Prompt: Pie
Character: Anakin and Obi-Wan
Fandom: Star Wars
Word count: 597
Rating: G
Disclaimer Not mine. Anakin/Jedi/Star Wars/etc belongs to Lucasfilms and George Lucas. I'm just borrowing for a time and for entertainment. No money is made off of this fic. Thank you!

The only sound filling the room was the contented snoring of a Jedi youngster lying sprawled over Obi-Wan's bed with one leg hanging off and a few telltale crumbs, crumbs sprinkling his sheets. The other telltale sign was an empty plate scraped clean of whatever confectionary goodness had been resting on it that morning.

That, and the bit of whipped cream caught on the end of Anakin's padawan braid.

Obi-Wan merely watched this strange tableau for several moments, his hands on his hips, before sighing to himself. Perhaps he should have known better than to leave Anakin alone with it but certainly his padawan should be able to exercise some restraint by now at the age of fifteen! Then again, this was Anakin he was talking about, Obi-Wan reminded himself with a mixture of exasperation and fondness.

The youth moved a little in his sleep, and perhaps through some gratuitous use of the Force by his mentor, ended up tumbling to the floor in what made for a rather rude -- if funny to someone watching -- awakening. Anakin yelped and sat up, looking up at Obi-Wan rather accusingly through the sleep in his eyes. "What was that for?"

"Anakin," Obi-Wan began, his hands now tucked into the sleeves of his robe as he used his patient-but-slightly-exasperated-teacher tone, "what were you supposed to be doing while I was meeting with Master Windu?"

Obi-Wan was fairly certain that Anakin used the opportunity of having to pick himself up and dust himself off to duck his head and make a face. "Put away my tools and droid parts."

Pointedly, Obi-Wan glanced in the direction of Anakin's corner of the room where tools and little mechanical bits littered the floor, and a few of the larger parts were pushed to the side of Anakin's bed against the wall making enough room for his apprentice to sleep though Obi-Wan could hardly imagine how it was comfortable for the boy. Then, he looked back down at his recalcitrant padawan, prompting with an, "...and?"

A little uneasily, Anakin shifted his weight. He'd been working on it like Obi-Wan had asked him to! He'd gotten everything sorted, anyway, into piles by type of part when he'd found himself continually looking toward the two slices of multi-berry pie with cream Obi-Wan had left sitting on the counter of their little cooking-area with the promise that it'd be a treat after the midday meal after Obi-Wan returned from his meeting with Master Windu.

For what seemed like ages, Anakin resisted. But eventually he'd gone and just stuck his finger in one of the slices, just enough for a taste. That had been enough for a little longer. But then he couldn't stop thinking about the sweet taste of the pie and breakfast had seemed like an eternity ago and surely Obi-Wan wouldn't mind if Anakin just had a little bite from one of the pieces?

Somehow a little bite had turned to Anakin gorging himself on both pieces and then, tidying duty completely forgotten, he'd sprawled onto Obi-Wan's bed to 'just rest a minute'. He couldn't, after all, sprawl on his own bed, not with the droid parts on it.

But looking up at his master, Anakin didn't think that explanation would go over very well. And he didn't really have an excuse and he wasn't sure what to say and just having woken up wasn't really the best time for one to think of how to explain oneself and all that came out was a plaintive, "but I was hungry!"

Obi-Wan, at least, had the grace to only laugh about it once he was alone.

Which is the more exquisite sensation: revenge, relief, or vindication?

They deserved every bit of his revenge. His anger. They deserved the death he brought to them. Even now, years later, he believes that. Even now, when he imagines that night he has to work to feel guilt enough to drown out the memory of how powerful he felt. Righteous. It's not the cold shiver of fear he feels in his spine when he hears the echo of the Tusken screams in his memory but a frisson of energy, the whisper of, you could feel like that always. The guilt he works to feel -- because he's supposed to be guilty, isn't he? -- doesn't ever quite stop him from feeling that, given the same choice, he'd do it all over again. Gladly.

there's a certain sly sort of pleasure in repaying Obi-Wan one of his pranks, one of his cleverly witty little one-liners in one of his own. in watching the consternation on his Master's face when Kenobi realizes he's been had. Anakin's always enjoyed that.

The feeling washes over him in a cold, icy wave. He doesn't know! And he is utterly, irrationally glad he won't have to explain to anyone what all he did on Naboo. For a moment, he thinks Obi-Wan will ask, but his Master remains silent and saves Anakin from having to lie. Anakin wasn't a liar but for this? He would. Even to Obi-Wan. Especially to Obi-Wan.

the story Palpatine tells Anakin is like a breath of air for a suffocating man. it gives him hope he can save his wife, a chance that he hadn't had before. it's something. and he figures the relief he's feeling probably shows even on his face. he can do something this time.

When he no longer wears his braid, when the ceremony is complete, he feels it inside of him. A fierce feeling of pride, of course, but also vindication. Justification that he did deserve the title of Jedi. And while he's pleased and happy and honored to accept this title, he's also looking at the Master's around him and thinking, you didn't think I could do this. You didn't want me here, but I did it. In spite of you.

there's a moment there, at the end when he's looking up into his son's eyes that he feels it. that fierce little flame of pride that's more than merely pride. vindicated, it says. and he is. a lifetime of making the wrong choices but choosing her had never been wrong. not when the result was the man who knelt over him. not when he'd finally done what he'd always been meant to do. he smiles...

...and then the Force envelopes him. he's home.

Young Anakin stared up at Obi-Wan disbelievingly, "What do you mean, stay in be-coughcough?"

Obi-Wan shook his head and smiled down at his Padawan, "exactly what I say, my Padawan. The healers are quite adamant that you won't be well any time soon if you continue to run around. Especially on any jaunts you might be taking down to certain junk heaps."

