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likeadeuce and other people on my list: that meme in which you post the first sentence of the first story you posted each month this year:
January
Sloane knew there was trouble brewing when Thomas Brill went to pee for the second time.
The Band (Alias, Arvin Sloane, Jack Bristow, Thomas Brill)
February
„I did it, I did it!“ Cordelia exclaims, and when she runs to Connor, hugging him, her giddiness is infectious.
Five Kisses (Angel, Connor/Cordelia)
March
Afterwards, they swore it was Garibaldi’s fault.
Stag Night (Babylon 5, Londo, G'Kar, Sheridan)
April
"I've been wondering why you and Emily never had any children," Sydney says to him, and inevitably, he rises from his chair and puts his hands on her shoulders while telling her he always regarded her as a daughter.
Family (Alias, Arvin Sloane, Ensemble)
May
I was out of sorts the first time I saw her, piqued for a reason I have long since forgotten.
Mothers (Angel, Darla, Drusilla, Angel, as well as any pairing variation thereof alluded to)
June
There aren’t any actions without consequences.
Action and Reaction (Alias, Arvin Sloane, Jack Bristow, shades of Sloane/Sydney and Jack/Nadia)
July
All in all, it had taken far longer than he had expected to end his imprisonment, but it did, at last, end.
The Kindness of Strangers (Alias, Ned Bolger aka Arvin Cloane)
August
This one is tricky, because the first fanfic postings were two stories simultanously, my Multiverse 2006 contributions, so, two sentences instead of one
He did not know what to expect.
Points of Transition (Babylon 5/Battlestar Galactica, Jeffrey Sinclair, Laura Roslin)
and
Assign himself a Viper to pilot was one of the first things Adama did after the inauguration.
Shore Leave (BSG/ST: TNG, William Adama, Lwaxana Troi)
September
„Let me get this straight,“ Jack said flatly. “You’ll be posing as some kind of refined scholar in clerical gear, surrounded by monks all the time, while I’m a drug smuggling pilot trying to work for a trigger-happy cokehead who is employed by for the richest killer in Colombia?”
Sacrificium (Alias, Arvin Sloane, Jack Bristow)
October
The face of Roslin’s young aide radiated hostility.
Interlude (BSG, Tom Zarek, Laura Roslin)
November
Given the time the good Doctor (no, the other one) spent in the holosuite, and the rather entertaining adventure they had the last time, Garak invited himself along into a further adventure.
title-less flclet (ST: DS9/ Dr. Who, Garak, Madame de Pompadour)
December
See below.
Conclusions to be drawn from the above: the first half of the year was mostly about Alias (which seems to be The Arvin Sloane Show, co-starring Jack and Sydney Bristow) and the second about shiny space shows and crossovers, with Darla and her son generously mixed in both parts as evidence of my continuing love for the Jossverse. Also, the only pairing I wrote text rather than subtext for is one of the most disliked in canon. Figures.
On that note, I present first a Darla ficlet (backstory, no spoilers, set early during the Restoration) :
Dancing Lesson
"The art of the menuet is not for everyone," the dance master said, looking down primly on the small blond woman in front of him. "It is the dance of kings, after all, and none but me in this entire barbaric country is fit to teach it."
In truth, he was quite happy to have moved to England. In Versailles, he was just one ballet master among many. Louis XIV, that avid connoseur of the art of dancing, had never deigned to single him out for praise. Here, the foolish nobility bent themselves backwards to gain his serrvices, and paid amply.
"Oh, I know," the blond woman said serenely. "Which is why you are going to teach it to me. You are going to teach it to me well enough to make me the best dancer at any court I choose to visit."
The dance master sniffed. "I very much doubt, Madame," he said maliciously, "that the likes of you will be received at any court. At least not for dancing."
The flash of anger in her eyes proved to him that he had guessed right, and he congratulated himself on his judgement. She was dressed well enough, true, but there was something in the expensive dress that made it look as if it had not been tailored for her, but had been worn by someone else first. More importantly, he prided himself on his musical ear, and her accent was not that of the nobility, or even the rich merchants who, very rarely, managed to persuade him they could afford him. He did like money, but he had his standards. Merchants, sometimes, of course, but not someone's brazen doxie who had ideas above her station.
"You will teach me," she said, and her voice had gone very cold. "Because if you don't, you won't die."
Her phrasing confused him, and at first, he believed he had misunderstood her. Still, threatening him with the ire of whichever rich fool was currently paying her was to be expected.
