wsip to kill now:
Jan. 3rd, 2006 12:50 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
wisdomeagleIn lieu of writing my ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
serenity_santa fic, here are all the false starts I generated during this week of santa-ing madness. Feel free to adopt if you want! I think I'm done with them (and would like to close the NoteTab tabs now please!)
Godmother
What Sam would like for Christmas is to hold her lovers' hands without fear of court martial. She doesn't care about being on-world, or about the latest physics books, or about the weird and wonderful gadget Dad stole for her from the Tok'ra
A Christmas Cookie In The Shape Of A Star
They do this for Daniel, this Christmas tree, this menorah, this. This winter, they do it for Daniel though last winter, they did it for Jack.
Last winter they went to a hockey game, shivered, Sam beneath Jack's coat, tucked into his arm and Daniel just as cold but without benefit of blanket. Last year, for Jack, they ate traditional Christmas foods, ham and turkey, and Sam secluded herself in the kitchen all day and tried to make cookies. They don't talk about that, but then, they don't talk about anything.
This year, for Daniel, they have a Christmas tree tall as Jack's ceiling and a menorah and one of those Kwanzaa candle things, a kinorah.
"Kinara, Jack. It's a symbol of..."
"Yadda."
Last year for Jack, this year for Daniel, next year for Sam. With three different people it's about six times as hard to make Christmas magical for everyone.
Special: Free French with Full Set of Nails!
Cordelia doesn't allow herself many indulgences, really. A store-bought mocha once a week and she brews her own coffee the other mornings, even though homemade coffee tastes rancid and she hasn't gotten the proportions right yet and her ancient yucky old Mr. Drip or whatever is so far away from her fond memories of state-of-the-art espresso makers that it might as well be from a different galaxy, or like where Wesley's from, cold and British. Only, in Britain they drink tea, not coffee.
But other than Starbucks once in awhile, not too many indulgences. She has her hair done, of course -- but that's neccessary, for work. And she buys nice treats for Angel and Wesley because if they have nice things, then they're happier, and more likely to give her nice things. And shoes. She has to buy shoes once a month as an investment in her future career as not-Angel's-secretary (and part time vision-haver). So shoes are essential.
She does, actually, know how to save, and most of what Angel gives her is sitting in the bank, collecting dust (and interest). Boring, but there you go. Cordelia's a big girl now.
And Angel paid for the manicure. Saw the sign, saw Cordelia's practiced look of wistfulness, and said, "Okay, Cordy. Go ahead," and rolled out a few twenties.
"And five for a gratuity," she reminded him, and he winced, but gave her the bill and shooed her towards the salon.
"Wesley and I'll be -- elsewhere. Doing manly things."
"I bet you will," she smirked. "I'll find you in the bookstore?"
"Probably," Angel sighed.
So now her feet are propped up and her head's tilted back, and her hands are in heaven.
[possibly lots of details about manicures would be good here!]
++++++
okay Giles/Oz ficbunny/plotbunny put into words:
I want to have it be gender, discrete gender I said, also particulate gender like the idea that gender is a discrete set of discrete actions/words/costumes and Giles would sort of think of it as being like an arithmetic sum and if there's more of you that's masculine you're a man and more feminine and you're a chick and this would play into Ripper-persona and how
Oz notices his hat first, Giles notices that he's in a dresss aaaaaaaah canoooooooootwriteomg
First Giles notices that he's a bloke in a dress, because a bloke in a dress, not something easy to ignore. Though the number of alternate lifestyles being led around him is congruent with the number of people he currently knows, cross-dressing still makes him take note, as do
Rodney and Teyla had had a long and painful conversation about what it meant to sense the Wraith, in which Rodney expressed scientific skepticism and Teyla repeated, "But it's true. I can feel them," and Rodney said that was impossible and therefore he didn't believe it and... Well. Long conversation. He wasn't getting into it now because he was preoccupied with reminding himself that it was physically impossible -- just completely impossible -- that he could sense the presence of mistletoe.
He added to his mental list of people he hated the person who'd thought it was a bright idea to introduce flora from Earth into the
Olivia's not sure what she expects, coming unannounced. It's always something different, with Rupert. He's never what she expects him to be, though she's known him for twenty years. She thought he was hopelessly besotted with a chanteuse when he took her to the dinner-theatre three weeks in a row, and it turned out to be their waiter instead. Every time she thought she could trust him he turned out to be lying, and every time she was convinced she was on to his lies, he turned out to be telling the truth. He doesn't mean to be opaque, she's certain, but he is.
