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Yes, I realize it's May, shh. Better very late than never? I have been busy... Let's go with that excuse. XD

Title: A Memento
Fandom: French Revolution historical fiction
Rating: PG
Pairing: gen or Robespierre/Saint-Just depending on your preference
Summary: While working at Robespierre's lodging, Saint-Just finds something tucked away in the older man's papers.
Notes: Written for Holiday Drabbles 2011 for [livejournal.com profile] ainokallas who requested Robespierre/Saint-Just.

"Maxime!" Saint-Just called out, almost immaturely delighted by the fact that he could speak so loudly in the Duplay residence. Normally Robespierre insisted on a modicum of politeness out of respect for the family he rented his rooms from. Saint-Just had been shushed on several occasions for raising his voice in patriotic excitement over one thing or another. It was annoying at times, and besides the noise issue, anything much louder a whisper just wasn't...private.

But not today. Citizen Duplay was out inspecting another of his rental properties while his wife and daughters were visiting relatives—an aunt or uncle somewhere. Thus, Robespierre had been left to his own devices, which included sending for Saint-Just so that the two of them could catch up on their work, especially Robespierre who had been sick recently.

"Did you need something, Louis?" the older man called up the stairs. He was down in the kitchen brewing a pot of tea.

"Yes. Where do you keep your spare parchment? I've run out..."

"In the cabinet nearest the door. Fresh parchment should be on the left side."

"Thank you!" Saint-Just replied. There was a soft click-tap of shoes on flooring as Maxime quit the staircase and returned to the kitchen. For his part, Saint-Just gingerly stepped around several stacks of paper on the floor—they really had taken over Robespierre's entire room—before kneeling in front of the cabinet.

Pulling open its doors, Saint-Just quickly found the paper he needed, but as he reached to take it out, his right elbow jostled a precariously set tower of letters and sent practically the whole pile spilling out onto the floor. The younger man sighed and swore softly, running a hand through his hair in aggravation. Should he just stick the letters back on their shelf, or should he tell Maxime he'd knocked them over? No doubt Robespierre had some order or other for his correspondence...

Saint-Just was just trying to gather the papers together—so that they would at least be in a neat pile when Maxime came back—but as he did so, an older letter caught his eye. It was well-worn and very creased as if someone had been carrying it around in their pocket, and on the front was scrawled Robespierre's name and address in Saint-Just's own hand.

"What's this now...?" Deft hands unfolded the parchment, and Saint-Just was still looking it over when Robespierre came back upstairs with their tea.


"I can't believe you kept this!" Saint-Just cut in before his friend could get out a reprimand. "And er, I apologize for knocking over your stack of letters."

A sigh and an eyeroll. "I've kept several older letters from my friends."

"I'm sure, but this is the first letter I ever wrote you—well before we properly met. And why is it so bedraggled?" Saint-Just asked, holding it aloft.

"Ah that." Robespierre's cheeks colored slightly. "When I received it, I was still struggling to find my footing in Paris. Your letter was such that... Well, it felt nice to open up the letter sometimes and read that someone had written all these good things about me, that he found my contributions worthwhile. So I often kept it tucked away in my vest pocket."

Saint-Just smiled but bittersweetly. He was flattered that the single sheet of parchment had meant so much to his friend, but it was also sad to think of a Robespierre worn down enough that he needed a stranger's letter in his pocket to give him strength. "You are well thought of now though."

Robespierre ducked his head somewhat demurely. "Well enough at least that I need not carry around a parchment token any longer to preserve my self-esteem."

The younger man refolded the letter, laying it on top of the stack of other papers. "Then why keep it?"

His companion chuckled. "Well by that point we had become better acquainted, and it pleases me to know I still have my dear friend's first letter to me."

"I had no idea you were such a sentimentalist," Saint-Just teased, and Robespierre half-heartedly prodded him with his elbow.

"Yes, yes, I have my whims too, as you know. Now have your tea before it gets cold. And we really ought to finish these drafts for the committee today..."

Saint-Just murmured his assent as he accepted a cup of tea, but even as Robespierre reigned them back to business, the younger man occasionally cast a fond glance at his companion's cupboard and the letter lying on top of the pile there.


