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last01standingTitle: Back to the Future Part... Murder (7/7)
Disclaimer: Psych is not mine. It should also be noted that this is loosely inspired by Life on Mars which is also not mine.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: While the SBPD tries to piece together a twenty year old cycle of murders, Shawn Spencer finds himself thrown back to 1989, as the killer surfaces for the first time.
Author's note: AND OMG IT'S FINALLY DONE.
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7
BACK TO THE FUTURE PART... MURDER
SEVEN
There was a disconnect in Lassiter's mind. Something that felt like it had always been there but never been filled. He was a different person his first two years of college. He'd always thought his life had changed when he'd been mistakenly enrolled in a criminology class. Somewhere in that year he'd woken up in a hospital surrounded by cops, entire person burning with the need to do something about it.
Things were missing. Great gaping holes he'd spend most of his adult life skirting.
He was missing the memory of his biggest moments. It was only now that he even noticed. Only now he could see the jagged hole missing from Carlton Lassiter, their ragged edges fraying more and more each day.
The gun was a comfort in his hands. Each step he took into this place sent a jolt of familiarity up his arms. The house was dark, abandoned--except it keeps blurring between what it was now and what it used to be. Lassiter himself felt like he was bouncing in between head detective of the Santa Barbara Police Department and the scared sophomore engineering major. At least he had a gun this time. At least he had back up—even if he would have far preferred O'Hara to Guster. It didn't seem right that O'Hara was sitting in a hospital bed while the guy who did this to her remained at large.
"Lassiter," Guster said from behind him. "Lassiter, what to you expect to find here?"
Shawn. A murderer. Everything he didn't remember.
"Follow my lead."
***
Lassiter was terrified.
He thought he should have a gun for this. Maybe even a badge—definitely should have a badge the next time he does this.
The next time. He didn't make the mental connection immediately but there was a buzzing that spread through his whole body, a craving almost that let him know this will happen again.
He was born for this. His blood thumped in this chest. He'd seen flickering lights in this room. Seen a hand banging on the window, looking desperately for help. It hadn't occurred to him to wait. He was lucky he even remembered to try and radio for Shawn.
He nudged open the door. What he lacked in experience, made up for in volume. "Guy Pearsons," he said. "Put your hand on the ground."
He sounded older than he expects somehow. Sounded like the man he'd always wanted to be. He was wearing an a Santa Barbara University t-shirt and an old pair of jeans, but he could almost feel something different, suspenders, a holster, a fitted suit.
Pearson came for him sideways, a knife slashing sideways through his shit, the tip of the blade just kissing the skin. Lassiter jumped back instinctively, coming down funny on something on the floor. He hit the ground, back first, the wind knocked out of him. He groped blindly for a way to get back to his feet, for a weapon. His hand closed instead on something wet and stringy. He realized with a shock that it was hair. He turned over to see the unconscious face of the girl from the window. Above her nose, the face was almost unrecognizable as human. A massive blow had caved in the skull. She was still warm and leaking a steady stream of blood onto the floor. She had to be dead. Couldn't possibly survive that kind of damage--but her chest was still rising and falling in horrible little jerks.
"You," Pearsons said. "You're not who I suspected."
Lassiter twisted sideways as the kick comes, catching in his shoulder, rather than his head. He forced himself up onto his feet, his hands raised in a mockery of a boxer's stance. "You killed that girl."
"I've killed a lot of people," Pearsons replied. He smiled and his face twisted, a rapid aging from a twenty-something kid to a middle-aged man and back again. "I've killed them now and I've killed them in the future and I'm going to keep doing it as long as I like, because there's no one out here who can stop me. No jail that can hold me."
Lassiter swung his fist, missing Pearsons by a mile. Pearsons feigned left and when Lassiter dodged it, brought in a crushing blow with his right that left him flat on his back, seeing stars.
"You see," Pearsons said. "There's maybe on person on this planet I'm worried about right now and you're going to do me a favor and bring him straight to me."
"Shawn's coming," Lassiter threatened. "Shawn's coming and you're going to get the justice you deserve."
Pearson smiled. "That's kind of the whole point of this exercise."
Something swooped toward Lassiter's head, just out of his line of sight and he couldn't dodge it. He tried to keep his eyes open, fighting back the pain, horror and revulsion of this night, but it was a losing battle.
The world faded to black.
