Seanchai

When the Lights Go On Again Extras

2009-09-28T04:50:13Z

The ~~damn thing~~ alien invasion fic is done! And in true Hobbit fashion, it seems like we ought to be giving out gifts to celebrate. So, here's and mp3 of the song we stole the title from; When The Lights Go On Again (All Over the World), and a .pdf of the whole fic, for anyone who might want to read it, but is put off by the thought of having to wade through 20+ posts to do so.

Also, a little few notes and details about the fic that didn't make it into the final version.

Do you know how hard it is to write about a military setting/society without ever using the word "men" as a catch-all term for "soldiers/subordinates/etc.?"

Very, very hard.

Remembering that the Argonian language/society is as close as we could suceed in making it to completely gender-equal and does not contain a default-male/the-male-pronoun-can-stand-in-for-people-in-general concept was harder than remembering to factor cat/fox ears and prehensile tails into the descriptions of their body language.

I think a little bit of chauvinism did creep in to some of the warrior characters' attitudes toward mechanikos, though. Mamitu has a clear "they are beneath me" classist attitude, but Kammani, for example, comes down more on the side of "we must protect them for their own good, for they are innocent and helpless."

We never did decide whether the warrior/mechanikos divide was hereditary, like a caste system, or determined in early childhood based on perceived aptitude, or what.

Details wrt Argonians that we never got to use:

1) Argonians are warm-blooded, placental animals with live birth, but they are not mammals. They have no nipples/breasts/mammary glands, and Argonian infants are fed blood, either from freshly-dead prey, or, in the first week or so of life when their immune system is still developing, and in starvation situation, from their mother. Like a medieval pelican (the imaginary medieval concept of one, ot the actual bird).

Argonians therefore have a difficult time determining sex/gender when it comes to humans, because breasts are meaningless to them, and, since only some human men have facial hair, its presence or absence is not a useful sign.

2) The Imperial regalia of the Archon includes a large gemstone, which has over the years been set both into a pendant and into a crown, known as "Alulim's Eye." Because we *had* to, but we couldn't figure out a way to mention it without the lame pun being way too obvious.

3) Warrior/mechanikos relationships are unusual. Kammani and Isimud will be a legendary romance several generations down the road, with numerous melodramatic stories/ballads about them, most of which bear only a very slim resemblance to actual historical fact.

4) The NY Transit Authority removes the leather bench seats from the subway cars and puts the plastic ones back in, but they never do get around to replacing the engraved and copper-inlay-decorated metal poles. Salt-aliens!marvel-verse NYC has quotations stolen from Kahless engraved inside their subway cars for the next several decades.

5) Penn Station has to be completely rebuilt after the war. The new building has some strong visual/architectural homages to the original early 19th century design.

6) The total amount of Jan and Tony's bill at the Waldorf-Astoria is so high that Tony has to sell a small subsidiary company to Rukimo Fujikawa in order to pay it off. Rumiko gives him a very good deal, despite the fact that they've never actually slept together in this 'verse.

7) Ben Urich, Robbie Robertson, and J. Jonah Jameson win a Pulitzer for their reporting on the Argonian invasion from Ground Zero. It turns out that Reed, who was able to communicate with people outside the force-field bubble by routing the signal through another dimension, was broadcasting it to the outside world. Jonah brags insufferably about this forever.

8) The RCAA sues Johnny Storm for playing various pieces of downloaded music on public airways without permission. Their subsequent defeat in court in the wake of a landslide of public outrage, including an infamous soundbite wherein the judge describes them as "bloodsucking vultures," is considered a landmark victory for intellectual property reform. Meanwhile, MTV and several NYC-based radio stations invite Johnny to be a host for a music video or radio show. Sue makes him turn all of them down.

Because pictures of Steve in a dress never get old.

2009-07-19T03:51:14Z

So apparently, Steve's been into drag since the 1940's. I love how he appears to be totally convinced not only that he can pass as a woman, but that Bucky can pass as an eight year old. Also, Steve's relationship with Sergeant Duffy is comedy gold.

Steve goes undercover in a corset. Bucky goes undercover in short-pants. Of the two, only Bucky appears at all perturbed by this plan.

Steve can apparently knit. I wonder if he's ever knit anything for any of the Avengers? Clint would be adorably outraged, but secretly touched.

Bucky calling Steve "Granny" is more amusing than it should be.

You know that Steve only pretended to smoke that pipe because he thought it made him look cool, and mature.

And now Steve has to dress up as a Can-Can dancer for a talent show because he's pissed Sergeant Duffy off again.

Look at them legs!

Bonus picture! Steve decides to try and reason with a dinosaur.

When the Lights Go On Again 5b/19

2008-12-28T03:06:18Z

Title: When the Lights Go On Again 5b/19
Authors: seanchai and elspethdixon
Rated: PG-13
Pairings: Steve/Tony, Hank/Jan, Carol/Wanda
Warnings: No much, really. Some swearing and violence.
Disclaimer: The characters and situations depicted herein belong to Stan Lee and Marvel comics. No profit is being made off of this derivative work. We're paid in love, people.
Summary: Aliens have invaded earth, and the Avengers are scattered. While Steve leads the resistance, Tony once again finds himself playing captive scientist. In the midst of a violent alien regime, separated by seemingly insurmountable boundaries, Steve and Tony have nothing to keep themselves going but each other.
Author's Note:The point in volume three that we're branching off from was originally published around '98-'99, but since Marvel time runs at a slower speed than real world time, early volume three is probably four or so years ago in canon time. Hence 2004 and troops in Iraq. Also, just a heads up; this fic is really, really long. Like, over two hundred pages long. We'll start by posting every other week, though we're hoping to start posting once a week, eventually.

X-posted to Marvel Slash.

Warning: this chapter is un-beta'd. I've read through this for errors, but please feel free to point out any mistakes I may have missed.

When the Lights Go On Again

Steve-

Attached is a list of answers to Hank's questions. Unfortunately, I only have data for about half of them. Re: their weapons, I could have told Hank they were plasma based. They smell like ozone when fired. Glad to hear Firestar, Justice are ok.

Clint and I are also ok. Ignore Warbird; she exaggerates.

The Argonians have both a hereditary ruler and a military commander, who seems to function something like a dictator -- that's why the Archon and Imperator confusion. They also have total gender equality. Females are distinguished by organic stingers at the ends of their tails, and can hold positions of high military authority. Males of their military class wear metallic blades to mimic the females' stingers. Non-military Argonians carry no edged weapons of any kind and have lower status.

Their weapons are predominantly plasma based. They have advanced nuclear capability, including cold fusion, but, oddly, don't seem to be able to repair or replace their nuclear reactors or warheads themselves. Let me repeat that. They use cold fusion as a power source, but can't build their own nuclear warheads. It's enough to make you want to cry.

"I'm working as fast as I can," Tony said.

The Agonian translator -- it was the same Argonian every time; Tony was sure of it now -- looked skeptical. "We were told that you were a great scientist, a weapons builder of great skill. Arch-Captain Mamitu expects great things of you. Are you certain you are no closer to being able to duplicate the device than you were yesterday?" His voice held a hopeful lilt, as if maybe Tony, reminded of how skilled he was supposed to be, would change his mind.

It was ironic, when you thought about it. Tony had tried so hard to redefine his company and distance both it and himself from his past as an arms manufacturer, and yet when aliens from the other side of the galaxy showed up, even they knew that he used to build weapons. Apparently, he was an intergalactically famous arms manufacturer.

Tony offered the Argonian what he hoped looked like a friendly smile. "Look," he said, "this missile is extremely complicated, and both the guidance system and the structure of the warhead itself are completely different from anything Earth has produced." Which didn't mean Tony hadn't figured it out. He'd cracked the computer code for the guidance system three days ago, and had had the internal structure of the missile memorized inside and out for almost two weeks. All he needed to build a perfect, functioning copy was Plutonium 239 and Tritium, to fuel the fission and fusion components of the missile's two-stage nuclear reaction. "I don't even know what kind of radioactive isotope the missile needs to power itself," he went on. "Plutonium, uranium, thorium, unstable hydrogen molecules…" he trailed off, shaking his head. "Are you sure you can't let me have a look at the radioactive material you pulled out of this missile?"

The question was a calculated gamble; he was hoping the Argonian would say "no," but banking on the fact that asking would make him look like he was eager to make progress.

Thank God he'd been able to piece together disassembled bits of some of the Argonian scientific instruments and repurposed pieces of the missile to analyze the traces of residual radiation given off by the places within the missile where the Plutonium and Tritium had once been; not knowing what kind of nuclear material the missile used had been driving him crazy.

"I'm afraid that's not possible," the Argonian said. His ears twitched slightly, and he looked almost apologetic. Then he leaned forward slightly, ears stiffly upright with what looked like interest. "Explain further about these… isotopes? Why are they important?"

Tony blinked. "You don't know?" The giant, glowing sphere on the other side of the converter room, the one the Argonians had powering their base and the entire New York City subway system, as well, contained a successful, ongoing cold fusion reaction, a nuclear physicist's equivalent of the Holy Grail, and they didn't know how it worked.

He'd been hoping he was mistaken about that. On the one hand, it was lucky for Earth that the Argonians didn't know how to use their technology to its fullest potential anymore, but on the other hand, just the idea of someone attaining that level of scientific achievement and then forgetting it all was painful.

It was a good thing Reed Richards was still free. If he were down here, he would have wept at the very concept, then built them an improved, even more powerful version of their cold fusion reactor using matter and anti-matter, just to show them how it was done.

The Argonian's ears wilted. He glanced down at the array of missile components that covered Tony's lab banch and the floor, carefully arranged in alphabetical according to the materials they were made from. The 'U for Unknown' section covered most of the work bench. "We have… forgotten much," he admitted, after a moment. "Science is not a proper pursuit for warriors. That is what slaves are for."

"But you're not a warrior," Tony pointed out.

The Argonian's ears stiffened again, and his tail, which had been swaying gently behind him, went still. "Is it that obvious?"

"You don't carry a sword, and you don't have one of those blades strapped to the end of your tail. And you're in grey, instead of black." It wasn't until Tony had finished listing the obvious that he realized he might have insulted the alien by pointing out its lack of warrior status. Maybe it was akin to questioning someone's masculinity, or, considering that the Argonian warrior ideal seemed to be female, given the male attempts to mimic female tail barbs, questioning their femininity.

