#promptfic

Haha, I actually think it would be the other way around? Sniper brushes his teeth in the Meet the Sniper cinematic (HE DOESN'T RINSE THE TOOTHPASTE OUT EITHER, INSANE MINTY FRESH MAN) so I'm inclined to think his dental hygiene is decent, and Spy's is only okay on account of having very little real teeth, if any at all. If they get yellowed from smoking/drinking then he can just swap them out probably.

Anyway.

sniper/spy - rated M

Missed Connections and Being at the Right Place at the Right Time

content warning: suicide attempt Liam Lawson/Isack Hadjar | Teen and up | 5.8k words Notable tags: Idiots in Love, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety, Liam Lawson Loves Isack Hadjar, Isack Hadjar Loves Liam Lawson, now if they only told each other about that, Liam Lawson Needs a Hug, Isack Hadjar Needs a Hug, Red Bull Racing is a toxic workplace environment, was written before the Grand Prix

The night after the Austrian GP, Isack wants to confess his love to Liam. However, Liam is about to do something really bad because he fears they've already missed their connection forever. Nico Hülkenberg happens to be the only person around to stop him from doing so.

A promptfic for the poster for the 2026 F1 Austrian GP (so it had to contain Liam, Isack, and Nico, see below). Hopefully the first in a series of these.

I don't think I've ever actually said this here, but...

I love writing prompt fics!

Originally posted here, for 3 Sentence Ficathon on DW.

1. https://threesentenceficathon.dreamwidth.org/4438.html?thread=7326294#cmt7326294 any, any, to bee or not to bee, that is the question

"And that is certainly a question that only you would ask, Pierce," said Winchester dryly, as the bee hummed around their heads in the OR; no one had a hand free to swat it without contaminating a glove.

"To suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune," Hawkeye quoted on, "or take up arms against a swarm of insects," and at that point he ran out of the part of the speech he could (mis)quote from memory, at the same time as Margaret ran out of patience and freed up a bloody-gloved hand to snap the pest neatly out of the air with a clamp.

She tossed the insect into the bucket at her feet for used sponges with a deft snap of her wrist, to the sound of general appreciative cheers and Hawkeye's cheerful announcement, "Upstaged from stage left! I never was any good at Shakespeare anyway."

2. https://threesentenceficathon.dreamwidth.org/4438.html?thread=7184982#cmt7184982 Any, Any, I love you now like I loved you then

It was a three-hour flight and an hour's drive for Margaret to the 4077 reunion, and the entire time she was thinking, I shouldn't have come, I shouldn't have come; it was going to be one of those experiences (like the one college reunion she'd scraped and saved to attend, like seeing Lorraine again) that only impressed on a person how impossible it was to recapture the magic of a bygone time.

But then she was there, basking in Hawkeye's ready affection and Radar's smile and Charles's quick, barked laughs and the way that BJ's daughter ran around to everyone hugging their legs as if she'd found an entire hotel conference room full of long-lost relatives, and Margaret stayed up late into the night drinking with the whole group in the hotel bar; and somehow, for all the changes in all of their lives, it really was just like no time at all had passed.

Sometimes, it turned out, you really could go home again.

3. https://threesentenceficathon.dreamwidth.org/4438.html?thread=7240278#cmt7240278 any, any, the sight of one's own blood

Missing scene for 4x19 'Hawkeye'

It was strange, Hawkeye had his hands up to the elbows in other people's blood all day every day, so he couldn't say why the sight of the red swath of his own blood on his palm shocked him so badly when he lowered his hand from his head.

Well, that would explain the shooting pain in the side of his head and the way his eyes kept struggling to focus and the deeply woozy feeling that gotten a lot worse at the sight of his own blood smeared all over his hand.

He usually tried as hard as he could not to dwell on his deep-down conviction that, one way or another, he was going to die in Korea -- but now the truth of that conviction was all over his hand, and all he could do about it was what he always did: talk and talk and talk because that way his mouth was doing something other than screaming and he didn't have to think about any of it as long as there were still words to keep him busy.

