Not including the Odin/Marcone/Dresden fill I am thinking about doing

[luciazephyr]

When you see this, post a snippet from your works-in-progress.

untitled silly bakery AU palate cleanser fic

I walked into the back room where my barista was hiding. Bob had a sixth sense about when I was about to yell at him and tended to hide in the coffee pantry. Unfortunately for him, we'd worked together for a few years now and I knew his habits.

Speaking of habits. "Bob. Bob! Why are we out of scones at ten o'clock?" I checked behind the giant batter mixers, between the cooling racks, the tiny crew room, looking for my elusive employee. "If you were giving out samples to the co-eds again, I'm taking it out on your hide!" I lifted my giant wooden spoon like a scepter. I always kept it with me, tucked into the cord of my apron, a tactile symbol of my power.

It'd be more than just a symbol when I found Bob.

Molly looked up from the large ceramic bowl she was stirring like a girl possessed. "He's probably hiding."

"No, really," I drawled. "Where?"

She shook her head. "I'm not helping you. Bob would never forgive me."

Not only did Bob lose all my scones, he was turning my apprentice against me. "Stir faster. It's called whipped cream for a reason."

She turned big, surprised eyes on me. "Really? That's why? I just thought the cream was kinky."

"Argh!" I covered my ears with my hands. "That's on the list! The list of words you don't use until you're eighteen!"

Molly rolled her eyes. "Okay, boss." Which meant she would listen until the next time she saw an opportunity to mess with me, then she'd do it again. I had such respect for Charity since taking Molly on part-time.

Before I could resume my manhunt, the bell I left on the counter up front rang, one crisp, long note. I sighed and poked Molly with the spoon. "Stir, minion," I commanded before jogging out of the kitchen.

Murphy was leaning on my front counter. It was an hour until her first class started and she always came by for brunch. Now, she raised an eyebrow at me and tapped the pastry case.

"You're out of--"

"I know," I growled. "Bob probably gave them away. I just made a batch."

"You know, when you name your shop Stars and Scones," she pointed out, because Murphy lived to wind me up. It was a favorite past time of hers. That and slamming people much larger than she onto an exercise map. She ran the Akido studio two blocks down. Tiny but powerful was Karrin Murphy.

I started to get together her usual. Jasmine tea, a bowl of fresh fruit (I usually picked some up from Whole Foods just for her), and a BLT with avocado-mayo spread. "I should have scones, yes, I know. But I don't. You don't even like scones."

"I like the blueberry ones. You never make those anymore."

"Too easy. Gotta test myself." I made a mark under her name on a chart I kept behind the counter. I let her go weeks at a time without paying. I knew where she lived. I could show up and annoy her is she didn't take care of the tab.

"Well, I hope the co-eds enjoyed your gourmet scones."

"I'm going to kill Bob," I told her earnestly.

"Don't do it in the kitchen. Health code violation." She took her food and grabbed a seat at the bar, tucking in.

Marcone's Interlude: the false dichotomy of strength or weakness

I was not exaggerating when I told Harry I was a professional monster. One could ask Marco and Tony Vargassi for details on the subject if I hadn't killed them and built an empire on their bones.

Requiescat in pace, Marco Vargassi, you spineless incompetent excuse of a man. Thank you for the name, if nothing else.

I found myself oddly fond of my title. Gentleman. It was far more respectful and suitable than most appellations used in the criminal underworld. In a time when John Marcone wasn't someone I knew, a name that didn't quite fit me, Gentleman Johnnie came easily. Perhaps I owed Marco a debt for helping me find my footing in my new life.

His death was quick and painless. That was a greater courtesy than he deserved. I don't often show mercy.

The man I had in my basement, tied to a chair, would learn that lesson. As soon as I got off the phone.

"You found it, then?" I asked as I slowly see-sawed a knife between two fingers.

"Yeah," Harry said. "Faerie of some kind. If I'm lucky, it'll just be some kelpies."

"And if you're unlucky?"

"Pessimist."

"Not at all. I simply think one should prepare for all eventualities."

"That's what you don't get, John. Villains, they always have a plan, and the plan goes wrong. Good guys, they just play it by ear and make it out miraculously intact."

The bound man lost his patience very suddenly. He started rocking in his chair, loudly grunting with effort to tip out of it or move. "Motherfucking, get me out of here, someone--!"

I shoved a cloth gag in his open mouth. It muffled the man's hollers effectively.

"What was that sound?"

"I'm in a meeting at the moment. Don't worry about it," I said, defusing him easily. To Harry, meetings involved closed up board rooms and hours of dull conversation to reach a foregone conclusion. I did nothing to dissuade him of that assumption.

"Oh, didn't mean to interrupt. Sorry. Sooo I'll probably be here another night. I'll summon the faerie tonight and be on my way back to Chicago tomorrow."

"Excellent." Except not at all. I had until then to think of a proper gift for him. I'd still had no luck. How frustrating that Harry's only hobbies consisted of magic (for which I already kept him well-stocked) and tabletop gaming (for which I lacked the expertise to choose something appropriate). If only he'd let me purchase a car for him. I would even suppress the urge to have his Volkswagen taken apart for scrap. I loath that car. "Let me know if anything comes up."

"Will do. G'night, John."

I ended the call, tucked my Blackberry into my back pocket, and pulled the gag out of my guest's mouth. "Where were we, Mr. Emmerson?"