***
"Lassie?" Guster tried from somewhere behind him. "Lassie, you think you should maybe, you know, call for backup?"
It was almost midnight. There was no sign of life in the house. If he had to guess, he'd say it had been abandoned years ago. That there might not have been a single person in this place since the cops cleared that last crime scene so many years ago. Lassiter still had the scar, right under the hairline, still bore the instinctual hatred of hospitals even though he hadn't know why for most of the past decade.
"I already called for back-up," Lassiter said.
"I was in the car with you this whole time, dude. You called Jules. That's it."
"I called."
He called Shawn. Years and years ago but he never showed. Son of a bitch was always late.
"I know you didn't."
"Shawn's coming."
"You can't know that."
But he did.
***
"No," Henry Spencer said.
"What?" Shawn sputtered. "There's a hostage situation. You can't just sit here while some kid goes off into danger and gets himself killed."
"So tell me where he is," his father said reasonably.
"Henry," cautioned Vick. "We can't hold him here."
"We can arrest him on charges of identity fraud and you know it."
"You're going to let someone die over this? Really?"
"You are a suspect in a criminal investigations."
"God damn it, dad," Shawn exploded. "For once in your life could you try and trust me? I'm a detective."
"What did you just call me?" Henry stepped toward him but Shawn wasn't watching him. He was looking Vick square in the eyes. The detective had a look on her face that he'd seen before. The look that said I just figured this out.
God help him, but Shawn could kiss her.
"Karen," his father said. "Karen, you can't be serious about this."
"I need a minute with our suspect, Henry," she said.
"Karen!"
She gave him a look. The same look that could always stop Lassiter in his tracks and Henry Spencer leaves the police station. Vick sighed heavily and then sat down across from Shawn. "Look, I know who I think you are, but I don't want to say it aloud because it's completely crazy."
"And if you don't say it out loud, it's not actually happening. Makes sense."
"Figured you'd turn into a smart ass."
"My ass is not the point, no matter how intelligent and sculpted it may be. The point is, I don't know why I'm here and how I got here. But I do know it looks like I have a chance to stop a killer and you've got to let me take it."
"Herny's never going to let you out of here. He still thinks you're involved and if I had to guess, he thinks your friend's panicky call is some sort of sham to get you out of here."
"It's not, I swear."
"You're free to go," Vick said softly, reaching across the table to undo the cuffs. "But I'm going to need you to slip out while Henry's distracted. It's going to take me about ten minutes to get a car to you, so I need the location."
"Guy Pearson's house."
Vick slid her keys across to him. "Blue sedan. You scratch it and I make sure Henry makes your childhood miserable."
"If it weren't completely inappropriate, I would kiss you right now." He scoops up the keys.
"Give me about twenty seconds," Vick said.
It took thirty. Shawn counted every one, wondering what it's cost Lassiter. When the two detectives were clear, he practically ran out of the station, picking out Vick's car with practiced ease.
Guy Pearsons' house wasn't a far drive and he makes it at breakneck speeds, roaring down the streets that weren't quite the same as they used to be.
He had no weapon. The stab wound in his gut sang loudly with each jerk of the steering wheel.
But this was Lassiter. The gawky, awkward detective that he lived to tease, the guy who hated his guts but at the same time had laid out his life for him.
Could Lassiter die here? Could history be rewritten? What would happen to Shawn? He knew he wouldn't be the same person. Knew he never would have continued with psychic detecting if it hadn't been so much fun to wind Lassiter up.
He skidded into Pearsons' driveway and is through the doorway before he realized he didn't have a weapon or a plan.
There was just enough time to register the scene. If he survived, there was no way he forgot this. Lassiter was unconscious but breathing, a nasty looking wound on his temple. The girl on the other side of the room wasn't as lucky, missing a good hunk of her skull. Elsewhere off in the corner, there was a distressing amount of fertilizer, the kind of thing you need for something like a homemade bomb. His last thought before the knife slots neatly into his back was that he's missing something.
That Pearsons knew he was coming.
White exploded at the edges of his vision as the knife is ripped back out, slicing through even more of his skin. It wasn't the quick in and out of the first time. It was a wound meant to kill not injure. "Shawn Spencer," Pearsons sneered. "Cause of so many of my problems. It's going to be nice to be rid of you."
"There's back up on the way," Shawn said. It's true. He could almost hear the sirens over the ringing of his own ears. There was blood speckling out of his mouth every time he said a word.