Anakin tried to look contrite, or innocent, or something but that was hard to do when he really didn't feel like doing anything besides curling up in bed and sleeping a long time. Which was precisely what the healers (and Obi-Wan) were ordering, so it was precisely what he was determined not to do. "But...my...my training!"

Obi-Wan shook his head, "It can certainly wait for a day or two," or three or four or a week, if need be, "for you to get back on your feet, Anakin."

So Anakin tried being stubborn, but that was kind of exhausting so he just slumped back on the bed, "I hate being sick," he grumped. Plus, when he'd ever been sick at home, it was his mother who'd taken care of him, bringing him juice and telling him stories. Anakin was fairly certain Obi-Wan wasn't the type of person to read stories. He probably wasn't that good at it anyway.

Brightly, Obi-Wan added, "this does give us the opportunity to work on healing meditations."

Anakin groaned and burrowed into the bed, "I'd rather lie here and die."

"Oh, Anakin, don't be so melodramatic."

Anakin, though, sensed a change in Obi-Wan's tone. Something had gotten to his Master. He figured he should milk this bit for all it was worth. If possible, his tone became just a bit more petulant, "but I don't feel good. I can't concentrate on stuff like that. Couldn't you tell a story?" It was worth a shot.

Obi-Wan's eyebrows raised. "Story?"

Quickly, Anakin added, "about you when you were a Padawan?" Maybe it'd sound almost like a teaching opportunity.

Obi-Wan stared down at the boy for a few moments before finally relenting, "very well, but let me fix some tea, first." Anakin couldn't argue with that so he just nodded and stayed cozy in his bed while Obi-Wan fixed a pot of tea for them both, something that smelled a little spicy and for some reason made Anakin feel like he was at home, not on Tatooine, but at home, here. It was kind of nice. When Obi-Wan returned with the tea, he settled carefully onto the side of Anakin's bed before helping the boy sit up so he could drink. Once they were both comfortable, Obi-Wan began, "I suppose I haven't told you the story about how I met Bant, have I....?"

It was only supposed to be one story, but the tea was gone and Anakin was fast asleep somewhere into Obi-Wan's fifth or sixth tale.

[This is so AU for Anakin it should be the striked out version of him. That is, it just came to me but has little to do with the Anakin I roleplay. Or the canon version. Uhm. Unless Nic wants to help me change that?]

If Anakin had learned nothing else from Obi-Wan, it had been how to make the perfect pot of tea. This was a useful skill since Obi-Wan rather liked tea, and because Anakin found it instrumental in relaxing his Master. Which was convenient when Anakin wanted something. Like getting out of a few hours of meditation. Surely with the judicious application of the perfect pot of tea, Obi-Wan would forget and go straight to sleep.

Hmm, maybe he should add cookies. Not even Obi-Wan could resist that combination and surely they'd distract his Master from even thinking about meditating. It was a great plan.

A great plan with one flaw.

As soon as Obi-Wan entered their shared quarters, he looked at Anakin curiously. "Tea and cookies? I hesitate to ask what the occasion is. Or maybe, what you did this time?"

Anakin made a face, "I didn't do anything. I haven't done anything in...uhm...at least a week. And it's not an occasion. I just. Wanted tea. And cookies." Well, he always wanted cookies, but that was a whole 'nother pot of tea as it were.

Obi-Wan just raised an eyebrow and poured himself a cup of tea and munched on a cookie. "Mm-hmm. Well, I do have to commend you, my padawan, this is the perfect snack to have before we begin our meditations."

Anakin tried, but didn't quite, suppress his groan. Obi-Wan just hid his smirk behind his cup of tea while his defeated padawan poured his own cup and snagged a cookie or three. There was no point in arguing with his Master when his plan had already been found out. Plus, it might prompt Obi-Wan to forgo the snack and go straight to the meditating. So instead, Anakin drew the snack out as long as he could, hoping Obi-Wan might give up which eventually prompted his Master to comment, "Padawan, that may have worked when you were nine but it is hardly likely to work at the age of seventeen."

So Anakin just gave Obi-Wan a wide-eyed innocent look and gulped down the rest of his tea and a cookie. "Okay, Master, I'm ready." As I'll ever be.

Obi-Wan smiled and gestured to two cushions resting nearby on the floor, taking his place on one and waiting while his student settled onto the other. Nearly in unison, they both closed their eyes and took in deep breaths before exhaling slowly and relaxing into the embrace of the Force.

It should, perhaps, be explained that the actual meditation Anakin didn't mind all that much, it's just he preferred its more active forms and really disliked having to sit still for very long, often finding himself cramping as he did so, and it taking ages for him to just let go as he was taught, which left him frustrated. Tonight, however, it was easy. Maybe it was the tea. Master and Padawan sank into the Force, letting their spirits free.

Once he got to this point, Anakin usually found it exhilarating but tonight it was even more so and it took him a few moments to understand why until he realised he was sensing Obi-Wan's feelings as well and he could tell Obi-Wan felt it too, each one's emotions magnifying the other's in a continuous loop. He'd never felt anything like it before and it seemed Obi-Wan hadn't either. Well, not quite in the same context, anyway. If he hadn't been so caught up in it, he might have wandered if they should stop, but that doubt didn't enter his mind at all and Obi-Wan didn't pull away. In fact, they both grew closer, their presences in the Force blending together and entertwining until, if one could watch, they would have only seen one unified presence there for one blinding moment.

It was exhausting, it was exhilarating, it was glorious, and then it was gone and both master and apprentice dropped back into the real world covered in sweat and staring at each other in wonder.

Obi-Wan had left him for dead on that beach of black sand, beside a river of molten lava. He had been left utterly, completely, alone in Hell. Alone with himself and his hatred, that flaring ember that kept him going, forced him to survive at all costs, that pushed him to hang on even when there seemed no reason to.

No one was coming for him.

The one who had once saved him was the one who had left him behind. There was no one to save him now.