"No." The Argonian expelled air through its nose; Tony guessed it was the equivalent of a sigh. "I am only a mechanikos and linguist. My contributions to the Empire are small, beside those of a true warrior."

"No, because being able to talk to the people you're conquering isn't important at all." The words were out before Tony could help himself. Sarcasm in captivity situations wasn't generally a good idea. It tended to make people hit you.

The Argonian didn't seem offended, though. He twitched one ear back, regarded Tony for a moment, and said, "You're not a warrior either. You wouldn't understand."

"No," Tony agreed. "I've spent a lot of time around warriors, but I'm not one. I just pay the bills and design things."

"And yet other humans hold you in high respect." It was a question, Tony could tell, for all that the Argonian tried to disguise it as a statement of fact.

"Clearly you didn't do as much research on Earth as I thought. Money's a lot more important here than how many fights you've won. And intelligence can be worth something, too."

"We had little time to study you," the Argonian said. Tony got a vague impression of defensiveness. "Tactical considerations were more important than culture."

As far as Tony was concerned, culture was a tactical consideration, but he wasn't about to tell the alien invader that. Let them figure it out on their own. If their astounding ability to completely forget nuclear physics transferred over in to anthropology, it would take them approximately the next sixty years.

There was a pause, and then the alien made a sort of coughing sound and said, "You were going to explain isotopes?"

"I, um…" He was talking too much, Tony realized, giving too much information away.

It had been so long since he had talked to anyone, except for an hour or so a day with Clint, when his guard shift ended. He couldn't trust the other scientists who were there willingly, wasn't sure how to approach the captive ones without giving himself away. And the Argonian looked so eager for his explanation, black eyes wide and glittering and ears pricked forwards. Even his tail looked "alert," curving up over his shoulder eagerly.

"The power cores of our ships' drives rely on nuclear reaction, but they are a different kind of reaction than the one that occurs when these missiles detonate. Is this because of isotopes?"

"Partly," Tony hedged. There couldn't be any harm in giving him just a little information. Enough for him to think Tony was helpful and cooperative, but not enough for him to be able to actually figure the weapons or the reactor out on his own. "The missiles are designed to explode, while the power core is a sustained reaction. It's stable enough to keep occurring under its own power, without outside aide."

"Because of isotopes," the Argonian repeated.

"Yes," Tony said firmly. And also because one process involved fission and the other was entirely fusion, and cold fusion at that. And a dozen other things too complicated to explain properly without delving into math equations. "The power core combines atoms with unstable numbers of electrons into new atoms. The missile either combines them or splits them apart; I'm not sure which yet. Isotopes are atoms of the same element with differing numbers of electrons, and different isotopes are used in different kinds of nuclear reactions." There. That was nice and informative sounding, while being so oversimplified as to be of next to no practical use.

"Ah!" The Argonian tilted its head to one side, lips pulling back in what Tony had figured out by now was a smile. The fangs made it look anything but friendly. "Thank you, Tony Stark."

Tony felt a pang of something almost like guilt. "You can call me Tony," he offered. "Humans don't usually use our entire name." Why did he feel guilty for concealing information from the alien? That was his job. It was the enemy.

He needed to remember that.

"Thank you, Tony," the Argonian repeated. "You may call me Isimud. I will tell the Arch Captain that you are making progress as quickly as you can."

It turned and left then, tail swishing contentedly behind it.

Damn it. Clearly he needed to talk to some actual humans before he proved Clint right and really did go native.

Maybe, if he was careful, talking to the other scientists wouldn't be that much of a risk. If he was careful.

Because if he wasn't careful, he was going to end up teaching Isimud nuclear physics just because the guy was nice to him.

Of course, Tony's luck being what it was, half the scientists in the room hated him to begin with, either because they were supervillains, or because they worked for competing companies, or because he'd made them look stupid at conferences, or made a massively influential breakthrough in the field of micro-circuitry before they could. The only person more widely hated by the scientific community than he was was probably Hank McCoy, and that was because the last time he'd presented his work at a medical conference, he'd opened by actively mocking the other presenters whose conclusions he'd disagreed with. Also, he made faces at geneticists he didn't like behind their backs.

Leaving his little section of the man-made cavern felt strange -- he kept glancing over his shoulder, expecting to hear a shout from one of the guards, to see someone rushing towards him, weapons raised. It wasn't until he'd gone past Octavius's work area and rounded the first converter that he realized he was being an idiot.

He wasn't a prisoner -- well, technically he was in the sense of not being allowed to leave, but he hadn't been taken captive. He'd volunteered to be here, and the Argonians gave volunteers some amount of freedom. Clint wandered all over the place, flirting with the female scientists, chatting with the other guards, exploring the station. Meanwhile, Tony had been acting like he was chained to his lab bench by the ankle, like he was pinned in place the way Octavius was.

This wasn't Afghanistan. He was allowed to walk around if he wanted. They wouldn't shoot him for it.

Tony squared his shoulder, ignoring the itching feeling between them -- the guards were not watching him; they had no reason to suspect him and didn't care who he talked to -- and made his way toward Dr. Gruenwald, the Empire State engineering professor. As far as Tony could remember, he'd never gotten into a shouting match at a technical conference with him, and he'd always respected his work in the field. His journal articles were always a model of clarity, something that was sorely lacking in many engineers' attempts at paper-writing.

Gruenwald was working on a piece of machinery that looked like it might be some form of lab equipment. Tony came to a stop in front of his work bench, examining the thing for a moment. "Is that a particle accelerator?" he asked. He shook his head. "I shouldn't be surprised, should I? Of course they can't build their own particle accelerators. How did they manage to invent faster-then-light travel to begin with?"

Gruenwald stared at him, setting the tiny blowtorch he'd been using to one side. "Is there something you want, Stark?"

Okay, not exactly friendly. But then, a little suspicion made sense under the circumstances -- after all, he'd been hiding in the corner for weeks.

"I can't stare at the same piece of tech any longer," he said, offering the older man his best talking-to-shareholders smile. The cheerful and slightly feckless-looking 'trust me' one, not the much less innocent one he used on prospective business partners and people he was trying to get into bed. "Not when they won't let me do live tests of anything. Giving me just one thing to work on is inefficient, anyway. At the very least they must have plasma guns that need maintenance or something that's not just staring at that stupid missile's guidance system and trying to crack alien computer codes."

"Go away," Gruenwald said, turning to pick up his blowtorch again. He was machining his own parts, Tony could see. "I'm busy."

Why didn't he get to build particle accelerators? It would be approximately six times more interesting than rearranging the missile components on his workspace's floor.

"Oh, come on." Tony tried the smile again. "I need someone to talk to that isn't Barton or an Argonian. Maybe I can help you with that. I'm good with machinist's work."

Gruenwald turned to face him again, pinning him with an openly contemptuous stare that made Tony want to squirm. It reminded him uncomfortably of the way his father used to look at him. "I may have no choice but to work for these things, but at least I didn't come here of my own free will," he said, voice quiet, but completely cold. "I never thought even you would sink this low, Stark. I never thought even a man as irresponsible and self-absorbed as you would volunteer to betray his entire species."

Tony took a step back, his smile freezing in place. "I… okay then. I guess you don't need help."

"No," said slightly sibilant voice from behind him. "He doesn't."

Tony turned to find Kurt Conners -- all six green, scaly feet of him -- standing a couple of feet away, his arms folded across his chest. His expression was no friendlier than Gruenwald's. "I don't blame some of the others for giving in," he said. "Some of them had never seen violence first hand before the Argonians turned up on their doorstep with guns, or they have wives and children to protect. But you…" he shook his head. "I expected more courage from you. Even Otto Octavius resisted them."

Tony shook his head, no ready defense coming to mind. What could he say? As far as they knew, Connors and Gruenwald were right: to the best of their knowledge, he had simply surrendered.

He kept his face carefully blank; he couldn't afford to display remorse, or guilt, not when he needed everyone to think he was collaborating whole-heartedly. "Right," he said. "I'll just… leave, then."

He turned and walked away, back to his work area.

"I don't need help from you, Connors," he could hear Gruenwald saying behind him. "In case you've forgotten, I was on the university ethics committee that fired you."

"Lonely, Stark?" Octavius smirked, as Tony trudged past his workbench. "Maybe your new furry friend can keep you company."

Was he actually implying that Tony was having sex with an alien, or was Tony just being paranoid?

It didn't matter. It didn't what any of them thought of him. He was here to do a job, that was all.

If Steve were in his shoes, he wouldn't stark crying because everyone was mean to him. He'd raise his chin and square his shoulders and ignore them all.

Tony wasn't going to let him down over something so trivial. Other people only got in the way when he was working on a project, anyway.

He started clearing away the missile parts scattered all over his work area, stacking them neatly on the lab bench, and mentally composing an explanation of how the thing worked for his next letter to Steve.

… not that they're likely to use them against you, if they really have so few of them, but I thought you might want to know.

This place is driving me nuts, Steve. Do you know how hard it is to sit here, surrounded by technology that's an engineer's dream, and not work on it? I'm so bored that I keep wanting to ask my "handler" if he's got any routine maintenance work for me to do.

I wouldn't, don't get me wrong. I just miss having a challenge to work on, something I can really lose myself in.

How are things going out there? I don't mean just tactically, I mean, how are you? How are you really? If fighting a war like this is bringing back any old memories you'd rather forget, you know you can tell me, right? Just consider me your captive audience.

You're probably rolling your eyes now; I know it's a bad joke, but I mean it, okay?

--Tony

***

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five (a) Chapter Five (b)

Kitten!

2007-10-01T16:52:52Z

On Saturday, elspethdixon and I drove all day in order to pick up a kitten; he is tiny, black, fuzzy, and likes cuddling with the laptops, and chewing on electrical wires. Hence, his name is Anthony.

Since the internets was created to share pictures of cats, here are a few; none of them are particularly clear, since the kitten hasn't learned to stay still for more than about ten seconds yet, but they're still cute.

</lj>

Fic Updates

2007-10-01T16:36:22Z

I've been massively lazy, and completely forgotten to update this journal for about a month. There are a bunch of things I should catch up on, but first things first; fic updates.

Resurrection, Reconstruction, and Redemption is finished. All thirteen parts are now online.

Resurrection, Reconstruction, and Redemption

Doom brings Steve back from the dead. Hijinks ensue, some of which might vaugely be considered plot. Surprisingly, this isn't actually crack-fic -- it's just Marvel.
Steve/Tony, post-CW fixit.

