I saw a meme a few months ago, which asked that you post the beginnings of a few WIPs (and sorry, I don't remember who it originated with, or where).
Since my goal with this daily posting is to get me writing/completing/posting fic, I thought I'd pull up some old WIPs that I've more or less abandoned, and see if I get re-inspired. I'm including the names of the folders they're kept in, which never have anything to do with the final story title. So here are few:
"Harris," Spike says, nodding him inside. He seems utterly unfazed. As if he's been waiting for Xander to pay him a call, here in this place at the end of the world.
By the time Xander realizes that the only sure-fire way to shut Spike up is by kissing him, he’s reached the point where he doesn’t so much mind the talking anymore. Xander’s a talker, too; and they’re talkers with each other; and it’s all that talking -- okay, fighting, snarking, sniping, whatever -- that got them here in the first place. And here is exactly where he wants to be, thank you very much. Here he is, and here he’s gonna stay, because here is with Spike, and being with Spike is...being with Spike is un-fucking-believable, emphasis on the fucking. A lot of emphasis on the fucking. Emphasis like you read about; but it’s not just the fucking, which is the amazing thing. It’s the falling asleep together, and the waking up together, and all the togetherness in between. And the talking, all the talking, because he wants to know everything about Spike now, and Spike wants to know everything about him, and they’d have both laughed in your face if you’d told them five years ago, two years ago, six months ago that this was how it was going to be.
He doesn't trust his eyes any more -- well, his eye, if he's being precise. It's developed the annoying habit of playing tricks on him. Unreliable. He'll turn a corner, and there stands Jesse, or Joyce; Tara, or Anya, and he stops, and he stares. But it's always a different lanky teenager tossing his hair; another mother gazing with fond exasperation at her kid; an unknown blushing woman who shyly ducks her head; a beauty he's never met, mouth pinched and tight with anger.
4. Crazy Spike:
He's hidden all the sharp objects -- just a precaution, Buffy had whispered, as if it were an afterthought. But the first night Spike's there, Xander wakes with a racing heart, and a sweeping sense of dread. He finds Spike in the bathroom, curled up in a corner, stark naked, humming softly to himself. There are fresh gouges in his chest, atop barely healed old ones. Blood everywhere, and the mirror's been broken.
Spike holds up a bloody shard, smiling shyly. "Mummy's brought me a spade," he says.
They'd set his leg at the hospital in Senegal, but after being wheeled off the plane at Heathrow, the Council doctors had taken charge. They'd tutted and tsked and rebroken it; and his leg now housed an erector set's worth of rods and screws and pins. He'd be off his feet for months.
There were lots of visitors, at the start, but they soon drifted off, busy with their own pursuits; and who could blame them? His leg was healing, but slowly, and the process seemed to sap all his energy. He barely had the stamina to keep his eyes open, no less keep up his end of a conversation. It was boring, visiting sick people. Hell, he bored himself, most of the time.
Spike kept coming, though; filling his prescriptions, helping him bathe, toting home containers of lamb biryani and palak paneer. After a few days, Xander began forgetting to be thankful.
"You didn't get pappadums," he complained, resentfully. Or, fretful and accusing: "You're wetting the bandages."
Spike just rolled his eyes. "Ungrateful bastard," he said.
But still, he kept coming.
That's it -- and now I'm settling in for Sherlock!