Whee!

[cherry]

Done! Done meetings, done school, done reports. I have no responsibilities for the next week and a half. Except for work, of course. And looking for a summer job. And I some how managed to get myself put on a task force and another committee, but those don't kick in until after next term starts.

I was doing my year-end fic roundup, and I realized that I haven't done or said anything fannish since August. Um, oops? It certain explains the mass defriendings. I will try my best to less boring from now on.

Year-end fic roundup: Alphabetically by fandom, with bonus (brief) commentary.



Dead Like Me

And Never Lose Affection. (Rube) For last year's Yuletide. It was great to get a chance to write for what is probably my favourite show, so I'm fond of it for that reason alone, but it was great to do something with Rube and everyone he's loved.

The brain is an amazing thing. When Rube stops to think about it, really think about it, it is almost overwhelming. A hundred trillion connections, and when he died all he knew was that a blow to the head would kill you. Maybe not as surely as an infected bullet wound to the lower abdomen would kill you, but it was a danger nonetheless.

Doctor Who

All this Season of Snow and Sins. (Jack/Romana, post-time war) This is one of my favourite stories of the year, and I find I'm actually rather proud of it. despite its imperfections. I wanted to write something about choices, something that was off-beat and slightly creepy. I was also hoping to show ramifications of the war, and write something in which everyone was at fault for something, somewhat. I was thinking rather highly of myself, wasn't I?

"How are you today?" Jack asks. Romana is sitting across the table from him with her head cocked as if listening to some far-off melody. Her hands are the only part of her in motion, tracing circles and figure eights across the cool metal tabletop.

"I am," she says, finally, "as well as can be expected, I suppose, when one considers that I am a temporal fragment of a greater whole." The words are carefully considered, her brows drawn together. "Also," she says, brightly, "to be frank, the view is rather rubbish."

An Undone War Still Rages. (DW/SGA, ensemble, Jack/Rodney) Written as a pinch hit in Multiverse, since I missed the deadline.

Zelenka is still moving back and forth, feet releasing with a pop whenever he steps in the tacky blood. His cursing is becoming less inventive, words slurring together, fading to prayer and pleas for his family and friends. Jack, whose lips were curled at his tirade, realizes only belatedly that he is probably listening to something Zelenka thinks is private, TARDIS translating something he's not supposed to hear.

Leave the Light On. (Jack) Another one of the three stories I am inordinately proud of. Jack backstory.

The summer Jack was fifteen, his sister stepped out of the world. "Gone for pomegranates," the note on the kitchen table said, black marker and a backward slant.

Then Sleep the Season. (Romana, Mickey) This was written for romanathon, and I had a most excellent prompt. I was trying to meld old school characterization with RTD's writing, and I'm not quite sure how it turned out. There are bits that I think at times work rather well, while at other times...

It's the sort of evening an artist would never be silly enough to paint – the sky overhead streaked ruby, violet, gamboge, saffron, the setting sun perfectly visible between the curve of two rolling hills. The stillness is broken only by two humanoid figures sprinting through the ribbon grass, and the larger hoard of armed humanoids chasing behind them.

Ficlets
Day Jobs. (Jack) Post PotW; Jack and the world left behind.

Bring Out Your Dead. (Jack) Immediately post Potw; ashes to ashes and dust to dust.

Due South

... I really have to write at least one more, full-length Due South story.

Next Year. (Young RayK) For picfor1000. RayK, 1983. I think that the reason my dS output has dropped off is that for some reason, when I wrote a dS story, I am writing my own personal canon, and there are only so many holes for me to fill. Het/slash.

1983 blew in cold and wet but it feels so far away from July; July and the drought that moved in months ago. Corn yields in the southern states are down, he hears every time he turns on the radio, announcers sober between Duran Duran and David Bowie.

Swing Low, Sweet Chariot. (Fraser, F/K) For last year's DS Secret Santa.

"Fraser," Ray says, and his hands are once again stuffed in his pockets, his shoulders hunched up to his ears. "Fraser, buddy, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," Fraser says. Thinks about the Northwest Territories and how short the days got before the sun disappeared for weeks. Ray has snowflakes caught in his eyelashes, and Fraser's mouth is suddenly dry. "Just – the days are so long here," he says.

Ficlets
Delusions of Adequacy. (Dief) For out_of_con_txt.

Trav'ler in the Dark. (Kowalski/Fraser) For out_of_con_txt.

Firefly

Home (Float On). (Mal, Zoe) For Remix Redux. About home, and war, and knowing what you have. It's not the best story I've ever written, but I think it's solid, and it was a rather interesting one to remix. I like to think that my version stands well enough alone, as well.

Shadow wasn't any too different from every other border world. Of course, that wasn't something Malcolm Reynolds thought about much, growing up. He was a child like any other, all elbows and skinned knees, playing soldier in the fields with the boys from town and underfoot when his family's hired men drove the cattle.

The Paste and Pending. (Mal, Zoe) Post-Serenity. In the end, I think I'm rather proud of this. Mal and Zoe, before we knew them and after. War and loss, and neither of them handling it properly.

(Been a long time since I heard you sing, he told her once.

Been a long time since I saw you pray, she said, implacable, and he was first to look away.)

Ocean's Eleven

Chump Change. (Rusty/Danny) For aerye. It's fluff, and dare I say it -- cute. ish. Danny and Rusty's first con together is not entirely on purpose.

Danny met Rusty at the New York State Fair. Danny was picking pockets and scamming the scammers on the midway. Rusty was bare-shouldered and bare-kneed, twenty-three, licking powdered sugar from fair donuts from his fingers.

Stargate: Atlantis

An Undone War Still Rages. (DW/SGA, ensemble, Jack/Rodney) Written as a pinch hit in Multiverse, since I missed the deadline.

Zelenka is still moving back and forth, feet releasing with a pop whenever he steps in the tacky blood. His cursing is becoming less inventive, words slurring together, fading to prayer and pleas for his family and friends. Jack, whose lips were curled at his tirade, realizes only belatedly that he is probably listening to something Zelenka thinks is private, TARDIS translating something he's not supposed to hear.

The World At Large. (Ford, some McKay/Sheppard) The last of the three stories I find myself inordinately proud of. Ford backstory, because I love the boy, and he could have been so much more. About knowing, and being known.

This is familiar to him (Grodin at his console and Dr. Beckett trying to look casual and not at all surprised that he is not needed), familiar, almost painfully so, and he is hit with a sharp burst of homesickness.

"Aiden?" Teyla asks, and her hand is warm on his elbow.

"I'm good," he tells her. Shakes his head and smiles. It's just a little thing – cordite reminds him now of his grandmother's perfume, his grandfather's aftershave, though they are alike only in their familiarity. "Really," he says.

Her smile is mysterious and reassuring, but that's nothing new, because she's Teyla, and mysterious and reassuring is what she does best. "I would not have meant to imply otherwise."

X-Files

Ocean Breathes Salty. (Marita) For the Female Gen Ficathon. My first go at XF since the crossover of doom which shall not be named -- look, I was 15, it was the first thing I'd written. The damage can never be completely undone, but I like to think this helps make up for it.

"Told you so," Alex says, finally. He hands her another beer with his split knuckles black in the moonlight and eyes bright in his face. It's the first words they've spoken since the kitchen in New Mexico. Condensation from the longneck is cold beneath her fingers and she fights the sudden, overwhelming urge to laugh.