{Chapter One} {Chapter Two} {Chapter Three} {Chapter Four} {Chapter Five} {Chapter Six} {Chapter Seven} {Chapter Eight} {Chapter Nine} {Chapter Ten} {Chapter Eleven} {Chapter Twelve} {Chapter Thirteen}

Meanwhile, elsepthdixon and I have been working on a new fic. It's finished, being posted on Wednesdays and Saturdays. The first five chapters are currently online.

The Roughest Day
Or: The New Avengers, and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad ~~day~~ ~~week~~ MONTH

In which Steve is in a motorcycle accident, Tony catches a cold, and someone may be after the New Avengers.
Steve/Tony, New Avengers era h/c.

{Chapter One} {Chapter Two} {Chapter Three} {Chapter Four} {Chapter Five}

Resurrection, Reconstruction, and Redemption, 3/13

2007-07-11T23:57:59Z

Title: Resurrection, Reconstruction, and Redemption, 3/13
Authors: seanchai and elspethdixon
Rated: PG-13
Pairings: Steve/Tony. Really, really, Steve/Tony -- ignore the fact that it will take three chapters to get there. Also, various canon ships, including Peter/MJ and Luke/Jessica/Danny. Sharon/Winter Soldier, for your daily dosage of bondage kink.
Warnings: Denial fic. Blatant shipper fic. One non-canonical het pairing in later chapters. A dire lack of porn. Terrifying amounts of snuggling and angst in later chapters.
Summary: Doom brings Steve back from the dead. Hijinks ensue, some of which might vaugely be considered plot. Surprisingly, this isn't actually crack-fic -- it's just Marvel.
Disclaimer: The characters and situations depicted herein belong to Stan Lee and Marvel comics. No profit is being made off of this derivative work. We're paid in love, people.

Thank you to harmonyangel for the wonderful beta job.

(Chapter One) (Chapter Two)

Chapter Three: Avengers Assemble!

Note: For a rundown of where this fic departs from current continuity, go (here).

Also, we know some people have been reading along on our writing community as we work, so we just want to say thank you to everyone who commented on the first two chapters anyway -- it makes this whole thing worthwhile, knowing that there are other people enjoying it.

Constructive criticism is, of course, also welcomed.

Again, this fic is thirteen chapters long, and will be posted twice a week, on Wednesdays and Saturdays. The slash is visible now.

ETA: elspethdixon and I will both be visiting family over the weekend, and therefore without internet access this Saturday, so chapter four will be posted on Sunday afternoon.

Since this seems like a good time to ask, does anyone have a preference for when this thing gets posted? We started on a Wednesday because of the fourth, but if people would prefer a Monday/Friday schedule or something, it makes no difference to us.

Resurrection, Reconstruction, and Redemption, 2/13

2007-07-11T23:54:19Z

Title: Resurrection, Reconstruction, and Redemption, 2/13
Authors: seanchai and elspethdixon
Rated: PG-13
Pairings: Steve/Tony. Really, really, Steve/Tony -- ignore the fact that it will take three chapters to get there. Also, various canon ships, including Peter/MJ and Luke/Jessica/Danny. Sharon/Winter Soldier, for your daily dosage of bondage kink.
Warnings: Denial fic. Blatant shipper fic. One non-canonical het pairing in later chapters. A dire lack of porn. Terrifying amounts of snuggling and angst in later chapters.
Summary: Doom brings Steve back from the dead. Hijinks ensue, some of which might vaugely be considered plot. Surprisingly, this isn't actually crack-fic -- it's just Marvel.
Disclaimer: The characters and situations depicted herein belong to Stan Lee and Marvel comics. No profit is being made off of this derivative work. We're paid in love, people.

(Chapter One)

(Chapter Two: Helicarrier go boom!)

Note: For a rundown of where this fic departs from current continuity, go (here). Familiarity with the events of Civil War is encouraged, and you pretty much have to have read Civil War: The Confession.

Thank you to harmonyangel and tavella for the wonderful beta job.

This fic will be thirteen chapters long, posted twice a week, on Wednesdays and Saturdays. It's endless, be warned, and it takes almost three chapters for Steve and Tony to meet back up. However, once they do, we promise, things will be slashy.

seanchai @ 2007-07-04T15:31:00

2007-07-04T19:42:09Z

As some of you may know, elspethdixon and I have been working on an endless Steve/Tony Avengers fic. It's set post-CW/Cap 25, and is pure resurrection/fix-it. Also, almost two hundred pages long, and manages to simultaneously be pure Steve/Tony (that's Captain America/Iron Man, for those of you reading along at home) and actually be almost possessed of a plot. For those of you who might wish to read, I'm going to link it here as we post -- twice a week, on wednesdays and saturdays.

Title: Resurrection, Reconstruction, and Redemption, 1/13
Authors: seanchai and elspethdixon
Rated: PG-13
Pairings: Steve/Tony. Really, really, Steve/Tony -- ignore the fact that it will take three chapters to get there. Also, various canon ships, including Peter/MJ and Luke/Jessica/Danny. Sharon/Winter Soldier, for your daily dosage of bondage kink.
Warnings: Denial fic. Blatant shipper fic. One non-canonical het pairing in later chapters. A dire lack of porn. Terrifying amounts of snuggling and angst in later chapters.
Summary: Doom brings Steve back from the dead. Hijinks ensue, some of which might vaugely be considered plot. Surprisingly, this isn't actually crack-fic -- it's just Marvel.
Disclaimer: The characters and situations depicted herein belong to Stan Lee and Marvel comics. No profit is being made off of this derivative work. We're paid in love, people.

"You're certain we have the correct body, Skull?"

Note: For a rundown of where this fic departs from current continuity, go here. Familiarity with the events of CA #25 and CW is strongly encouraged (reading misleading excerpts on s_d carefully edited to make Iron Man and Reed Richards look even worse than they actually did does not count). And you pretty much have to have read Civil War: The Confession.

Thank you to harmonyangel and tavella for the wonderful beta job.

seanchai @ 2007-05-16T19:26:00

2007-05-16T23:26:09Z

Everyone had finally dispersed, mostly because Bruce had started snapping at people, and no one wanted to deal with the Hulk with a headache. Peter had gone to check in with his aunt, Ororo had gone to the roof to spend time with her garden, Logan had gone out to drink, and Janet had gone to call her mysterious boyfriend, apparently feeling the need to tell someone about the 'creepy snake people' at length.

Steve had dragged Tony back to their room; as soon as they had gotten there, Tony had collapsed onto the bed in a loose sprawl, one hand over his eyes. For people without healing factors, or the ability to control lightening, coming down off the mind-controlling snake venom naturally had a few unpleasant side effects.

Tony felt the mattress shift as Steve sat down on the bed next to him, resting a hand on the center of his chest. "Let me guess," Steve said, something that sounded suspiciously like amusement in his voice. "You have a headache?"

Tony lifted his hand just long enough to glare at Steve. "It's like a hangover, without any of the fun parts," he said. And also, thankfully, without any of the attendant emotional issues he tended to associate with being drunk, at this point.

Steve made a sympathetic humming noise, and ran his hand down Tony's chest, and up under the hem of his un-tucked shirt.

Without opening his eyes, Tony reached up, and grabbed Steve's belt, pulling him down.

Steve fell forward, letting most of his weight rest on Tony, pressing him back into the bed. It was a little uncomfortable; Steve had close to forty pounds of muscle on him, and he was heavy. Tony didn't object, though. At the moment, having him there was reassuring.

Getting brainwashed by the so-called 'Sons of the Serpent' had been a generally unpleasant experience, even aside from the side-effects of the venom. He could remember everything that he had done while under their control, but with the venom forcing him into mindless, docile obedience, he hadn't been able to do anything about it.

Tony unfastened Steve's belt, letting his fingers brush just below the waistband as he went, and Steve kissed him, first on the lips, then again, over the now barely-visible puncture marks on his neck. Tony arched up into him, smiling a little, though he didn't open his eyes.

Steve was the perfect curative for a bad day; it was one of many nice things about him. It was hard to stay down around Captain America, in more ways than one.

There was a sudden, sharp pain in his neck, over the little puncture marks. Tony opened his eyes, frowning up at Steve. "Did you just bite me?" he asked.

"Yes," Steve said, looking almost smug. "Now people will know you belong to me."

Tony couldn't help but laugh; Steve sounded so pleased with himself, as if he had just invented an entirely new concept.

He pulled Steve down again; he could deal with Steve's new-found possessiveness later.

* * *

Sunlight was spilling across the bed when Steve woke up. Tony was still asleep, curled against his side, head heavy on Steve's shoulder. Steve stretched, smiling.

The place where he had bitten Tony was slowly darkening; Steve blushed a little. He would admit that maybe he'd gotten a little carried away last night, but it had seemed like a good idea at the time.

Steve carefully slid his arm out from under Tony, and sat up. He stopped, frowning, looking down. There was something written on him.

"Property of Stark Enterprises" was written across his chest in black marker, in a very precise hand, complete with the swoosh.

"Tony!"

* * *

For the most part, Bruce liked his teammates. They were all fairly intelligent people -- well, except maybe for Logan, and they were all definitely good people -- again, except maybe for Logan. And most importantly, they didn't care that he was the Hulk. So Bruce liked them.

There were times that he found them a little frustrating, though.

Like this morning; Bruce might not be the most socially observant of people, but even he could tell that there was something up between Cap and Tony. Steve was actually glaring at Tony, while Tony was pointedly ignoring Steve.

And there was a very distinctive bruise on Tony's neck, just above the collar of his shirt.

"Wow, is that where the snake bit you?" Spiderman asked, bouncing slightly in his chair, oblivious as always.

"Yes, Peter. That's where the snake bit me," Tony said, giving Steve an inscrutable look over his coffee mug.

"Well, at least the snake didn't write it's name on you," Cap said, stabbing at his scrambled eggs with more force than was strictly necessary.

"Ew! The snake-people wrote stuff on us?" Janet said. "Did they write anything on me?" She twisted in her chair, trying to see her back, although anything there would have been covered by her costume.

"Don't worry, G-Girl," Wolverine said, smirking. He had obviously picked up on the subtext just as Bruce had. "I don't think the, ah, snakes, were interested in you."

This story directly follows issue 11 of Marvel Adventures - Avengers, with the snake-cult. It was inspired by a conversation in which elspethdixon and I were trying to decide whether there were any situations other than the one we have in the epic post CW fix-it fic, where we could realistically see Steve biting someone during sex.

