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28 September 2008 @ 06:47 pm
WIP Meme - Also, damn you, LJ cuts. Damn you to hell!  
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.

Jailbird, Faith/Angel, Post - "The Gift"

When he slams into her with the force of well-placed punch, all of a sudden it hits her. She’s really gone. Buffy: deader than a doornail, off to meet her maker, zippidy-doo-daing all the way to those great, honkin’ pearly gates. Faith’s scattered thoughts coalesce around this notion of ending, of death and closure and solitude. It looked pretty sweet in the brochure, and yet the reality of the news tears at her with serrated claws, laying bare her soft underbelly and everything she associated with Buffy Summers, Slayer numero uno. The scar along her side pulses, and she gasps. Who knew mourning could feel the same as a dagger gutting you? 

All Wrong, Ch. 3, Spuffy

The first time they had come together it was in Rome. It had been tentative, awkward, fumbling. Every seasoned, knowing touch was abandoned in the name of prudence; any sense of excitement they both felt was dampened by unease about past sexual habits both were eager and unsure of breaking. They both knew this heavy history hung between them, and held themselves back from the bruising need that had consumed them both when hand touched skin. It was supposed to be tempered now with personal growth and self-reflection.


One thing that had not escaped their bed the first time was the earnest desire that both of them understand that this mutual timidity was what the other was feeling. Shame and unease took free reign, and it was okay. Everything was okay now. It was okay to be sloppy, to come too soon, to be out of practice because there was no rush. That emotional honestly, or even the willingness to express it, was a breakthrough. Spike wondered where it had gone to now.

Gwen/Spike, AtS S5

“Really?” she says skeptically. “Being a ghost and being… me. That doesn’t seem like an apt comparison. You don’t hurt people.” Her eyes well slightly and she turns away from him. He watches carefully. “You don’t kill people.”


“Technology is always bollixing things up. Used to have a government chip shoved up in my head. Kept me from biting people. But it didn’t last forever. I got something a bit more permanent.”


“What’s that?”


“My soul.”


“Oh, like Angel?”


“No, not bloody well like Angel. This one’s a bit more permanent. Won’t go on a vacation if I taste a moment of happiness.” Leaning toward her, his eyebrow just raising, he whispers, “So, tell me, pet. When was the last time you felt happy?”

Xander/Buffy, "When She Was Bad" re-write

Your eyes veer to Xander. To Willow and how they smile at each other. All summer you’ve been trying to find where the smiles went. You think maybe they got left behind in the puddle of muck in that cavern; something that Xander wasn’t able to bring back.


When your arm loops through his, he turns, surprised, happy to see you.


“Let’s dance,” you say, anger and shame bubbling in you. He saw your weakness, he’ll see your strength now. Your power.


He follows after you, willing and eager, like a puppy. Lets see if you can make him bark, make him heel.

 Spike, OC - far future post-NFA Spawn fic

As time passes the shadows lengthen, a patchwork blanket across the landscape. He smells them before he sees them, his girls coming back from various midnight errands. Light on their feet, they jog together like a pack of wolves, skirting the perimeter of their training corral before slipping through the front door to bed.


When all is quiet again, to his right the floorboards creak.


“What’s got you up, night owl?”


Divya slips from the shadows, a silent shade spreading from the gloom, her long dark hair coming down to frame her shoulders. The only part of her illuminated by the moonlight are her white painties and camisole as she settles down next to him, one knee drawn up beneath her chin. 


“Just watching the stars fall,” he mutters bringing his game face up to let the glittering light of the stars illuminate the whole landscape. A coyote yips somewhere off in the distance and he thinks that the universe just shrank a little bit more rapidly now that its champion is gone.

Faith/Giles, Trenches, "Revelations" re-write

“Hey, can I wear this?”


Glancing up from the steeping tea set on the bar, Giles freezes. He looks like he might be sick. When he sucks in a breath on a brittle gasp, Faith looks down at the shirt and then back at him. Jesus, what happened here? she thinks, weary of his eerie reaction.


Unsteadily, he moves forward, his hand outstretched. Taking the blouse from her, he fingers the cardigan, his roughened hands slipping over the buttons at the front. He worries them over and over like prayer beads, ticking off his failures with each rotation. She’s never seen him like this, haunted and distant. Stepping closer she can see the light sheen of tears in his eyes, and she immediately regrets snooping in his stuff. The innocuous cardigan obviously belonged to a woman, probably someone he was involved with. She’ll take one guess that it didn’t end well.

 Faith, Dawn, Outsiders Looking In, S7

“You talk about survival like it’s no big thing, but I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for Buffy,” Dawn says with agitation, throwing her cigarette down and stomping it out. She’s got Faith’s attention now. “You talk a big game, all flip and unfazed by this creepy supernatural stuff, but when have you been some sacrificial lamb for slaughter?”


Faith is slow to respond, just takes in the bundle of angry helplessness next to her; the unwanted and ignored little sister unable to make heads or tails of her life. It’s a place she’s been and it’s nothing to envy. When she tugs up the hem of her shirt, Dawn’s eyes rise.


“You see here?” Faith points, tracing a thin, but visible scar along the left side of her belly. When Dawn nods, Faith grasps her hand and presses it to her side. “You want to talk about sacrificial lambs, kid, I was meant to be the mystical snack for your sis’s boy toy. Know full well what it means to feel helpless.”

 Faith/Angel, And The Band Plays On, sequel to "By A Thread"

The goddamn bathroom is flooded. A thin layer of water has spilled across the tiles, and it just keeps on coming, pouring over the edge of the bathtub because Angel hasn’t shut off the faucet. She stares blearily at the shallow sea lapping her toes, trying to wave off the exhaustion insistently pinching her. Distantly she wishes that Spike were here to impart some wisdom, cause what the hell do you say in a situation like this?


“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” is the first thing that comes to mind.


 The dried sweat plastered at the back of her neck and along her lower back starts to get slippery again, and she shifts uncomfortably, wondering if this is it, if he’s really lost it. Angel, still fully clothed, stares at her from across the room immersed to his chin in the bathtub. He makes no move to end the deluge of water spilling onto the floor. He’s vacant, blank, and utterly expressionless. She wants to throw something and possibly punch his lights out.

I've been working on most of these one shots anywhere from 6 months to a year. Seeing them again... Ah, failure, how I love thee. The fic prompts you guys gave me have been very agreeable, so I'll be sticking with those until they're done. Maybe one day I can finish all of these, as well. Turns out I really want to write Faith stories! *sigh* So many good ideas here.
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