Supernatural fic: Reaping Time (A Faith Remix)
Thursday, 22 June 2006 20:58![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
krisomniacUm. This just happened, in the way an out-of-control Mack truck just happens, and when 50,000 pounds of steel are bearing down, you either run with it or get the hell out of its way. I ran.
Title: Reaping Time (A Faith Remix)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
krisomniac
Rating/Warnings/Pairing: PG, death, none
Disclaimer: I don't own them, no copyright infringement intended.
Word Count: ~2500
Summary, A/N: Another recalls the events in Nebraska, in the winter of 2006, because it's no coincidence that Sue Ann died of a stroke. Many thanks tomedicinal_mirth for helping me feel the flow.
A solemn voice shook the busy downtown district.
There is no man living who, seeing the angel of death, can deliver his soul from his fate
No one turned to look--no one except the dog across the street, who immediately returned to the pressing task of licking its privates.
The reaper sighed. Not one of the busy businessmen or office minions rushing from place to place was waiting to hear a voice deeper than the ocean, words echoing across the mountains of forever. Neither, for that matter, was the man trapped under the overturned cement mixer. Lodging fear in the hearts of men simply wasn't part of the job description... any more.
The Prince of Darkness had recently told the world-weary reaper to lighten up a little, and Peter by the Pearly Gates had suggested that he should, perhaps, take a vacation. Go someplace warm. Get a tan.
He pulled the Blackberry from the front pocket of his suit and awkwardly began to press its tiny buttons. Glancing quickly at the date, something deep inside him shifted and groaned, and he quickly pressed another key, scrolling down the long list of names that appeared on the luminous screen. After double-checking the time and location and stepping around a bright orange construction pylon, he turned to the man lying broken on the ground.
Frank, he croaked. Frank Glass.
The man said nothing, and the reaper bent over him, smiling slightly through the deep folds of his skin.
Though he no longer carried a scythe--after some lesser angel had declared it a workplace hazard--some things, he knew, would never change.
Hand to Frank's temple, white light shivered where their skin touched. For an imperceptible moment, time stopped, and the man's eyes glazed white. Then he was free. The reaper stood and surveyed his work.
Frank, he whispered to himself, satisfied with a job well done.
The soul to his right shimmered in and out of the light of the world. It touched itself, or tried to, and looked down at its body in disbelief. "Am, am I--?"
The reaper nodded silently.
"Oh." Frank looked around him as though he'd never seen this street or sky before. He walked a few steps and stumbled in distraction, mesmirized by the play of light on windows, the sound of each insect buzzing. A large, heavy man, he waved his arms around him, spinning like a child, opening his mouth to drink the air like he'd never known the taste of it.
The reaper waited patiently; he had seen this type of confusion many times.
"I suppose it's no good telling you my regrets and wishes, is it?" Frank tore his eyes from the wonders that he'd been surrounded by every day, and looked at the reaper.
The reaper shrugged.
"So what happens now?" People were starting to gather around the body. In the distance they heard the wail of sirens. Cement leaked from the cracked chambers of the truck; It was going to be messy here, very soon. "Never mind," Frank said, "I'm not sure I want to know."
The reaper turned and signalled for Frank to follow. He was only permitted to walk a short way on the paths of the dead, but Frank fell easily in step beside him. Then, unsure why, the reaper slipped his Blackberry back into his pocket and asked quietly, a drink for the road? Without waiting for an answer, he guided Frank's spirit into the diner across the street. The humans all moved out of their way, stopping to check the time or remembering prior engagements just before hitting the pair of otherworldly travelers. Frank and the reaper walked unhindered to an empty table in the corner.
"You can eat?" Frank asked. "I can eat?"
The reaper smiled cryptically and two glasses appeared on the table, flickering in and out of existance with every shift of the light. He took a sip. It tasted like pure air. Everything he made tasted of air; the reaper didn't know any other flavor. Across the table, Frank savored his cup of wind as though it was a nectar of the gods.
They drank in silence for a while, then Frank asked, "So this is what you do?"
