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Scott would never say that he’s pleased a forest fire got a little too close to a population centre than the local services could cope with, and he’s very displeased that both Gordon and Virgil are out of action for the next week due to minor injuries, and he doesn’t like the amount of grumbling he’s had to put up with about the changes to the rosta to arrange cover for them. But there is a slight spark of joy that he’s been working closely with John for the last three days - physically closely, of course, as John is always involved in an operation. Even if he’s not needed he makes himself involved. 

But it’s different to be launching together, moving rubble together, giving a congratulatory pat on the shoulder for a job well done. It reminds him of doing chores together as kids, before International Rescue and their own life goals took up so much of their time, and they made a simple task last all day because they didn’t want to risk getting another (worse) job when they were finished. Now he can only squeeze a few minutes socialising when John is down on mandated rest shifts, and that’s just not the same. 

Speaking of which, it was probably time for a break; the fire was under control and most people had evacuated. He closes the door of the home he’s just checked, and marks it clear, looking around for his brother.  

“John!” He calls and waves, seeing the bright blue suit several houses over where he’d been doing his share of the checks. Scott breaks into a light jog to get over there, where John is just standing, facing out into the street. He doesn’t seem to have heard him. Maybe on comms with someone? 

Getting closer can see that no, John is literally just standing, not talking, not searching, just standing, arms limp at his sides. 

“John, what’s wr -” Scott cuts himself off with a gasp. “Is that blood?” It’s coated both his gloves, fresh and wet, and splashed across his body, making the fresh blue into an obscene purple.  

He tries to catch John’s attention and notes the patch of hair densely matted with blood: John seems out of it, gaze glassy and staring into the middle distance but even a freely flowing head shouldn’t account for his much blood. 

“John.” Scott grabs his brother's shoulders, and the touch seems to jolt him to something close to alertness – he still looks fuzzy, but at least he’s meeting Scott’s eyes now. “How much of this blood is yours?” 

John’s reply comes slowly, and slightly slurred. “I - I don’t know.” The colour drains from his face in a flash, and Scott just barely managed to catch him before he hits the floor. 

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"The Holy Father - may his name be numbered among the high priests - was a sick man towards the end of his life as those of us who saw him regularly will attest!"

Through the gap in two of the watching Cardinals She fixes her gaze on him

Oh, no you do not get to say that to spread those lies. The Holy Father, rest his soul was tired and suspicious and in pain in both his good dear heart andvhis mortal body,but he was as sane and as clear thinking as I or Dean Lawrence. Yet you would slander him as you slander good Archbishop Wozniak's reputation and capabilities- when it is you causing the pain. You who brought Sister Shanumi from her good work to an element of humiliation here, to get Cardinal Adeyemi out of the way (not that he was fit for the Role). You who have bribed and bullied and blackmailed others to stand in a prominent position in this Conclave, when you should not be standing.

Dean Lawrence stands his ground to protect the unfortunates, offering himself instad and there is utter uproar.

Now I begin to understand what Sister Felisia suffered when school was rowdy.... and these are grown men, princes of the Church... apparently

“Eminenze... Eminenze!”

Dean Larence hears her first, she sees the shift in his focus towards her, but her second shout cuts through the racket enough to stun them all to silence. Even those near turn with a startled blink.

They honestly do not notice us unless they want us, is it just my order, or all the nuns they serve with.

"Eminences, although we Sisters are supposed to be invisible, God has nevertheless given us eyes and ears. I know what prompted the Dean of the College to enter the Holy Father’s rooms. He was concerned that the sister from my order who made that regrettable scene might have been brought to Rome with the deliberate intention ofembarrassing a member of this Conclave. His suspicions were correct. She was indeed here at thespecific request of Cardiinal Tremblay."

There, Your Eminence, spoken plain and simple, only the facts. His eyes are as weak as water as she holds them, now all the focuses is on him in the click of a moment.

Because of their rank, and let no-one accuse her of showing disrespect, she inclines her head just enough, genuflects the required inches, turns, and shows herself out.

Fandom: Sherlock (TV)

Relationship: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes

Written for prompt FFF326 Peripheral Vision of Flash Fiction Friday by @flashfictionfridayofficial

For the sake of appearances, Greg was lying on the sofa, head resting against the armrest, reading an old detective novel. He had not turned a single page in the last fifteen minutes or so.

The reason for his distraction was his husband, who was also seated just a few feet away and was steadily typing away on his laptop. It was not as if Greg minded the tap-tapping of the keyboard in the slightest. But this sense of competence and quiet concentration that Mycroft radiated whenever he was dealing with something at work just worked for him and right now, even having to resort to stealing glances out of the corner of his eye, Greg was absolutely basking in it.