He wasn't going to last long. "You're not going to get away with this."
"You'll find something odd about me." His face looked like it was melting as he talked, ageing like all those Nazis in Raiders of the Lost Ark, but his body was fading too. Shawn was not going to pretend he understood it but a small piece of him shouted a warning. Time travel. It was time travel.
With the last bit of energy he had, he lunged for the guy, latching onto his shoulder. There was an odd pulling sensation under the mask of pain. The sensation of flying and then, the even more disconcerting sensation of landing.
***
It happened in the blink of an eye.
First, an empty room and then suddenly, a pair of people emerged. Lassiter had his gun in his hands before Gus was even sure what happened. "Oh the ground!" he screamed.
The guy, hell, their murder raises his hands slowly, a smirk forming on his features. The second man who'd seemed almost attached to the first toppled over like a rag doll. "Shawn!" Gus darted toward him as Lassiter started reciting the Miranda rights.
The suspect put up no fight at all. He seemed ridiculously calm as Gus tried to hold the blood inside his best friend with one hand as he dialed with the other, rattling off he address to the dispatch.
Lassiter was rough as he manhandled Pearson toward the wall. The only thing betraying his nerves was the complete inability to find his handcuffs. It was too dark for that. Lassiter kept his finger on the trigger as he said, "We're going to go outside so we can get some light. You're going to move slowly, no sudden movements."
"There's nothing you can do to hold me," Pearsons said, walking step by step into the warm night air. "You can't hold me. I'm going to cooperate until the moment when it will look worst for you and then—"
A shot rang out through the still night air.
Gus bent instinctively over his friend. But it was Pearsons who was hit, Pearsons who toppled over in slow motion, a gaping hole in the center of his forehead.
"Identify yourself," Lassiter roared in the direction of the shot. "Put down your weapon!"
"Carlton," a voice said. "Carlton, it's me. You called me, remember?"
Juliet O'Hara stepped slowly out of the darkness, her bad shoulder bound tightly in a sling. The other hand held a gun.
SIX MONTHS LATER
It was the first time in his life he'd really felt self-conscious. His first day back. His first case back with a few new scars, a new perspective. He slid in quietly in the back, wanting to avoid the fanfare. He usually loved fanfare, loved people watching him, but in the past few months, he'd found it was different when you're viewed as a victim rather than a clown.
The case was simple. One he solved in the quick glance at the file, brining his hand absently to his temple just like the old days. "I'm sensing you want to ease me back in chief," he told Vick after his summation. His back tensed just a little as he brings his hand back down, a twinge that would never quite leave him. "The spirits want me to inform you that you're being a silly goose."
Vick raised an eyebrow and for just a second, she looked like the girl she used to be. But it was gone in an instant as he remembered where he was. "I'll have something else for you soon, Spencer," she said. "Promise."
He didn't want to see Lassiter. Hadn't quite known what to make of Lassiter after this kind of ordeal. Didn't know if it was alright to tease him about being an engineer. Didn't know if he could tout the fact that he was the one to put him on the law enforcement track.
Juliet found him sitting on the steps of the station. "Got to say, Shawn. I don't think I've ever seen one of your visits with less hoopla."
Shawn smirked. "Let's pause for a moment to appreciate the fact that you just said hoopla."
"Shawn—"
"Jules," he cut her off. "I'm fine."
"I know," she said. "I'm fine too."
"You shot someone."
"From what I understand, it's really the only way I could have stopped him for good."
"But a teensy weensy part of it was revenge, right?" He pointed toward the sling she still wore, most of the arm still dead to the world.
"You're not my psychiatrist."
Shawn looked away from her, trying to keep his voice light. "I guess that means we're not going to talk about it."
"You want to talk about it?" Juliet countered.
Shawn leaned back on against, his hands, looking up at the sky. The sun was a warm beacon on his face. He was still alive. That mattered.
He let a smile sneak across. "For one, I appear to have developed a really disturbing crush on Chief Vick."
Juliet's laughter washed over him, the sound even better than the sunshine.
(end)
Disclaimer: Psych is not mine. It should also be noted that this is loosely inspired by Life on Mars which is also not mine.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: While the SBPD tries to piece together a twenty year old cycle of murders, Shawn Spencer finds himself thrown back to 1989, as the killer surfaces for the first time.
Author's note: AND OMG IT'S FINALLY DONE.
