To travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive

I finally got around to reading Sinclair Lewis's Main Street this week. Lewis took 500 pages to say what Kate Chopin took 150 to say in "The Awakening" twenty years earlier, but even so, I liked it. (Okay, okay, it had a bit wider scope than "The Awakening.") I saw a little too much of myself in the dreaming dilettante Carol, and I found the satire of Good Old Small Towns On The Prairie very thorough and biting.

I also brought home a bunch of paperbacks the other day from the Local Used Book Emporium, including the definitive Collected Robert Frost for only three dollars(!). (That was originally going on my Christmas list, but now that list has been condensed to "all three seasons of Fringe." I'm looking forward to all the vids I can make! :D) I've been meaning to read more Frost for, oh, three years now. While I'm thinking about it, have one of his lesser-known works, which happened to be the first one I flipped through when I brought this volume home.

And I have ONE SQUILLION eleven books either out from the library or waiting on the holdshelf for me. So I will be busy for the next month or so. Whee!

*

Just for the hell of it, some WIP snippets. And by "snippet," sometimes I mean half the fic. (Some of these may never actually see the light of day in any kind of finished form, so...yeah.)



1. Body of Proof

"Any plans for Thanksgiving?" Peter asked on Monday as they cleaned up after an autopsy. Suicide, Megan had ruled. They saw all too many of them during the holiday season, which officially started in less than a week. She didn't particularly welcome it.

"Catching up on paperwork," she said, tossing her gloves in the biohazard disposal bin. "Maybe a turkey sandwich from the deli down the street if they're open."

Peter didn't say anything, and when she glanced at him, she saw he had fixed her with a look that fairly screamed you have GOT to be kidding. "What?" she said rather defensively. "Todd's taking Lacey to see his parents in Connecticut, and my mother's in Florida for the week. I don't want to just sit around my apartment and do nothing."

"Then don't," he said. Now it was her turn to shoot him a disbelieving look. "Come to my parents' house with me."

She could not have heard that right. "What?"

"Ever since I was a kid, we've always had extra people at the table. My parents bring home someone from work who doesn't have family nearby, my sisters and I bring friends, the neighbors come over...I'm sure there's going to be at least three people there I've never met before anyway, so you should come."

She couldn't have been more surprised if he'd asked her to come with him to Mars. "Uh..." Eloquent, that. With effort, she gathered her wits. "I'll think about it." Which meant no, absolutely not, but she didn't think Peter knew that.

"Megan, I mean it." Or maybe he did. Surprised, she finished slithering out of her white smock and disposed of it as well, turning quickly to the sink and running the water to wash her hands. Unfortunately, the noise wasn't loud enough to drown out Peter's objections. "You'd be more than welcome. And besides, I couldn't possibly enjoy myself knowing you were here doing paperwork on Thanksgiving."

She narrowed her eyes at him, and he grinned. "All right, maybe it wouldn't be impossible, but I would feel bad," he said, and leaned over the sink to wash his hands.

The insane thing was, she actually believed he would.

"Megan." He dried his hands, then touched her shoulder. She could feel the warmth of his hand through the thin cotton of her scrubs. "I want you to come."

Those puppy dog eyes of his should be classified as a weapon of mass destruction, she grumbled to herself, feeling her resolve crumble under the weight of his pleading stare. "All right, all right," she said. "I'll come."

He looked a little surprised that she'd agreed, but he recovered admirably. "Great!" He squeezed her shoulder, where his hand was still resting. "I promise, once you get there, you'll actually enjoy yourself."

"Speak for yourself," she might have muttered, low enough that he couldn't possibly hear. "Should I bring something?" she asked, as if she had any idea how to cook.

Peter raised an eyebrow. "Would 'something' be cranberry sauce from a can?"

The man knew her entirely too well. "I was thinking more along the lines of a pie from the bakery down the street. Maybe a bottle of wine?"

He laughed. She tried not to pout. "Don't worry," he said, "there's always way more food than we can possibly eat. Just bring a big appetite."

Well, at least that sounded easy enough.

"We usually eat around two, but it's kind of an all-day affair. I'll pick you up at eleven?" She nodded, starting to feel a bit like she'd just gotten on a roller coaster that went way higher and faster than she'd realized it would. "Oh, and I should warn you there's always a traditional Dunlop family touch football game sometime before the day's over. Wear something appropriate."