For @flashfictionfridayofficial #333 Broken Wings

I apologise in advance that the situation that develops in this fic is unresolved!

Fandom: Thunderbirds Characters: Virgil, John, Gordon Rating: General Warnings: No major warnings! Thunderbird Two in peril. Explosions. Word Count: 763

“Thunderbird Two, I’m detecting an aircraft approaching your position,” John reported from Thunderbird Five.

This was surprising for a number of reasons. The first being that the narrow canyon in which Virgil was fighting to keep his ‘bird at a steady hover above Gordon and the rescue cradle was subject to violent, unpredictable wind gusts.  Flying in the canyon was hazardous at the best of times, and today the wind was strong.

A second reason was that the GDF had already stated their ETA was some way off yet.

“Friendly?” was all Virgil managed in response as he concentrated on minute adjustments to VTOL thrust.

“Unclear.  I am unable to ascertain any identifying markings or signals, and there’s no response to any attempts at communication.”  The note of concern in John’s voice, undetectable to most people, but impossible to miss for his brothers, spoke volumes.  “It’s approaching fast.  Should be with you in less than a minute.”

“That’s all I need,” Virgil mumbled to himself before giving his official response.  “FAB.”

Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial and also inspired by a dream I had last night. It's time to go to the science fair!

The first annual United Republic STEAM fair almost didn’t happen. As Asami gazed across the rows and rows of colorful booths she was all too aware of just how close it had been. Not everybody wanted Future Industries involved with public schools. When Tenzin had to withdraw as the second judge due to a nasty bout of the flu Asami had worried she’d need to call the whole thing off. Having one of the judges be someone prominent, trusted, and most importantly not part of the company had been key in making it all come together. Where was Asami expected to find another well-known civic leader who wanted to spend five hours with a bunch of teenagers with only one day’s notice?

As if in response her eyes rested on a set of broad shoulders leaning over one of the booths across the hangar. Asami hadn’t ever seen him in civilian clothes before and in truth still found it a little odd. Not bad, though. Just different. General Iroh was the kind of handsome who looked good in everything. 

Almost like he were reading her thoughts the general looked up from student he’d been talking to. Their eyes locked. Then Iroh gave her a little wave. Asami’s heart skipped a few beats and she subtly waved back. As a thank you, of course. She hadn’t been staring at him. 

It was Pema who’d suggested General Iroh replace Tenzin as the judge. Asami hadn’t even known he was in town. She herself hadn’t seen Iroh in years, not since her father’s funeral. After Future Industries and the United Forces had established their supplier relationship there hadn’t been any need to. But Iroh certainly fit the bill of a high-profile figure and when he’d agreed Asami hadn’t questioned it. How a top general had managed to clear his entire schedule for a science fair was his business. 

True to his word, Iroh had arrived that morning promptly at eight with an extra cup of coffee—black as jet fuel, just the way she liked it—then immediately dove into directing the children and their anxious parents as they arrived to set up their booths. It seemed Iroh had a knack for organization. He’d even brought his own pen. 

Asami flipped to the next sheet in her clipboard and carefully wrote the number of the next booth, which contained a series of colorful interconnected tubes. The title painted on the cardboard backing read, “Pygmy Pigeon Rat Training.” The tubes, however, were empty. Horribly empty. Asami’s stomach sank. Instinctively she looked up, perhaps hoping to see a pygmy pigeon rat sitting idly by waiting to be scooped up. Instead, she caught a pair of bright gold eyes staring back at her. Iroh’s mouth ticked up into a little awkward half smile, the kind with a few teeth but that wasn’t quite yet a grin. He stuck out two fingers and waved again. Asami returned the gesture. Here in this sea of teenagers it felt incredibly silly in a way that fluttered across her midsection as if she’d swallowed the pygmy pigeon rat herself.

“Why do you keep waving at General Iroh?” asked the boy without a pigeon rat. 

“I’m not,” Asami lied, suddenly guilty for no reason at all. “Now, can you tell me a little about your project?”

It wasn’t until she and Iroh had finished their evaluations that Asami finally got a break. The pigeon rat was found, and the teens were funneled through a line past stacks of bento boxes—courtesy of Future Industries, of course—before being seated together at several long tables. Meanwhile, a half dozen eager parent volunteers sorted through the evaluations to tally the joint scores. That left Asami time to grab her own bento box and the cold remains of her coffee and retreat to the registration table for a little peace and quiet.

