eye_of_a_cat: (frog)
[personal profile] eye_of_a_cat
Yeah yeah yeah. It has been a while. I've really needed some fun distraction this week, so here we go.

There was a meme going round a while ago, to write a short short fic for every standard fic genre you could think of in the same fandom - like, 'in a sentence' or 'in 10 words'. I went for 'in a 100-word drabble', which seemed a bit more doable for those of us who tend towards 300-word sentences in the first place.

So, here are six of them. More following another time, maybe. Warnings for mild/implied sex and violence, nothing super-graphic.


Valen is a prisoner.

Delenn visits, when her duties allow. Kneels before him and waits, for wisdom, blessing, forgiveness; but all she ever sees in his alien eyes is pain and fear.

”What happened to Earth?” he says.

Blood on his face again, another struggle with the guards. One day he'll let her wash it away. One day, she's sure, she must be sure, he'll stop fighting.

He’s comfortable here, she's seen to that. There's daylight, a garden to walk in. They even brought him books from his world when he asked. But Valen is her prisoner, all the same.

First time

That, Susan reflected, was either the best or the worst idea she'd had all year.

The worst, probably. Because she should know better than giving in to drunken temptation; because no doubt whatever Marcus had been hoping for included romance and flowers and heartfelt speeches that went considerably beyond oh, what the hell; and because she hadn't planned to do any falling-for the last (don't think about her) time, either, and (DON'T) look how that worked out.

And yet.

She felt his sleeping weight shift in her bed, his skin warm against hers.

The best, or the worst. Her call.


“Don't you have physicians, Entil'zha?" Neroon grumbles. But he's here to apologise, after all. He threatened to kill her, he can treat an old knife wound. What do humans and Religious know about Minbari combat injuries, anyway?

Little, apparently - she winces as his practiced hands begin to press and knead the stiffened scar in her back. So she’s still Minbari in this, then. And there's nothing alien about the softness of her skin, about her sigh of relief as he eases her tensed muscles -

What? Ridiculous, he chides himself. Concentrate. Just another combat wound; just another injured warrior.


And so I'm dead, it seems, and Neroon and Delenn are still fighting over who has the best claim to me.

“Children, behave,” I say as they snap and snarl around each other. They don't hear me, of course, but that's nothing new.

“Why can't you be more like Delenn?” I say to Neroon at my funeral parade. “Why can't you be less like Delenn?” I say to her, after it.

Beside me, Dukhat claps my shoulder. “Come on, Shai Alyt. You can settle it in the next life.”

“In the next life,” I tell him, "I'm choosing Worker caste."


She wishes he wouldn't ask about Dukhat.

Two years at his side, the quiet acolyte grown fearless and sure. She loved him like fire, like stars. She knew what she was asking him.

His touch soft on her face, something new in his voice. “There are things permitted to the Grey..."

She covered his warm hand with her own. “I know.”

Dukhat closed his eyes - and then stepped away. “Which remain unwise, all the same. No, Delenn. You need your own future.”

Lennier is so unlike her. Everything is different now.

Still, she wishes he wouldn't ask about Dukhat.


"So why don't you follow in Delenn's footsteps, hmm?" Londo is saying, laughing. "Maybe, ah, grow some hair of your own?"

"That would be inappropriate,” Lennier says.

Londo barks with laughter as though this is a great joke - “Prophecies again, yes? Pesky things, prophecies!” - until Vir arrives with an apologetic grimace to coax him away. "We should make our own prophecies!" he roars to empty corridors.

Because I am not called to greatness, Lennier reassures himself. Because I am not worthy. Because I am not brave.

And an awful voice inside him whispers back: because you don't believe.
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