He felt he must have lain there for centuries waiting for...what, he wasn't certain. And then there was someone beside him, the lightest of touches on his forehead that he almost couldn't feel and it was then he understood.

He wasn't alone.

There was someone who would save him, who had been trying to save him for all of his life.

He wasn't alone.

---

Once again, he found himself lying prone, alone inside of his shell. Once more the one who had saved him once was gone.

Once more, it was all he could do to lie there, to wait...To wait for the gentle touch that removes his mask. To look up into blue eyes of the young man beside him and to know...

He wasn't alone.

Here was someone who had truly saved him.

He wasn't alone.

---

He watches the festivities, but does not join in. He is an observer, not a part of the celebration.

There are watchers with him, though, old friends once thought lost.

He's not alone.

He never was.

( The inspiration for this prompt... )

In that instant after the mask was removed. In that instant of looking, really looking into his son's eyes for the first time. It was that instant that all of the shame and guilt and pain of a lifetime of evil caught up with him. He had pushed it away, hidden from it for so long, surrounded by his armor, blanketing himself with it, with Darkness. And now, in these few final moments he has left before...before the end, he feels it all.

The destruction of entire cities...of entire planets.

The casual murder of thousands simply because he was capable of doing so.

The torture of innocents, even his own children.

The death of Obi-Wan.

A million different sins committed over decades. A life of evil when he could have been so much more.

If he weren't already dying, he would have felt the urge to kill himself then and there, the grief and pain and shame were so great and what was one more death -- his own -- to all that he had already inflicted?

Again, this boy, his son pulled him back, out of that pit of despair and darkness. Looking up at his son, it is then that Anakin knows, knows without a doubt that the boy was good. And Luke was his -- his and Padme's -- so there must have been some good, some little grain of light still in him as well. And it is this knowledge that allows Anakin to let go and to love, truly love, here and now, his son. And himself.

===
Note: Takes place at end of RotJ. Stuff under cut is quoted out of the novelization of Return of the Jedi by James Kahn.

The room was quiet. Very quiet. Young Anakin frowned and walked around it, picking things up and looking at them putting them back down. Sitting for a moment. Standing and walking again. Peering out the window. Wondering when someone would come for him.

It was all just distraction. Distraction for himself, to keep himself from thinking about how very alone he is. How lonely. How he very much wants to find the nearest set of warm, comforting arms and curl up in them and wish none of this had ever happened. Wish he was still at home.

But no.

His mother was millions of miles away somewhere and he might not ever see her again. Something inside him twinged painfully at that thought.

Padme was his friend. But also a Queen and she had more important things to tend to than a little boy who wanted his mother.

Qui-Gon...Qui-Gon was gone. Obi-Wan had told him after the battle, in clipped tones and a low voice. And then Anakin had been brought here to wait. No one else could be bothered with him.

The man he'd already begun to love, the one who'd seen so much potential in him, was gone. And with him, all of Anakin's hopes of being a Jedi. There was no reason for them to keep him now. He remembered the Council chamber, remembered that Qui-Gon had been the only one who'd wanted him.

"Maybe they'll send me home." he mutters to himself. But he knows that wouldn't happen. They wouldn't send him back into slavery and yet...they don't want him.

"They'll probably just leave me here in the city somewhere." he mutters again, and curls up on the bed he's been given, clutching a pillow to his chest.

Millions of miles away from anything familiar, surrounded by people who don't really want him, and shut into a room alone, Anakin's never felt more cut off from everything, never felt more lonely.

So it's unsurprising when the first little sob chokes it's way up out of his chest. It's unsurprising when others follow it. Unsurprising when he does, in fact, cry himself to sleep.

He'd been in his room at least a week, he'd lost track. It didn't matter. Nothing did when your whole world wasn't just turned upside down, it was shattered into a million little pieces. Thomas stared at himself in the mirror. He didn't recognized himself anymore. His gray eyes were bloodshot, his face paler than he remembered it should be. His hair was a mess, he hadn't bothered to do much with it. He reached up to touch the spot where his mother's arm had been against his neck when she'd tried to embrace him. It had left a blistering burn but that was healed now, already. Unnatural.

She'd kept this from him his entire life. She'd lied to him. His hands clenched into fists. And now...what was he?

A monster?

A murderer.

He couldn't get Bronwen's blank, staring eyes out of his mind. He'd just kept... And she'd... He hadn't even realized until it was too late. Until she wasn't breathing. Until after she was gone.

Thomas's shoulders shook with the tide of emotion he was trying to physically hold back. What was he now? He looked at the place on his neck where a burn should be once more. He couldn't even be touched by his own mother. He didn't see Thomas in the mirror anymore, that was someone else's face he was seeing. And he'd killed Bronwen. He'd thought he loved her. But now she was dead because of him. Maggie might have wanted to protect him from himself but...

...she hadn't done a very good job of it, had she? Thomas growled and slammed his fist into the mirror, liking the crunching sound the glass made under his clenched fingers far too much. That eerily perfect reflection was broken now, which was better. A thousand shattered Thomases stared back at him. He turned away from the mirror and looked closely at his knuckles, now bloody. Carefully, he cleaned the wound, not that it would last very long now.

He was, he realized, hungry.

He'd heard Maggie or Malcolm setting a tray of food outside his door what seemed like ages ago now. But that wasn't what he was interested in. An hours-old sandwich and tepid, flat soda did nothing to pique his appetite. The teen wandered to his window and looked out. But there was something out there that did. He just had to find it. Slowly, he looked back at his room. There wasn't anything left for him here now, was there? He wasn't one of them anymore. They'd be better off without someone like him, anyway.

It didn't take him long to get packed. The last thing he did before leaving was to carry in the tray left outside of his door. It'd take them that much longer to notice he was missing that way. He had no idea of where he was going or how he'd get there but...

...well, he'd figure something out.

