you've been waiting in the sun too long
There's a spider on the brick wall next to my computer. I'm trying very badly not to look at it...*whimpers*
I think I'm coming down with a cold, I can feel it in my sinuses, and my throat's up. Bah, and I almost got through the depths of winter without getting sick. Always the way. Anyway, have a meme, stolen from princess_dexter:
When you see this, post a little weensy 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.
Firefly
An Apocalyptic fic, starring Simon, River and Mal. Everyone, well...dies.
It is River who first hears of it. Or rather, it is not as much hearing as sourcing the root of a bad feeling. She won't tell, of course, instead pestering Simon for hours, until he caves in and asks her what it is she knows. It's a leaked news feed, she tells him, from independent sources on Paquin. A convoy has returned from the western borders of the galaxy, where the farthest moons sit. They have brought home a sick man.
"They don't know," River adds, looking at him with eyes that do.
Her brother, both hands busy winding up in a roll of surgical tape, frowns. "Don't know what?" he repeats, distracted, picking at an end that has caught on his shirt sleeve.
River's voice is hidden beneath an exasperated sigh. "He's going to die, and they won't know why." She watches Simon untangle the tape. "He won't be the first."
"River..."
But she's had enough of him and slips away. He doesn't go after her, because he knows she'll only be hiding somewhere. And the infirmary needs tidying up, and as no-one else seems to care, Simon is doing the job himself.
He unsticks the tape, rolls it up. He soon forgets.
Some unrequited River/Mal. And we all need more of that...
There is a heart in her grasp, in a body, in a man by her side.
And now he is moving, just a little, and she smells sweat and grease and the close air of the shuttle. The captain grunts and curls his lip as a bolt pinches the fleshy end of his thumb. Repairs have not gone to plan; they shouldn't have landed in such a tearaway manner, but Mal in a rare moment of merriment had made her laugh, and River's eyes had left the outside world for his; neglect jerking the shuttle like a frightened steer into a rolling arc and onto the dusty ground.
There is a heart in her grasp, nearby, near to his pinched thumb and wasteful curses. He flicks a quick glance in her direction, asks why the soft landin' darlin'? Smiles wryly and she knows at once that the joke is on her.
He is looking at the belly of the little ship; a boxlike thing, child of their ship, Serenity. River's eyes close and she imagines the wires all put back in place. Mal will fix what is broken, but he is irritated by the lapse, concentration forgotten as he saw a smile on her face and had taken it to heart. She listens to the maelstrom. She wants to take his worry into her hands and tell him it's okay. I like it when you watch me, but I can still make mistakes. They needn't be yours, too.
Lost
Some Charlie/Claire I wrote about a year ago. (Can I start to cry now, fandom?)
He looked suddenly deflated, almost weary. Claire had always thought herself a decent reader of other people; whether it was a natural trait heightened by pregnancy or a side effect of having her nose buried in books about the zodiac for most of her teenage years, she wasn't sure. But with Charlie it was an enlightened sense of feeling she had never felt with anyone before, and right now he was emitting waves of enormous fatigue like a halo. She had discovered among his many quirks the ability to go from one emotion to another in a heartbeat, and since happening on this god-forsaken island the fact that they had become such halves of one another meant that Charlie's fluttering from happiness to melancholy had the strange effect of pulling Claire along as well. She had yet to decide if she was wholly content with these new sensations, knowing if she thought too hard about them it meant she was losing the hard wall she had spent so long building around her heart after Thomas had walked out. And that wall was her protection from hurt, from abandonment, from love.
At least, she thought it was.
She could feel him looking at her, and threw the palm into the fire with a flick of her hand. At length he spoke. "You're sleeping, though? I mean, apart from..."
"Apart from the endless wailing, feeding and pacing up and down? Trying not to wake everyone else and failing miserably?"
"You've got an excuse, love. I haven't."
From an unfinished set of character drabbles. This is Kate.
Once, she had dreams. True, they were broken long before she arrived here, but dreams all the same.
She needs space to dream, though. Space to run away. The jungle makes her claustrophobic, but it also gives protection. So there's some good, if she wants to believe it.
It doesn't matter who you are, you see. You can't run forever.
