and your eyes seeing happiness;
feminism. bbc radio 4. history. zombies run. les misérables.
formerly: halfway-outofthedark
| goodreads | twitter | ao3 | may your ka live,
and may you achieve millions of years,
you who love thebes,
sitting with your face to the north wind,
and your eyes seeing happiness.
-- the wishing cup of tutankhamun
“And the programme was a Pozzitive production for the BBCCCCCCCC!!!”
IDK HOW TO FORMAT THIS POST BUT THE FOLLOWING IS???? a submission from tumblr user indigostohelit in celebration oF EVERYTHING???
i’m so fuckin happy for you man seriously
Oof, sorry guys. This is just super depressing and I have no excuse for it except that Mendacity17 and Thewondersmith have given me a surplus of Eugene FEELS I cannot deal with except by writing things that are angsty as hell and contain questionable metaphors.
This has an iOS update spoiler in it? Kind of? Something that won’t immediately make sense to you if you haven’t played past the middle name conversation in the new Radio Abel, anyway.
Ah But Look at this Showroom, Filled with Fabulous Prizes
The problem with trying to teach an audience that can’t see you how to build an internet uplink system is you end up with a lot of spare connections yourself. In the course of figuring out how to describe which wire goes where, Jack and Eugene must build at least a dozen of the things, a few of which even work right by the end of it.
It’s funny that writing a fic about the new updates seems to have mostly meant going and playing with all the old canon, but here we are again.
I think this is where we’re going to leave Roadshow 2.0 for now (though having said that I should probably not promise anything one way or the other). In the meantime, I hear someone set us up a kink meme or something on LJ… and you lot know how I feel about prompts.
Thanks as always for playing along, guys. It was really damn fun.
Cut, Print It
Or: Harry Potter and the Hedge Fund Managers
They’re somewhere past Reading when the GPS batteries finally go dead.
By now, they’re starting to see people. Mostly in glimpses — a blurry shape ducking behind a building, eyes peering out from between boarded-up windows, a few figures in the distance walking too smoothly to be shamblers. Still a relief, though, to know they’re not the only ones out here. If there are other survivors then, well, maybe the odds aren’t quite as stacked as Jack’s been thinking.
I whined about this one a lot, but actually it was a blast to write. Spoilers for Mission 14 and not really anything else, and a lot of shipping business within. Also, ridiculous fic = ridiculous long and pretentious title. So there you go.
New Inheritors of Earth (You Overestimate Your Worth)
They corner him in the recreation lounge after dinner. Eugene’s been roped into helping Molly make Mr. Rabbit some sort of dream home/space ship and the last time Jack saw him he was at the bottom of a swarm of children and glitter glue. The whole domestic thing is getting really surreal.
So he’s half-watching a Doctor Who Christmas special from the mid-1970s, when the couch cushions on either side of him sag, and he’s suddenly boxed in by Sam and Dr. Myers, wearing looks so intense Jack is about to ask who died when—
So back when I was a novice Runner 5, still unaware of Sam Yao’s hidden depths of feels, still not sure what to think of that doctor lady, still really overly amused by collecting underwear, there were these two radio dudes. They seemed adorable and totally in love, but I didn’t give them much thought until suddenly, on my second mission, we discovered they’d have to shut down their station until someone found them some gasoline.
At which point Jack and Eugene signed off with a song that kicked me right in the heart… which eventually became the basis of this short, five-song playlist of Canadian feels. Which became the basis of this fic (the song in question is number four).
Oh, uh, this one is really sappy. Just FYI.
FIVE TIMES JACK DOESN’T SAY “I LOVE YOU”: A PLAYLIST
Haha wow this went to a darker place than anything written in Gmail ought to. Also, look, I can write from Eugene’s perspective after all!
Thirty-eight Point Four
He wakes to coughing.
Eugene’s eyes snap open. Around him, the room is still shrouded in shadow, just a little grey as early dawn light filters in through the tent flap.
Tent flap. Abel. Right.
(via thischarmingand)
Like most kids, Lin had been curious and inquisitive, asking a million questions, which her mom usually answered in some ridiculous manner. Later in life, she would reflect that it was a miracle she knew anything at all. So of course, as soon as she understood the concept, Lin began asking her mother who her father was. She knew that other kids had one. Tenzin and Kya and Bumi had one. So why didn’t she?
It’s a glimpse, nothing more. A flash of dark hair and high cheekbones and pale eyes. And John knows it’s insane, knows it’s impossible, but it looked exactly like him.
Their eyes meet for a second, and the pair on the other side of the tinted taxi window show no signs of recognition. But not for a moment does John let himself believe it could be anyone else. He simple didn’t see him in the crowd, or did not have time to react between recognising him and the car drifting smoothly around the corner.
He must believe these things, because he must believe in who it was in that cab.
There was no-one else like him. No-one else it could have been.
It was Sherlock.
It is all John can do not to drop his bags as he races around the corner, breathing that name repeatedly under his breath. For the first time since Switzerland, he runs with no limp, he runs like he only ever did with Sherlock.
But even free from psychosomatic pain, he is not as fast as a car. He knows he will never catch it. “Sherlock… Sherlock…” he pants, even as he grinds to a halt in the middle of the road. He feels the name bubbling up inside him, becoming a shout as the car disappears.
“SHERLOCK!”
For several seconds, John just stands there, watching the point where the taxi disappeared. He is aware of people around looking at him, a car slowly pulling towards him, expecting him to move. He doesn’t care. It has just hit him, really, truly, that Sherlock Holmes is dead. He will never ride a London cab again, never look over the city with those cool, colourless eyes. No matter how hard John wishes, he will never come back.
The car behind him beeps its horn, and John limps away.
~
Sherlock turns and watches the figure, once he is sure it can no longer see his face. It runs after him, mouth forming his name over and over. As he watches, a burning desire grows, and he wants nothing more than to stop the taxi, jump out and gather the man in his arms. He never meant to hurt anyone. He never meant for this.
“You know that guy?” the cabbie asks, noticing what Sherlock is staring at. “You want me to stop for him?”
Sherlock turns around, catching the driver’s eye in the mirror. “No, it’s fine. Keep driving.”
He has whipped out his phone before he even knows what he’s doing.
Take care of him.
- SH
He has already sent the message before he taps out an afterthought.
Please.
- SH
Seconds later, his phone chimes.
Already picked him up. Have been following him since he left Baker Street.
- MH
And before he can even draw the breath to think of a reply, it seems that his brother also has more to say.
He’s crying. I don’t know what to do.
- MH
There is anger in that message. And desperation. And remorse. And most of all—there is guilt. The words blur in his vision, and with trembling fingers, he wipes the tears that have dropped on the screen of his phone.
Neither do I.
- SH
He never sends that last message.
This surprise Ian/Barbara shipping makes me happy.