Maybe he'd find his real father.

o1. He's five and it's late in the night. His mother has slipped into his room and she's sitting by him on the bed, whisping her fingers lightly over his forehead. Sleepily, he looks up at her and opens his arms for a child's hug. In the dark, he can't see her eyes glistening with tears as she leans down to wrap him up in her arms. Only when she's holding him does he realize she's dressed like she's going somewhere, bundled up in a coat. "Where are you going?" he asks her, hugging her more tightly.

She's kissing his cheek now as she whispers, "I've got to go away for a while, baby."

"No!" She was the only person there who treated him like she actually cared. She couldn't leave him alone! "I want to go with you!"

"Shhh!" she hissed as she covered his mouth with her hand and glanced furtively toward the door to his room. "I want nothing more than to take you with me, Thomas but...I can't."

He was stubborn. He got it from his mother. "Why not?"

She looked back at him and he could see, even in the dim light, that she was asking herself the same question. Finally, she seemed to come to some conclusion. "You'll have to be very quiet and do everything I tell you to. Okay?"

He nodded. "Okay."

o2. It's early some time in November. Halloween has just passed but Thomas didn't get any candy. That was okay, though, he got something better. Dad -- well, Malcolm, but Thomas has always called him Dad since Mom and he got married -- had told him today was the day he'd get to meet the new member of the family.

Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden.

o3. He's sixteen and so is she. He thinks she's beautiful. They pass notes in school and he makes her laugh and blush prettily, but they're never alone. Never get the opportunity, even when he tries. Somewhere around the time Thomas started actually taking an active interest in the opposite sex, his mother suddenly became far too overprotective. She never let him alone with a girl. She didn't even let him date. It made for more than a few fights between them.

And Malcolm doesn't ever come in on Thomas' side. He just says his mother obviously has good reasons for doing what she does.

But Thomas is sixteen and when he looks at the girl who would be his girlfriend, all he can feel is that heady rush of heat and all he thinks about is touching her. No reason his mother has could possibly overrule that.

o4. No reason did overrule it. Teenagers are teenagers and if they're that determined to do something stupid, well...then they're going to do it. She's even more beautiful with her clothes off and when they come together it just feels so right and he feels so much more alive than he ever did before.

He's in a frenzy. Can't stop even if he wanted to. Even if he knew why he should. Too far gone. He doesn't even realize she's gone limp and quiet until it passes. Only then does he find that she's not waking up. She's not telling him how amazing he was. Her eyes are open but she doesn't see anything.

He screams.

o5. His mother did something. Thomas wasn't sure what. But she did something and no one came looking for Thomas as the murderer. It didn't look like murder at all. She died in her sleep. Tragic.

Only then does she explain to him what he is. What she tried to protect him from. And she cries as she does so and tries to hold him, to apologize. But her touch burns him and he screams at her to just leave him alone.

He stays in his room for weeks. They tiptoe by the door and leave food for him outside of it.

It's only after the food tray is untouched for an entire day that they realize he's not in his room and yet window was wide open. Thomas was gone.

o6. He's five and it's late in the night but he's not asleep. He thought he heard something outside his door, a quiet sort of shuffling that his child's mind translates into the sneaking of monsters. He can see a shadow cast through the line of light from the hall coming in under his door and it stays there for several long minutes. Thomas is sure he can hear the heavy breathing of the monster. But then, it goes away and he's able to relax and drift back into sleep, one hand clutched around a small, silver pentacle. His mother had given it to him earlier that day and promised him it'd keep him safe.

She was right.

It was just another day to him, in the grand scheme of things. Maybe there was a time he'd cared about it, when he'd been caught up in all of that. When he'd had someone to get caught up in it with. But he didn't have anyone now. Hadn't for a while. Which was as it should be, more or less. It wasn't something he thought about much, if at all. He wouldn't have even thought about the holiday if commercials and stores and people didn't insist on bringing it up.

Signs for some idiot schmuck to spend three months of his paycheck on diamonds. Restaurants bleating about special romantic dinner deals. All of the radio stations, it seemed, playing sappy music. Television saturated with commercials for this and that, all having to do with romance and love.

He could tell them a thing or two about love.

And everywhere, everywhere, things covered in red and pink. It was nauseating. Grated on his nerves. Made him feel like killing something. Someone. Whichever. If only because their screaming would drown out the sighs of the lovers around him.

The fake, saccharine-sweet, plastic lovers. Idiots. Believing in a fantasy because greeting card corporations, florists' companies, and chocolate candy makers all claimed it existed.

He paced around his small motel room, snarling to himself. He'd restrained himself from breaking the TV when another of those thrice-damned commercials had come. But barely. The carpet under his feet was threadbare, the (hideous) wallpaper was faded and the TV looked like a relic out of the seventies. Someone had thought it a good idea that the room's decorating palette be in oranges and yellows (like the seventies). It was funny, he could have commanded -- quite literally -- the finest hotel room this city had to offer. Or the finest house. But he still gravitated to the crappy motels. Felt comfortable there.

Some habits you just never grow out of.

Still, he was pretty certain that if he had to look at the faux-leather-real-naughahyde chair sitting beside the bed for another minute, he was going to throw it out a window. Not that that would necessarily be a bad thing but he was trying to not draw too much attention to himself here. Yet.

That decided him. Sam grabbed his jacket and let the motel room, stalking away from the seedy motel on foot. This wasn't exactly what one would call the 'good' part of town, but there wasn't much Sam had to be afraid of. Not when he could call demons down on anyone who looked at him the wrong way. Not when he could tell someone to put the barrel of that gun they were holding in their own mouth and pull the trigger -- the vicious headache he got after that'd be worth it. Not when he could toss someone across the room with his mind. Et cetera. And, besides all the creepy psychic powers, having a gun and knowing quite well how to use it and not being squeamish about using it came in handy, too.