Once, long before the island, Kate liked to imagine she had an ordinary life. But her crimes wrapped a hazy cloud around any semblance of normality, the handcuffs forcing sight like a blinkered animal. So now she just doesn't try.
Star Trek: Enterprise
From an unfinished Trip/T'Pol. Yes, unfinished at 20,000 words. I know.
Trip stared up at the ceiling. He had to still be on the ship, but where exactly was another matter. He tried sitting up again, and this time was more successful, so he gingerly got to his feet. A sudden drain of blood from his head made him wince, and he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, wobbling slightly on his feet until the dizziness faded away. He turned around, surveying the room, and his shoes squeaked on the floor. It was the only sound, except for his breathing, except for the pounding between his ears. There was no door. Panic swept through him, superheating his blood into a rushing pool of nervous energy. There was no door. There was nothing but his thousand reflections, and he gulped in air, placating his tightening lungs. This was insane. What sort of machine kidnapped human beings? A manic, obsessive one, that's what.
"A psychotic computer," he said, staring at his reflection. "That's all I need." He took a step towards the wall, reached out and lightly touched the cold, hard surface. With the other hand he patted his belt. Everything was still there. Slowly and carefully walking the perimeter of the room, he activated the communicator. "Tucker to Enterprise."
Static. He tried all the channels, and all the while his hand ran over the mirrored wall, searching for a doorway, for anything that might signify a way out. But as each attempt at reaching Enterprise failed, and he found nothing but unbroken, impenetrable wall, his heart began to beat faster, until when he finally reached his original position, he very gently slipped his communicator back on his belt, turned around, and slid back down on the floor.
I'll just close my eyes, he thought. Christ, it was getting cold again. Worry about that later, Tucker. It can all wait.
Everything can wait. That's the way the world works sometimes.
It was only as he fell back into unconsciousness, that Trip realised what spectacular bullshit that thought was, and regretted he hadn't been more awake to fully appreciate it.
~~
There are more, kind of--but nothing of substance to post, even in weensy form. And now I've finished typing all that, the spider has moved an inch. I'm just going to go quietly away, I think, and hide under a blanket.
I think I'm coming down with a cold, I can feel it in my sinuses, and my throat's up. Bah, and I almost got through the depths of winter without getting sick. Always the way. Anyway, have a meme, stolen from princess_dexter:
When you see this, post a little weensy 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.
Firefly
An Apocalyptic fic, starring Simon, River and Mal. Everyone, well...dies.
It is River who first hears of it. Or rather, it is not as much hearing as sourcing the root of a bad feeling. She won't tell, of course, instead pestering Simon for hours, until he caves in and asks her what it is she knows. It's a leaked news feed, she tells him, from independent sources on Paquin. A convoy has returned from the western borders of the galaxy, where the farthest moons sit. They have brought home a sick man.
"They don't know," River adds, looking at him with eyes that do.
Her brother, both hands busy winding up in a roll of surgical tape, frowns. "Don't know what?" he repeats, distracted, picking at an end that has caught on his shirt sleeve.
River's voice is hidden beneath an exasperated sigh. "He's going to die, and they won't know why." She watches Simon untangle the tape. "He won't be the first."
"River..."
But she's had enough of him and slips away. He doesn't go after her, because he knows she'll only be hiding somewhere. And the infirmary needs tidying up, and as no-one else seems to care, Simon is doing the job himself.
He unsticks the tape, rolls it up. He soon forgets.
Some unrequited River/Mal. And we all need more of that...
There is a heart in her grasp, in a body, in a man by her side.
And now he is moving, just a little, and she smells sweat and grease and the close air of the shuttle. The captain grunts and curls his lip as a bolt pinches the fleshy end of his thumb. Repairs have not gone to plan; they shouldn't have landed in such a tearaway manner, but Mal in a rare moment of merriment had made her laugh, and River's eyes had left the outside world for his; neglect jerking the shuttle like a frightened steer into a rolling arc and onto the dusty ground.
There is a heart in her grasp, nearby, near to his pinched thumb and wasteful curses. He flicks a quick glance in her direction, asks why the soft landin' darlin'? Smiles wryly and she knows at once that the joke is on her.