SEVEN
There was a disconnect in Lassiter's mind. Something that felt like it had always been there but never been filled. He was a different person his first two years of college. He'd always thought his life had changed when he'd been mistakenly enrolled in a criminology class. Somewhere in that year he'd woken up in a hospital surrounded by cops, entire person burning with the need to do something about it.
Things were missing. Great gaping holes he'd spend most of his adult life skirting.
He was missing the memory of his biggest moments. It was only now that he even noticed. Only now he could see the jagged hole missing from Carlton Lassiter, their ragged edges fraying more and more each day.
The gun was a comfort in his hands. Each step he took into this place sent a jolt of familiarity up his arms. The house was dark, abandoned--except it keeps blurring between what it was now and what it used to be. Lassiter himself felt like he was bouncing in between head detective of the Santa Barbara Police Department and the scared sophomore engineering major. At least he had a gun this time. At least he had back up—even if he would have far preferred O'Hara to Guster. It didn't seem right that O'Hara was sitting in a hospital bed while the guy who did this to her remained at large.
"Lassiter," Guster said from behind him. "Lassiter, what to you expect to find here?"
Shawn. A murderer. Everything he didn't remember.
"Follow my lead."
Lassiter was terrified.
He thought he should have a gun for this. Maybe even a badge—definitely should have a badge the next time he does this.
The next time. He didn't make the mental connection immediately but there was a buzzing that spread through his whole body, a craving almost that let him know this will happen again.
He was born for this. His blood thumped in this chest. He'd seen flickering lights in this room. Seen a hand banging on the window, looking desperately for help. It hadn't occurred to him to wait. He was lucky he even remembered to try and radio for Shawn.
He nudged open the door. What he lacked in experience, made up for in volume. "Guy Pearsons," he said. "Put your hand on the ground."
He sounded older than he expects somehow. Sounded like the man he'd always wanted to be. He was wearing an a Santa Barbara University t-shirt and an old pair of jeans, but he could almost feel something different, suspenders, a holster, a fitted suit.
Pearson came for him sideways, a knife slashing sideways through his shit, the tip of the blade just kissing the skin. Lassiter jumped back instinctively, coming down funny on something on the floor. He hit the ground, back first, the wind knocked out of him. He groped blindly for a way to get back to his feet, for a weapon. His hand closed instead on something wet and stringy. He realized with a shock that it was hair. He turned over to see the unconscious face of the girl from the window. Above her nose, the face was almost unrecognizable as human. A massive blow had caved in the skull. She was still warm and leaking a steady stream of blood onto the floor. She had to be dead. Couldn't possibly survive that kind of damage--but her chest was still rising and falling in horrible little jerks.
"You," Pearsons said. "You're not who I suspected."
Lassiter twisted sideways as the kick comes, catching in his shoulder, rather than his head. He forced himself up onto his feet, his hands raised in a mockery of a boxer's stance. "You killed that girl."
"I've killed a lot of people," Pearsons replied. He smiled and his face twisted, a rapid aging from a twenty-something kid to a middle-aged man and back again. "I've killed them now and I've killed them in the future and I'm going to keep doing it as long as I like, because there's no one out here who can stop me. No jail that can hold me."
Lassiter swung his fist, missing Pearsons by a mile. Pearsons feigned left and when Lassiter dodged it, brought in a crushing blow with his right that left him flat on his back, seeing stars.
"You see," Pearsons said. "There's maybe on person on this planet I'm worried about right now and you're going to do me a favor and bring him straight to me."
"Shawn's coming," Lassiter threatened. "Shawn's coming and you're going to get the justice you deserve."
Pearson smiled. "That's kind of the whole point of this exercise."
Something swooped toward Lassiter's head, just out of his line of sight and he couldn't dodge it. He tried to keep his eyes open, fighting back the pain, horror and revulsion of this night, but it was a losing battle.
The world faded to black.
"Lassie?" Guster tried from somewhere behind him. "Lassie, you think you should maybe, you know, call for backup?"
It was almost midnight. There was no sign of life in the house. If he had to guess, he'd say it had been abandoned years ago. That there might not have been a single person in this place since the cops cleared that last crime scene so many years ago. Lassiter still had the scar, right under the hairline, still bore the instinctual hatred of hospitals even though he hadn't know why for most of the past decade.
"I already called for back-up," Lassiter said.
"I was in the car with you this whole time, dude. You called Jules. That's it."
"I called."
