anythingbutgrey (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
anythingbutgrey) wrote2013-07-21 12:15 pm
anythingbutgrey) wrote2013-07-21 12:15 pm
Entry tags:
war stories ficathon
War Stories: A Comment Ficathon
Welcome to the war stories ficathon. Some quick guidelines:
What can I prompt and how do I do so?
Basically whatever you want, as long as there's a core component of a war story therein. Can be pre-, post-, or intra-war as long as it is, at its core, about the war. I'm pretty general with my concept of fictional conflicts, so if you've got a battle or a zombie apocalypse or a revolution, you're good to go. That means you can take a fandom that has a canonical war (like, say, Harry Potter) or you can take a fandom that doesn't have a war (like, say, New Girl) and plop them into a Hunger Games war AU or a zombie apocalypse. Have fun with it. I'm grim about my war stories but you don't have to be.
Prompts should contain the following format:
Fandom (not optional, can be multi-fandom or crossover) - Characters/Ship (optional) - Timeline (optional) - Prompt (which may be a plot, song lyric, quote, etc., but is not optional)
In other words, you can leave a character and/or a ship, and/or a timeline, which are optional, and a prompt, which is not. If you want, you can just leave a set of song lyrics and see what people do with them. If you want, you can just leave a timeline with those lyrics, or a just a character, or all three.
How do I respond?
There are no restrictions in terms of word count, format, tense, point of view, etc. Please title all of your response fics as such in bold at the top of your comment (make sure to close the bold tag!) since LJ took out comment titles because they're dumb:
Title - Character/Ship - Timeline
Presumably, your fics will contain these three things even if they weren't in the prompt. You can also fill prompts that have already been filled. If something speaks to you, as it were, it doesn't matter if there's already fic for it. You can write your own.
How do I promote?
Here's a tumblr post (gen image if you have no idea who Mako Mori is in which case go see Pacific Rim ASAP and thank me later)
Promotion link with image:
Other banners:
More incoming
Text link:
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It is still the morning after. It is still. The waves cresting against the broken barriers and debris on the edges of the city are calm too, in their own way. Her hands keep shaking.
They keep him in the infirmary and she spends the first night sitting in an uncomfortable chair with a rigid back. She's endured worse. An uncomfortable chair is an inconvenience, but part of her can't keep still. Keeps watching his face for any changes in expression, watches the drip of the IV, watches the slightest movements of his body in the bed. She shouldn't be here - co-pilots is one thing, friends another, but to be here? To watch him in his moments of weakness? Of sleep? To stand guard? And for what? What is there left to guard from but nightmares and shadows? - but she can't make herself leave.
There was a moment, a terrible moment, when she had thought that he was another person she had lost. Another person to chalk up to the chaos of battle. Another to mourn. His chest had been still, and now - well, there is the quiet rattle of machinery, and she supposes that's something.
The first words out of his mouth in the morning: "That can't be comfortable."
She jerks out of her half-sleep and shifts in the seat, brushing a fist across her mouth. "How are you feeling?" His laugh is quiet. Low. The kind that makes her want to shiver. "They told me what you did."
"Someone had to finish the mission."
"We were supposed to do it. Together."
His mouth purses, tucks to the left like he's hiding a laugh. Laughter looks good on him. "How is the city?"
The room is windowless, and she suddenly realizes how claustrophobic it must feel in here. Everything contained and sterile. "Rebuilding," she answers. "Just as before." There is silence. Stillness here too. Even in their conversation, in the rhythm of their words and voices.
"Mako," he says, he murmurs, reaching for her hand. The pad of his thumb is rough, skirting across the fronts of her fingers.
"Thank you," she says, haltingly, "for what you did."
His thumb stills and she takes a shaky breath. He stops moving; she moves for the both of them. Still linked together, even after everything.
-
There is the after. The clock has stopped; time can move again now. He walks with her down the hallways of the building, watches people get drunk for days and kiss and scream and blare music throughout, watches humanity celebrate the joy of no longer facing extinction.
She leads him by the arm, and he pretends he's weak so the excuse stands. (She knows better, but she doesn't say anything so he takes it for a tacit acceptance.)
