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[homeplot] Scene 1: Viva Las Vegas

Summary: Nick and Warrick 'wake up' in the middle of a case. Karen is far less lucky.

viva las vegasCollapse )
Summary: Karen finds Warrick digging through the Clothes that Time Forgot. She's so never letting him live it down. Warning: not even a little PC. PG.

oh no you did NOTCollapse )
Summary: Warrick wakes up gay. But there's no happy snuggling we're not gay we just love each other ending in store for him. At least not until his man-meat likes the lady-fingers again.

baby, that's one queer steerCollapse )

[for Dinah]

dated March 13th

I send Helen on home, telling her I'll lock up tonight. Probably she wind up at my place, but it's easier on me, her whole being with other people thing if we don't leave together. Stings less if she decides to head somewhere else. Not that she does it all that much, but I'd kinda rather not see it happening before my eyes.

While I'm marking the books, I hear a thump out back and shake my head but don't go look. Probably Grayson and the kid, and, man, I'm fine with it. I am. But I don't need to see it, y'know? I finish marking the books, make a note to Helen to ask Grayson if he wants to stop giving lap dances for real, since it doesn't look like he's given but five since Valentine's Day, and three of 'em to the redheaded guy he used to be with a lot. Harper.

Standing, I run my hand forward over my hair, then back again. Grayson. Being a superhero's gotta mess you up, y'know? But I still can't figure. Guy like that, surrounded by babes like the Black Canary, and he's hooked on some kid? Granted the kid's Robin, but still.

I shrug my way to the front of the house, hit the lights and smile into the dark while I back out and lock up. "To each his own," Grams always said, and a healthy "mind your own business, boy," always seemed to follow. Not that she did. Woman knew every damned thing that happened in our hood and then some. Told her once CSIs can't mind their own business and she swatted me with her spoon. "That's different Warrick Brown and you know it," she said, and damn if she wasn't right.

Tonight's not one of those nights. Not when I see a flash of bright blonde hair ducking around the corner of my club, and I'm thinking, no way in hell is anyone busting in here.

"Hey," I call out and round the corner in time to catch another flash, this time of showgirl legs in fishnets. Figures. "Black Canary, right?"

It's been years since I really sat down with a comic book, but Dinah Laurel Lance is an LEO geekboy's wet dream.

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[for helen] for gedda

dated February 6, 2009:

After we close down the club, Helen doesn't come home with me and it kinda surprises me, y'know? I guess I thought since it was our thing, we'd celebrate together. I won't lie, it ticked me off a little, 'cos I know if I'd have gone home with someone else, I'd have been hearing about it tomorrow.

The truth is, there's no one else I'd go home with, and I'm too wired to sleep. I hitch my guitar onto my lap and play for awhile, but my brain won't stop going and my fingers keep picking out the tune of Cath's song or of Helen's, like I'm comparing the two. I'm not, I don't, I can't, but maybe Helen did me a favor tonight, giving me time to work out my feelings for Cath, give that dream up for real.

Somewhere 'bout five a.m., I put down the axe and head for the Compound, head still buzzing with the club and the tunes. I grab a cup of the coffee that's always on - it's the good stuff this morning - and pull down the reels the video shelf gives me. Seems like the island wants me to have that time too, because they're that same CSI show Nick and Grissom were on.

I watch a couple of episodes, and, man, it's all kinds of weird to watch some guy named Gary Dourdan who looks just like me acting out some of the worst days of my life. When it hits eleven, I'm on my seventh cup of coffee and my fifth episode, and the strains of a familiar funeral march opens the episode. The pallbearers march, and a few seconds later the casket breaks open and two bodies, one black like the mourners and one white fall out of the casket.

Awww, shit. The white guy's Benny Harper, and I remember this case, this day, that afternoon. It's the day I took the call to go to Pigalle, the day Lou Gedda died. A few days before I probably did. I oughtta turn it off, a'ight, I know I oughtta, but I can't look away.

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[for helen]

I've got sunshine
On a cloudy day.
When it's cold outside,
I've got the month of May.



I tried romantic gestures. Down on bended knee, diamong ring, the whole deal, for Tina. And you know how that worked out: lawyers, judges, custody hearings for a son no one knows I've got. None of it matters here, except now I'll never see my son at all. Guess I wasn't gonna see him at home, either, being dead, but...yeah.

Anyway, a'ight, point is, romance really hasn't worked out for me. Strippers, either. I still see Joanna falling out of my car some nights, and, man, roofies and sex, dead girls, dead scumbags and time in lock-up, that'll fuck your shit up.

But fucked-up as my shit is, Helen wants my black ass. It's not conventional, but that's a'ight. See Tina for reference on me and traditional, y'know what I'm saying? Grams might not approve, but she ain't here, Cath's not, Griss and Sara aren't either, but Helen is. And, damn, if I don't love the girl.

So it's Valentine's Day, dead strippers and nasty divorces can bite me. I've got plans. I asked Helen to meet me in the Willows Room after she and Grayson - the original Robin, man, my girl's teaching amateur stripping with Batman's Boy Wonder; that's weird - get done with the class.