He called Shawn. Years and years ago but he never showed. Son of a bitch was always late.
"I know you didn't."
"Shawn's coming."
"You can't know that."
But he did.
"No," Henry Spencer said.
"What?" Shawn sputtered. "There's a hostage situation. You can't just sit here while some kid goes off into danger and gets himself killed."
"So tell me where he is," his father said reasonably.
"Henry," cautioned Vick. "We can't hold him here."
"We can arrest him on charges of identity fraud and you know it."
"You're going to let someone die over this? Really?"
"You are a suspect in a criminal investigations."
"God damn it, dad," Shawn exploded. "For once in your life could you try and trust me? I'm a detective."
"What did you just call me?" Henry stepped toward him but Shawn wasn't watching him. He was looking Vick square in the eyes. The detective had a look on her face that he'd seen before. The look that said I just figured this out.
God help him, but Shawn could kiss her.
"Karen," his father said. "Karen, you can't be serious about this."
"I need a minute with our suspect, Henry," she said.
"Karen!"
She gave him a look. The same look that could always stop Lassiter in his tracks and Henry Spencer leaves the police station. Vick sighed heavily and then sat down across from Shawn. "Look, I know who I think you are, but I don't want to say it aloud because it's completely crazy."
"And if you don't say it out loud, it's not actually happening. Makes sense."
"Figured you'd turn into a smart ass."
"My ass is not the point, no matter how intelligent and sculpted it may be. The point is, I don't know why I'm here and how I got here. But I do know it looks like I have a chance to stop a killer and you've got to let me take it."
"Herny's never going to let you out of here. He still thinks you're involved and if I had to guess, he thinks your friend's panicky call is some sort of sham to get you out of here."
"It's not, I swear."
"You're free to go," Vick said softly, reaching across the table to undo the cuffs. "But I'm going to need you to slip out while Henry's distracted. It's going to take me about ten minutes to get a car to you, so I need the location."
"Guy Pearson's house."
Vick slid her keys across to him. "Blue sedan. You scratch it and I make sure Henry makes your childhood miserable."
"If it weren't completely inappropriate, I would kiss you right now." He scoops up the keys.
"Give me about twenty seconds," Vick said.
It took thirty. Shawn counted every one, wondering what it's cost Lassiter. When the two detectives were clear, he practically ran out of the station, picking out Vick's car with practiced ease.
Guy Pearsons' house wasn't a far drive and he makes it at breakneck speeds, roaring down the streets that weren't quite the same as they used to be.
He had no weapon. The stab wound in his gut sang loudly with each jerk of the steering wheel.
But this was Lassiter. The gawky, awkward detective that he lived to tease, the guy who hated his guts but at the same time had laid out his life for him.
Could Lassiter die here? Could history be rewritten? What would happen to Shawn? He knew he wouldn't be the same person. Knew he never would have continued with psychic detecting if it hadn't been so much fun to wind Lassiter up.
He skidded into Pearsons' driveway and is through the doorway before he realized he didn't have a weapon or a plan.
There was just enough time to register the scene. If he survived, there was no way he forgot this. Lassiter was unconscious but breathing, a nasty looking wound on his temple. The girl on the other side of the room wasn't as lucky, missing a good hunk of her skull. Elsewhere off in the corner, there was a distressing amount of fertilizer, the kind of thing you need for something like a homemade bomb. His last thought before the knife slots neatly into his back was that he's missing something.
That Pearsons knew he was coming.
White exploded at the edges of his vision as the knife is ripped back out, slicing through even more of his skin. It wasn't the quick in and out of the first time. It was a wound meant to kill not injure. "Shawn Spencer," Pearsons sneered. "Cause of so many of my problems. It's going to be nice to be rid of you."
"There's back up on the way," Shawn said. It's true. He could almost hear the sirens over the ringing of his own ears. There was blood speckling out of his mouth every time he said a word.
He wasn't going to last long. "You're not going to get away with this."
"You'll find something odd about me." His face looked like it was melting as he talked, ageing like all those Nazis in Raiders of the Lost Ark, but his body was fading too. Shawn was not going to pretend he understood it but a small piece of him shouted a warning. Time travel. It was time travel.
With the last bit of energy he had, he lunged for the guy, latching onto his shoulder. There was an odd pulling sensation under the mask of pain. The sensation of flying and then, the even more disconcerting sensation of landing.
It happened in the blink of an eye.
