MEME: AU Drabble Things

[aintnoconvict]

Speaking of AUs: I am blaming Dien and her tumblr for this.

1.) Tag in with your characters.
2.) Someone else tags you with with an alternate universe setting. Inclusion of their character(s) in the AU is totally cool.
3.) Write a three-sentence fic drabble-like thing in response.
4.) You tag others with AU prompts and get drabble-things in return.

GO GO GO!

Comments

[personaldemon]

 

[aintnoconvict]

That time Jason was an old timey gold rush prospector.

uh warning for horror and graphic violence and things

[personaldemon]

THE BEST THING IS THAT THIS IS NOW ESSENTIALLY CANON, I DON'T NEED TO AU FOR THIS TO HAVE HAPPENED.

***

Jacob Hart's hungry.

He ain't rich and he ain't lucky, he's never been, he's a day late and a dollar short all his life. Hart family luck's always been bad and his is worse than average. At the moment he's got no dollar to his name and Eli Hart, his brother, comes up with the plan, and Jacob Hart's hungry so he says alright and he gets his gun and they ride out into the hills, him and Eli and this big bastard Eli's found somewhere who don't say much but dwarfs the mule he's sitting.

Dusty canyons and little gulch streams dried to trickles. It's August. They pass what used to be Eli and Jacob's claim before they'd run it dry, got every ounce of gold dust out of that hardpan, and they keep on going, following the tracks of a single mule and a single man into the hills.

They're going after the Englishman. Ain't nobody around here likes him much, and he's the only sumbitch still making money, still bringing gold into town. The claims have all dried up, like a whore's cooter when you don't got no cash, and the Harts ain't the only broke and desperate fellows who watch the Englishman come into town weekly with his mule's saddlebags heavy and loaded.

There's talk into whiskey glasses that he's done something, the stranger has. To make all the gold dry up. An Indian curse, maybe, or a deal with the devil. Jacob don't put stock in that but he puts stock in his Colt and in his brother, and curses or no curses you can set some things right real quick with the right proportion of lead.

Eli and Jacob and the big ol' bastard come around the last rock and there's a stream, a simple tent, and the only claim still producing in this part of California. The Englishman's crouched by the stream doing his mornin' shaving, razor open in one hand, and a bit of mirror in the other, and suds on his face.

He looks up at them, don't say nothing. Got eyes like tin though, flat and dead.

"Mornin'," says Eli, cuz Eli's the talker.

"Good morning," says the Englishman, prissy whoreson like he is. Jacob spits down into the dust while Eli pulls his mule in closer to the fellow.

"Thought we might have us a chat," says Eli, all smiles like a card sharp. The Englishman doesn't say nothing and doesn't stand up. He sets down his mirror and his razor, cups water in his hands, washes off his face.

Eli's mule is skitting, restless on the bank of the little stream. Back and forth. Eli reins her hard to get her to behave, sits back on her.

"Thought we might negotiate for your claim, mister. Seems to me you've had a good run here. Now that's alright. Seems to me you can go on back East or wherever you come from with a good story and some gold to show for it. Seems to me you've stayed your welcome, mister."

Englishman shakes water off his hands. There's a towel hanging on a low bush; he takes it and dries his face.

Jake checks his Colt. It's trusty by his side. His eyes roam the little camp, and freeze when he sees the lockbox. It's open. It's got a passel of cash in it, in plain view. Jesus Christ.

Man deserves to get run outta town. Or just dry gulched, whichever.

He hasn't answered Eli. Jake studies him. No gun on him, no weapons at all Jake can see. His trousers are dusty, his suspenders hanging at his sides, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Funny markings on his wrists and arms. That queer hair he's got shinin' like a fresh copper penny in the just-past-dawn light.

"What do you say, friend?" Eli asks, leaning casual on his saddle horn. Jake can see his hand on this side of the mule resting easy on his shotgun's barrel.

"I'd say I'm not interested in selling my claim, gentlemen. Good day to you."

Eli smiles. Jake does too. Jake thinks about all the steak dinners he's gonna buy with his share of what's in the lockbox. The big ol' bastard just sits and rubs his knuckles, waiting to go.

"Mister Blood, you don't quite grasp my meaning. I ain't proposing you sell to us."

