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Unexpected Information.

Author: dame_de_les_lac
Fandoms: White Collar
H/C: FIghting

Title: Unexpected Information.
Medium: Fic
Word Count 931
Rating: M
Warnings: Mention of abusive relationship, Injuries.
Summary: Neal gets injured, Clinton is the only one who notices.

Clinton watched Neal...Collapse )

Technically this is part ofI am not what you think I doCollapse )
 but can stand alone. And at some point (hopefully soon) I'll be shifting it over to ao3.


Spaces Otherwise Filled.

Author: dame_de_les_lac
Fandoms: Elementary
H/C: Drowning

Title: Spaces Otherwise Filled
Medium: Fic
Word Count 525
Rating: Pg.
Warnings: Drowning, Possible character death,
Summary: Joan Watson falls.

Spaces Otherwise Filled.

Joan falls...Collapse )

The People That Take Care of You

Disclaimer: Not mine, just borrowing.

The People That Take Care OF You.


Vic remembers having pneumonia once before. She thinks she'd been about seven and had spent some of the time in hospital.
Most of the rest of the time she'd been in bed, an older cousin having her college fund added to for looking after her.
This time Ruby is the one who fusses over her.
Ruby stacks the dishwasher, folds the laundry and asks questions about Sean's whereabouts (South America somewhere, for work) and when he'll be back (damned if Vic knows).
Ruby also brings the really good type of chocolate and stays to watch the 'what happens at Vic's, stays at Vic's'' pile of romantic comedies and period dramas that Vic will forever deny being a fan of.
Ruby reminds her to take her medication and tells her all the latest gossip, as well as a few older stories that make Vic laugh. She makes Vic laugh so much that Ruby starts to worry about having to tell Walt about one of his deputies dying of laughter.

Stubborn old coot would probably try to get it listed as the official cause of death.

Vic thinks it would be worth it to finish hearing about the time when, the then ten year old Branch had had to wear a hoop-skirted dress and bonnet.



Henry brings Vic a pot of chicken soup.
Not just any chicken soup though.
Henry's home made, secret family recipe, chicken soup.
Not too hot, not too cold, not too salty, with a hint of garlic and maybe a touch of lemon, and a piece of shredded chicken in every spoonful, with tiny cube-like bits of onion, carrot and potato floating in shimmery golden broth - soup.
Vic doesn't hate soup, but Henry's chicken soup might just even beat chocolate as her favourite thing ever. Or at least until she's not sick any more.
Vic can't remember the last time anyone made her a home cooked meal, let alone chicken soup when she was sick. Even with Henry standing over her to make sure she eats the whole bowl, it makes her feel better.

The unfamiliar and slightly disturbingly paternal look on his face, might also have something to do with it.

Especially when he promises her a slice of home made apple and rhubarb pie if she can manage a second bowl.



Walt had taken her to the hospital. Not taking no for an answer, or believing her when she'd said she was fine.
Vic had been trying to catch her breath and cough at the same time, while Ruby was telling Walt that the thermometer reading was 102.

Walt had called her stubborn. Vic had told him to look in the mirror.

Walt had played hooky from the office while Vic had been in the hospital. For four days she'd dozed while Walt narrated the paper work Ruby had hand delivered to Vic's bedside.
He brings a book with him when her visits Vic at home. A narrow, hard covered thing he'd picked up in a throw out bin from somewhere he can't remember and reads it to her out loud.
Vic falls asleep listening to Lady Molly* solve Edwardian Era crime.


I enjoy convalescences. It is the part that makes illness worth while.
George Bernard Shaw

* Lady Molly of Scotland Yard by Baroness Orczy, 1910.

hc_bingo May Prompts

difficult pregnancy ostracised from society
pneumonia rejection


April Challenge - Promises Kept

<b>Author:</b> dame_de_les_lac

<b>Fandoms:</b> Avengers' Movie Verse, Person of Interest

<b>H/C:</b> Assault, Head Trauma

<b>Title:</b> Promises Kept

<b>Medium:</b> Fic

<b>Rating:</b> M

<b>Warnings:</b> Swearing, Assault, Amputation,

<b>Summary:</b> When Darcy is assaulted, Clint has to let someone else deal with the person                                           responsible.

Promises Kept

Clint ignored the doctor; not to the point of turning off his hearing aides, mostly just tuning out all but the important words .

Like 'head trauma' and assault' and 'recovery period'.

The bruises covering Darcy's face distract him.

