The fic amnesty meme
Oh, all right. :D Here are snippets from some of the fics I've got languishing on my hard drive.
This one may never be finished; it started out as just some musings on how Jack may have ended up in the place/time/headspace he was when he meet the Doctor and Rose. It'll be a long one, if I do finish it; this is just the very first part.
He walked into the Headmistress's office, tension curling in his stomach. He had no idea why he'd been called in, but it was a sure bet that whatever it was, it wasn't good.
The Headmistress looked up from the paper on her desk and sighed, leaning back. "Sit down, son," she said kindly, gesturing to the chair opposite.
He sat, folding his hands in his lap and trying not to fidget.
"You know that your tuition here is paid by your parents' estate," the Headmistress said. He nodded, and her face took on an expression of compassion. "I'm afraid that's no longer possible."
He blinked, confused. "No longer possible?" he repeated. "What do you mean?"
She sighed again. "Son, I'm afraid your home planet was attacked again-but this time with scatter bombs. The banks in which your parents' trust was housed were destroyed. There are no records, no back-ups, nothing; that money simply no longer exists."
His jaw dropped, and he stared at her, uncomprehending. "But…" he began, not even knowing what he was going to ask.
"It means," she said softly, "that you have nothing now. Everything's gone. And I'm afraid it also means that you'll have to leave us after this year."
The bottom dropped out of his stomach. "But-why?"
Her face twisted in disgust. "The Board of Governors have decided that, since you no longer have any way of paying your tuition and board, you must leave. You're paid up through the end of this year, of course, but after that…." She glanced down, then back up. "I'm truly sorry, my dear," she said. "But I've no control over this. The Board of Governors has the power to accept or reject any student. I've pled your case before them, but they've refused all my entreaties."
Leave. He was going to have to leave the Academy. Just a year before finishing, he'd have to go, with no qualifications, no way of making a living. He felt as though he could see his dreams floating away right in front of him, despite having been almost within reach.
"I have some friends," the Headmistress was going on. "They work at the Spaceport on the peninsula. That's where you're from, isn't it? The Boeshane?"
He nodded, too numb to speak.
"They'd be willing to take you on," she said. "I've told them about your marks in science and engineering, and they're very interested. Make it through a year or two in apprenticeship with them, and they'll likely be willing to send you to trade school on one of their scholarships. That is what you wanted, isn't it? To work on ships?"
He nodded again, though it wasn't. He'd wanted to design them, not just work on them. He'd wanted to make them better, faster, sleeker; create ships that could go from planetside into deep space, maybe even work out a way for them to be warp-capable. Not just a wrench jockey, him.
But he couldn't say any of that, so he took the card from her hand, placed it carefully into the breast pocket of his school uniform jacket, and murmured, "Thank you, ma'am."
She frowned, looking at him as though she expected more reaction from him. "Do you need someone to talk to?" she asked at last. "This is quite a shock, I know, to go from comfortably set to penniless in one go. Perhaps Mr. Mead…."
"No, thank you, ma'am," he said politely, though inwardly he recoiled at the thought of talking to the boys' counselor. Mr. Mead was easy to talk to, but he had an odd sliminess to him that made most of the boys uncomfortable. None of the other adults seemed to notice.
"I'm sorry to have to spring this on you just before your examinations," the Headmistress said sorrowfully. "But better prepared than not. You've another month with us-that's as long as I could get the Board to extend your stay-and then you'll have to leave. I'm so sorry, son. I wish it could be different."
"I understand, ma'am." He rose, suddenly unable to look into her sympathetic face any longer. "May I be excused?"
"Of course," she said. He turned on his heel and left her office, wishing he had any idea what to do with his life now.
But one thing was for sure. He took the business card out of his pocket and dropped it into a bin as he passed. He'd take handouts from no one at this school. No one.
-----
This one grabbed my brain, forced me to write this scene, then disappeared with a nasty chuckle, leaving me with three pages of story and NO IDEA WHERE TO GO with it. I love it, though.
