jackofknaves (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
jackofknaves) wrote2011-12-26 02:01 am
jackofknaves) wrote2011-12-26 02:01 am
Five Soulgazes Harry Might Have Had
Title: Five Soulgazes Harry Might Have Had
Author:jackofknaves
Rating: PG
Pairing: Gen
Summary: Just what it says on the tin.
1. Michael
Soulgazing for Harry was like cleaning out an attic. He sorted out old, dusty memories, personality and impressions stored away in the nooks and crannies of a person’s mind. Occasionally, a really strong event would pop out of a box and Harry got the video version, complete with Technicolor and surround sound. Those kinds of memories, the ones that really make a person who they are, usually aren’t the kind a person wants to eat popcorn to while watching. He had felt a woman’s daughter being shot in front of her eyes, saw a woman beat by her husband and a multitude of other sins he would pay good money to forget.
Michael, though—soulgazing with Michael was, predictably, like walking into a church. Harry knelt in one of the pews, staring up at a stained glass window depicting St. George slaying the dragon and another of the Virgin Mary. It wasn’t long before Harry heard music. It wasn’t the sound of a dutiful choir belting out “All Creatures of Our God and King”, either. This was clarion, crystal notes and golden crowns being cast around a glassy sea. This was the sound of Belief, with a capital B, praising an Almighty Creator. Pure and nothing simple about it. Love and power like that, the power of faith, resonates on a primal level. Distill everything good about a person, add in the swell in your chest when you picture Heaven and the saints, then put it to sheet music.
A person can’t be around faith like that without taking some with them.
Alleluia, nothing, Harry thought, Michael put the soul back into soulgazing.
2. Hendricks
Harry had soulgazed John Marcone. It was not a particularly pleasant experience. The man ran his soul like he ran his business: efficient, austere, and clean. There were some shady looking boxes, but they were all neatly categorized and sorted out in the corners, which in Harry’s opinion, made Marcone that much scarier.
Hendricks was a different case entirely. Harry shoved him out of the way in order to blast the demon chasing him and when he turned to ask if Marcone’s muscle-for-hire was okay, the man had locked terrified eyes on him. Seconds later, Harry found himself relaxing in a tattered, but obviously well-loved, recliner with a pillow tucked under him and a remote resting in his hand. He glanced around in surprise, looking for the boxes of memories. They were there, but neatly stacked in a living room setting with decorations like someone’s great-aunt Doris would have. He even spied a dairy cow clock on the wall behind him.
In the far corner, out peeked a military style footlocker, undoubtedly filled with a varied and truly frightening amount of knowledge regarding firearms, brute strength, and deadly force.
Harry shook himself, not surprised to see Hendricks looking a little white around the mouth. Harry helped him up wordlessly, privately reassessing his opinion of Hendricks.
“What was that?” Hendricks asked, panting and nervously thumbing the safety on his gun.
“Just your garden variety demon. Nothing to be concerned about, unless one of them catches you,” Harry answered, brushing off his duster and picking up his blasting rod.
“What happens if one of them catches you?” Hendricks asked suspiciously.
“Then you should probably panic.” Harry clapped Hendricks on the shoulder and began making his way over the debris to the end of the alley. “So, Hendricks. Does your girlfriend like cows?
3. Gard
“Bob,” Harry began calmly, “what do you know about Vikings?”
“Anything in particular or would you like a full history?” Bob asked cheerfully.
Harry ran a hand through his hair. “Uh, Valkyries. What do you know about Valkyries?”
“You mean the warrior babes? Oh, Harry! Blonde, athletic, with huge—“
“Bob,” Harry interrupted. “I need facts, not a Playboy description.”
“Eyes, Harry. I was just going to say they have huge eyes," Bob finished innocently. "Although I assure you that Playboy makes sure to provide only factual biographies. Why, just last week I was reading about Tawny Starr, who is currently pursuing a law degree at Stanford University—”
“Please, Bob,” Harry said, not willing to indulge any fantasies tonight. “Valkyries.”
“Alright, alright. Sheesh, try and add a little spice to a guy’s life and this is the thanks you get. Okay, so valkyries. They’re minor female goddesses, usually va-va-voom, if you know what I mean,” Bob winked at Harry, who responded with a get-on-with-it gesture. “Their job is to scout the battlefields and gather the souls of those who died heroically in battle then escort them to Valhalla, where the warriors get wasted and relive their battles. If it were me, I’d want a little more booze and a little less bloodshed, but to each his own." He stopped and if he had a body, Harry was sure he would have tilted his head. "Why do you ask?"
