drabbles: SV, SGA, Ten Inch Hero

Title: He ruined me, and I am re-begot
Fandom: "Smallville"
Disclaimer: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Donne.
Warnings: future!fic; AU
Pairings: implied Lex/Clark
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 780
Point of view: second
Notes: so,seperis wrote a five things meme, and one of them was the single sentence Clark said please. Hence this.

He’s wearing that stupid costume, the one the whole world has come to recognize.

“Lex!” he yells over gunfire. “Lex, where are you?”

You don’t answer. He can’t change this; it’s too late, gone too far.

“Lex!” he screams. Bullets bounce off him and a few fools lunge at him, trying to take him down.

But he is Superman, the being who fell from the stars. He is what you wish to become: a god.

He closes his eyes in what looks like—in a lesser form—might be pain. You watch as he defeats the ground soldiers without killing them.

“Lex! Please! You can stop this, Lex!” He stares into the camera, his blue eyes wide. “Don’t do this!”

You will be a good king, a modern-day Alexander the Great. The world will be better off with you.

His foolish cape flutters in the wind and his chest heaves as more cannon-fodder attack him.

Once, you called him friend. You would have done anything for him. You trusted him more than anyone, even yourself.

Once, you loved him. Now you—don’t hate him, could never hate him. He changed you… made you a better man.

So you speak to him through the microphone. “I do this because of you, Superman.”

He flinches. “Lex,” he says again. “Why are you really doing this?”

“I’ll end war, Superman. I’ll give peace to the world.” You touch the screen, memories welling.

“No, Lex,” he yells up at you. “You won’t. That much power is too much for any one man!”

You laugh. “And you, Superman? Do you have too much power?”

“Damn it, Lex!” he roars, lifting off the ground in his anger. “I don’t want this! I never have.”

You scoff, going to the console. One more button pushed and the greatest threat to your plan will be gone. “It doesn’t matter whether you wanted it or not, Kal-El,” you snarl. “You have it. You could rule the world.”

“And what about you, Lex?” he demands. “Absolute power, remember?” He spins in the air, searching for you, ignoring your soldiers as they continue the barrage. “Whatever your intentions, you’ll be corrupted.”

You pause, look back at the screen. Once, he knew you better than anyone. Once, you trusted him. But he never returned the favor. He never told you the truth. You trusted him with every part of you, even the darkest, most twisted pieces, but he never… he didn’t even give you the slightest crumb.

“Lex! Please!”

One slight push and he’ll be gone. No longer a concern. No longer a reminder. No longer anything.

He is beautiful. Has always been beautiful, since that day he pulled you from the river. He was young, then, still learning. Now he is a man—he is Superman. He is the world’s hero, the world’s darling.

If you destroy him, no one will have the power to stop you. If you destroy him, no one will dare.

If you destroy him, there will never be a chance of going back.

“Lex…” He sinks to the ground, shoulders slumping. “Don’t do this. It won’t…” He sighs, looking up into the camera. All you see is the boy who saved you. He whispers, “Please.”

Your hand drops to your side and you step back from the console. You had been sure the boy was dead, swallowed up by Superman.

But he stares up at you, through years and miles, and you collapse into your chair, breath caught.

“Please, Lex,” he whispers again, tears on his face and in his voice.

You had loved him. You still love him, even wrapped in that terrible outfit, that eyesore, with the stupid cape.

“Clark,” you say, the first time his name has passed your lips since Superman. “Clark, what can I do?”
“Let me come to you, Lex,” he says.

You watch him waiting, ready to help. He is not a god.

He’s that boy who pulled you from the river.

You leave the control room, taking off the kryptonite ring. Hurrying down the stairs, you call all your underlings and allies, telling them the change of plans.

He’s waiting for you, surrounded by fallen cannon-fodder. He is untouched, beautiful, stardust given body. He fell from the sky, completely beyond human comprehension.

You stare at him, within reach for the first time since it all went to Hell.

“Lex.” He doesn’t move, letting you choose. You can finish the plan. You can still take the world.

He’ll let you destroy him, and that takes your breath away.

You approach slowly, reaching up to touch his face. He is warm, but he shivers. “Lex,” he murmurs. “Lex.”

You say, “Clark.”