Mal eased himself onto a bar stool between a bald guy and a blonde girl and ordered a pint of the local ale, which wasn't bad as these things went. Better than a lot of local-made brews out here on the Rim; at least the crops here actually included hops. Bitter it might be, and a bit rough, but it cut the dust in his throat, and that was good enough for him.
Movement caught his eye, and he watched as the blonde girl beside him-couldn't have been more than twenty-five, tops-downed a shot and slammed the glass onto the bar next to six others. "Gimme another one," she said in an accent that reminded him of Badger.
"You from Titan?" he asked before he could stop himself.
She glanced at him sideways. "Somethin' special about Titan?" she asked as the barkeep poured another shot and set it in front of her. Strangely, after seven shots of some damn fine whiskey, she didn't slur her words, not a bit. Mal was aware enough of his own shortcomings to know that he'd have been weaving on the stool by that point, and he out-massed this girl by a fair amount.
"Not really," he answered. "Why?"
"'Cause you're not the first one to ask me that." Again she tilted her head back and swallowed the shot in one gulp, grimacing slightly. As well she might; smooth as silk that whiskey might be-he'd had it once or twice-but it was still 120 proof, and packed a hell of a punch.
He shrugged. "You sound like you might be, is all. Got a business acquaintance from there, and y'all sound a lot alike."
She swung around to face him, eyes wide, and he blinked, quickly revising his mental name for her. This was no girl, not if the depth of pain in her eyes was anything to go by. "You do?" she asked intently. "What's he look like?"
Strangely enough, little as he liked or respected Badger, he found himself loath to rat the little ferret out to a complete stranger. "Why d'you want to know?" he hedged.
"I'm lookin' for someone." Her gaze was intense. "Someone I used to know. A friend."
More than a friend, his instincts told him, but that was yet another reason not to tell her. "Why don't you describe this friend a'yours, and I'll tell you if I think I know him," he suggested. Seemed safe enough. If it wasn't Badger, no skin off his back; if it was, he'd lie to the woman and then let Badger know someone was after him, thereby gaining an owed favor. Nothing was worth more out here on the Rim than an owed favor, even between enemies. Which he and Badger were not, be honest, but they weren't 'xactly pals, either.
The blonde searched his face for a moment, then said, "Tall. Skinny. Usually wears a brown pinstripe suit and a tie, with a brown overcoat. Sounds like me. Talks nonstop. Calls himself the Doctor." Those eyes seemed to bore into his, deep brown with odd little gold flecks in them. "Sound familiar?"
"'Fraid not, miss," he said honestly. Her face fell, and damn if he didn't feel bad for having to tell her so. "Sorry," he added.
One corner of her mouth quirked up in what looked like a concerted effort at a polite smile. "Nah, s'okay," she said, and turned back to the bar. "Long shot, I guess."
"It's a big system," he offered. "Maybe you should go in closer to the Core, talk to one of them big hospitals there. They're always looking for doctors. Might be someone would know where to find yours."
Another quirk of her moouth, a little more successful this time. "He's not that kind of a Doctor," she said. Leaning her head in her hands, she rubbed her forehead with the tips of her fingers, then bent back, stretching. "I'm getting too old to sit on these backless things," she said ruefully.
Mal snorted. "I ain't one to gainsay a lady, 'specially not one I just met, but if you're old, I must be purely decrepit."
This time she did laugh. "I'm older than I look," she assured him.
"Old enough to hold your liquor, that's for sure." He gestured vaguely at the eight shot glasses lined up in front of her. "Never seen anyone do that and still talk like a sensible person."
"Never said I was sensible," she corrected, though there was a note of-something-in her voice that he didn't quite get. "I'm looking for a-friend-I got separated from. Long time ago now. He's probably forgotten about me."
