WIP meme
I am suffering from an excess of restlessness and discontent (also, fandom_wank is making me want to bake a cake), so here is that meme where you post excerpts from stuff you're working on:
This insight re-ignited the flame of her anger, but this time it burned slow and pure, not tainted by other feelings. Harry was blaming her for the consequences of his actions? The bloody cheek! "You hypocrite!" she ground out through clenched teeth. "You self-righteous, judgmental arsehole!"
"What was that?" floated Ron's voice from the room to Ginny's left. He emerged through the doorway to look at her through narrowed eyes. "Who's a judgmental arsehole?" ("The Golden Horn," ch. 6)
He hadn’t exaggerated when he’d told Lieutenant Uhura that he’d maxed out his store of knowledge about Vulcan neurophysiology soon after Spock fell ill. Maybe if Vulcans weren’t so goddamn parsimonious when it came to sharing essential medical information, he’d have been able to do more, and sooner. It was like squeezing water from a stone.
(...)
He’d hoped that serving on the same ship as Starfleet’s only Vulcan officer would give him the opportunity to learn more. His field promotion to Enterprise’s chief medical officer, by that very same Vulcan no less, had fanned the flames of his hope.
It hadn’t taken Spock long to thoroughly douse the flames. By the time McCoy learned that Spock was only half-Vulcan, the commander had made it explicitly clear that he was not interested in submitting himself to McCoy’s medical scrutiny; any sensitive information that McCoy might need to treat Spock would be dispensed only when absolutely necessary.
“What happens if you’re unconscious or unable to dispense this information?” McCoy had snarled in frustration.
“I trust that you will do the best that you are able with the knowledge you already possess and your own intuition, Doctor,” was the predictably prissy reply. “You would not be here had you not already demonstrated that you are more than capable of the task.” ("Intersections," ch. 2)
He was about to hobble off in search of Drake and a little tea and sympathy when he heard the familiar voices of Carling, Skelton, and Granger approaching and decided to take a few steps towards his office instead. "Where the bloody hell 'ave you lot been?" he barked as soon as they entered CID. "I've been out catching villains. What's your story?"
The sheepish look on Ray's face made Gene feel uneasy. The reason for his embarrassment was unveiled when Chris, the ignorant twat, blurted, "We were just down looking at WPS Mitchell's ulter-uterus-ultraviolet--"
"Ultrasound," Shaz said under her breath.
"Yeah, the pictures of her babies."
Gene couldn't believe what he was hearing. "You what?"
"She's havin' twins, Guv," Chris nattered on, oblivious as ever to Gene's rising temper. Ray and Shaz, on the other hand, were trying very hard to look anywhere and everywhere else but at him, which only infuriated him even more. "It's amazing! Do you reckon someone's gonna have to cut into her and untangle all them arms and legs? You can't tell where one stops and the other begins. What if they both try to come out at the same time?"
"Are you telling me," Gene growled, bearing down on all three of them, "that I came back to an empty department not because you numbskulls were out doing your jobs to keep the streets clear of scum and villains, but because you were gawping over pictures of an oven with an extra bun in it? What the bloody hell is wrong with you people? You're police officers, for Christ's sake, and this is a police station, not a playhouse! I haven't seen such an embarrassing parade of uselessness since Barlow thought he saw Olivia Newton-John buying fags at the corner kiosk. Why don't I just close up shop right now and retire before the Commissioner of the Met does it for me?" ("Companion of Mine Ease," ch. 2)
It still didn’t explain why Ekaterin felt as if she were walking a gauntlet this morning. A gauntlet of well-wishers, true, but a gauntlet all the same. There certainly wasn’t a reproductive component to this holiday that would warrant such interest. She was no trembling maiden, her wedding to Miles was still sometime in the undefined future, and her contraceptive implant, which she’d never gotten around to having removed after Tien’s death, would ensure that there’d be no birthing parties nine months hence.
All logical explanations for this circus pointed to the ringmaster, Miles. Was this how her life with him would always be? Had Ekaterin foreseen that their very public betrothal - true, her fault - would set such a precedent, she might have held her tongue. How does he stand it? she wondered as she watched Miles shake hands with Mark, then his father, then deign to permit his mother to bestow him with a kiss on the cheek.
“You get used to it, eventually. Life in a fishbowl, that is.” ("Holiday")
*
He looked down at their joined hands. The flawlessness of her olive-toned skin stood out against his, pale speckled with brown spots. The hands of a lifelong clerk, scion of backcountry proles, embraced by those of the highest among the high Vor. Yet, despite all their refinement, there was strength in those fingers as they rubbed across his knuckles. I am in good hands.
"Lady Alys," he said again, carefully freeing his hand from hers, "what are you doing here?"