4. https://threesentenceficathon.dreamwidth.org/4438.html?thread=7124822#cmt7124822 any, any, cooking as a metaphor for love

Cooking in the tents was, technically, a violation of protocol, but so were a lot of other things that went on the tents (sex, distilling alcohol, etc) -- and so, the nurses made fudge that never set properly and shared around spoonfuls to anyone who'd been nice enough to them lately to deserve some, and Trapper once figured out an impressively edible four-ingredient mug cake recipe for Hawkeye's birthday (baked in a tin camp mug on the stove; Hawkeye shared it four ways with Trapper and Henry and Radar), and Hawkeye and BJ between them wrote off to Charles's sister for the recipe of a fruitcake that the Winchester clan supposedly made every New Years, collected as many of the ingredients as they could and made something which Charles claimed was nothing at all like fruitcake, ate three pieces and gave the rest to the Korean orphans.

(Margaret's experiment in making preserves for Colonel Potter was never to be spoken of, although the smell and the stains lingered for months, but she meant well.)

In a place where nothing was as anyone wanted it to be, there was a certain kind of pleasure in making a favorite recipe with only half the ingredients, and sharing the results, which were almost but not quite better than the food in the mess -- but it tasted better, somehow, than it had any right to.

5. https://threesentenceficathon.dreamwidth.org/4438.html?thread=7237974#cmt7237974 any, any, bone fracture

"It's not broken," Charles said, holding Hawkeye's hand lightly with a deft surgeon's touch, fingers pressed gently on each side of his hand where the blow from a stretcher handle had connected and the bruises were already coming up. The entire area ached and throbbed, but (to Hawkeye's annoyance) it turned out that Charles had as light and careful a touch as his work in surgery suggested, with a sureness of purpose and a matter-of-fact demeanor that was somehow reassuring: Charles knew what a surgeon's hands meant, as much if not more than anyone here, and even no longer than they had worked together, Hawkeye already knew that Charles wouldn't lie for the sake of making anyone feel better.

HI SORRY I DUCKED OUT FOR TWO MONTHS I WAS. OCCUPIED

and yes ofc!! please forgive me if this is poor in quality; i haven't written any snz content in three months now sO im out of practice and i was falling asleep while i wrote this. here's 1.3K of sneezy t/im and annoyed but caring j/ason :D

(if you're still looking for whatever stories i have for d/c, you can look at my fic masterlist and check out the t/imber college au!!)

Gil-galad was supposed to survive, thought Celebrían numbly. We were supposed to all get married when we came home.

Instead of speaking, she cleaned the Mordor-soot from her face and from Elrond's. Their sore, dry throats were an excuse, if nothing else, to remain silent in grief.

She couldn't get Elrond's face quite clean, but some tears cleared a track down his cheek.

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Fandom: Doctor Who Ship: EightRoberts Additional Tags: Roleswap, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Good Master (Doctor Who), Evil Doctor (Doctor Who), Drabble Wordcount: 100 Summary:

The Doctor lights his stolen body with manic energy.

Prompt:

"Swap au eightroberts"

Summary:

This takes place sometime before the Antichrist arrives in S1. Ever had to fill out those surveys for work? Aziraphale and Crowley get them, too! A little fluffy work-humor for you. Sendarya's Discord Server Prompt a Week challenge 2024 Prompt: How you said I love you: with storytelling.  Thanks for the prompt @whocaresaboutdecent!

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Work Text:

Aziraphale held the receiver of his rather elderly telephone to his ear and dialed urgently.  Waiting only half a ring before the much hoped for voice answered on the other end of the line.

“Watsup, angel?” Crowley answered.

“I hadn’t said who I was yet!” Aziraphale fiddled nervously with a piece of thick white cardstock on his cluttered desk.

