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WIPs
It should be noted that I have HUNDREDS* of WIPs on Fabian's hard drive; however, as the dear boy is currently lacking Internet, right now I have open the three documents that I have on Smilla (my flash drive). I am having trouble picking one to stick with and work on, because clearly I should never be offered choice in ANYTHING but should instead be blinkered and set on a clearly marked path. Ugh.
*This is not as dramatic a piece of hyperbole as you might imagine.
Here, flist, have some extracts. Tell me what to work on.
This Never Happened - BSGRPF
"What are we watching?"
A smile creeps over her face at the sight of him, sprawled out and lazy in a way that Lee Adama would never be. She looks briefly at the phone – 5 missed calls – and then puts it in her shoulder bag. "Our ancestors," she tells him, collapsing just as heavily and taking the DVD off pause. "Cold pizza?"
She's seen the episode before, so it doesn't really matter that it's more fun to watch the way Jamie's face changes when something amuses him. When something surprises him. When he's thinking. He catches her looking and she grins, pelting him with bits of olive as a distraction.
After a while she's seen enough to feel better about her mannerisms, and they resort to making fun of the dialogue. Jamie's accent has gotten better and better since she met him, and now he's quick to pick up the dramatic inflections of the Apollo on screen. Once she's snorted water through her nose and her eyes have stopped streaming from the hacking cough this provokes, she joins in – hello, Apollo. Jamie tries vainly to fluff his hair up from its severe military cut, and adopts a rakish grin. Hello, Starbuck. Fine day to kick some Cylon ass. She gasps for air and throws another cushion at him, going for Dirk's tones and failing miserably. It is indeed, sir.
The fact that they're meant to be starting early manages to slip their mind, but when Katee finally falls asleep there's a delicious glowing ache in her stomach from giggling and pizza and water and that one particular spot where Jamie managed to kick her so hard that she fell off the couch. She dreams of Apollo, and for the life of her can't remember which when she wakes up.
When Richard arrives to start shooting the next episode, the lines on his face are almost a shock. But he holds out his hand and gives her that other-Apollo's smile and says, "Hello, Starbuck," with just the right pitch, and it takes a good two minutes before she and Jamie can stop laughing for long enough to tell him that it's a pleasure to meet him.
She thinks that Richard thinks that they're just a bit weird.
and then unto you - Doctor Who/Torchwood
“Identify yourselves!” someone yelled down.
“Let me,” Jack said. “Torchwood! We’re Torchwood.”
“Yeah, pull the other one,” the voice returned. “We’re Torchwood.”
Gwen groaned. “Oh, this just keeps getting better and better, doesn’t it?”
“I swear I’ve heard that voice before,” Jack murmured, and shot a glance down the ladder. “You all right?”
“Just fine.” Gwen smiled, and hoped that it didn’t wobble too much.
He nodded. “That’s it. Captain Jack Harkness here,” he continued, raising his voice to a yell again. “I represent the Cardiff branch of the Torchwood Institute.”
There was a long pause, broken by the wind whistling unpleasantly past Gwen’s ears and some frantic conversation drifting down from above, a female voice rising, excited – what did he say? – and the man, sounding impatient but incomprehensible.
“Hello?” Jack hollered. “Look, as charming as the view is, it’s kind of cold down here, so could you come to some kind of consensus as to whether or not we’re alien scum and then either shoot us or haul us up?”
This time it was the female voice that spoke. “D’you think you could switch off your mobile phones? They interfere with our, um, with our instruments.”
Jack was silent for so long that Gwen craned her neck to look at him, worried. She sucked in a breath at the sight of him; he looked utterly floored, on the verge of laughter, and two shades paler.
“Switch off our mobiles?” she said. “What does that mean?”
The laughter finally escaped, and a wide smile broke out on Jack’s face. “It means,” he said, “that we’re going to be okay.” He lifted his head and shouted again. “You know, no one ever believes that.”
There was no reply from above, but after a few seconds there was a jerk and the rope ladder began, slowly, to rise.
Boardwalk - uh, Wire in the Blood/Blackpool
(I may be the only person in the world who cares about both of these shows. WHATEVER. Tony and Carol - yes, that's them in my icon, say hello - are my beloved and most fucked-up OTP and that is SAYING SOMETHING considering my various OTPs.)
“Do you need someone to blow on the dice?” Tony’s absent expression appears in her periphery, and he watches the lights flash.
“Perhaps,” she says, amused. “If there were any dice. I think all I have to do is press buttons.”
“Ah, Carol, in a town like this? It’s all about principle.” Tony picks up her right hand in exactly the same way that she’s seen him pick up countless cups of coffee, countless pens. His fingers are cool and dry.
