August drabble dump, crossovers!

[tiptoe39]

A Cup of Tea

Castiel is used to cosmic battles and existential threats. He's not sure what to make of the Rift. He only knows that he's been assigned there for some reason that must have something to do with the heavenly host and its continued survival. So he walks slowly around the central machine that holds it in place, appraising and marveling at its utility.

"So," Ianto says in the background, trying to look cheerful. "You've been sent in by UNIT, then?"

Castiel has no idea what he's talking about. "Yes."

"Can I get you something? A cup of tea?"

"I'm fine." He holds up a hand in an abridged, clunky gesture.

Ianto waits a moment, looks at him, and then presses forward again. "Come on. The drive from London can't have been pleasant in this rain. I'm surprised you're not soaked, to tell you the truth. I was out for five minutes earlier and had to borrow Jack's towel to dry my hair. You must at least be cold."

"I'm--" Castiel stops, peers at him. The round face is warm with invitation. He remembers, dimly, how the human race can want so badly to be needed. "Fine. Tea sounds nice."

"You're American," Ianto remarks a minute later, as he brings out two steaming cups. "I'd think Jack would've mentioned you. You two have met, I'm sure."

Castiel squints at him over the wafting, moving air. "We... haven't."

"Ah, well, that explains it. He would have told me about you."

"You're very talkative," Castiel observes. Actually, he's complaining, not just observing, but his tone is even enough that no one could tell.

"Odd, isn't it?" Ianto gives a nod. "I never used to be quite so... extroverted. Jack's fault again. He's taught me to lighten up a tad. I suspect he regrets it."

"You speak a lot about Jack."

At this, Ianto's face goes slightly pink, and some of that old quiet-man persona filters back into his stance. "He's important to me."

Castiel takes a sip of tea. Over the steam he sees Ianto's face, recognizes something familiar in it. And he wonders if his assignment here has anything to do with the Rift at all.

---

SMS

To: Sherlock Holmes
From: (unidentified)

I got yr msg. Who r u?


To: (unidentified)
From: Sherlock Holmes

I'll tell you if you tell me what an angel needs with a cell phone.

---

Narcissus Unbound

He can see the tweet now. Oh, God, he has to make this happen no matter what he does to achieve it. The tweet alone will be worth any discomfort or fear he might break the universe.

Of course, it helps that the man sitting there, his head in his hands on the stoop, is Misha himself at his most attractive - like all the stage makeup and the good lighting and the camerawork stuck to him somehow and made him just as pretty as he is capable of being. Misha's willing to bet he never has a lousy hair day or gets something stuck between his teeth. And every actor's got a bit of Narcissus in him, really. You can only get adored by fans for so long before you look in the mirror and say, "Ya know what? I would totally do me."

But by now the man is looking up at him and scared to death, trembling. "Oh, my God," he says. "Oh, my God, I'm dead. I'm looking down at my body. Or up at my body. Why am I looking up at my body?"

"Shh," Misha says. "What's your name?"

He's only a little surprised when the name he hears is Dr. Jacob Glaser, recently perished in the annals of horrible sci-fi monsterpieces. Mostly, he's glad he hasn't happened upon one of his serial-killer aliases.

"Don't be scared," Misha tells him, kneeling down and touching his face. And then, because it's the first thing that comes to mind: "I'm an angel of the Lord."

It's pretty amazing how easy it is after that.

Thu Aug 12 10:29 A.M. mishacollins: Last night I really fucked myself good. Turns out I'm a screamer, too.

---

Plan A
He's waiting outside the coffeehouse when William is unceremoniously kicked out. Crowley reaches out a hand to steady him and looks up with an expression that's not quite interest, not quite amusement. "Fancy a fag?" he says, holding a fat cigarette out.

William looks him over, takes it, then nearly drops it when Crowley sets it alight with a glance. "What in the--?"

"Crying shame," Crowley says, nodding in the direction of the establishment. "They should know better than to silence such a breakthrough voice."

This is even more bizarre than the self-lighting cigarette. "You think my poetry is good?"

"Oh, no, it's awful," Crowley says, blowing a smoke ring. "Absolutely beastly. I think that's why I enjoy it so much."

William stares at him as if stung. "That's a left-handed compliment if ever I heard one," he mumbles.

"Indeed it is." Crowley shrugs. "So tell me, have you ever considered embracing the badness, so to speak?"

"I don't... follow."

"I'd originally come for your soul, you know." Crowley says, turning to face William. His cigarette falls to the dirt and flames there, igniting a few sparks of dust in the road, but Crowley doesn't wince. "I was going to offer you a chance to be the most celebrated poet in Britain for the ten years before I came to collect. But I'm starting to think you could be of a lot of service up here on the ground. Ever thought of devoting yourself to Satan? I'd teach you to literally make people's eardrums bleed."

William wrinkles his nose at first, incredulous. But when the fire spreads to surround Crowley without burning a single thread of his impeccable trousers, the situation becomes clear. He spits out the cigarette, horrified. "Never," he declares, and draws back.

"Not never," Crowley corrects. "Maybe not now, but not never, either." The fire dies down, and Crowley smirks. "Suit yourself, then. I'll be in touch," he says, and walks away with a brief wave. He already has a Plan B on this one. How long has it been since he's dropped in on Drusilla?

---

The Idjit Gang
Buffy wiped the sweat from her brow as she re-entered the library. It hadn't been a fun patrol. Vampires were swarming down in the club district, and she'd just barely been able to send Bobby a photo of the scraps of relics and ancient writing she'd found before her investigation turned into a battle to stay alive. Vamps were worse than usual tonight. They didn't even care to listen to her snappy dialogue.

"Bobby?" she called after a moment of silence. "I'm back."

"Ya mind keepin' it down?" Bobby hollered, louder than she. "It's still a library, idjit."

Xander popped up from behind a stack of books. "He's been like that all night. I think he burned his ham and grits or something." He promptly flinched as Bobby raised a tome of necromancy as though to smack him with it.

Buffy frowned. "You're on research duty?"

"So're you," Bobby frowned. "Get readin'. That spell's like nothin' I've ever seen before."

"You'd better do it," warned Willow from a corner of the room where she had herself literally surrounded by books. "He keeps threatening to tan our hides."

"Cordelia thought he was offering a day spa treatment," Xander added, "and he kicked her out."

"More readin', less yappin'!" Bobby roared.

But Buffy wasn't easily intimidated. "Bobby, I'm sweating like a pig, I just had to fight off a good thirty vamps, and when we're done saving the world tonight I still have to read three chapters about the French Revolution. You've got a research team working; I'm gonna go take a shower."

"Well, boo-frickin'-hoo, princess," Bobby retorted, but he let her go. He might not be an effete British Watcher, but he knew not to mess with a sweaty Slayer.

---