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.
*Looks at the number of WIPs*
*Makes executive decision*
*Will only post snippets from ones that I really believe I'll finish* (Trust me, you don't want me to follow the 'instructions' to the letter).
"Why?" Gibbs asked, for what seemed like the twentieth time. "Why did you try to kill your wife?"
For the first time the man sitting opposite him looked up and met Gibbs's stare. The dark eyes that met his own were devoid of everything human.
"Because she killed our baby."
My Son's Boyfriend
He moved to the top of the stairs and looked down. What he saw made him descend the stairs at speed, taking them three at a time. He jogged across the floor to the group, who were all intent on one another. “Mrs. Mallard?” he said, touching the woman’s arm.
The group all turned towards him.
Then the old woman yanked herself from Pearson’s grasp and grabbed Jethro’s own arm. “Jethro,” she cried, sudden recognition clear in her voice. “Jethro. You’re here. You see,” she turned back to the other two men. Her gnarled fingers bit into Jethro’s arm; he could feel them through his jacket and shirt. “I told you he worked here. This,” she indicated Jethro. “Is my son’s boyfriend.”
You Are Always There For Me
"I very much doubt if Gibbs would let you. Tony is correct, Ducky. It is not safe for a . . . "
"Man of my age? Maybe not, Office David. That, however, is irrelevant. And for your information, Jethro would not attempt to stop me, were it one of you down there. He knows better than to argue with me over medical matters. Now, if there is nothing else, please get out of the way."
In spite of the pain he was in, Gibbs was amused. His Ducky in full doctor mode was a sight to behold, and Ducky in doctor and lover mode was even more powerful. Ducky was right about one thing, he did know better than to argue with his lover when it came to medical matters - not that the knowledge always stopped him. He was also wrong, and he knew that Ducky knew it; if it were one of the team lying where he was, he would try to stop Ducky from going down. Not that he'd win, but he'd try. He’d end up compromising; he'd go down with Ducky.
With Different Eyes
"Oh, Duck," he murmured.
The next second later the surprise was his own, as Ducky pulled out of the fierce hug a little so that he could tug Gibbs's head down, as he tipped his own back; he then with an accuracy that amazed Gibbs, found Gibbs's mouth and kissed him. Gibbs was too stunned by the move to do anything other than return the kiss for a moment or two.
Seconds later reality hit him, and with care he pulled away from the kiss, however, he still kept Ducky in a loose embrace. "Duck?" he said, confusion heavy in his tone.
Ducky just beamed at him and gazed lovingly at him through what now appeared to be unfocussed eyes. "Have you come to take me home, my dear?"
"Er, yeah, Duck." Gibbs let go of his old friend, allowing him to settle back against the pillows and instead took his hand.
"Oh, you do, do you? And tell me, have you ever gone to bed with a man before?" Ducky's tone was as chilling as his look.
"Er, no." Now wasn't the time to lie.
"I see. And have you ever thought about going to bed with a man before?"
For a fleeting second Jethro hesitated. "No," he said softly.
"So why this sudden wish to go to bed with me?"
"Do you know what going to bed with a man entails?"
Ducky stood up and towered over Jethro. Glaring down at him. "Or is it just that you want to fuck me? Is that it, Gibbs? That's what straight men seem to think gay sex is all about. You want to fuck me. You like the idea of the tightness, do you? Well let me -" Ducky broke off, turned on his heel, winced once as he partly lost his balance and then moved to the window.
And it should be enough; after all friendship is far more important than a few minutes of physical gratification.
Most of the time it is enough. It is. Truly it is.
But sometimes . . . Oh, sometimes I long for more. Sometimes I wish that he would hold me in his arms as a lover, not just as a friend. Sometimes I wish that he would look at me and see me as more than his oldest, dearest, closest friends. Sometimes I wish that he would put his lips to mine. And sometimes it is more than just a wish; sometimes I yearn for him in this way. Sometimes I even -
"Duck," he half-growled.
"Yes, my dear?"
"Looking at me as if you want to . . ."
THE MAN FROM U.N.C.L.E.
A Little Misunderstanding
“Good morning, Mr. Kuryakin, and how did we sleep?”
“I slept very well, thank you, nurse. However, I rather assume that you did not sleep.”
“By the way, I have a letter for you from your boyfriend.”
“My boyfriend?” Illya’s eyebrows climbed up his forehead.
“Mr. Solo, the tall, dark and handsome man. You remember him, he was here yesterday.”
A Marriage Of Convenience
“Da.” Now Illya looked up and met Napoleon’s gaze; there was pain in the dull eyes and something else that Napoleon couldn’t read. He reached out and touched Illya’s shoulder, squeezing it and offering a smile.
