WIP meme
Post a sentence (or paragraph) or two from as many of your WIPs as you want, with no explanation attached. (Spotted all over the place, officially stolen from 51stcenturyfox)
_
“I can hear you standin’ there, Gytha Ogg. That tea’s not going to make itself, not even while you earwig on a perfectly innocent conversation, you know.”
There was a quiet click and then a hiss like the wind fondling poplars was followed by the rattle of a throat being thoroughly cleared. When Esme spoke again, her voice was higher, carefully polished around the vowels, and clearly determined not to let any aitches escape. “Hello?” she said. “Hello? Is there anyone listening? This is Esmeralda Weatherwax speaking here. I have an emergency and I need to speak to Captain Jack Harkness immediately.”
Gytha made the tea.
_
"Okay.” He nodded, dragging my fingers back up to his lips before I'd got time to so much as squeak. "So, either you don't like what you see - which, by the way, I don't believe for an instant.” The grin spread until he was nothing but teeth and twinkle - oozing charm all over my knuckles. I pulled my hand away from his grip and this time he let it go, laughing. “Or... your name isn't Charmaine; you don't have a lousy bastard of an ex-boyfriend scaring all the nice boys away, a couple of friends didn't decide that you needed some serious pampering tonight, aand... you just happen to have a butterfly on your jacket. In which case...”
He held out his hand. I stared at it, not quite sure what he wanted. There was a wide leather strap round his wrist and I stared at that too. It gleamed, dull and brown, as the light caught it. It was a bit chunky for a watch strap, a bit out of place with the rest of his get-up. I must have looked like that stupid goldfish all over again; gawping at him, my mouth hanging open. He laughed as I looked up and took my hand; his palm was damp and so was mine and he laughed again, squeezing my fingers.
“Hi,” he said, “I'm Jack. It’s nice to meet you. You come here often?”
_
Toshiko frowned, trying to keep up. “My hairdresser's Hungarian,” she told him, “but what's -”
“That'll be a no then.”
“You don't... Oh.” She pulled a face at Jack's raised eyebrow. “Really, Transylvanians? Are there any in Cardiff?”
“Have been.” He slid lower, laying half on the thin coat, half on the grass. “Might be now, they blend pretty well. They’re human - ish. Might even be related to the Eastern Europeans for all I know; there's a lot of dark hair and pale skin, a real thing for folk dancing...” Shushing her snigger he went on, “and their planet has the orangest sky I've ever seen. Most orange?” He shrugged. “Whatever. Their star went nova a few centuries ago. They shielded - it was that or move - but it means their world's in permanent night now, and so...”
“What are they like?”
“Friendly enough, usually. They can be a little strange, but that's just the vitamin D supplements. Fond of singing, bright lights, loud music - did I mention the dancing? And wide-open-minded, in a clannish, hierarchical sort of way. No weird morals or rules-for-the-sake-of-it like you lot, either. Whoever fits together just... fits. And of course they're very accepting of outsiders...”
Sighing, Toshiko brushed her face with damp fingertips, chasing away the illusive moth again. “And I don’t have to ask what it is you like most about them.”
_
John wasn’t hard to persuade; he never had been. They found a well-stacked brunette who charged by the hour and tossed for ends. When they got to her room the khakis and her dress came off before the door shut, but the blues stayed put. He wanted to watch first, he said. They weren’t in a hurry, were they? He’d be in there with him soon enough but it’d been a long time since he’d seen John in action and he wanted to watch.
“You always were a wanker, love,” John told him with a grin.
Jack kissed him. “And I missed you too, honey. Now go on.” He kissed him again, tasting the slur on his tongue before pushing him towards the bed. “Remind me how good you are.”
_
Jack was right, Gwen decided, stepping back to watch him square off the pile; they did make a good team. Not that possessing a talent for stating the bloody obvious detracted in any way from his being the most annoying man she'd ever met. Vain, immodest, thoughtless, insensitive, crude - the list was, quite possibly, endless. She'd have told him so too, if he hadn't been so excessively fond of the sound of his own voice. Not that it was dull. It was Jack, after all: if he hadn't been there, done that or bought the t-shirt, then he knew someone who had. He said he did, anyway, but then he had something to say about everything - whether he knew about it or not.
