WIP meme
Thanks for all the sympathy and well-wishes on the last post. ♥ Am much less emo now.
In lieu of actual content-yet again-a meme about WIPs! I love memes like that, they're so much easier than, y'know, actually finishing anything. Ganked from dacian_goddess
When you see this, post an excerpt from as many random works-in-progress as you can find lying around. Who knows? Maybe inspiration will burst forth and do something, um, inspiration-y.
Criminal Minds
PaschaReid isn't stupid. Obviously. He knows that there are several critical distinctions between the kind of sadism that finds expression among the lifestylers and professionals who seek exchanges that are informed and consensual and the kind that puts bodies in rivers. More to the point, there's a difference between lifestyle sadism and the kind that motivated Charles Hankel to beat his son into three pieces. But, he tells himself, that's fine, since his aim isn't to wind up as a body in a river.
Mistress Iris has a considerable screening process. But, then, so do the FBI's return-to-duty gatekeepers.
Reid hires a dominatrix. Not as cracky as it should be.
Soul Sickness"Matthew Sparks, twenty. He was a student at the local community college; the morning cleaning crew found him in a women's bathroom on campus. Sparks wasn't bludgeoned; he was drugged and then stabbed."
"Awfully big shift," Prentiss said. Sparks had been seated on a toilet, and what was holding him up was a large, unframed painting. His pants and underwear were down around his ankles, and the scene was liberally fouled with blood. "A switch in gender, ethnicity, and method? That's pretty uncommon. Was there any connection between the two victims?"
"None that the SFPD have found yet."
Hotch turned from the crime scene photo to them. "City police have asked us to consult with them to determine whether these crimes are related. The Santa Fe and Albuquerque police departments have major joint sting operations on drug trafficking planned, which they expect to carry out sometime in the next month. Two homicides in a six-week time frame is a significant increase for Santa Fe County, and police need to rule out the possibility of a serial killer before they move forward with other operations." He spread his hands parallel to the table. "For now, this is just an assessment."
"What if they do have a serial?" said Prentiss.
"We'll worry about that then. Wheels up in two hours."
"Are you going to call in Garcia?" Morgan asked.
"No," Hotch said sharply. "Everybody has to take their leave this quarter, Strauss is requiring it. Prentiss, you and I will coordinate media relations. Start drawing up some search parameters for Garcia's understudy."
"Blood and gore and no baby girl," said Morgan, holding his folder up and eyeing it. "At least it's a good time to get out of town; it hasn't gotten above thirty degrees all week. I could use some southwest sun and sand."
* * *
Their pilot opened the jet door into a blast of snow and cold.
"Sunny enough for you, Morgan?" Rossi called as he led the way out onto the tarmac.
Reid took a moment on the plane's stairs to wrap his cardigan around himself and hitch his bag up on his shoulder. It was 4:12 p.m., local time, just dark enough with the cloud cover to dim the Navajo pattern trimming the pint-sized building before them. To the north and west, familiar desert stretched out under an unfamiliar haze of snow. Eastward, steep foothills receded into darkness. Automatically he placed them on the maps he'd seen as the Pecos wilderness peaks, vanguard of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. Between him and them was a hodgepodge of light and concrete. Santa Fe, New Mexico, population seventy-two thousand approximate; average January low fifteen-point-five degrees Fahrenheit; state capital; second largest art market in the U.S.; largest industry: tourism; largest retailer: Wal-Mart-
Someone prodded him in the back. "Reid, come on, I'm freezing," Emily said.
He mumbled his apology and followed the Morgan's back across the tarmac toward light and warmth.
Gen casefic! Gen casefic in Sannafey! \o/ I am totally going to finish this one and it is going to be awesome like an awesome thing. It'll also be 2064, BUT IT WILL BE AWESOME.
Why do I have so many WIPs that don't even have a title?"Why not give it to Reid? I'd think he'd be pretty good at child psychology."
"Reid is absolute shit at child psychology," said Gideon noncommittally.
"Reid's personally lived through half the typical childhood stressors."
"That's why he's lousy at child psychology."
Yeah, I dunno either. I just know that there should be more casefic with Gideon'n'Reid.
The one where there's an episode tag to 'Secrets and Lies' that's somehow magically not pure navel-gazingThe BAU, Reid thinks, is like a den: warm and familiar; idiosyncratic, certainly; clannish, even; but comfortable and open to the world. The windows let in sunlight. The bullpen facilitates gossip and the occasional paper airplane. Most of their high-pressure work takes them out into other people's offices and headquarters, and all of them are always glad to return home, to their cozy den.
The CIA is like a tank. A cold, pressurized tank.
I always thought it was odd and a pity that the obvious parallels between Kruger Spence and Spencer Reid were never drawn out, not to mention those between the CIA and the BAU.
Three PointsPrior to Tobias Hankel, Reid had had no capacity for sardonicism. Morgan saw that in him for the first time only afterwards.
Nor could he recall ever seeing any cruelty, though doubtless there had been some. Everyone had some.
Reid always seemed detached from their case material, at least if you didn't look hard enough to see the fine red thread that ran from outside to straight inside. Before, though, that detachment had had an almost ethereal quality; one had watched this twenty-four-year-old kid wander through the most horrific scenes without so much as grimacing-cheerfully, even-without any apparent need to school his reactions, and it had seemed like innocence. Some of that still remained, but there was also a hard, matter-of-factness.
Reid, grown to man's estate.
Blatantly navel-gazing Morgan/Reid/Garcia threesome fic.
Speshul Agent ReidSpencer Reid is a man of great inner pain. His pain is so great that no one fanfic can encompass it.