She touched the ring on her hand, and Mal startled; he hadn't seen that. He must be getting old to have missed something that obvious. He eased backwards, putting space between himself and the woman beside him. Never sit too close to a married woman, that was his motto. Well, unless you knew exactly where her husband was-hopefully by prior arrangement with the lady herself. "You and your husband looking together, then?" he asked.
"No," she said softly, one finger stroking over the gold. "He was a lot older than me, and he didn't…heal as well as I do. He died a few months ago. So I'm looking by myself. I know I'm getting close, but I just don't quite know where to find my friend."
"I'm sorry," Mal said just as quietly. Something inside him was twisting. Maybe he should help her. Maybe he should bring her back to Serenity, see if Inara had met this Doctor fella, or could find out something about him through her contacts.
Then he shook himself, though purely internally. What was he doing, thinking of bringing a complete stranger onto his boat? He already had Simon and River to worry about-though the two of them were pulling their own weight, he had to admit. But he couldn't afford to take on a charity case, not with their jobs of late becoming less and less legal. He couldn't risk her finding out what they did and perhaps reporting them to the Alliance.
She was silent for a long minute more, then she sighed and reached into her belt pouch, coming up with enough credits to pay for her drinks. She laid them on the bar. "Time for me to go, I think," she said. "Thanks for the chat."
She slid off the bar stool, picking up a long coat and sliding it on with practiced grace. That woman could give Zoe a run for her money, if she was minded to, Mal thought. He could tell just from the way she moved. She gave off that same sense of controlled power.
"What's your name?" he asked, before she stepped out of earshot.
She turned round and grinned at him. "What's yours?" she challenged.
"Mal. Cap'n Malcolm Reynolds. My boat's called Serenity."
Her smile widened. "Pleased to meet you, Captain Reynolds," she said. "I'm Rose."
Turning, she wriggled through the crowd of folks and disappeared.
----
I took one of the leftover prompts from the last OT3 ficathon, wrote the first few paragraphs, and promptly stalled out. The prompt was: Post-Journey's End on Pete's World, Ten2 and Rose aren't quite working out as they would like to. They realise that what's missing is Jack. There is a Jack on Pete's World but he thinks of Rose as a colleague and Ten2 as that nice guy Rose is dating. Ten2 and Rose need to get to know and seduce Jack.
The Doctor and Rose stopped outside the door to Jack's office. He squeezed her hand. "You sure you're okay with this?" he asked again.
She smiled and stood on tiptoe to kiss him. "Yes," she said. "I'm sure."
He stroked a hand over her cheek, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I'll be waiting, then." With a soft kiss, he released her hand and strode off down the hall. She watched him go, aware of the tension in his shoulders and of the tension she herself carried.
If this didn't work . . . .
It'll work, she told herself firmly. I know it will.
The Doctor's thin form disappeared around a corner with a last glance and a smile, and she took a deep breath, then let it out again. She could do this. She could.
Trying to ignore the way she trembled, she turned the doorknob and slipped into the room.
Jack sat at his desk, bent over a stack of paperwork that made her own desk look positively spotless. He glanced up as she came in, and a smile of pure pleasure lit up his face. "Rose!" He stood, came around the desk, and kissed her cheek. "What brings you down here to my humble cellar?"
She tried to say something-a flirtatious comment, an off-colour suggestion, or at least something just a shade naughtier than usual, but the words caught in her throat. She couldn't bring herself to verbalise what she wanted. The Doctor and I are having sexual trouble, and we want to bring you in to clear things up sounded like he was being used. We've both fallen in love with you and we want you in our bed made them sound like those sad women who fell in love with the first man who paid them any attention, no matter what he felt.
Jack frowned, noticing her discomfiture. "Rose?" he repeated.
Without pausing to think too hard about what she was doing, Rose grabbed hold of his lapels and kissed him, hard, demanding. He hesitated for the briefest of seconds-startled, no doubt-before giving in, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her tight against his body. She moulded to him, feeling the broad, strong muscles and the growing hardness against her belly, and moaned. Yes, this. This was what she'd needed. And with the Doctor there too, the three of them together . . . oh, yes-!
