so this is what responsibility feels like

[fahye]

Wow. Having a dead computer makes me actually behave like a med student. I went to my two labs this morning -- Jesus Christ, bones are tricky little buggers when you actually look at them, and I am rethinking my love of the clavicle -- and then I spent some time in the LIBRARY with my NOTES and I've thoroughly revised my upper limb anatomy and the entire text chapter on clinical examination of the respiratory system. Man. The things you have time to do when you don't have classes from 8am-5pm (this week is remarkably light \o/) and also don't have fic writing itself feverishly in your head.

Tomorrow classes finish at 11am and I am determined to be likewise productive in the afternoon, but you know what, I'm kind of enjoying this being-uncharacteristically-prolific thing, so for the gaps in between study:

Drabble requests?

You know what I write. Though if you're having trouble deciding, I'm on this serious animated-things kick at the moment, so throw me Avatar/anime-of-your-choice prompts and everyone will be happy.

(Please note that due to the fickle natures of both free time & inspiration, I am not putting my hand on my heart and swearing to finish every request this time, but...request away anyhow! We'll see how I go.)

Comments

[agonistes]

Iroh and Bill Adama, Broody Son (Or Nephew) Support Group.

[fahye.livejournal.com]

"This is Admiral William Adama," the President says, and there's an uncharacteristic roughness of tone when she says the man's name that makes Iroh think she is accustomed to a more familiar form of address.

"Good to meet you, General."

"It is an honour, Admiral."

Iroh smiles and their eyes meet over their firmly-grasping handshake, and that's all it takes for them to recognise each other as soldiers of the truest kind. It's a relief. Iroh admires Laura Roslin intensely and the woman has a way of letting her reddish hair fall across a white shirt that reminds him of certain firebending techniques, but she is no soldier.

"You have a son, I recall. An excellent commander?"

"My son is no longer a member of the military," the man says stiffly, and Iroh decides not to point out that he was making a comment about skill, not title.

Instead he says, "Ah. I have a nephew, myself -- currently at a most troublesome age," and he smiles again, and the atmosphere shifts from two soldiers to two men who have had to deal with adolescent males. Well and good, Iroh thinks.

Roslin laughs; accusingly, but without bitterness. "Maybe I should be grateful for never having been blessed with a son."

Iroh is still looking at the Adama. "You are blessed with a very capable head of state, I think," he says politely, testing, and the Admiral's face creases in pleasure. So Iroh adds, "And beautiful, too," just so he can watch the man cough and move an inch closer to the President, voicelessly and almost unconsciously defining the boundaries of his command.