8 facts about Stan Baker

@nightmares06 tagged me forever and ever ago, and I ought to be putting content on this here blog of mine ^^; So here we go!

Rules:
Post these rules.
Post 8 facts about your character.
Tag 8 other characters.
Post their names along with their creators’ avatars.

1. Stan (full name: Stanley Aaron Baker) is a pseudo-freelance agent who works alongside John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, and Sam and Dean Winchester in Brothers Consulted, my collab with nightmares06.

2. His character took us both by surprise. He was initially just going to be some suit to get the boys from A to B, but his personality shone out of nowhere and now he’s here to stay!

3. He is 27 years old and 6′ even, the closest in age to Dean out of the Baker Street crew.

4. Against the odds, he and Dean Winchester hit it off when they first meet, immediately developing an easygoing yet playful rapport that puts them both at ease when interacting with someone so different in size.

5. Stan is Irish by descent, but he was born and raised in London. He and his family in Ireland are close, so occasionally a bit of the accent will slip into his speech when he’s not thinking about it.

6. Much of Stan’s family served in the military. He grew up formally and informally training in combat with his elders, even his older brothers, but never served himself. Even so, he is a natural born leader and he carries a militaristic air when he’s on a job that requires those skills.

7. Though he keeps it a secret from the more conservative members of his family, Stan is engaged to his long-term partner. His fiancee’s name is Nathan Sullivan, and though he is a civilian, Stan keeps him up to speed on the less confidential aspects of his work. He knows Nathan would never betray him.

8. Stan and Nathan own a German shepherd. Her name is Juno and she sheds a lot and they love her.

Commission by the fabulous @ghostquack

I tag @neonthewrite for Jiria, and anyone else who sees this and wants to do this can go right ahead! This was fun!

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Zepheera-Vision Prologue: How Very Clever

“Why on Earth did you bring her here, Sherlock?”

“Where was I supposed to bring her, St. Bart’s? Parade her around, introduce her to Molly and shove her under a microscope? Dull. Messy. No, I needed a look for myself, in private.”

“No, I mean, why did you bring her anywhere at all?”

“Because she makes no sense!”

“She’s a person, she’s not yours to take! She had a life – it’s like that-that thing about how you shouldn’t pick up and move a snail, because you don’t know where it’s going.”

“Oi!” Zepheera protested. She’d been meaning to interrupt the humans’ arguing, but John Watson had been doing well on making her points for her up until that last addition. When he turned in reaction to her shout, he nearly flinched at the scathing indignation she shot his way.

“Sorry, no, I didn’t mean that you’re like–”

“‘Like’, she’s not like anything, certainly not a snail,” interrupted Sherlock as he strode across the kitchen toward Zepheera. “She’s not even like herself, if there’s even a self to be like.”

He dropped back into the chair still sitting by the counter where four-and-a-half inch tall Zepheera stood, leaning forward with his fingers steepled just under his chin. She took a couple wary steps back from his sudden proximity, enough for her to feel like she wasn’t looking straight up into those nebulaic eyes of his.

“I’ve always found the human mind problematic. So many emotions and concerns, not always simple to piece together, not for me anyways. I can, however, know a person’s entire life after seconds of observing them with near complete accuracy, but you. Setting aside that scientifically you shouldn’t be able to function as highly as you do at this size, you are positively full of contradictions. Everything about you clashes with the logic of something else, and I demand an explanation.”

“Sherlock,” John warned. He was ready to tear the detective a new one for continuing to treat Zepheera as a specimen. The one thing stopping him was Zepheera herself raising a hand to stop him.

“It’s okay, John,” she assured, to his confusion and Sherlock’s poorly hidden amusement. The black-haired human’s smirk was as infectious as it was unsettling, Zepheera found as she bit back a grin of her own. She pursed her lips and addressed Sherlock. “Please, enlighten me about these contradictions. What have you observed?”

“Here we go…” muttered John, leaning on the fridge with crossed arms.

“Your clothes were the biggest tip-off,” Sherlock began, his cool gaze jumping up and down Zepheera’s form with each observation. “Trousers and vest hand-made, but your long-sleeve looks factory-made and somehow shrunk down, unless you’ve got a tiny clothes maker hidden around somewhere which I highly doubt. Your boots, as well, are manufactured, but you’ve altered them to look plainer.