The reaper nodded.
"Now, I'm not gonna ask you where I'm going, 'cause that would spoil the surprise. But I've got a few questions for you, if you don't mind?"
Any other time, they'd be halfway to Judgement Day, a pretty little restaurant in San Fransisco, but the reaper had a nagging feeling that there was something important about today, something that had been lost in the shuffled millenia of memories. So he sat here, instead, and signalled Frank to go on.
"You been doing this a long time?" Frank asked.
The reaper almost smiled. Longer than some. Time was relative, after all.
"So you're not the only one?"
The reaper shook his head, but volunteered no more. He knew many of the others, knew the trace of their scents, the slant of their backs on the open road, their mocking laughter and smiles--but he was certain he did not know them all, or even how many of his kind there were.
"You find it gets pretty routine, all the dying and shuttling people off to another place?"
The reaper grinned. Nothing more routine than death. He rather liked this spirit, Frank, his easy way of talking and moving, soft midwestern accent. Time slowed imperceptibly as they sat, drawing out the afternoon.
"Nah, I guess not." Frank examined the contents of his glass. "I had a wife once," he said suddenly. "But you probably knew that."
The reaper nodded out of politeness. In truth, one face blended into another, as one year into the next, so many faces, all of them human--or at least mostly so--all of them dead, and after a while he forgot their individual features, even the ones he ought to remember.... Something tugged at the edge of his consciousness. He probed at the thought, but nothing else seemed forthcoming.
"You didn't... didn't know." Frank took another sip of his drink to hide the disappointment etched in the lines around his eyes. He sighed. "Well I remember her."
The reaper watched Frank search his memories, recalling the sound of his wife's voice in the morning, the way her hair fell out of its bun when she worked in their little garden, the day of her thirtieth birthday, when she rolled over in bed and informed Frank that she didn't feel any different.
Then, in a rush of light and color, the reaper remembered.
She was waiting by her husband's bedside, hunched over and praying, blonde hair hiding her face, covering the vial around her neck, the ancient cross in her hands. She couldn't see the reaper coming.
Her husband could, though it was the only thing he'd seen in many months of waiting.
The reaper reached out to the man, and his world exploded in pain.
He inhaled sharply, stared at Frank. The ghost was studying him warily.
The reaper wondered what Frank thought of his sunken eyes and heavily wrinkled, grey skin. He wondered whether Frank thought the dark, ill-fitting suit too formal for the occasion, and he had an urge to explain it was the best he could do when orders came down that bones and cloaks were no longer appropriate attire.
That had been before the Binding.
She began to whisper softly as he reached for the man, mumbled words that blended together, a desperate litany, her final farewell.
He registered the words as Latin at the same moment he saw the cross clutched in her trembling fingers. Leashes of fire encircled the bones that still lurked beneath his new skin and waistcoat.
Unable to pull away, the chains seared the skin under his strarched, white cuffs. The blind man breathed haltingly in bed, and the reaper could not reach him.
The need for a life to balance the scales coursed through him, pulled him towards the bed and the Bind. The afterworlds were waiting, waiting for the reaper and his charge. Sue Anne--she introduced herself politely--told him where he would find it.
It was today, ten years ago today, he had gone to the blind man's bedside. The reaper shivered in the sunlight through the window. He had almost allowed himself to forget.
Frank, perceptive to a fault, spoke again. "You ever get the wrong guy?" he asked. "Ever let anyone go?"
The reaper closed his eyes.
He remembered the running. They all ran, the humans on his new list, Sue Anne's list. He followed with halting movements; this chase was strange to him.
Even Bound, he caught each one and took the innocent life, the wrongness and betrayal of the act staring back at him through their pale, haunted eyes. He balanced the Great Scales, returning each stolen life to a body ready to leave this world, and led each prematurely severed soul away, ignoring the stares of his brothers and sisters, their whispers, their fear of the Bind laid over his hands.
Everyone ran.
