I haven't written anything for a couple of weeks. (Even though I have something like seven stories over three fandoms in the pipeline, but let's forget that.)
Why not have a meme: If you wish, pick one of my icons and I will write a ficlet or drabble based on it.
He didn't much care for these parties. Painfully juvenile, putting on a costume and swaying to Roxy bloody Music. And too many of the ugliest buggers took it as a chance to unleash their inner perverts, dolled up in sequined dresses and falsies. No, this was not his idea of fun. The poncho itched, the snake-skin boots had too high a heel for his liking, and Chris had already sicked up in two of the four office pot plants.
Worst luck, it looked like Sam was a no show, and Gene was willing to admit to himself if no one else that when the declaration that a skin-tight glam-rock suit might be worn, he was simultaneously disturbed and fascinated. His mind had conjured up an image and haunted him with it the past three nights. It would have been good to confirm or disprove his imagination. He had another drink and tried to pretend he didn't have one. He was successfully diverted for a minute before Ray's voice rang out through the office.
"... you put it down. Jesus Christ, I used to say it as a joke, but you really are a banana short of a tree, aren'tcha?"
"If I knew of which you spoke I could retort, but you blather gibberish like a preacher and I shall have no part in it."
Ray raised his hands exasperatedly and Sam --- barely recognisable in an elaborate get-up the detail and flamboyancy of which had not been seen since Arnold Berry turned up one year as Prometheus (along with a trained eagle --- at least, he'd said it was trained) fled. There was no other word for it, Sam turned on his heel and ran helter skelter down the hall, his long coat billowing behind him. Gene wondered who'd slipped him the mickey this time, decided if there was an official bet going he'd lay money on Phyllis, and followed Sam's path at a sauntering pace.
He found Sam sitting in the men's with his back tight against the wall and his vintage, authentic-looking sword by his feet.
"Tyler?"
"Why does that name persist, it is not mine," Sam growled. Gene found himself staring at the realistic-looking scar down Sam's eye. He really had gone to extraordinary lengths, so why remain holed up in a room solely devoted to piss and shit?
"No, that wasn't my suggestion. Oh, forget it," Gene said as he slumped next to Sam, stopped himself from reaching out and touching his tattered looking clothes.
"My name is Sexby."
"Is it now? I think I read about you once. Friend of Cromwell, right?"
Sam's eyes lit up and he gave the slight frown he had when he was trying to reconcile the money in the office jar with the list he'd made people add to whenever they took a penny.
"You know Oliver?" he asked, then twisted his upper lip. "I would not call him friend."
"No, you're a Royalist, aren't you?" Gene said with a mocking smirk --- he had heard Sam's 'we should be a republic and this is why' speeches too many times not to want to deride him to hell. "What's that you like to say, all the better for Queen and country?"
Sam was swift, grasping his sword and drawing it near Gene's throat, pinning his shoulder to the tiles. "I have never before heard such filthy words spew from a man's lips. Who are you to claim me a Royalist?"
"It was a joke," Gene said, eyes widening. The blade did not seem at all blunt as it pressed against his skin. "Has someone knocked a funny bone out? You've a back-up, you know."
"I do not understand this world," Sam said, pulling away and staring at the flooring.
"Oh God, not that again."
"Buildings such as this, full of people such as..." Sam paused, he waved his hand. "You. I would sooner slice my eyes than view it any longer. She had told me she was in cohort with the devil, but more fool I --- I believed her to be in jest. And now. Look. Madness."
"Looks like you've already started. Look, Sam, I'm not sure what they've given you, but come back out to the party and maybe you'll be able to drink it out of your system?"
Sam stared at him in horror, hand clutching his sword once more. "I could kill every last one of you, but when would the terrors end?"
"Good question. There's over forty people out there, so I'd say just before Lytts starts singing 'Somewhere Over the Rainbow'. When he's had more than six drinks, he reveals his true colours --- and what a fabulous rainbow they do make. My thoughts are that it's best to avoid the killing and head straight for the mockery."
Sam scowled, and even through the hair, hat and simulated battle-wounds, looked enough like himself that Gene experienced the oft-felt conflict between wanting to punch him and wanting to rub his tummy (and more besides.)
"Guv? Sorry I'm late, I got held up by a traffic accident and there's nowhere to put my badge in this costume. What're you doing in there?" a voice called through the door.
Gene frowned as the door swung open and Sam walked through wearing a silver jump suit and heavy eye-liner. He turned to his side and rapidly clamped his hand down on the sword.
"You better start explaining, or I'm gonna take this, shove it up your ironsides and then cut off your roundhead."