"Trust me, no one is getting me involved in a football game."

He smiled, turning to head back to the office. "We can be very persuasive," he said.





2. Northern Exposure

Three days later, he dreamt about O'Connell. They were lying outside, on his old Pendleton blanket, watching the aurora borealis dance across the sky. It was cold out—not quite summer yet—but O'Connell had built a fire, and she was curled against him, sharing body heat. The sky put on quite a show, but he found himself entranced by the play of green and red light across her face.

Eventually, she tilted her face and kissed him gently. "We need to be getting back." She stood and trilled a complicated whistle.

He glanced at her as he stood, wondering what she was doing. He heard the flap of wings in front of them, and when he returned his gaze to the field, her plane was sitting there.

He could have sworn that field was empty before.

He woke to find a hawk's wing feather on the pillow beside him. The weirdest thing was that he didn't find this strange.

He booked a flight to Anchorage that morning.

*

He took the bus in to town. For some reason, it seemed right to see O'Connell for the first time in fifteen months in Cicely, rather than the utilitarian gray of the concourse given over to charter planes at the Anchorage airport.

The bus dropped him off just at the edge of downtown, which was how he avoided running into anyone before he reached her house. He hoped she still lived there. He didn't write or call to ask her or anyone else.

It looked the same: wooden exterior, deep front porch. She never got around to fixing the broken step.

He climbed the stairs, and all the reasons this could be a very bad idea skittered through his mind. She was with someone else. She didn't want to see him again. Hell, she might not even be home right now.

But this whole journey, since the morning he woke up with a feather on his pillow, had felt inevitable. Fated. Ordained, even. The universe wanted him to be right here, right at this moment, and he was done fighting it.

Taking a deep breath, he knocked on her door.

A long moment passed. Then he heard footsteps, the doorknob turning (of course the door wasn't locked, he was the only one who ever locked his door in Cicely), and suddenly O'Connell was standing in front of him, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, looking even more beautiful than he remembered.

Her jaw dropped. He actually saw the mandibular joint give way. "Fleischman?" she whispered, thunderstruck.

"O'Connell. Hi." As first lines go, it was pretty poor, but it'd have to do.

"What are you doing here?" Her voice was still low with shock.

He shivered a bit and did his best to look pathetic. "Well, freezing, right at the moment." It had been spring in New York for two weeks now, but winter still held Cicely well in its grip, and his jacket was only suitable for weather in the lower forty-eight.

She blinked, and her usual self-possession returned. "Oh, sorry. Come in." She stepped back, and he crossed the threshold.

Her living room looked much like the image of it in his memory, though she'd replaced a couple of pictures on the walls. Ever since the bus left Anchorage he'd felt like he'd hardly been gone any time at all, and O'Connell's house only intensified the feeling.

"So, why are you—I mean, you didn't write or call or..." She was at a loss again, and he couldn't blame her. A month ago, he would never have predicted he would be here either.

He reached into his pocket and held the feather out to her. "I think I have something that belongs to you."

She looked at him as if he'd gone absolutely nuts. In all fairness, he'd wondered the same thing over the past few weeks. "Fleischman?"

He placed the feather in her palm and curled her fingers over the shaft. "Honestly, O'Connell, I don't know. I just woke up one morning and found this. It was like...some higher power seemed to be telling me I had to come here. To see you."





3. Babylon 5

It had been one hell of a day. Their own people firing on B5, some crazy new weapon down on the planet now under the control of what appeared to be an even crazier Minbari, and of course, the capper: Lise. Lise, who'd gotten married, and was going to have a kid with the guy. He might not have gotten over her, but apparently she'd done quite well at forgetting all about him.

Ivanova had taken one look at his long face and told him to meet her at a quiet little bar in Red Sector she frequented after their shifts ended. She chewed up and spat out his feeble excuse, and so he'd shown up and allowed her to buy him some kind of sparkling fruit punch that was actually pretty good. Not good enough to lift him out of his funk, but not bad.

She dragged everything about Lise out of him, nodding and shaking her head in all the right places, and asking the odd leading question when he fell silent. When it was all out there, and he'd had a suitable amount of time to mope, she patted him on the back. "I think this is where I tell you to cheer up, and that you'll find someone and get happily married eventually, right?" she asked, with the lightness in her voice that he knew indicated she'd come within spitting distance of the line between tipsy and drunk.