Island helped me out a little. Decorated the place like a real old time jazz club, classy and cool, a single rose in a vase on each table, heart-shaped crystal votive holders with red candles, and a silver champagne bucket with crystal flutes at the foot of my keyboard bench. I snagged a bottle of bubbly from the bar, signed my life away from chocolates and flowers, and sweet-talked the box into a red silk shirt to go with a pair of black jeans.

I turn the sound way low on my amps, sit and run through the song I've been writing over and over, and I just barely have time to quit before the door opens. I probably look like a prairie dog in the headlights...

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[meme] plotting

What this meme is all about is expanding on that, to better create a personal history that you can then use to better build personal development. To paraphrase Lindsay, "it's not intended to be a way of avoiding/handwaving actual threads but rather a way of kickstarting them and getting a better idea of where our characters stand with each other. It's a small island, and it's likely that a lot of our pups have interacted, maybe in little ways." The details can be silly or trivial (They see each other at breakfast everyday), or a shared anecdote (Remember that time when they got attacked by the angry parrot?), or the seeds of a bigger plot to be played out later.


Drop a comment and we'll chat. I'm looking to get him more involved in the island.

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[for nick] they'll be home for christmas

dated Friday, December 19th.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas!

Yeah, you think? The last thing I need is a bunch of singing Chipmunks and an enchanted jukebox telling me what time of year it is. My bachelor pad with the swank living room and fly wraparound porch turned into a damned wood and felt thing people are calling a yurt. And y'know, it might as well be the steppes for the amount of snow I had to hike my ass through to get to the compound.

S'a'ight, though. I'm on a mission. Cath spent Thanksgiving holed up and I'm not letting her spend Christmas the same way. Even if Griss and Sara and Nicky and Karen are busy, we're gonna hang together. She's family, she's gonna be missing Linds, and...y'know, I miss her. I swear I spend less time with her here than I did at home and we live five minutes apart, walking.

I swing by the Council office first. No one's seen her all day. Kinda strange. Cath's never been one to shirk just 'cos there's fuckall to do. No one's seen her in the lab either when I get there.

Hope she's not sick. Woman damned well better be telling me when she's sick. Can't look out for her if I don't know. By the time I get to her room and she's not there either, I'm done being pissed and starting to worry, y'know? Cath can hide out, but it's not like her to hide.

I slouch against the wall, hand tugging the back of my neck. She could just be out visiting, but the place doesn't feel right. My CSI senses are tingling. Last thing I want is to invade Anne freaking Boleyn's privacy, y'know, but I gotta look. 'Cos what if...

Aww, shit, Cath. No.

There's nothing of hers in the room. Nothing to say she's ever been, 'cept that damned game sitting square in the middle of the bed that hasn't been slept in.

Maybe she just moved or she's staying at Nick's. She'd have told me, but maybe...

Cath.

Sucking air like I'm shot in the chest, I slump against the wall, slide to the ground. Doesn't matter how many times you've had to deliver the news. It never gets easier. And you know when it happens to you what a load of shit it is. She's gone, and no 'I'm sorry for your loss' is gonna do a damned thing to fill the hole she left.

I put my hands around my head and sit there. Stare at the insititutional white floorboards. Like if I sit here long enough, I'm gonna wake up or the surgeon's gonna tell me it's a close call but she's gonna be okay. But that's not gonna happen.

She's gone.

I sit half an hour maybe. Not thinking, just remembering. Wishing I'd had the stones to tell her. Only thing I can think that makes this any kind of okay is that she'll be with Linds for Christmas. I'm probably dead at home, but she's a'ight and she's got her daughter. That's what matters.

An hour later when I track down Nick at his place, I'm still telling myself that. She'll be with Linds for Christmas. That's what matters.

My knock on his door sounds hollow. Heard that damned empty thud so many times, but it never sounded like this. Like the lid closing on a coffin. Shit, Brown, pull it together. Last thing Nick, Griss and Sara need is you boo-hooing over Cath.

I knock again. "Yo, Nicky. C'mon, man, open up. It's me. I gotta talk to you."

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Zindy Lou was sweet she sure was fine
And when she kissed me I lose my mind Zindy Lou
Oh Zindy Lou
(Lou lou lou, ooh Zindy Lou, Lou lou lou, ooh Zindy Lou)

--"Zindy Lou," Manhattan Transfer


[continued from here]

Now I've got a choice to make, wait her out or close the deal. The way she's looking at me, I get the feeling it'd be a good long wait with the same end results. It could be fun, y'know, real hot, to play it with her, long drawn out game of I touch you, you touch me 'til both of us decide to check and mate. But I flash back on her saying I owe her, and, hell, a'ight, if the lady wants the satisfaction, who am I to say no?

I open my palm and smooth over her hair again, tangling my fingers in the ends against the back of her neck. No two women are alike, and no two kisses oughtta be. With someone else, I might hold back, make a first kiss a question, but with Helen, it's an answer. Decisive, but not abrupt y'know, I cover her mouth with mine and settle into the kiss that's been brewing since her first why, hello handsome smile.

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