Pure, disgusting fluff. Scans provided upon request.

seanchai @ 2007-05-16T11:24:00

2007-05-16T15:24:32Z

Professor Xavier was often a man of somewhat mysterious motives; it was hard to know precisely what he was thinking at times, and harder still to know what his long term plans were. Ororo had faith that he had the good of mankind in mind, and she trusted his judgement; if she hadn't, she would have left the X-Men long ago. Charles Xavier was a singular man, and at times, trying to predict what he would do next could be somewhat daunting.

As a rule, Ororo tried to be prepared for anything when it came to the professor; she was one of the senior X-Men, and it was her duty to be ready to handle the most unexpected of situations, whether they came from outer-space, or from their founder.

So when Xavier called her into his office for a private meeting, she thought she was ready for what ever he might say.

"Storm, I want you to go to New York City, and join the Avengers."

Ororo blinked. "What?"

"I want you to join the Avengers," Xavier reiterated.

"Perhaps I should say -- why?" Ororo said. The Avengers were a relatively newly formed team, only a few months old, but they already had quite a record, facing off against Kang and Baron Zemo. And they covered an entirely different jurisdiction than the X-Men usually bothered with. She could see no reason why the professor would have any particular interest in them, let alone want her to join the team.

"Because," Xavier said, "the team is currently led by Captain America."

Ororo raised an eyebrow. "And? I'm sure that Captain America is an excellent leader. Unless of course you believe that he's secretly undermining modern values with his old-fashioned views?"

Xavier laughed. "Not at all. But he celebrated his twenty-fifth birthday two months ago. I believe that he might benefit from your," he paused. "Experience." Never let it be said that the Professor didn't know how to phrase things for the benefit of a woman's ego; years of dealing with Magneto had probably taught him that.

"He may be twenty five, but this is Captain America that we're talking about," Ororo said. "I can't imagine that he's in need of guidance, no matter how old he is." Still, she hadn't thought of how young he must be before; it was somewhat disconcerting to consider that Captain America was just barely old enough to drink.

"The fact that he's Captain America not withstanding, he's very young," Xavier said. "And at the moment, the team consists of him, Iron Man, who, if I am not much mistaken, is actually Tony Stark, and is no older than the Captain, the Hulk, Giant Girl, and Spiderman."

She had met Spiderman once; she wasn't sure that he had actually hit puberty yet. And if Stark was actually Iron Man, that made the rumors about the nature of his relationship with Captain America all the more intriguing. It also meant that the Avengers currently consisted of Captain America, his boyfriend, the Hulk, and two teenagers. Ororo stood, nodding. "I'll prepare to leave immediately," she said. The Professor might be a strange man, often possessed of mysterious motives, but he always had a reason for what he did.

Ororo was already thinking as she left the Professor's office. She was going to need something to do this properly.

She found Logan smoking on the back porch, giving every impression that he was the only thing holding up the wall.

"Logan, go pack your bags," she said. "The professor has an assignment for us in the city."

He looked up at her, raised an eyebrow, shifted his cigar to the other side of his mouth, and said, "No."

"We're going to join the Avengers," Ororo said, folding her arms. "The professor wants us to keep an eye on things."

"No."

Ororo closed her eyes. Logan was useful, and a friend, but talking with him could be trying at times. "I'm going to need you to keep the Hulk in line. If he goes out of control, someone is going to need to be able to take him down."

There was a long moment of silence, as Logan contemplated this, then he nodded. "Alright. But I'm not taking orders from some goddamn twenty-five year old.

Ororo refrained from pointing out that Logan rarely took orders from anyone, anyway, and said, "I thought you knew him during the war?"

Logan snorted. "I did. And he was a goddamn twenty two year old, then."

"Considering how well you follow Cyclops's orders, I don't foresee that being an issue," Ororo said dryly.

Logan ground out the tip of his cigar on the door-frame, a practice Scott had taken him to task for more than once, and stuck it behind his ear. "Yeah, well, when Slim's old enough to drink, we can talk," he said, sauntering inside.

Ororo closed her eyes. She had had many hard assignments over the years, and faced many powerful foes. Somehow, though, she thought that this might be the most trying of them all.

A ficlet nominally set in the Marvel Adventures Avengers Universe, because that is the most insanely adorable universe ever, and Cap and Tony are married in it.

seanchai @ 2007-03-31T21:16:00

2007-04-01T01:16:40Z

It recently occurred to me that I've actually got bunches of fic lying around that I've never posted anywhere. So I'm posting some of the stuff that'll actually make sense to people who aren't me, or possibly elspethdixon.

So for tonight, a DC Toonverse/Smallville/Comics au snippet. Clark/Lex/Lois, because they'd make for a gloriously snarky OT3. Technically, this is part of a much larger AU that I may someday write more of, but this stands on its own.

It turned out that Lex Luthor and Lois Lane could both be gotten drunk; it just took enough alcohol that even Clark was starting to feel it. He was starting to suspect that the punch had been spiked; probably by Batman, given the apparent strength and quality of the alcohol.

It was also entirely possible that what he was feeling wasn't the effects of alcohol at all, but was actually the side effects of being pretty much completely relaxed and happy, and with people he cared about for the first time in close to a year. Which would actually make more sense, since his Kryptonian biology usually prevented him from getting drunk.

That, or Lex was the one who had spiked the punch, and he had used Kryptonite powder to do it. And while Clark wouldn't have entirely put it past him, Lex had actually been pretty well behaved on the whole 'trying to kill Superman' front for the past few month. Plus, Clark was pretty sure that Lex was too smart to try anything in front of the entire original Justice League, the Titans, and the Teen Titans. Well, Clark mostly didn't think that he would have tried anything with Kon there. Besides which, Lex usually liked to vary the stupidly suicidal elements in his diabolical schemes.

Either way, Clark was very happy that Kon had decided to go back home to Smallville with Bart.

Of course, at the moment, Lex didn't look like he was plotting anything particularly evil. Being sweaty and naked tended to do that to a person, although Clark knew from personal experience that both Lex and Lois could look utterly diabolic while completely naked, and as close to disheveled as either one of them ever got.

Which made lying between them in Lex's giant and very purple bed a somewhat risky and intimidating experience. At the moment, both of them were being surprisingly quiet, staring up at the ceiling contemplatively. Clark suspected that it had something to do with the alcohol.

Of course, the calm couldn't last, and as if in response to Clark's thoughts, Lois rolled onto her side, leaning on one elbow, so that she could look over his chest at Lex. She smiled in a way that made Clark suddenly, irrationally glad that he was pretty much invulnerable, and said cheerfully; "By the way, Luthor, tomorrow's headline is going to read 'Lex Corp technology could be used for cloning!' I just thought you should know. A few of the religious groups all ready have plans for a picket line."

Lex rolled onto his side, mirroring Lois' pose oddly. "That stem cell research is being used to explore potential cancer treatments, and you know it perfectly well, Lane!" he snarled, smacking one hand on Clark's chest for emphasis. Clark wondered absently if this was how it felt to be the table in a war room.

"Yes, but 'Lex Corp technology could be used for cloning!' makes for much better copy," Lois said, smirking.

"You know," Clark said deliberately, "Since you're normally on a first name basis, I find it incredibly disturbing that you call each other 'Lane' and 'Luthor' in bed. And if either of you ever call me 'Superman' in bed, I'm leaving."

Lex and Lois both stared at him for a moment, before Lois snickered, and flopped back, boneless in a way that only very drunk people could manage. "Ride me, Superman!" she said, still snickering.

Lex looked at Clark seriously for another moment. "Why Superman, you truly are a man of steel," he said in a complete deadpan.

"Right. That's it, I'm leaving," Clark said, climbing over Lois, and gathering up his scattered clothes with as much dignity as he could.

Lois' voice followed him out of the room, raised in laughter. "Ride me, Superman!"

seanchai @ 2007-01-28T05:54:00

2007-01-28T10:54:06Z

Reading Marvel comics while watching Pinky and the Brain is a strange and mind-warping experience, because it makes you realize that they could totally exist in the same universe.

If nothing else, the Brain is actually slightly less goofy and more of a threat than Stilt Man. And the snark levels are about equal.

seanchai @ 2006-11-25T08:44:00

2006-11-25T13:44:00Z

Actual question on my Vampire fiction class quiz: 3. Where in the novel do you see any inklings of homosexuality?

I love this class.

seanchai @ 2006-11-17T17:26:00

2006-11-17T22:26:57Z

In the book store today, I saw the two saddest book titles ever: The New Adventure Bible, and the Little Pilgrims Progress, both of them clearly children's books. To make it worse, The New Adventure Bible had a picture of a guy rock-climbing on the front.

seanchai @ 2006-10-29T17:01:00

2006-10-29T22:01:30Z

Ha! I knew that I still had a copy of this around somewhere. Unfortuneatly, this is the unrevised version, but it'll do. elspethdixon, this ought to be of some interest - I think that there're a few things in here that didn't turn up in our earlier research on Doc.

***

Doctor John Henry Holliday:
Doc Holliday was a dentist, educated southern gambler, heavy drinker, fast draw with a gun, and ultimately, a somewhat elusive figure. He was known for having a mercurial temper and a sharp tongue that often got him into trouble. He also used alcohol to help control the consumptive cough and dull the pain of the consumption that plagued him for nearly fifteen years, and had the attitude that a quick death by gun or knife wound was better than the slow death that he was suffering.

Overall, Doc does not seem to have been well liked, with one or two notable exceptions, but he was respected by those who knew him. Perhaps Wyatt Earp, Docs' closest friend, summed him up the best. "Doc was a dentist whom necessity had made a gambler; a gentleman whom disease had made a frontier vagabond; a philosopher whom life had made a caustic wit; a long lean ash-blond fellow nearly dead with consumption, and at the same time the most skillful gambler and the nerviest, speediest, deadliest man with a gun that I ever knew."

Family:
John Henry Holliday was born on August 14, 1852 in Griffin, Georgia. His parents were Henry Burroughs and Alice Jane Holliday née McKey. They had had a daughter named Martha Eleanora, however, she died as an infant, on March 12, 1850, a full year before John was born.

Alice Jane Holliday was a true southern Victorian lady. She was in charge of the house, and was primarily responsible for raising her son. John had been born with a cleft palate. It was repaired shortly after his birth, actually by his uncle who was a surgeon, but he required some special care as an infant, and speech therapy as he gerw older, which became his mother's responsibility. She and John were very close, and he was heartbroken when she died of consumption in 1866, when he was only fifteen years old. His mother was not the only family member Doc lost to consumption; both his uncle Robert Holliday and his adopted brother, named Francisco Hidalgo, died in 1873.