“You appear quite young, but your eyes, they tell a different story. And that’s saying nothing about their deep violet hue, but that’s irrelevant to your contradictions. Point being, they’re much older than the rest of you. Exactly how much older is hard to pinpoint, the biggest clue being, of course, your vest. You’ve stripped down and woven together several candy wrappers, easy enough for someone your size to procure. One of them is different, a particular style that would have been in circulation in the 80’s and 90’s. Now, it could be that the material was simply passed down by an elder, or even the vest itself, but not likely enough since the rest are modern sweets and the vest fits you so snugly and hasn’t been altered even once. You made it recently, no more than nine or ten months ago if the wear is any indication.

“Additionally, you’re rather clean despite the fact that I found you outside and your lifestyle of living dependant on humans. Oh, it’s obvious,” Sherlock scoffed at Zepheera’s surprised expression. “Given your size and evident resourcefulness, it can only be assumed that you rely on humans for food and materials and shelter, probably within walls or under the floors or whatever nooks you can find outside. In either case, you shoulf be sporting some kind of dust or dirt residue, but you’re not. I would also expect a scavenger shorter than a pencil to carry a bag of some sort, perhaps climbing tools and a weapon, all of which you lack. Another contradiction. That, and your short hair, indicates a life of ease.
Self-administered haircut, but such an even job along the back can’t be achieved on one’s own. Not without a series of mirrors or a friend…”

Sherlock trailed off, consumed with the implications of his last statement and observations overall. He’d suspected there could be more people her size despite the shrunken appearance of parts of her wardrobe, but he hadn’t considered the possibility of her having a companion. Maybe it was due to all his time spent around John, but something in him wrestled with the ethical dilemma before him on top of the scientific and logical dilemma of her very existence.

While he was silent and introspective, Zepheera looked down at herself and remarked on his observations. They were all correct, but she knew the reasons for her ‘contradictions’ that woulf clear up Sherlock’s confusions. The shrunken-looking pieces of her outfit were taken from the wardrobe in her room in the TARDIS, which had been downsized for her. She’d left her borrowing bag and tools behind because she’d thought she was in for a relaxing day with the Doctor. Now she was in some unknown flat with a pair of strange humans. Strange in every sense of the word.

“Impressive, I’ll admit,” she said st last, breaking both humans out of their swirling thoughts. “For a human, that’s quite extraordinary.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” John piped up, the corner of his mouth tugging up mirthfully.

Zepheera shrugged. “I’m sure Brainy here has already worked out that if I am to survive at this scale, I have to be fairly good at observations myself.”

What am I doing?

“Of course, Sherlock seethed. "Obviously.”

“Well then, what say we find out how much I can deduce about you two.”

John’s brow shot up and Sherlock frowned suspiciously. Meanwhile, Zepheera’s instincts were panicking. What am I saying? I don’t have time for these games, I have to get out of here! The longer I’m here, the higher the chances become that the Doctor will do something rash.

And yet here she was, challenging the human before her in his own field. Sherlock must have rubbed off on her more than she realized, because overriding every survival impulse she had was an increasing need to show off. She had to get it out of her system. And, she reasoned, she’d need to put herself even with Sherlock, or at least with a human being in his mind, before she could begin to negotiate her exit.

“If one of you could be kind enough to give me a lift to the other room, I’d be appreciative,” she smirked.

Sherlock stared her down for a moment, hesitant to take her bait. Eventually he gave up with a sigh. “John,” he ordered tersely as he stood from the chair and strode into the other room without either of them.

John blinked when he was left alone with Zepheera, who was looking expectantly up at him. “Erm. How-how should I…?” He still struggled with the idea of handling her, but he supposed if he had her permission it was alright.

“Actually…” she mused, peering down from the very edge of the counter at the dining chair. “I forgot about this. I might be able to see myself down after all.”

Before John could protest, she jumped off and landed expertly on the
seat of the chair, repeating the action down to the floor. He hurried forward
and leaned around the chair, half-expecting to see her limping body hobbling
along. He was more than a little surprised to find himself staring down at the
tiny woman practically unscathed, jogging across his floor. A jump like that
would have messed up any human being, proportionally speaking. Whoever she was,
this Zepheera was sturdier than she looked.

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Zepheera-Vision — Watson

Prologue

“I’m fine,” Zepheera insisted.

John raised an eyebrow at her, kneeling by
the kitchen counter for a closer look at the tiny woman. “Are you sure? No
offense, but if Sherlock wasn’t careful, he could have easily hurt you–”

“I was careful!” Sherlock
contended, still pouting in the corner while trying not to seem like it. John
rolled his eyes, but looked back at Zepheera for confirmation.

Zepheera sighed. If she had been hurt
by Sherlock, even just slightly bruised, any damage done would have healed by
now. But she dared not tell John that, a medical man who had already proclaimed
that she was an impossibility.

