Missing Moments: Fics to Fill In the Gaps
Jul. 4th, 2014 04:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
catkoFor a challenge at ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
tv_universe to write some fics to fill in those missing moments. Mine are all Wash-centric. Because he dropped so many tempting tidbits!
Life of Wash
Fandom: Firefly
Rating: G
Words (including quotes from the show): 1124
Wash: [pointing at the stars] "Planet I'm from, couldn't see a one of 'em, pollution so thick. Sometimes I think I entered flight school just to see what the hell everyone was talking about."
“Hoban! Hoban Andreus Washburne!” Uh-oh, thought Wash, as he scrambled across the field and under the fence toward home. Mum’s probably been calling for a while, she’s up to all three names. He gave a longing look back down the hill at the airfield, where the lights were coming up so the airmen and crew could work into the night, and sighed enviously. Worriedly noting the darkening sky—well, it was always darkish due to the atmosphere—he realized it was even later than he’d thought. He waved at his mother, who shook her finger but nodded and went back in the house. As he neared the porch, he took one last look behind him, and saw an airship rise up above the horizon, through the persistent haze, and into the heavens above. Some day, he thought to himself. Some day. (141 words)
Wash: "Hey, I've been in a firefight before. Well, I was in a fire. Actually, I was fired... from a fry-cook opportunity. I can handle myself."
“Washburne! Aiya huaile! What is going on in there?” Wash tossed a metal cover on top of the blazing stove and tried to sound calm. “Bizui! Never mind, I got it under control,” he sang out, as he poured panfuls of water around the edges of the fire that was once a #3 stirfry for Table Twelve. His relief at seeing the flames die away was pierced by his realization that the original blaze had scorched the entire wall, exhaust fan, and surrounding food supplies. Slumping against the opposite counter, he knew he was done for. His first real job and now he was gonna lose it.
Suddenly, a shout from the other room made him realize that Chan Lee had not come in to see the remains of the disaster. Peering warily out the service window, he saw two large men whose tattooed bald heads and leathers marked them as Woh Chung hitmen. Well, that and the massive weapons they were holding, leveled at Chan Lee. He could hear them shouting about payments due, over the desperate babbling of the restaurant’s owner and the scraping of chairs as patrons huddled under tables or scurried toward the exits.
Wash looked around for an escape route himself, but his conscience just wouldn’t let him sneak out the back. Steeling himself, he spotted a large fire extiguisher on the wall (NOW he sees that, thanks a lot), and moving stealthily, he took it down, checked the mechanism, and, in one bold move, whirled around into the dining room, blasting the gunmen with a forceful cloud of extinguisher spray. In the shouting melee, he heaved the extinguisher toward the flailing gunmen, who stumbled back out into the street as Wash pulled Chan Lee back into the kitchen. More yelling and sirens from the street indicated that for once the law was doing its job, so Wash and his boss were able to slump on the floor, breathing hard, but knowing they had time to catch their breath. Wash stared at his own two feet and wondered why the hell he had done that, as Chan Lee looked around him, taking in the damage, and, turning to Wash and slapping him on the shoulder, said, “Washburne. You saved my life. Thank you. But--” gesturing at the kitchen, “man, you are fired.” (378 words)
Wash: "Every planet has its own weird customs. About a year before we met I spent six months on a moon where the principal form of recreation was juggling geese. Hand to God. Baby geese—goslings. They were juggled."
“Wash! Hey Ho-Ban! Bro, you gotta come here and see this!” Wash looked up from where he’d been staring into his mug of ale and saw his crewmate Bosc at the tavern window along with other drunk, shouting men, looking out into the street. Frankly, he wasn’t much into carousing, or even drinking, with this lot. Not bad fellows, but working on an Alliance contractor ship was its own kind of thing.