He was really only looking for a bar to get a drink or three in. Especially since he'd be unlikely to run across one of the lovey-dovey crowd in a hole-in-the-wall sort of place. It wasn't difficult to find.

The difficulty came when he wanted to leave and three men stood at the same time, following him out. Sam had to roll his eyes. If they'd wanted to take him on, they really should have been more subtle about it. He turned to face them as soon as they were outdoors and raised his eyebrows. "You don't look like muggers." They didn't. Too lean and worn and they just had that something about them that Sam mentally pegged as 'Hunter'. That and the hatred that blazed undisguised in their eyes. Most muggers wouldn't give a shit about their mark.

"Smart boy," the one in the middle, the one Sam took to be the leader, drawled. "You're not leaving this place, Sam Winchester."

Sam tsked, "you really suck at this ambushing thing, you know." Their guns had already been drawn a moment before. Sam hadn't bothered to reach for his, he wouldn't have time before they fired. He did, however, have the time to send the first Hunter's gun flying with a mental flick and convince another he really wanted to shoot his pal standing next to him. That caused confusion enough for Sam to draw his weapon and get some cover.

They wouldn't have long, here, before the authorities -- hah! -- arrived, but they'd have longer than if they were in the better parts of town, that much was certain. At least a few minutes. That should be long enough. It'd better be.

He couldn't hear them out there, except for the labored, wheezing breath of the one who'd gotten shot by his buddy. Must've hit a lung. But he wasn't dead yet so Sam wouldn't count him out of the reckoning. And there were still the two others. Waiting for him to make the first move? Sam's lips pulled up into a predator's smile. He already had.

He heard the Hunter before he saw him, just a shadowy form creeping through the night toward him, trying not to make a sound. Too bad he'd been betrayed by a wayward shard of glass, crunching beneath his boot. Sam's gaze whipped toward the sound, and his eyes met those of the hunter who had just become the hunted. Sam smiled and even as he was smiling, he pulled the trigger, dropping the hunter where the boy had stood. The night then erupted into the sound of gunfire as the last hunter standing tried to repay the favor. From the snatches of screamed words Sam caught between bullets, he gathered that he'd just shot the man's son.

His own damn fault for bringing the idiot boy on a Hunt with him, Sam thought grimly. He was careless, though, and the enraged hunter almost got a shot in, grazing his shoulder. Sam hissed angrily and threw down his gun. He'd just ran out of ammunition anyway and it'd take more time to bother with reloading than it would to just finish this. He knew where the man was crouching, hiding behind cover just as as Sam was, peering out only briefly to make his shots. He could imagine the man almost as if he could see him. What he imagined even more keenly, though, was the black shadow flowing silently over the ground toward the man, winding its way up the hunter's body before it pushed its way into his mouth. The shooting stopped. Sam grinned, and stood. "Should've done that sooner," he commented.

The hunter stood as well, looking dispassionately now on his dead son and dying friend. "Probably so," he agreed. "You care what happens to him?" He nodded to the man lying on the ground nearby, wheezing out his last gasps at life, staring in shock at the man who used to be his friend.

Sam shrugged, "not particularly, so long as he doesn't leave here breathing. Have fun with the new body." And with that, he left, not sparing a backward glance for the scene behind him. Not even when he heard the sounds of bones crunching and a man's strangled, wheezing scream.

Idiots, to come after him. Especially like that. But if they had figured out where he was, Sam couldn't be sure other Hunters hadn't either. It was time to go.

Maybe he'd go see Ruby. Bring her some chocolate.

=====
wordcount: 1258

"You know," began Sam as he paced slowly in a circle, hands clasped behind his back. He glanced at the girl he was pacing around who glared back at him, he just smiled and repeated himself before continuing, "you know, ever since I came back from the dead people have been calling me the Antichrist." Her eyes narrowed, his smile grew as he paused in his slow, measured pacing to lean in close to her, nose to nose. "I guess it just gets a little old, you know?"

She spat at him, which was about all she could do with her hands and feet bound to the chair she sat in. His reaction was immediate, a swift, heavy backhand that caused her to rock back in the chair, teetering for a moment before all four legs returned to the floor. Sam wiped her spittle from his cheek before cleaning his hand off on her shirt with an expression of distaste curling his lips. "As I was saying. I'd really rather prefer it if you just called me Sam. We are, after all, going to get to know each other very well over the next day or two. Or, well, at least the next few hours." Depending on how much she had to tell him.

"Over my dead body," his captured hunter hissed at him.

"That, too," Sam assured her. She was pretty, all blonde hair and fiery eyes. Reminded him of Jo, a bit. Poor Jo.

He walked over to a nearby table fingertips lightly ghosting over the tools that rested on it until he chose the blade he wanted to use and turned back to the girl. "Now. What did you think you knew about me to give you the idea you could just waltz in here and take me down all by your lonesome? Don't they teach better nowadays in hunter school?"

She snarled, "there isn't any hunter school." Her tone made it clear she was still underestimating him. His intelligence, anyway.

Sam rolled his eyes. "They obviously don't teach you about figures of speech, either." He rested the tip of his knife against the point just between her collarbones and put just enough pressure on it to cause her to hitch her breath and a little bead of blood to well up around the end of the blade. "So what are they saying about me?"

It wasn't that she wanted to tell him anything, it was just that she was so full of fire and hatred and she just couldn't wait to tell him so. She couldn't have been much older than eighteen, if that. She'd still been a child when Sam came into his power six years ago. She couldn't remember a world without Sam Winchester in it. That thought made him smile, a little. And she told him just why she hated him, "because you're a monster, turned against your own kind to consort with demons, rain Hellfire on Earth, because you're the A-"

"Antichrist," he interrupted, "right, we covered that one already. And," he trailed the knife down her skin, a red trail marking its path as he dragged the blade through her top, slicing it open, "you thought you could just come deal with me."