He is looking at the belly of the little ship; a boxlike thing, child of their ship, Serenity. River's eyes close and she imagines the wires all put back in place. Mal will fix what is broken, but he is irritated by the lapse, concentration forgotten as he saw a smile on her face and had taken it to heart. She listens to the maelstrom. She wants to take his worry into her hands and tell him it's okay. I like it when you watch me, but I can still make mistakes. They needn't be yours, too.
Lost
Some Charlie/Claire I wrote about a year ago. (Can I start to cry now, fandom?)
He looked suddenly deflated, almost weary. Claire had always thought herself a decent reader of other people; whether it was a natural trait heightened by pregnancy or a side effect of having her nose buried in books about the zodiac for most of her teenage years, she wasn't sure. But with Charlie it was an enlightened sense of feeling she had never felt with anyone before, and right now he was emitting waves of enormous fatigue like a halo. She had discovered among his many quirks the ability to go from one emotion to another in a heartbeat, and since happening on this god-forsaken island the fact that they had become such halves of one another meant that Charlie's fluttering from happiness to melancholy had the strange effect of pulling Claire along as well. She had yet to decide if she was wholly content with these new sensations, knowing if she thought too hard about them it meant she was losing the hard wall she had spent so long building around her heart after Thomas had walked out. And that wall was her protection from hurt, from abandonment, from love.
At least, she thought it was.
She could feel him looking at her, and threw the palm into the fire with a flick of her hand. At length he spoke. "You're sleeping, though? I mean, apart from..."
"Apart from the endless wailing, feeding and pacing up and down? Trying not to wake everyone else and failing miserably?"
"You've got an excuse, love. I haven't."
From an unfinished set of character drabbles. This is Kate.
Once, she had dreams. True, they were broken long before she arrived here, but dreams all the same.
She needs space to dream, though. Space to run away. The jungle makes her claustrophobic, but it also gives protection. So there's some good, if she wants to believe it.
It doesn't matter who you are, you see. You can't run forever.
Once, long before the island, Kate liked to imagine she had an ordinary life. But her crimes wrapped a hazy cloud around any semblance of normality, the handcuffs forcing sight like a blinkered animal. So now she just doesn't try.
Star Trek: Enterprise
From an unfinished Trip/T'Pol. Yes, unfinished at 20,000 words. I know.
Trip stared up at the ceiling. He had to still be on the ship, but where exactly was another matter. He tried sitting up again, and this time was more successful, so he gingerly got to his feet. A sudden drain of blood from his head made him wince, and he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, wobbling slightly on his feet until the dizziness faded away. He turned around, surveying the room, and his shoes squeaked on the floor. It was the only sound, except for his breathing, except for the pounding between his ears. There was no door. Panic swept through him, superheating his blood into a rushing pool of nervous energy. There was no door. There was nothing but his thousand reflections, and he gulped in air, placating his tightening lungs. This was insane. What sort of machine kidnapped human beings? A manic, obsessive one, that's what.
"A psychotic computer," he said, staring at his reflection. "That's all I need." He took a step towards the wall, reached out and lightly touched the cold, hard surface. With the other hand he patted his belt. Everything was still there. Slowly and carefully walking the perimeter of the room, he activated the communicator. "Tucker to Enterprise."
Static. He tried all the channels, and all the while his hand ran over the mirrored wall, searching for a doorway, for anything that might signify a way out. But as each attempt at reaching Enterprise failed, and he found nothing but unbroken, impenetrable wall, his heart began to beat faster, until when he finally reached his original position, he very gently slipped his communicator back on his belt, turned around, and slid back down on the floor.
I'll just close my eyes, he thought. Christ, it was getting cold again. Worry about that later, Tucker. It can all wait.
Everything can wait. That's the way the world works sometimes.
It was only as he fell back into unconsciousness, that Trip realised what spectacular bullshit that thought was, and regretted he hadn't been more awake to fully appreciate it.
~~
There are more, kind of--but nothing of substance to post, even in weensy form. And now I've finished typing all that, the spider has moved an inch. I'm just going to go quietly away, I think, and hide under a blanket.