Henry Burroughs Holliday was a druggist and planter. He had fought against Indians in Georgia in 1838, Mexicans in 1846, and he fought with the Confederate Army in 1861. He rose to the rank of major during the Civil War, but was forced to resign his commission in 1862, due to sickness. Two years later, in 1864, he moved his family to Valdosta, Georgia, near the Florida line, when he realized that their old home was in the path of Union General William Tecumseh Shermans' 'March to the Sea.' Henry Burroughs was elected mayor of Valdosta in 1876. After his first wifes' death in 1866, he remarried to a much younger woman named Rachel Martin only three months later. Doc never got on very well with his father, in no small part because of his rapid remarriage after the death of Docs' mother, to whom he had been very close. It probably did not help that Henry Burroughs' second wife was only nine years older than Doc.

Education:
Doc had quite a good education. As a boy, he attended the Valdosta Institute, where he studied mathematics, rhetoric, grammar, history and languages - he was apparently fluent in Latin, but also knew some French and ancient Greek. He received his degree of Doctor of Dental Surgery from the Pennsylvania College of Dental Surgery in 1872, when he was twenty years old. He opened a practice in Atlanta, with Arthur C. Ford.

Unfortunately, this practice would not last long. At the age of twenty one, shortly after becoming a licensed dentist, Doc was diagnosed with consumption. He was given only a few months to live, and decided to go west, in the hopes that the drier air might help his lungs.

Moving West:
Doc first went to Dallas Texas, in 1873, where he opened a dental practice at 56 Elm Street. It was in Dallas that Doc first began gambling, and soon found it to be a more profitable trade than dental work, particularly considering that most people didn't want a consumptive dentist. He was arrested in Dallas, in 1875, after trading gunfire with a saloon keeper. However, as no one had been injured, he was found not guilty. At this point, Doc decided to leave Dallas, and moved his offices to Denison, Texas.

Doc was often unable to maintain his dental practice very long, and increasingly turned to gambling as his primary form of income. As such, he moved around quite a bit, and spent time in Denver, Cheyenne, and Deadwood (yes, that Deadwood.)

In 1877, Doc was back in Texas, in Fort Griffin. It was here that he met with both Wyatt Earp, who was to be one of the most important people in Doc's life, and Kate Harony (known by many last names, including Elder, but never Holliday). The circumstance of Doc and Kate's first meeting is unknown, but it is known that at the time, Kate was working as a dance hall girl, and sometimes prostitute. Apparently they found their mutual intelligence and stubbornness was appealing, because Kate became Doc's companion, and stayed with him for much of the rest of his life. Doc met Wyatt met in Shanssey's saloon, while he was dealing faro. The roots of their friendship are not entirely clear, but there seems to have been mutual respect right from the beginning, and Wyatt seems to have been one of the few people who wasn't put off by Doc's prickly nature.

It was during this time in Fort Griffin that Doc was supposed to have gotten into his infamous fight with Ed Bailey. They were playing poker, and Ed Bailey kept looking through the discarded cards, which was against the rules of the game, and meant that Bailey had technically forfeited his right to the pot. After warning him several times, Doc began to rake in his winnings, and Bailey pulled his gun. Before he could shoot, Doc stabbed the man, killing him. Doc was locked up, and apparently a lynch mob began to form. This was where Kate is supposed to have come into the picture; she set fire to a barn and in the ensuing confusion, she broke Doc out, and they escaped.

This story is suspect, however. Apparently, Doc was actually locked up for gambling, which was illegal there at the time. He was locked up, but as the town did not have a jail at the time, he had been locked into a hotel room under guard. However, Kate did break Doc out by setting fire to a shed. At this point, Doc decided to go to Dodge City, Kansas, where Wyatt Earp was living and working as a town marshal.

In Dodge City, Doc once again set up a dental practice, putting this ad in the local paper:

DENTISTRY
John H. Holliday, Dentist, very respectfully offers his professional services to the citizens of Dodge City and surrounding county during the Summer. Office at Room No. 24 Dodge House. Where satisfaction is not given, money will be refunded.

Of course, Doc also continued gambling while he was in Dodge, and it may have been during his time there that Doc was finally forced to give up dentistry for good, as his tuberculosis worsened. In September 1878, Doc saved Wyatt from a group of armed men who had him surrounded. Of course, there are multiple, highly dramatic versions of this story, and the record is unclear as to exactly what happened. However, it is likely that Wyatt, who was a city marshal at the time, was attempting to arrest the men, and that when one of them tried to draw a gun on him out of his sight, Doc stepped in. What ever really happened, Wyatt always credited Doc with saving his life, and this seems to have been the moment that cemented their friendship. Wyatt himself was recorded as saying "I am a friend of Doc Holliday because when I was city marshal of Dodge City, Kansas, he came to my rescue and saved my life when I was surrounded by desperadoes."

What ever the basis for their friendship, it would certainly play an important role in both their lives. Doc spent much of the rest of his life following Wyatt, and would eventually help Wyatt with his infamous vendetta.

Tombstone:
Dodge City seems to have rapidly become too respectable for those that were there in the early days, and both Wyatt and Doc left around 1879 or 1880. While Wyatt went straight on to Tombstone, Doc traveled around for a bit, and spent sometime in Las Vegas. It was during time between leaving Dodge City for good, and going to Tombstone, that Doc is supposed to have killed the most people. There are apocryphal stories of him killing at least three people, including Kid Colton, Mike Gordon, and Charley White. However, it is likely that these stories are, if not entirely false, then certainly heavily embellished.

While in Las Vegas, Doc attempted to open a saloon, but apparently did not do very well, and he was ready to move on when Wyatt urged him to come to Tombstone. Doc mostly traveled with the Earps, although he lingered in Prescott, Arizona, probably due to a run of luck at the gambling tables. It was also in Prescott that he was rejoined by Kate, whom he had temporarily split with due to an argument.

Doc and Kate arrived in Tombstone sometime after June 3, 1880, and settled into their old routine. By the time they arrived, trouble had all ready started between the Earps and the Cowboys. The Cowboys were a rough group, consisting of Newman Haynes (Old Man) Clanton, his sons, Ike and Billy Clanton, Frank and Tom McLaury, and Billy Claiborne. They were cattle rustlers and thieves, and often came into conflict with the Earps, who had almost all been involved with law enforcement at some point. What may have brought the things from underlying tensions into out and out conflict was an attempted stagecoach robbery, during which two people were killed in March, 1881. Doc was made a suspect after Kate, whom he was on the outs with at the time, accused him, although she recanted fairly quickly. At the time, Wyatt had been planning to run for sheriff of Cochise County against the incumbent Johnny Behan, and Behan accused Wyatt of attempting to bribe Ike Clanton with Wells Fargo Company reward money in exchange for information concerning the stage-robbers, because he thought that if he could bring them in, it would help him to win the election. Meanwhile, Ike attempted to claim that Doc and Wyatt had both been involved with the stagecoach robbery, although he had no proof, and could give no reason for why they should have done it.

Gunfight at the O.K. Corral:
On October 25, 1881, Ike Clanton and Tom McLaury came into Tombstone, apparently to get supplies. They got drunk, and Ike began to tell anyone who would listen to him that he was going to kill Doc, or any of the Earps that he saw. Early in the morning of the 26, Doc and Morgan came into the bar, and Doc attempted to provoke him into a fight. Ike was unarmed at the time, but threatened Doc nonetheless. Ike ran into Wyatt that night, and told him that he'd have him 'man for man the next day.' In an attempt to calm things down, Wyatt's elder brother Virgil, who was city marshal at the time, spent the night of the 26 gambling with Ike Clanton, Tom McLaury, and Johnny Behan, although Ike claimed that he kept a pistol on his lap throughout the entire evening. The game broke up at around dawn, and Virgil and Behan went off to bed, while Ike and Tom McLaury kept on drinking. Ike reclaimed his weapons, and around noon on the 27, he was wandering around, still drinking, and loudly proclaiming that he was looking for either Doc or the Earps. At this point, Virgil and Morgan disarmed Ike, and brought him to court for violating the city ordinance against carrying firearms. Ike and Wyatt traded threats in court, and Ike was fined twenty-five dollars, and his confiscated weapons were taken to the Grand Hotel, where they could be reclaimed later.

Things continued to escalate, and sometime in the early afternoon, Billy Clanton and Frank McLaury arrived in town, both armed with pistols and rifles. They stopped into the Grand Hotel, where they ran into Doc, and heard about what had happened to their brothers. Instead of leaving their weapons at the hotel, as they should have, they went to the hardware store, and bought ammunition, where they were seen by Wyatt. Wyatt believed that all of the Cowboys, including Ike and Tom, were in the store, arming themselves in preparation for coming after the Earps.

At about 2:30 in the afternoon, gathered in the vacant lot next to Fly's boarding house, where Doc was staying, and only two blocks from the Earps' homes on Fremont street. Meanwhile, Frank McLaury was on Fremont, and still armed. Behan found him, and tried to disarm him, but Frank resisted, saying he would only be disarmed by Virgil. Meanwhile, having heard of the activities of the Cowboys, Virgil had gotten a shotgun from the Wells Fargo office. Because he did not want to alarm people, Virgil gave the shotgun to Doc, to hide under his long overcoat, and took Doc's cane. The Earps and Doc came down Fremont Street, where they met with behan, who told them that he had all ready disarmed the Cowboys, and that there was no need for trouble, but they continued on. They found the Cowboys still in the vacant lot next to Fly's, with their horses and at least Frank and Bill were still fully armed, although Tom was probably unarmed.

The entire fight itself took place at around 3:00, and lasted maybe thirty seconds. Virgil told the Cowboys to give up their weapons, but they obviously did not. Accounts of the fight vary greatly, and are all biased in different ways. It is known that Doc had the shotgun, and that he was the one to kill Tom McLaury, while Frank Mclaury and Billy Clanton were also killed. Wyatt came through the fight completely unscathed, but Virgil was shot through the thigh, Morgan was hit in the shoulder, and Doc's hip was grazed by a bullet. Ike Clanton and Billy Claiborne ran, and also came through the fight uninjured, as did the horses.