“Look, I’m okay, really. See?” She
prodded at her ribs, which had been the most vulnerable in Sherlock’s grip, and
moved on to the rest of her undamaged limbs. “No bruised or broken ribs,
arms and legs intact, joints unstrained. I’m fit as a fiddle. No need
for…”

She trailed off and gestured vaguely to the
human’s hands, hovering nearby in preparation to help. John looked down at
them, realizing how large they looked to her, and self-consciously pulled them
back to his middle. “Right. Sorry…”

Zepheera wrung her hands, glancing between
John and Sherlock. “So. You’re a doctor?” she asked John. Of all
the cruel coincidences in the universe…

John blinked at her question. “Uh, yeah.
Yes, I am Doctor John Watson.”

She regretted asking as her heart ached,
desperate once again to get back to her own Doctor. And while she thought this
Watson chap would probably help her if she asked, she still advised herself
against jumping into that too quickly. The look in his eyes told her that he
was just as curious as Sherlock. He just hid it better.

“I’m Zepheera,” she replied.

A whole new level of awe leaked through in
John’s expression, and he stared at her for a moment as his perception of
reality was twisted. Somehow, putting a name to the impossibly tiny person made
her all too real. He stood with a sharp intake of breath and wandered away from
her, toward the living room. He paced back and forth for a bit, running his
hands down his face and scratching the back of his head, until his gaze fell
back on Zepheera who was staring up at him with concern.

“Are you okay?” she asked at
length.

John froze, the shock hitting him all over
again. Then he chuckled, forcing a smile as he swung his arms back and forth to
release some of the confused tension in his shoulders.

“Just trying not to lose my mind,”
he admitted, glancing at Sherlock for some level of sanity.

Now there was a troubling thought.

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Zepheera-Vision Prologue — Watson

“What. Are. You?”

Zepheera narrowed her eyes at her captor and
took a long sip of tea, setting her tinfoil cup pointedly on the small coin she
was using as a saucer. She sat to lean back on the cold tile of the kitchen
wall and crossed her arms, steadily meeting the gaze of the man leaning on the
counter to loom over her. She’d lost count of how many times he’d asked that
question in the last five minutes, or asked something similar, but she stubbornly
refused to speak until he talked to her like an equal.

Clearly he wasn’t catching the hint. The
longer she kept quiet, the more determined he seemed. His frown deepened and he
let out a crisp sigh, unintentionally billowing Zepheera’s short dark hair with
his breath. Then he reached behind him and dragged over a chair to sit across
from her, slouching to achieve an angle somewhat closer to the four-and-a-half
inch tall woman’s eye level.

“You’re not clever for remaining silent,
you know,” he pronounced emphatically, his tone dangerously quiet.
“It’s obvious you understand me and that you’re intelligent enough to have
at least some form of communication with which to express thought and
response. Even if that’s not English, even if you’re a mute, I demand
you to tell me what you are.”

Zepheera quirked an eyebrow at him, but
didn’t otherwise move a muscle. She was hardly in a position to bend to his
threats now, he’d have hurt her already if that was his plan for getting the
information from her. As if to prove her point, he huffed again and leaned back
in the chair, crossing his own arms to mirror his miniature captive. The
tiniest smirk tugged at her lips as she smugly lifted her cup for another sip.

Before it could reach her mouth, a sound
echoed from downstairs, one that sent Zepheera’s instincts running high. The
main door of the flat opened and closed, and the stairs began to creak with the
weight of the approaching human.

“Sherlock!”

This voice was all Zepheera had to go by to
determine the temperament of the human drawing near. It was a man, his tone
kind but more than a little annoyed. That was understandable since, given the
brief glance he spared to the kitchen entrance, her captor knew this man.

She took this moment of distraction to make
her move. Tossing her cup aside, she shot to her feet and took off for the side
of the counter closest to the door, slipping behind every instrument she could
until she reached the edge.

“HELP! I’VE BEEN KIDNAPPED BY A
MADMAN–!” she shrieked, cupping her hands into a megaphone to help her
small voice carry, but a pale hand wrapping around her cut her off. Her head,
shoulders, and arms were free of the measured grip surrounding the rest of her,
lifting her away from the ground.

“What–who is that??” Concern
filled the man’s voice as he hurried up the stairs and rounded the corner.
Zepheera’s captor, Sherlock, froze halfway through lifting her to eye level
when the new man came into view.

“What the hell’s going…” The
newcomer trailed off when he noticed what Sherlock had in his grip, and he
stopped to stare. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing, it had to be a trick.
But that notion went flying out the door when the little being spoke.