She glared up at him defiantly. "I'm on a mission from God."

He snorted back laughter, "I've heard that one before." He reached behind her head, tangling his hand in her hair and jerked her head back, exposing her neck. With the blade in his other hand, Sam idly scratched his name into the pale flesh there. "Don't expect God to be swooping in with the cavalry to save you, sweetheart."

"Go to hell."

Sam's grin was positively predatory, "why go there when I can have it here?" Her eyes widened, and Sam kissed her forehead. "You're so cute when you look shocked like that. Didn't anyone tell you that's what I'm here for?"

"We'll stop you," she whispered. But she sounded like she was only saying it to convince herself.

"We?" Sam cocked his head to the side.

"The hunters. And your brother."

Sam became deadly still, his knife hovering a hair's breadth over an artery. "What about my brother?"

The girl seemed to interpret his reaction as fear. Bad idea. She pushed her perceived advantage anyway. "He's on his way. Coming for you. Made sure he knew exactly where you'd be before I came here." Her tone clearly suggested not as dumb as you thought I was, huh?

For a long moment, Sam said nothing until, "all you did was cause me to cut our little interlude short, sweetcheeks." One swift flick of the wrist and there was nothing more she'd be able to tell him. He turned away from her, her blood still spilling all over the floor.

She could have been lying, but he didn't care to take the risk. "Time to go," he said to the empty air around him.

It had been Odin's idea. Loki wouldn't have presumed to suggest. Hint at? Well. Yes. But come right out and ask? Never. Odin, though, understood that. Understood him. They were, after all, far too much alike for anyone's own good -- and probably more than anyone would like to admit. But still, when the All-father took Loki's hand in his and mingled their blood, Loki couldn't help but feel a pleased sort of pride. Odin knew what he was -- knew all too well -- and still wanted to make him his brother. That meant more to him than Loki could ever -- would ever -- say.

---

He hadn't, quite, known what to think of the Thunderer at first. Sure, he liked his mead, which Loki could certainly appreciate but Thor was...

...was...well, not dull, exactly but... well, he might call Thor an easy mark. Except for the strength of his grip and a certain look in his eyes that suggested there was more going on in there than one might suspect at first glance. And he was loyal and honorable and all sorts of things Loki wasn't.

And still, they got along famously.

---

They all thought Loki'd hated him. Which wasn't true and never had been or would be. He didn't hate Baldr -- far from it -- but that didn't stop Loki from doing what needed to be done. Or so he'd believed, at the time.

---

Narvi and Vali couldn't readily be separated into one entity. His beautiful, charming, maddening sons. They took after their father just enough for Loki to contemplate tearing his hair out more than once when they were growing up. But they took after their mother just enough that he'd loved them from the time he first saw them. And that love was his downfall -- and theirs -- for what would happen to his sons wouldn't have been nearly as effective of a punishment of their father if he hadn't loved them.

If he hadn't loved them, perhaps they would still be alive.

---

One of her hands was stretched way up above his head, holding something, but she brushed a sweat-damp lock of his hair out of his eyes with the other. She was smiling tenderly down at him and he tried to return that smile with one of his own. He would have, except it hurt too much to move even his lips. He had to imagine how hideous he looked, now, all skin drawn taut over bone, covered in dried blood and scar tissue. But she could still look at him like that and that gave him a warm strength he clung to, desperately, no matter how long he was Bound, had been Bound, would be Bound.

She leaned down and carefully gave his forehead a gentle kiss and whispered, "I love you." She knew he needed to hear it.

He did smile, then, through the pain. A fierce, bright smile that lit up the gloomy cavern around them. He loved her, too.

---

The battle was joined. Clash of the Titans. Well...not quite. But Clash of the Jotnar didn't have quite the same ring. Not that Loki had time to think of this. Not when there was blood and darkness and gore and fire all around him.

Not when his gaze met Heimdall's across the battlefield. He didn't even remember charging to meet the Watchman of the Gods. He was just there, his steel clashing against Heimdall's, mutual fury and hatred mirrored in each god's eyes. Neither of them would walk away from this. That was just fine with Loki.

======================

wordcount: 600

He's sitting on someone's front stoop, smoking a cigarette because it won't kill him and enjoying the cool night's breeze. Okay, maybe it's less sitting and more sprawling, his long legs stretched out onto the sidewalk. It's probably a good thing it isn't busy here or he'd have tripped someone by now.

He'd say it was their own damn fault for not watching where they were going.

He'd be right, but they wouldn't see it that way. It doesn't matter, though, since there's no one hurrying along the sidewalk to be tripped up by him. Not yet. He exhales another cloud of smoke, shrugs, and stubs what's left of his cigarette out onto the concrete beside him. Twinkie'sd be more fun than smoking. At least they tasted good. And there were far more bawdy jokes to be made about them.

If anyone were to be looking at him, they might not see much. He was just a guy. Albeit, just a guy half blocking the sidewalk. Nothing terribly interesting about the clothes he wore and under the dark of night, no one would notice the odd shade of his hair. His hair was a dark red that, while it didn't scream that it had been dyed, also just didn't seem quite...natural. He'd insist it was. They wouldn't notice his eyes, either. At least not until they got up close. They were green, always green, and were what made him almost always look as if he was laughing at someone's expense. At the great cosmic joke. Even when he was angry, there was something about them that would seem eternally amused.

It was a good act to pull off, if you could do it.

But no one would think, to look at him, to be afraid. To cower or to kneel or to pour libations or to pray or just offer up a sweet or two.

That really kinda sucked.

Not that he was into the whole blind devotion deal but a little worship never hurt a god.

No one would think, either, to look at him that he was a god.

That he was a murderer of gods.

A thief.

A liar.

A father.

A husband.

Okay, maybe the ladies would look at him and think he'd be a great lay -- and they'd be right -- and not a few of the men either but other than that?