She finds him in his flat, drinking.
That wasn't what she expected, though she clinks glasses with him and helps herself, wondering if this new incarnation of Rupert Giles is an alcoholic. She waits for the explanation.
Instead he looks at her thoughtfully over his coffee table. His eyes keep resting on some knick-knack, and finally he stands up abruptly. "Let's go," he says.
It's an art gallery, slightly lower-class than she's accustomed to, slightly too colonial, slightly too avant-garde. It doesn't seem like him.
"It's awfully plebian," she says.
"I know," Rupert responds, almost ruefully. He's self-concious about taking her here, about how he's changed since the last time (ten o'clock in the late eighties, trapped in a hansom in a hailstorm, he kissed her like he was just discovering her, and she'd been certain it was for keeps this time. It's been almost a decade since he jumped from the cab, and she's had only a postcard since).
"Hi -- oh. Mr. Giles. Hello." Olivia feels the temperature drop; the gallery owner is suddenly quite frosty though it's the middle of summer.
"Ms. Summers. I brought a friend - this is Olivia. I thought perhaps..." He pauses, and Olivia can feel his flustered frustration. She takes pity on him and sticks out her hand.
"Olivia."
"Joyce," the woman says, and her frosty expression melts into a half smile.
"Perhaps you'd like some time alone," Rupert says, and vanishes suddenly.
"A bad habit of his," she tells Joyce, who nods.
"Does he have lots of bad habits?"
"Two decades' worth. Are you - interested?"
"In Mr. Giles? No. Not how you mean. I, uh..." She takes a deep breath. "Do you know about the things he's involved with?"
"Drugs?" Olivia drawls. "Drinking? Casual sex?"
Joyce blanches. "Not with my daughter, he's not. I mean the other things. The, you know," her voice drops, "vampires."
"He's been telling you those stories? He shouldn't..."
She stops when Joyce seems to grow even paler, biting on her lip as if debating something with herself. Finally she decides in its favor and says, "They're not stories. And they cost me my daughter. I don't know what he's playing at, but I don't think
++
serenity_santa fic, here are all the false starts I generated during this week of santa-ing madness. Feel free to adopt if you want! I think I'm done with them (and would like to close the NoteTab tabs now please!)Godmother
What Sam would like for Christmas is to hold her lovers' hands without fear of court martial. She doesn't care about being on-world, or about the latest physics books, or about the weird and wonderful gadget Dad stole for her from the Tok'ra
A Christmas Cookie In The Shape Of A Star
They do this for Daniel, this Christmas tree, this menorah, this. This winter, they do it for Daniel though last winter, they did it for Jack.
Last winter they went to a hockey game, shivered, Sam beneath Jack's coat, tucked into his arm and Daniel just as cold but without benefit of blanket. Last year, for Jack, they ate traditional Christmas foods, ham and turkey, and Sam secluded herself in the kitchen all day and tried to make cookies. They don't talk about that, but then, they don't talk about anything.
This year, for Daniel, they have a Christmas tree tall as Jack's ceiling and a menorah and one of those Kwanzaa candle things, a kinorah.
"Kinara, Jack. It's a symbol of..."
"Yadda."
Last year for Jack, this year for Daniel, next year for Sam. With three different people it's about six times as hard to make Christmas magical for everyone.
Special: Free French with Full Set of Nails!
Cordelia doesn't allow herself many indulgences, really. A store-bought mocha once a week and she brews her own coffee the other mornings, even though homemade coffee tastes rancid and she hasn't gotten the proportions right yet and her ancient yucky old Mr. Drip or whatever is so far away from her fond memories of state-of-the-art espresso makers that it might as well be from a different galaxy, or like where Wesley's from, cold and British. Only, in Britain they drink tea, not coffee.
But other than Starbucks once in awhile, not too many indulgences. She has her hair done, of course -- but that's neccessary, for work. And she buys nice treats for Angel and Wesley because if they have nice things, then they're happier, and more likely to give her nice things. And shoes. She has to buy shoes once a month as an investment in her future career as not-Angel's-secretary (and part time vision-haver). So shoes are essential.
She does, actually, know how to save, and most of what Angel gives her is sitting in the bank, collecting dust (and interest). Boring, but there you go. Cordelia's a big girl now.
And Angel paid for the manicure. Saw the sign, saw Cordelia's practiced look of wistfulness, and said, "Okay, Cordy. Go ahead," and rolled out a few twenties.