“Please, I haven’t done anything
wrong!” she implored, relying on the man’s pity much to her distaste.

“Oh, don’t play innocent,” Sherlock
spat, finally losing patience and
bringing her up to his eyes. “I knew you could speak, but you had
to play your games–!”

“Sherlock, that’s enough!”

The borrower and the human turned to stare at
the other man. His look had hardened, trained only on Sherlock.

“John,” said Sherlock steadily.
“You don’t understand–”

“Sod that!” shot back the blond.
“I’m a doctor, you don’t think I understand how incredibly impossible
she is? Believe me, I get it. And what I also get is that she is clearly a
sentient person, and you should not be handling her that way.”

A tense silence hung in the air between the
humans, and Zepheera held her breath as her fate was decided for her.

“What would you have me do then,
John?” Sherlock asked quietly, his voice more subdued than his expression.

John sighed, possibly in relief. “Put
her down. Let me see if I can have a look at her, make sure she’s not
hurt.”

With reluctance, Sherlock lowered her back to
the counter, grumpily stomping off to the far corner of the kitchen.

Newly freed, Zepheera looked up at John. Now
she was right back where she started, though hopefully in hands that were more
aware of her, concerned for her.

“Th-thank you,” she stammered,
nodding gratefully up at John.

The human’s mouth twitched briefly, still unsure of what to make of this situation. “Ah. Don’t mention it.”

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Zepheera-Vision — Bit Hot

Zepheera gasped sharply as the fist around
her opened and exposed her to fresh air for the first time in five minutes. She
scrambled away from the giant unknown hand, tripping over the edge of a saucer.
She was wedged awkwardly between the lip of the small plate and the cold
porcelain curve of the cup, but still she maintained eye contact with her
captor.

His lips pursed as he observed her behavior,
then reached toward her again. She threw her hands up in futile defense, but
they weren’t needed. Rather than grabbing her, those long fingers curled around
the handle of the teacup and lifted it away. Zepheera fell back in its absence,
catching herself on her elbows as she watched the man sidestep far enough away
that he no longer filled her vision, but he could easily glance over to check
on her.

Zepheera stood and seized the opportunity to
take in her surroundings. There was a large coffee maker to her right and some
other machine she didn’t recognize to her left. She was on the kitchen counter
in the human’s small flat. The dining table across from her was filled with odd
instruments and glass containers that sent an ominous chill down her spine.

She had a bad feeling about this human.

Another hand approaching broke Zepheera out
of her thoughts, and she did her best to not flinch. Again it didn’t touch her,
only hovered expectantly nearby. She glanced up at the man’s face and realized
that he wanted the saucer. As she hopped off and pressed her back against the
wall, she wondered about this sudden concern of his for her consent. He had
kidnapped her, after all.

He dragged the saucer about an inch closer to
himself and carefully set the filled teacup onto it. Automatically, he popped
two blocks of sugar into it and began stirring. After a moment, he glanced at
Zepheera again and frowned to himself. He opened a drawer out of her sight and
rummaged through it. Then he slid the cup and saucer toward Zepheera,
not-so-surreptitiously placing a few items next to it.

She hesitated before peeling herself from the
wall. The cup was now filled with what looked like tea, and by her feet lay a
package of creamer, a paper clip, a length of string, a coin, and a sizeable
torn-off corner of tinfoil. Her violet eyes flicked up to suspiciously meet the
icy blues staring down at her. Noting her trepidation, the man rolled his eyes
and picked up the teacup, taking a small sip for himself.

“Good for the nerves,” he muttered,
his deep baritone rolling over Zepheera like thunder. “And definitely not
poisoned. How dull would that be.”

With that, he replaced the teacup and
observed her closely to gauge Zepheera’s reaction. She wondered if he thought
she could even understand him; clearly he was testing her intelligence and
civility, if the materials he gave her were any indication. As much as it sickened her to play into this
game of his, she was quite thirsty. The salt from the chips she’d eaten with
the Doctor had really dried her out.

The thought of the Doctor drove her to step
forward at last. She needed to get back to him by any means necessary, and if
that meant playing along for a while…

She picked up the tinfoil, tearing off the
excess. She didn’t need much to mold into a makeshift cup. Once that was done
and she’d checked it for weak spots, she went straight to the tea. She inspected
it for a moment, inhaling its fumes. Earl gray. Not her favorite but tolerable
enough, especially with a little sugar. She leaned down with her foil cup to
retrieve some.