He’d been thinking of late that maybe it wasn’t his kind of thing. Sure, after the War, he figured a steady job, well paid, structured, was what he was bound for, after the chaos of battle and soldiers’ prison and all. And sure enough, it wasn’t a bad life: regular-ish hours, clean quarters, regular pay. But it was hewing a little too close to the military life for his liking, and he was finding himself wondering if there weren’t better options for his life. A little adventure, maybe? Something off the beaten course?
He levered himself up to look out, and was, despite himself, rather amazed by the sight of a blur of six feathery, fuzzy bundles whizzing around in a circle in front of a grinning, swarthy man making juggler’s moves. Geese, or rather goslings, and they didn’t seem much worse for it, as others crowded around the man’s feet as if ready for their own go. Mesmerized, Wash found himself moving out into the street to better watch. What he really liked was how, at the apex of the circle, the bird would seem to lift itself up a bit on its own wings, then drop neatly back down to be circled around again. Heh, he thought to himself. If that don’t beat all. Guess anything is possible, no matter how unlikely. Digging in his pocket for some coin to throw in the bucket, he decided to mosey up the street to the pilots’ bar, ask around about other job chances. Couldn’t hurt to try, right? (330 words)
Zoë: "Next time we smuggle stock, let's make it somethin' smaller."
Wash: "Yeah, we should start dealing in those black market beagles."
“Wash! Gorrammit, where is he? Wash! Get down here!” Wash started up from under the comm console where he’d been contemplating some dicey wiring. “Coming! Mal—ow!” as he misjudged the distance and banged his head. Grimacing, he scrambled up and out the door to clatter across the catwalk to the cargo hold. As he moved to the stairs, he saw below him quite a sight. Zoe and Kaylee running around the hold amidst a tumble of overturned crates, chasing a lot of trotting, scampering creatures. Jayne clutching an armful of wriggling fur and ears and trying to shove them into one of the crates. A cacophany of yapping and barking and laughing and shouting—and in the middle of it all, Mal standing with his arms upraised, yelling, “Tai-kong suo-yo duh shing-chiou sai-jin wuh duh pigu! Beagles! Never again beagles!” (140 words)
tv_universe to write some fics to fill in those missing moments. Mine are all Wash-centric. Because he dropped so many tempting tidbits!Life of Wash
Fandom: Firefly
Rating: G
Words (including quotes from the show): 1124
Wash: [pointing at the stars] "Planet I'm from, couldn't see a one of 'em, pollution so thick. Sometimes I think I entered flight school just to see what the hell everyone was talking about."
“Hoban! Hoban Andreus Washburne!” Uh-oh, thought Wash, as he scrambled across the field and under the fence toward home. Mum’s probably been calling for a while, she’s up to all three names. He gave a longing look back down the hill at the airfield, where the lights were coming up so the airmen and crew could work into the night, and sighed enviously. Worriedly noting the darkening sky—well, it was always darkish due to the atmosphere—he realized it was even later than he’d thought. He waved at his mother, who shook her finger but nodded and went back in the house. As he neared the porch, he took one last look behind him, and saw an airship rise up above the horizon, through the persistent haze, and into the heavens above. Some day, he thought to himself. Some day. (141 words)
Wash: "Hey, I've been in a firefight before. Well, I was in a fire. Actually, I was fired... from a fry-cook opportunity. I can handle myself."
“Washburne! Aiya huaile! What is going on in there?” Wash tossed a metal cover on top of the blazing stove and tried to sound calm. “Bizui! Never mind, I got it under control,” he sang out, as he poured panfuls of water around the edges of the fire that was once a #3 stirfry for Table Twelve. His relief at seeing the flames die away was pierced by his realization that the original blaze had scorched the entire wall, exhaust fan, and surrounding food supplies. Slumping against the opposite counter, he knew he was done for. His first real job and now he was gonna lose it.