There's a dark purple splotch where one of her eyes is meant to be, a long mottled line down the her cheek on the same side and a hand print on the other side, stitches along her cheek bones and eyebrows where her glasses had been broken while still on her face.

The doctor; Enright, Clint thinks she might be a surgeon, mentions a fractured cheek bone, a broken rib and a laceration to her right lung and his gaze travels down.

The bruises around Darcy's neck are the same size as the one on her cheek, her hands and arms have more bruises, cuts and scrapes, her finger nails are almost shredded.

Clint stepped up to the bed and lifted the blankets away from her feet.

Broken toes, bruised, cut and scraped knees and shins.

He lifted the blankets higher. and the doctor stopped him, putting one of her hands next to his. The expression on her face looks nothing like pity.

"Darcy was attacked, assaulted. But she fought back and was rescued before anything worse could happen."

Clint didn't want to think about worse.

The doctor lifted the blankets out of Clint's grasp, showing bruises and scrapes on Darcy's knees and thighs and hips and torso. It looked like she'd been thrown against a dumpster a dozen or so times, but there's nothing that looks like hands or fingers.

Clint latched onto a word.


"A Good Samaritan, he called the cops and an ambulance."

"Where ?" Clint's voice was cold and hard and the doctor shivered a little, "Where did this happen?"

"Who ever did this," She tucked the blankets back around Darcy, "They aren't there any more, when Darcy-"

"If." He's heard enough to know that this is an if not when situation, "If Darcy wakes up, I want to be able to tell her that the people who did this-"

"You might be a Superhero now, Mr Hawkeye," She uses a name no-one at the hospital should know, "But if you do this you won't be. And you won't be here for Darcy. You'll just be a criminal, not better than the person responsible"

"I've been a criminal before," The look on his face makes the doctor take a step back, "And if it means that he can't do this to anyone else, I don't care what I'll be.

"She'll care."

"If" Is Clint's only response.


Clint hated narrow crooked alleys, especially New York alleys. Most people didn't look down them, didn't want to see what might be there.

The one where Darcy had been attacked, had been assaulted, where her head, her whole self, had been slammed against the hard surfaces more than once, has uniformed police officers guarding both ends of it.

"You won't find anything," A low raspy voice informed him, "I'm sorry about the girl Barton."

Clint has to look up to see the face that goes with the voice.

John Fucking Reese.

"I heard you died."

"I'm hard to kill, just like your girl."

"Not my girl, a friend's girl. Promised I'd take care of her."

"Hard to do when you're trying to keep a low profile, doesn't work when you're planning revenge either." Reese nodded toward the alley, "I can take care of this."

Clint took a closer look at John (Fucking) Reese. There's grey in his hair, a bud in his ear and he's wearing a $3000 suit.

A $3000 suit with blood stains on the sleeves.

"Do all Good Samaritans hunt down svoloch' svoloch'yu these days?"

"Some of them." Reese sounded like he knew that smiling would be a bad idea, "The svoloch' svoloch'yu is my responsibility."

Clint's hands clenched and he had to unclench them before he tried to hit something... or someone.

"An asset?"

"A target."

"He's done this before?"

"Go back to the hospital Barton. My ledger can take the red, yours shouldn't have to."

"You sound like Nat."
"She'd tell you the same thing," A sleek black car slid to a stop in front of them, Reese stepped forward to open the door for Clint, "I'll let you know when it's done."


Clint hated the hospital more than he hated the alley where Darcy had been assaulted.

Bruising always looked worse before it got better and the swelling always hid other injuries.

Like the internal bleed that had Darcy being rushed back into the operating room. And sent Clint pacing up and down the hallways.

He hated hospitals.

The smell of wet dog made him glance back the way he'd just walked.

"I thought dogs weren't allowed in hospitals?"

"Bear's an exception, therapy dog," The kid holding the lead explained, "The orderlies insist on giving him a bath before I bring him up. But the patients like him and I get a 'volunteer' entry on my college applications."

"Everybody wins."

Bear leaned against Clint's leg and whined.

"He wants you to pat him."

"I got that." Clint gave the dog an unsympathetic look, "Not until my friend's ok."

The dog whined again.

The kid rolled his eyes and gave a short, gentle pull on the leash.

"Bear, laten."

"What's your name kid?"

Anyone with an military trained Belgium Malinois was worth knowing.

"Tyler, what's yours?"


Tyler held out a hand for Clint to shake.

He had a firm dry handshake.

"I hope your friend gets better."

"Me too."


"Mr Reese?" Finch's voice interrupted, "Are you sure this is the right course of action? Would your friend approve?"