You make me want to use multiple explanation marks and capslock!!!
TWO PARTS!!!OMG11!!!
Where to begin? There is so much to love! Starting with the perfect beginning to a party: Gene in his poncho (Clint!) and sickingup!Chris. Ray expostulating offscreen with Sexby was also lovely, with the implicit banana bewilderment. Sexby flouncing a la Sam. And then Gene wonders:
why remain holed up in a room solely devoted to piss and shit?
You are a wicked woman, Loz. WICKED. :-P
Part 2 - Sam's 'we should be a republic and this is why' speeches. God, yes, of course Sam would be loudly anti-monarchist, wouldn't he. And you've given us Lytts singing 'Somewhere Over the Rainbow' AND Gene wanting to rub Sexby's tummy (and more besides). All tied up in a bright, spangly bow at the end, too.
This is just so full of cracky goodness. Can I send you some virtual Lancashire Extra Nippy?
P.S. (confessional) Had been secretly hoping that someone would pen something along these lines ever since I read this bit from darthfi's magnificent The Devil's Whore Live Blog:
Andy: I'm surprised that no-one's done a Life on Mars/Devil's Whore crossover. Culf: How would you do it? Fi: Edward Sexby gets run over by a cart and wakes up in 1973. Andy: *goes red laughing*
It doesn’t take a professional whistler to tell you happiness is subjective. What makes one person beam with joy and sparkles is not necessarily going to bring the same kind of glee to another. Manny found that the polarisation of his and Bernard’s humours couldn’t be more polar if one of them was a bear and the other a penguin.
He --- Manny --- derived pleasure from simple things. The ring of a customer-indicating bell, an exciting and absorbing tale of embarking on adventure and overcoming adversity, participating in Splash Battle at Flamingo Land. But he --- Bernard --- had an entirely different kettle of hot water that gave his life joy.
Bernard revelled in the misfortune of others. The Germans had a word for it, but it was long, and Manny couldn’t remember the order of the syllables. A five year old walking into a glass door brought a smirk to Bernard’s lips. An eighty year old tripping down a flight of stairs made him titter. And Manny trussed up like a Turkey whilst carollers poked him with sticks, at Easter time, no less, made his face break into a fully-fledged grin.
What had begun as what Manny had thought was a protest against the commercialisation of pagan rituals turned into public torture and humiliation. He had actually been involved in a protest march on the side for commercialisation and his so-called comrades hadn’t taken kindly to his placards, costume, and loud anti-commercial commentary. He’d been tackled to the ground and, struggle as he might, Manny wasn’t made for violence, he had no skill against these soulless money-grubbing fiends.
When he saw Bernard walk into the circle of attackers, he thought only of rescue, but as the minutes wore on, each poke being more painful than the last, he realised he’d thought in vain.
He supposed he should hate Bernard in that moment; tied upside-down, wrists and ankles aching because of rope-burn. Bernard’s laugh echoed through the street and he waved his cigarette around with flair, cajoling the carollers to poke harder, no, not like that, like this. And part of him did hate Bernard, because at least part of him was sane. But the largest part of him, the one he had no control over, quite enjoyed Bernard’s joy. It was rare to see such delight on his countenance; all toothy white grin and scrunched eyes, and his wheezing, collapsed-lung-laugh was infectious. And Manny couldn’t help but think getting to experience these things was worth a little torture.
You know you're warped, don't you? It's one of the things I like about you! And couldn’t be more polar if one of them was a bear and the other a penguin is one of the best lines ever!
When you’ve been friends with someone as long as Shawn’s been friends with Gus, you get to learn things that so-called more-than-friends don’t know until years, hell, eons, down the track. Those parts of a personality that most people keep hidden until it’s too late for the other person to back out of the relationship without rending and tearing their heart. Shawn’s glad he and Gus have been friends for seemingly ever, even though it was a mile-high wall for a long time between his attraction and his resulting action.
He knows that Gus knows everything there is about him. His flaws and foibles. His quirks and idiosyncrasies. Gus knows things about him he doesn’t even know himself. So, it’s like --- even though he let fear of ruining their friendship dictate how he’d treat Gus for months, and how he kept thinking about the time Gus stutteringly talked about the Westermarck effect to Joy when she asked how long he and his best friend had been using jazz hands in bed together (which at the time hurt like a son-of-a-bitch, but Gus explained two months later that he’d freaked out, “because what do you say to your sister, Shawn, if she asks whether you’re banging your best friend and the truth is you’re not, but you really, really want to?”) --- developing this aspect of their relationship so late in the game has only made them stronger. When Gus kisses him, he’s really kissing him; not some action figure that bears his impossibly good looks and a surface facsimile of his wit and charm. Gus is kissing his neuroses and emotional distance, his one-upmanship and fake bravado, his obsession with being awesomely right all the time and his intense love of Kajagoogoo.
