xf & hp redux
May. 30th, 2003 12:35 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pauraque_bkHaving absolutely exhausted myself with RL, I got up this morning, sat down at the computer, and was suddenly struck by a story idea. Then, quite uncharacteristically, I sat there and wrote it until it was done. Then I went to work, and when I got back, I read it over and decided it might be worth posting. It's short. It's silly. It's XF/HP. And it's definitely ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
vaznetti's fault. ;)
TITLE: A Cunning Beast
AUTHOR: Eodrakken Quicksilver
SPOILERS: None, though it won't make much sense unless you've read "Goblet of Fire".
RATING: G
DISCLAIMER: The characters of The X-Files are (c) Ten Thirteen Productions and Fox Television. The characters of the Harry Potter series belong to J.K. Rowling. No infringement intended. I make it a point not to tangle with anyone who wears spike-heeled boots.
SUMMARY: Two rats meet in jail, and find that they have a lot in common.
NOTES: This is heavily indebted to (but not in the same universe as) Vanzetti's delightful "Parallel Catastrophes" series.
Krycek had always hated jail, even when he knew he was in no danger of
being stuck there for very long. Prisoners, by definition, weren't
cunning enough to avoid getting caught, so they didn't make very
interesting company. More than anything, he hated the boredom. After
the phone call, there was nothing to do but hurry up and wait. Today,
jail seemed like an absurd inconvenience -- didn't the pigs in this
town know an imminent viral apocalypse when they saw one? Chasing
down B&Es in sleepy suburbia should have been the least of their
concerns.
Krycek was incredibly hungry.
Slouching on the wooden bench, he leaned back to peer through the bars
of the cell door, trying to see what the guard at the table was
(noisily) eating. The lard-ass had one arm elbow-deep in a box of
saltines, and was thumbing through People Magazine in an annoyingly
self-satisfied way.
Krycek sat back with a short, irritated sigh. He turned his eyes on
the only other prisoner in the cell: a short, stout man who was half
curled up on the opposite bench, wrapped in a strange kind of coat
that looked a few sizes too big for him. He had a round and pasty
face, set with quick, beady little eyes that darted every which way
(but seemed to be directed at the carbohydrate-loving guard most of
the time). He had a slightly turned-up nose, and the lines of his
face fell in a way that made him look constantly terrified. He looked
like a real nobody -- but Krycek had learned long ago that sometimes
it was the nobodies you had to watch out for.
He'd just turned away to see if he could spot a clock, when the man
shifted, and a gleam of metal caught the light. Krycek looked back
sharply. It was a prosthetic hand -- looked like it was made entirely
out of silver, and the way the joints articulated was impossibly
smooth. He couldn't help but stare, until the man jerked the hand
protectively back under his coat. Krycek met the man's eyes,
surprised in spite of himself.
"Didn't your mother teach you any manners?" the man demanded in a
quavering, high-pitched British voice.
Krycek shook his head. "Etiquette isn't too far up on the list of
priorities for KGB hit men," he answered roughly -- his throat was
dry. "Or hit women," he added.
The man made an indignant noise, but he looked strangely blank, as if
he hadn't really understood what Krycek was talking about.
"What are you in for?"
"Theft and trespassing," the man said. "But if people don't keep
their gardens properly warded, then how am I meant to know I can't
eat their turnips?" he added piteously.
Krycek raised an eyebrow, then scoffed. "That's gonna be your
defense? Good luck."
The man shifted uncomfortably. "Things are... different where I come
from."
"Apparently." The man's foot was poking out from under his coat;
Krycek could see part of what looked like a very pointy shoe. "What
are you doing in the States?"
"Hiding," the man said frankly, hugging his knees. "From some people
who are trying to kill me. Rather a lot of people, actually," he
added on reflection.
Krycek breathed a tired, unsmiling laugh. "Tell me about it."
"I just wish they'd understand," the man went on, furrowing his brow
and addressing the wall above Krycek's head. "If only they'd realise
the danger they're putting themselves in. Pursuing petty grudges...
Following weak leaders... Putting noble principles before
consequences... If they truly wanted the world put right, they'd
accept that there have got to be sacrifices!" The man punctuated
his point by hitting his fist against his palm. Unfortunately, it was
the metal fist, and he let out a very undignified cry of surprised
pain -- a squeak, almost.
