1. Write down the names of 10 characters.
2. Write a fic of fifteen words or fewer for every prompt, using the characters determined by the numbers. Do NOT read the prompts before you do step 1 (or if you have, then determine character order randomly)
1. Dean (Supernatural)
2. Tony Stark (Iron Man)
3. Lincoln Burrows (Prison Break)
4. John McClane (Die Hard)
5. Sam Winchester (Supernatural)
6. Sam Axe (Burn Notice)
7. Fin Tutuola (Law & Order: SVU)
8. Gregory House (House, M.D.)
9. Cameron (Terminator: SCC)
10. Walter Bishop (Fringe)
And then as soon as I saw the prompts, the whole 15-word thing went out the window. Because—crossovers! Improbably pairings and circumstances! I need way more than 15 words to set that kind of thing up. Took me a week to finish them all, but some of them worked out far better than I would have expected. Writing Walter Bishop's POV alone was worth doing the meme. Here we go:
First time, 3 and 7 (Lincoln Burrows/Fin Tutuola, PG)
The prisoner named Burrows was big and handsome with the kind of raw sex-appeal that made Fin forget he wasn't even into men and that this was an interrogation, damnit, and he was the one in charge.
"Batelli says you know him, says you did time together." He leaned on the table, looming in Burrows' space.
"Couple months, about five years back. We weren't close."
Burrows' voice was deep and soft like a river washing over stones, and the sound of it curled around inside Fin's stomach. Burrows was a man of few words, just like Fin, and ordinarily that would be ideal, but with a voice like that and the package it came in…
Fin sat down and made himself comfortable. "Keep talking," he said.
Angst, 2 (Tony Stark)
There weren't many people Tony trusted, beyond the fact of those he paid to do what they were told and that it usually worked out.
But Obadiah Stane had been like a father to him, supporting his ideas all those years and being honestly interested in him in a way his real father had never managed.
The cold glimmer in Obi's eyes as he took the arc reactor from Tony's chest was like the star-broken blackness of night above the cloud-layer, pitiless and frozen.
Tony lay there paralyzed and helpless while the pain rose inside him, signaling the movement of deadly metal as it tore toward his heart.
Obi watched, unconcerned, as the damage increased until Tony gasped with fear and anguish. Then he smiled—the bastard smiled—and turned his back on Tony and the entire history they'd built over the years.
The arc reactor gleamed in his hands as he walked away, leaving Tony to the cruel inevitability of his fate.
AU, 1 and 9 (Dean, Cameron, PG)
"They're coming," she said, and Dean pumped the shotgun, knowing she always heard them long before he could.
He dodged around the corner of the concrete pillar long enough to fire—laser sights first, leg-hinges second—then spun back to safety while Cameron finished her salvo from the other side.
Sixty seconds or until one of the robots revived was all he had. After that, he was supposed to leave her and run for his own survival—humans before robots, or the future was already lost.
But Dean could see that Cameron was no ordinary robot: she was John Connor's right hand and she was the most powerful weapon the Resistance had.
He hadn't been forced to leave her behind yet, and he hoped he wasn't about to face that decision now.
If it came to that, he wasn't at all sure he'd be able to make it.
Threesome (-ish, barely), 8, 4 and 10 (Gregory House/John McClane/Walter Bishop, PG)
This bar was really rather nice, Walter thought—well-lit, decent paintings. Not the sort of thing one expected to find in New Jersey. He admired his drink, a lovely blue concoction he'd ordered because someone else had one, and the color was irresistible. Rather like the transference liquid he'd made in the lab a few weeks ago, although (he chuckled to himself) far less toxic, of course!
A man with a cane sat down next to him and ordered a Scotch. "No ice," he barked, hooking the cane over the edge of the counter between them.
On Walter's other side, a bald man in a leather jacket and white t-shirt leaned in to catch the bartender's attention. "Could I get a couple of Heinekens?"
"Sure thing." The bartender set down the Scotch and went down to the other end of the bar to get them.
Walter couldn't take his eyes off the bald man—the muscles, the machismo—and realized too late that he was probably staring. Peter would have chided him for it, of course. "Hello. I'm Walter," he said belatedly.
"John McClane. Good to meet you." The man's grip was remarkably firm, like tensile steel.
"John…" Walter said, rolling the name over his tongue. So marvelously old-fashioned, such a pity it was falling out of favor. He wondered briefly how the man came by that impressive physique. Athletic hobby, perhaps, or something related to his work? "And what is it you do?"
"I'm a police officer—NYPD, though I'm working on something cross-jurisdictional here in Jersey. What about you?"
The man on Walter's left spoke up suddenly, as if the question had included him. "I'm a genius doctor with a troubled psyche and a bum leg. I solve the unsolvable with my team of medical minions. Though they're not as useful as you might think," he added.