He's just a guy, really.

Just Loki.

Go on over and see.

=====
Muse: Loki
Fandom: Norse Mythology
Wordcount 396

So, after a day where I wished something had happened that...didn't. Where I imagined for a moment that Loki could be waiting for me at home. Where I got a plot bunny. And it's all about me. And Loki. And some of my issues. That most of you won't care about and those that do...probably have some idea of what/who they're about. And this is restricted to Loki's flist. Because I don't really feel like airing my self-indulgent fic to the world at large but I figure I wrote it (all 2563 words of it) so somebody should read it besides me. And that's it. Read, don't read, it's up to you. Comment, don't comment, it's up to you. This totally didn't end up like I was expecting though, the bastard.

( Fic under here )

[requested by most_amazing here]

"Come on, you'll love it."

"But I have so much studying to do- ack!" Hermione's protest was cut off by a rather undignified squawk prompted by Loki merely closing his fingers about her wrist and pulling her with him.

From Hogwart's to the Library of Congress in less than a heartbeat.

He grinned as she stared about in wonder, he didn't have to say I told you so when it was written all over his face. "Maybe we'll try the New York Public Library next."

[for the record: the LoC is amazing even if it didn't have any books in it. Beautiful beautiful place, I have pictures somewhere.]

---

He came to her again in the summer. No school or classwork to keep her occupied. And perhaps he'd come in the form of a handsome young man about her age with flashing green eyes who'd flattered her parents and made them think she'd had a date. Perhaps he'd gotten her out of the house before she'd had much of a chance to protest. Perhaps he'd taken her away in a flashy sports car and driven the miles of roadways in England, pointing out little known places of interest.

Here, where he'd spent time among a Roman army, though some of them were more Briton than Roman. Rather like that one King Arthur movie, really.

There, where the Sidhe had held many a late night revel and he danced in the dew-wet grass to demonstrate for her and laughed with the memory of it.

On the coast, looking out toward Ireland, he told her stories no one else remembered of the things that had once happened there.

To Stonehenge for the requisite visit during the summer solstice and they sat, invisible to all, side by side atop one of the great standing stones, their fingers entwined and Loki silent. The stones themselves could tell their story without his help.

Here and there, they traveled over all of England on what might be termed a "proper roadtrip" and yet, when he returned her to her parents glowing and smiling and full of memories, he still managed to be "that nice young man" and get her home by eleven.

---

He took everyone there, eventually, if they knew him long enough. So of course he took Hermione. And it was a good place to show, Tahiti, with the secluded beach he'd somehow endeavored to always find and its sugar white sand. With the scent of tropical blossoms wafting on the warm breeze and the sea rushing against the shore.

It was a good place, and an enchanting one and he smiled to see her smile and laughed when he pulled her with him to dance among the waves.

---

He couldn't always be kind. It wasn't in his nature. And with a careless word from her when he was already in a fould mood, it didn't take much for him to grab her roughly by the arm and pull her with him to a dark, dank cave in which sat three rough stones bearing dark stains of old blood.

He pushed her toward the rocks and sneered, "couldn't have been so difficult to bear? Try again."

He shouldn't have had to describe what had happened there, the bloodstains should have spoken for themselves and if they didn't? She could hardly be called clever. So once she'd had her fill -- which was a very short time indeed -- he dropped her back in her room and disappeared.

He didn't return for a very long time after that, no matter how much she called for him.

---

When he did, finally, return he said not a word about their last meeting. He said little at all, except that he had something to show her and soon enough they were standing among throngs of people in the town of Caltagirone on the island of Sicily, all waiting for...something.

When she asked, he merely shushed her and pointed toward the town's famous staircase where a glow was beginning. Slowly the glow spread as people walked along and lit the luminaries left all along it and a picture formed.

He slipped an arm about her shoulders, it was an apology, of sorts.

She was cute and adorable and quite possibly completely wrapped around his finger. And staring into his eyes, quite possibly waiting for him to kiss her. Or more.

But that would be Wrong. Or, more to the point, that would be Too Soon. She'd either hate him in the morning or be far too attached in ways he didn't really want to deal with which would lead to her hating him in the end anyway. So he didn't kiss her, but he brushed her cheek with his fingertips and he smiled and asked, "have you ever been to a masquerade ball?"

---

Loki pushed Hermes off the side of the bed so the other god landed in a tangle of limbs and sheets on the floor. "To be honest, Hermes," drawled the Norse trickster, "I think I've got a headache tonight."

---

He wanted her more than he'd ever wanted anyone. And she was right there beside him.

But she was also sweet and innocent and very determined that these things be done in the Right Fashion and therefore had made him promise to wait until they were married.

He'd promised, but that didn't make the wait any less torture.

Even if half of him wondered if she was more conniving than he'd given her credit for and had known he'd lose interest otherwise.

Women.

---

It wasn't by choice.

It was instead by the statue of Odin the girl kept in her bedroom.

How'd she expect him to do anything with the Old Man watching, Loki'd never know.

---

It was dark and the air was thick with heat and sweat from the bodies gyrating against one another in the confined space of the club. One girl had been making eyes at him all night and he certainly had been reciprocating.

Until she'd gotten close and he'd caught the scent of her perfume. It brought to mind long summer days, blue eyes, and a sense of guilt. He pushed her into the arms of some leather-clad young man and stalked out of the club.

He'd lost his appetite.

[as requested by antigone_grace here]

Two pairs of eyes, one set blue and the other green, stared up at him imploringly. Big, adorable eyes glimmering with tears threatening to pour down chubby little cheeks at any moment. Those eyes would put any puppy dog to shame.

He didn't stand a chance.

Loki sighed and scrubbed a hand through his hair. "Vali, Narvi, Daddy wouldn't dream of eating the," tasty, succulent, "lamb."

"Or the dee!" one little voice piped up.

Sigh. "Or the deer."