“Nnnyeah. Caller ID, angel,” explained Crowley, not saying that he could feel the prickle on the back of his neck that meant the angel was in trouble.

Composing himself briefly, Aziraphale says, “I’ve had…a memo ,”  saying ‘memo’ as though he’d received a summons to be the guest of honor at an earnest inquiry of the Spanish Inquisition.

Picking up his own piece of heavy parchment, Crowley replies darkly, “Mmm, same,” managing to imply that the Inquisition was happy to entertain two honored guests.

“Usual spot, half an hour?” suggested the angel.

“Actually, I was thinking we might workshop this one?” replied Crowley drily, though only Aziraphale would hear the anxious edge to his laconic drawl that in anyone else might suggest incipient knee knocking terror.

“Oh, OH! Yes, certainly! I’ll just tidy up a bit, just give me a tick to close up.”  Aziraphale gently replaced the receiver and set to work making the Bookshop opaque to prying eyes corporeal and ethereal that might check in on their activities.  Especially as Crowley was coming over for an extended time.

***

Crowley leaned his back against the front door of the  “Very Closed” bookshop as though he was just checking his phone out of the misty rain.  The door eased open and he slipped into the dim shop where the blinds were pulled down.

“Follow me,”  Aziraphale led him to the back stacks and pushed on a bookcase which, rather than being a wall, swung back revealing a snug little parlor paneled with warm cherry wood. The space was mostly taken up with a table that could easily accommodate charts or maps and the walls were lined with bookshelves and leather appointed benches with upholstered backs. 

“Uhhh…” Crowley looked over at the angel quizzically, “I didn’t know this room was here .”

“Pish posh, all old bookstores in London have hidden rooms!” Aziraphale said breezily with a brilliant smile, sweeping his arm out to invite Crowley inside.

“Oh, that makes sense,” Crowley murmurs, stooping into the room, completely missing the sharp glance the angel gives the front of the shop before following him.  

Closing the door behind them, Aziraphale made a little miraculous motion and Crowley had the eerie feeling that they were in some way outside of the world.  He opened his mouth to comment, but was cut off by the angel.

Pulling out the cream colored cardstock, Aziraphale says, “I got a memo from Home Office with something new!”  he explains as he places the memo on the table for examination.

The paper contains the words:

Congratulations! 

Your diligent efforts to uphold the Great Plan have been recognized and you have been chosen to participate in a survey to promote Quality Improvement!

Tap here to continue…

“Yeah, that looks bad,” Crowley threw his glasses onto the table.  “Lookit mine,” he puts his memo next to Aziraphale’s.

The thick parchment reads:

 Think you’re working hard enough? Think again!  

To make sure you’re putting in the proper effort towards the Great Plan, complete this survey so we can learn how to wring every bit of glorious success out of you!

“I mean, really, it amounts to the same thing, Crowley,” Aziraphale held both memos up and read them in turn, Crowley hovering over his shoulder.

“But, dontcha think they’re going to ask pointed questions about the assignments?  Only, I get a little muddled on which one of us completed which assignment…”

“Didn’t you keep copies of your reports!?” asked Aziraphale, surprised, tapping a panel in the wall and pulling out a stack of ledgers.

Pulling a small slender book out of a secret pocket in the lining of his coat, Crowley acknowledges, “Something like that, but I didn’t keep copies of your reports, did I!”

Sitting next to each other on a leather bench built into the paneled wall, Crowley swallows, and suggests, “You first.”

“Why me!?” wails Aziraphale.

“Upstairs doesn’t drop you into a mongoose infested maze for fifty years if they’re hacked off with you , right?” growled Crowley.

“No, but I don’t fancy a visit from any of my…supervisors, either!” Aziraphale countered, anxious not to name Sandalaphon, Michael, Uriel, and especially Gabriel.  Straightening his waist coat and settling his shoulders, he puts both hands on the table to either side of the memo.