“Bit hot,” said the man under his
breath, giving Zepheera pause. Indeed, warmth wafted up from the liquid. It
wasn’t steaming, but it was as hot as could be expected on such short notice.
Hot enough to sting, that was for sure. Perhaps the kettle had still been
lukewarm from that morning.

Zepheera carefully lowered her cup into the
drink, ignoring the man as he observed her reaction to his warning. Despite how
much she wanted to dunk her whole hand in and give him something to observe,
she knew that having him know about her healing ability would be counter-productive.
His curiosity would only grow. So she settled on a half-filled cup and took a
measured sip.

For the Doctor.

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Doctor y Doctor

John Watson didn’t stop to think. The fact that he and Sherlock were already late to meet Lestrade at a fresh, new, and conveniently nearby crime scene completely left his mind. He saw a man get blindsided by some punk kid on a skateboard and fall hard on the ground while the assailant rode on. John immediately rushed to his side.

He shoved his way through the small crowd gathering to gawk at the man with morbid curiosity. It was easy to see why; on top of the spectacle, the man was rather odd-looking in general. Mid-thirties, early forties but with a forward-sweeping spike to his hair, a brown pinstriped suit paired with white Converse of all things, and a long, tan overcoat to put it all together. It was a wonder how this strange person had escaped the skater’s notice. Luckily the chap didn’t seem too badly hurt, but he was groaning something terrible and clutching his head.

“Steady on, mate. I’m a doctor, and you’ve been hit hard.” John spoke evenly and kindly as he knelt by the man and moved his hands away from his face so he could check for signs of concussion. “Do you remember what happened?”

The chocolate-brown eye John was holding open zeroed in on him, and the brow above it furrowed. Then his hand shot to his right shoulder and scrambled around, as though he were looking for something.

He started to sit up quickly, but John stopped him with a hand to the chest.

“No, no, don’t get up too fast–”

“Get off!”

The man shoved John roughly away, knocking him on his arse. Then he got on his hands and knees, calling out some strange word that John didn’t recognize. It almost sounded like a rejected spell from Harry Potter.

Regardless, John stood and made one last attempt to calm the man down.

“Sir, you need medical attention,” John insisted.

The man shook off the hand John laid on his shoulder, then jumped up to his full height. John blinked as the man loomed over him, despite only being about half a foot taller than him. His eyes, while clear, were crazed and deadly.

“I don’t need a doctor. I am the Doctor. Now go. Away.”

John stared as the man went back to searching the ground. By then the thin crowd had been scared off by the man’s apparent madness. “Alright, man, suit yourself,” the doctor muttered as he backed off. Clearly the matter was out of his hands, and he was on his way to see Lestrade anyhow. Perhaps he could tip the detective inspector off, and send someone over to deal with the situation.

“Well, I tried,” sighed John as he approached Sherlock, who had waited for him. “Let’s go, I guess.”

“Actually, John, you go on ahead,” said Sherlock.

John frowned. “But Lestrade–”

“Something’s come up. Besides, I highly doubt he has anything you can’t handle on your own. Meet back at the flat.”

And that was it. Sherlock walked off without another word, leaving John confused and more than a little annoyed.

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Zepheera-Vision — A Hand Afoot

Prologue

Zepheera’s heart pounded, threatening to climb straight out of her throat.

This was no dumbstruck human she was facing. No, that would give her an opportunity to dash away. His countenance was perfectly calm with a touch of contemplation, his eyes cold and calculating. He wasn’t just staring at Zepheera, he was studying her. Memories of that same look from scientists peppered over the course of her long life came clawing to the forefront of her mind, and she had to actively push past them. She needed to find a way out of this, escape the man’s reach somehow and find the Doctor fast.

Before she could even glance away from him, his hand was upon her. His palm filled her vision and his fingers, each almost as long as her entire body, were curling over her head. In a split second, she was snatched up in a loose fist, her four-and-a-half-inch-tall body squished into a ball.

Humans were fast, she lamented belatedly.

Zepheera felt the movement as the hand was lowered and what little light that peeked in through the cracks between the fingers disappeared. With no warning, the pressure around her loosened and she dropped into a dark pocket. She had no time to protest; the man was immediately on the move.

He’d placed her into the outside pocket of his wool coat and it flapped with each and every step the man took, making it nearly impossible for Zepheera to climb out. To avoid hurting herself and lessen the motion sickness, she tucked herself into a corner and breathed as deeply as she could in the cramped, stuffy space. Panic threatened to overcome her, but she refused to let it. She would need a clear mind in order to find the Doctor after she got out of this.

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