We all have inner pain, sure. But Spencer Reid has magical inner pain. When Spencer suffers, everybody suffers. Of course, when my Aunt Karen suffers, everybody else suffers too, but there's nothing magical about that. Spencer's suffering, on the other hand, wrings tears of blood from the hearts of his teammates simply because it is impossible to rest easy while something so good and pure is hurting. Spencer's anguish is mystically communicated through the aether-amplified, even-straight to each member of the team, and occasionally to Haley and Clooney as well.
Sometimes, just Hotch or Morgan will dedicate themselves to helping Spencer through this difficult time. Often, though, all the BAU will pull together, confessing fiercely to each other that they will do whatever it takes to bring their boy through/back to them/home. If it is not season two, they will likely be successful, though it will take a lot of patience and love (patience with their own feelings of impotent rage toward the person who has traumatized Reid, not with Reid per se; Reid blames only himself, and though he may weep and wake screaming from nightmares in public places, he will nevertheless continue to work harder than any of them, meekly, purely. No one is impatient with Reid).
If it is set during season two, they will look on in despair as Reid shuts them out, wishing they could reach him. The poignancy of his isolation will sharpen their agony. Hotch and/or Morgan will lie awake far into the night, thinking of Spencer alone in his apartment, spiraling into self-destruction.
While perhaps not as notable as his inner pain, Spencer's outer pain yields pretty good percentage, too.
Unfinished in large part because I wonder whether I'd get flamed if I posted it. Also, hey, it's maybe not exactly necessary. But the fetishization of Reid's pain in fandom honestly is fascinating (and I'm not immune).
Doctor Who and Torchwood
RicercarFirst, they stripped her: The dressers unfastened the tapes at Romana's neck, waist, and sleeves; then took from her the collar displaying her year, academic distinctions, departmental affiliations, and house colors; then drew the blue student's gown down and off. She stepped out of it.
Next they took up the white candidate's shift. Romana kept her head erect as they guided the garment over it, and the material settled onto her shoulders, between her breasts, down her spine. It was quite cold, though it didn't occur to her to shiver.
They all stood then, Romana with her eyes on the door and the robers with no expression. Then the indicator in the greenish, organic control panel lit up; the door drew aside, and Romana stepped through it into the narrow corridor.
At the end of it, a Time Lord in cardinal's robes stood. He had his back to her. Light from the chamber beyond illuminated the edges of his headdress, and when Romana reached a point 1.5 measures behind him, he moved forward into the room beyond. As he led her toward a single empty seat and small computer terminal in the middle of the floor, he gave no sign of recognition or interest. He was her head of house.
Leaving her at the chair, the cardinal continued his silent transit until he passed out by another doorway. The chamber was circular, the small floor bare until darkened galleries began to rise steeply from its perimeter. Romana turned her face up to the light streaming down from above, beyond which invisible figures sat in judgment.
Somewhere far above her, a voice sounded. "Here commences the final oral examination of the candidate for the first degree Romanadvoratrelundar. You may be seated."
Oh. Oh, yes, I am going to finish this one someday. It wouldn't even be all that long, if I would just smack into it. :P
Untitled thing with Donna and no real plotDonna set her coffee down and stood. "Excuse me. Excuse me! Who here is writing pornographic fanfiction?"
Three teenagers, two college students, several middle-aged mums, and a businessman in a three-piece suit raised their hands.
Still unfinished, after some two years, because I suck at writing Donna. :(
To: Captain Jack Harkness, Torchwood, 18 Roald Dahl Plass, Cardiff Bay, Cardiff, CF 10, Wales, Earth, 16 November, 2006. From: J J Chambers, Esq., Gen'drit Counsellours' Association"You may call me the Valeyard," he said after a moment's consideration.
"Is that your name?" Jack asked at once.
"It is my title. I have no name."
Something itched at the back of Jack's mind, but he couldn't see it clearly. "Okay. What kind of title is it?"
"A legal one."
"What, you mean you're actually a barrister?" said Suzie.
The Valeyard visibly bridled. "Of course I am," he said icily. "Practicing without qualifications, lying to the people who depend on me about what I am, would be the height of irresponsibility." He looked straight at Jack.
Suzie looked torn between incredulity and the most genuine amusement she'd shown in months. "A barrister. An alien barrister. This is too good. Jack, can we keep him?"
Now, THIS one, if no other, I WILL finish. It's, er, one of my help_haiti fics. Yes, still.
Ways in Which a Raven Is Like a Writing DeskThey arrived in the year 1896, ascertained that it was England, and noted that it was about to be springtime, whereupon the Doctor announced that he would write his memoirs. He hiked into the nearest village and took a cottage. This was a white-washed place at the end of a lane that he deemed ideal for the quiet introspection he would need to bring the flower of his thought into the world. He didn't ask Peri what she thought about it, of course, though she told him anyway. But she didn't really protest. They'd just spent a week getting shot at, so even without plumbing or television, a quick holiday in a place with other human beings and without any wars sounded appealing enough.
She quickly found her own holiday rhythm: Get up, tune out the Doctor's moaning over a sticky bit in the manuscript, go outside for some sunshine, wave to whichever (temporary) neighbor was rubbernecking for a look at them over the garden wall, look for people her own age, find people mostly nearer to the Doctor's, go back to the cottage, make the Doctor jump and quickly assume a pose of Byronic agony when she walked into the living room. He could almost get away with it in his shirtsleeves, but when he forgot to take his coat off it was really good.
She thought the whole thing was pretty funny, until it became apparent that he really meant to stay there.
"What? But you can't stay! For how long?"
It was day number six. The Doctor had already managed to attract considerable correspondence, which he had spread all over the dining table. "Well, with a life as long and interesting as my own, there's no way to tell, is there? We shall simply have to let the creative process run its course."
"But what about me?"
He lowered the letter he'd just picked up to glare at her. "What about you? You're well provided-for, aren't you?"
