Office/ Homicide (funny AU) MUNCH: I do not believe we are driving out to Scranton because some guy in a warehouse died.

KAY: Well, think of it as doing Brodie a favor then, huh?

MUNCH: I think the career he got with the emmy is quite favor enough, you know.

KAY: Maybe...I didn’t have anything better to do.

MUNCH: Really? Your asceticism wounds me, Sargeant Howard.

KAY: I hope you’re not gonna chew on that dictionary the whole way.(Changing the subject): What do you think Brodie takes pictures of in a paper factory, huh?

MUNCH: It’s not a factory..that schmendrick Scott told me that much. At some length, I might add. They just sell it there, or order it or something. I have to tell you, I kinda tuned out. Have you met with Scranton Homicide yet?

KAY(snorts): Absolutely amateur hour.

MUNCH: Are you sure you want to say that with the camera on?

KAY: Yeah...it’d be sad if I didn’t get work in the middle of nowhere again.

So this vic, Roy, worked in the warehouse. He has a fiancee that he planned to marry for three years.

MUNCH: That doesn’t mean anything.

KAY: Look who I’m telling, huh? Why are you assholes all alike?

MUNCH: I don’t expect to be found dead in the middle of a warehouse for years yet, Kay.

KAY: Glad to hear it, Munchkin.

MUNCH: Dunder- Mifflin. Sounds like a sexual disorder.

KAY: You think everything sounds like a sexual disorder
. MUNCH: You knew when you met me that I was romantic. Speaking of, maybe Roy was getting it on the side.

KAY: Maybe she was, whoever she is. It can be awfully hard to get in the mood if you don’t feel appreciated.

MUNCH: Is that a hint?

KAY: Now, that’s something I don’t wanna talk about with the damn camera on. Sometimes I wish I still scared the crap out of Brodie.

Chiming in to say that I haven't dropped the fic exchange idea. I've just been hella busy. If all goes well, and the light I'm seeing at the end of the tunnel is not a tac nuke, I'll start finalizing details this weekend.

An old plot bunny hopped back in. I think it's better this time. Buffy/ Six Feet Under
“Hey, gotta light?” The woman’s voice is husky and mysterious.

Henry is instantly intrigued, though he is divorced and old enough to know better. He tries out his old flirty voice.” You know, those things will kill you.”

”You know,” she replies, touching his arm,moving in closer(back when dinosaurs roamed the Earth, this was known as a good sign. He’d better draw back on the Smoke Nazi thing; it might make him seem judgmental.)”I doubt it.” Some other sucker who probably would give his left nut to be Henry right now, breathing in this woman’s proximity, rushes forward with his lighter, and she takes a puff. She is so perfect, Henry doesn’t see her breathe.

”I kind of like it that you smoke, though,” Henry says, “Fuckin’ L.A. Everyone’s so damn health conscious, I just wanna puke.” The woman says nothing. Even in the short time she’s been here, she’s learned it’s common for even the most awestruck recent arrival to affect great disdain for the beauty of this place and the silly dreams it represents.

“I like you, too,” she says, putting on like she’s had more to drink than she’s had so he’ll know that the coast is clear. Alcohol doesn’t affect her like it used to. Of course, she’s been through some...changes since she came here on the bus from Omaha. But she wanted a whole new life, right? Of course, this wasn’t what she had in mind...

She play-“stumbles” and bumps into Henry, who is awkward and shy looking at the glint of her tongue-stud and expensive new haircut. Which means he will faint when he sees the tattoo on her ass, but it won’t be long after that anyway...the things a woman does to eat in this town.”My roommate isn’t home tonight,” she whispers.

HENRY WILSON

1967-2000

David Fisher had to admit it. The best part of his day(at work, anyway) was before the grisly stuff started, rearranging all of his gleaming instruments and making sure they were just so.

”Good Lord,” Nate told him. “Are you anal!”

”I’m sorry?”

“What? Is that in bad taste now? Since you came out and stuff?”

”Ha, ha.” David replied. “Maybe you’re just sloppy...have you ever thought of that?”

“If I did, what would you bring to these conversations, David. Besides your sunny disposition?’

Nonetheless, Nate helped to slide the body, Mr. Wilson on the table. Mr. Wilson looked so perfect that Nate expected him to open his eyes and say “Made you look!”

“Huh,”

“He looks kind of perfect doesn’t he?” David asked. “It’s bizarre. I almost can’t see a reason why he should be dead.”

”Happens to everybody,” Nate offered, and then thought “God, that was stupid.”

Whenever David faced something he couldn’t understand, he became flustered and irritated. “I *know* that. You can spare me your Seattle cookie-cutter philosophy. I meant physically.”

”I don’t see anything either,” his brother admitted. “Except for these marks on his neck.”