Suddenly, a shout from the other room made him realize that Chan Lee had not come in to see the remains of the disaster. Peering warily out the service window, he saw two large men whose tattooed bald heads and leathers marked them as Woh Chung hitmen. Well, that and the massive weapons they were holding, leveled at Chan Lee. He could hear them shouting about payments due, over the desperate babbling of the restaurant’s owner and the scraping of chairs as patrons huddled under tables or scurried toward the exits.
Wash looked around for an escape route himself, but his conscience just wouldn’t let him sneak out the back. Steeling himself, he spotted a large fire extiguisher on the wall (NOW he sees that, thanks a lot), and moving stealthily, he took it down, checked the mechanism, and, in one bold move, whirled around into the dining room, blasting the gunmen with a forceful cloud of extinguisher spray. In the shouting melee, he heaved the extinguisher toward the flailing gunmen, who stumbled back out into the street as Wash pulled Chan Lee back into the kitchen. More yelling and sirens from the street indicated that for once the law was doing its job, so Wash and his boss were able to slump on the floor, breathing hard, but knowing they had time to catch their breath. Wash stared at his own two feet and wondered why the hell he had done that, as Chan Lee looked around him, taking in the damage, and, turning to Wash and slapping him on the shoulder, said, “Washburne. You saved my life. Thank you. But--” gesturing at the kitchen, “man, you are fired.” (378 words)
Wash: "Every planet has its own weird customs. About a year before we met I spent six months on a moon where the principal form of recreation was juggling geese. Hand to God. Baby geese—goslings. They were juggled."
“Wash! Hey Ho-Ban! Bro, you gotta come here and see this!” Wash looked up from where he’d been staring into his mug of ale and saw his crewmate Bosc at the tavern window along with other drunk, shouting men, looking out into the street. Frankly, he wasn’t much into carousing, or even drinking, with this lot. Not bad fellows, but working on an Alliance contractor ship was its own kind of thing.
He’d been thinking of late that maybe it wasn’t his kind of thing. Sure, after the War, he figured a steady job, well paid, structured, was what he was bound for, after the chaos of battle and soldiers’ prison and all. And sure enough, it wasn’t a bad life: regular-ish hours, clean quarters, regular pay. But it was hewing a little too close to the military life for his liking, and he was finding himself wondering if there weren’t better options for his life. A little adventure, maybe? Something off the beaten course?
He levered himself up to look out, and was, despite himself, rather amazed by the sight of a blur of six feathery, fuzzy bundles whizzing around in a circle in front of a grinning, swarthy man making juggler’s moves. Geese, or rather goslings, and they didn’t seem much worse for it, as others crowded around the man’s feet as if ready for their own go. Mesmerized, Wash found himself moving out into the street to better watch. What he really liked was how, at the apex of the circle, the bird would seem to lift itself up a bit on its own wings, then drop neatly back down to be circled around again. Heh, he thought to himself. If that don’t beat all. Guess anything is possible, no matter how unlikely. Digging in his pocket for some coin to throw in the bucket, he decided to mosey up the street to the pilots’ bar, ask around about other job chances. Couldn’t hurt to try, right? (330 words)
Zoë: "Next time we smuggle stock, let's make it somethin' smaller."
Wash: "Yeah, we should start dealing in those black market beagles."
“Wash! Gorrammit, where is he? Wash! Get down here!” Wash started up from under the comm console where he’d been contemplating some dicey wiring. “Coming! Mal—ow!” as he misjudged the distance and banged his head. Grimacing, he scrambled up and out the door to clatter across the catwalk to the cargo hold. As he moved to the stairs, he saw below him quite a sight. Zoe and Kaylee running around the hold amidst a tumble of overturned crates, chasing a lot of trotting, scampering creatures. Jayne clutching an armful of wriggling fur and ears and trying to shove them into one of the crates. A cacophany of yapping and barking and laughing and shouting—and in the middle of it all, Mal standing with his arms upraised, yelling, “Tai-kong suo-yo duh shing-chiou sai-jin wuh duh pigu! Beagles! Never again beagles!” (140 words)