"No matter who pays for your favours, Madame," he said, and his disdain grew, "no one's influence outranks the King's. And I have the fortune of his Majesty's patronage."
She surprised him then, and laughed. "I do not doubt it. You see, I always recognize fellow whores."
He was barely recovering from the shock of that statement and about to voice his indignation when his servant entered to bring him the glass of wine he had demanded. Before the dance master could blink, the woman's face changed, in a dreadful manner. By the time his servant started screaming, the dance master had already tried to escape the room and had been flung against the wall, where he sat, stupified and watching in nameless horror while the thing in the guise of a woman did unspeakable things to young Neil. It was only when she turned from the bloody mess to him and he heard Neil made as desperate noises as one could make without a tongue that he finally understood her earlier remark.
"As I said," the thing said calmly, and once more assumed the calm, pale face of a woman, "if you do not teach me, you won't die. Now. You were saying, Monsieur, about the menuet?"
Secondly, a Connor ficlet (Spoilers up to Slouching Towards Bethlehem in s4), which I am tempted to call "Hair Care", except I can't, right? I'm open to suggestions, though.
Things were easy in Quortoth. You had to keep your hair short; too many enemies could use it to grab you otherwise. His father used a knife, with quick, decisive cuts. Stephen had some dim memory of fidgeting early on, impatient for it to end. He could not have been older than three; later, he knew better.
"Don't move," his father said in this vague memory, but did not explain why. But there was so much hair, and it seemed to take endlessly. So Stephen stirred, turned his head, and promptly felt a sharp pain at his neck. The blade of the knife had cut him.
"I told you not to move," his father said quietly, not stopping with his cutting, and Stephen held still. He wanted to cry, but didn't. Moving had been stupid and a mistake, and he didn't want to make another. When his father was finished, he showed the blood drops to Stephen before he cleaned the blade.
"It will not happen again, will it, Stephen?" his father asked, and the boy nodded, earning a rare smile in return. "Very good. I will show you how to do it yourself in a brief while."
Stephen wanted to ask why, if he was going to hold still in the future; whether this was in some way a punishment. His father seemed to read his thoughts and sighed. His fingers with their weathered skin touched Stephen's neck.
"You should not let an enemy hold a knife at your throat, my son," he said softly, and grew silent.
****
During the summer he spent with Fred and Gunn, his hair grew and grew. He could have cut it, easily; nobody ever took his knife away, and there were so many other sharp blades in the Hyperion. Connor had no idea why he did not. Perhaps it was simply because he didn't want to waste time that way. At first, he still expected to be found out, any minute of any day, and later, there were too many other things to explore.
"Looks like a girl's," Gunn once said, after Connor had pissed him off by disappearing and returning unannounced again, with that tone that meant he needed a joke to express his anger with.
"No, it doesn't," Fred hastily interjected. "But you should use a comb more often, Connor. Oh. Oh, I'm sorry. You don't know how, right? Here, let me show you!"
After the first stroke, he jumped up and declared he could do it himself, and she smiled indulgently, saying something about "adolescent boys and their pride". He had no idea what she meant, but pride wasn't the issue. Caution was. It had felt oddly soothing, her hand on his head, and for a second, he had forgotten that she and Gunn were not really his friends. They were the undead monster's minions and would turn against him if they ever found out the truth.
Besides, one look had shown him a comb could be used in many ways. Stabbing out one's eyes was just one of them. He couldn't permit an enemy to hold a weapon so near his throat, could he?
His father had taught him well.
****
Cordelia had given him a list of the things she needed most urgently from the hotel, and combs (several), brushes (several) and scissors (one large pair, one for nails) were among them. After delivering them, he watched her covertly as she handled brush and comb as expertly as a warrior his weapons. He didn't quite see why she needed them - her hair looked fine to him just the way it had been when she had woken up next to him - but he admired the elegance of her movements.
"You know, what you're doing right now? That's stalking," she said, but there was no anger in her voice, just amusement. "I don't need any help with brushing my hair, Connor."
"I do," he said impulsively. She raised an eyebrow, but examined him and nodded.
"Looks like," she said. "Come here."
They were nearly the same size, so he knelt down in front of her to make it possible for her to reach his head at her leisure. It was all the forbidden things at once: turning your back on someone, allowing sharp tools at your throat. Closing your eyes, as he did when she parted the mass of strands shielding him, with her knuckles brushing his bare skin.