All but one. His face, the reaper remembered. This, one, he'd touched but never led away. Winchester. He knew the name, though it had yet to appear on his list, knew recognition, resignation and defiance in haunted eyes, knew him as the man who didn't run.
He shook his head. It was not in a reaper's nature to let go, only to read the lists, balance the scales, lead the dead.
Frank smiled at the pretty waitress, trying to catch her eye. She walked past their table without glancing over, as though it had temporarily slipped out of the world, which, in all likeliness, it had. Frank's spirit slumped back in his chair and flickered fiercely, trying to stay, hoping to find his place again. He dropped his glass on the table with a silent thump and stood, walked over to the one beside theirs and tried to signal the couple sitting there. They moved easily around his flailing gestures.
Returning to the reaper, he sighed. "I guess I don't belong here any more," he said.
The reaper looked out the window. It was still afternoon, shadows lengthening so slowly across the street. Time oozed forward like spilled honey. The reaper pulled the Blackberry from his pocket and read the next name on the list: Marco Juarez, Peurto Angel, Mexico. He could be there in no time, once he decided to leave.
Frank stood over his shoulder, reading the list of tiny names. "So they never make a mistake?" he asked. "--Whoever gives you that list. You've never wanted to change an order?"
The reaper thought for a moment, forced himself to relive those days he spent Bound by blood and curses. And he remembered with pride, that he'd never allowed the Scales to tip, never allowed a death without giving back the requisite life. They appreciated that, in all the afterworlds he frequented. He had even received a certificate of commendation--later lost to the waters of the styx.
Sue Anne whispered over her cross, assigning him lives to take and souls to spare, like some righteous, dyed-blonde travesty of a god. His new skin--which never fit as well as the bones he'd grown accostomed to--crawled when she spoke, the Bind between them strongest in these moments. But he did his job and did it well; The Winchester boy fell to his knees, fading fast. A lifetime of fighting dimmed behind his lashes. It would be over quickly. The reaper could give him that mercy, at least.
Then a figure came hurtling out of the night.
He did not see it, but felt it in the quivering of the Bind. Even as he took the life--so much life--from the body before him, he felt his chains change hands, felt the Bind weaken, orders disappear like smoke. The reaper paused.
He had never felt so free.
The world had never seemed so full of color and flavor and rushing wind. The boy's life slipped from his fingers, returning to the place it most belonged, and he lay on the ground gasping for breath. In a moment, the reaper appeared in front of the tent, borne on a wind of ten thousand years' frustrations.
He held his hand to Sue Anne's head, heedless and reckless, and for that instant he did not care whether her name appeared on anyone's list, or what they would say about this Upstairs. He would have vengeance, Satan take the rules.
As she collapsed on the rocky earth, he understood; his part wasn't justice. There was no good or bad, there was only his job, and as she breathed her last, he remembered it. Her life weighed heavily in his arms, awkward and unwieldy.
He felt himself pulled into the tent, summoned to the side of a younger woman who, overcome by anxiety, expectation and fear, was dying on her knees in the dirt.
There was no judgement, there were only scales, equations in need of balance, a woman's life in his hands, a body dying before him. He put a hand on her head.
"I don't feel any different," she told the blind man, but the scales weighed even, and the reaper knew the truth.
The reaper smiled, almost wistfully. He stood and pushed his chair back from the table, a busboy neatly stepping around it. His vigil was over. Their faces faded into the background hum of distant memory. Even Frank, standing before him, began to blur.
He'd returned to the dingy motel after hearings, proceedings, and pardons in this world and the next. Curiosity, perhaps, or a wintry wind carried him to Nebraska on a break between jobs. He shivered to see them again, talking quietly.
"He laid his hands on my head, but nothing happened." She sat down on the bed, smiling sadly, unaware that her name had been striken from the list, at least for now.
"I'm sorry," the boy said, and the reaper, who'd heard the same words from men weighed down by all possible real--and imagined--sin, saw that this one truly was. "I'm sorry it didn't work."
"And Sue Anne... She's dead, you know. Stroke."