Harry closed his eyes against images of mangled corpses decorating a killing ground, blood staining the dirt until it looked like clay. Most stared sightlessly at the sky, eyes lost to ravens pecking for food. A smell like rancid meat drifted up to him, but instead of being revolted, he breathed it in and let it fill his lungs like perfume. He let out a war cry and the dead rose to shout with him, wordless sounds of rage building a staircase to Valhalla.
He shook himself, shoving the memories to the back of his mind. Soulgazing was never something to be taken lightly, but soulgazing a god, even a minor one, bordered on outright psychotic.
“No reason,” he said, determined to ignore the blood still pounding through his veins. “Just curious.”
4. Bob
Bob and Harry had never soulgazed before. As a rule, it is difficult to do any type of gazing when one of the personages involved has no eyes. Then again, another rule said it should be impossible to blow a raspberry when you have no tongue, but Bob somehow managed that last week when Harry said no to letting him go for a night out on the town near one of the sororities.
Still, when Bob became corporeal—-“You’re a real boy now,” Harry said jokingly and Bob rolled his eyes and replied, “Hilarious, Harry” in that dry tone of his—-Harry couldn’t resist seeing what his friend looked like on the inside, as it were. Really, Harry never figured him for white hair on the outside. Surprises everywhere today.
What was not surprising was that Bob’s soul felt exactly like reading a smut novel.
There were pages and pages in his soul detailing three-day orgies and illustrations that made the Kama Sutra look like the Book of Mormon. In the back were some storylines that were improbable at best and taken from a Harlequin romance at worst.
Harry was vaguely appalled and could feel a blush heating across his cheekbones and spreading down to his collar. Something between the lines glinted at him. Squinting at one of the manuscripts he picked up, he could just make out indistinct glowing gold script between the lines. He tilted the paper and finally made it out.
It was love.
Not the froo-froo kind with flowers and Valentine’s Day cards; not the passionate kind that burns out in a few weeks and leaves you scalded for life; not even the teenage kid kind, with an awkward, gangly teenage boy standing under a tree and shoving a carnation at an awkward, pretty teenage girl.
This was affection and fondness Bob felt for Harry. It tasted sweetly tart, like a just under-ripe apple, and felt like home. Fresh warm sheets right out of the dryer, a platter of chocolate chip cookies and a glass of milk, and seeing someone reading your favorite book on a bus all rolled into one.
Harry fought off the snuggly feeling building up in his chest, dropping the paper back into the box and taking deep breaths.
The soulgaze broke off abruptly, leaving Bob standing without the horrified look most people had when they saw Harry’s soul. Right, no morals. They would have to work on that.
“So what’d you see?” Bob asked cheerfully.
Harry stared at him, then grinned. “You’re an old perv, Bob.”
Bob looked smug. “You know it.”
5. Charity
Charity’s soul was almost like Michael’s, which surprised Harry not at all. When two people were as close as Michael and Charity, their souls tended to intermingle in places. Charity’s soul felt fiercer, sharper around the edges, but had the same core of faith so familiar to Harry through Michael. No padding on the kneeling bench, more with the “All Glory, Laud and Honor”, and the unsettling feeling like he was approaching a mother bear with the intention of taking one of her cubs, but Harry felt that same vibration in his chest.
That wasn’t the interesting part.
What was interesting was what Charity saw in Harry.
She had never soulgazed with Harry before, nor had she ever wanted to. Michael often gently reminded her of Christian charitableness and she tried to live up to her namesake, but there were times when she could cheerfully strangle her husband’s friend and bury him in the backyard under the hydrangeas. There was never a need to soulgaze with him because Michael assured her that he was a good man and she trusted Michael implicitly. She just didn’t particularly trust Harry.
A very wise person once said that a person sees everything through what they are. Charity saw Harry through a mother’s eyes. She saw him watch his father spasm and fall to a heap in front of him at a much, much too young age. She saw an imposing man dragging him by his shirt to the front yard, snarling, “Shield!” at him again and again as baseballs flew through the air and pelted against unprotected skin. She saw Harry desperately fending off the man with magic and coughing as he made his way out of a burning building. She saw him standing petrified with a black hood over his head, listening as old men and women casually discussed whether he deserved to live or die in front of him.
The soulgaze broke off and Harry looked at her wearily, clearly expecting the worst. Charity stared at him for a moment, gave a sharp nod and turned on her heel.
