocking the cooler.
A cough from above interrupted him when he'd only added a couple more bottles. "Excuse me?" a tentative voice asked.
Duke bobbed up, a welcoming smile on his face. "What can I get you?" he asked the man in a gray suit standing on the other side of the bar. Duke thought he looked familiar, but he couldn't place him—and his features were so unremarkable that likely he was simply mistaking him for someone else.
"It's what I can get you." The man smiled at him, producing a bottle from behind his back with a flourish. "A brand new liqueur, fresh on the market. Your customers will love it. And very keenly priced."
Duke raised his hands. "Sorry, I don't—."
"Let me pour you one." The man was already uncorking the bottle. "Have a taste. I guarantee, you'll change your mind." He waggled the bottle invitingly.
Duke shrugged. The Gull was its usual dead self at this time in the morning and what did he have to lose? He reached for a shot glass and placed it on the bar.
The salesman filled it with an amber-colored liquid and pushed it in Duke's direction. Duke took a cautious sip. The taste was pleasant, somehow reminding him of summers past. He tossed down the rest, the memory growing clearer as the liquor slid warmly down his throat: lying in the long grass at the top of the cliffs as a kid, looking up at the clouds drifting slowly above him, the scent of the sea and summer flowers all around him.
"So, you'll take a couple of cases?" The salesman held out his hand for Duke to seal the deal.
Duke looked at the hand. A deal. He never made a deal without being absolutely sure not just what he was buying but what he was going to get out of it. He never made a deal unless—.
The lingering memory of his childhood vanished from his mind. He shook his head. "Thanks, but I've got all the stock I need."
"I see." The man gave a slight shrug and reached into his jacket pocket. "Well, here's my card if you change your mind." He held the card out to Duke. When Duke didn't take it, he laid it down on the bar and sauntered out.
Duke picked up the card the salesman had left on the bar, glanced at it briefly, and then tossed it in the trash. The shot glass went into the bus bin next to—.
Duke looked at the two shot glasses already in the bus bin and at the one in his hand. They'd only had a few customers in so far that morning, and all of them had wanted coffee.
Carefully putting the shot glass next to the others, he reached for his phone and punched up Audrey's number. As the call connected and Audrey's phone began to ring, there was a cough and a tentative, "Excuse me?" from the other side of the bar.
Not looking at the speaker, Duke held up a hand for him to wait.
"Audrey? I think we've got a Trouble...."
Author's choice, author's choice, postcards from abroad
Wish you were here!
Evi turning up on the Cape Rouge wasn't so much of a surprise, really. Oh, her arriving right then was a little unexpected, but she'd always known where to find Duke. Just as she'd always made sure he'd know how to find her if he ever felt tempted to return to their old life together. Always offered him plenty in the way of temptation.
The picture on the front of this postcard shows a silhouette of pyramids and camels. The familiar scrawl on the back exclaims Wonderful museums and sites—so many artifacts. Am enjoying exploring off the beaten track! He wonders briefly exactly how many export licenses she hasn't obtained for illegally excavated treasures, before he sticks the postcard in the rack where he keeps the others.
Three months later, it's a glittering Hong Kong skyscape. Who knew high finance could be so fascinating? Shopping excellent. Sugar daddy or some kind of investment scam? He isn't sure if it's worse to have your heart or your wallet broken—and, God knows, he didn't enjoy either experience.
The next one is from somewhere in southern England he's never heard of: chocolate box cottages and green rolling hills. Getting used to the English accent and grad student life. My very kind host has an interesting library. She always did have a knack for unearthing and then charming old duffers with priceless family heirlooms. For a moment, he remembers the buzz of watching her do her thing, and misses it—and then he recalls all the reasons he doesn't miss it at all. All the reasons why he prefers being mired in Haven, keeping his promise to Dad.
Suddenly, he realizes six months have gone by without a postcard. Maybe someone somewhere has caught up with her or caught on to her at last. And then he steps on to his boat one day and finds—not a postcard—but that she's caught up with him again.
Author's choice, author's choice, free agency
Puppet on a String
Duke had believed his legacy didn't control him. That it was his decision what he did with it and how he used it and how he lived his life. Hadn't he proved as much to Audrey when he'd helped her save Daphne? Proved it to himself.
Except now he wasn't so sure. Everything he'd done back in the past, in Sarah's time, had only led to the same result.
According to Audrey, it had also put the world back to the way it was supposed to be, which she and Nathan and everyone else seemed to think was a good thing. But he felt more than ever like a puppet, with someone else pulling his strings, in a play where he mouthed words written for him long, long ago.
He reached out and picked up the bottle of whiskey from the nightstand and poured himself a measure. Putting the bottle back down, he spread his hands, contemplating what they'd done and what they could do.
All his life, he'd called himself a free spirit, a free agent: going where he wanted, doing what he wanted. Yet, for most of it, he'd been driven along by currents and winds not of his own making. His decision to leave Haven; his reasons for coming back; half the scrapes and scams and experiences he'd been involved in during the years between.
Yet there'd been times when he had faced a choice. Maybe his actions each time had been driven by the greater forces that had shaped him into the man he was—but wasn't that true for everyone? And even if his fate was already decided, down to the manner of his death, at the hand of a tattooed man, was that any reason not to try to change it?
Tossing back the whiskey, he grinned to himself. Maybe he couldn't change his fate, but he wouldn't be who he was if he didn't at least try to buck the system and wriggle out of paying his cosmic taxes.
Supernatural, Dean Winchester, To those who know the family business, we're the fourth emergency service
First Responder
His cellphone pulls Dean from deep sleep. He gropes blindly for it on the nightstand and grunts as he fumbles it to his ear and answers.
"Good to speak to you, too," Bobby grouses at the other end of the line.
Dean holds the phone away from him and checks the time, before putting it back to his ear. "It's frickin' three am, Bobby." Which means he's been asleep for about an hour.
"Gotta report come in—."
"Jeez, give us a break." Dean's already sitting up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "We only just got in from the last job."
"Yeah, I know." Bobby does sound a little apologetic. "But I got a report of a group of demons 'bout an hour from you. Think they're the ones I've been tracking. Might be able to catch 'em before they move on again."
"Yeah, yeah." Dean pokes Sam, who rolls over, eyes scrunched up as Dean switches on the light.
Dean mouths Bobby at him and Sam nods. Shambling out of bed, he begins to pull on clothes. Dean's busy writing down the address Bobby's giving him.
"Okay, got it." Dean snaps the phone shut.
Ten minutes later and they're out of the room and on their way.