"Ah," says the Englishman, and glances east, into the sun coming up over the hills. He doesn't squint against the slanting light. Jake remembers that detail, that one bit-- that those tin-blue eyes don't flinch at all, at the light.

"You must leave one alive, for me. Yes, I insist," the Englishman says to none of them, and Jacob Hart's confused and he sees the same look on his brother's face, what in hell is this crazy man talkin' on?

And then Mister Blood says some more words, and the Devil pays them a visit.

***

Some stretch of time later Jacob Hart is lying on his back in the dust. There's a lot of blood on him. Most of it ain't his. Most of it's his brother's. Eli's lying a few feet away. Well. Some of Eli is lying a few feet away. Rest of Eli's lying a good stretch further.

The Englishman looks down on, his eyes the same color as the blue sky behind him, and just as far away. The Englishman has some of Eli's blood on him too.

The Englishman's found his razor again.

"The ironic thing is," Mister Blood says as he kneels down by Jacob Hart, who can no longer move anything below the neck, "is that I was planning on leaving the region in a few weeks anyway. A pity you were so impatient."

Jacob Hart opens his mouth to speak. To beg, maybe. To pray. He don't know. The air smells of blood and piss and shit. He's going to die. It won't do any good to beg. But he'll try it anyway.

"None of that, thank you," says the Englishman, and stills his jaw with a firm hand. Reaches in and pulls out his tongue.

The razor's sharp. It doesn't even hurt. He feels blood welling in his mouth-- start to run down his throat.

He doesn't want to die like this. He doesn't want to choke to death.

"Oh, you're not going to," says Mister Blood.

He puts gold dust into Jake's mouth. Handful after handful of it. Jacob's cheeks bulge with wealth, and the blood on his chin and lips is soon covered with a fine, glittering shimmer.

At some point in what is a very long day, Jacob Hart stops needing to breathe. His heart stops beating in his chest, and the heat of the sun boiling down on him ceases to bother him. Eli's blood all over him ceases to bother him. It doesn't hurt when the Englishman takes a needle and coarse thread and sews his mouth back shut.

He's still hungry, though.

When the sun goes down Mister Blood says a few more words. He's said a lot of words today. He takes Jacob's hand and pulls him to his feet and Jacob gets up.

"You're going to guard my claim, Mr. Hart."

Jacob takes his brother's body and the other fellow's body and puts them down into the ground where the gold comes out of. He lies down in the ground after them, and folds his arms over his chest, and waits obediently as Mister Blood starts shoveling the dirt down on top of him.

It takes a long time for the hole to fill on up. Jacob lies there with his mouth full and his heart quiet and his belly empty.

He understands a couple of things. He understands he's got to stay here now. The gold does that. The gold comes from here and it's going to hold him here. He belongs to this place now, to the bodies and to the dust and to the little stream and to the rocks.

He understands if anyone comes for the gold, if anyone digs deep and finds him, he's to protect it. That fact he understands bone-deep.

He understands he's going to be hungry for a long, long, long time.

[infinitelystranger]

That time Jason was afflicted with a Midsummer Night Dream-esque love potion for 24 hours.

welp have this backstory character in spades

[personaldemon]

His head was pounding, and everything smelled sickeningly of flowers and perfume.

Jason sat up. He rubbed at his face, his temples. He felt undressed; he glanced down at himself then swore when he saw what he was wearing. A pair of snug swimming briefs and nothing else. Why? This wasn't exactly Etrigan's stripe of humour.

Which meant it was probably Claire's.

One hand still clutching at his head, a grimace on his face-- there was an aftertaste in his mouth, of strawberries and honey and hibiscus-- Jason pushed off the bed and for the bedroom's door.

The room beyond was... awash, with things that made him freeze in the doorway, trying to reconcile what he was seeing with the fact that his home was very rarely decorated in such a fashion.

Flowers. Lots of flowers. Bouquet after bouquet, mostly roses but other species of flora represented as well, stuffed in vases and tied with ribbons and heaped on the dining table. Where there were not flowers, there were dainty little boxes of chocolates lying around, many of them obviously eaten through by this point. A few fur coats were draped over the back of one of the chairs.

Claire was sitting in the center of this apparent explosion of Valentine's Day, a cigar in one hand and her attention on a heart-shaped box of truffles.

"Claire."