“Supper is at six,” she said without looking behind her. “Make sure you wash up beforehand.”
Author:
jackofknavesRating: PG
Pairing: Gen
Summary: Just what it says on the tin.
1. Michael
Soulgazing for Harry was like cleaning out an attic. He sorted out old, dusty memories, personality and impressions stored away in the nooks and crannies of a person’s mind. Occasionally, a really strong event would pop out of a box and Harry got the video version, complete with Technicolor and surround sound. Those kinds of memories, the ones that really make a person who they are, usually aren’t the kind a person wants to eat popcorn to while watching. He had felt a woman’s daughter being shot in front of her eyes, saw a woman beat by her husband and a multitude of other sins he would pay good money to forget.
Michael, though—soulgazing with Michael was, predictably, like walking into a church. Harry knelt in one of the pews, staring up at a stained glass window depicting St. George slaying the dragon and another of the Virgin Mary. It wasn’t long before Harry heard music. It wasn’t the sound of a dutiful choir belting out “All Creatures of Our God and King”, either. This was clarion, crystal notes and golden crowns being cast around a glassy sea. This was the sound of Belief, with a capital B, praising an Almighty Creator. Pure and nothing simple about it. Love and power like that, the power of faith, resonates on a primal level. Distill everything good about a person, add in the swell in your chest when you picture Heaven and the saints, then put it to sheet music.
A person can’t be around faith like that without taking some with them.
Alleluia, nothing, Harry thought, Michael put the soul back into soulgazing.
2. Hendricks
Harry had soulgazed John Marcone. It was not a particularly pleasant experience. The man ran his soul like he ran his business: efficient, austere, and clean. There were some shady looking boxes, but they were all neatly categorized and sorted out in the corners, which in Harry’s opinion, made Marcone that much scarier.
Hendricks was a different case entirely. Harry shoved him out of the way in order to blast the demon chasing him and when he turned to ask if Marcone’s muscle-for-hire was okay, the man had locked terrified eyes on him. Seconds later, Harry found himself relaxing in a tattered, but obviously well-loved, recliner with a pillow tucked under him and a remote resting in his hand. He glanced around in surprise, looking for the boxes of memories. They were there, but neatly stacked in a living room setting with decorations like someone’s great-aunt Doris would have. He even spied a dairy cow clock on the wall behind him.
In the far corner, out peeked a military style footlocker, undoubtedly filled with a varied and truly frightening amount of knowledge regarding firearms, brute strength, and deadly force.
Harry shook himself, not surprised to see Hendricks looking a little white around the mouth. Harry helped him up wordlessly, privately reassessing his opinion of Hendricks.
“What was that?” Hendricks asked, panting and nervously thumbing the safety on his gun.
“Just your garden variety demon. Nothing to be concerned about, unless one of them catches you,” Harry answered, brushing off his duster and picking up his blasting rod.
“What happens if one of them catches you?” Hendricks asked suspiciously.
“Then you should probably panic.” Harry clapped Hendricks on the shoulder and began making his way over the debris to the end of the alley. “So, Hendricks. Does your girlfriend like cows?
3. Gard
“Bob,” Harry began calmly, “what do you know about Vikings?”
“Anything in particular or would you like a full history?” Bob asked cheerfully.
Harry ran a hand through his hair. “Uh, Valkyries. What do you know about Valkyries?”
“You mean the warrior babes? Oh, Harry! Blonde, athletic, with huge—“
“Bob,” Harry interrupted. “I need facts, not a Playboy description.”
“Eyes, Harry. I was just going to say they have huge eyes," Bob finished innocently. "Although I assure you that Playboy makes sure to provide only factual biographies. Why, just last week I was reading about Tawny Starr, who is currently pursuing a law degree at Stanford University—”
“Please, Bob,” Harry said, not willing to indulge any fantasies tonight. “Valkyries.”
“Alright, alright. Sheesh, try and add a little spice to a guy’s life and this is the thanks you get. Okay, so valkyries. They’re minor female goddesses, usually va-va-voom, if you know what I mean,” Bob winked at Harry, who responded with a get-on-with-it gesture. “Their job is to scout the battlefields and gather the souls of those who died heroically in battle then escort them to Valhalla, where the warriors get wasted and relive their battles. If it were me, I’d want a little more booze and a little less bloodshed, but to each his own." He stopped and if he had a body, Harry was sure he would have tilted his head. "Why do you ask?"