"Where does this go?" is the question he wants to ask. Wants to ask every second that he spends with her, constantly aware of his own jerky movements and the proximity of her body to his. It's different than when they're in the jaeger. In there, every movement is part of a combination; everything is a skill set; if you move left, then I move left, and the jaeger moves left. Out here, he moves left and she stays forward; he looks at her and she ducks her chin.
The number of times he's found himself halfway into a sentence before getting distracted by the shadow of her eyelashes against the top of her cheek is getting to be too numerous to keep track of. He thinks about kissing her. He thinks about other things, too.
And when she looks up at him, when she meets his gaze, the look in her eyes striking, sometimes he wonders if they aren't still connected, if she can't still see into his mind and hear everything he's thinking.
Instead, he says, "I'm glad that you're here. That we're friends."
She smiles, a movement that ripples across her face, and doesn't bother to tuck her chin. "Me too."
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The day of the funeral, he doesn't seek her out. He has seen into her head, can hear her thoughts as loudly as he can hear his own. This is something she must do alone. At least, part of it. And when she needs him, she'll find him. He knows that. As demanding as she can be, she's never been in the habit of refusing herself help when she needs it.
So he shuffles in with Herc and some of the others he recognizes and pays his respects to Stacker, feeling stiff and pressed in his ill-fitting suit and wishing he could be in something more fitting. Wishing the funeral had less ceremony and more of the person that Stacker was. He isn't in the first row with Herc and the others - instead, he falls back to the third row of pews and watches her stand beside the Marshal's casket. Watches her hand settle on top of the lid. Sees her slouch, sees the momentary pause before the correction.
A father's daughter, even now.
-
She finds him outside the mess after. Her eye makeup is smudged, but she's still smiling, even now. "Did you enjoy the service?" she asks.
He nods. Stares into her eyes, and feels himself smiling back.
"Good. The Marshal - he would have liked it, I think."
He snorts. "Can't imagine the Marshal would have thought it anything but a waste of time."
Her laugh is quiet. "Maybe a little of that too."
He reaches for her hand; the cup of her palm warm against his fingers. "You really are doing all right?"
Her eyes tear, but none of them fall. Her smile grows larger, triumphant. "He was a great man," she says. She doesn't let go of his hand.
-
A few weeks later, he starts getting the news. Transfers back to home bases in other countries. Recalls back to China, the Philippines, Australia. The war is over. Fought and won, and now, it is time to go home.
He thinks of Alaska.
He thinks of the coast.
He thinks of her.
She has her own news also. Shuffles across the hall to his door with a wrinkled piece of paper in hand, folded and unfolded a hundred or so times along the same creases. He knows it before she says anything. It's a job offer.
She nods, her eyes fixed to the floor, hair shifting slightly with her movement. "In Japan. They want to take me on as a consultant for the recovery crews. To help sort through the debris and wreckage and rebuild."
He wraps an arm around her in an impromptu hug, laughing as he says, "That's great, Mako! Sounds like you're about the best person for the job, and it'll give you a chance to go back."
She rocks back onto her heels, putting a few inches of distance between them, and her eyes catch his. "Yes," she says, softer. "A chance to rebuild. Restart." She licks her lips, and his eyes drift towards the sight.
"You take it already?"
"Thinking. Still considering the options."
"Well, if it means anything, I think you should take it." Her fingers flutter against the edge of the paper, like the noise of a dozen butterflies taking flight.
"You do?"
"Yeah. I mean, war's over. Everyone can go back to living their lives again."
"Have you thought about what you are going to do?"
He takes two steps back, shoving his hands in his pockets for lack of anything else to do with them. Distance. Greater distance would be better. "Go back to Alaska, maybe. Help rebuild the coast."
"Have you applied for anything specifically?"
"Yeah," he lies. "Just waiting to hear back."
Her eyes narrow, but she smiles all the same. "So I'll see you down in the mess?" Three steps, and she is hovering in the entryway of his room.
"Yeah, of course."
She pulls the door shut behind her, and her boots resound loudly against the grating before he hears the noise of her own opening and shutting.
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People begin packing. People begin taking down. The world, as he knew it, is being disassembled piece by piece.
She stays. (Of course she does.) She's a fixture in this place, a fixture in his own life as much as anything else. She takes the job (start date to be determined) but stays around to see the Jaeger program fully decommissioned. To witness them removing the hearts of the last few remaining, to see them begin to sort through the spare parts and determine what's left for scrap and what's salvageable or worthy of being sold.
