madimpossibledreamer

         "Do the Snoopy Dance," Spike requested, as soon as Hunter had entered the room, softer than Willow could remember seeing from him except in the presence of Dawn, but with a mischievous light in his eye.
         Her friend froze entirely, blinking at the two of them without comprehension.  Then he laughed, an embarrassed grin on his face that was so the Xander-shaped friend she'd known.  "Valen help me, you two are up to no good in the Conspiring Corner, aren't you?"  Still, he did what was requested, the movements somehow a little more assured, confident, graceful than she could remember.  Though not too much.  That wasn't the point of the dance, after all.
         She couldn't help it.  She got up and hugged him tightly, crying.

         “If you like having him around so much, why don’t you marry him?” Jacob grouses, frowning. 
         “Jacob!” John gasps, shocked.  He’s griping because of the forced rest, of course, and Miss Frye’s hardly a shrinking violet, but there are still, on occasion, things he’ll say which should not, probably, be said.  In all honesty, that’s entirely possibly why he says them.
         “Oh, I don’t know,” Evie answers, grin sly.  “I think the good Doctor already has his eye on a different Frye.  I wouldn’t want to interpose.”
         Jacob starts coughing uncontrollably, cheeks slightly tinted red, and even John feels a slight blush gracing his cheeks.
         Evie rolls her eyes, amused.  “Jacob Edward Frye, if you thought your flirtations were subtle, I really despair of your skills as a proper Assassin.”

         When Evie hears swearing, she decides to glance inside the carriage and finds her brother writing.  The sight is so odd that she finds herself staring.
         Eventually, he feels her gaze and turns to look, frustration apparent.
         He sighs.  “I decided that it would be a good thing to teach the children to read and write—you’d be good at that part, but speaking from experience, if there’s nothing you’re motivated to read…”
         She finds herself smiling.  “So, what, you decided to provide the material?”
         “I would’ve just given them some of my penny dreadfuls, before Greenie pointed out that even if people die the amount of blood is perhaps not suited.  So I decided to adapt them, perhaps add a few of my own, but you know I’ve never liked writing…”  His expression is miserable as he rests his head gently against the stack of books.
         She laughs.  “I’ll help—and you know the children will greatly appreciate it.”
         That brings a smile and some of his enthusiasm back.

         Evie has harsh words, and sometimes, even when she doesn’t mean to, she falls back into old patterns, quoting Father and judging Jacob.  In London, she especially falls back into bad habits, forgetting that while Jacob might be amenable to a quiet explanation and planning (heaven above, she misses quiet planning sessions with Jacob, because he can be utterly thoughtful and even notices some things she’s overlooked at such times—but never instigates such planning sessions himself), he fights like a horse gone mad at the reins of judgement and the whip’s tail of being ordered around.  She also tends to lash out when she’s scared, and certainly Jacob finds plenty of opportunity to scare her in London.  Looking back, it’s incredible what the have accomplished, given how woefully unprepared they were (but they were wasted in Crawdon, even George has to see that).
         Jacob falls into bad habits, too.  He forgets to try and instead becomes trying.  He’s scared in his own way, probably, though rather than use cutting words and the ghost of Father he pretends to take nothing seriously and does his best to annoy her—easy enough, given that she’s his twin and he knows exactly how to aggravate her.  He just becomes even more reckless.

         It would almost be easy to convince himself that the end of the fight had all been a stress-induced nightmare.  Malcolm hadn’t even scolded him for getting wounded, though there was a little disappointment in the expression.  Still, he’d gotten patched up.  The wound on his cheek could be explained by the fight a dozen paid Templar witnesses could attest to—going to Poison?  When would Thomas Merlyn ever learn?  He’d even put an appearance in, complete with makeup over the wound.
         But then he gets a text.  ‘We still on for today, buddy?’ complete with a really out of place smiley emoticon.  Before now he wasn’t sure Oliver even remembered how to text, or turn on his phone.  Then again, thinking back over everything, there are probably very obvious reasons why Oliver would turn off his phone.
         Malcolm wouldn’t approve, he’s sure.  But he has to talk to Ollie, has to try to understand what the hell the man is thinking.  It’s not like Oliver, even Assassin Oliver, could kill him.  He’d proved that last night.
         “I’m going to see Oliver,” he calls out.  “Some Verdant business.”  Oliver was probably using the base for the same cover he was—a good excuse to be seen in the Glades, if necessary.  Malcolm had approved for just that reason.
         “All right.  We’ll talk strategy when you return,” Malcolm insists, smiling at him.  “May the Father of Understanding guide us.”
         “May the Father of Understanding guide us,” Tommy agrees.  He’ll need it.

         They say fear is the path to the dark side, but it’s not, really, is it?  No, it’s something simpler.  Obsession.
         If you fear something, enough to act, enough to go aeons out of your way just to destroy the object of your fear, then it’s obsession, not just fear, driving you to desperation.
         If you stare at the enemy long enough, gazing into the creeping darkness, trying to understand, to predict, to fight back, too long, too hard, it begins to control you, to consume you.  The shadowy heart is insidious.  It will creep inside—into your mind, into every pore—if you let it.  Yet constant vigilance, the sound of obsession, isn’t the solution.  If you’re always on the front lines, you’ll burn out.
         It’s important to remind yourself, really remind yourself, why you’re fighting.  If that involves strawberry sundaes or Dungeons & Dragons at the end of the world or taking a second to admire the scenery or even just joking around, so be it.  Because you’re fighting for life.  Life in all of its isolated, glorious, simple, priceless moments.  You can’t stop to evaluate them, for you can’t calculate their value, and obsessing about that won’t do you any good, either.
         The relaxation will do you good, and the line against the darkness will hold.  All you need to stand is that bright spark of hope.

Main Points:
Persona 4 AU
Summary: This is a sketch (in terms of detail, not art), not a fic, though there are fic-shaped segments. Yosuke ends up in another world’s TV World, which has also begun acting up. Yu has come back for the summer and is helping out after Teddie noticed.
Warning: very brief attempted noncon

         Spike’s kind of drunk and still torn up about Dru leaving when he starts hearing the rumors.  “The Slayer has an attack dog,” the rumors (and scared whispers) go.
         “No, no, human.  Maybe.  Though his eye glows green sometimes when he fights…”
         “Eyes?”
         “No, eye.  He’s only got one.”
         That’s when Spike starts paying attention.  Because there’s only one poor one-eyed bastard associated with the Slayer.  He’s a little surprised that the bloke survived, and by the sounds of it he’d gone just as barmy as Dru.  Angelus hadn’t lost his touch, then.
         “He might be half-demon.”
         “I’m pretty sure his daggers are magic or he uses demon powers or something because I’ve seen him kill vampires with them.”
         “He’s a vicious, rabid dog, and only the Slayer’s been able to call him off.”
         “He’s possessed.”
         “Why does she let him live?  He’s clearly not human.”
         He finishes up the drink.  Maybe it’s worth a little trip, just to see.