"Barton's not my friend Finch," Reese looked down at the secateurs, then up at their most current number, hanging by his feet from the rafters, "But someone who is wouldn't stop at just his fingers."

"You sound far too happy at that prospect, John."

"I didn't get to him in time. It's the least I can do."

"The least we can do is call the police, Mr Reese."

"It's the least I can do for his victims, Harold."

"...Let me know when you call Detective Fusco."

"Will do."

"...And Mr Reese?"

"Yes, Finch?"

"I do hope you're not planning on bringing any souvenirs back to the library."


Movement outside of Darcy's hospital room made Clint turn his hearing aides on.

" - Trying to tell me you did that guy a favour? He's missing six fingers and both his arms are broken." Detective Carter sounded angry and not a little horrified, "What the hell kind of favour is that?"

"The one where he doesn't get buried alive in a nest of fire ants, Joss"

Clint turned his hearing aides off again, giving Darcy a warm smile and getting a tired/medicated one in return.

John (Fucking) Reese had taken care of it.

Maybe not to Nat's liking, but taking away the svoloch' svoloch'yu's ability to touch things had a certain flare to it.

Phil would've appreciated it.


svoloch' svoloch'yu - bastard scum (Google Translate - Russian, phonetic)

Laten - leave (Google Translate - Dutch)


   difficult pregnancy       head trauma       de-age       assault   

BINGO: Straight Line (Vertical) (Fifth)

Title: Everything of Myself.

Fandom: Avengers

Prompt: Trust Issues

Medium: Fic

Word count: 804

Rating: Teen/M

Warning: Implied past abuse, Past abuse, Death, Head!canon,

Summary: Natasha’s not a hugger.


The first thing Darcy learns about Natasha; after the introductions and the ‘hey, haven’t we met before’s, is that she doesn’t like to be hugged, or randomly, casually touched in any way.

Darcy’s definitely a hugger and it’s really obvious Natasha isn’t, when she freezes up and doesn’t hug Darcy back.

And you know what? Darcy’s OK with that. And even she wasn’t, it’s not her place to decide how a person should or shouldn’t react.

So Darcy stays out of Natasha’s personal space, makes sure she can see when a ‘touch’ is going to occur and limits the amount of time and the types of touching she and Clint do in front of Natasha.

Clint calls them crazy, but he knows that Natasha appreciates Darcy’s efforts.


When they have to leave, Darcy wraps herself octopus-like around Clint and nudges the toe of Natasha’s shoe with the toe of her shoe as her way of saying goodbye.

Once they’re gone, Darcy sits in front of her computer and types ‘doesn’t like to be touched’ into the search engine and has a quiet little freak out about all the reasons the results offer.

In the end she calls her former psychology professor and asks for advice.

She speaks in generalisations and mentions something about a research project on the cultural applications and differences from a political/diplomatic/public relations point of view of physical contact and different cultures social norms.

He calls her bluff, commends her for making the effort to learn more and says that he’ll have some things for her to read by the end of the week, but if she wants the right answers, she’ll have to ask her friend.


Darcy doesn’t know how to ask or if she’ll be asking the right questions.


Eventually she sends Clint out for pizza and movies and presents Natasha with the raspberry and dark chocolate mud cake she’d bought on a hunch.

Darcy tells her about the internet searches and the information her professor had given her, and rambles on for a bit about her own mini-obsession with having to learn about things she doesn’t understand, but if Natasha wants her to stop trying to, she will.

Natasha eats half the cake before saying anything.

She shares the other half of the cake and between bites, tells Darcy about her life before she became Natasha.


Her name; her grandmother’s name, had been Nadezhda. It meant hope.

Mostly her mother’s, that Nadezhda wouldn’t have any little sisters.

She’d loved her mother and all of her sisters. She hadn’t loved or trusted her father since she was five years old, when he’d shaken the youngest of her baby sisters to death and convinced everyone it was his wife’s fault.

He’d sold her to the government when she was eight. They’d called her Natalia and taught her how to dance.

And she was thirteen when she’d watched her favourite teacher, the one she’d trusted almost as much as she’d trusted her own mother, shoot one of the other girls and bury her in a shallow grave.

She doesn’t trust love because love had given a friend happiness and hope, then it had taken everything away and left her with only a piece of rope, long enough to hang herself with.

She’d stopped being Natalia the day she’d tried to go home and found that her family had been killed a week after she’d left them.

She’d become Natasha the moment Clint had decided to trust her.


