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My coworker M, today, about library procedures: " [Polyethelene] Strappin' ain't easy, but it's necessary."
Me: "Like pimpin'."
M: "Exactly. My strap hand is strong."

(Some days I love my job.)

I've been rewatching my Titus DVDs. My favorite sitcom of all time, mostly because of a lovely Aristotlean confluence of dysfunction.  I.E., It premiered the year after my parents divorced, and portrayed a guy with a family way more screwed up then mine, who achieved some measure of happiness through snark, friends, and doing what he loved. So my hopeful escapism...was one of the most twisted sitcoms known to man. Yeah.

And I'm totally Tommy Shafter. The "normal" person, who is in reality just as screwed up as everybody else. (Even leaving out the flamboyant (if, not, in my case, gay) dad, whom you love but gotta just...I dunno deal with.)
Which...yeah, David Shatraw (Tommy)  is an impressively BRAVE actor, and I want to see him somewhere again.

/Here endeth your weekly Friday Night Freakout. Amplified by the fact that this Grad School Shit starts fo' real on Monday. 

And because fic calms me down (borrowed from [livejournal.com profile] melliyna ):

Reply to this with a prompt and I will write you comment fic in return. Any fandom we have in common, any AU verse I might have written/written in/talked about writing in.

Date: 2010-03-13 02:56 am (UTC)
ext_104931: Beauty And The Books (Default)
From: [identity profile] melliyna.livejournal.com
:hugs: Good luck with all of it and the grad school starting up on Monday (I will cross my fingers on Tuesday for you, for that is when your Monday is in my timezone).

And comment fic. Hmmm. Rossi in peril please.

"Shut Up" (1/1)

Date: 2010-03-30 02:05 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] bibliothekara.livejournal.com
I am a naughty naughty girl, and this is really really late, I know. But the inspiration struck.

*******

"Franco's gonna kill me."

"No, he won't."

"Hotch, I've known the guy for 15 years. And I do this for a living. I think I know when I'm in mortal danger."

"You're not in mortal danger, so could you... you know what, I don't even know."

"He just altered this suit. I mean, *just* altered it, like, last month altered it. And now I go and get blood on it. He's gonna kill me."

Hotch straightened up, and tried to edge his aching back up against the wall. Given the near dead-weight 190-pound belligerent Italian under his arms, this was not easy.

He turned his head to look at Dave, trying, as much as he could, not to jostle the jury-rigged bandages.

"Dave, I promise, I won't let your tailor kill you. I've gone through too much trouble for that."

"You promise?"

"I promise. Now, would you try to rest, please? You remember the cell phone call, right? Morgan and Emily should be here any minute."

"All right. But seriously, next time I go in to his shop, I want you as backup."

"Agreed."

"...yeah, Franco's a pretty gentle soul. He probably wouldn't kill me."

"If anyone's gonna get that pleasure, it will be me."

"What?"

"Nothing."

And as the warehouse door crashed down under the force of a Derek Morgan high-kick, Hotch breathed a semi-silent prayer to the heavens.

"I heard that, Aaron."

"Shut up, Dave."

"Shutting up, boss."

******

Re: "Shut Up" (1/1)

Date: 2010-03-30 02:17 am (UTC)
ext_104931: Beauty And The Books (Hotch and Rossi - Mom and Stepdad)
From: [identity profile] melliyna.livejournal.com
You wrote this at a good time (I am having a Terrible No Good Very Bad Day) so if it is late, it is an appreciated late. I love the banter, the way Dave is focusing on the tailoring (ask me about the kid-verse and his tailor...and sod, I have a plot bunny). And the banter!

Date: 2010-03-13 06:03 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] katewallace.livejournal.com
"My strap hand is strong."..I think there's a story in there somewhere..that's hysterical!

prompts: The further 'adventures' of Hotch and Death (from Vita .
Edited Date: 2010-03-13 06:04 am (UTC)

"The Chaperone" (1/2)

Date: 2010-03-13 05:02 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] bibliothekara.livejournal.com
(a)Holy crap, I am congenitally incapable of writing some thing short.
b)This is not *quite* "Vita", but I hope you like it...)

********

Death knew that, as an anthropomorphic personification, he had it pretty easy. For all that Earth's humans could spin magnificent fiction on the subject, magic, and the reality warping effects that ensued, was in pretty short supply.

And for all that men had come up with soul-rattling tales about *him* in particular (that Mr. Poe, of Baltimore, had written some of Death's favorites) most deaths these days fell into several small and restrictive categories. Nothing "grand" or "glorious", or even bloody, most of the time.