Peri gaped at him, then looked about. "But…" It was very cottage-y. There were plates arrayed along a ledge near the ceiling and what she supposed must be wainscoting. Over the door outside was a trellis for roses. If one held the delusion that it were possible to freeze time, this was the kind of place where one might try to do it. "I can't stay here! Finishing a book could take months-years!"
"So? Were you doing something urgent with them?"
"Living my life, Doctor!"
"Oh!" He threw down the letter he'd been pretending to read and began to tear angrily through the rest of the post. "And you haven't been living your life here?"
Peri didn't know what to say to that, so she said, "What?"
In which the Doctor writes angry letters to Lewis Carroll, Peri is forced to do all the investigating herself, there are things that are small but not narrow, and nothing important happens whatsoever.
I thought I'd lost all my work on this one when I had my hard drive die, but months later found a print-out I'd made of some of it. \o/
Nemo
I will remember you for a thousand years.
Like most of the promises Jack had made and actually meant, this wasn't turning out to be the greatest idea. For one thing, a thousand years was a long time. Jack knew that it had to be, because eight months was a long time already.
Eight months, Earth standard, relative time. Two months out from the planet. One month, one week, four days on Merca Majoris. Two hours in this particular bar.
Two hours, drinking… water. Fuck. Habits died hard.
Yeah, part of me still wants to write CoE fixit fic. So sue me. (I was the "CHULA NANOGENES NAO" OP on the anon meme back in the day; I keep meaning to go back and read the fruits of that.)
Istanbul chapter-in-progress"You? Again?"
The Doctor-no, the Valeyard-frowned. Underwhelming, as receptions went.
No matter. He'd prepared some lines. "Do not mock me, Doctor," he said, brandishing his weapon.
His sixth self looked perplexed. "Who's mocking you?"
"Oh. I will be cleansed of you!" There, that was a bit better.
"Well, you haven't managed it yet. Couldn't you just take a bath and spare us both a lot of tedium?"
"You seem awfully blasé about this," said the Valeyard, frowning. "I know that's my-your tendency, but still, I would have thought that I rated a a little gravity. Oh, yes," he added, "this is a typical example of your irresponsibility and caprice. I am right to destroy you."
I swear I am going to actually finish Istanbul (Not Constantinople) eventually. I am I am I am. No, really. I even mostly know how it's going to go down. …Fail, self. D:
JubileeJack blinks. Ianto gapes.
"Oh," says Jack. "Wasn't aiming for the face."
"You just got Weevil all over the Virgin Mary."
"Not a good look for her, no."
"You just shot a da Messina."
Jack looks at him. "'A da Messina'? What do you know about art?"
"I know that the paintings all have foot-long placards next to them!"
"Oh, hey, yeah, they do."
Ianto turns an icy glare on him. "Do you know how much extra work it is to cover up alien activity when it involves the destruction of priceless Renaissance art?"
"I'll make sure you get a bonus. Now come on, help me move Marvin, here." He catches Ianto's expression. "Owen named it!" he says defensively.
"Right," says Ianto laconically. "We should work quickly. Taking out the surveillance on a major art gallery tends to bring unwanted attention. I'll take the feet. You shot it, the messy end's yours."
Jack grins at him. "You love it, deep down."
"Beg your pardon?"
"Messes. You love messes. Especially interesting ones."
Ianto grunts as they shift the corpse. "Yes, Jack. I absolutely love cleaning things."
"No, you hate cleaning things; I ought to know, you bitch about it enough. You just have the OCD compulsion to do it anyway But you love cleaning situations up. Order from chaos. Power from confusion. Beauty from decay."
"Ride that armchair harder, Dr. Freud," says Ianto viciously.
Jack shugs in faux innocence, or as well as he can with a Weevil torso in his arms.
That's when the alarms go off.
This are my Jack/Ianto epic; I will finish it and it will be full of beautiful and perfect manloves and the internet will swoon over it. Oh. Wait. It is my Jack/Ianto epic, but it's mainly a vaguely plotty thing about how stunningly fucked up they are.
[pretend there's a title here]The Doctor woke up to see a man in an immaculate suit staring down at him.
"How do you do. I'm the Doctor."
"I know." The man was Welsh and completely impassive. "I've read about you in a file."
The Doctor hoisted himself up on his elbows. "What, only one?"
"A very long one."
The Doctor looked at him levelly. "You seem to have the advantage of me."
"I doubt that."
The man still hadn't made any move to help him up, and the Doctor pursed his lips. "Well, I'm glad it's a flattering file."
"It isn't."
Now the man stuck his hand out. The Doctor found himself contemplating seriously for a moment before he took it.
Yeah, your guess is as good as mine.
This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things"Who are you?"
"We're Torchwood."
"You're really a bit shit, aren't you?"
I probably never will finish this one. :( It was to be long, and gen, and plotty, and have Gwen'n'Ianto alternately kicking ass and fucking up, and I did a lot of sketching for it. But honestly, I doubt it'll happen.
I kinda loved it when Torchwood was all bumbling. It upped the comedy factor, and it made a certain amount of sense ("What's this thing do?" "I dunno, let's fiddle with it and see what happens." "Is that really such a great idea?" "Probably not, but what else are we going to do all day?"). But I think I'm the only one, woe.
Alien WorldsThe central rotor cycled up and down disinterestedly. Peri ignored the Doctor very hard. The Doctor moved around the console without raising his eyes from the controls, making a series of noises and short exclamations at subtly irregular intervals. Every time he made a new noise, Peri's desire to scream jumped another notch.
"We're here," he said at last, and somehow managed to say it mockingly.