Realising this makes Shawn feel extra frisky. It’s like he’s bought a new toy and just has to play with it until it falls apart --- except that this is a horrible analogy, there is no way he’s going to destroy what they have. His friskiness means he’s loose and happy with his hands and lips always. In the office, on the bike, in the Blueberry, at a crime scene. And he guesses he’d feel bad about this if Gus ever protested, but Gus seems A-okay with his grabbiness, even when they’re on a case. They surreptitiously cling to one another in all kinds of places; elevators, behind potted plants, within packing crates, and okay, so they sort of used to do this before too, but now their attention is on each other and not hiding from psychomaniacs, even if they are actually meant to be hiding from psychomaniacs at the time.
Too many times to count Shawn pulls away from Gus, feeling heat creeping up his spine and his heart thumping nine times its normal speed only to realise they’re meant to be on the lookout for their suspect. He murmurs softly to Gus that, “this is great, amazing, but shouldn’t we, you know...?”, and they prise apart, in the next second peering around the edge of potted plants, the top of a packing crate, or a door --- elevator or otherwise.
And Shawn thinks, okay, it’s been a long and winding road, and probably he shouldn’t snigger that he gets a little help from his friend, and he may even be a walrus, but it’s been worth it, because he has Gus eight days a week. And then Shawn thinks that he should win all kinds of awards for his awesome Beatles-quoting skills. But then Shawn thinks he should really stop thinking and just feel, because he is the luckiest person in the world.
They say misery loves company, but in Carlton’s experience, that’s the second largest pile of crock he’s ever heard (the first being “I’m a psychic detective”.) Despite what some people may think Carlton doesn’t revel in everyone else’s misfortune. A few, specific culprits of anger and annoyance getting their come-uppance? Yeah, sure, he revels so much his feet wear out from the lindy hop of joy. But everyone in the entirety of existence? He became a cop because he wanted to help people. It’s not his fault if, over time, the lines blurred and he occasionally forgets what got him to this point. It’s even less his fault if people don’t always want to be helped.
He isn’t always miserable. There are many days when he’s okay with what he does and who he is, and even if his life doesn’t have any direction, he’s marginally okay with the way it’s panning out. But he can’t deny that it’s more common lately that he wants to pound his head into a wall and blot out his vision. Because he --- he became a cop because he wanted to help people and all too often it’s turned into a competition, or another rung on a ladder that leads to nowhere, and he wonders what happened to that young man with ideals and optimism and belief in the goodness of humanity.
Sometimes he thinks that if he could go back... he’d do everything exactly the same. He hates that he’s this honest with himself. But there has to be something he can do to be some form of content. Not just accepting, but actively happy as well. He doesn’t understand why every time he thinks he’s edging toward an answer, the perpetrator of the first largest pile of crock he’s ever heard comes and shakes up his understandings and expectations --- making him feel like he should look the opposite direction. They say misery loves company, and maybe they’re right, but not in the way they mean.
And I really adored this line: "Because he --- he became a cop because he wanted to help people and all too often it’s turned into a competition, or another rung on a ladder that leads to nowhere, and he wonders what happened to that young man with ideals and optimism and belief in the goodness of humanity."
I can completely picture him thinking such a thing. Great little fictlet!
There’s a lake at the end of the world. The water’s expansive and clear. It could almost reflect all the wrongs made in the name of faith. Light bounces off the surface, refracted into a kaleidoscope of colour. Is this what the wars were fought for? A lonely bastion of unremarkable calm? A sense of tranquil, natural splendour? Mission accomplished. Shame I’m the only one left to appreciate it. It seems strange, to be surrounded by such decaying beauty. There’s a lake at the end of the world, and I think I’ll wade in now. Now that it’s all over.
John Simm (Is Sexby).
P.S. Crossovers welcome. Hee.
Worst luck, it looked like Sam was a no show, and Gene was willing to admit to himself if no one else that when the declaration that a skin-tight glam-rock suit might be worn, he was simultaneously disturbed and fascinated. His mind had conjured up an image and haunted him with it the past three nights. It would have been good to confirm or disprove his imagination. He had another drink and tried to pretend he didn't have one. He was successfully diverted for a minute before Ray's voice rang out through the office.