However, there was still that small segment of the population who reveled in pain, in the injury they could inflict on their fellow men. Or mostly, women. He didn't know why it was, but Death seemed to be at more of those. Rather then, say, multi-car accidents on the freeway. Or deaths of grandmothers with several generations gathered around their bedside. (He liked the grandmothers. They often attempted to give him sweets. There were usually cats there, too.)

But the forces of narrative seemed require that he be there. Standing in the corner of squalid basements, or cold warehouses, or wooded glades silenced of chirping birds or animal noises.

And *he* was there too. Often too late. Sometimes just in time.

Ryan would never have admitted to it. Rossi was a lost cause. Jason Gideon...well, maybe. Near the end, before he ran.

But Death had often sensed that perhaps Aaron Hotchner could. That he was one of the very few (on this world at least), who could almost see him.

After the night in the apartment, he was sure of it.

Do you know how hard it is, to stab yourself repeatedly and not die? I don't want to brag, but I'm kind of an expert.

Death remembered George Foyet. All of him. Even the tiny child, the little boy with the bright large smile. That smile which had never reached his eyes. Because there was nothing there to reach.

The life-timers had been....uncertain. The life-timers were never uncertain, but they had been that night. Death had sat for hours at that kitchen table, waiting.

Once near the end, Aaron's eyes had opened briefly. They focused for several seconds, on a spot by that far wall. They closed again just as quickly, but there had been a spark of awareness there.

And then Foyet had stopped. Stopped, and carried Aaron's unconscious body out the door only stopping to rip a page from the address book.

Death knew, then.

****

"The Chaperone" (2/2)

Date: 2010-03-13 05:03 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] bibliothekara.livejournal.com
It was a pleasant house. Or rather, it would have had the capacity to be pleasant, had he been there at any other time.

Haley had been terrified at first. But not for herself.

"You're...you're who I think you are."

YES.

"No no no no. Please, please tell you're not here for him too."

HIM?

"For Jack, for my son."

She had turned angry then.

"I won't let him do it, I won't let you do it. I won't let you take him."

I STAY, BUT NOT FOR JACK.

This seemed to give her instant peace.

"Aaron's coming?"

HE IS OUTSIDE THE HOUSE.

As if to punctuate Death's sentence, a door slammed.

Haley looked over, looked him straight in the eye. Death found it slightly unnerving.

"You promise? You're not lying to me?"

I HAVE NO REASON TO.

Haley had started to fade by then. She looked upwards.

"Jack...Jack, baby, I love you." She paused. "I love you, Aaron."

As Haley faded completely, the silence was broken by the sound of gunshots from the second floor.

IT HAS STARTED, THEN.

He waited in the dining room. The feeling was becoming depressingly familiar.

And he watched. After the apartment, he had known. He had known, in the way that came with the job, that this could only have two possible outcomes. This is what the life-timers had meant.

The young man...Morgan...arrived. And Death mused that if Aaron had truly been able to see him, that night, he was blind to his presence now.

Aaron was not who he had come for.

"Oh, a scythe and a cape. Nice. Cliche, but nice."

Death turned to the other occupant of the room. Whose appearance seemed not too much the worse for wear. The healthy ego of the sociopath tended to enable that.

MR. FOYET.

"You know me."

I KNOW EVERYBODY.

"But you're familiar with my work."

UNFORTUNATELY, YES.

George looked towards the body on the floor.

"Wow. Didn't think old Hotch had it in him. Guess we're really more alike than I thought, huh?"

He smirked.

THAT DOES NOT SEEM TO BE THE CASE, NO. FOR YOU SEE, GEORGE, I *KNOW* HIM ABOUT AS WELL AS I *KNOW* YOU.

Foyet seemed unperturbed by this revelation.

"But the world has both of us...or at least it did. And it still goes round and round."

YOU ARE CORRECT IN THAT.

"So, what you send me off to the fiery pit, now?"

WHERE YOU GO DEPENDS ENTIRELY ON YOU. I AM ONLY...A CHAPERONE, OF SORTS.

Foyet's smile broadened. "Well, then send me on my merry way."

Death did not take pride in his work, as such. But he might have been said to take some extra relish in wielding the scythe at this particular moment.

As the "whoosh" was silenced, and the blue light faded, Death looked towards the front door.

Hotch had Jack in his arms, walking out surrounded by his team members.

He paused at the threshhold, looking towards the patch of carpet where Death stood. And then he moved on.

MAY IT BE A LONG TIME UNTIL I SEE YOU AGAIN, MY FRIEND.

*fin*

Date: 2010-03-13 07:24 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] katewallace.livejournal.com
I'll comment here too! This is awesome on so many levels..Haley standing up to Death, Foyet being arrogant and condescending even after he was dead, the fact that Hotch can 'see' Death (which I can totally believe by the way.)
No, it's not 'Vita' but I love, love, love it! Thank you again!

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