tigriswolf | one paragraph WIP meme (Reply)

Some of these are more likely than others to be finished. Not every WIP I have is represented. Can you guess the fandoms?

Zoë launched into a stream of information that Dean actually seemed to follow. He pulled a sandwich out of his bag and attentively watched Zoë as she spoke. Dean scarfed his sandwich down then sipped his coke. Phoebe wasn’t hungry, so she pushed her tray across the table to him.

The building is primitive, and so were the weapons. But the chain around Bones’ neck and wrists and ankles is some sort of material none of the crew have ever seen before. Even Spock is stumped. It can’t be broken, or sawed through, or lasered off. It goes directly into the ground. They dig nearly twenty feet down and it just keeps going.

And he isn’t talking. He ignores every member of the away-team. He doesn’t respond to Spock’s rational questions or Jim’s swiftly-losing-patience queries. There are no answers to be found on the surface, so they dig deeper. The man has no shelter, no supplies. His clothes are ragged and threadbare, an ancient pair of jeans and torn flannel shirt. His hair reaches his shoulders, slightly wavy and dark. His eyes, dark green, don’t focus on anyone; he just gazes out at the landscape, hands on his knees.

It took five more years to understand. To realize he wasn’t insane when he thought he saw into someone’s body. The veins and capillaries and muscle contracting around bone. And then he stumbled onto two men torturing a third, making him writhe and beg and scream. He watched, mouth open in awe, as they scalded and cut and broke him without ever touching him, and then he looked past the surface, at how they tore him apart inside.

“That boy was dead,” House says from the bedside chair. His blue eyes pin Robert in place. “He was dead when they brought him in.” House stands, hands tight on his cane. “That is interesting, don’t you think?”

The last memory lost is Rufio. Rufio lingers longer than Hook and the mermaids and sweet Tink. Rufio stays after the feel of flying is lost, after playing hide and seek in the clouds is gone.

He’d been an only child. His mother died in a fire when he was six months old. His father took him and ran until a car-wreck when Sam was eight. He’d spent most of the time drunk off his ass and blaming Sam for Mary’s death. That blame took the form of beatings. After the wreck, he went into foster care and nothing got better. It didn’t get worse, either, but that didn’t really comfort Jessica whenever she saw his scars or he shied away from her touch while barely awake.

The kid has the gall to smirk, something dangerous in his eyes. “You’re lucky that’s the only thing I inherited,” he says, “’sides my wit and good looks, of course.” He straightens from his slouch to add, “And for the record, sir, fuck you.”

John’s tears were the most beautiful thing Alistair ever saw, until John’s firstborn made his way to the rack, knife in hand and coated with blood. John’s tears tasted like sin when Alistair licked them off his face. Like desecration and degradation, like broken skies.

There was something feral about the Winchesters, even the little rugrat with floppy hair that peered out from behind John or Mary’s legs. Something wild in Mary’s eyes, something wild in the coiled tension of John’s shoulders. Whether it was remnants of the thing that got the Campbells or something new chasing them, no one knew, and quite a few asked.

That night, he makes his way through the book, sounding out the many words he doesn’t know. So many names, with so many meanings… even if the father and son are just being cruel, he decides he would like a name of his own, something to call himself in the safety of his mind, something no one could ever take from him.

Nodding, Jim said, “Half, on his father’s side. We can’t pronounce his real last name—well, nobody but Uhura over there and Principal Wayne, anyway. He showed up and got all pissy because categories are illogical, pointless, and detrimental to the development of young powered minds.”