Peri's heart leapt. It was really happening. Just five more seconds and she would be able to get out and away from him, it would be Earth, it would be 1985, it would be home, and dear God, she was going to kiss the first person she saw.
She skidded to a halt three feet out the door, blinking. This wasn't Pasadena.
"Peri? Peri Brown?"
It was UCLA.
Dead ahead on the baking pavement, Nolan Phillips was gawking at her, duct-taped book bag hanging from one shoulder and tee shirt hanging from bony clavicles. Peri threw herself on him.
"Nolan," she said fervently. His mouth was still ajar. "Oh, wow, I am so glad to see you."
"I'm really glad to see you, too, Peri," he said with feeling.
The Doctor snorted loudly behind him. He was supposed to have slammed the door after her and immediately dematerialized to demonstrate his pique, but for some reason he had followed her out instead.
"You came out of a box," said Nolan, his eyes travelling from the Doctor to the TARDIS to Peri clinging to him and glazing over with a critical mass of unreality again.
"Why, Peri, someone who speaks your language at last."
Nolan looked at the Doctor. Peri smiled weakly. "So, how far are we into the semester?"
"Who's that?" Nolan asked instead.
"No clue," said Peri, grabbing his hand and starting to walk. The Doctor had tucked his hands in his pockets and was looking about the square with interest. "Look, say, I hate to ask, but do you think I could crash at your place tonight?"
Nolan was only gradually shaking off his catatonia. "Huh?"
"Your place, could I stay there? Just for the night, you know, I got here later than I expected-"
"I wouldn't recommend it," said the Doctor from right behind them. Peri jumped.
"You're sure you don't know him? I could've sworn I saw you coming out of this box-thing together, it must have been claustrophobic in there."
"You have no idea," Peri muttered.
"Do you really study here, Perpugilliam?" The Doctor was craning his neck to take in the buildings and the crowds.
Peri hadn't really noticed that she was clinging to Nolan's arm like ivy, but Nolan had. "Uh, yeah, of course you can stay with me. Yeah, definitely. It'll be great, the science fiction club is meeting in my room tonight-"
The Doctor stopped in his tracks. "Did you say 'science fiction club'?"
His voice seemed to break through Nolan's daze a little. "Yeah, it's our first meeting of the semester. Movie night. I'm the president," he added, which somehow seemed superfluous.
"Of course!" the Doctor cried. "Why didn't I think of it before?" He was gazing on Nolan as if seeing him for the first time. "Where else would I find human beings with greater wonder, greater scope of the imagination, deeper yearning to plumb the mysteries of space and drink deep of the freedom of the stars? Where else tomorrow's Jules Vernes, Yuri Gagarins, Carl Sagans, Isaac Newtons?"
"That's us," said Nolan succinctly.
"Young man, lead on! Lead on to this sci-fi club of which you speak!" The Doctor spread his arms wide. "I shall select my next companion from among you!"
I posted so much 'cause I have a feeling this is the only form in which I'll ever get around to posting it at all. Still, who knows.
Supernatural
Funny-Peculiar"So, Cas," Dean said, gesturing with his beer bottle, "what's the deal with you?"
Both Castiel and Sam turned to look at him in confusion.
"I mean, we keep meeting your family. We don't really want to, but it keeps happening. Uriel, Zachariah, Raphael, Anna, and we've had no end of fun with dear old Gabe. The whole gang. And none of them are anything like you. Why is that?"
Castiel frowned and looked equal parts uncertain and uncomfortable. "I do not understand your question."
Sam paused in the middle of tugging off his sneakers to regard Castiel thoughtfully. It hadn't fully registered for him before, because he'd sort of expected angels to be angelic, but Dean had a point: Castiel's demeanor was unique. Except for Anna, he was the only angel who seemed to remotely like humanity, but really when you thought about it-
"You suck at people," Dean said bluntly, flopping down onto his bed. "You're so square, you make the head of the IRS look human."
Castiel tilted his head. "The head of the IRS is human."
"See, that's what I'm talking about. Uriel would've got that one. Hell, even Raphael would have got that one. I'm not trying to give you a hard time; it makes sense that you don't really get us. I mean, I guess I wouldn't if I'd grown up on Cloud Nine. And Anna's got her green card, so it's obvious where she gets it. But how come the rest of your brothers and sisters are so good at passing for human?"
Castiel shifted, glancing about the motel room like he found it confining. "I don't know."
"Oh, come on, Cas. You've been lightening up lately. No idea about what I'm getting at?"
On the same kinkmeme for which I wrote Scissile, someone asked for dweeb!Cas. I keep meaning to finish my response, though it'll be gen if I ever do. 'Cause awkward!Cas is ♥
LogosThe material was soft, made of some finely spun filaments, silken and subtle. Castiel felt it, but had no opinion upon it.
Yah, that is not much. :( But when it's finished, WHICH ONE DAY IT TOTALLY WILL BE, it will be my Castiel/Ruby epic of great epicness. All fandom will bow before the logic of this, the greatest pairing possible.
P. G. Wodehouse
My father is one of England's most prominent legal thinkers, and my mother, believe it or not, was no fool. Lady Isodora was a contemplative woman, much interested in history even if she couldn't be bothered with current events, and Sir Watkin is someone most people would describe as cagey. Possessed of considerable practical intelligence, if you will. Growing up, I had access to the kind of library you would expect such a pair to cultivate: Shakespeare, Milton, classical authors, books about Elizabethan diplomacy. Histories of the Borgias. Machiavelli. So, taking all of that into account, it's remarkable how very ready people always are to underestimate me.
I credit my good looks.
And other people's stupidity.
Needs work, obviously. But I maintain that the idea of a rewrite of the Wooster and Jeeves capers in which Madeline Bassett shrewdly tortures Bertie with her squashy soupiness purely for the joy of it is fundamentally sound.