Illya swallowed, even though the ubiquitous black turtle-neck, Napoleon saw it, briefly closed his eyes, straightened in his chair and then looked directly at his friend again. “Napoleon, I have to get married.” His stare skittered away.
A Dish Best Served Cold
“Solo has to pay.”
“With his death course, how else?”
“You want him killed?”
“Of course. You know the credo as well as I do ‘the only good UNCLE agent is a dead one.’ Solo’s too good; so he has to die. Beside he owes me.”
“There’s another option.”
“Yeah. Something even better than killing him.”
Ducky was surprised; stunned would have been more accurate. Jethro Gibbs was nervous?
Jethro Gibbs who had fought in the Gulf, who faced down terrorists with little, if any, concern, for his personal safety.
Jethro Gibbs who knew how to kill with gun, knife and bare hands - and had done all, on more than one occasion.
Jethro Gibbs who had never in all of the decades that Ducky had known him shown one iota of concern - unless it were for a co-worker or a fellow Marine’s safety - was nervous? About what?
SAPPHIRE & STEEL
I Saw The Future
Again, he saw the eyes that matched his name stare back at him. Again, he hunted for those that seemed to hate him; to betray him. Finally, without realising what he was doing, without noticing the absurdity in what he said, he used the words that both men and women have been using to one another since time began. “It’s not you, it’s me.”
Her bitter laughter told him again he had been failed. “So what are we going to do with all this time? After all, you don’t play bridge.”
“You can’t play bridge with two people,” Steel answered absently, intent instead of again trying to reach her. Anger was another emotion that allowed barriers to be breached unnoticed.
“Don’t patronise me.” She screamed as he caught the hand that had come up to slap his face.
George Cowley thought that he had seen every atrocity that man could do to man; every example of deviant behaviour; had thought that nothing could surprise him. Now, seated in the office of the Home Secretary, looking through some twelve by ten photographs, he realised that he hadn’t. Something could still surprise him.
Somehow when it one of your own 'gone bad', it was far worse than when it was an outsider. It also made it a lot harder to track down. Somehow knowing that George Cowley and the whole selection process was fallible made for a very uneasy feeling within the ranks of CI5.
At first no one realised that the problem had to be an internal one, the person concerned was too clever at covering his tracks – after all he was one of the top agents, was used to undercover work, had high clearance and was used to double think.
The Older They Are
The phone rang, disturbing the usual morning peace.
“I’ll get that, shall I?” said Bodie, pushing himself to his feet.
“What? Oh, yeah,” Ray answered, before returning his full attention to the book he was reading.
Bodie shook his head with fond amusement and left the room.
Five minutes later he returned, walked across to where Ray was still sprawled on the sofa and tugged the book from his hands.
“Oi,” Ray glared up at him and tried to pull the book back.
But Bodie was still stronger than his long-time lover. “That,” he said, slowly, “was the Home Office.”
Ray blinked. “What did they want?”
“Us. There’s a little known clause in our contracts, gives ‘em the right to call us back to duty whenever they want. And they want.”
Damn You, Benny
“Damn you, Benny!” Ray Vecchio cursed as he slammed the driver’s door on the green Riv. The fact that the object of his cursing was neither in ear shot, not even present, did not diminish the satisfaction Ray felt when he said the words.
Fraser came to a halt and his hand went immediately to Diefenbaker’s neck, preventing the wolf from charging to Ray’s defense. Under his hands he felt the tough tense muscles, and the hackles that had yet to subside. He stroked the neck and tried to calm the fraught animal.
He was suddenly aware that everyone was looking at him, but for once his inherent politeness failed him, and he did not acknowledge the looks. Instead he stood staring at the office. Ray was pacing, hands gesturing wildly in true Italian fashion, his short cropped hair was ruffled, as was his usually impeccable shirt. Fraser did not quite know what to do.
“I tell you, no. I won’t do it. It’s not fair, it’s not right. And I won’t allow it!” Ray's raised voice carried with ease into the squad room.
Benny Writes A Journal
I am not entirely certain that I should be putting this down in writing, but I am. It was through my father’s journals that I learned about him, learned that he did care about me, but that he never recovered from my mother’s death.
I learned that he regretted, as do I, the time we spent apart, the birthdays and holidays when I never saw him. I know that he realizes that leaving me with my grandparents was not the ideal solution. But I was only six years old when my mother died, and my father could not take care of me. So he left me in their care, and somehow the years went by and we remained, if not quite strangers, then not quite family.
I have learned so much about my father since his death, both through his journals and his visits. And I know that now I will need both more than ever – but I cannot, of course, tell him that.