The Earps and Doc were considered heroes for about two days, before public opinion rapidly turned on them. The funeral held for the three dead men was one of the biggest that Tombstone had ever seen, as they had been quite well off, and people were afraid that the surviving Cowboys would seek retribution, and that the town would suffer from bad publicity. Soon, people were saying that the Earps and Doc had committed murder. Doc and Wyatt, who were not officially officers of the law were charged with murder, and were tried by Justice of the Peace Wells Spicer. Spicer decided that there was not enough evidence to indict them, and two weeks later, a jury backed up his decision.

A few weeks after this, Virgil was shot through the shoulder by three hidden assailants. The wound caused him to completely lose the use of his left arm. The men who attacked Virgil were Ike Clanton, John Ringo, Frank Stilwell, Hank Swilling, Pete Spencer and Johnny Barnes, all members of the Cowboys.

Three months after Virgil was attacked, on March 18, 1882, Morgan Earp was shot and killed while playing pool, again by hidden assailants. Frank Stilwell was heard boasting that he had killed Morgan. Wyatt swore vengeance, and along with Doc, his brother Warren Earp, Sherman McMasters, Turkey Creek Jack Johnson and Texas Jack Vermillion, he began to hunt down the Cowboys. The vendetta lasted between March 20 and April 15, 1882, and all of the documented killings happened between March 20 and 24. The vendetta ended on April 15, when the men sold their horses, and took a train out of Arizona Territory, where they were wanted by the law. The entire time that Wyatt's posse was hunting down the Cowboys, they were being hunted by Behan, who had a much later posse of his own. However, Behan never managed to catch them, and only ended up costing the county a great deal of money.

At this point Wyatt and Doc seem to have gone their separate ways, although there are some sources that indicate that this may not have been their final parting.

Death:
In May, 1887, Doc went to Glenwood Springs, Colorado, in the hopes that the sulfur vapors from their hot springs would help his rapidly failing lungs. He stayed at the Hotel Glenwood. He spent the last fifty seven of his days in bed, fourteen of them delirious. On November 8, 1887, Doc woke up clear minded, and asked for a glass of whiskey. He drank it, said, "This is funny," and died.

Relationships:
While Doc's mother was most certainly the most important influence during his formative years, there were other people that would also be very important to him in later years. The first amongst these was his cousin, Martha Anne "Mattie" Holliday. When they were young, Doc had been in love with her, and they had planned to get married. However, when he got sick, this obviously became impossible, and he left for the west, while Mattie Holliday became a Catholic nun. She and Doc would keep up a correspondence through letters until he died. Mattie Holliday was apparently the perfect Victorian woman. She knew Margaret Mitchell, the author of Gone With the Wind, and was the inspiration for the character of Melanie.

Of course, Kate can not be discounted either. Although they do not seem to have had the most sanguine of relationships, they do seem to have been quite dedicated to each other. After leaving his home and cousin, Kate was the only woman Doc had a relationship, while Kate kept returning to Doc, although she probably could have had her pick of men. While they often fought loudly and viciously, they always got back together, and Kate was literally with Doc to the end.

Then there was Wyatt. During his life, Wyatt and Doc seem to have been best friends, and always had one another's back. What exactly the attraction was between these two very different men on one is quite sure, but nonetheless, they were good friends. As Bat Masterson, who had known both men in Dodge City, and been friends with Wyatt, once said of Doc: "His whole heart and soul were wrapped up in Wyatt Earp and he was always ready to stake his life in defense of any cause in which Wyatt was interested." Strong words, considering that most people only knew Doc as a self-interested, obnoxious gambler with a death wish.

Conclusion:
So in the end, it is hard to say exactly who Doc Holliday was. Educated southern gentleman, and dentist, faithful Methodist and dedicate son and friend, or amoral, misanthropic, sociopathic gambler with a death-wish. All of these things seem to have been true. And perhaps that is how it should be. No person can be summed up in a single word, and they never should be. Trying to pigeon-hole someone as relatively complex as Doc Holliday would be impossible. To get a real feel for who he was, you need to look at the whole picture.

Finally, perhaps the best summation of Doc from someone who knew him comes from Virgil Earp, in an interview taken in May 1882, after the end of the infamous vendetta.

"There was something very peculiar about Doc. He was gentlemanly, a good dentist, a friendly man and yet, outside of us boys, I don't think he had a friend in the Territory. Tales were told that he had murdered men in different parts of the country; that he had robbed and committed all manner of crimes, and yet, when persons were asked how they knew it, they could only admit it was hearsay, and that nothing of the kind could really be traced to Doc's account. He was a slender, sickly fellow, but whenever a stage was robbed or a row started, and help was needed, Doc was one of the first to saddle his horse and report for duty."

seanchai @ 2006-10-11T18:15:00

2006-10-11T22:19:03Z

There was a small plane crash in New York today. It wasn't a terrorist attack, or anything - it was someone learning to fly. Somehow, Mannhattan seems like the wrong place to do that. A couple of people were killed, including a Yankee.

I should probably feel worse about this, but the air traffic has been horrible for the past few months, and I've just been waiting for something like this to happen.

The worst part about all of this is that the only reason that planes are allowed to fly there is because they keep the rules lax for the news helicopters. After the helicopter crash last summer, you'd think that they'd have learnt their lesson.

seanchai @ 2006-09-01T00:47:00

2006-09-01T04:54:14Z

A quote that I feel it is nessecary to share with the slash-world. It comes from the book Dear Friends, an academic look at nineteenth century pictures of men together. The author is a gay man, and one of the running themes in the book is his struggle with the need to find affirmation and sexual subtext in the photographs.

... As an adolescent, I remember satisfying my yearning for representations of same-sex sexuality, of male flesh against male flesh, by looking at the photograohs of swimmers that illustrated the 'Junior lifesaving' manuals of the American Red Cross. In retrospect, that willful misuse of vernacular imagery had about it an unmistakeable charm, as did the accompanying projection of erotic scenarios onto the purely functional stagings of seminaked men in distress being rescued by others."

Proving once again that slash is hardly solely the domain of heterosexual women.

seanchai @ 2006-08-16T15:19:00

2006-08-16T19:20:42Z

This poem's a little long, so it gets its' own entry.

This is so not my usual style, but it worked well for this particular poem. I'm not actually all that fond of this as a whole, but there are a few lines that I think work.

It is strange to think of you now, with out the pain that comes
from falling touches and fallen words.
We sang together, tuneless, the night we met. Fifteen other
people around the bonfire, and I did not know you then, when
your eyes turned in one way, and mine in another.
And I cannot find your memory without some attachment of pain.
You held yourself so that your lines would not match to those
of the world, and you drew screams from those around you.

Dusty wooden floors, groaning in time to our uneven steps, you
and I and Naomi, dancing around each other. You two moved
in clashing orbit, and I circled, wary.
Touch and leave and touch again, I watched you and her from a
distance before I left too, away over empty roads, silent
watching as you tore each other out,
bleeding where you would not cry.

December and screaming and tears. You and her,
you and Naomi and tragedy as your third, spinning out in unstable orbits,
running ever closer to your own final end, and even then when
you both were empty, when you had drained her dry,
canary bright wings stilled, no more tragedy or anger to run on, you
clung to each other, pillars of pain and rage broken down into
dust, all that was left.

When you came again, wandering and looking for something that
you could not find in the empty space between your bones,
I found empty spaces to match, mysteries singing like december
ice in the places that I did not know as mine.

Back and forth- we went in circles, and there was no love song
for our childhood as we touched each other,
and learned to worship our land, high and stark.
Dancing hands on a high hill, snow and mud and trees and wires
above us, circling birds, and a dead fox.

We hid in the trees, and called the hills ‘mother’, cold curve
of grass in place of the warm curve of hand and face
that we missed and did not know.
Mother, we cried, mother. We looked for the truth behind the
ideal, and failing to find it, we made our own, false ideals and ash.

Fire was cold comfort in the winter, and even when we curled
together in your nest of blankets, we found ourselves
with too much heat and not enough.
We froze together at night, and found that our edges
had run together when we melted with the sun.

We drank our mysteries together, foolish children falling in
our own depths, never knowing how to find land.
You found shapes in me, and drew them out with gentle fingers,
singing stories of witches and wolves and being wanted.
And I believed- was it so strange that we found ourselves
together, forgotten and unwanted, making myths of our own
small tragedies, waiting to be seen or to be ready.

We sought together, looking for our own quests, and when I found
a new road, and left myself behind, you kept me together with
your voice and your words.

Lines of wire connecting us, state to state, we traded words and
sympathies, moving through our paces,
stopping and starting and stopping again
as we tried to find a way to communicate things of scared and sacred darkness, clinging and binding.

You cried the night your Lady died, and told me of her dark
eyes, of her fear and pride, of her vicious defense
of that which she held dear, small warrior fighting for her clan,
eked out of the stone with tooth and claw, family bound by shed blood and fear.
You told me of her trust in you, her soft sweet open love for
you and no other, and I wondered, was this what you wanted from me,
a love that was only yours, or was what you wanted
what she had, the strength and pain of your fears
honed as a weapon to turn on those around you.

Warrior fighter weakness strength fear pain and loss were
the truths you taught to me through the long empty spaces
of our winters’ nights, the battles all fought inside.
I told you of loneliness and order, the feel of ten year old
blue paint smooth under the palm, the holy dark silence of
three a.m. behind the couch. Life behind a glass wall,
watching as things pass by, observed but untouched, fear after
fear parading by in bright colors, and comfort only from within.

Clan and family, you said, packmate and cub, things to seek for
and find and loose. Home and den and place of heart you cried
for, never found and always lost with your words.
Quiet was the word I spoke. The peace of hidden things clutched
between fingers scrubbed raw and bleeding.
Flickering lamps, smooth pages and Gigue for comfort.
Remember these things when they fall apart,
make touchstones of what you can.

And you asked me, what was I like before my parents met, and
what was I like when I belonged in my body, when all of the
edges fit, and the pieces went together.
Who were you, you cried, before you wore the falsehoods of flesh
and bone, what did you believe
when you were unencumbered by the trappings of the world?

Did you see what came before the clay and the flesh, shaped and
worn so easily by prodding hands, seeking shapes of themselves.
Form and mold, all false things fallen to dust,
would there be anything left to be seen?

What did you see in me, the smooth edges of my body that opened
to your words, raw and bleeding?

You claimed kinship with the wolf, beautiful lupa.
But it was the seals in your Maine harbors that I thought of
when I looked into your eyes, liquid sadness singing through you,
so passive from a distance, sleek and shining in your depths.
There were shapes moving in your waters
that even you did not know about,
silent dark, and dangerous as sailing at night.