It was quite impressive, she supposed. Especially considering that his ability to bullshit had been fitted with a finely-tuned conversational handbrake turn - usually filthy, always distracting - for whenever she managed to drag the subject towards anything remotely personal. Properly personal, not just another story about “this guy/girl/set of twins/triplets/couple I dated/shagged/chased naked across a frozen wasteland/shared a cell with.” And of course there was his conviction that a quirk of the eyebrow and a smile was enough to extract him from any hole his tongue dug for him - which was something else she wouldn't be repeating.
_
Jack shrugged. “Sure - they like the experience to be as genuine as possible, but really Rose...” And then he frowned as her eyes widened. “What’s the matter?”
“Like probes as in...”
“As in probes. They measure everything; all the dimensions - you know, before, during - after - muscle tone, elasticity...”
“Oh my god.” She swallowed and closed her eyes. It didn’t help, he was still there - imagined or virtual or even real, with his muscle tone and all his dimensions...
“Hello? Rose? Are you in there?”
“So...” She tried to swallow again, but her mouth was too dry. There was coffee, she could smell it, but the wine had gone with the nearly-naked man and it had taken her courage with it. “So, I mean... you got paid for doing that?”
_
The scan came up clean. Nothing. No tech, nothing alien - nothing out of its time or place. Of course, there was nothing to say that he hadn't got himself stranded there, making do with what he could scavenge, or -
When Jack looked up the man was looking back at him, a well-shaped mouth slanting a question across a face so much like the one he'd expected to see that he nodded without thinking. It wasn't him though. Of course it wasn't. He was nothing more than a good looking guy looking to score - or to make one. It didn't matter which; they'd keep the lights low, he could pretend.
_
“Maybe they're Nasty Heffalumps,” Kanga suggested. “Mrs Wilson left the window open yesterday, while Mother and Father were in the garden, and apparently...” She leaned closer, one eye on where Roo was showing Tigger how he could hop backwards over the cribbage board. “Apparently there's a Nasty donkey who talks on the wireless sometimes. If that's so then why wouldn't the Nasties have Heffalumps too?”
“Really?” Pooh was intrigued. “A Nasty donkey? A donkey like Eeyore?”
“No,” said a sad voice, a sad, grey ear lifting to reveal a sad, grey eye. “Not like Eeyore. Not at all, really.”
_
A personable American, of the type which one invariably finds in the better sort of drawing room.
“You were in J____ ?” I enquired.
“Only towards the end.” He smiled, leaning over the madeira cake to offer me his hand. “The name's Flynn,” he said. “Errol.”
_
_
“I can hear you standin’ there, Gytha Ogg. That tea’s not going to make itself, not even while you earwig on a perfectly innocent conversation, you know.”
There was a quiet click and then a hiss like the wind fondling poplars was followed by the rattle of a throat being thoroughly cleared. When Esme spoke again, her voice was higher, carefully polished around the vowels, and clearly determined not to let any aitches escape. “Hello?” she said. “Hello? Is there anyone listening? This is Esmeralda Weatherwax speaking here. I have an emergency and I need to speak to Captain Jack Harkness immediately.”
Gytha made the tea.
_
"Okay.” He nodded, dragging my fingers back up to his lips before I'd got time to so much as squeak. "So, either you don't like what you see - which, by the way, I don't believe for an instant.” The grin spread until he was nothing but teeth and twinkle - oozing charm all over my knuckles. I pulled my hand away from his grip and this time he let it go, laughing. “Or... your name isn't Charmaine; you don't have a lousy bastard of an ex-boyfriend scaring all the nice boys away, a couple of friends didn't decide that you needed some serious pampering tonight, aand... you just happen to have a butterfly on your jacket. In which case...”
He held out his hand. I stared at it, not quite sure what he wanted. There was a wide leather strap round his wrist and I stared at that too. It gleamed, dull and brown, as the light caught it. It was a bit chunky for a watch strap, a bit out of place with the rest of his get-up. I must have looked like that stupid goldfish all over again; gawping at him, my mouth hanging open. He laughed as I looked up and took my hand; his palm was damp and so was mine and he laughed again, squeezing my fingers.
“Hi,” he said, “I'm Jack. It’s nice to meet you. You come here often?”
_
Toshiko frowned, trying to keep up. “My hairdresser's Hungarian,” she told him, “but what's -”
“That'll be a no then.”
“You don't... Oh.” She pulled a face at Jack's raised eyebrow. “Really, Transylvanians? Are there any in Cardiff?”