"... you put it down. Jesus Christ, I used to say it as a joke, but you really are a banana short of a tree, aren'tcha?"
"If I knew of which you spoke I could retort, but you blather gibberish like a preacher and I shall have no part in it."
Ray raised his hands exasperatedly and Sam --- barely recognisable in an elaborate get-up the detail and flamboyancy of which had not been seen since Arnold Berry turned up one year as Prometheus (along with a trained eagle --- at least, he'd said it was trained) fled. There was no other word for it, Sam turned on his heel and ran helter skelter down the hall, his long coat billowing behind him. Gene wondered who'd slipped him the mickey this time, decided if there was an official bet going he'd lay money on Phyllis, and followed Sam's path at a sauntering pace.
He found Sam sitting in the men's with his back tight against the wall and his vintage, authentic-looking sword by his feet.
"Tyler?"
"Why does that name persist, it is not mine," Sam growled. Gene found himself staring at the realistic-looking scar down Sam's eye. He really had gone to extraordinary lengths, so why remain holed up in a room solely devoted to piss and shit?
"Certainly not."
"No, that wasn't my suggestion. Oh, forget it," Gene said as he slumped next to Sam, stopped himself from reaching out and touching his tattered looking clothes.
"My name is Sexby."
"Is it now? I think I read about you once. Friend of Cromwell, right?"
Sam's eyes lit up and he gave the slight frown he had when he was trying to reconcile the money in the office jar with the list he'd made people add to whenever they took a penny.
"You know Oliver?" he asked, then twisted his upper lip. "I would not call him friend."
"No, you're a Royalist, aren't you?" Gene said with a mocking smirk --- he had heard Sam's 'we should be a republic and this is why' speeches too many times not to want to deride him to hell. "What's that you like to say, all the better for Queen and country?"
Sam was swift, grasping his sword and drawing it near Gene's throat, pinning his shoulder to the tiles. "I have never before heard such filthy words spew from a man's lips. Who are you to claim me a Royalist?"
"It was a joke," Gene said, eyes widening. The blade did not seem at all blunt as it pressed against his skin. "Has someone knocked a funny bone out? You've a back-up, you know."
"I do not understand this world," Sam said, pulling away and staring at the flooring.
"Oh God, not that again."
"Buildings such as this, full of people such as..." Sam paused, he waved his hand. "You. I would sooner slice my eyes than view it any longer. She had told me she was in cohort with the devil, but more fool I --- I believed her to be in jest. And now. Look. Madness."
"Looks like you've already started. Look, Sam, I'm not sure what they've given you, but come back out to the party and maybe you'll be able to drink it out of your system?"
Sam stared at him in horror, hand clutching his sword once more. "I could kill every last one of you, but when would the terrors end?"
"Good question. There's over forty people out there, so I'd say just before Lytts starts singing 'Somewhere Over the Rainbow'. When he's had more than six drinks, he reveals his true colours --- and what a fabulous rainbow they do make. My thoughts are that it's best to avoid the killing and head straight for the mockery."
Sam scowled, and even through the hair, hat and simulated battle-wounds, looked enough like himself that Gene experienced the oft-felt conflict between wanting to punch him and wanting to rub his tummy (and more besides.)
"Guv? Sorry I'm late, I got held up by a traffic accident and there's nowhere to put my badge in this costume. What're you doing in there?" a voice called through the door.
Gene frowned as the door swung open and Sam walked through wearing a silver jump suit and heavy eye-liner. He turned to his side and rapidly clamped his hand down on the sword.
"You better start explaining, or I'm gonna take this, shove it up your ironsides and then cut off your roundhead."
You make me want to use multiple explanation marks and capslock!!!
TWO PARTS!!!OMG11!!!
Where to begin? There is so much to love! Starting with the perfect beginning to a party: Gene in his poncho (Clint!) and sickingup!Chris. Ray expostulating offscreen with Sexby was also lovely, with the implicit banana bewilderment. Sexby flouncing a la Sam. And then Gene wonders:
why remain holed up in a room solely devoted to piss and shit?
You are a wicked woman, Loz. WICKED. :-P
Part 2 - Sam's 'we should be a republic and this is why' speeches. God, yes, of course Sam would be loudly anti-monarchist, wouldn't he. And you've given us Lytts singing 'Somewhere Over the Rainbow' AND Gene wanting to rub Sexby's tummy (and more besides). All tied up in a bright, spangly bow at the end, too.
This is just so full of cracky goodness. Can I send you some virtual Lancashire Extra Nippy?