“May I join you?” asked a voice. Asami looked up to find General Iroh with two lunches and a somewhat uncertain expression on his face. “I didn’t want to be near the scoring,” he added.

“No, no, please sit,” Asami said. Iroh smiled and pulled out a chair, then set down the two bento boxes. 

“There were extras,” he explained sheepishly. 

“Have as many as you’d like," said Asami. "It’s the least I can do after you stepped up today. I don’t know what I’d have done otherwise.”

He shrugged one shoulder, then gestured to her coffee. “Can I heat that?”

“What? Oh. Thank you.” Asami pushed the cup across the table and Iroh wrapped his hand around it. Nice, large, practical hands. “So what brings you back to the United Republic this time?” she asked, pulling her gaze away. 

“Actually, I’m here to stay.”

Asami scrunched up her nose. “You are? How?” She didn't think foreign princes could do that.

Iroh gave his one-shouldered shrug again and pushed her steaming coffee back across the table, then opened the first lunch. “My position with the United Forces was transitional. Ten years from the shift from the international council model to home rule to build up a cadre of Republican officers to take over from any foreigners still in command. I did that. Turns out I liked it. I’ve never been in much of a hurry to return home. So instead I put in for a transfer to the Academy. I start teaching next month while I get residency. After that, I’m not sure. I’ll be eligible for command again but there’s no guarantee.”

“That’s incredible,” said Asami, genuinely pleased. “I’m glad you figured out what you want, even if it might not work out. When I took over Future Industries it was a complete gamble. We almost went under so many times. But I’m glad I took a chance.”

“And look at you now,” Iroh replied. “Sponsoring the next generation of talent. These kids aren’t that much younger than you were.” He smiled again then, a little shyly, then stabbed at a tempura squid shrimp. “Speaking of taking chances," he said, "I’ve always admired you, Asami. And I was wondering if you might consider having dinner with me. Now that I'm here I’d love to get to know you better.” The corner of his mouth quirked up to reveal a single adorable dimple. “But only if you want to. You don’t owe me anything for volunteering today. I was happy to scrap my lesson planning to interact with actual students.”

Fandom: Batman Word Count: 100 Content Warning: blood mention @flashfictionfridayofficial

The ritual is familiar.

Bruce stands hunched over his bathroom's sink, steam billowing up past his shoulders in thin, curling clouds. He presses his lips into a thin line, working soap into his skin under a cascade of scalding water. His nails press and dig, scouring work-rough hands from wrists to palms to every crack and crevice he can find down to the tips of his fingers.

He scrubs until the water runs pink against the sink's white porcelain, then he scrubs again. And again. And again.

written for a @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt, 'forced to choose'

BotW characters, modern!au setting, don’t think about it too hard - the idea was just unworkable in a more canon setting.

vague pretensions towards Revalink; content warning for implied alcohol/drug use. Dialogue heavy.

(about 1,090 words, I think?)

—

A sly look crept onto Purah's face. "Mipha."

Revali bristled. "We agreed not to mention any names in this room."

"You agreed," Purah said. "I didn't. Now, 'fess up."

He glanced at Mipha; she was shaking her head, a glint of amusement in her eyes. "It was nice knowing you all," she said, softly, and gave him an indulgently forgiving smile.

He definitely couldn't kill Mipha. "I abstain."

Fandom: Trials of Apollo Rating: Gen Genre: Family, Angst Characters: Austin, Apollo The war was over, but the silence still reigned. @toapril-official TOApril day 25 - Silence Before the Storm and @flashfictionfridayofficial #302 Talk To Me

The war was over – a second war, and Austin wasn’t even a teenager yet, was pretty sure he wasn’t supposed to know what war was like at all, let alone be a veteran of two wars, two thick, heavy battles with the symphony of death surrounding them.

The war was over, the camps had reached a truce, the Romans had gone back to California.  Percy Jackson was back where he belonged, and somewhere along the way they’d gained a son of Jupiter, too.

Most campers didn’t notice the silence.  Most campers had no idea that anything was still wrong.

Then again, most campers didn’t have a godly parent that spoke to them on a regular basis.  Maybe all the gods had gone silent again, and they just hadn’t noticed.  They’d only noticed last time because Mr D had been recalled to Olympus and made a fuss about it.

Austin played an arpeggio.  C E G C E G C G E C G E C.  It came out flat.  He sucked on the reed a little more, softening it up to play, and did it again.  C E G C E G C G E C G E C.  Now it was sharp.