Krycek couldn't stifle a hissing snicker. "That's a nice little
gauntlet you've got there," he said, jerking his chin at the
prosthesis.
The man looked down at his hand, cradling it protectively. His lips
slowly curled into a smile of cautious pride. "It was a gift from my
master," he murmured. "A reward for loyal service." He raised his
eyes to Krycek's arm. "You know something of sacrifice too, I
think..."
"Yeah," he said softly, adjusting the dead weight that hung from his
shoulder with a bitter smile. "That's what loyalty gets you, all
right."
The man didn't seem to have caught the irony. He nodded. "A leader
must have the loyalty of his servants, or he is lost..."
"That's true," Krycek said.
The man sighed. "Do you think someone will come to interrogate us?"
he asked, scratching at the side of his neck with quick little digs of
his fingernails.
"Interrogate a couple of trespassing drifters? I doubt it."
"Really," the man said, raising his eyebrows as if pleasantly
surprised. "As prisons go, this is really quite nice."
Krycek shrugged. "I've been in a lot worse. Central heating goes a
long way to making a place feel like home."
"Oh, I'm not planning to stay all that long," the man said in a
detached tone, peering out the tiny window at the climbing moon.
"Neither am I."
The man looked back at him, cocking his head sharply. "Oh? What's
your plan of escape?"
"There's somebody... who has a tendency to get me out of trouble."
The man looked doubtful. "I wouldn't put my trust in anyone... not in
times like these."
"Your boss trusts you. You said."
The man flinched and trembled slightly. "That's because he's...
stronger than I am. He knows things no-one else knows..."
"You always think that," Krycek said. "But chances are, a guy who
acts like he's got all the answers up his sleeve... he's really just
blowing smoke up your ass to get ahead."
The man gave a brief, twitchy smile. "I think I can tell the
difference," he said. "How long do you reckon it's been?" he asked
after a pause, glancing anxiously out the window again.
"Since they brought you in? I don't know, an hour?" Krycek turned
and whistled sharply to draw the guard's attention. "Hey, you! How
long till dinner?"
The guard only sneered and went back to pointedly stuffing his face
with saltines.
Krycek cursed and ran his hand back through his hair. "I'm starving."
"You look like you haven't been eating very well," the man observed.
"I haven't, the last couple weeks."
The man nodded and sighed wistfully. "It's hard, living on nothing
but cheese and chocolate."
Krycek looked at him quizzically, but no explanation was forthcoming.
He'd just decided it must be some strange British idiom, when--
BANG! A sound like a muffled thunderclap from somewhere around the
corner, followed by shattering glass and shouts of confusion; Krycek
was instantly on his feet and at the cell door, pressing against the
bars trying to see what was going on. The guard had jumped up too,
overturning his chair and sending the box of saltines flying. He
glanced briefly at his two prisoners before rushing into the squad
room. A low cloud of dust was billowing slowly down the corridor.
Krycek couldn't be certain his mind wasn't playing tricks on him, but
it sure as hell looked like the dust was... pink. And unusually
glittery.
Krycek's fellow prisoner pushed himself to his feet with a melancholy
sigh. "What a waste," he said, shaking his head. "That was my
favourite wand."
Krycek twisted around to ask the guy what the hell he was talking
about, but the words never quite made it out.
Before his eyes, the round-faced man melted away, and in his place
appeared a large, scruffy rat.
The rat trotted through the bars of the cell door, its silver front
paw chittering against the concrete floor. The way out was clear, but
the rat suddenly stopped. It glanced back at Krycek, and then at the
box of saltines lying on the floor. Coming to a decision, it dashed
into the box and re-emerged with one of the crackers held delicately
between its long teeth. Slipping back through the bars, it carefully
put the food down next to Krycek's foot before darting out again.
The guard was returning, coughing and waving his hand at the pinkish
smoke. The rat spared one last meaningful, beady-eyed glance at
Krycek over its shoulder before it fled down the corridor and
disappeared.