Also, what the frak should I be for Halloween?
In lieu of actual content-yet again-a meme about WIPs! I love memes like that, they're so much easier than, y'know, actually finishing anything. Ganked from dacian_goddess
When you see this, post an excerpt from as many random works-in-progress as you can find lying around. Who knows? Maybe inspiration will burst forth and do something, um, inspiration-y.
Criminal Minds
PaschaReid isn't stupid. Obviously. He knows that there are several critical distinctions between the kind of sadism that finds expression among the lifestylers and professionals who seek exchanges that are informed and consensual and the kind that puts bodies in rivers. More to the point, there's a difference between lifestyle sadism and the kind that motivated Charles Hankel to beat his son into three pieces. But, he tells himself, that's fine, since his aim isn't to wind up as a body in a river.
Mistress Iris has a considerable screening process. But, then, so do the FBI's return-to-duty gatekeepers.
Reid hires a dominatrix. Not as cracky as it should be.
Soul Sickness"Matthew Sparks, twenty. He was a student at the local community college; the morning cleaning crew found him in a women's bathroom on campus. Sparks wasn't bludgeoned; he was drugged and then stabbed."
"Awfully big shift," Prentiss said. Sparks had been seated on a toilet, and what was holding him up was a large, unframed painting. His pants and underwear were down around his ankles, and the scene was liberally fouled with blood. "A switch in gender, ethnicity, and method? That's pretty uncommon. Was there any connection between the two victims?"
"None that the SFPD have found yet."
Hotch turned from the crime scene photo to them. "City police have asked us to consult with them to determine whether these crimes are related. The Santa Fe and Albuquerque police departments have major joint sting operations on drug trafficking planned, which they expect to carry out sometime in the next month. Two homicides in a six-week time frame is a significant increase for Santa Fe County, and police need to rule out the possibility of a serial killer before they move forward with other operations." He spread his hands parallel to the table. "For now, this is just an assessment."
"What if they do have a serial?" said Prentiss.
"We'll worry about that then. Wheels up in two hours."
"Are you going to call in Garcia?" Morgan asked.
"No," Hotch said sharply. "Everybody has to take their leave this quarter, Strauss is requiring it. Prentiss, you and I will coordinate media relations. Start drawing up some search parameters for Garcia's understudy."
"Blood and gore and no baby girl," said Morgan, holding his folder up and eyeing it. "At least it's a good time to get out of town; it hasn't gotten above thirty degrees all week. I could use some southwest sun and sand."
* * *
Their pilot opened the jet door into a blast of snow and cold.
"Sunny enough for you, Morgan?" Rossi called as he led the way out onto the tarmac.
Reid took a moment on the plane's stairs to wrap his cardigan around himself and hitch his bag up on his shoulder. It was 4:12 p.m., local time, just dark enough with the cloud cover to dim the Navajo pattern trimming the pint-sized building before them. To the north and west, familiar desert stretched out under an unfamiliar haze of snow. Eastward, steep foothills receded into darkness. Automatically he placed them on the maps he'd seen as the Pecos wilderness peaks, vanguard of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. Between him and them was a hodgepodge of light and concrete. Santa Fe, New Mexico, population seventy-two thousand approximate; average January low fifteen-point-five degrees Fahrenheit; state capital; second largest art market in the U.S.; largest industry: tourism; largest retailer: Wal-Mart-
Someone prodded him in the back. "Reid, come on, I'm freezing," Emily said.
He mumbled his apology and followed the Morgan's back across the tarmac toward light and warmth.
Gen casefic! Gen casefic in Sannafey! \o/ I am totally going to finish this one and it is going to be awesome like an awesome thing. It'll also be 2064, BUT IT WILL BE AWESOME.
Why do I have so many WIPs that don't even have a title?"Why not give it to Reid? I'd think he'd be pretty good at child psychology."
"Reid is absolute shit at child psychology," said Gideon noncommittally.
"Reid's personally lived through half the typical childhood stressors."
"That's why he's lousy at child psychology."
Yeah, I dunno either. I just know that there should be more casefic with Gideon'n'Reid.
The one where there's an episode tag to 'Secrets and Lies' that's somehow magically not pure navel-gazingThe BAU, Reid thinks, is like a den: warm and familiar; idiosyncratic, certainly; clannish, even; but comfortable and open to the world. The windows let in sunlight. The bullpen facilitates gossip and the occasional paper airplane. Most of their high-pressure work takes them out into other people's offices and headquarters, and all of them are always glad to return home, to their cozy den.
The CIA is like a tank. A cold, pressurized tank.
I always thought it was odd and a pity that the obvious parallels between Kruger Spence and Spencer Reid were never drawn out, not to mention those between the CIA and the BAU.
Three PointsPrior to Tobias Hankel, Reid had had no capacity for sardonicism. Morgan saw that in him for the first time only afterwards.
Nor could he recall ever seeing any cruelty, though doubtless there had been some. Everyone had some.
Reid always seemed detached from their case material, at least if you didn't look hard enough to see the fine red thread that ran from outside to straight inside. Before, though, that detachment had had an almost ethereal quality; one had watched this twenty-four-year-old kid wander through the most horrific scenes without so much as grimacing-cheerfully, even-without any apparent need to school his reactions, and it had seemed like innocence. Some of that still remained, but there was also a hard, matter-of-factness.
Reid, grown to man's estate.
Blatantly navel-gazing Morgan/Reid/Garcia threesome fic.
Speshul Agent ReidSpencer Reid is a man of great inner pain. His pain is so great that no one fanfic can encompass it.
