2. What pairing/genre/fandom did you write that you would never have predicted in January?:
3. What’s your own favorite story of the year? Not the most popular, but the one that makes you happiest?
4. Did you take any writing risks this year? What did you learn from them?
5. Do you have any fanfic or profic goals for the New Year?
6. From my past year of writing, what was…
Hardest to Write:
Most Unintentionally Telling:
“Woah. Didn’t mean to step into the morning after.”
“That’s fucking bullshit.” Steve considered adding ‘with all due respect, sir,’ but he didn’t think it would have mattered at that point, and he also didn't think it would be honest.
...Peggy Carter is controlled and capable and brilliant, but the only thing that’s stone about her is the strength of her right hook.
Steve thinks of courts martial and the way Peggy's uniform fits her so easily. His chest feels splayed open. “I'd love to come with you,” he says, the words breathing out of him.
He wants to hug her, to hold her against him, calculated and risky and stunning. Instead he finds her hand where it lies in the sand between them and presses it delicately… Withdraw Their Shining
...Steve, eyes downcast, gifts Peggy with a drawing- simple charcoal on lovely, thick paper- of what she recognizes with some surprise as her own hands. One is in a fist, the other spread wide like a shield.
“Shut up,” she says, fierce and polite, and swings him around and kisses him. He’s stunned still for only a moment.
“That was four dollars worth of ingredients,” Steve says dazedly several hours later. He is coated lightly in flour as if he has forgotten to come out of the snow.
They are two highly capable, mostly rational people. They have wedding rings and work and dinner dates and outings with friends and occasional couple’s espionage. They can cook nearly anything else by this point. There is no reason to be frustrated that they cannot conquer bread.
They host Thanksgiving because Bucky’s family wanted Christmas.
The girls are leaving first, so Steve stays with them while they pack up, the familiar trappings of the Star Spangled Show disappearing into crates, the familiar faces blurring beneath coats and hats.
The chaperone, Miss Lindon, is staring something fierce at him. (They’d almost driven off a cliff one midnight on a twisty road in California. Everyone else was squeezing hands and praying. Miss Lindon, firm and tidy in tweed, just turned the page of her book with a careful finger.)- Stand Together
He knows that Peggy is ninety-two years old. He knows that she just moved into a new nursing home last week. He knows that she is standing right in front of him, no more than a few years older than when he went into the ice. Dark hair, dark lipstick, dark jumpsuit, and his shield on her back.
Later, watching this Peggy, a shade away from what he knows, he realizes that she reminds him of no one as much as himself, shielding himself from the familiar and the unfamiliar and the memories most of all.
Natasha is the most off-put by how well Peggy knows them. Her stories have come slowly to Steve, each one a trust-gift. Peggy has her own collection, but for Natasha they are weapons held by someone she does not know.
No one could identify with the loneliness of waking up after the ice like Peggy could, the futile anger of knowing that everyone was gone and it was only him, surviving and surviving and surviving.- Burdens Had
The next time Steve sees Thompson, he has fading bruises on either side of his jaw, and actually avoids Steve. As if Steve would hit him if he was just minding his own business.- All the Days
“-And she said I needed to cut out half my footnotes, even though so much of the good stuff is there, and who doesn’t like extra footnotes? They’re like little knowledge presents!“ Willow finished, turning off the overhead light and enjoying the sound of her slippers shuffling against the carpet. Buffy was still out; she had a midterm the next day and Giles was quizzing her. She held the phone against her shoulder and pulled the covers down.
She woke one morning with Steve’s voice, warm and content and loving, full of wonder, still settled over her like a shroud.
There were things that Peggy had not even known she could miss: slicing apples, newspapers, the moon and rain, handshakes, calendars.
There was a tenement sort of grimness to his voice that spoke of gritting teeth through long winters.
He had become less formal in her presence, knees and elbows expanding outward as he sat in a way that made him look somehow smaller, or at least softer.
She gripped at her tea. The all-purpose English remedy, she and Monty used to joke. Apply liberally to anything from gunshot wounds to heartbreak. It didn’t seem to be working.
Peggy reminded herself that she had quite handily survived a world war, and that there was no reason to behave swoonily just because Steve was being very visibly attractive in front of her.
“‘‘Twas I who chopped down the cherry tree’ and all that?” It sounded accidentally Shakespearean in her accent despite her wry tone.
“Fine,” he said, the way he did when things were not fine. It wasn’t that he was lying, but that he hadn’t yet realized that something was wrong.
Steve ran the miles home. The idea of cars felt condensed and awful.
She saw Barton farther down the street, half sitting, half sunbathing on top of one of the fire trucks.
In the bleary dark: “Why have you done so much to help us?”
“Well, Evans, the thing about that man you married- and I love him like a brother and would kill anyone else who said this- is that he’s not very bright and sometimes exists with his head firmly hidden up his arse.”- The Biting Yesterdays
“Hey, man, respect the skills of others. Maybe I can’t do any of that either, but I laugh in the face of the blue screen of death.”- In the Gray Light
There’s a feeling in her chest that reminds her of seeing Michael in his uniform for the first time, a ragged beat swallowing her thoughts for just a blank moment, whispering how much it would hurt to lose him.
He tells Peggy this after they’re adjourned for the day. She does not try to build him up or placate him. “They used to bury suspected vampires with stakes in their chests and bricks in their jaws even after they’d died,” she says instead, tilting her chin up at him.- Duty Bound
She has the feeling that he’s from the type of family where handshake lessons were given on Monday from 2:30 to 4.- Heads, Hands
This woman sounds like she could buy and sell him a couple of times over, and he’s not entirely sure if he means literally or metaphorically.- A Rousing Debate
“It’s good. I like it,” and somehow that’s worth paragraphs and paragraphs. It settles around her heart.- To Question, Squirrels and Books
But Angel has had a few centuries to get used to how quickly things shift. He has no more lamentations for the eyeblinks that mean a change. Killing a young girl, seeing one on sunlit school steps; these things took seconds and changed everything.
His voice is hoarse and he speaks slowly, but his Russian is perfect, as if the language is something he stored in an attic chest, one he just creaked open to find it pristine.
Because although she has more responsibility than anyone he’s ever known, the weight of lives and lives, she also has her own, and it is such a young one. He wants to be sure that she doesn’t look with regret on these months spent with him, the cliffside love with someone whose life is endlessly futureless.
She’s been missing him all these months, she hasn’t even been tempted, never in all that time, and she’s not totally hideous, so there were some people trying to tempt. But she’s been waiting, it hasn’t even been a question, and he’s apparently been questioning all over the place if he was going to break his word, the last thing he said to her.
She goes Bronzing with the gang. She spends a couple nights hanging and talking with Will, where they dissect Oz’s latest three words, and try once again to figure out Cordelia and Xander, and don’t talk at all about Angel or about how this feels worse than the entire last year because they finally got to choose and they both chose to be apart. She gets a B+ on her English quiz.- The Closing Distance
Despite herself, Veronica is disappointed. She had wanted the rush from figuring out a puzzle, from outthinking a group of criminals with rap sheets long enough to ride the big roller coasters without a parent. Now she’s facing a woman who’s pulling the criminal equivalent of faking cramps to get out of gym.- The Blown Job