"Taking care of you, Simon." Simple, yet direct, without any hesitation or uncertainty. "God knows ImpSec wasn't up to the task." ("Awakening")
This insight re-ignited the flame of her anger, but this time it burned slow and pure, not tainted by other feelings. Harry was blaming her for the consequences of his actions? The bloody cheek! "You hypocrite!" she ground out through clenched teeth. "You self-righteous, judgmental arsehole!"
"What was that?" floated Ron's voice from the room to Ginny's left. He emerged through the doorway to look at her through narrowed eyes. "Who's a judgmental arsehole?" ("The Golden Horn," ch. 6)
He hadn’t exaggerated when he’d told Lieutenant Uhura that he’d maxed out his store of knowledge about Vulcan neurophysiology soon after Spock fell ill. Maybe if Vulcans weren’t so goddamn parsimonious when it came to sharing essential medical information, he’d have been able to do more, and sooner. It was like squeezing water from a stone.
(...)
He’d hoped that serving on the same ship as Starfleet’s only Vulcan officer would give him the opportunity to learn more. His field promotion to Enterprise’s chief medical officer, by that very same Vulcan no less, had fanned the flames of his hope.
It hadn’t taken Spock long to thoroughly douse the flames. By the time McCoy learned that Spock was only half-Vulcan, the commander had made it explicitly clear that he was not interested in submitting himself to McCoy’s medical scrutiny; any sensitive information that McCoy might need to treat Spock would be dispensed only when absolutely necessary.
“What happens if you’re unconscious or unable to dispense this information?” McCoy had snarled in frustration.
“I trust that you will do the best that you are able with the knowledge you already possess and your own intuition, Doctor,” was the predictably prissy reply. “You would not be here had you not already demonstrated that you are more than capable of the task.” ("Intersections," ch. 2)
He was about to hobble off in search of Drake and a little tea and sympathy when he heard the familiar voices of Carling, Skelton, and Granger approaching and decided to take a few steps towards his office instead. "Where the bloody hell 'ave you lot been?" he barked as soon as they entered CID. "I've been out catching villains. What's your story?"
The sheepish look on Ray's face made Gene feel uneasy. The reason for his embarrassment was unveiled when Chris, the ignorant twat, blurted, "We were just down looking at WPS Mitchell's ulter-uterus-ultraviolet--"
"Ultrasound," Shaz said under her breath.
"Yeah, the pictures of her babies."
Gene couldn't believe what he was hearing. "You what?"
"She's havin' twins, Guv," Chris nattered on, oblivious as ever to Gene's rising temper. Ray and Shaz, on the other hand, were trying very hard to look anywhere and everywhere else but at him, which only infuriated him even more. "It's amazing! Do you reckon someone's gonna have to cut into her and untangle all them arms and legs? You can't tell where one stops and the other begins. What if they both try to come out at the same time?"
"Are you telling me," Gene growled, bearing down on all three of them, "that I came back to an empty department not because you numbskulls were out doing your jobs to keep the streets clear of scum and villains, but because you were gawping over pictures of an oven with an extra bun in it? What the bloody hell is wrong with you people? You're police officers, for Christ's sake, and this is a police station, not a playhouse! I haven't seen such an embarrassing parade of uselessness since Barlow thought he saw Olivia Newton-John buying fags at the corner kiosk. Why don't I just close up shop right now and retire before the Commissioner of the Met does it for me?" ("Companion of Mine Ease," ch. 2)
It still didn’t explain why Ekaterin felt as if she were walking a gauntlet this morning. A gauntlet of well-wishers, true, but a gauntlet all the same. There certainly wasn’t a reproductive component to this holiday that would warrant such interest. She was no trembling maiden, her wedding to Miles was still sometime in the undefined future, and her contraceptive implant, which she’d never gotten around to having removed after Tien’s death, would ensure that there’d be no birthing parties nine months hence.
All logical explanations for this circus pointed to the ringmaster, Miles. Was this how her life with him would always be? Had Ekaterin foreseen that their very public betrothal - true, her fault - would set such a precedent, she might have held her tongue. How does he stand it? she wondered as she watched Miles shake hands with Mark, then his father, then deign to permit his mother to bestow him with a kiss on the cheek.
“You get used to it, eventually. Life in a fishbowl, that is.” ("Holiday")
*
He looked down at their joined hands. The flawlessness of her olive-toned skin stood out against his, pale speckled with brown spots. The hands of a lifelong clerk, scion of backcountry proles, embraced by those of the highest among the high Vor. Yet, despite all their refinement, there was strength in those fingers as they rubbed across his knuckles. I am in good hands.
"Lady Alys," he said again, carefully freeing his hand from hers, "what are you doing here?"
"Taking care of you, Simon." Simple, yet direct, without any hesitation or uncertainty. "God knows ImpSec wasn't up to the task." ("Awakening")