But she wasn't his enemy, and besides, he wanted her to.
likeadeuce and other people on my list: that meme in which you post the first sentence of the first story you posted each month this year:January
Sloane knew there was trouble brewing when Thomas Brill went to pee for the second time.
The Band (Alias, Arvin Sloane, Jack Bristow, Thomas Brill)
February
„I did it, I did it!“ Cordelia exclaims, and when she runs to Connor, hugging him, her giddiness is infectious.
Five Kisses (Angel, Connor/Cordelia)
March
Afterwards, they swore it was Garibaldi’s fault.
Stag Night (Babylon 5, Londo, G'Kar, Sheridan)
April
"I've been wondering why you and Emily never had any children," Sydney says to him, and inevitably, he rises from his chair and puts his hands on her shoulders while telling her he always regarded her as a daughter.
Family (Alias, Arvin Sloane, Ensemble)
May
I was out of sorts the first time I saw her, piqued for a reason I have long since forgotten.
Mothers (Angel, Darla, Drusilla, Angel, as well as any pairing variation thereof alluded to)
June
There aren’t any actions without consequences.
Action and Reaction (Alias, Arvin Sloane, Jack Bristow, shades of Sloane/Sydney and Jack/Nadia)
July
All in all, it had taken far longer than he had expected to end his imprisonment, but it did, at last, end.
The Kindness of Strangers (Alias, Ned Bolger aka Arvin Cloane)
August
This one is tricky, because the first fanfic postings were two stories simultanously, my Multiverse 2006 contributions, so, two sentences instead of one
He did not know what to expect.
Points of Transition (Babylon 5/Battlestar Galactica, Jeffrey Sinclair, Laura Roslin)
and
Assign himself a Viper to pilot was one of the first things Adama did after the inauguration.
Shore Leave (BSG/ST: TNG, William Adama, Lwaxana Troi)
September
„Let me get this straight,“ Jack said flatly. “You’ll be posing as some kind of refined scholar in clerical gear, surrounded by monks all the time, while I’m a drug smuggling pilot trying to work for a trigger-happy cokehead who is employed by for the richest killer in Colombia?”
Sacrificium (Alias, Arvin Sloane, Jack Bristow)
October
The face of Roslin’s young aide radiated hostility.
Interlude (BSG, Tom Zarek, Laura Roslin)
November
Given the time the good Doctor (no, the other one) spent in the holosuite, and the rather entertaining adventure they had the last time, Garak invited himself along into a further adventure.
title-less flclet (ST: DS9/ Dr. Who, Garak, Madame de Pompadour)
December
See below.
Conclusions to be drawn from the above: the first half of the year was mostly about Alias (which seems to be The Arvin Sloane Show, co-starring Jack and Sydney Bristow) and the second about shiny space shows and crossovers, with Darla and her son generously mixed in both parts as evidence of my continuing love for the Jossverse. Also, the only pairing I wrote text rather than subtext for is one of the most disliked in canon. Figures.
On that note, I present first a Darla ficlet (backstory, no spoilers, set early during the Restoration) :
Dancing Lesson
"The art of the menuet is not for everyone," the dance master said, looking down primly on the small blond woman in front of him. "It is the dance of kings, after all, and none but me in this entire barbaric country is fit to teach it."
In truth, he was quite happy to have moved to England. In Versailles, he was just one ballet master among many. Louis XIV, that avid connoseur of the art of dancing, had never deigned to single him out for praise. Here, the foolish nobility bent themselves backwards to gain his serrvices, and paid amply.
"Oh, I know," the blond woman said serenely. "Which is why you are going to teach it to me. You are going to teach it to me well enough to make me the best dancer at any court I choose to visit."
The dance master sniffed. "I very much doubt, Madame," he said maliciously, "that the likes of you will be received at any court. At least not for dancing."
The flash of anger in her eyes proved to him that he had guessed right, and he congratulated himself on his judgement. She was dressed well enough, true, but there was something in the expensive dress that made it look as if it had not been tailored for her, but had been worn by someone else first. More importantly, he prided himself on his musical ear, and her accent was not that of the nobility, or even the rich merchants who, very rarely, managed to persuade him they could afford him. He did like money, but he had his standards. Merchants, sometimes, of course, but not someone's brazen doxie who had ideas above her station.
"You will teach me," she said, and her voice had gone very cold. "Because if you don't, you won't die."
Her phrasing confused him, and at first, he believed he had misunderstood her. Still, threatening him with the ire of whichever rich fool was currently paying her was to be expected.