“So what?” David said. “He’s got a hickey. I hope I’m that lucky when I die.”

“Except for one thing...they’re puncture wounds and they’re way too deep. I know you’re discovering the love that dare not speak its name and everything, but I hope to hell you’re not into that.”

”Maybe he used drugs. Maybe he tripped on a barbecue fork. Whatever. It’s really not our problem now.”

“A barbecue fork,” Nate repeated. “Don’t you think you sound a little crazy right now?”

”Considering we buried a guy that took a lunchbox to the head, I don’t think so.”

”*Are* you into that?” Nate teased. He knew his brother would never answer such a personal question, but watching David blush and squirm like a teenager was always loads of fun. And distracting. Because those marks made him think the impossible.
"No!"

”So, seriously, if Matt Damon wanted to suck your blood, you wouldn’t let him?”

”Where did you come up with Matt Damon?”

“Because I think he could play (continued...)

( continues...) me in a movie about my life.”

”He’s ten years younger than you,” David argued. “And this is wrong on so many levels.”

”Excuse me,” Nate said. “My mistake. Wesley Snipes, then,”

”I’m not going to dignify that,”

”When you say that, it always means yes,”

“Well, this is the one time it doesn’t.”

“When you say that, it means ‘Hell yes’. You know that, right?”

“Call me when you want to be a grown-up mortician,” David sighed.

Humour

Spike scowled down at his arm as Giles wrapped the tourniquet around it, then glanced up at where Willow was leaning against the sales counter. "You're sure this is the best way, Red?"

Willow nodded. "Vampire blood, freely given, is the best substitute that doesn't cost an arm and a leg."

"Literally?" Dawn asked.

"Be that as it may," Spike broke in, "but contrary to appearances, I'm not very sanguine about this."

Dawn snickered. Giles looked up and said with some asperity, "You want the G'vasn demon gone as much as we do, and I'm very phlegmatic about your sanguinity."

Willow and Dawn both started giggling. After a second, Willow got out, "Stop, you're making me biluous."

Dawn slid to the floor, laughing helplessly. Tara, on the other side of the room, broke in solemnly with, "I think we should stop before Mr Giles becomes choleric." Then she burst into giggles as Willow joined Dawn on the floor.

Spike and Giles gave all three girls a glare, as Buffy and Xander stared blankly. "Maybe they're all possessed?"

"....could be?"

The beginning of my Sweet Charity entry: Eventually House/ Buffy-- Giles noticed that Buffy was not quite herself as they trained together that morning in the late spring.It was nothing definitive, just a certain muting of her lively color. Nonetheless, it disturbed him enough that he wasn’t able to enjoy the relative peace of a training session absent Buffy’s poppy and ephemeral patter. He finally understood why parents worried when it was too quiet.Come off it, Rupert old man, for all you know, she might be nursing the weekend’s hangover. But that was more like Hemery High’s rebellious homecoming queen than any Buffy he ever met. Not that he quite felt comfortable asking. Even three weeks after what he’d come to think of(in a rather P.G. Wodehouse fashion) as the Stevedore Incident, he found himself feeling shy around Buffy at the strangest times.

”Buffy, love, are you all right?” he asked, thinking her health was a damned sight more important than the pathetic bruised vanity of aging hipster.

The endearment startled her, and her eyes widened. They looked beautiful, but they also glittered with fever.”Yeah, Giles, you know I don’t fight well when I’m leading from the left. Or maybe it’s the Communists.”

”Pardon?”

She smiled weakly. “You know...the red hordes.” He cleared his throat, tried to aim for his usual librarian- Brit tone. “Quite.” He was afraid, or as Ripper might have said, freaked out. He was afraid he’d scare her, but she didn’t seem to notice.

”Although I haven’t had cramps that have been bad since I was called, so I guess everything has its advantages, even a world-altering destiny. I could still try again. If you’ll give me a minute.”

• **
  

The next thing Buffy knew, she was waking up in her own bed, with only the haziest memories for how she got there and the comforting sounds of her mother and Giles talking in low voices about what should be done for her next. Or actually, it *would* be comforting if she wasn’t able to pick out words like “demon” “New Jersey” and “meningitis”. If not for that, though, she’d feel like a little kid with two actual parents again, even if they liked to eat wacky chocolate and, like, plug in “Nights in White Satin” or something. She was worried that she had something beyond even the scope of Slayer healing; maybe she would grow the tail this time.

But it wasn’t till she got to the East coast that it started again. Instant replay with the thoughts that weren’t hers.

Thankfully, though, her mother and Giles were like closed books, so far. But she heard her waitress’ thoughts about her divorce on the road so clearly, her head hurt.

• **
  

A few days later, Dr. Lisa Cuddy faced her most talented employee. “I have a case for you.”