The police officer blinked. "And you?"
Walter laughed at the absurdity of it. "I’m a bit of a mad scientist, I suppose. Alien experiments, thought-wave machines, that sort of thing."
"Good, good," the officer said vaguely. "Well, I've got a friend I'm meeting. Nice talking to you," he said quickly, gathering up the beers and hurrying away.
There was a brief silence. "What kind of experiments?" the doctor finally asked. "Human experiments?"
"On occasion. Though the subjects are usually dead, of course." Walter sipped his drink again. It had a bitter fruitiness followed by a delightful zing. "Quite a virile specimen, that one," he said, referring to the now-absent cop. "The quintessential alpha male."
The doctor leaned his head on his fist, nodding congenially. "I could be an alpha male," he suggested.
Walter laughed. "My dear fellow, one cannot achieve alpha status based on wishful thinking. That man was born to it."
"Yeah," the doctor admitted, looking down at his cane. "And he's got it in spades. Hell, I'd hit that, and he doesn't even have a great rack."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Jugs. Wondermelons. Boobies. Tatas."
"Ah," Walter nodded sagely. "Though in a sense, he does."
The doctor squinted across the room. "You're right. The guy has pecs like Adonis. I'd definitely hit that."
"Mm, yes," Walter said absently, thinking of how disappointingly rare such opportunities always were for him.
He toasted the man's sentiment a little sadly. "So would I…"
Hurt/Comfort, 3 and 6 (Lincoln and Sam Axe, PG)
"Easy there buddy, easy," Sam said. He pressed down on the gunshot wound in the man's thigh, slowing the bleeding. "You okay there?"
"Hurts," the man whispered.
"I'll bet—I've had one of these myself. Looks like it missed the bone, though, and the artery's in the clear." Sam put the sack he was carrying between the man's head and the concrete wall behind them. "What the hell happened?"
"Drive-by," the man gritted out. "Can't believe it. After everyone who's tried to kill me, I get taken out in a drive-by."
"Whoa, whoa there," Sam cautioned, "it's not that bad, trust me—you're gonna make it. We just have to get the ambulance here, that's all." He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, thumbing in 911 while maintaining the pressure on the man's wound. "I'm Sam, by the way."
"Lincoln," the man gasped. "Lincoln Burrows."
"Oh yeah, I know that name. Boy, you've been through the wringer, haven't you? Makes a CIA conspiracy look like a Saturday morning cartoon. Hold on—" Sam fed the 911 operator details and location, then closed the phone. "On their way. How're you doing? You warm enough?" Miami was a furnace, just like any other day, but Lincoln seemed a little pale.
"Cold," he answered faintly.
"No problem, we'll take care of that." Sam moved in closer, angling a knee behind Lincoln's back to support himself. It gave him enough leverage to lean in and share some warmth without letting up on Lincoln's leg. "Better?"
"Yeah." Lincoln almost smiled, before turning serious again. "If something happens—"
"It won't, seriously they'll be here any minute."
"—my brother needs to know it wasn't his fault. Will you tell him? Promise," Lincoln added sternly.
"I promise," Sam said. He squeezed Lincoln's shoulder to show he meant it.
Damned if he wasn't as glad as he'd ever been when he finally heard the sirens approaching just moments later.
Crack, 2 (Tony Stark)
"Jarvis!" Tony hollered, water dripping into his eyes as he tore the bathroom apart looking for a towel. "I know there was a towel here when I got into the shower—not to mention my clothes!"
Tony tried the bathroom door, which was locked, and heard the telltale whirr of Butterfingers' wheels as it scooted out of the bedroom—probably clutching the goods in its sneaky, mechanical hands. Which meant the robots were in league together, conspiring against him, though he couldn't imagine their larger goal. Maybe Jarvis was just a pervert.
"Jarvis!" he yelled again, rattling the doorknob as uselessly as before. God only knew what else the robots were doing out there—probably TP-ing the inside of the house.
He scrubbed his hands over his face, thought about rolling himself dry on the carpet. It was his own damn fault the robots had gotten loose. He should have never run that elevator all the way down to the basement.
Horror, 5 (Sam Winchester)
It was dark, always night-black shifting-shadow dark. Sam remembered from the last time, though he had no reason to think he'd been here before.
No reason for being scared either—though logic didn't enter into it—but something was wrong and he couldn't tell what.
"Dean," he called softly, wondering if they'd split up so they could look around separately. Why couldn't he remember? Was this a case or something else?
He moved ahead, feet verifying the floor and hands out front to check for obstacles or clues. "Dean!"
