fearlessfan (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
fearlessfan) wrote2004-11-08 07:17 pm
fearlessfan) wrote2004-11-08 07:17 pm
wips
That wips meme! The original said to pick sentences, but then people started quoting small passages and I'm going with the latter because I'm long-winded.
I suck at titles, and so everything is untitled.
Angel: Cordelia, post-You're Welcome
"Angel," the man says.
"Yes."
"You love him."
"That," Cordelia says, picking at the sleeve of her white plush robe, "is none of your business."
"Doesn't matter," the man says. "We already know everything. What you've thought, what you've done, where you've been. What you're thinking right now."
"Really," Cordelia says. "What am I thinking right now?"
The man's eyebrows jump up. "I'll have you know that's still impossible, even in the afterlife."
"Whatever."
West Wing: Ainsley, post-That One Where Hoynes Resigns
At her new job, even the lunch room smells like money. It's after six on a slow Tuesday ten days after Hoynes's resignation, and Ainsley is alone there with her thoughts and one almost-overripe pear. She leans against a granite counter top and thinks about Joe Quincy sitting in her old office.
Ainsley's first office in the White House, the one she's sure Joe's sitting in now, was damp and gray and smelled vaguely of mildew. It took Ainsley three weeks to discover the precise arrangement of air fresheners and fans necessary to make the space livable, and she wonders if Joe Quincy will know to do that, or if he'll just sit there, sweltering and smelly.
Harry Potter: Post-OotP
Harry’s invitation to the Burrow came three days before his sixteenth birthday, in the form of Hermione Granger telling a great big lie. She arrived at Privet Drive in the early evening, interrupting dinner, and when Harry opened the door and saw her standing there, breathless with nerves and pink with deceit, he couldn’t help thinking of Professor Umbridge being led to the centaurs.
Popslash AU the First, aka The Heist Fic
Justin does his math. He does it every night for three days in a row, sits at the kitchen table in between the boxes of cereal that are never put away, and focuses on finding the value of x. He doesn't think about the angry edge in his mother's voice, which arrived two weeks before, right after the letter from the landlord saying the rent was late.
The problem is, Justin's no good at this kind of math. Neither is JC, who looks at his problems one night for a full three minutes, a furrow in his forehead, before saying, "No idea, man. Sorry."
"Didn't you take this?" Justin asks.
"Probably."
Any of the three of them can remember how many face cards are left in a deck halfway through a game of blackjack, can divide a sum of money into equal parts without a second thought, can fiddle with numbers so fast it makes a mark's head spin, but faced with ninth grade algebra, they're all –
"Worthless," Justin's mother announces on the third night, reading over his shoulder. She's just gotten home from her meeting with Justin's teacher, her cheeks still red from the cold. She looks worn out but somehow liberated.
She slams the book shut and smiles at him. "I'll write you a note, say you had a stomach ache. Go have fun."
Popslash AU the Second, aka Golf!
Even from behind Chris knew he was a kid, already taller than Chris and not quite done growing. The back of his neck was pink and sunburned; his profile, sharp against the setting sun when he turned his head to look out at the yard markers, determined and young. He shifted his weight, rolled his shoulders, and looked out again once, twice. Chris would know this routine like the back of his hand ten years later, but here, in this moment, it was new. As new as the clean, sweet arc the club cut through the air in his backswing; as new as the stunning speed at which he brought the club around. Chris watched the ball sail out, hooking slightly but soaring past the farthest yard marker. He watched another three swings through the smudged glass of the pro shop's window before grabbing his purple sun visor off of its nail next to the door, and stepped into the dimming September sunlight.
I suck at titles, and so everything is untitled.
Angel: Cordelia, post-You're Welcome
"Angel," the man says.
"Yes."
"You love him."
"That," Cordelia says, picking at the sleeve of her white plush robe, "is none of your business."
"Doesn't matter," the man says. "We already know everything. What you've thought, what you've done, where you've been. What you're thinking right now."
"Really," Cordelia says. "What am I thinking right now?"
The man's eyebrows jump up. "I'll have you know that's still impossible, even in the afterlife."
"Whatever."
West Wing: Ainsley, post-That One Where Hoynes Resigns
At her new job, even the lunch room smells like money. It's after six on a slow Tuesday ten days after Hoynes's resignation, and Ainsley is alone there with her thoughts and one almost-overripe pear. She leans against a granite counter top and thinks about Joe Quincy sitting in her old office.
Ainsley's first office in the White House, the one she's sure Joe's sitting in now, was damp and gray and smelled vaguely of mildew. It took Ainsley three weeks to discover the precise arrangement of air fresheners and fans necessary to make the space livable, and she wonders if Joe Quincy will know to do that, or if he'll just sit there, sweltering and smelly.
Harry Potter: Post-OotP
Harry’s invitation to the Burrow came three days before his sixteenth birthday, in the form of Hermione Granger telling a great big lie. She arrived at Privet Drive in the early evening, interrupting dinner, and when Harry opened the door and saw her standing there, breathless with nerves and pink with deceit, he couldn’t help thinking of Professor Umbridge being led to the centaurs.
Popslash AU the First, aka The Heist Fic
Justin does his math. He does it every night for three days in a row, sits at the kitchen table in between the boxes of cereal that are never put away, and focuses on finding the value of x. He doesn't think about the angry edge in his mother's voice, which arrived two weeks before, right after the letter from the landlord saying the rent was late.
The problem is, Justin's no good at this kind of math. Neither is JC, who looks at his problems one night for a full three minutes, a furrow in his forehead, before saying, "No idea, man. Sorry."
"Didn't you take this?" Justin asks.
"Probably."
Any of the three of them can remember how many face cards are left in a deck halfway through a game of blackjack, can divide a sum of money into equal parts without a second thought, can fiddle with numbers so fast it makes a mark's head spin, but faced with ninth grade algebra, they're all –
"Worthless," Justin's mother announces on the third night, reading over his shoulder. She's just gotten home from her meeting with Justin's teacher, her cheeks still red from the cold. She looks worn out but somehow liberated.
She slams the book shut and smiles at him. "I'll write you a note, say you had a stomach ache. Go have fun."
Popslash AU the Second, aka Golf!
Even from behind Chris knew he was a kid, already taller than Chris and not quite done growing. The back of his neck was pink and sunburned; his profile, sharp against the setting sun when he turned his head to look out at the yard markers, determined and young. He shifted his weight, rolled his shoulders, and looked out again once, twice. Chris would know this routine like the back of his hand ten years later, but here, in this moment, it was new. As new as the clean, sweet arc the club cut through the air in his backswing; as new as the stunning speed at which he brought the club around. Chris watched the ball sail out, hooking slightly but soaring past the farthest yard marker. He watched another three swings through the smudged glass of the pro shop's window before grabbing his purple sun visor off of its nail next to the door, and stepped into the dimming September sunlight.
no subject
And THE SWIM TRUNKS! He is SO INCREDIBLY PASTY and has AWFUL SHOES and, scarily enough, it MAKES ME LOVE HIM MORE! I can't even tell you.
I saw a preview for O12 last night while I was making dinner and spazzed out so much that my mother yelled out from the next room, "WHAT'S WRONG?" And then I had to explain that waving my hands around wildly and making strange guttural noises is a GOOD thing.
MATT!