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[personal profile] fearlessfan
Greetings LiveJournal! I've been even worse about posting in this journal than I usually am, but one of the surest things to get me out of hiding is the post-bits-from-wips meme, which I've noticed floating around LJ lately. I'm a big fan of it, mostly because I'm so terrible at finishing stories and this gives me a reason to post bits of them without going through the annoying hard work of actually finishing them.

Here are quick bits from the two wips I've been kicking around for the last year or so.

Untitled Star Trek Reboot fic, Kirk/Spock

Kirk brings it up when they're huddled behind a rock formation, waiting for Scotty to adjust for the magnetic interference of the planet's atmosphere and beam them back to the ship. Their position is secure, higher ground with a good view of their opponents, when Kirk says, "So, Spock. You play chess?"

"Yes," Spock says, over the sound of weapons hitting the rocks behind them. "Though I do not see the relevance of your question at this time."

Kirk and Spock return fire, pushing the Engar back again. Kirk says, "Chess is a strategic game, right? All about predicting the actions of your opponent. Seems pretty relevant to me right now, don't you think?"

Before Spock can answer, Kirk moves to fire again. Kirk's previous engagements had been regularly timed, at two minute intervals, and this quick return to fire catches the Engar off balance. Several purple-skinned figures are caught in the open, and the ensuring skirmish cuts their numbers in half.

Kirk catches Spock's eye after they settle back behind the rock. "I count four."

"Barring reinforcements, I agree."

Kirk nods, satisfied, his face streaked with dirt and blood from a cut by his hairline. It's a minor laceration; Spock checked it during a lull in their run up the hillside, his fingers pushing aside hair to make sure it wasn't deep. Spock is more used to contact with humans than most Vulcans, and he was careful not to intrude into Kirk's thoughts, but it was an imperfect attempt, like trying not to eavesdrop on the next table in a restaurant. One couldn't avoid hearing the general tenor of a conversation or sensing the timbre of a human mind.

And so Spock knows that Kirk is troubled. He knows that behind Kirk's steady fa├žade lies a swirling tide of determination-worry-fear-anger-regret-pain, and other things that Spock in some ways recognizes, but refuses to examine closely enough to name. It's been seventeen minutes since Spock placed a small bandage on Kirk's forehead to staunch the bleeding, and Spock remains unsettled, as if Kirk's state of mind had been in some way contagious.

"Maybe we should play sometime," Kirk says, into the lengthening quiet that accompanies their opponents' regrouping. Nothing in his voice or expression implies that he's worried; he could be saying this during a quiet moment on the bridge, or over one of the occasional officers' dinners. "I've been having a hard time finding a good game."

"The computer has quite a sophisticated-"

"Against a person," Kirk says, peering up over the rock to check on the Engar. He seems to like what he sees, since he chooses not to fire and returns to the conversation. "The only players I can come across are awful players who'd love to beat me, like Bones, and decent players afraid to, like Chekhov."

"And you feel I would be a competent player unafraid to challenge you, and therefore a worthy opponent."

"Something like that," Kirk says.

"Should we return to the Enterprise intact," Spock says, earning a grin from Kirk. "You may test your theory."

Untitled SPN fic, Dean/Castiel

When Castiel returns to the small motel outside of Detroit, he finds Dean and Sam as he left them: still not quite believing their victory to be real. Sam stares down at his laptop looking for omens, Dean sits on the bed cleaning his guns, and the motel TV is set at a low volume to pick up any sudden local events. But there are no omens, and the only local news is the normalizing weather patterns, the weatherman struggling to explain how three solid days of darkness transformed into typical May sunshine two days ago.

Dean and Sam look up at Castiel's arrival, and the relief he feels when they turn toward him is surprising. His grace returned in time to heal both brothers, but the short time between the battle ending and reaching out to heal them - no more than seconds, really - seems to have left a mark on Castiel. He wants to ask them both to stand up, make sure the puncture wound in Dean's side is fully healed, that Sam's badly broken arm has knit together properly.

To do such a thing would be ridiculous, and so Castiel simply says, "It's over."

Sam closes the laptop, his expression wary. "And you're sure this isn't a trick?"

"Yeah, maybe Lucifer's just faking it, maybe he's not really trapped," Dean says, leaning forward from his position at the end of one motel bed to turn off the TV. "He is a sneaky son of a bitch."

"It's true." Castiel looks at Dean and Sam in turn. "Lucifer is contained. More than that, the supernatural forces will be receding from the human realm."

"Wow." Dean considers this for a bit. "So you're saying it's time for me to bust out a copy of What Color Is My Parachute?"

Castiel has grown better at understanding idioms, but this one escapes him. "Are you planning celebratory skydiving?"

"It's a book about career planning," Sam says, giving Dean a you-should-know-better look. "Since hunting won't really be necessary if you're right."

"I'm right," Castiel says. "Supernatural beings will no longer have a place in this world."
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January 2013


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