”I’m busy,”

”You’re not doing anything.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m not done.”

“You owe me,”

”Yeah, I know. You tried to get me to rehab, and I said ‘no, no, no’. Heard it.”

Cuddy tried a different tack. “You’ll like this one, House. She’s eighteen, very flexible, and, if you like the occult, some people say she can save the world.”

House made a skeptical face and flicked some imaginary dirt off his cane, while pondering if he should risk stalling Cuddy till General Hospital came on.She had taken her vow to stay on top of him very seriously after the Tritter fiasco, if not as literally as his most fevered imaginings would like. It was not as easy to pull things on her as it once was, although Greg House liked nothing as much as a challenge, whatever the circumstances.

“Introduce her to Wilson,” he said, feigning disinterest. “They’d have a lot to chat about.”

”Okay,” Cuddy continued. “My mistake for treating you like a grown diagnostics professional, when clearly you are younger than she is.”

“You make that mistake a lot. But you can’t change what you don’t acknowledge.”

Distracted, Cuddy said, “Jung?”

“Close. Dr. Phil.”

“Anyway, my last pitch is that she’s Breck-girl gorgeous. When she’s not spiking a fever at least.”

“Okay,” House got up to follow Cuddy, who muttered at (continued...)

( continues...) his shallowness.

“What do you mean ‘okay’?”

”Okay I’ll take the case. Duh.”

Even as she started to say it, Cuddy knew it was pointless, and worse, made her sound like Cameron. But she couldn’t stop herself. “Don’t you feel pathetic? Using your gifts on such shallow criteria.”

“You know, Lisa(and in spite of herself, Cuddy felt warm to him when he said it, as if it wasn’t on her nameplate, but was a reminder of their shared college days.) “sometimes I do. But try telling that to little Greg.”

”I’ll pass,”

”When I called it ‘Little Greg’, that wasn’t a size thing.”

“Never mind. Just really never mind.”

Not sure what you'd call this....poeti-filk? Based on something Neil posted in his journal.

Alan Moore knows the score.

Neil Gaiman summoned the daemon,

but Alan Moore knows the score.

Grant Morrison sang the orison,

Neil Gaiman summoned the daemon,

but Alan Moore knows the score.

Michael Carey drove the ferry,

Grant Morrison sang the orison,

Neil Gaiman summoned the daemon,

but Alan Moore knows the score.

Warren Ellis climbed the trellis,

Michael Carey drove the ferry,

Grant Morrison sang the orison,

Neil Gaiman summoned the daemon,

but Alan Moore knows the score.

Jamie Delano dared the volcano,

Warren Ellis climbed the trellis,

Michael Carey drove the ferry,

Grant Morrison sang the orison,

Neil Gaiman summoned the daemon,

but Alan Moore knows the score.

Garth Ennis shot the menace,

Jamie Delano dared the volcano,

Warren Ellis climbed the trellis,

Michael Carey drove the ferry,

Grant Morrison sang the orison,

Neil Gaiman summoned the daemon,

but Alan Moore knows the score.

the beginning of a bit of Wire fic:
Corwood gave me the idea, actually. What season five might look like to Alma.
Part one

At first, Alma couldn’t believe her good luck when Templeton told her he liked her copy, although it was a forgettable story buried on Metro.She felt foolish about doing it, but she’d been Googling his work more than a few nights. The man had some chops, she thought,”I liked your story about the twins serving in Iraq, too. Very moving. Put me right in the middle of it.”

She was surprised to see the tough reporter look embarrassed, like he was scuffing his toes in the dirt. “Aw, I’m just a humble instrument. You know? I’m just honored to have the opportunity to bear witness, right?”

“Exactly. My parents don’t understand why I took this job, instead of PR where I could make money and go to lunch. But, you know…” she shrugged, as if the concept was too big to put words on.
‘Nobody ever changed the world selling running shoes.”

“Exactly. You have such a great perspective, Scott.” A snort issued from Roger Twigg’s little cave. “That’s one way of looking at it, kid.”

Alma was kind of afraid of Roger Twigg. Sure, he was a legend and all that, but he was dried out and cynical and fried from the crazy hours, and she hated it when he called her “kid”. And she was afraid that if she got to know him she’d wake up thinking ten minutes had passed and it really had been twenty years and she’d be every bit as dried-up and strung-out as Twigg himself. Ew. He had no idea how to talk to women either. He was a relic.Not like Scott. He listened, even if she did sometimes catch him yearning over her more than she felt comfortable with. ‘Be careful, girl,” Alma’s friend Carmen said to her. “Maybe he’s got Jennifer Lopez issues.”

“It’s not like that. He respects me.”

But she had to admit it was a bit like that.