"And five for a gratuity," she reminded him, and he winced, but gave her the bill and shooed her towards the salon.
"Wesley and I'll be -- elsewhere. Doing manly things."
"I bet you will," she smirked. "I'll find you in the bookstore?"
"Probably," Angel sighed.
So now her feet are propped up and her head's tilted back, and her hands are in heaven.
[possibly lots of details about manicures would be good here!]
++++++
okay Giles/Oz ficbunny/plotbunny put into words:
I want to have it be gender, discrete gender I said, also particulate gender like the idea that gender is a discrete set of discrete actions/words/costumes and Giles would sort of think of it as being like an arithmetic sum and if there's more of you that's masculine you're a man and more feminine and you're a chick and this would play into Ripper-persona and how
Oz notices his hat first, Giles notices that he's in a dresss aaaaaaaah canoooooooootwriteomg
First Giles notices that he's a bloke in a dress, because a bloke in a dress, not something easy to ignore. Though the number of alternate lifestyles being led around him is congruent with the number of people he currently knows, cross-dressing still makes him take note, as do
Rodney and Teyla had had a long and painful conversation about what it meant to sense the Wraith, in which Rodney expressed scientific skepticism and Teyla repeated, "But it's true. I can feel them," and Rodney said that was impossible and therefore he didn't believe it and... Well. Long conversation. He wasn't getting into it now because he was preoccupied with reminding himself that it was physically impossible -- just completely impossible -- that he could sense the presence of mistletoe.
He added to his mental list of people he hated the person who'd thought it was a bright idea to introduce flora from Earth into the
Olivia's not sure what she expects, coming unannounced. It's always something different, with Rupert. He's never what she expects him to be, though she's known him for twenty years. She thought he was hopelessly besotted with a chanteuse when he took her to the dinner-theatre three weeks in a row, and it turned out to be their waiter instead. Every time she thought she could trust him he turned out to be lying, and every time she was convinced she was on to his lies, he turned out to be telling the truth. He doesn't mean to be opaque, she's certain, but he is.
She finds him in his flat, drinking.
That wasn't what she expected, though she clinks glasses with him and helps herself, wondering if this new incarnation of Rupert Giles is an alcoholic. She waits for the explanation.
Instead he looks at her thoughtfully over his coffee table. His eyes keep resting on some knick-knack, and finally he stands up abruptly. "Let's go," he says.
It's an art gallery, slightly lower-class than she's accustomed to, slightly too colonial, slightly too avant-garde. It doesn't seem like him.
"It's awfully plebian," she says.
"I know," Rupert responds, almost ruefully. He's self-concious about taking her here, about how he's changed since the last time (ten o'clock in the late eighties, trapped in a hansom in a hailstorm, he kissed her like he was just discovering her, and she'd been certain it was for keeps this time. It's been almost a decade since he jumped from the cab, and she's had only a postcard since).
"Hi -- oh. Mr. Giles. Hello." Olivia feels the temperature drop; the gallery owner is suddenly quite frosty though it's the middle of summer.
"Ms. Summers. I brought a friend - this is Olivia. I thought perhaps..." He pauses, and Olivia can feel his flustered frustration. She takes pity on him and sticks out her hand.
"Olivia."
"Joyce," the woman says, and her frosty expression melts into a half smile.
"Perhaps you'd like some time alone," Rupert says, and vanishes suddenly.
"A bad habit of his," she tells Joyce, who nods.
"Does he have lots of bad habits?"
"Two decades' worth. Are you - interested?"
"In Mr. Giles? No. Not how you mean. I, uh..." She takes a deep breath. "Do you know about the things he's involved with?"
"Drugs?" Olivia drawls. "Drinking? Casual sex?"
Joyce blanches. "Not with my daughter, he's not. I mean the other things. The, you know," her voice drops, "vampires."
"He's been telling you those stories? He shouldn't..."
She stops when Joyce seems to grow even paler, biting on her lip as if debating something with herself. Finally she decides in its favor and says, "They're not stories. And they cost me my daughter. I don't know what he's playing at, but I don't think
++
(no subject)
Date: 2006-01-03 07:56 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-01-03 06:29 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-01-03 01:17 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-01-03 06:31 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-01-05 02:01 am (UTC)Cordy's story is a hoot and love the rhythm of it. I'm not sure it needs the details, though I wouldn't have a clue what they'd be so it doesn't concern me. Heh.