He asks, "When are you leaving?"
She returns, "Have you heard about that contracting job in Alaska?" (There isn't one.)
"Not yet."
Her lips press into a thin line. "I haven't scheduled my departure yet."
His fingers itch to reach out and touch her hand, her shoulder, to feel as close as they once were. As bonded as they once were.
She says, "Well, when you are ready to go…"
Her voice fades out and he nods.
-
Neither of them have been good at saying goodbye. There are countless others to remember. Worse goodbyes, worse farewells; there are always worse, but something twists inside his heart at the thought.
She's wearing a light jacket, blue like the first day he'd met her but lighter. She knocks on his door, and when he heaves it open, her suitcases are leaning against the opposite wall.
"Hey," he says, "your ride's here?"
She nods, and walks towards him, wrapping her arms around him tentatively. "I could have waited until your flight," she says. "To make sure that you got out safely."
He laughs and leans his forehead against hers. This is how they say hello now. This is how they speak. "It isn't like it was before. I'll be all right."
She purses her mouth and moves to lean her head against his shoulder, her lips ghosting briefly across his cheek. "I know, but I wanted to see you off. The last time I'll see a friend in this place."
She sniffs, a soft noise, and his hand finds its way to her shoulder, fingers kneading small circles into the knots of muscle. She looks up at him, her eyes shining, and says, "Well, we'll keep in touch, won't we? Even Alaska has standard wireless now."
"Yeah, you can count on it," he says.
A beat passes and she rocks on her feet, beginning to pull away. "So," she says.
"So," he answers.
"Until I see you again."
"Yes." She closes the distance between them again, wrapping her arms around him in a tighter embrace. He can feel the rhythm of her breathing, and she suddenly seems so much slighter than he remembers. Then again, it isn't as if he's had much opportunity to hold her like this.
And then she turns on her heel, takes the steps down to the platform, and starts down the hall, wheeling her luggage behind her.
-
It takes him a few minutes. (The timing is awful; he's really got to learn to adjust to living with it.)
He flies down the stairs, sprints down the length of the hallway. She hears the noise of his boots and stops, turning to greet him. "Is anything the matter?"
"No, I - I wanted to - " he pants, trying to buy time to think of something other than whatever's threatening to jump out of his mouth right now. " - get you - give you - something for the trip." He shoves his hands in his pockets, searching for anything, but - "I think I left it in the room."
"I don't want to miss my flight."
"I'll send it to you then. In Tokyo." (Could he be a bigger ass right now? Alaska'd do him some good.)
She smiles, a small indulgent thing and crosses to him, stepping up onto her tiptoes to press a soft kiss to his cheek. "Thank you for the gift," she says. "Whatever it is, I'm sure it'll be great."
He hums, leaning forward to press his mouth to hers. Pressing his hands against the small of her back to draw her closer. Her mouth opens to him and suddenly, he can taste her, can remember the anxious rhythm of her thoughts, can feel the way her hands tentatively bunch the fabric of his shirt.
She sighs against his mouth, and he pulls away, pressing another quick kiss against her mouth.
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"Raleigh," she says, barely a whisper.
"I don't want you to miss your plane," he says. "I - you should go." There's that familiar wrinkle of skepticism in her forehead, but he leads with the hand on the small of her back, and starts walking with her down the hall. "I keep my promises. We'll talk soon."
-
He sends her a small piece of the torn down wall in Anchorage.
He dreams about her.
She writes thank you for your piece of home. He doesn't know what to say after that.
-
It's Tuesday morning, and she's heading out of the apartment for a cup of coffee when --
"Hi."
She walks into his arms (everything feels familiar, moving together, breathing together).
"It was too hard," he says, and her breaths come as short, noiseless laughs, "The distance. Being so far from you."
She looks up at him and kisses him. "Then you should stay."
-
One morning, she takes him to the shore. The Pacific lapping softly over the tops of their feet.
She moves further out into the tide, stares out across the water, trails her fingertips across the top of a wave.
"Mako?"
She turns then, wading back out towards the sand. Towards him. She takes his hand, her grip firm and sure, and leads him out.
"Come," she whispers. "Let's go home."
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this is so great i just love them and you and i'm the most upset
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