"No matter who pays for your favours, Madame," he said, and his disdain grew, "no one's influence outranks the King's. And I have the fortune of his Majesty's patronage."
She surprised him then, and laughed. "I do not doubt it. You see, I always recognize fellow whores."
He was barely recovering from the shock of that statement and about to voice his indignation when his servant entered to bring him the glass of wine he had demanded. Before the dance master could blink, the woman's face changed, in a dreadful manner. By the time his servant started screaming, the dance master had already tried to escape the room and had been flung against the wall, where he sat, stupified and watching in nameless horror while the thing in the guise of a woman did unspeakable things to young Neil. It was only when she turned from the bloody mess to him and he heard Neil made as desperate noises as one could make without a tongue that he finally understood her earlier remark.
"As I said," the thing said calmly, and once more assumed the calm, pale face of a woman, "if you do not teach me, you won't die. Now. You were saying, Monsieur, about the menuet?"
Secondly, a Connor ficlet (Spoilers up to Slouching Towards Bethlehem in s4), which I am tempted to call "Hair Care", except I can't, right? I'm open to suggestions, though.
Things were easy in Quortoth. You had to keep your hair short; too many enemies could use it to grab you otherwise. His father used a knife, with quick, decisive cuts. Stephen had some dim memory of fidgeting early on, impatient for it to end. He could not have been older than three; later, he knew better.
"Don't move," his father said in this vague memory, but did not explain why. But there was so much hair, and it seemed to take endlessly. So Stephen stirred, turned his head, and promptly felt a sharp pain at his neck. The blade of the knife had cut him.
"I told you not to move," his father said quietly, not stopping with his cutting, and Stephen held still. He wanted to cry, but didn't. Moving had been stupid and a mistake, and he didn't want to make another. When his father was finished, he showed the blood drops to Stephen before he cleaned the blade.
"It will not happen again, will it, Stephen?" his father asked, and the boy nodded, earning a rare smile in return. "Very good. I will show you how to do it yourself in a brief while."
Stephen wanted to ask why, if he was going to hold still in the future; whether this was in some way a punishment. His father seemed to read his thoughts and sighed. His fingers with their weathered skin touched Stephen's neck.
"You should not let an enemy hold a knife at your throat, my son," he said softly, and grew silent.
****
During the summer he spent with Fred and Gunn, his hair grew and grew. He could have cut it, easily; nobody ever took his knife away, and there were so many other sharp blades in the Hyperion. Connor had no idea why he did not. Perhaps it was simply because he didn't want to waste time that way. At first, he still expected to be found out, any minute of any day, and later, there were too many other things to explore.
"Looks like a girl's," Gunn once said, after Connor had pissed him off by disappearing and returning unannounced again, with that tone that meant he needed a joke to express his anger with.
"No, it doesn't," Fred hastily interjected. "But you should use a comb more often, Connor. Oh. Oh, I'm sorry. You don't know how, right? Here, let me show you!"
After the first stroke, he jumped up and declared he could do it himself, and she smiled indulgently, saying something about "adolescent boys and their pride". He had no idea what she meant, but pride wasn't the issue. Caution was. It had felt oddly soothing, her hand on his head, and for a second, he had forgotten that she and Gunn were not really his friends. They were the undead monster's minions and would turn against him if they ever found out the truth.
Besides, one look had shown him a comb could be used in many ways. Stabbing out one's eyes was just one of them. He couldn't permit an enemy to hold a weapon so near his throat, could he?
His father had taught him well.
****
Cordelia had given him a list of the things she needed most urgently from the hotel, and combs (several), brushes (several) and scissors (one large pair, one for nails) were among them. After delivering them, he watched her covertly as she handled brush and comb as expertly as a warrior his weapons. He didn't quite see why she needed them - her hair looked fine to him just the way it had been when she had woken up next to him - but he admired the elegance of her movements.
"You know, what you're doing right now? That's stalking," she said, but there was no anger in her voice, just amusement. "I don't need any help with brushing my hair, Connor."
"I do," he said impulsively. She raised an eyebrow, but examined him and nodded.
"Looks like," she said. "Come here."
They were nearly the same size, so he knelt down in front of her to make it possible for her to reach his head at her leisure. It was all the forbidden things at once: turning your back on someone, allowing sharp tools at your throat. Closing your eyes, as he did when she parted the mass of strands shielding him, with her knuckles brushing his bare skin.
But she wasn't his enemy, and besides, he wanted her to.
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Date: 2006-12-10 06:26 am (UTC)