“I see,” she says, and stops.
“Are you sure?” he asks, looking at her. “You and me, we haven’t had the best of luck.”
Carol, as many of her lovers have told her, can be ridiculously self-aware. She knows this. And she knows that sometimes when Tony looks at her like that her face slips and is far too uncertain; right now she fights not to lean away, and focuses instead on the air brushing its way into and out of her lungs. Three breaths. “I’ll take my chances,” she says, and smiles, because he is nothing like a sure bet.
As-yet-untitled Larklight fic
Somewhere in my tirade of (not too serious - after all, he is my friend and erstwhile Captain) insults, I was distracted for a short moment and relaxed my cunning reflexes. In this moment Myrtle snatched the book back from me in a gesture that I am sure she regretted as being far too unladylike the very next minute, because she sat down and smoothed her skirts out even though they were already smooth. I noticed that she was no longer the angry shade of pink and had instead faded to that interesting pink that Mother sometimes goes when Father names a discovery after her. Myrtle must have acquired it from her.
"You can be such a tactless little beast, Art," my sister said; still pink, but putting on her Aloof voice to let me know that even though I was a beast, I wasn't spoiling her ladylike calm. "You really shouldn't say such things about the man I'm going to marry."
"Marry?" I gasped, struck with the sudden fear that she (like so many delicate ladies) would expire of a broken heart when this bizarre wish of hers never came to pass - as it never would, because surely Jack Havock would never marry anyone, his inexplicable attachment to my sister notwithstanding.
(And for a moment I was sorry for myself, as well, because in those times when I had indulged myself in imagining that Myrtle had been born a boy and I had an older brother instead - of which times, I can assure you, there have been many indeed - I had thought that I would rather like my brother to be almost exactly like Jack Havock, although perhaps less prone to putting a fellow in mortal danger and mussing up his hair.)
*This is not as dramatic a piece of hyperbole as you might imagine.
Here, flist, have some extracts. Tell me what to work on.
This Never Happened - BSGRPF
"What are we watching?"
A smile creeps over her face at the sight of him, sprawled out and lazy in a way that Lee Adama would never be. She looks briefly at the phone – 5 missed calls – and then puts it in her shoulder bag. "Our ancestors," she tells him, collapsing just as heavily and taking the DVD off pause. "Cold pizza?"
She's seen the episode before, so it doesn't really matter that it's more fun to watch the way Jamie's face changes when something amuses him. When something surprises him. When he's thinking. He catches her looking and she grins, pelting him with bits of olive as a distraction.
After a while she's seen enough to feel better about her mannerisms, and they resort to making fun of the dialogue. Jamie's accent has gotten better and better since she met him, and now he's quick to pick up the dramatic inflections of the Apollo on screen. Once she's snorted water through her nose and her eyes have stopped streaming from the hacking cough this provokes, she joins in – hello, Apollo. Jamie tries vainly to fluff his hair up from its severe military cut, and adopts a rakish grin. Hello, Starbuck. Fine day to kick some Cylon ass. She gasps for air and throws another cushion at him, going for Dirk's tones and failing miserably. It is indeed, sir.
The fact that they're meant to be starting early manages to slip their mind, but when Katee finally falls asleep there's a delicious glowing ache in her stomach from giggling and pizza and water and that one particular spot where Jamie managed to kick her so hard that she fell off the couch. She dreams of Apollo, and for the life of her can't remember which when she wakes up.
When Richard arrives to start shooting the next episode, the lines on his face are almost a shock. But he holds out his hand and gives her that other-Apollo's smile and says, "Hello, Starbuck," with just the right pitch, and it takes a good two minutes before she and Jamie can stop laughing for long enough to tell him that it's a pleasure to meet him.
She thinks that Richard thinks that they're just a bit weird.
and then unto you - Doctor Who/Torchwood
“Identify yourselves!” someone yelled down.
“Let me,” Jack said. “Torchwood! We’re Torchwood.”
“Yeah, pull the other one,” the voice returned. “We’re Torchwood.”
Gwen groaned. “Oh, this just keeps getting better and better, doesn’t it?”
“I swear I’ve heard that voice before,” Jack murmured, and shot a glance down the ladder. “You all right?”
“Just fine.” Gwen smiled, and hoped that it didn’t wobble too much.
He nodded. “That’s it. Captain Jack Harkness here,” he continued, raising his voice to a yell again. “I represent the Cardiff branch of the Torchwood Institute.”
There was a long pause, broken by the wind whistling unpleasantly past Gwen’s ears and some frantic conversation drifting down from above, a female voice rising, excited – what did he say? – and the man, sounding impatient but incomprehensible.
