GIP

Because Christian Bale should be like fries, dammit.

ETA: Because this was too good an idea not to multiply like a bunny.

( More on the 'Would you like fries with that?' theme )

[Fic] Suil A Ruin (1/7)

Title: Suil a Ruin
Fandom: The Dresden Files (book)
Characters: Morgan, OC
Word Count: 3,903
Rating: PG
Summary: Morgan is going to take a leave of absence whether he wants to or not.


Siúil, siúil. siúil a rúin (Go, go, go my love)
Siúil go sochair agus siúil go ciúin (Go quietly and peacefully)
Siúil go doras agus éalaigh liom (Go to the door and flee with me)
Is go dté tú mo mhúirnín slán (And may you go safely my dear)
-- Traditional/Clannad




Morgan, because no one called him by his first name except Captain Luccio and, very occasionally, the Council, was a stiff. He had fewer facial expressions than Keanu Reeves and about as much empathy as the sword he carried. There were many good qualities to him, though. Faithfulness and loyalty, a sense of justice and duty and honor that would have any recruiting poster proud. He believed, quite firmly, in what he believed. He protected the weak with no thought to the cost to himself. And that was exactly the problem Rashid brought me here to address.

"We are fighting a war that may go on for decades more, despite Dresden's somewhat ham-handed if well-intentioned efforts and the Council's tenuous grip on the front lines," he'd pointed out. "And we cannot afford to lose any more of our most experienced soldiers."

I hadn't believed him at first. "Morgan isn't in any danger of being lost," I snorted. "Even if he does insist on charging up and attempting to decapitate the Red King himself. Yes, I heard about that."

"It's not his death in battle that I worry about, it’s the quality of the life he leads."

We had talked at some length, and after some explanation I could see his point. There were advantages to being strong, but there was also such a thing as being so strong you snapped in two instead of bending. It was one of the oldest maxims. Even Hollywood had been picking up on it lately. The Old Man had pulled me out of the hospital, away from the healing of bodies, and asked me to help heal something a great deal more complicated. It seemed like a bad time for it. All the hospitals were under siege, and I had seen more patients in the last three years than I had in any equivalent time in the last thirty. They needed my help.

So does Morgan, he told me. And helping him might help end the war, and a few other things besides, with the end result that I gave in and listened to the rest of what he had to say.

Morgan, whom no one ever called by name, was in danger of snapping. We were all stressed and strained, all of us on the front lines, but he was apparently the worst.

And that was why I was standing in front of an old warehouse, leaning against an old, restored Chevy Plymouth with as few moving parts as possible, and waiting for him. The Corrs was playing on what I fondly referred to as my iPod (it wasn't, of course, but I could damn well pretend) and his mouth thinned when he heard it.

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