This is a short story collection where I can deposit all my RvB fics that are under a thousand words or so. Most are prompt fills from tumblr. Requests are always open.
The first prompt was simply for York/Carolina. Rated K+.
Sometimes he just sat and looked at her as she lounged on the other side of the couch, running her fingers through her hair.
But York couldn't have silence for very long. It bothered him like music from another room, loud enough for the beat to come through but too quiet and tinny to identify the song. So he slid over. "Hey, man."
She opened her eyes. "York."
"Sorry, it looked like you were sitting here combing your hair."
"It helps me concentrate."
There was some silence. He idly kicked the back of his legs against the couch. "What are you concentrating on?"
"But we don't even really know what this heist is about yet."
"We know what planet it's on, and that we need to retrieve an item. A lot could go wrong. It requires planning."
"So you're planning it all out in your head?"
"As many scenarios as seem plausible at this stage in the game." She shut her eyes and ran her hands through her hair again, but instead of a comfortable flattening of her palm against the side of her head this was a nervous pluck of her fingers through her bangs. "I'm fine."
"I think you're driving yourself crazy, actually."
She opened her eyes.
He smiled. "There's something going on in the rec room, I think South's throwing darts at Maine again. Wanna go see?"
"No. I have to concentrate."
"I have to be the best."
"Look, C, that board or the Director's approval might be a competition, but being social is not."
"Did you just call me 'C'?"
"Yes. Look." He eased closer to her, draped his arm over the back of the couch just close enough to her shoulders so he could hug her if he needed to.
"Yes it is, York." She snapped, cutting off his words by returning to the former topic. "It has to be."
"Or else I might lose."
He looked at her for a moment, picturing the muzzle flash of her pistol at the firing range.
He said, "Man, some things are competitions. Some things, like talking or hanging out with friends, or playing Go Fish, are not."
"Wash was hoarding the threes."
"You're not going to lose."
She looked down, lowering her chin to that half-asleep angle she had been propped in before.
He whispered in her ear. "It's not a competition."
"Yes it is."
He propped his arm around her shoulders and she didn't seem to mind, because she crowded closer to him and bumped her head against his chest, turning her denial of his help into a rhythm: "Yes it is yes it is yes it is."
He gave up and buried his face in her hair. "No it's not no it's not no it's not."