Crowley made a little go on motion with his hands and Aziraphale says, “Oh, all right!” and taps the survey, watching the initial words dissolve and new ones form.

“Ah, it says it has ten questions.  That's not so bad!” Aziraphale smiles hopefully, Crowley looks dubiously at the memo, “‘Question 1: Full name’,” the angel enters his name,  “Why isn't anything happening? I entered my name!” Aziraphale says, querulously.

Crowley leans in and points, “Try tapping the little ‘Next’ arrow down there.”

“Oh yes, thank you,” Aziraphale tapped the next arrow, smiling brightly when the next question materialized.

“Question 2: Title (select every title you have ever held)’ oh, it's a ‘ drop in ’ menu,” Aziraphale scrolls through a seemingly endless list of angelic titles.

“Drop down menu, angel,” Crowley corrects absently while reading the list,  “There's really a 37th class Echo specialist? What's an Echo specialist do?”

Aziraphale, still scrolling and mumbling to himself, suggests, “Ah, makes sure there's an appropriate amount of echo for any meeting space?” 

“You made that up!”

“I really have no idea, they must have added it while I was down here. Did you see ‘Guardian of the Eastern Gate'?” asked Aziraphale.

“Mmmm, looks like it's alphabetical, keep going, keep going…There! Did you already get ‘Principality’” asked Crowley.

“No! Because it's alphabetical!” Aziraphale says waspishly.

After a few more minutes scrolling and bickering, Crowley suggests, “Didn't you do that thing, you know the thing you mentioned down the pub in 1327?  ‘S about designing hedgehogs?”

“Oh, right, yes.  Thanks.” Aziraphale tilts back his head, looking down his nose as he taps the memo with one finger.

“I think that's everything…There's no next button on this one!” Aziraphale wails.

“Try the ‘Submit’ token, it’s,” Crowley scanned all over the document and started to hover his fingers over it until a ‘Submit' button appeared. “Yeah, tap that.” The angel tapped and then a next button was supplied.

“Why not just make it work the same on each question!  I’d expect this sort of thing from your lot,” Aziraphale said, blue eyes flashing angrily. Crowley just shrugged in agreement.

“‘Question 3: How long have you served on Earth. (If in doubt round up to the quarter century)’. Well, that’s easy enough.” Aziraphale chuckled nervously.  There was a terrible tension building as he expected the inevitable shoe to drop.

“Question 4: use the provided map to indicate the locations where you have served.’” When Aziraphale tapped a country it zoomed in until he had tapped every city and town he'd served in on the modern map.  Once the modern map was complete, the next most recent map came into view.  Aziraphale's hair was curling more fiercely than usual as he moved further and further back in time, “What was the name of that town in the oasis that dried up 4300 years ago?”

“The one with the date wine or the one that imported beer from Sumer?” asked Crowley as he watched the angel's fingers dance.

“Why aren’t you working on your memo?” Aziraphale accused, shaking his fingers out after completing question 4 and searching for the mechanism to unlock the next question.

Crowley grunted, “No point in putting it off any longer,” and started his memo.

“Doesn’t say how many questions, that’s ominous, but I’ve got a little progress bar! Let’s see: ‘Question 1: Name(s) or sigil.’” Crowley signed the parchment with a fiery snake and it automatically advanced to the next question and the progress bar filled in half way.

“You got halfway finished in the first question!” protested Aziraphale while an infinity sign rotated on his parchment as Question 5 loaded.

Twisting his head from side to side Crowley hissed, “I don’t believe that for a second! They’re trying to lull me into a false sense of security, you just wait,” he predicted darkly, staring warily at the parchment as cloudy shadows clarified into text.

“Ngk” Crowley gulped and swayed a tiny bit in his seat.

“What’s wrong?” Aziraphale reached out and touched Crowley lightly on the forearm to steady him.

“Ya know how I always said they didn’t really read the reports?” said Crowley, eyes roving over dense text.