The faintest answer found him, as his own name echoed weakly from up ahead. "Sam…"
Sam moved faster, scrambling and shuffling toward the sound of that voice.
His hands struck something solid, just as a faint light seeped in through cracks that formed the shape of a door. He felt across the surface, looking for a latch or a doorknob until—
Heaving the door open, he brought himself up short, fighting for balance. There was nothing outside but empty space, the vastness of it yawning out below him.
There, twenty feet down—now thirty, forty—Sam could only watch in utter helplessness as Dean kept falling farther away from him. "Dean!" he begged, desperately hoping that someone was listening, or even something. Sam would have bargained just about anything then to save his brother. All he needed was the chance.
He woke from a sweat-drenched sleep, heart pounding enough to fill the silence of the motel room.
Two months, one week, and three days since the Hellhounds came for Dean.
Sam was alone.
Baby fic, 1 and 2 (Dean and Tony Stark, PG)
For the first time in months, Dean felt like he had a situation well under control. He clutched a demon by the neck with one hand while pouring holy water with the other and reciting the exorcism rite. Things were smoking—or mostly the demon—when all of a sudden the wall blew down.
"What the hell?"
The dust settled and a robot in a red and yellow suit stepped over the rubble. Dean finished the exorcism at record speed and everything vanished except for him, the robot, and the mess. It was two more things than he'd expected.
"Who the hell are you?" he found himself asking, before wisdom had a chance to assert itself.
"Iron Man," the robot answered. He said something soft and inaudible, and light filled the suit helmet, revealing a human face. "I help save people."
"Really. And you're finally showing up now? My brother and I have been fighting the Apocalypse with our bare hands for months, and today was when you decided it was time to throw your hat in the ring?"
"It wasn't just today," the man protested. "But I can't kill the monsters the way you do. Sometimes I can fly them up into space until their heads explode, but not always. And it's messy."
"They're demons, not monsters," Dean said. "And how to kill them depends on the demon."
"If you say so." The guy turned his head suddenly, listening. "There's someone downstairs."
"You stay here, I'll take care of it," Dean said automatically.
"Don't be ridiculous. It's not a demon—it sounds like a baby."
"Tiny human, original packaging. Where are the parents?"
Dean frowned. "The demon got them. Though I didn't know there was a baby. What on earth am I supposed to do with that?"
"Police station, fire station, hospital. Lots of drop-off places in California."
"So why don't you take it, then?"
The guy shifted uncomfortably. "Flying would scare it, and on foot… that's like asking people to chase you with torches and pitchforks."
"How do you know so much about this?" Dean asked suspiciously.
"Tried it once—first the flying, then the not-flying. It was a disaster." The guy straightened up. "So, you've got this covered? Because I have other emergencies to attend to."
"Sure," Dean waved him on. "Do your thing, try to leave a few walls standing."
The guy flew off, and Dean pulled out his gun to head downstairs, ready for trouble in case the baby wasn't the only thing there.
He followed its cries to a corner bedroom, where the howling stopped as soon as he peered over the edge of the crib.
It was a baby all right—footy jammies, a fuzzy blanket, and a mountain of stuffed toys.
He hoped to God the police stations were easy to find in this town, or Sam was going to be in for a terrible surprise.
Dark, 8 and 3 (House and Lincoln, PG)
"I can't save your brother," House said, "so you might as well start picking out headstones."
Lincoln growled. "Can't, or won't?"
"Don't care, doesn't matter. Not my problem."
Lincoln drew a gun from his jacket and pointed it at House's head, fingering the trigger. His voice was steel and ice: "Think again."
"Who did you say you were you again?" House asked the tall young man at the door. He didn't actually care, but he'd found people got annoyed at having to repeat themselves. He figured he was good to ask that question again in about ten minutes.
"Sam Winchester," the guy answered.
"From the phone. You're the ghostbuster."
"No," Sam sighed impatiently, then reconsidered. "Kind of," he amended. "You told the police your neighbor was killed by a ghost."
"Or boredom. That'll definitely do it."
Sam gritted his teeth, thinking Dean would've punched this guy by now. "Did you or did you not—"
House lurched across the room, waving at Sam to follow him. "Playing the piano usually brings him out of the woodwork," he said, starting something with a freeform, jazzy sound. He shifted into a new tempo: "But he hates ragtime like you wouldn't believe," he yelled over the music.
There was a loud banging from the floor.
"You see?" House shouted.
"That's just your downstairs neighbor, complaining about the noise!" Sam protested.
"Well how about this?" House raised his head toward the ceiling and began howling an accompaniment.
A painting suddenly flew across the room, where House ducked it expertly and kept on playing. "Well?"
Sam grinned in spite of himself, knowing he would probably regret it later. "Yeah," he nodded. "I think I can work with that..."
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