madimpossibledreamer

        “Jim—thank goodness; I woke up and I’m not sure…”  He trails off.  He knows that small frown of confusion; doesn’t see it much, sure, but.
        “Uhm, hi.  You okay?”
        His world tilts under him again.  “No—no, Jim, please, you know me, it’s Bones—”  Only desperation has him saying that stupid nickname, but he needs this.
        “Trust me, I’d remember a good looking guy like you.”
        The world moves, again, an earthquake in miniature, and he watches the panic filter into those blue eyes and registers that, suddenly, he’s being held carefully in familiar arms.  “Now, I’d like to say it’s every day that handsome fellows like you fall for me, but it really isn’t,” Jim jokes, but there’s a strain in his voice and concern in his eyes that’s pretty rare.  “What happened?  Are you okay?  Do I need to call someone?”

        Mr. Wright, Miles muses one sentimental morning into his teacup, is much like an earthquake.
        He will, of course, never utter this to his friend, who would undoubtedly take it incorrectly, but it is true.  He’s not afraid of Wright, not really, but the man has a habit of barging into his life unexpectedly and shaking his world apart, and he’s not always the best at adapting in the wake of such things.
        But—he’s also like his namesake.  For all the destructive force and raw, terrifying power, Phoenix only ever wants to renew, to burn and tear down that which need not be kept, that which contributes nothing to the world, in order to coax out new life.
        Doubtless he would laugh, would rub a hand at the back of his spikes and disavow any power he held.  But it would not make any of this any less true.
        Edgeworth, of course, is in awe of this power.  In awe, and sometimes he feels his own powers of adaptability are woefully inadequate, but never once has he felt afraid of the man himself (well, no, perhaps that is a lie, perhaps, early on after their reunion, but no more).

        “How did you know I was in trouble?”  He hadn’t even managed to get off an emergency signal.
        Galen concentrates on getting through the door, so thoroughly that for a full minute Gideon thinks he hasn’t been heard, but the technomage airily announces, “I have my ways,” just as he finally gets through the door.
        It’s just like Galen to be mysterious.  Gideon knows this.  But something was off about that response…
        “I assure you, my face holds no answers.”  Amused, like he often is, and he’s back to—
        Back to his usual pace.  The first response was just a little too quick.  Like he’s embarrassed.
        What, does the technomage have him bugged, or something?  Sure, he’d suspected that there’s some sort of recording spell in his quarters (he’s been trying not to think about that one, mostly because he’s been trying not to think about Galen seeing him naked because he’s half certain this questions project is backfiring on him) and maybe other places of importance on the Excalibur, but this complicates things.  But as privacy invasive as that is, and Matthew’s getting used to that part, why would the man be embarrassed about something Gideon already considers routine?

        Andrew is pretty sure he’s never found a woman attractive, but is seriously considering making an exception for Ria-chan because she is a goddess.
        “I thought the Bronze didn’t have karaoke,” he points out, confused, and she grins wildly at him.
        “It didn’t!” Well, that explains one thing at least.  If he didn’t know better, he’d call it magic, but it’s more like a lot of people are scared of her for some reason.  Sure, she likes showing the knife around and sure, it’s not even all for show, but still.  She’s not that likely to bite.  He’s asked, politely.

        “You got it, ossan.”
        “For what feels like the five hundredth time, would you please stop?”
        Xander contemplates this.  “Is it better or worse than G-man?” he asks, genuinely curious.
        He doesn’t, unfortunately, get his answer.  “Sometimes I genuinely wish I remained a chaos warlock.”  So I wouldn’t have to deal with annoying teenagers, is the unstated implication.
        Xander’s used enough to the hurt that he almost doesn’t notice it when he swallows it down.  None of it shows in his face, or his voice.  “Eh, but then, you’d have to deal with the yearly sacrifice and mayhem quotas.  And the dress code.”  He thinks about that some more, than shakes his head.  “Though that one might actually be more of a plus; I dunno.”

(I have no idea where I was going with this one.)

        “Ow!!  Keiko-chan!  Stop that, now.  You’re not allowed to kick your manager.”
        “Who says?”
        “Your contract of employment.”
        “…Oh.  Fair.”

        The truth is distressing, because for a man who goes by logic, to learn that he’s missing information and, as McCoy would say, ‘jumping to conclusions prematurely’.  “I was making judgments without all the facts.”
        To Spock’s surprise, Kirk is smiling at him, with no trace of the emotion Spock believes would be logical in this moment.  “Spock, that’s what we do in command.  We make the decisions we can based on the information we have in the time we’ve got.”
        Spock narrows his eyes.  It’s slightly less of a point of pride where a human is being more logical about this than he is.  “So you have no complaints whatsoever?”
        Kirk shrugs.  “No.  You could have investigated more.  But given why some of the Admirals like to get on my case and my rep didn’t help matters.”
        Let go of any feelings of irritation.  “What advice would you give, in this case?”
        To his credit, the man actually considers the answer.  “Try to get more information, stall for time, and make the best decision you can.  That one’s Chris.” 

        “It’s a shock, you having a kid.”  Mandy doesn’t especially appear shocked, but then, as the guitarist she’d seen how many birds and blokes he’d used the ‘band charm’ on.
        “He’s not actually my son.”  He knows the claim looks dubious, between the decidedly non-American muttering in Xander’s sleep, the stolen bottle of beer he’d left on the table in front of the couch where he’d fallen asleep, the tender way he’d tucked in the teen, but strictly speaking, it’s the truth.  “I seem to have accidentally acquired him.  More importantly, Fowler, you really should watch your son around him.”
        The knowing look says ‘with that info, pull the other one, mate’, but all similarities are coincidental or synchronicity at work, not any actual inheritance.

        “What do you mean, you can’t teach me?”  It had taken a bit for Willow to wrap her head around the fact that he now had Constantine’s memories, blond hair, and the like, and apparently now that she has she’s decided it’s a good thing.
        “It’s a misconception that he did a lot of magic.  I mean, maybe ‘Laughing Magician’ gave people the wrong idea, but…yeah, okay, he does magic.  Some of his shields and circles and rituals even look pretty.  But John Constantine hates the flashy stuff.  Sure, he loves magic with the same kind of pure love you do, but he’s a bloke that likes to know where he stands.  The flashy shite is complicated, payments differing by how long you leave the meter running and the current constellations and all that rubbish.  You know what he does do?”  He starts listing things off on his fingers.  “Steal things, con people, annoy people.  You know, stuff I’m covered on, two out of three.  Particularly that last one.”  He smiles winningly at her.  In response, she hits his arm.