Sedna, seal woman with mangled hands, betrayed by man,
hated father for her only company.
Bringer of storms, mother to the creatures of the waters,
a comparison that I never dared to make.
Eyes dark as you take your bow and sea-shell knives,
ready to rend and smash.

There was cold rough green rug- and your aunt- below us
when you touched me.
Not the first time for either of us, and not clean -
We ran with the green and blue markings of our tribe of child-savages,
painted on with the brush strokes of false worship
and hungry clinging loneliness.

We lay together, or lied in a self made ritual space.
You took things that I could not give, and I held myself at the
edge of understanding.

You enveloped me under layers of understanding and talk that
was not cheap - every minute cost us.
When words were all that we had, we used them well, but when we
could touch, we played games of wordless communion,
and miscommunicated, unable to make our bodies speak the same language.

And we could not find peace or understanding - of ourselves or of
the universe in each other, so we searched for other things.
We sought life together, looking for the enlightenment we could
not find in school and found that living was only another trip.

Innocence and knowledge, death and other things, and we found
that in everything that we looked for
the answers lay in opposite directions.
And when we should have parted, we only hung on,
one minute longer, and there was more comfort in familiarity than in knowledge.

In the smokey summer night your long pale fingers looked like wax
as you lit the candles for shabbat, face as solemn and hollow as a mask.
It was my first ceremony, and I saw beauty reflected in your face
Strange words and signs that perhaps my blood should know,
written on the edges of the plate - special food that I had made,
with the mandates of your new illness in mind.

Three days till I left for another new road, and we all ready
knew, my first ritual would be our last, there would be no second coming.
We had taken too much, and had run out of words with meaning.
When ‘Pass the chicken’ has become the extent of conversation
between literary lovers, it is time to call it the end.

We spoke once more, and with our last dry words did not say
goodbye, not enough left perhaps, to bid farewell to.
But you told me one last thing, wisdom or irony. When it all
comes down to dust, what is left is what is real.
And if we found no truth in each other, and only dust, then
perhaps that is enough.

seanchai @ 2006-08-16T15:04:00

2006-08-16T19:15:40Z

Just putting up some of my old poetry to make sure that it's archived somewhere.

I wrote this for class a few years back. I'm not particularly good at haiku, but these came out okay.

Internal heating.
smooth wood and the scent of pine
little glass baubles glow.

Old leather and wood
the scent of fire, snow and ash
falling together.

Frozen grass and mud
icicles frosting the eaves
Endless stars above.

Creaking chain and snow
mirror crust of ice on top
bordered by warm light.

Open light and fire
prickly carpet under cold toes,
bright colors beckon.

The yard is filled with
frozen dirty snow angels and
half finished Snow-Men.

I like sestina. They're fun. I started writing this about three years ago, when I was playing around with a story idea that involved medieval lesbians. The story didn't pan out, but I still like the poem.

It has always been the Word
That tells us what we need to know of God
And lets us know that we have been found
Keeping faith in the pews
Waiting beneath the steeples
To be rewarded with a smile

So tell me, why is it that my smiles
Are met only with censure, and reproving words
When I come to the steeples
looking for God
And instead meet you in the pews
And believe myself found.

Is the fact that I find
Joy in your smile
As we kneel together in the pews
So wrong? I can find no words
In all the books of God
To tell me that I should feel but one love beneath the steeples.

So we meet beneath the steeples,
And I come to find
That as time passes, God
Seems ever more to reside in your smile
And it seems that your words
Give me more peace than those ring out over the pews

Still, I am told that I must kneel in the pews
And pray beneath the steeples
And humble myself before the mighty Words
That ring out, and find
myself solemn, and must not smile
When I come in the house of God

But could there be such cruelty in God?
From all that I have heard whispered in the pews
He is kind, and smiles
upon love, whether it is comes in the streets or beneath the steeples
For it is in God that all love is found,
Whether it comes from their sermons or your words.

And tell me this; Where should I find God in the steeples
and the pews if I could not find him
in your words, your smile, your laugh?

seanchai @ 2005-12-28T16:03:00

2005-12-28T21:15:25Z

We're back from Cleveland, and we all survived. I'm not certain that the cat's mentally intact after his run-in with the dog, but at least he's here, and not tryingto hide under the bed any more.

Also- elspethdixon I got your present. It is the best present ever. Seriously. On opening it, I squealed loudly enough to wake the dead, or at least to re-traumitize Darwin.

Meta for the holidays, but not holiday-meta

2005-12-25T05:14:04Z

Michel de Montaigne once said, "Writing does not cause misery. It is born of misery."

Sometimes I wonder if the essential misery behind the writing of most science fiction and fantasy authors is the fact that they never found the magical world in their closet. I mean, I know I spent most of my childhood convinced that there was magic just around the corner; and if I only poked through enough wardrobes, read enough old, dusty books, and waited patiently enough, eventually it would find me. And I think that may be where a lot of what I write comes from.

I think that I've always known this to a certain extent, but it's only really become clear in the last few years, with all of the Lord of the Rings movies, and now Narnia. I loved all of those movies, but I have to admit to a certain nostalgic sadness watching them. At first I thought it was because I read all of those books when I was about nine, but after having a lengthy discussion about Narnia, it occurred to me that that wasn't why I found those movies slightly sad at all; I found then sad because I'm still waiting for that special magical something to find me.

I tend to suspect that there are two ways people could go on this; there's the Miracle of 34th Street route, where you become bitter and refuse to believe in anything at all. And then there's the route that I see a lot of fantasy writers taking. Instead of becoming bitter (or at least instead of letting the bitterness take over), you take all of those fantastical things that you believed in as a child and use it to create your own world. After all, if reality's not going to be kind enough to supply us with magic, why not create our own?

“Why did I write? Because I found life unsatisfactory.” - Tennessee Williams

Writers end up writing about their obsessions. Things that haunt them; things they can't forget; stories they carry in their bodies waiting to be released. - Natalie Goldberg

seanchai @ 2005-12-23T01:00:00

2005-12-23T06:13:31Z

The strike is over! I was lucky; I didn't have to go anywhere, so I wasn't badly affected. In fact, for me, the worst part was that since classes were canceled due to the strike, I had to send in all of my papers by email. But my American Literature teacher refused to take papers by email, so I had to pay $16.03 to mail it there before the break.

But the semester's over! Everything is in, so I'll definitely be passing everything this year. I think I ought to be getting all A's and B's as well, so it's been a good semester.

We're going to Cleveland tomorrow, so on the off chance that anyone needs to get in contact with me, email's your best chance.

Happy non-denominational-winter-gift-giving-holiday everyone!

ETA: To celebrate the end of the year, and the fact that I'm finally done with my writing class, I'm going to post up what I've written.

This is original fiction, so chances are no one but elspethdixon will have any idea what this is all about. A couple of people may remember a short piece that I posted about a character named Miriam; well, this is more of her story, as well as Kit and Matt's. There are a few problems with this peice, but I rather like it.

Chicago was a uniform, oily gray, and the smoke of industrialization hung over it like a pall. Miriam thought that it might be slowly suffocating her. In the morning, she knew she would have to get up and find work. She needed food, and to pay the month’s rent, but more, she needed to get out of Chicago before it killed her. For the moment though, she was curled up on her side, arms wrapped around herself, one hand pressed to her flat, hollow stomach.

She was exhausted; too worn out and empty to feel anything. It had been two and a half months since Miriam had left home, and she was too tired to even be afraid any more.

Miriam doesn't remember much between San Francisco and Chicago, the states between a blur of swiftly passing fields and forests. She can remember leaving in vivid, perfect detail: packing her valise with shaking fingers, slipping out before dawn, certain her husband had divined her plans, that he would wake, that he would bar the doors, that she would never get away. After that, the main thing Miriam remembers is being cold and hungry, and the sick knowledge that since she had left her husband without a Gett, she could never return home, even if she wanted to.

In her memory, her husband is a beast of a man, big enough to wrap a hand around her throat without even trying, with a voice loud enough to shatter windows. In reality, Miriam knows, he was scarcely taller than her, and he had rarely ever raised his voice. That almost made it worse, knowing that however terrifying he was in her mind, in truth, he had only looked like a normal man. Monsters are most frightening when they look like ordinary people.

By the time she had reached Chicago, Miriam had been almost penniless, and desperate. The city had been terrifying, loud and solid and unavoidably alive, real in a way that the bleak winter-grey of the Mid-West hadn't been. By comparison, Miriam felt insubstantial, as though she might simply fade away and become just one more reflection in the wavering, rain-streaked shop windows.

A woman alone, without a family, didn’t have many options, and she had known that if she couldn’t find work, she’d be out on the streets, and what she'd find there would be worse than what she'd found with her husband.

Miriam had been lucky, she had managed to find work. Nothing well-paying or permanent, but it had been enough to keep her off the streets and fed. And for the first time since she’d left California, she had started to relax.

That was when she had realized that she was pregnant.

Miriam was humming to herself, the soft, repetitive drone of a nursery rhyme. Her mother had sung it to her when she was little, in the safe darkness of the nursery. She hadn’t thought of it in years, but alone, in the cold silence of her attic room, it offered a kind of thin comfort. With one hand pressed against her stomach, Miriam thought that she could almost feel invisible scars.

There was a copy of The Just So Stories lying on the bare mattress by her head. It was worn and frayed at the corners, and the cover was water-stained. It was one of the few things she had managed to take with her when she had left her husband’s house for good. It had been her favorite book as a child, one she had saved for and bought herself when she was seven. Miriam knew the book so well that she thought that she might be able to read the book by feel alone; How Rhinoceros Got His Skin on the page with the tear, How the Leopard Got His Spots on the page with the folded corner, The Elephant’s Child, crossed through with the pencil marks of some previous reader.

The only room Miriam had been able to afford upon reaching Chicago was a tiny garret, barely big enough to hold her and the threadbare, stained mattress that came with the room. It was cold in the winter, and, Miriam imagined, it would be stiflingly hot in the summer, if she could have borne to stay that long. In fact, as far as Miriam could tell, the only good thing about her room was that it was on the top floor of the building, high, and far away from the unending noise and bustle of the city. Lying there alone, she could almost remember what it was like to imagine herself a princess, the heroine of the books she had read in secret, after her parents were asleep.

At the moment, Miriam didn’t feel much like a princess. She mostly felt as if the air was trapped in her lungs, a scream that had died before it was born.