"Oh, you're awake. ...and judging by that glare, it's worn off. Well, fun while it lasted, anyway."

"What. Did. You. Do."

Claire leaned back in the armchair, took a puff on her cigar and sent smoke at the ceiling. She popped a truffle into her mouth before answering.

"Well, what's the last you remember?"

An excellent question. If only his head didn't hurt. He grimaced as he tried to recall. "...fairies. Something to do with fairies. A fairy ring in Trafalgar Square."

"Got it in one, love. We sent them back and confiscated what they'd left behind, various potions and rings and all sorts of wonders what ought not fall into the hands of mortal man, blah di blah."

He gave her a sour look. She was making no bones about appreciating the view of himself in the abbreviated drawers. ...and she was apparently wearing a few strings of pearls, if by 'a few' one meant 'twelve'.

"And?"

"And what?"

"And why all of-- all of this--" He gestured around the room, "--and why am I wearing this?"

"Well." Claire studied the ceiling, her monocle winking in the light when she tilted her head back. "You annoyed me."

"….and?"

"And one of the things we'd confiscated was a love potion."

He shot her a murderous look. "You drugged me."

"Now that's an ugly word, dearest. I just felt like being spoilt for a bit, that's all. Gods know you're not exactly the soul of romance under most circumstances."

Jason grimaced and ran a hand through his hair. "….and the swim shorts?"

"Oh, I told you they were the only way you could win my love. Want a truffle? They're quite good. You spared no expense. I think half the city's chocolatiers know you by name now-- they think you're quite adorably, and lucratively, in love."

Jason groaned. "Woman, I loathe you."

"Careful, there." Claire's voice was rich with amusement; her dark head was bent over the chocolate box, as she picked through it for another one that met with her standards. "I didn't use all of the potion, and you're never at your best before your coffee; I could probably get away with doing it again."

"And now you threaten me. Where are my clothes? And how much money did you spend?"

"Technically it was you who spent it. And I probably shouldn't answer that until you're in a better mood."

Jason wordlessly turned and headed back into the bedroom. There were probably clothes there somewhere. When he emerged a short time later, more decently dressed at least, Claire was bundling flowers and empty chocolate boxes together to be thrown away.

Jason frowned as he buttoned up his shirt, watching her. "Claire..."

"Mmh?"

"Do you... do you want things like this? Fur coats? Flowers?"

She laughed. "God, no. No, the flowers are already giving me the most atrocious headache. Just couldn't make myself throw them out before I saw your face."

He sighed in relief. Claire gave him a crooked grin.

"Just keep on doing as you do, love-- horrific jade masks, gruesome reliquary vases, the odd sacrificial-and-still-bloody knife. I don't want jewelry from you unless it's got some sort of horrific curse attached."

"Good."

"Although it wouldn't hurt if you bought me chocolate from time to time."

"Mm." Jason crossed to her, brushed one of her short curls back from her face and behind an ear. "And if I don't?"

"Then next time you can sing love songs to a donkey, you ass."

[loveawkward]

Because I can't help myself.

Azkadee and Jason. College students. NYC. Pick the school. :D

[personaldemon]

Columbia does not offer a class in Witchcraft, but it does offer courses in history, culture, archaeology-- and to the inquisitive mind piecing together a history of magic in the Otherside, these are useful.

She was ten when her mother sent her away, to safety, to a place free from the rampage of her younger sister's possession. Old enough to understand; old enough to remember; old enough to be stricken by the apparent wasteland that the Otherside was when it came to magic.

In the eight years since she has listened hungrily for every fairy tale, every ghost story-- everything that suggests that there is magic, even here. Or even just that there was, that it had existed. She needs that like a tree needs water.

The trail has led her here-- she loves learning, even if magic is not part of it-- to this university with its libraries and thousand fields of study. So many doors are open to her-- it almost makes up for no magic, almost, almost.

Some doors are still closed. You're an undergraduate student, miss, says the librarian. Those books are in the special collection. You'll need an authorization from a professor...

She doesn't take kindly to 'no', although she no longer does what she did as a child, no longer insists that she is royalty and that her wishes are paramount. Mockery from fellow children had taught her the futility of that.

There are other methods. Sneaking into the special collection, for one.

She slips through the quiet, quiet room past graduate students who pay her no attention, each lost in their own field of study. She hunts through the stacks for the books she knows are here somewhere, a scrap of paper with titles scrawled in her hand.