Something churned inside the reaper, howling and crying for what was lost. He no longer heard their words, felt himself, was aware of time. The wall rushed up to meet him as he fell back against it, steadying himself on the rough plaster and cracked paint. The glow of the alarm on the bedside table brought him back to the present, minutes ticking peacefully by.
"...God works in mysterious ways," she said. The reaper shook his head. If this is what it felt like to play god, he would leave it to the righteous and the fools. He pulled the list from his pocket, passed through the door, and did not look back. He'd see these two again, but not, he knew, for a fair stretch of--
Time, he whispered. It's time for us to go. He took Frank's hand and led him from the busy diner, into the quiet twilight beyond.
Title: Reaping Time (A Faith Remix)
Author:
krisomniacRating/Warnings/Pairing: PG, death, none
Disclaimer: I don't own them, no copyright infringement intended.
Word Count: ~2500
Summary, A/N: Another recalls the events in Nebraska, in the winter of 2006, because it's no coincidence that Sue Ann died of a stroke. Many thanks to
medicinal_mirth for helping me feel the flow.A solemn voice shook the busy downtown district.
There is no man living who, seeing the angel of death, can deliver his soul from his fate
No one turned to look--no one except the dog across the street, who immediately returned to the pressing task of licking its privates.
The reaper sighed. Not one of the busy businessmen or office minions rushing from place to place was waiting to hear a voice deeper than the ocean, words echoing across the mountains of forever. Neither, for that matter, was the man trapped under the overturned cement mixer. Lodging fear in the hearts of men simply wasn't part of the job description... any more.
The Prince of Darkness had recently told the world-weary reaper to lighten up a little, and Peter by the Pearly Gates had suggested that he should, perhaps, take a vacation. Go someplace warm. Get a tan.
He pulled the Blackberry from the front pocket of his suit and awkwardly began to press its tiny buttons. Glancing quickly at the date, something deep inside him shifted and groaned, and he quickly pressed another key, scrolling down the long list of names that appeared on the luminous screen. After double-checking the time and location and stepping around a bright orange construction pylon, he turned to the man lying broken on the ground.
Frank, he croaked. Frank Glass.
The man said nothing, and the reaper bent over him, smiling slightly through the deep folds of his skin.
Though he no longer carried a scythe--after some lesser angel had declared it a workplace hazard--some things, he knew, would never change.
Hand to Frank's temple, white light shivered where their skin touched. For an imperceptible moment, time stopped, and the man's eyes glazed white. Then he was free. The reaper stood and surveyed his work.
Frank, he whispered to himself, satisfied with a job well done.
The soul to his right shimmered in and out of the light of the world. It touched itself, or tried to, and looked down at its body in disbelief. "Am, am I--?"
The reaper nodded silently.
"Oh." Frank looked around him as though he'd never seen this street or sky before. He walked a few steps and stumbled in distraction, mesmirized by the play of light on windows, the sound of each insect buzzing. A large, heavy man, he waved his arms around him, spinning like a child, opening his mouth to drink the air like he'd never known the taste of it.
The reaper waited patiently; he had seen this type of confusion many times.
"I suppose it's no good telling you my regrets and wishes, is it?" Frank tore his eyes from the wonders that he'd been surrounded by every day, and looked at the reaper.
The reaper shrugged.
"So what happens now?" People were starting to gather around the body. In the distance they heard the wail of sirens. Cement leaked from the cracked chambers of the truck; It was going to be messy here, very soon. "Never mind," Frank said, "I'm not sure I want to know."
The reaper turned and signalled for Frank to follow. He was only permitted to walk a short way on the paths of the dead, but Frank fell easily in step beside him. Then, unsure why, the reaper slipped his Blackberry back into his pocket and asked quietly, a drink for the road? Without waiting for an answer, he guided Frank's spirit into the diner across the street. The humans all moved out of their way, stopping to check the time or remembering prior engagements just before hitting the pair of otherworldly travelers. Frank and the reaper walked unhindered to an empty table in the corner.
"You can eat?" Frank asked. "I can eat?"