Krycek stared for a minute, and then gave the rat a quick goodbye
salute. He picked the cracker up off the filthy concrete floor. It
had two tiny, shallow indentations from rodent teeth, but was
otherwise intact. He brushed it off and ate it with relish. It was
a gift from a truly cunning man, and such a gift should definitely not
be refused.
end.
vaznetti's fault. ;)TITLE: A Cunning Beast
AUTHOR: Eodrakken Quicksilver
SPOILERS: None, though it won't make much sense unless you've read "Goblet of Fire".
RATING: G
DISCLAIMER: The characters of The X-Files are (c) Ten Thirteen Productions and Fox Television. The characters of the Harry Potter series belong to J.K. Rowling. No infringement intended. I make it a point not to tangle with anyone who wears spike-heeled boots.
SUMMARY: Two rats meet in jail, and find that they have a lot in common.
NOTES: This is heavily indebted to (but not in the same universe as) Vanzetti's delightful "Parallel Catastrophes" series.
Krycek had always hated jail, even when he knew he was in no danger of
being stuck there for very long. Prisoners, by definition, weren't
cunning enough to avoid getting caught, so they didn't make very
interesting company. More than anything, he hated the boredom. After
the phone call, there was nothing to do but hurry up and wait. Today,
jail seemed like an absurd inconvenience -- didn't the pigs in this
town know an imminent viral apocalypse when they saw one? Chasing
down B&Es in sleepy suburbia should have been the least of their
concerns.
Krycek was incredibly hungry.
Slouching on the wooden bench, he leaned back to peer through the bars
of the cell door, trying to see what the guard at the table was
(noisily) eating. The lard-ass had one arm elbow-deep in a box of
saltines, and was thumbing through People Magazine in an annoyingly
self-satisfied way.
Krycek sat back with a short, irritated sigh. He turned his eyes on
the only other prisoner in the cell: a short, stout man who was half
curled up on the opposite bench, wrapped in a strange kind of coat
that looked a few sizes too big for him. He had a round and pasty
face, set with quick, beady little eyes that darted every which way
(but seemed to be directed at the carbohydrate-loving guard most of
the time). He had a slightly turned-up nose, and the lines of his
face fell in a way that made him look constantly terrified. He looked
like a real nobody -- but Krycek had learned long ago that sometimes
it was the nobodies you had to watch out for.
He'd just turned away to see if he could spot a clock, when the man
shifted, and a gleam of metal caught the light. Krycek looked back
sharply. It was a prosthetic hand -- looked like it was made entirely
out of silver, and the way the joints articulated was impossibly
smooth. He couldn't help but stare, until the man jerked the hand
protectively back under his coat. Krycek met the man's eyes,
surprised in spite of himself.
"Didn't your mother teach you any manners?" the man demanded in a
quavering, high-pitched British voice.
Krycek shook his head. "Etiquette isn't too far up on the list of
priorities for KGB hit men," he answered roughly -- his throat was
dry. "Or hit women," he added.
The man made an indignant noise, but he looked strangely blank, as if
he hadn't really understood what Krycek was talking about.
"What are you in for?"
"Theft and trespassing," the man said. "But if people don't keep
their gardens properly warded, then how am I meant to know I can't
eat their turnips?" he added piteously.
Krycek raised an eyebrow, then scoffed. "That's gonna be your
defense? Good luck."
The man shifted uncomfortably. "Things are... different where I come
from."
"Apparently." The man's foot was poking out from under his coat;
Krycek could see part of what looked like a very pointy shoe. "What
are you doing in the States?"
"Hiding," the man said frankly, hugging his knees. "From some people
who are trying to kill me. Rather a lot of people, actually," he
added on reflection.
Krycek breathed a tired, unsmiling laugh. "Tell me about it."
"I just wish they'd understand," the man went on, furrowing his brow
and addressing the wall above Krycek's head. "If only they'd realise
the danger they're putting themselves in. Pursuing petty grudges...
Following weak leaders... Putting noble principles before
consequences... If they truly wanted the world put right, they'd
accept that there have got to be sacrifices!" The man punctuated
his point by hitting his fist against his palm. Unfortunately, it was
the metal fist, and he let out a very undignified cry of surprised
pain -- a squeak, almost.
Krycek couldn't stifle a hissing snicker. "That's a nice little
gauntlet you've got there," he said, jerking his chin at the
prosthesis.