Lost in her own hunt, she doesn't realize that another seeks the same quarry. Their hands reach for the volume in the same moment.

His eyes are sharp blue, but so are the eyes of many people. His hair is ginger with an odd streak of white through it, though he can't be much older than herself. Neither of these things are what makes her freeze, heart suddenly pounding.

It's the subliminal crackle of energy in his touch instead, where their hands rest on the same volume. The sharp ozone smell. The hum in her teeth like bees.

Magic.

He studies her, vaguely surprised as well, but more offended, it seems. Irritated.

"Excuse me. I need this for my studies."

Her hand tightens on the volume. "So do I," she counters, willing her voice to boldness.

His lips thin into a frown. "You're not even supposed to be here, miss."

Found out. She curses to herself. If he calls the librarians she might get thrown out, which would be humiliating. "Shouldn't knowledge be open to all, regardless of how many classes they have under their belt?"

He tugs the volume loose. It hangs in the air between them, neither of them willing to relinquish their claim to it. "I have no opinion on the matter. I meant, you are not supposed to be in this world."

Raw shock makes her let go. He takes the book, turns his back to her, and walks away.

She stands staring a moment. "Wait," she says to his shoulders. He keeps walking.

She doesn't take kindly to 'no'.

In the end, they both get thrown out.

[azoftheoz]

OMG this is fantastic. I adore it. Thank you.

[threelivesdown]

The one perfect day.

[apackofone]

Jason in the Harry Potter world. Don't care how or where. :D

[personaldemon]

"Your presence here could be seen as proof that the Headmaster has taken leave of his faculties as well as of the opinions of his faculty."

Jason Blood cast a glance over to the dour figure in the doorway, shrugged one shoulder, and resumed unpacking books and other supplies from his Gladstone bag.

"Snape. Hello. I take it you advised against my appointment."

Snape stalked into the office with a sneer, black robes swishing in his wake. The man appropriated one of the two chairs in the office, crossed his arms over his chest, and looked hate at Jason Blood.

"Advised against it? Oh now, why would I do such a thing? We've only had this position filled by a man who was secretly an avatar of the Dark Lord, a man who was secretly a ravening murderous animal, and now, a man who is secretly a devil. I can't imagine what I could possibly find to object to in any of that."

Blood transferred books from the bag to one of the bookshelves, unfazed by the litany. "You're forgetting someone, aren't you? The one who was secretly a fool?"

"There was nothing secret about Gilderoy Lockhart's idiocy," snapped the potions master, which Jason supposed was a valid point. He admitted as such to Snape, and studied the remaining shelf space in silence, wondering where he might put the human-fetus-in-a-jar he'd drawn forth from the bag.

Snape stewed in silence for a few minutes. Jason let him. The Gladstone bag was bottomless; a good number of the books might have to remain there, he supposed. Inconvenient.

"If it makes you feel better," he said (after deciding the athane should not be on visible display in his office, much too tempting to children of a certain temperament; it too went back in the bag), "I've told Dumbledore only a year."

It clearly did not make Severus Snape feel much better. The other man gritted his teeth. In a low, tight voice, Snape spat, "You're as dark a creature as any these brats ostensibly need to know how to fight."

"Then I should be able to give excellent advice, shouldn't I?"

Snape drummed the fingers of one hand on the chair's armrest, tense, simmering. "The Headmaster is mad to even let you on the grounds. You taught … Him things, when he was a boy."

Jason settled into the other chair. "So I did. When he was a boy. And also I taught Albus; when he was a boy; and also I do believe I taught you things as well. You can't slot me neatly into your shape of the world, Snape; I predate it."

Snape dearly looked as if he'd like to spit on the floor. His other hand had his wand out, tap-tap-tap-tapped it against his knee, hunting an excuse to use it.

"When you lose control of that thing inside you-- when you threaten the students-- expect no consideration from me when I stop you," Snape promised.

Jason smiled lazily. "Oh, the Headmaster has already taken precautions, I assure you."

"Yes," Snape countered, and thrust himself up from the chair. He stalked from the room, and threw a parting shot over his gaunt shoulder: "I'm one of them."

[no_rose_tint]

I have a SnarkTP. I didn't know such a thing existed.

This is fantastic.