We all have inner pain, sure. But Spencer Reid has magical inner pain. When Spencer suffers, everybody suffers. Of course, when my Aunt Karen suffers, everybody else suffers too, but there's nothing magical about that. Spencer's suffering, on the other hand, wrings tears of blood from the hearts of his teammates simply because it is impossible to rest easy while something so good and pure is hurting. Spencer's anguish is mystically communicated through the aether-amplified, even-straight to each member of the team, and occasionally to Haley and Clooney as well.
Sometimes, just Hotch or Morgan will dedicate themselves to helping Spencer through this difficult time. Often, though, all the BAU will pull together, confessing fiercely to each other that they will do whatever it takes to bring their boy through/back to them/home. If it is not season two, they will likely be successful, though it will take a lot of patience and love (patience with their own feelings of impotent rage toward the person who has traumatized Reid, not with Reid per se; Reid blames only himself, and though he may weep and wake screaming from nightmares in public places, he will nevertheless continue to work harder than any of them, meekly, purely. No one is impatient with Reid).
If it is set during season two, they will look on in despair as Reid shuts them out, wishing they could reach him. The poignancy of his isolation will sharpen their agony. Hotch and/or Morgan will lie awake far into the night, thinking of Spencer alone in his apartment, spiraling into self-destruction.
While perhaps not as notable as his inner pain, Spencer's outer pain yields pretty good percentage, too.
Unfinished in large part because I wonder whether I'd get flamed if I posted it. Also, hey, it's maybe not exactly necessary. But the fetishization of Reid's pain in fandom honestly is fascinating (and I'm not immune).
Doctor Who and Torchwood
RicercarFirst, they stripped her: The dressers unfastened the tapes at Romana's neck, waist, and sleeves; then took from her the collar displaying her year, academic distinctions, departmental affiliations, and house colors; then drew the blue student's gown down and off. She stepped out of it.
Next they took up the white candidate's shift. Romana kept her head erect as they guided the garment over it, and the material settled onto her shoulders, between her breasts, down her spine. It was quite cold, though it didn't occur to her to shiver.
They all stood then, Romana with her eyes on the door and the robers with no expression. Then the indicator in the greenish, organic control panel lit up; the door drew aside, and Romana stepped through it into the narrow corridor.
At the end of it, a Time Lord in cardinal's robes stood. He had his back to her. Light from the chamber beyond illuminated the edges of his headdress, and when Romana reached a point 1.5 measures behind him, he moved forward into the room beyond. As he led her toward a single empty seat and small computer terminal in the middle of the floor, he gave no sign of recognition or interest. He was her head of house.
Leaving her at the chair, the cardinal continued his silent transit until he passed out by another doorway. The chamber was circular, the small floor bare until darkened galleries began to rise steeply from its perimeter. Romana turned her face up to the light streaming down from above, beyond which invisible figures sat in judgment.
Somewhere far above her, a voice sounded. "Here commences the final oral examination of the candidate for the first degree Romanadvoratrelundar. You may be seated."
Oh. Oh, yes, I am going to finish this one someday. It wouldn't even be all that long, if I would just smack into it. :P
Untitled thing with Donna and no real plotDonna set her coffee down and stood. "Excuse me. Excuse me! Who here is writing pornographic fanfiction?"
Three teenagers, two college students, several middle-aged mums, and a businessman in a three-piece suit raised their hands.
Still unfinished, after some two years, because I suck at writing Donna. :(
To: Captain Jack Harkness, Torchwood, 18 Roald Dahl Plass, Cardiff Bay, Cardiff, CF 10, Wales, Earth, 16 November, 2006. From: J J Chambers, Esq., Gen'drit Counsellours' Association"You may call me the Valeyard," he said after a moment's consideration.
"Is that your name?" Jack asked at once.
"It is my title. I have no name."
Something itched at the back of Jack's mind, but he couldn't see it clearly. "Okay. What kind of title is it?"
"A legal one."
"What, you mean you're actually a barrister?" said Suzie.
The Valeyard visibly bridled. "Of course I am," he said icily. "Practicing without qualifications, lying to the people who depend on me about what I am, would be the height of irresponsibility." He looked straight at Jack.
Suzie looked torn between incredulity and the most genuine amusement she'd shown in months. "A barrister. An alien barrister. This is too good. Jack, can we keep him?"
Now, THIS one, if no other, I WILL finish. It's, er, one of my help_haiti fics. Yes, still.
Ways in Which a Raven Is Like a Writing DeskThey arrived in the year 1896, ascertained that it was England, and noted that it was about to be springtime, whereupon the Doctor announced that he would write his memoirs. He hiked into the nearest village and took a cottage. This was a white-washed place at the end of a lane that he deemed ideal for the quiet introspection he would need to bring the flower of his thought into the world. He didn't ask Peri what she thought about it, of course, though she told him anyway. But she didn't really protest. They'd just spent a week getting shot at, so even without plumbing or television, a quick holiday in a place with other human beings and without any wars sounded appealing enough.
She quickly found her own holiday rhythm: Get up, tune out the Doctor's moaning over a sticky bit in the manuscript, go outside for some sunshine, wave to whichever (temporary) neighbor was rubbernecking for a look at them over the garden wall, look for people her own age, find people mostly nearer to the Doctor's, go back to the cottage, make the Doctor jump and quickly assume a pose of Byronic agony when she walked into the living room. He could almost get away with it in his shirtsleeves, but when he forgot to take his coat off it was really good.
She thought the whole thing was pretty funny, until it became apparent that he really meant to stay there.
"What? But you can't stay! For how long?"
It was day number six. The Doctor had already managed to attract considerable correspondence, which he had spread all over the dining table. "Well, with a life as long and interesting as my own, there's no way to tell, is there? We shall simply have to let the creative process run its course."
"But what about me?"
He lowered the letter he'd just picked up to glare at her. "What about you? You're well provided-for, aren't you?"