The reaper smiled cryptically and two glasses appeared on the table, flickering in and out of existance with every shift of the light. He took a sip. It tasted like pure air. Everything he made tasted of air; the reaper didn't know any other flavor. Across the table, Frank savored his cup of wind as though it was a nectar of the gods.
They drank in silence for a while, then Frank asked, "So this is what you do?"
The reaper nodded.
"Now, I'm not gonna ask you where I'm going, 'cause that would spoil the surprise. But I've got a few questions for you, if you don't mind?"
Any other time, they'd be halfway to Judgement Day, a pretty little restaurant in San Fransisco, but the reaper had a nagging feeling that there was something important about today, something that had been lost in the shuffled millenia of memories. So he sat here, instead, and signalled Frank to go on.
"You been doing this a long time?" Frank asked.
The reaper almost smiled. Longer than some. Time was relative, after all.
"So you're not the only one?"
The reaper shook his head, but volunteered no more. He knew many of the others, knew the trace of their scents, the slant of their backs on the open road, their mocking laughter and smiles--but he was certain he did not know them all, or even how many of his kind there were.
"You find it gets pretty routine, all the dying and shuttling people off to another place?"
The reaper grinned. Nothing more routine than death. He rather liked this spirit, Frank, his easy way of talking and moving, soft midwestern accent. Time slowed imperceptibly as they sat, drawing out the afternoon.
"Nah, I guess not." Frank examined the contents of his glass. "I had a wife once," he said suddenly. "But you probably knew that."
The reaper nodded out of politeness. In truth, one face blended into another, as one year into the next, so many faces, all of them human--or at least mostly so--all of them dead, and after a while he forgot their individual features, even the ones he ought to remember.... Something tugged at the edge of his consciousness. He probed at the thought, but nothing else seemed forthcoming.
"You didn't... didn't know." Frank took another sip of his drink to hide the disappointment etched in the lines around his eyes. He sighed. "Well I remember her."
The reaper watched Frank search his memories, recalling the sound of his wife's voice in the morning, the way her hair fell out of its bun when she worked in their little garden, the day of her thirtieth birthday, when she rolled over in bed and informed Frank that she didn't feel any different.
Then, in a rush of light and color, the reaper remembered.
She was waiting by her husband's bedside, hunched over and praying, blonde hair hiding her face, covering the vial around her neck, the ancient cross in her hands. She couldn't see the reaper coming.
Her husband could, though it was the only thing he'd seen in many months of waiting.
The reaper reached out to the man, and his world exploded in pain.
He inhaled sharply, stared at Frank. The ghost was studying him warily.
The reaper wondered what Frank thought of his sunken eyes and heavily wrinkled, grey skin. He wondered whether Frank thought the dark, ill-fitting suit too formal for the occasion, and he had an urge to explain it was the best he could do when orders came down that bones and cloaks were no longer appropriate attire.
That had been before the Binding.
She began to whisper softly as he reached for the man, mumbled words that blended together, a desperate litany, her final farewell.
He registered the words as Latin at the same moment he saw the cross clutched in her trembling fingers. Leashes of fire encircled the bones that still lurked beneath his new skin and waistcoat.
Unable to pull away, the chains seared the skin under his strarched, white cuffs. The blind man breathed haltingly in bed, and the reaper could not reach him.
The need for a life to balance the scales coursed through him, pulled him towards the bed and the Bind. The afterworlds were waiting, waiting for the reaper and his charge. Sue Anne--she introduced herself politely--told him where he would find it.
It was today, ten years ago today, he had gone to the blind man's bedside. The reaper shivered in the sunlight through the window. He had almost allowed himself to forget.
Frank, perceptive to a fault, spoke again. "You ever get the wrong guy?" he asked. "Ever let anyone go?"
The reaper closed his eyes.
He remembered the running. They all ran, the humans on his new list, Sue Anne's list. He followed with halting movements; this chase was strange to him.