As much as she can, Natasha trusts two people.

Clint, because he thought she could be more, because everything that he wants from Natasha, he gives of himself back to her, even when she can’t, or doesn’t know how to, and because he knows that that while sometime she doesn’t trust herself, he trusts her enough to introduce her to Darcy.

And she trusts Darcy because Darcy hasn’t tried to change her, because she tried to learn more, because she makes Clint blush, because Darcy will never ask Natasha to give of herself any more than she of herself can give back.

And because, while she looks a little pale, Darcy hasn’t moved, hasn’t done anything but listen.

Natasha had broken two SHIELD shrinks telling them the less censored version.


Clint comes back with a copy of The Princess Bride; because Natasha hasn’t seen it, hours after he should have been, with enough still-hot-pizza to save some for breakfast.

He asks how their conversation went and if they’re still a little bit crazy, because that’s his favourite thing about the three of them.

Darcy just laughs, tells him that he’s the craziest of them and threatens inventive things if there are any anchovies on the pizzas.


Under the table, Natasha nudges her foot against Darcy’s.



BINGO: Straight Line (Vertical) (Fourth)

Title: Cat Scratch Fever.

Fandom: Leverage

Prompt: First Transformation

Medium: Fic

Word count: 669

Rating: Teen

Warning: Canon alcoholism,

Summary: The first times the worst.


The first time is always the worst.

The pain starts at the base of her skull and laps, like waves against the shore, down her spine.

Waves of fire alternating with waves of ice, one vertebra at a time.

Parker squeezes Eliot’s hands and clenches her teeth against the whimpers that slither up her throat and into her mouth.

The pain, that fire and ice spreads out from her spine, as if mapping her nerves, her veins and arteries. Laying train tracks across her bones.

Pain does strange things to metaphors and similes.

She pales then blushes, as if her own blood doesn’t know what’s it’s doing.

And there’s nothing anyone can do to help her.


Nate prays a lot, and drinks more than he prays and gets angry easily.

And when he’s done praying and drinking and being angry, he cries.

Because that’s all Nathan Ford can do when one of his children needs him and there’s nothing he can steal that that could help them.


Sophie makes a lot of phone calls, calls even more people Darling and threatens things that Eliot and Hardison are all too happy to carry out, as soon as they can leave Parker. In the meantime Sophie paces up and down Eliot’s house’s hallway, her stilettos leaving deep indentations in the floorboards, knowing that nothing she does is helping.


Hardison does RESEARCH.

If it existed, if it was on the internet, then he could find it.

Except… there’s too much information. Too many stories and myths, too many lies and half truths, too many maybes and Dude, what have you been smoking?’s.

Not enough that might be verified, or be useful. Not enough to actually help.


Eliot says just enough to let them know he’s seen what’s happening to Parker before. He opens up his house to his team and takes Parker somewhere safe (somewhere they’re safe).

He holds he hands and calls her crazy and sings to her.

Eliot keeps his face blank, in case Parker opens her eyes, and can see the worry or the fear in his features.

When she does open her eyes, all he can see are the waves of hot and cold, of fire and ice, in them.


Parker knows Eliot by his hands.

By every scar and callous, the short neat fingernails and the conflicting memories his hands provoke.

Those of the Hitter, the violent man, come with the ice.

Those of the Protector, the chef and the mother hen (though he would deny it), accompany the fire.

His hands are all she has left.

Night and day are gone, the room is gone, and the water that Eliot trickles into her mouth is gone.

Just Eliot’s hands and the pain that knows her body better than she does.


After what feels like eons, but is actually days, the pain finally fades to a slightly more manageable level and Parker takes her first deep breath since it started.

“I’m sorry darling,” Eliot tells her, a little guiltily and a lot regretfully, “I have to go now.”

Her eyes snap open and she tries to keep a hold of his hands.

“No. I’m, it’s-”

“No you’re not.” Eliot squeezed her hands, then untangled himself from them, “First time’s the worst and you’ve got to do it alone.”

Tears welled in her eyes.

“I can’-”

“You can. If I did it, you can do it.”

Parker’s head came up until she was looking directly into his eyes.

Eliot tilted his head slightly; the light gave his eyes an oddly golden sheen.

She opened her mouth to say something…

And screeched and writhed and wailed as the pain – boiling and freezing – bore down on her like an avalanche.


Eliot leaned against the other side of the door, listening as the wails slowly became more like yowls.

The first time was always the hardest.

The second time, the pain would be less and at least she’d have someone to share it with.