First, an empty room and then suddenly, a pair of people emerged. Lassiter had his gun in his hands before Gus was even sure what happened. "Oh the ground!" he screamed.
The guy, hell, their murder raises his hands slowly, a smirk forming on his features. The second man who'd seemed almost attached to the first toppled over like a rag doll. "Shawn!" Gus darted toward him as Lassiter started reciting the Miranda rights.
The suspect put up no fight at all. He seemed ridiculously calm as Gus tried to hold the blood inside his best friend with one hand as he dialed with the other, rattling off he address to the dispatch.
Lassiter was rough as he manhandled Pearson toward the wall. The only thing betraying his nerves was the complete inability to find his handcuffs. It was too dark for that. Lassiter kept his finger on the trigger as he said, "We're going to go outside so we can get some light. You're going to move slowly, no sudden movements."
"There's nothing you can do to hold me," Pearsons said, walking step by step into the warm night air. "You can't hold me. I'm going to cooperate until the moment when it will look worst for you and then—"
A shot rang out through the still night air.
Gus bent instinctively over his friend. But it was Pearsons who was hit, Pearsons who toppled over in slow motion, a gaping hole in the center of his forehead.
"Identify yourself," Lassiter roared in the direction of the shot. "Put down your weapon!"
"Carlton," a voice said. "Carlton, it's me. You called me, remember?"
Juliet O'Hara stepped slowly out of the darkness, her bad shoulder bound tightly in a sling. The other hand held a gun.
It was the first time in his life he'd really felt self-conscious. His first day back. His first case back with a few new scars, a new perspective. He slid in quietly in the back, wanting to avoid the fanfare. He usually loved fanfare, loved people watching him, but in the past few months, he'd found it was different when you're viewed as a victim rather than a clown.
The case was simple. One he solved in the quick glance at the file, brining his hand absently to his temple just like the old days. "I'm sensing you want to ease me back in chief," he told Vick after his summation. His back tensed just a little as he brings his hand back down, a twinge that would never quite leave him. "The spirits want me to inform you that you're being a silly goose."
Vick raised an eyebrow and for just a second, she looked like the girl she used to be. But it was gone in an instant as he remembered where he was. "I'll have something else for you soon, Spencer," she said. "Promise."
He didn't want to see Lassiter. Hadn't quite known what to make of Lassiter after this kind of ordeal. Didn't know if it was alright to tease him about being an engineer. Didn't know if he could tout the fact that he was the one to put him on the law enforcement track.
Juliet found him sitting on the steps of the station. "Got to say, Shawn. I don't think I've ever seen one of your visits with less hoopla."
Shawn smirked. "Let's pause for a moment to appreciate the fact that you just said hoopla."
"Shawn—"
"Jules," he cut her off. "I'm fine."
"I know," she said. "I'm fine too."
"You shot someone."
"From what I understand, it's really the only way I could have stopped him for good."
"But a teensy weensy part of it was revenge, right?" He pointed toward the sling she still wore, most of the arm still dead to the world.
"You're not my psychiatrist."
Shawn looked away from her, trying to keep his voice light. "I guess that means we're not going to talk about it."
"You want to talk about it?" Juliet countered.
Shawn leaned back on against, his hands, looking up at the sky. The sun was a warm beacon on his face. He was still alive. That mattered.
He let a smile sneak across. "For one, I appear to have developed a really disturbing crush on Chief Vick."
Juliet's laughter washed over him, the sound even better than the sunshine.
(end)
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
9/8/10 12:27 (UTC)(no subject)
10/8/10 04:37 (UTC)(no subject)
9/8/10 16:29 (UTC)(no subject)
10/8/10 04:37 (UTC)Thanks for reading!
(no subject)
9/8/10 19:25 (UTC)(no subject)
10/8/10 04:41 (UTC)Thanks so much for reading!
(no subject)
10/8/10 02:21 (UTC)I just want to take this fic and show it off to the rest of the internet as a "how to" for time travel fic in non-scifi fandoms. It was a lot of fun, and very clever.
(no subject)
10/8/10 04:45 (UTC)Dunno about you but as far as your standard tropes go, I love time travel the most. I love time travel more than zombies. I think every single television show could use more time travel.
(no subject)
12/12/11 00:19 (UTC)(no subject)
25/12/11 19:55 (UTC)Thanks for reading the story. Sorry it took so long to get back to you.