Miriam raised a hand to rub at her eyes, unsurprised to feel that they were dry. She had no more tears left, not for this. If there was one thing that she had learned since leaving home, it was that the world was not kind to a woman alone, and that sometimes, unpleasant things had to be done in the name of survival.

Now though, Miriam wasn’t certain what she was going to do. All she knew was that she needed to get out of Chicago.

The problem was that she wasn’t certain that anywhere else was going to be any better. Besides which, she had no idea where she was going. Chicago had been an easy target; it had been far enough away from San Francisco for her to feel safe, big enough for her to get lost in. Unfortunately, at the moment, Miriam wasn’t sure that she could even find herself in the endless grey morass that was winter in Chicago.

Miriam pushed herself into a sitting position, ignoring the dull ache in her stomach. She brushed a long tangle of dark hair out of her face, and pulled The Just So Stories into her lap. Hidden under a flap of paper in the back of the book was all of her money; with a little luck she might have enough to get a train ticket. She could leave in the morning, if she knew where she was going. The problem was, that would mean arriving in a new city or town without any money or prospects, and she knew full well just how foolish that would be.

Still, foolish or not, it might be her only chance.

Miriam closed the book, brushing her fingers over the frayed edge of the postcard that she had been using as a bookmark since she was ten. On a whim, she pulled it out, and read over the familiar words. The card was from her favorite uncle; he had been a bit of a wanderer, and had traveled all over, sending her cards, letters and trinkets as he went. He was also the only member of her family who wasn’t Orthodox, and at times like this, Miriam wished to God that he hadn’t died when she was twelve.

Miriam tapped the card against her palm absently, then frowned and flipped it over. The front of the card showed a cityscape, with the words New York City emblazoned over it in bright letters.

New York. It was just a name on a postcard, a faceless city, filled with thousands of faceless people. But her uncle had liked it. Of course, she had no idea if she could even find work there, but then, she’d had no idea if she was going to be able to find work in Chicago either.

It wasn’t much, but it was a destination.

* * *

Kit was beginning to think that he might just be fading away. They were mid-way across the Atlantic, he hadn't spoken to anyone in three days, and he was starting to think that he might just be disappearing, slowly fading away into the dark vastness of the water that surrounded them.

He didn’t know what he was going to do when the ship reached port. He had nothing but himself, and his violin, and just over fifty pounds, though Kit wasn’t sure how much good that would do him once they had reach America. He grasped the railing that ran the length of the ship, and watched the water slip silently past.

The ship was only halfway to New York, and already, he couldn’t help but think about how easy it would be to disappear into the high, orderly gray lines of the city. Cities were ultimately indifferent, and would not notice one body more or less, live or dead.

When he was a boy, his Grandmother had told him stories of the seal-people, the Selkies, dark eyed women who kept their secrets beneath their skin. They would save or drown sailors on a whim, and Kit could remember the stories of men lost at sea, returned to land with wild eyes, doomed to wander the shore until they died. As he remembered the tales, it didn’t usually take long. He had wondered what marvels they saw beneath the waves that drove them to such madness. He wondered what he would see beneath the waves now.

They were too far from land for seals.

Kit flexed his hands on the railing, feeling the pull of healing skin, and the deeper ache of things not yet properly healed. If he thought about it at all, he could conjure up the memory of noise, and terrified confusion, and the choking, sickly-sweet scent of mustard. He was very careful not to think about it.

Back in France, the war was still raging, but Kit couldn’t bring himself to feel anything more than numb exhaustion at the thought. At the moment, Kit thought, he was simply too tired to be tired anymore. If his father had known where he was- on the first ship leaving port he could find, heading towards America, as far from the war as he could get at - he’d have branded Kit seven kinds of coward. But his father had already done that, and it was why Kit was heading towards America in the first place, which made it all moot anyway.

Kit had no idea what he was going to do once the ship reached America. He wasn’t even certain why he was on a ship heading towards America, but since they were in the middle of the ocean, worrying about it wasn’t going to do him much good. Which didn’t mean that he wasn’t going to worry, of course. Worrying seemed to be all he could do anymore.

Kit sighed and turned away from the railing and the dark expanse of the water, sliding down to sit on the deck beside his violin case, leaning against the railing. The sun was setting, and it was starting to get cold, but he didn’t want to go back in yet. Up on deck, the wind cut through his thin clothes like a knife, and exacerbated the nagging cough that hadn’t left him since France, but the stifling, crowded heat below-decks was worse. On deck, he might be alone, but at least he had the sea for companionship.

Kit ran his hands through his hair; it was starting to get long again, but then, he’d hardly had the time to cut it before leaving England, and he couldn’t bring himself to care at the moment.

He brushed a hand over the clasp of his violin case, hesitating. The sea air wasn’t good for the instrument, and Kit dropped his hands into his lap, flexing them carefully. The burns were healing, but he knew that if he let his hands stiffen up now, he’d pay for it later, and he couldn’t afford for that to happen now; if he was going to make a go of it in America, he was going to have to be able to play.

Music had always been the defining edge of Kit's life. His earliest memories were of his mother singing; she had had a high, soft voice, nothing exceptional, but pretty. And she had loved singing. As a child, he had sung along with her, happy because she was happy. Things had been simpler then.

When he was seven, his mother had arranged for him to have music lessons, learning to play the piano and the violin, and Kit had found that he loved music as much as she did. Everything had seemed to make more sense when he could lose himself in the simplicity of rhythm and meter, and as the years went on, music had been his favored companion. Even in the trenches there had been music. He had been forced to leave his violin behind, of course, but he had found, for the first time in his life, that music could be a way to connect with people, singing familiar folk tunes or war songs with the other men. Now though, Kit was cure that even if his voice wasn’t ruined for singing, his lungs were.

But he still had his violin. The sea air probably had it horribly out of tune, but he could still play. And as long as he could play, he still had something. He also had fifty pounds, two changes of clothes, and the three books he’d managed to take with him; he wasn’t certain that it would be enough to start a new life on, but it was what he had, and it would have to be enough.

* * *

It was just before dawn, and the air was still and cold. It was early January, and for the first time since Matt had come to Paris, things were almost peaceful. With a sigh, Matt wrapped his arms around himself, watching his breath form wispy clouds against the lightening sky. He had risen before dawn, unable to sleep, and slipped out into the silent streets. It was too early for anything to be open, and there was nothing left for him in Paris any more.

It was over a year since the unofficial end of the war, and the stream of dead and dying had finally stopped. For the first days and weeks after the unofficial peace had been reached, the injured and the dead had kept on pouring through Paris unabated, brought in from the aid stations, or what had been the front lines. They had come in with burns and bullet wounds and shrapnel wounds, with missing limbs or with their skin and lungs eaten away by the mustard gas. And of course, there were also people with influenza, and not all of them soldiers.

Matt almost thought that he had seen more people dead of the flu than anything else. He had driven an ambulance through all kinds of hell for nearly two years, but the gasping, blue-tinged faces of the flu victims were their own, special kind of hell. There was no comfort to be offered there.

He had come to France in 1917, three years ago now, with his brother, Taddeo. Tad had gone to fight in the trenches, while Matt had been sent off as an ambulance driver. Matt hadn’t minded; ferrying the wounded from the front lines back to aid stations, or from the aid stations to Paris might not have been particularly heroic, but it was good work, and while Matt might not have been saving lives himself, he was helping to do it.

Matt had known from the beginning that whatever he did to help the war effort, he wasn’t going to be fighting. He couldn’t picture himself fighting- killing- other people. Matt had always been the peacemaker. He had been the one to try to talk others out of a fight, or to patch them up in the aftermath. So working as an ambulance driver had come naturally to him; he got to help out without hurting anyone. Tad had never had the same reservations about fighting that Matt had, and Matt had known that Tad was going to go and fight from the moment he had heard that America had joined the war.

It had only seemed natural; Tad had been the heroic type, even as a child. He had always been ready to jump in and defend the smaller children from bullies, had always been ready stand up for what he believed in. And even though they had looked exactly the same, in Matt’s mind Tad had always been the handsomer: tall, and strong and noble, while Matt had always just felt too tall, hands and feet too big for his body, gawky and awkward beside Tads’ easy self-confidence.

So it had been only natural that Tad was going to go and fight, was going to go and be a hero. Matt couldn’t help but wonder if it was just as natural that he had been going to die.

The sun was starting to rise, lightening the sky to a smoky gray; it had been snowing on and off in little flurries for the past few days, but the growing chill predicted more soon.

Matt slipped his hands into the pockets of his coat, fingers brushing over paper. In his left pocket there was a worn, crumpled letter, post-marked Boston, from his mother, asking after his health, and when he would be home, how nicely his little cousins were growing, and how they had had a stone put up for Tad, even though they didn’t have his body, and asking again when Matt would be coming home.

In his right pocket, Matt had the letter informing him that he would be going home in just over two months, along with the various tickets he would need to get there. He also had a letter from his cousin Mary in his right pocket. She was the oldest of his cousins, just three years younger than he was. She had left home only a few months after he and Tad, heading for New York, intent on becoming an actress. Being in France, Matt had missed most of the drama that he was certain had surrounded that, but the long and short of it was that Mary was still an actress, but now she also had a wealthy beau, and he had rented her a lovely little place, and if Matt wanted to stay with her, it wouldn’t be a bother at all.

Boston was home. It was where most of his family was. It was where he knew he had a job waiting for him, if he wanted it. It was where Tad wasn’t buried. It was where he’d grown up. But Matt wasn’t sure that he wanted to go back to Boston. It had been his home. He wasn’t sure that it was anymore. And after everything that had happened in the past three years, Matt wasn’t sure that he wanted to go home anyway.

He wasn’t sure that he wanted to go to New York either, but in any case, it was where his ship put to port in America. Besides which, as long as he was going to be in New York anyway, he could check in on Mary, and make sure that her beau was treating her right.

Transit strike

2005-12-20T10:48:10Z

Well, it looks like the transit workers are going on strike.

This doesn't really affect me, since classes are pretty much over, but it does mean I'll have to mail my American Lit. paper in by post. Our teacher has email; I don't know why she won't take papers that way. It's going to be a serious bitch making sure she gets the thing before grades are due.

seanchai @ 2005-12-04T11:18:00

2005-12-04T16:23:01Z

Snow!

seanchai @ 2005-11-04T23:46:00

2005-11-22T04:48:49Z

Dude. Ted Koppel's a Patrick O'Brien fan.

This has made my night.