Even Bound, he caught each one and took the innocent life, the wrongness and betrayal of the act staring back at him through their pale, haunted eyes. He balanced the Great Scales, returning each stolen life to a body ready to leave this world, and led each prematurely severed soul away, ignoring the stares of his brothers and sisters, their whispers, their fear of the Bind laid over his hands.
Everyone ran.
All but one. His face, the reaper remembered. This, one, he'd touched but never led away. Winchester. He knew the name, though it had yet to appear on his list, knew recognition, resignation and defiance in haunted eyes, knew him as the man who didn't run.
He shook his head. It was not in a reaper's nature to let go, only to read the lists, balance the scales, lead the dead.
Frank smiled at the pretty waitress, trying to catch her eye. She walked past their table without glancing over, as though it had temporarily slipped out of the world, which, in all likeliness, it had. Frank's spirit slumped back in his chair and flickered fiercely, trying to stay, hoping to find his place again. He dropped his glass on the table with a silent thump and stood, walked over to the one beside theirs and tried to signal the couple sitting there. They moved easily around his flailing gestures.
Returning to the reaper, he sighed. "I guess I don't belong here any more," he said.
The reaper looked out the window. It was still afternoon, shadows lengthening so slowly across the street. Time oozed forward like spilled honey. The reaper pulled the Blackberry from his pocket and read the next name on the list: Marco Juarez, Peurto Angel, Mexico. He could be there in no time, once he decided to leave.
Frank stood over his shoulder, reading the list of tiny names. "So they never make a mistake?" he asked. "--Whoever gives you that list. You've never wanted to change an order?"
The reaper thought for a moment, forced himself to relive those days he spent Bound by blood and curses. And he remembered with pride, that he'd never allowed the Scales to tip, never allowed a death without giving back the requisite life. They appreciated that, in all the afterworlds he frequented. He had even received a certificate of commendation--later lost to the waters of the styx.
Sue Anne whispered over her cross, assigning him lives to take and souls to spare, like some righteous, dyed-blonde travesty of a god. His new skin--which never fit as well as the bones he'd grown accostomed to--crawled when she spoke, the Bind between them strongest in these moments. But he did his job and did it well; The Winchester boy fell to his knees, fading fast. A lifetime of fighting dimmed behind his lashes. It would be over quickly. The reaper could give him that mercy, at least.
Then a figure came hurtling out of the night.
He did not see it, but felt it in the quivering of the Bind. Even as he took the life--so much life--from the body before him, he felt his chains change hands, felt the Bind weaken, orders disappear like smoke. The reaper paused.
He had never felt so free.
The world had never seemed so full of color and flavor and rushing wind. The boy's life slipped from his fingers, returning to the place it most belonged, and he lay on the ground gasping for breath. In a moment, the reaper appeared in front of the tent, borne on a wind of ten thousand years' frustrations.
He held his hand to Sue Anne's head, heedless and reckless, and for that instant he did not care whether her name appeared on anyone's list, or what they would say about this Upstairs. He would have vengeance, Satan take the rules.
As she collapsed on the rocky earth, he understood; his part wasn't justice. There was no good or bad, there was only his job, and as she breathed her last, he remembered it. Her life weighed heavily in his arms, awkward and unwieldy.
He felt himself pulled into the tent, summoned to the side of a younger woman who, overcome by anxiety, expectation and fear, was dying on her knees in the dirt.
There was no judgement, there were only scales, equations in need of balance, a woman's life in his hands, a body dying before him. He put a hand on her head.
"I don't feel any different," she told the blind man, but the scales weighed even, and the reaper knew the truth.
The reaper smiled, almost wistfully. He stood and pushed his chair back from the table, a busboy neatly stepping around it. His vigil was over. Their faces faded into the background hum of distant memory. Even Frank, standing before him, began to blur.
He'd returned to the dingy motel after hearings, proceedings, and pardons in this world and the next. Curiosity, perhaps, or a wintry wind carried him to Nebraska on a break between jobs. He shivered to see them again, talking quietly.