The man looked down at his hand, cradling it protectively. His lips
slowly curled into a smile of cautious pride. "It was a gift from my
master," he murmured. "A reward for loyal service." He raised his
eyes to Krycek's arm. "You know something of sacrifice too, I
think..."
"Yeah," he said softly, adjusting the dead weight that hung from his
shoulder with a bitter smile. "That's what loyalty gets you, all
right."
The man didn't seem to have caught the irony. He nodded. "A leader
must have the loyalty of his servants, or he is lost..."
"That's true," Krycek said.
The man sighed. "Do you think someone will come to interrogate us?"
he asked, scratching at the side of his neck with quick little digs of
his fingernails.
"Interrogate a couple of trespassing drifters? I doubt it."
"Really," the man said, raising his eyebrows as if pleasantly
surprised. "As prisons go, this is really quite nice."
Krycek shrugged. "I've been in a lot worse. Central heating goes a
long way to making a place feel like home."
"Oh, I'm not planning to stay all that long," the man said in a
detached tone, peering out the tiny window at the climbing moon.
"Neither am I."
The man looked back at him, cocking his head sharply. "Oh? What's
your plan of escape?"
"There's somebody... who has a tendency to get me out of trouble."
The man looked doubtful. "I wouldn't put my trust in anyone... not in
times like these."
"Your boss trusts you. You said."
The man flinched and trembled slightly. "That's because he's...
stronger than I am. He knows things no-one else knows..."
"You always think that," Krycek said. "But chances are, a guy who
acts like he's got all the answers up his sleeve... he's really just
blowing smoke up your ass to get ahead."
The man gave a brief, twitchy smile. "I think I can tell the
difference," he said. "How long do you reckon it's been?" he asked
after a pause, glancing anxiously out the window again.
"Since they brought you in? I don't know, an hour?" Krycek turned
and whistled sharply to draw the guard's attention. "Hey, you! How
long till dinner?"
The guard only sneered and went back to pointedly stuffing his face
with saltines.
Krycek cursed and ran his hand back through his hair. "I'm starving."
"You look like you haven't been eating very well," the man observed.
"I haven't, the last couple weeks."
The man nodded and sighed wistfully. "It's hard, living on nothing
but cheese and chocolate."
Krycek looked at him quizzically, but no explanation was forthcoming.
He'd just decided it must be some strange British idiom, when--
BANG! A sound like a muffled thunderclap from somewhere around the
corner, followed by shattering glass and shouts of confusion; Krycek
was instantly on his feet and at the cell door, pressing against the
bars trying to see what was going on. The guard had jumped up too,
overturning his chair and sending the box of saltines flying. He
glanced briefly at his two prisoners before rushing into the squad
room. A low cloud of dust was billowing slowly down the corridor.
Krycek couldn't be certain his mind wasn't playing tricks on him, but
it sure as hell looked like the dust was... pink. And unusually
glittery.
Krycek's fellow prisoner pushed himself to his feet with a melancholy
sigh. "What a waste," he said, shaking his head. "That was my
favourite wand."
Krycek twisted around to ask the guy what the hell he was talking
about, but the words never quite made it out.
Before his eyes, the round-faced man melted away, and in his place
appeared a large, scruffy rat.
The rat trotted through the bars of the cell door, its silver front
paw chittering against the concrete floor. The way out was clear, but
the rat suddenly stopped. It glanced back at Krycek, and then at the
box of saltines lying on the floor. Coming to a decision, it dashed
into the box and re-emerged with one of the crackers held delicately
between its long teeth. Slipping back through the bars, it carefully
put the food down next to Krycek's foot before darting out again.
The guard was returning, coughing and waving his hand at the pinkish
smoke. The rat spared one last meaningful, beady-eyed glance at
Krycek over its shoulder before it fled down the corridor and
disappeared.
Krycek stared for a minute, and then gave the rat a quick goodbye
salute. He picked the cracker up off the filthy concrete floor. It
had two tiny, shallow indentations from rodent teeth, but was
otherwise intact. He brushed it off and ate it with relish. It was
a gift from a truly cunning man, and such a gift should definitely not
be refused.
end.