Peri gaped at him, then looked about. "But…" It was very cottage-y. There were plates arrayed along a ledge near the ceiling and what she supposed must be wainscoting. Over the door outside was a trellis for roses. If one held the delusion that it were possible to freeze time, this was the kind of place where one might try to do it. "I can't stay here! Finishing a book could take months-years!"
"So? Were you doing something urgent with them?"
"Living my life, Doctor!"
"Oh!" He threw down the letter he'd been pretending to read and began to tear angrily through the rest of the post. "And you haven't been living your life here?"
Peri didn't know what to say to that, so she said, "What?"
In which the Doctor writes angry letters to Lewis Carroll, Peri is forced to do all the investigating herself, there are things that are small but not narrow, and nothing important happens whatsoever.
I thought I'd lost all my work on this one when I had my hard drive die, but months later found a print-out I'd made of some of it. \o/
Nemo
I will remember you for a thousand years.
Like most of the promises Jack had made and actually meant, this wasn't turning out to be the greatest idea. For one thing, a thousand years was a long time. Jack knew that it had to be, because eight months was a long time already.
Eight months, Earth standard, relative time. Two months out from the planet. One month, one week, four days on Merca Majoris. Two hours in this particular bar.
Two hours, drinking… water. Fuck. Habits died hard.
Yeah, part of me still wants to write CoE fixit fic. So sue me. (I was the "CHULA NANOGENES NAO" OP on the anon meme back in the day; I keep meaning to go back and read the fruits of that.)
Istanbul chapter-in-progress"You? Again?"
The Doctor-no, the Valeyard-frowned. Underwhelming, as receptions went.
No matter. He'd prepared some lines. "Do not mock me, Doctor," he said, brandishing his weapon.
His sixth self looked perplexed. "Who's mocking you?"
"Oh. I will be cleansed of you!" There, that was a bit better.
"Well, you haven't managed it yet. Couldn't you just take a bath and spare us both a lot of tedium?"
"You seem awfully blasé about this," said the Valeyard, frowning. "I know that's my-your tendency, but still, I would have thought that I rated a a little gravity. Oh, yes," he added, "this is a typical example of your irresponsibility and caprice. I am right to destroy you."
I swear I am going to actually finish Istanbul (Not Constantinople) eventually. I am I am I am. No, really. I even mostly know how it's going to go down. …Fail, self. D:
JubileeJack blinks. Ianto gapes.
"Oh," says Jack. "Wasn't aiming for the face."
"You just got Weevil all over the Virgin Mary."
"Not a good look for her, no."
"You just shot a da Messina."
Jack looks at him. "'A da Messina'? What do you know about art?"
"I know that the paintings all have foot-long placards next to them!"
"Oh, hey, yeah, they do."
Ianto turns an icy glare on him. "Do you know how much extra work it is to cover up alien activity when it involves the destruction of priceless Renaissance art?"
"I'll make sure you get a bonus. Now come on, help me move Marvin, here." He catches Ianto's expression. "Owen named it!" he says defensively.
"Right," says Ianto laconically. "We should work quickly. Taking out the surveillance on a major art gallery tends to bring unwanted attention. I'll take the feet. You shot it, the messy end's yours."
Jack grins at him. "You love it, deep down."
"Beg your pardon?"
"Messes. You love messes. Especially interesting ones."
Ianto grunts as they shift the corpse. "Yes, Jack. I absolutely love cleaning things."
"No, you hate cleaning things; I ought to know, you bitch about it enough. You just have the OCD compulsion to do it anyway But you love cleaning situations up. Order from chaos. Power from confusion. Beauty from decay."
"Ride that armchair harder, Dr. Freud," says Ianto viciously.
Jack shugs in faux innocence, or as well as he can with a Weevil torso in his arms.
That's when the alarms go off.
This are my Jack/Ianto epic; I will finish it and it will be full of beautiful and perfect manloves and the internet will swoon over it. Oh. Wait. It is my Jack/Ianto epic, but it's mainly a vaguely plotty thing about how stunningly fucked up they are.
[pretend there's a title here]The Doctor woke up to see a man in an immaculate suit staring down at him.
"How do you do. I'm the Doctor."
"I know." The man was Welsh and completely impassive. "I've read about you in a file."
The Doctor hoisted himself up on his elbows. "What, only one?"
"A very long one."
The Doctor looked at him levelly. "You seem to have the advantage of me."
"I doubt that."
The man still hadn't made any move to help him up, and the Doctor pursed his lips. "Well, I'm glad it's a flattering file."
"It isn't."
Now the man stuck his hand out. The Doctor found himself contemplating seriously for a moment before he took it.
Yeah, your guess is as good as mine.
This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things"Who are you?"
"We're Torchwood."
"You're really a bit shit, aren't you?"
I probably never will finish this one. :( It was to be long, and gen, and plotty, and have Gwen'n'Ianto alternately kicking ass and fucking up, and I did a lot of sketching for it. But honestly, I doubt it'll happen.
I kinda loved it when Torchwood was all bumbling. It upped the comedy factor, and it made a certain amount of sense ("What's this thing do?" "I dunno, let's fiddle with it and see what happens." "Is that really such a great idea?" "Probably not, but what else are we going to do all day?"). But I think I'm the only one, woe.
Alien WorldsThe central rotor cycled up and down disinterestedly. Peri ignored the Doctor very hard. The Doctor moved around the console without raising his eyes from the controls, making a series of noises and short exclamations at subtly irregular intervals. Every time he made a new noise, Peri's desire to scream jumped another notch.
"We're here," he said at last, and somehow managed to say it mockingly.
Peri's heart leapt. It was really happening. Just five more seconds and she would be able to get out and away from him, it would be Earth, it would be 1985, it would be home, and dear God, she was going to kiss the first person she saw.