“Have been.” He slid lower, laying half on the thin coat, half on the grass. “Might be now, they blend pretty well. They’re human - ish. Might even be related to the Eastern Europeans for all I know; there's a lot of dark hair and pale skin, a real thing for folk dancing...” Shushing her snigger he went on, “and their planet has the orangest sky I've ever seen. Most orange?” He shrugged. “Whatever. Their star went nova a few centuries ago. They shielded - it was that or move - but it means their world's in permanent night now, and so...”
“What are they like?”
“Friendly enough, usually. They can be a little strange, but that's just the vitamin D supplements. Fond of singing, bright lights, loud music - did I mention the dancing? And wide-open-minded, in a clannish, hierarchical sort of way. No weird morals or rules-for-the-sake-of-it like you lot, either. Whoever fits together just... fits. And of course they're very accepting of outsiders...”
Sighing, Toshiko brushed her face with damp fingertips, chasing away the illusive moth again. “And I don’t have to ask what it is you like most about them.”
_
John wasn’t hard to persuade; he never had been. They found a well-stacked brunette who charged by the hour and tossed for ends. When they got to her room the khakis and her dress came off before the door shut, but the blues stayed put. He wanted to watch first, he said. They weren’t in a hurry, were they? He’d be in there with him soon enough but it’d been a long time since he’d seen John in action and he wanted to watch.
“You always were a wanker, love,” John told him with a grin.
Jack kissed him. “And I missed you too, honey. Now go on.” He kissed him again, tasting the slur on his tongue before pushing him towards the bed. “Remind me how good you are.”
_
Jack was right, Gwen decided, stepping back to watch him square off the pile; they did make a good team. Not that possessing a talent for stating the bloody obvious detracted in any way from his being the most annoying man she'd ever met. Vain, immodest, thoughtless, insensitive, crude - the list was, quite possibly, endless. She'd have told him so too, if he hadn't been so excessively fond of the sound of his own voice. Not that it was dull. It was Jack, after all: if he hadn't been there, done that or bought the t-shirt, then he knew someone who had. He said he did, anyway, but then he had something to say about everything - whether he knew about it or not.
It was quite impressive, she supposed. Especially considering that his ability to bullshit had been fitted with a finely-tuned conversational handbrake turn - usually filthy, always distracting - for whenever she managed to drag the subject towards anything remotely personal. Properly personal, not just another story about “this guy/girl/set of twins/triplets/couple I dated/shagged/chased naked across a frozen wasteland/shared a cell with.” And of course there was his conviction that a quirk of the eyebrow and a smile was enough to extract him from any hole his tongue dug for him - which was something else she wouldn't be repeating.
_
Jack shrugged. “Sure - they like the experience to be as genuine as possible, but really Rose...” And then he frowned as her eyes widened. “What’s the matter?”
“Like probes as in...”
“As in probes. They measure everything; all the dimensions - you know, before, during - after - muscle tone, elasticity...”
“Oh my god.” She swallowed and closed her eyes. It didn’t help, he was still there - imagined or virtual or even real, with his muscle tone and all his dimensions...
“Hello? Rose? Are you in there?”
“So...” She tried to swallow again, but her mouth was too dry. There was coffee, she could smell it, but the wine had gone with the nearly-naked man and it had taken her courage with it. “So, I mean... you got paid for doing that?”
_
The scan came up clean. Nothing. No tech, nothing alien - nothing out of its time or place. Of course, there was nothing to say that he hadn't got himself stranded there, making do with what he could scavenge, or -
When Jack looked up the man was looking back at him, a well-shaped mouth slanting a question across a face so much like the one he'd expected to see that he nodded without thinking. It wasn't him though. Of course it wasn't. He was nothing more than a good looking guy looking to score - or to make one. It didn't matter which; they'd keep the lights low, he could pretend.
_
“Maybe they're Nasty Heffalumps,” Kanga suggested. “Mrs Wilson left the window open yesterday, while Mother and Father were in the garden, and apparently...” She leaned closer, one eye on where Roo was showing Tigger how he could hop backwards over the cribbage board. “Apparently there's a Nasty donkey who talks on the wireless sometimes. If that's so then why wouldn't the Nasties have Heffalumps too?”
“Really?” Pooh was intrigued. “A Nasty donkey? A donkey like Eeyore?”
“No,” said a sad voice, a sad, grey ear lifting to reveal a sad, grey eye. “Not like Eeyore. Not at all, really.”
_
A personable American, of the type which one invariably finds in the better sort of drawing room.
“You were in J____ ?” I enquired.
“Only towards the end.” He smiled, leaning over the madeira cake to offer me his hand. “The name's Flynn,” he said. “Errol.”
_