Post a little snippet of your current WIPs and if so inclined tell us a little bit about them.
I'm not doing this in any particular order, though I've put them by fandom and not given any of them the (silly) working titles most of them are currently under.
Charlie closed the back door behind himself and carefully locked it. The lights in the kitchen were off, possibly indicating that Amita had given up the struggle with dishes and resigned herself to an early night. For a moment guilt crept in, taking the shine off the new discovery he’d made working in the garage tonight. Maybe she wouldn’t be asleep yet–-it was only ten o’clock–-and they could talk for a while.
Maybe little Maggie would be awake enough to lay on his lap and smile that toothless baby grin.
Charlie shook his head as he eased through the swinging door into the still-lit living room. The rocking chair, its back to him, moved silently and steadily, but the thatch of dark hair he could see over the back was definitely not Amita’s. Not wanting to spook him, Charlie walked softly around and into his brother’s line of vision. “Don?”
Don’s head jerked up, his body instantly tense and ready. The second he actually saw Charlie, he slumped back in the chair, trying not to jostle the tiny sleeping child in his arms. “Charlie. Don’t do that.”
Charlie took a seat nearby. “What are you doing here so late?”
“Your wife is a con artist.” Don actually looked chagrined, though he held Maggie easily and comfortably. “Said you’d be in soon, would I hold Maggie for a while, and took off upstairs. I think I heard the shower.” His fingers absently stroked the dark down on the baby’s head.
Charlie struggled to repress a grin. “Are you sure it’s not Maggie who’s the budding con artist?”
“I’ll have you know, Chuck, you’re raising a family of criminals.” Don smiled; and even if it wasn’t big enough, and the lines around his eyes were deep with weariness, it was real.
Jim was astonished to wake to the smell of omelets the next morning. He rolled over, switching off his alarm before it could ring, and stretched. “Sandburg,” he called over the edge of his loft bedroom down into the kitchen. The first light of dawn was peeking through the balcony doors. “It’s Tuesday. What the hell are you doing already up?”
Blair glanced up from the pan in which a beautiful circle of pale yellow eggs, flecked with green and brown, were hissing. “I want to start this day right,” he said firmly. “And with you, that means breakfast.” He went back to the eggs, edging a spatula underneath one edge.
As Jim came down the stair, his roommate transferred the omelet to a (warm!) plate, and set it at on the kitchen bar. Without being asked, Jim said, “Garlic, mushrooms, thyme, salt and pepper, you did put milk in it this time, and I’m going to want seconds if that’s at all possible.” He dragged a stool closer, turned to get a fork from the drawer, and found Blair offering him one. “Are you sure this is just a good-karma breakfast, and not a bribe?”
Blair snorted. “I thought we’d covered this; I don’t bribe the Sentinel.”
“Except in a good cause.” Jim cut a neat triangle out of his omelet and lifted it on his fork, sniffing it appreciatively before popping it into his mouth.
The smooth taste, edged by garlic and lightened by milk, spread over his tongue, and flooded his vision with momentary light. Jim blinked and swallowed. The light vanished.
The Sentinel (AU):
Propped motionless in the crisply white hospital-style bed, the man might have been carved from stone. Occasional flickers of bright blue eyes were the only evidence of life within.
He was watching the night fall.
Somewhere in the small ground-floor condo his caregiver was preparing for bed. With the ease of long practice he tuned out the steps, the running water, the half-hummed song, and focused instead on failing light shattering through the wide window. The colors were changing, fiery glints edging evergreen needles on the lower branches, throwing darkness itself into relief. Enough light seeped through to reflect from the pale walls of his room, obscuring the view with a faint image of its furnishings. No matter. He could look through it.
That would just require a bit more concentration, a sharper focus. Which he had. Moving past the illusion in the glass, he watched the play of light among the leaves. Each needle nodding against the next in the breeze. Still one second, then bouncing along with its brothers. The light wound in and out between them, an endless, ever-changing game of cat’s cradle. Green and gold and brown and gray--
Annoyed, he pulled back, turning his head so that he faced the wall. Every lump, spot, crack, or chip he knew. Quite an accomplishment. The loving, painful end of two years’ methodical penance. His eyes sought the familiar water stain on the edge of the window frame. He could trace every nuance of its outline...as long as he didn’t look out the window. This wasn’t enough, could never be enough. But it was all he could offer, and damned if he would be cheated of that too.
It was getting cold.
Even all the way down here, what, maybe a hundred feet below ground? Weird. Even if the power had failed already–- And it hadn’t, the lights were still on, though maybe some should be turned off to save the generators, but the systems were all up and running. Marshall rubbed his hands briskly, trying to drive away the beginnings of numbness.
“Maybe it’s just psychological, huh?” he said aloud, risking a quick glance from the screen to locate his companion. “The cold?”
Fifteen feet away, Jack Bristow didn’t even turn around. Just fiddled with the wires coming from the double door’s security panel. Marshall itched to get his hands in there, it would be such child’s play--but that was the point, wasn't it, the whole idea of his being here at all? To do things even Mr. Bristow couldn’t?
Don thumped his beer down on the coffee table and stalked into the kitchen, letting the door swing shut behind him. He leaned against the sink, and let his burning eyes close. The weight of the day, of Charlie’s pain, of Colby’s shock, of the blood on that white shirt collar, pressed him down. He wanted nothing more than to just lie down and sleep. Forget all this crap for a little while.
His cell phone vibrated quietly against his waist. Granger, the screen said. “Yeah, Eppes.”
“Don, I found it! That coin signature–-I knew it sounded familiar!” The young agent sounded positively giddy.
“Whoa, whoa. That’s great news; what do you have?” Don turned around and leaned back against the sink; maybe this day would end on a half-way decent note after all.
“There were a lot of legends told in our Special Forces teams back in Afghanistan. One of my commanding officers told us once about this Army Ranger who went up against a Russian assassin in Peru. Early nineties, I think. The Russian used two-ruble coins to mark his kills.”
Don sighed. “Guess I need this Ranger’s name.”
“Already got it.”