 

Title: Death’s in the goodbye
Fandom: "Stargate: Atlantis"
Disclaimer: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Anne Sexton.
Warnings: takes place during “Siege II”
Pairings: none
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 200
Point of view: third

John has never been much for long goodbyes, and there isn’t a single person on Atlantis he’d trust to do this job and get it right—except Rodney, but if the city survives, she’ll need Rodney to put her back together. Besides, John can’t let Rodney—

John isn’t needed, not like Rodney, the smartest man in two galaxies, the best friend John has ever had, closer than Dave, or even Mitch and Dex. He can’t ask Rodney to sacrifice himself—besides, they need a pilot.

Without arrogance, John can say he’s the best pilot in the galaxy. He watches Rodney scramble to make the plan work, but Atlantis is whispering in his mind.

The plan was good, but Atlantis is just so tired. Time is running out.

John has never been much for long goodbyes and he can’t think of the words to convey how much Rodney has done for him. How much Rodney means to him. So he simply says, “So long, Rodney,” and leaves before Rodney can react.

He has to do this, for Atlantis. Because he’s the ranking military officer. Because he can’t let anyone else fly to their deaths.

He has to do this, for Rodney.

Title: Once you were beautiful
Fandom: Ten Inch Hero
Disclaimer: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Sylvia Plath.
Warnings: spoilers for movie; implied child abuse
Pairings: canon
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 590
Point of view: third

He left behind the wimp who got bullied, the geek who always read and wrote, the kid who loved music more than football. He left behind the quiet, shy boy to become a loud, boisterous man.

Priestly is his armor, the shiny surface to hide the tarnished truth. Priestly is a distraction, a lie, someone he wishes he could be but will never truly become.

Tish has never looked at him as a man. Part of that is his appearance, he knows, the hair and the piercings and the tattoos. But he is always mocking her, trying to get noticed—ire is better than apathy.

Every time Tish looks past him to go home with someone new, his father laughs in his memory, calling him loser and fuck-up, telling him he’ll never get far in life, useless as your bitch mother, little bitch boy.

He never learned to fight because Dad had been a champion boxer, but he sure did learn how to dodge.

Tish doesn’t want Priestly. And, to be honest, he’s a bit tired of Priestly, himself. It’s been so long since he’s thought about where he came from. Years since he’s considered that kid. But Tish doesn’t want who he is now, the lie, the bright distraction. So maybe she’ll like who he was, quiet and shy Boaz.

(He loves his mother, but he’s never forgiven her for his name.)

He cuts his own hair, washes out the dye, shaves the sideburns, takes out all the piercings. Each piece of his armor comes off slowly—it’s harder than he’d thought, shedding Priestly. He’s been Priestly ever since he left his father’s house, since he decided to erase all evidence he’d ever known the man.

He’s been Priestly so long he’s almost forgotten how to be Boaz.

He doesn’t have any clothes Boaz would wear, so he goes shopping. For the first time in years, he doesn’t get horrified looks from old ladies or people glancing away with smirks. He doesn’t know what to buy, so he asks for help. The words don’t come easily because the salesgirl actually sees him, Boaz and not Priestly. His armor is gone and he’s forgotten what to do when he’s not sarcastic and witty and so loud the world looks away.

But the salesgirl, Rebecca, is patient. She waits him out with a kind smile, and after he’s made his selections, she says quietly, “I’ll miss the hair.”

When he looks at her in shock, she adds, “But this style is nice, too.”

He blushes, smiling shyly, and softly thanks her. She pats his arm and tells him, “Just be yourself. You’ll knock her dead.”

He ducks his head, words failing him—again—but she just gently pushes him towards the door.

Priestly couldn’t win Tish. Priestly was just a mask.

And if she don’t like your little bitch self any more’n she liked your gay self, huh, boy? Dad’s voice demands; he flinches, clutching the bag of clothes.

But Dad is dead. He’ dead and gone, and has no place in Santa Cruz.

So Boaz straightens his spine and strides out the mall, confident in Priestly’s walk. He’s not just Boaz and he’s no longer Priestly—he can make himself anew, take pieces of both, finally and truly rise from the ashes.

He might not win Tish, but he’ll present himself to her, not the sarcastic Priestly and not the stuttering Boaz.

Dad is dead, that drunken monster, but he’ll finally be able to defeat the ghost by trying.