This one may never be finished; it started out as just some musings on how Jack may have ended up in the place/time/headspace he was when he meet the Doctor and Rose. It'll be a long one, if I do finish it; this is just the very first part.
He walked into the Headmistress's office, tension curling in his stomach. He had no idea why he'd been called in, but it was a sure bet that whatever it was, it wasn't good.
The Headmistress looked up from the paper on her desk and sighed, leaning back. "Sit down, son," she said kindly, gesturing to the chair opposite.
He sat, folding his hands in his lap and trying not to fidget.
"You know that your tuition here is paid by your parents' estate," the Headmistress said. He nodded, and her face took on an expression of compassion. "I'm afraid that's no longer possible."
He blinked, confused. "No longer possible?" he repeated. "What do you mean?"
She sighed again. "Son, I'm afraid your home planet was attacked again-but this time with scatter bombs. The banks in which your parents' trust was housed were destroyed. There are no records, no back-ups, nothing; that money simply no longer exists."
His jaw dropped, and he stared at her, uncomprehending. "But…" he began, not even knowing what he was going to ask.
"It means," she said softly, "that you have nothing now. Everything's gone. And I'm afraid it also means that you'll have to leave us after this year."
The bottom dropped out of his stomach. "But-why?"
Her face twisted in disgust. "The Board of Governors have decided that, since you no longer have any way of paying your tuition and board, you must leave. You're paid up through the end of this year, of course, but after that…." She glanced down, then back up. "I'm truly sorry, my dear," she said. "But I've no control over this. The Board of Governors has the power to accept or reject any student. I've pled your case before them, but they've refused all my entreaties."
Leave. He was going to have to leave the Academy. Just a year before finishing, he'd have to go, with no qualifications, no way of making a living. He felt as though he could see his dreams floating away right in front of him, despite having been almost within reach.
"I have some friends," the Headmistress was going on. "They work at the Spaceport on the peninsula. That's where you're from, isn't it? The Boeshane?"
He nodded, too numb to speak.
"They'd be willing to take you on," she said. "I've told them about your marks in science and engineering, and they're very interested. Make it through a year or two in apprenticeship with them, and they'll likely be willing to send you to trade school on one of their scholarships. That is what you wanted, isn't it? To work on ships?"
He nodded again, though it wasn't. He'd wanted to design them, not just work on them. He'd wanted to make them better, faster, sleeker; create ships that could go from planetside into deep space, maybe even work out a way for them to be warp-capable. Not just a wrench jockey, him.
But he couldn't say any of that, so he took the card from her hand, placed it carefully into the breast pocket of his school uniform jacket, and murmured, "Thank you, ma'am."
She frowned, looking at him as though she expected more reaction from him. "Do you need someone to talk to?" she asked at last. "This is quite a shock, I know, to go from comfortably set to penniless in one go. Perhaps Mr. Mead…."
"No, thank you, ma'am," he said politely, though inwardly he recoiled at the thought of talking to the boys' counselor. Mr. Mead was easy to talk to, but he had an odd sliminess to him that made most of the boys uncomfortable. None of the other adults seemed to notice.
"I'm sorry to have to spring this on you just before your examinations," the Headmistress said sorrowfully. "But better prepared than not. You've another month with us-that's as long as I could get the Board to extend your stay-and then you'll have to leave. I'm so sorry, son. I wish it could be different."
"I understand, ma'am." He rose, suddenly unable to look into her sympathetic face any longer. "May I be excused?"
"Of course," she said. He turned on his heel and left her office, wishing he had any idea what to do with his life now.
But one thing was for sure. He took the business card out of his pocket and dropped it into a bin as he passed. He'd take handouts from no one at this school. No one.
-----
This one grabbed my brain, forced me to write this scene, then disappeared with a nasty chuckle, leaving me with three pages of story and NO IDEA WHERE TO GO with it. I love it, though.