She skidded to a halt three feet out the door, blinking. This wasn't Pasadena.
"Peri? Peri Brown?"
It was UCLA.
Dead ahead on the baking pavement, Nolan Phillips was gawking at her, duct-taped book bag hanging from one shoulder and tee shirt hanging from bony clavicles. Peri threw herself on him.
"Nolan," she said fervently. His mouth was still ajar. "Oh, wow, I am so glad to see you."
"I'm really glad to see you, too, Peri," he said with feeling.
The Doctor snorted loudly behind him. He was supposed to have slammed the door after her and immediately dematerialized to demonstrate his pique, but for some reason he had followed her out instead.
"You came out of a box," said Nolan, his eyes travelling from the Doctor to the TARDIS to Peri clinging to him and glazing over with a critical mass of unreality again.
"Why, Peri, someone who speaks your language at last."
Nolan looked at the Doctor. Peri smiled weakly. "So, how far are we into the semester?"
"Who's that?" Nolan asked instead.
"No clue," said Peri, grabbing his hand and starting to walk. The Doctor had tucked his hands in his pockets and was looking about the square with interest. "Look, say, I hate to ask, but do you think I could crash at your place tonight?"
Nolan was only gradually shaking off his catatonia. "Huh?"
"Your place, could I stay there? Just for the night, you know, I got here later than I expected-"
"I wouldn't recommend it," said the Doctor from right behind them. Peri jumped.
"You're sure you don't know him? I could've sworn I saw you coming out of this box-thing together, it must have been claustrophobic in there."
"You have no idea," Peri muttered.
"Do you really study here, Perpugilliam?" The Doctor was craning his neck to take in the buildings and the crowds.
Peri hadn't really noticed that she was clinging to Nolan's arm like ivy, but Nolan had. "Uh, yeah, of course you can stay with me. Yeah, definitely. It'll be great, the science fiction club is meeting in my room tonight-"
The Doctor stopped in his tracks. "Did you say 'science fiction club'?"
His voice seemed to break through Nolan's daze a little. "Yeah, it's our first meeting of the semester. Movie night. I'm the president," he added, which somehow seemed superfluous.
"Of course!" the Doctor cried. "Why didn't I think of it before?" He was gazing on Nolan as if seeing him for the first time. "Where else would I find human beings with greater wonder, greater scope of the imagination, deeper yearning to plumb the mysteries of space and drink deep of the freedom of the stars? Where else tomorrow's Jules Vernes, Yuri Gagarins, Carl Sagans, Isaac Newtons?"
"That's us," said Nolan succinctly.
"Young man, lead on! Lead on to this sci-fi club of which you speak!" The Doctor spread his arms wide. "I shall select my next companion from among you!"
I posted so much 'cause I have a feeling this is the only form in which I'll ever get around to posting it at all. Still, who knows.
Supernatural
Funny-Peculiar"So, Cas," Dean said, gesturing with his beer bottle, "what's the deal with you?"
Both Castiel and Sam turned to look at him in confusion.
"I mean, we keep meeting your family. We don't really want to, but it keeps happening. Uriel, Zachariah, Raphael, Anna, and we've had no end of fun with dear old Gabe. The whole gang. And none of them are anything like you. Why is that?"
Castiel frowned and looked equal parts uncertain and uncomfortable. "I do not understand your question."
Sam paused in the middle of tugging off his sneakers to regard Castiel thoughtfully. It hadn't fully registered for him before, because he'd sort of expected angels to be angelic, but Dean had a point: Castiel's demeanor was unique. Except for Anna, he was the only angel who seemed to remotely like humanity, but really when you thought about it-
"You suck at people," Dean said bluntly, flopping down onto his bed. "You're so square, you make the head of the IRS look human."
Castiel tilted his head. "The head of the IRS is human."
"See, that's what I'm talking about. Uriel would've got that one. Hell, even Raphael would have got that one. I'm not trying to give you a hard time; it makes sense that you don't really get us. I mean, I guess I wouldn't if I'd grown up on Cloud Nine. And Anna's got her green card, so it's obvious where she gets it. But how come the rest of your brothers and sisters are so good at passing for human?"
Castiel shifted, glancing about the motel room like he found it confining. "I don't know."
"Oh, come on, Cas. You've been lightening up lately. No idea about what I'm getting at?"
On the same kinkmeme for which I wrote Scissile, someone asked for dweeb!Cas. I keep meaning to finish my response, though it'll be gen if I ever do. 'Cause awkward!Cas is ♥
LogosThe material was soft, made of some finely spun filaments, silken and subtle. Castiel felt it, but had no opinion upon it.
Yah, that is not much. :( But when it's finished, WHICH ONE DAY IT TOTALLY WILL BE, it will be my Castiel/Ruby epic of great epicness. All fandom will bow before the logic of this, the greatest pairing possible.
P. G. Wodehouse
My father is one of England's most prominent legal thinkers, and my mother, believe it or not, was no fool. Lady Isodora was a contemplative woman, much interested in history even if she couldn't be bothered with current events, and Sir Watkin is someone most people would describe as cagey. Possessed of considerable practical intelligence, if you will. Growing up, I had access to the kind of library you would expect such a pair to cultivate: Shakespeare, Milton, classical authors, books about Elizabethan diplomacy. Histories of the Borgias. Machiavelli. So, taking all of that into account, it's remarkable how very ready people always are to underestimate me.
I credit my good looks.
And other people's stupidity.
Needs work, obviously. But I maintain that the idea of a rewrite of the Wooster and Jeeves capers in which Madeline Bassett shrewdly tortures Bertie with her squashy soupiness purely for the joy of it is fundamentally sound.
Also, what the frak should I be for Halloween?