Doomed. He was doomed. Why did he have kids again?

---

The problem, Loki decided, with seducing some of these New Age-y types of women was that you ended up eating a lot of strange things. And having to act like you enjoyed it.

He looked down at his plate and groaned inwardly. The tofu shaped like turkey was the worst. And a crime against nature, at that.

---

When he was young, Loki had wanted to try something new. Different. He'd tried going Vegetarian before the word had been invented.

He made it three days.

Well, two and a half.

Well, two.

Or so. Give or take. More or less.

---

Aesir could not survive by Twinkies and rum alone.

But he could certainly give it a shot.

---

For a time, Loki couldn't quite shake that habit of grazing after he bought Sleipnir to Asgard.

And the less said about the periodic urges to snort, whinny, and sleep standing up the better.

As requested by kingcreevey here.

The first time had been wholly unplanned. He'd taken to wandering in Diagon Alley and his attention had been caught by a small boy with bright eyes and, at the time, rather disheveled hair. Truly, his attention had been caught by what the boy had been watching with those bright eyes of his. Pandemonium. Utter chaos right there in Flourish and Blotts. In fact, it looked like something had quite possibly exploded. And when the boy had started looking as very innocent as possible, that was when Loki had thought to himself here's one to keep an eye on.

---

[borrowing Dennis' AU!Companion!Verse with the Doctor]

The second time had been wholly unplanned as well. And it had actually been before the first. So it was the first for Loki but the second for Dennis. Which...

...well, it was every day a strange blue box appeared in Asgard bearing a man in a brown coat and a boy who asked several dozen questions a second and could quite possibly try even Sigyn's patience. Though she'd certainly quietened him down with a cake. And once more Loki'd thought, here's one that bears watching as he'd sat down across from the boy and introduced himself.

---

( here there be a spoiler for Deathly Hallows )

---

When they meet again, Dennis has grown out of the small boy he'd once known. Quieter, perhaps, just a touch. But more in that you could see how much he was thinking about what he saw. Making connections. Loki, for his part was much the same as he'd always been. Always would be. Whichever.

Of course, he was also clutching some Dark artifact he'd felt it meet to *ahem* liberate from the Department of Mysteries. And with a cheeky grin and jaunty salute to Dennis, he disappeared, leaving the young Unspeakable to have to explain how that red-haired man had seemed to know him. And managed to disapparate away from a place with spells specifically in place to prevent just that.

---

Their encounter on the Knight Bus was entirely planned. By Loki. Who happily bounces aboard and settles down beside Dennis without so much as a by-your-leave. He might have also intimated something about stalking the poor boy.

Or he might have just made some inocuous comment about the weather in Bristol. It was hard to tell, sometimes, with him.

Unless, of course, you were Dennis.

She was beautiful when she was angry.

And she was angry often and mostly at him. He could hardly blame her, since he had brought about the death of her father and all. And he didn't mind her anger, even directed at him. It was to be expected. Besides which, she'd been amazing to watch when she'd stormed into Asgard, eyes flashing, to challenge Odin after the death of her father. As she'd passed him, Loki had noticed the faint scent which had wafted in with her...winter woods rimed in ice, the sense of snow on the air. Something wild.

He'd been fascinated and watched as she spoke to the All-father, standing there amongst the gathered Aesir with pride in her bearing. She'd been ready to go to war with them all over the death of Thiazi until Odin had managed to strike a bargain with her. Someone must make her laugh again, for she hadn't since the death of her father, and she would be allowed to choose her husband from among the Aesir as long as she chose him by his feet. Loki had thought that last was rather ridiculous but he wasn't the one striking the bargain for once and besides, it was obvious where his part in it lay.

Making her laugh.

No one else among the Aesir could have done it, of that he was certain. No one else did do it, only Loki. She was as beautiful when she laughed as she was when she was angry.

And Loki had the distinct pleasure of knowing, later, that though Njord may have married Skahdi, it was Loki who'd had the snow-queen first.

His body is beautiful, shapely, and comely. Whether he takes on male or female form, the form he chooses is always handsome and pleasing. No scars mar his skin, no imperfections blemish it. He likes it this way. But this, however, is only the body the world sees, the body he chooses to allow us to view. It is not his true form any more than his mask is his true face. Indeed, his whole seeming is a mask, carefully constructed and maintained. Rarely does he drop it and even then it is in privacy. Were one to strip away this mask, to reveal his true form, the true body of Loki uncovered by guises or clothing, one would read the story of his life in the scars that cover him.

His backside -- shoulders, hips, behind his knees -- would be a mass of scar tissue from years upon years of being gouged out by bloodthirsty, rough rock. Encircling his wrists and ankles like some cruel mockery of jewelry would be the scars of tender skin rubbed raw from his bonds. Over his whole body one might see pale, white lines marking the places he was scratched by unfeeling trees and rocks when he was once dragged across the ground screaming for his life by one of the Jotnar. The bottom of his feet would be hard and callused from years of travel walking over and through earth, sky, and water. His hands would show the damage wrought by countless flames scarring his palms and fingertips. All of these are memories full of pain but one pangs him more than all the others. His smile is crooked and twisted, mutilated long ago by an angry dwarf with a needle and coarse thread.

The other scars and marks and old wounds, they represent harm to his body but the scars on his lips, those represent a blight on his power. For all that he is, Loki's power lies mainly in the words he speaks and to sew that up and lock it away is to lock away much of his dominion. That is the scar he hates the most. Not those from his time being bound. Not those inflicted on him by that Jotun, Thiazi. Not those self-inflicted. He will always despise a wound from a punishment meted out by a vindictive, idiot dwarf who'd lost a bet -- the dwarf's own fault, after all. A wound caused by an act that none around him had tried to prevent. In fact, not just a few had laughed to see it occur! The old anger was -- would always be -- still there.

And he would always have a scar to remember it by.