Drabbles

"You're not very..."

            Friendly was what came to mind, but that wasn't the right word. The right words might not be right, right now. Comforting. Soft. I want him soft?

"You want ribbons and kisses? Unzip, I'll tie a bow on it."

"Go to hell."

 I miss Amanda. I miss...

"Later, maybe. It's raining, so if anyone's going anywhere, it's you."

"I'm not fighting with you, Methos. No one's leaving."

"Then what's all this about?"

"Bad day. Low tolerance for bullshit and your so-called wit."

"And?"

"And nothing. Just shut up for a while."

... I miss the difference.

+++

She had the right dress, the right hat, the right tool tucked tight against her thigh. Amanda gave a shimmy to check for bulges; then another, for the pleasure of silk step-ins. Lunch time on the Aberdeen Flyer, and Lady Worplesdon never wore pearls before seven.

No witnesses. A change of trains, an empty compartment. Amanda propped her shoe on the seat, flipped up her hem, and reached between her legs. The door slammed open; she looked up into the widening eyes of a slim girl with vivid red hair.

The door closed. "The name's Bobbie Wickham. Need a hand?"

+++

Between Christmas and New Year's most cities were drunk and gay, glittery and well-fed. Paris was doing its part. He wasn't. He hadn't meant to stay, but he craved his own bed and his books. He was as safe here as anywhere; the death of the Horsemen had seemingly scorched the earth.

In the year's last hour, he'd set out twice for Maurice's bistro. Now, on the cold sidewalk, wreathed by his breath, he stopped, stamping his feet. Through the window he could see a dark, familiar figure, raising a glass. He tried on a smile. He opened the door.