"He laid his hands on my head, but nothing happened." She sat down on the bed, smiling sadly, unaware that her name had been striken from the list, at least for now.
"I'm sorry," the boy said, and the reaper, who'd heard the same words from men weighed down by all possible real--and imagined--sin, saw that this one truly was. "I'm sorry it didn't work."
"And Sue Anne... She's dead, you know. Stroke."
Something churned inside the reaper, howling and crying for what was lost. He no longer heard their words, felt himself, was aware of time. The wall rushed up to meet him as he fell back against it, steadying himself on the rough plaster and cracked paint. The glow of the alarm on the bedside table brought him back to the present, minutes ticking peacefully by.
"...God works in mysterious ways," she said. The reaper shook his head. If this is what it felt like to play god, he would leave it to the righteous and the fools. He pulled the list from his pocket, passed through the door, and did not look back. He'd see these two again, but not, he knew, for a fair stretch of--
Time, he whispered. It's time for us to go. He took Frank's hand and led him from the busy diner, into the quiet twilight beyond.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
2006-06-23 01:34 (UTC)no subject
2006-06-23 20:28 (UTC)no subject
2006-06-23 02:51 (UTC)Seriously, very quiet but strongly felt piece of writing. Love it.
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2006-06-23 20:29 (UTC)Yeah, funny that I found him so sympathetic despite the costume.
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2006-06-23 04:38 (UTC)no subject
2006-06-23 04:41 (UTC)no subject
2006-06-23 10:36 (UTC)*not-so-secretly loves Layla*
:D
a really brilliant coda of a sort to Faith. Thank you :D
no subject
2006-06-23 20:31 (UTC)And then, it wasn't as though Layla had any overt symptoms we knew about, so why would she fell all that different if she were cured?
I thought about writing a meta, but prefered to do it this way instead. (I'm crap at meta)
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2006-06-23 13:17 (UTC)no subject
2006-06-23 20:32 (UTC)no subject
2006-06-23 17:22 (UTC)no subject
2006-06-23 20:32 (UTC)no subject
2006-06-24 14:31 (UTC)no subject
2006-09-03 05:47 (UTC)no subject
2006-06-24 18:40 (UTC)Go someplace warm. Get a tan.
A large, heavy man, he waved his arms around him, spinning like a child, opening his mouth to drink the air like he'd never known the taste of it.
He had even received a certificate of commendation--later lost to the waters of the Styx.
"I don't feel any different," she told the blind man, but the scales weighed even, and the reaper knew the truth. Yay!!!
Terrific! Thanks for sharing it.
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2006-09-03 05:48 (UTC)I know, I like to think that Darla. Oops. I mean Layla is still out there somewhere--even if she is/was a little cheesy.
Thanky again!
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2006-06-25 03:18 (UTC)no subject
2006-09-03 05:49 (UTC)no subject
2006-06-26 23:43 (UTC)no subject
2006-09-03 05:50 (UTC)But thank you so much! Sorr it took so long to reply. I'm a big dork. Clearly.
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2006-09-03 05:54 (UTC)Hahaha, don't worry about it. ♥
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2006-09-03 05:55 (UTC)no subject
2006-09-03 05:57 (UTC)no subject
2006-09-01 02:10 (UTC)I love the bits of humor interwoven in this, the dryness of it, how the Prince of Darkness told the reaper not to be so emo and how Judgment Day's a pretty little restaurant in San Francisco. Really, I just love your reaper, an eternal being existing awkwardly in this continually evolving world. And I know every time I rewatch Faith I'm going to be picturing a Blackberry in the reaper's pocket. ;D
Wonderful job!
no subject
2006-09-01 11:15 (UTC)Hehehee. He's totally an emo reaper. Really, he manages great characterization even those two or three seconds on-screen. Especially in the scenes with Dean then Sue-Anne. And I've rewatched Faith enough times--it's kinda embarassing. :}
Thanks again!
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2006-09-01 18:31 (UTC)no subject
2006-09-03 05:50 (UTC)no subject
2006-10-05 19:12 (UTC)