(no subject)

Did you ever enjoy thinking about a story so much you just don't want to write it because it will never be as good as it is in your head? (And also in your head, no one can criticize your characterization?)

I have two like this that I keep rewriting and expanding in my head all the time. And it's fun, because the inner editor who says stuff like "Oh Jesus Christ, what the fuck is that? You can't do that! Wait, didn't you do that already? Oh, that's just stupid." just cannot get in here. I can wallow.

The embarrassing part is this isn't even kinky stuff. I mean, no one is tying anyone up with piano wire and telling someone to call them daddy--this is fandom. Smut doesn't embarrass me. Unless My Little Ponies are involved in vague-non con with Rodney's hand, I'm cool. (This is not a challenge, people.) Melodrama does. Because, it's totally true, my inner writer is a sixteen year old girl who writes in sparkly pen "I want to marry John Sheppard and Benton Fraser when I grow up!" in purple ink. So sure, bring on the electrodes and implanted torture devices and what have you, but watch me squirm when I write domestic contentment.

My current mental epic is Fraser and Ray raising Fraser and Victoria's daughter, with like, hijinks and running across the border and kidnapping and lots and lots of shooting and whatnot.

*sighs*

Continuing Adventures in I Am Never Going to Finish a Story Again:

Frobisher and Ray on time and distance

"How's Fraser?" Ray asks quickly. Frobisher's nuts, but Ray has a weird feeling he's nuts in that way that's like Fraser's nuts. Just--escalated. Weirder. Interesting. Ray puts down his cup, wondering if Fraser had fucked up his sense of normal so much that Frobisher doesn't seem all that weird.

"Benton? Good boy." Frobisher smiles fondly, and Ray has this irresistible vision of Frobisher patting Fraser's head and calling him a good boy for bringing in a murderer. "Been rough, huh?"

"'S okay," Ray answers warily. Frobisher's just sitting there, all crazy and happy and not telling him a goddamn thing. "You letting him go soon?"

"Ah." Frobisher scratches at his chin. "Well. As you know, Muldoon's capture is quite an achievement. For the RCMP--"

"RCMP got nothing to do with it." In fact, Ray would say that the RCMP had shit to do with anything Fraser had done in the last few years. In *fact*, if they asked Ray, and Jesus he wishes they would, *he'd* say the RCMP hasn't done shit *for* Fraser, period.

He just can't imagine saying the word 'shit' in front of this guy. It's like sitting with his grandfather, if his grandfather had been a Mountie and seemed permanently stuck at "happy". Which Laz Kowalski had never, ever been by any stretch of the imagination.

And wait, the guy had avoided the question. "Where's Fraser?"

Frobisher hesitates. That can't be good. "We've offered him leave," Frobisher says, and it wasn't Ray's imagination at all; Frobisher *here*, no matter how much he acts like he's on another planet half the time. "He's insisting on returning to duty and his new assignment."

Ray's stomach clenches. "So he's transferring?" He can't hide the crack in his voice and doesn't bother trying to. "No exile no more?"

"He's been offered whatever post he wishes to take." Frobisher clears his throat, like maybe he realizes he's not being weird anymore. "Of course, he's been thinking it over. Despite circumstances, there are still some--hard feelings regarding his actions in pursuit of--"

"The killers of his father, whom he brought to justice," Ray drones, hands clenching on the cup. Dief growls softly against his knee. "For which the Mounties fucked him over and left him to die in Chicago. Which is what you do when someone does their job."

Frobisher's eyes narrow. "That, Detective, you do not need to argue. Not with me."

Ray blinks. Something old and raw stares back at him for a second, and he abruptly remembers what Fraser had said about him and Robert Fraser. Partners. Friends. Something even time and distance couldn't touch. Robert Fraser's been dead for nearly five years, but for this man, it's as close as yesterday, a hurt that maybe ain't never gonna heal.

*mulls* I need to check my canon for the series ending. Oh what a hardship that will be.

a narrow, narrow escape

So today I narrowly avoided a hideous death by anthrax, also known as baby powder.

Okay, just go with this. You are a public employee. You go to the bathroom to do what things in bathrooms need to be done. And then you find--white powder.

Fine. White. Powder. On the toilet seat. You know, too late to do anything about it.

Now granted, there's a better chance I was--in contact--with a heroin-coke mix left by a disgruntled third floor Dell employee than weapons grade anthrax, but work with me here. You don't find that on the toilet seat except in certain very specialized venues that usually aren't in builds that there are state employees in. So of course, I cleaned up (already doomed), ran to my office (feeling my death hovering), to look up how long I have to live and spent the rest of the day feeling martyred and wondering if there had been any new antibiotics introduced into the fight. By the way, I've got like, a week before respiratory collapse, since when it comes in powder form, it's inhalation and oh my God, if there was a clever plan to attack public servants, they aren't starting on a toilet seat. That wouldn't be clever. That would be a waste of a substance that, if I read correctly, is worth more than many small countries. They'd poison themselves first.

Probably powder. Very fine, white powder. On the toilet. Do people use powder on the toilet?

Well, this has been an interesting day.