Further notes: Saint-Just first wrote to Robespierre in 1790 asking him to sign a petition. It was a brief, rather obsequiously fawning letter. While one could speculate on why Robespierre kept it (vanity? accident?), the short letter was nonetheless found among Robespierre's papers after his death.

Title: A Patriot's Letter
Fandom: 1776
Rating: PG
Pairing: John/Abigail
Summary: John tries to compose a letter to his dear wife.
Notes: Written for Holiday Drabbles 2011 for [livejournal.com profile] jadore_histoire who requested some 1776, John writing to Abigail after the Declaration is signed.

To my dearest Friend,

Abigail, I

And John's quill trails off for the sixth time. How to say it? How to say it? How can he distill the joy and fear and pure exhilarating fearful joy down to ink-sketched words on parchment? John Adams thinks somewhat sorely—but not unfoundedly—that Jefferson could do it better. John isn't so elegant and poetic as the young Virginian. John is all lawyer, all about framing words into clear and concise facts. While pragmatic, this style of writing lacks a certain artistry.

John sighs and sets his quill down but resists the urge to crumple this piece of parchment. It's an easily salvageable letter if he can just come up with the words. He wants Abigail to know as soon as possible—though she'll probably hear word from some other source of news before John's letter even reaches her. As that thought occurs to him, John scrawls the date in the letter's top right corner. His letter may not reach Abigail first—or at all, considering how unreliable the post can be—but he at least wants her to know he tried. The date suddenly seems very important.

How he wishes he could be there with her now...

If absence makes the heart grow fonder, then mine is full to bursting for want of you. That's a melancholy sweet thought, poetic even, and John writes it down before it slips away.

I am strongly wishing for your company, but I bring some news that may foretell of Success. The Declaration has been signed. At last it has. We may not be free yet, but we will be.

John smiles down at the letter, a small smile on his often grumpy face. Yes, that's it.


Title: Good Vibrations
Fandom: Judeo-Christian mythology
Rating: PG
Pairing: Asmodeus/Raphael
Summary: Raphael turns out to be good with his hands, and Asmodeus indulges in a bit of musical appreciation.
Notes: Written for Holiday Drabbles 2011 for [livejournal.com profile] jestana who requested Asmodeus/Raphael with the prompt "good vibrations".

Asmodeus sprawls, pleasantly mellow, on top of a large piano. "I can see why bawdy shows put pretty girls on these. Rather nice actually."

Raphael laughs but somewhat irritably as his fingers dance nimbly across the black and white keys. "You're so vulgar, Marquis."

"I prefer to think of myself as tempting."

"I bet," comes the snide reply.

Asmodeus shifts onto his side as Raphael strikes a few deeper chords, and the demon can feel their resultant vibration against his ribcage. "You're far too sarcastic for an angel, you know."

"Mayhap if a certain demon would stop pestering my musician prodigy, I'd have less to be cranky about." Lilting notes now, like faery song, act as an incongruous offset to Raphael's pensive frown.

"I hadn't realized you were inspiring musicians nowadays," Asmodeus replies, the slight tone of apology mixing well with the piano's tenor. "Not really your area of influence..."

"Usually not," Raphael concedes.

Asmodeus feels the twang from a tappy staccato through the polished wood against his thigh and flank. "Mmm."

"I think I prefer you distracted, Asmodeus..."

The demon lies back with a smug smile. "So you like my company."

"No," the angel is quick to reply, but a quirk of a smile betrays Raphael. "I just find you easier to deal with when I can keep an eye on you."

"Haha, then play on, sweet healer," Asmodeus purrs, settling back down atop the thrum of the piano, "and I may not be soon inclined to leave."


Further Notes: When I first read this prompt back in December, I figured I would do some cracky drabble involving these two in a sex toy shop or something, but I rather like this better. The premise for this story was very loosely inspired by a husband and wife who are friends of my parents.

The wife loves cats, but the husband has never been particularly keen on pets. Nonetheless, they have/have had several cats, and he grew attached to one particular cat. This cat was known for lying on the husband's piano while he played. (Presumably the cat liked the vibrations?)

Anyway, husband grew fond of the cat, and eventually he would say "One day this cat is going to break my heart." Sure enough, the cat passed away earlier this year, and much heartache was had. ;___; RIP, kitty, and may hubby someday succeed in luring another happy kitty to rest on his baby grand while he plays.
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