Mal eased himself onto a bar stool between a bald guy and a blonde girl and ordered a pint of the local ale, which wasn't bad as these things went. Better than a lot of local-made brews out here on the Rim; at least the crops here actually included hops. Bitter it might be, and a bit rough, but it cut the dust in his throat, and that was good enough for him.
Movement caught his eye, and he watched as the blonde girl beside him-couldn't have been more than twenty-five, tops-downed a shot and slammed the glass onto the bar next to six others. "Gimme another one," she said in an accent that reminded him of Badger.
"You from Titan?" he asked before he could stop himself.
She glanced at him sideways. "Somethin' special about Titan?" she asked as the barkeep poured another shot and set it in front of her. Strangely, after seven shots of some damn fine whiskey, she didn't slur her words, not a bit. Mal was aware enough of his own shortcomings to know that he'd have been weaving on the stool by that point, and he out-massed this girl by a fair amount.
"Not really," he answered. "Why?"
"'Cause you're not the first one to ask me that." Again she tilted her head back and swallowed the shot in one gulp, grimacing slightly. As well she might; smooth as silk that whiskey might be-he'd had it once or twice-but it was still 120 proof, and packed a hell of a punch.
He shrugged. "You sound like you might be, is all. Got a business acquaintance from there, and y'all sound a lot alike."
She swung around to face him, eyes wide, and he blinked, quickly revising his mental name for her. This was no girl, not if the depth of pain in her eyes was anything to go by. "You do?" she asked intently. "What's he look like?"
Strangely enough, little as he liked or respected Badger, he found himself loath to rat the little ferret out to a complete stranger. "Why d'you want to know?" he hedged.
"I'm lookin' for someone." Her gaze was intense. "Someone I used to know. A friend."
More than a friend, his instincts told him, but that was yet another reason not to tell her. "Why don't you describe this friend a'yours, and I'll tell you if I think I know him," he suggested. Seemed safe enough. If it wasn't Badger, no skin off his back; if it was, he'd lie to the woman and then let Badger know someone was after him, thereby gaining an owed favor. Nothing was worth more out here on the Rim than an owed favor, even between enemies. Which he and Badger were not, be honest, but they weren't 'xactly pals, either.
The blonde searched his face for a moment, then said, "Tall. Skinny. Usually wears a brown pinstripe suit and a tie, with a brown overcoat. Sounds like me. Talks nonstop. Calls himself the Doctor." Those eyes seemed to bore into his, deep brown with odd little gold flecks in them. "Sound familiar?"
"'Fraid not, miss," he said honestly. Her face fell, and damn if he didn't feel bad for having to tell her so. "Sorry," he added.
One corner of her mouth quirked up in what looked like a concerted effort at a polite smile. "Nah, s'okay," she said, and turned back to the bar. "Long shot, I guess."
"It's a big system," he offered. "Maybe you should go in closer to the Core, talk to one of them big hospitals there. They're always looking for doctors. Might be someone would know where to find yours."
Another quirk of her moouth, a little more successful this time. "He's not that kind of a Doctor," she said. Leaning her head in her hands, she rubbed her forehead with the tips of her fingers, then bent back, stretching. "I'm getting too old to sit on these backless things," she said ruefully.
Mal snorted. "I ain't one to gainsay a lady, 'specially not one I just met, but if you're old, I must be purely decrepit."
This time she did laugh. "I'm older than I look," she assured him.
"Old enough to hold your liquor, that's for sure." He gestured vaguely at the eight shot glasses lined up in front of her. "Never seen anyone do that and still talk like a sensible person."
"Never said I was sensible," she corrected, though there was a note of-something-in her voice that he didn't quite get. "I'm looking for a-friend-I got separated from. Long time ago now. He's probably forgotten about me."
She touched the ring on her hand, and Mal startled; he hadn't seen that. He must be getting old to have missed something that obvious. He eased backwards, putting space between himself and the woman beside him. Never sit too close to a married woman, that was his motto. Well, unless you knew exactly where her husband was-hopefully by prior arrangement with the lady herself. "You and your husband looking together, then?" he asked.