"Something like that," he answered, smiling into his second glass of punch.

"Then consider it said." She was quiet for a moment, staring at the wall behind the bar, apparently lost in thought. Finally she looked at him again. "Tell you what—I'll make you a deal. Ten years from now, if neither of us are with someone else, I'll marry you."

He eyed her, trying to judge how serious—or possibly how drunk—she was. "Uh...I'm flattered. I think."

She laughed. "Oh, come on. It's a good kick in the pants for both of us. I'll remind you that my last venture into romance didn't end very well either." He remembered that creep Malcolm all too well. Good riddance, he'd thought when they'd packed him back to Earth on a prison transport, and his opinion hadn't changed.

"Besides," Susan continued, "if we do make it that far without either of us finding someone worthwhile, is it really such a horrible way to end up?"

Was she joking? He'd be crazy not to want to "end up" with her. Susan would definitely be getting the crappy end of the deal if it ever came to pass. She was beautiful, successful, smart, funny; he was one more screw up away from being unemployable, his hair was retreating faster than the Minbari after the Battle of the Line, and God knew he wasn't the sharpest tool in the box.

"No," he said. "Not at all."

She held out her hand, and he took it, shaking it firmly. He'd shaken hands with her before, but never had he paid quite so much attention to how well her hand fit inside his, or how nice her skin felt. To distract himself from the thoughts swirling through his brain, he said, "Exactly how much of this do you think you'll remember in the morning, much less in twelve years?"

"Michael, I'm serious," she protested. "I fully intend to hold up my end of this deal. As soon as I get back to my quarters, I'm going to put a reminder in my personal calendar. I'll make it viewable to you, so you'll have proof I did it."

"All right, all right." He'd never check, he knew. Hell, it had brightened his day—a very dark day that was best consigned to the depths of forgetfulness, it must be acknowledged, and one that wouldn't take much to improve on, but still, she'd done it—just to know that right now, Susan considered him worthy of being her last resort. He didn't need her to remember it.

And yet, as he laid in bed that night waiting for sleep to come, the enigmatic expression Susan had worn when they'd shook hands stubbornly refused to leave his mind. He might, he realized, have a harder time putting this day behind him than he'd thought.



4. A different B5 fic

She was pacing again.

Michael Garibaldi watched his wife of not quite four days, thoroughly amused at her obvious frustration. "You're going to wear a path in the carpet," he commented.

Susan Ivanova paused, glared at him, and then joined him in leaning against the bulkhead of their tiny cabin, ostentatiously standing still. "I just wish getting to Earth on a commercial liner didn't take so long."

He laughed. "That's not why you're pacing."

She raised an eyebrow, silently asking for an explanation of the patently untrue words that had just come out of his mouth.

He provided one. "You just hate being on a ship you're not commanding."

She looked like she was about to glare at him again, but then she shrugged. "Captain's prerogative. Besides, don't think I didn't see you re-encrypting the standard lock code right after we boarded."

Michael blanched. He thought he'd been more subtle than that. They didn't have any reason to suspect someone would want to get into their berth for purposes nefarious or otherwise, but accusations of paranoia or not, it never hurt to be cautious.

"All right, so we're both married to our jobs," he said. He caught her hand in his, and began tracing his thumb lightly across the inside of her wrist. "We are also married to each other. And since both my boss and your second were very insistent about us taking time off for a honeymoon, I think we should use this trip as it was intended."

"Do you," she asked, but it wasn't a question.

"Absolutely," he murmured, leaning down to kiss her.

"Incoming message," the computer said before he got there.

Michael closed his eyes for a moment, sighing softly. He heard a matching sigh escape Susan's mouth. "Who's it from?" he asked. Sheridan and McCreary were the only ones who would dare call them during these two weeks, and if they were on the line, something serious had happened—like B5 blowing up, or one of the Alliance races declaring war. He really hoped no one had declared war.

"John Sheridan," the computer replied.

He opened his eyes, catching Susan's annoyed expression. "I suppose this is his idea of payback," she said. At his questioning glance, she shook her head. "I'll tell you later."

Curious on two fronts now, he let her go and turned to face the vidscreen. "Put it through."

Sheridan's face appeared on the screen. "Susan, Michael," he greeted them. "I'm so sorry to interrupt, but we really need your help."