Harry closed his eyes against images of mangled corpses decorating a killing ground, blood staining the dirt until it looked like clay. Most stared sightlessly at the sky, eyes lost to ravens pecking for food. A smell like rancid meat drifted up to him, but instead of being revolted, he breathed it in and let it fill his lungs like perfume. He let out a war cry and the dead rose to shout with him, wordless sounds of rage building a staircase to Valhalla.
He shook himself, shoving the memories to the back of his mind. Soulgazing was never something to be taken lightly, but soulgazing a god, even a minor one, bordered on outright psychotic.
“No reason,” he said, determined to ignore the blood still pounding through his veins. “Just curious.”
4. Bob
Bob and Harry had never soulgazed before. As a rule, it is difficult to do any type of gazing when one of the personages involved has no eyes. Then again, another rule said it should be impossible to blow a raspberry when you have no tongue, but Bob somehow managed that last week when Harry said no to letting him go for a night out on the town near one of the sororities.
Still, when Bob became corporeal—-“You’re a real boy now,” Harry said jokingly and Bob rolled his eyes and replied, “Hilarious, Harry” in that dry tone of his—-Harry couldn’t resist seeing what his friend looked like on the inside, as it were. Really, Harry never figured him for white hair on the outside. Surprises everywhere today.
What was not surprising was that Bob’s soul felt exactly like reading a smut novel.
There were pages and pages in his soul detailing three-day orgies and illustrations that made the Kama Sutra look like the Book of Mormon. In the back were some storylines that were improbable at best and taken from a Harlequin romance at worst.
Harry was vaguely appalled and could feel a blush heating across his cheekbones and spreading down to his collar. Something between the lines glinted at him. Squinting at one of the manuscripts he picked up, he could just make out indistinct glowing gold script between the lines. He tilted the paper and finally made it out.
It was love.
Not the froo-froo kind with flowers and Valentine’s Day cards; not the passionate kind that burns out in a few weeks and leaves you scalded for life; not even the teenage kid kind, with an awkward, gangly teenage boy standing under a tree and shoving a carnation at an awkward, pretty teenage girl.
This was affection and fondness Bob felt for Harry. It tasted sweetly tart, like a just under-ripe apple, and felt like home. Fresh warm sheets right out of the dryer, a platter of chocolate chip cookies and a glass of milk, and seeing someone reading your favorite book on a bus all rolled into one.
Harry fought off the snuggly feeling building up in his chest, dropping the paper back into the box and taking deep breaths.
The soulgaze broke off abruptly, leaving Bob standing without the horrified look most people had when they saw Harry’s soul. Right, no morals. They would have to work on that.
“So what’d you see?” Bob asked cheerfully.
Harry stared at him, then grinned. “You’re an old perv, Bob.”
Bob looked smug. “You know it.”
5. Charity
Charity’s soul was almost like Michael’s, which surprised Harry not at all. When two people were as close as Michael and Charity, their souls tended to intermingle in places. Charity’s soul felt fiercer, sharper around the edges, but had the same core of faith so familiar to Harry through Michael. No padding on the kneeling bench, more with the “All Glory, Laud and Honor”, and the unsettling feeling like he was approaching a mother bear with the intention of taking one of her cubs, but Harry felt that same vibration in his chest.
That wasn’t the interesting part.
What was interesting was what Charity saw in Harry.
She had never soulgazed with Harry before, nor had she ever wanted to. Michael often gently reminded her of Christian charitableness and she tried to live up to her namesake, but there were times when she could cheerfully strangle her husband’s friend and bury him in the backyard under the hydrangeas. There was never a need to soulgaze with him because Michael assured her that he was a good man and she trusted Michael implicitly. She just didn’t particularly trust Harry.
A very wise person once said that a person sees everything through what they are. Charity saw Harry through a mother’s eyes. She saw him watch his father spasm and fall to a heap in front of him at a much, much too young age. She saw an imposing man dragging him by his shirt to the front yard, snarling, “Shield!” at him again and again as baseballs flew through the air and pelted against unprotected skin. She saw Harry desperately fending off the man with magic and coughing as he made his way out of a burning building. She saw him standing petrified with a black hood over his head, listening as old men and women casually discussed whether he deserved to live or die in front of him.
The soulgaze broke off and Harry looked at her wearily, clearly expecting the worst. Charity stared at him for a moment, gave a sharp nod and turned on her heel.
“Supper is at six,” she said without looking behind her. “Make sure you wash up beforehand.”