“Hello?” Jack hollered. “Look, as charming as the view is, it’s kind of cold down here, so could you come to some kind of consensus as to whether or not we’re alien scum and then either shoot us or haul us up?”
This time it was the female voice that spoke. “D’you think you could switch off your mobile phones? They interfere with our, um, with our instruments.”
Jack was silent for so long that Gwen craned her neck to look at him, worried. She sucked in a breath at the sight of him; he looked utterly floored, on the verge of laughter, and two shades paler.
“Switch off our mobiles?” she said. “What does that mean?”
The laughter finally escaped, and a wide smile broke out on Jack’s face. “It means,” he said, “that we’re going to be okay.” He lifted his head and shouted again. “You know, no one ever believes that.”
There was no reply from above, but after a few seconds there was a jerk and the rope ladder began, slowly, to rise.
Boardwalk - uh, Wire in the Blood/Blackpool
(I may be the only person in the world who cares about both of these shows. WHATEVER. Tony and Carol - yes, that's them in my icon, say hello - are my beloved and most fucked-up OTP and that is SAYING SOMETHING considering my various OTPs.)
“Do you need someone to blow on the dice?” Tony’s absent expression appears in her periphery, and he watches the lights flash.
“Perhaps,” she says, amused. “If there were any dice. I think all I have to do is press buttons.”
“Ah, Carol, in a town like this? It’s all about principle.” Tony picks up her right hand in exactly the same way that she’s seen him pick up countless cups of coffee, countless pens. His fingers are cool and dry.
“I see,” she says, and stops.
“Are you sure?” he asks, looking at her. “You and me, we haven’t had the best of luck.”
Carol, as many of her lovers have told her, can be ridiculously self-aware. She knows this. And she knows that sometimes when Tony looks at her like that her face slips and is far too uncertain; right now she fights not to lean away, and focuses instead on the air brushing its way into and out of her lungs. Three breaths. “I’ll take my chances,” she says, and smiles, because he is nothing like a sure bet.
As-yet-untitled Larklight fic
Somewhere in my tirade of (not too serious - after all, he is my friend and erstwhile Captain) insults, I was distracted for a short moment and relaxed my cunning reflexes. In this moment Myrtle snatched the book back from me in a gesture that I am sure she regretted as being far too unladylike the very next minute, because she sat down and smoothed her skirts out even though they were already smooth. I noticed that she was no longer the angry shade of pink and had instead faded to that interesting pink that Mother sometimes goes when Father names a discovery after her. Myrtle must have acquired it from her.
"You can be such a tactless little beast, Art," my sister said; still pink, but putting on her Aloof voice to let me know that even though I was a beast, I wasn't spoiling her ladylike calm. "You really shouldn't say such things about the man I'm going to marry."
"Marry?" I gasped, struck with the sudden fear that she (like so many delicate ladies) would expire of a broken heart when this bizarre wish of hers never came to pass - as it never would, because surely Jack Havock would never marry anyone, his inexplicable attachment to my sister notwithstanding.
(And for a moment I was sorry for myself, as well, because in those times when I had indulged myself in imagining that Myrtle had been born a boy and I had an older brother instead - of which times, I can assure you, there have been many indeed - I had thought that I would rather like my brother to be almost exactly like Jack Havock, although perhaps less prone to putting a fellow in mortal danger and mussing up his hair.)
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I am such a whore for rpf. And so predictable. Oy.
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I do not know these fandoms. :( Except Dr Who! But I am sadly without Torchwood. And BSG, of course, though my education was sadly paused during the holiday. Not fair - I thought watching scads of television was what the holidays were for. :/ ANYWAY. RPF, hahahahahaha. I vote there!
Also I spent the plane ride home reading Promethea. :o SO MUCH INFORMATION. And I'm only just at the end of #3 - I tend to spend eons staring at all the art crammed onto every page. I vow to dive back in after work. Like that's difficult.
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I have this stupid long fic planned where Jack gets kidnapped at the rehearsal dinner and Myrtle is all RIGHT, WE SHALL RESCUE HIM, and charging around in a wedding dress. And there will be Science and Awesomeness.
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That sounds like basically the best thing ever in the entire history of the universe. YOU SHOULD WRITE IT OR I WILL PINE.
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I'M CHANGING MY VOTE.
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It would have long knives.
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"Our ancestors"
HAHAHAHAHAHAHA
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And, also....I got your Christmas card just the other day and wanted to say thank you! I would have been perfectly pleased if you had filled it up with nothing but PILOTSPILOTSPILOTS. Maybe next year?
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