"No," she said softly, one finger stroking over the gold. "He was a lot older than me, and he didn't…heal as well as I do. He died a few months ago. So I'm looking by myself. I know I'm getting close, but I just don't quite know where to find my friend."
"I'm sorry," Mal said just as quietly. Something inside him was twisting. Maybe he should help her. Maybe he should bring her back to Serenity, see if Inara had met this Doctor fella, or could find out something about him through her contacts.
Then he shook himself, though purely internally. What was he doing, thinking of bringing a complete stranger onto his boat? He already had Simon and River to worry about-though the two of them were pulling their own weight, he had to admit. But he couldn't afford to take on a charity case, not with their jobs of late becoming less and less legal. He couldn't risk her finding out what they did and perhaps reporting them to the Alliance.
She was silent for a long minute more, then she sighed and reached into her belt pouch, coming up with enough credits to pay for her drinks. She laid them on the bar. "Time for me to go, I think," she said. "Thanks for the chat."
She slid off the bar stool, picking up a long coat and sliding it on with practiced grace. That woman could give Zoe a run for her money, if she was minded to, Mal thought. He could tell just from the way she moved. She gave off that same sense of controlled power.
"What's your name?" he asked, before she stepped out of earshot.
She turned round and grinned at him. "What's yours?" she challenged.
"Mal. Cap'n Malcolm Reynolds. My boat's called Serenity."
Her smile widened. "Pleased to meet you, Captain Reynolds," she said. "I'm Rose."
Turning, she wriggled through the crowd of folks and disappeared.
----
I took one of the leftover prompts from the last OT3 ficathon, wrote the first few paragraphs, and promptly stalled out. The prompt was: Post-Journey's End on Pete's World, Ten2 and Rose aren't quite working out as they would like to. They realise that what's missing is Jack. There is a Jack on Pete's World but he thinks of Rose as a colleague and Ten2 as that nice guy Rose is dating. Ten2 and Rose need to get to know and seduce Jack.
The Doctor and Rose stopped outside the door to Jack's office. He squeezed her hand. "You sure you're okay with this?" he asked again.
She smiled and stood on tiptoe to kiss him. "Yes," she said. "I'm sure."
He stroked a hand over her cheek, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I'll be waiting, then." With a soft kiss, he released her hand and strode off down the hall. She watched him go, aware of the tension in his shoulders and of the tension she herself carried.
If this didn't work . . . .
It'll work, she told herself firmly. I know it will.
The Doctor's thin form disappeared around a corner with a last glance and a smile, and she took a deep breath, then let it out again. She could do this. She could.
Trying to ignore the way she trembled, she turned the doorknob and slipped into the room.
Jack sat at his desk, bent over a stack of paperwork that made her own desk look positively spotless. He glanced up as she came in, and a smile of pure pleasure lit up his face. "Rose!" He stood, came around the desk, and kissed her cheek. "What brings you down here to my humble cellar?"
She tried to say something-a flirtatious comment, an off-colour suggestion, or at least something just a shade naughtier than usual, but the words caught in her throat. She couldn't bring herself to verbalise what she wanted. The Doctor and I are having sexual trouble, and we want to bring you in to clear things up sounded like he was being used. We've both fallen in love with you and we want you in our bed made them sound like those sad women who fell in love with the first man who paid them any attention, no matter what he felt.
Jack frowned, noticing her discomfiture. "Rose?" he repeated.
Without pausing to think too hard about what she was doing, Rose grabbed hold of his lapels and kissed him, hard, demanding. He hesitated for the briefest of seconds-startled, no doubt-before giving in, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her tight against his body. She moulded to him, feeling the broad, strong muscles and the growing hardness against her belly, and moaned. Yes, this. This was what she'd needed. And with the Doctor there too, the three of them together . . . oh, yes-!