“Yes, it always seemed that way from my people, too,” Aziraphale replied as a soft chime sounded from his memo, Question 5 had loaded.

“Oh dear,” breathed Aziraphale.

“Nnnggghh” whined Crowely.

Both of them read, and read, and read.

“They’ve read the reports!” Aziraphale said.

“ All the reports,” Crowley agreed, hoarsely.

“And they’ve got questions,” said Aziraphale.

“Very detailed questions,” said Crowley.

“And pointed,” Aziraphale said, sitting with more and more exact posture, hand drifting up to his lips.

“And nastily leading,” intoned Crowley, as he slouched deeper and deeper into the upholstered bench, head dropping back, still reading the parchment he was holding up to his eyes.

***

After a brief period of denial, “What would they do, really, if we don’t complete these? Surely, it’s just a low level scrivener made to be painstakingly thorough!?,” opined Aziraphale desperately to Crowley’s rising eyebrows and faintly shaking head.

Anger: “This is low even for them! ‘V done buggerall to keep up appearances and this is what I get!” snarled Crowley.

And mute staring into the distance while fingers tapped or drummed and serious, desperate cogitation took place.  

They shifted at the same time, but Crowley broke the silence.

“What’s that you say about some of those books you like to read, angel?  Poet permit?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale grumbled, “Poetic license.  What are you suggesting, you old serpent?”

Crowley leaned forward again, tossing his parchment on the table next to the angel’s memo, and smiled conspiratorially, “We give ‘em a story! One they’ll like!” he gestured at the memos and their heap of secret journals. Leaning further forward he presses,  “It’s what we’ve always done!”

“Crowley, how will that even work!  You weren’t even there for some of those assignments, and I didn’t write down all the detail they’re asking for!” Aziraphale frowned.

Crowley waited quietly. leaning in with his head slightly turned and raising his eyebrows, waiting for the penny to drop.

Aziraphale’s face cleared as he said, “Oh!” and raised a finger, only trembling slightly with excitement bourne of wild hope.

“I’ll have to write some of yours, the assignments you weren’t actually there for,” said Aziraphale.

“And I’ll write some for you.”  Crowley grinned, suddenly animated, “Hand it over, angel, we’ve got this!”

Aziraphale wrote feverishly on the demonic survey, “I’m going for a ‘brash and snide’ tone, but only to the point that you could actually pull it off.” Crowley looked over at the demonic memo in the angel’s hand while he worked on the angelic survey, “You really are a bit of a bastard, you know,” Crowley said approvingly, his coifed hair disheveled from the number of times he’d run a hand through it trying to draw out old memories.

Aziraphale flushed happily, he’d removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, but not relaxed his bow-tie, there were standards to be kept! “And you certainly mastered ‘humble but forthright’ for mine!” Aziraphale gave a little smile with a touch of a mischievous twinkle in his eye,  “You could pass for an angel.”

Crowley snorted, “I have passed for an angel.  Just like you’ve passed for a demon.  To humans.” Crowley said dismissively, “Swap out. You did this one.”

Aziraphale finished an entry and passed over the parchment, “Well, yes, but I just wanted to tell you, you’re doing a splendid job on the survey!” 

***

The next day they stumbled out of the hidden room together and flopped onto the Chesterfield sofa.

“Alcohol,” moaned Crowley, eyes closed, from where his head was propped up on one corner of the couch while the rest of him oozed and pooled from there.

“And crepes,” sighed Aziraphale from where he was crumpled into the opposite side of the couch.  His tie was still perfectly knotted but his hair was wild and what looked like sweat stains made dark moons under his arms.  One of his tartan socks had gotten loose from a garter and slumped over his ankle.

“ With alcohol,” insisted Crowley, passing the angel a sky blue ice pack while he laid a jet black one onto his forehead.

“Paris?” Aziraphale said wistfully, holding the ice to the back of his neck.

“Paris,” Crowley agreed, sitting up and holding out a hand to the angel.