P.S. (confessional) Had been secretly hoping that someone would pen something along these lines ever since I read this bit from darthfi's magnificent The Devil's Whore Live Blog:
Andy: I'm surprised that no-one's done a Life on Mars/Devil's Whore crossover.
Culf: How would you do it?
Fi: Edward Sexby gets run over by a cart and wakes up in 1973.
Andy: *goes red laughing*
He --- Manny --- derived pleasure from simple things. The ring of a customer-indicating bell, an exciting and absorbing tale of embarking on adventure and overcoming adversity, participating in Splash Battle at Flamingo Land. But he --- Bernard --- had an entirely different kettle of hot water that gave his life joy.
Bernard revelled in the misfortune of others. The Germans had a word for it, but it was long, and Manny couldn’t remember the order of the syllables. A five year old walking into a glass door brought a smirk to Bernard’s lips. An eighty year old tripping down a flight of stairs made him titter. And Manny trussed up like a Turkey whilst carollers poked him with sticks, at Easter time, no less, made his face break into a fully-fledged grin.
What had begun as what Manny had thought was a protest against the commercialisation of pagan rituals turned into public torture and humiliation. He had actually been involved in a protest march on the side for commercialisation and his so-called comrades hadn’t taken kindly to his placards, costume, and loud anti-commercial commentary. He’d been tackled to the ground and, struggle as he might, Manny wasn’t made for violence, he had no skill against these soulless money-grubbing fiends.
When he saw Bernard walk into the circle of attackers, he thought only of rescue, but as the minutes wore on, each poke being more painful than the last, he realised he’d thought in vain.
He supposed he should hate Bernard in that moment; tied upside-down, wrists and ankles aching because of rope-burn. Bernard’s laugh echoed through the street and he waved his cigarette around with flair, cajoling the carollers to poke harder, no, not like that, like this. And part of him did hate Bernard, because at least part of him was sane. But the largest part of him, the one he had no control over, quite enjoyed Bernard’s joy. It was rare to see such delight on his countenance; all toothy white grin and scrunched eyes, and his wheezing, collapsed-lung-laugh was infectious. And Manny couldn’t help but think getting to experience these things was worth a little torture.
Thank you!
He knows that Gus knows everything there is about him. His flaws and foibles. His quirks and idiosyncrasies. Gus knows things about him he doesn’t even know himself. So, it’s like --- even though he let fear of ruining their friendship dictate how he’d treat Gus for months, and how he kept thinking about the time Gus stutteringly talked about the Westermarck effect to Joy when she asked how long he and his best friend had been using jazz hands in bed together (which at the time hurt like a son-of-a-bitch, but Gus explained two months later that he’d freaked out, “because what do you say to your sister, Shawn, if she asks whether you’re banging your best friend and the truth is you’re not, but you really, really want to?”) --- developing this aspect of their relationship so late in the game has only made them stronger. When Gus kisses him, he’s really kissing him; not some action figure that bears his impossibly good looks and a surface facsimile of his wit and charm. Gus is kissing his neuroses and emotional distance, his one-upmanship and fake bravado, his obsession with being awesomely right all the time and his intense love of Kajagoogoo.
Realising this makes Shawn feel extra frisky. It’s like he’s bought a new toy and just has to play with it until it falls apart --- except that this is a horrible analogy, there is no way he’s going to destroy what they have. His friskiness means he’s loose and happy with his hands and lips always. In the office, on the bike, in the Blueberry, at a crime scene. And he guesses he’d feel bad about this if Gus ever protested, but Gus seems A-okay with his grabbiness, even when they’re on a case. They surreptitiously cling to one another in all kinds of places; elevators, behind potted plants, within packing crates, and okay, so they sort of used to do this before too, but now their attention is on each other and not hiding from psychomaniacs, even if they are actually meant to be hiding from psychomaniacs at the time.
Too many times to count Shawn pulls away from Gus, feeling heat creeping up his spine and his heart thumping nine times its normal speed only to realise they’re meant to be on the lookout for their suspect. He murmurs softly to Gus that, “this is great, amazing, but shouldn’t we, you know...?”, and they prise apart, in the next second peering around the edge of potted plants, the top of a packing crate, or a door --- elevator or otherwise.
And Shawn thinks, okay, it’s been a long and winding road, and probably he shouldn’t snigger that he gets a little help from his friend, and he may even be a walrus, but it’s been worth it, because he has Gus eight days a week. And then Shawn thinks that he should win all kinds of awards for his awesome Beatles-quoting skills. But then Shawn thinks he should really stop thinking and just feel, because he is the luckiest person in the world.
Edited at 2010-03-27 01:27 pm (UTC)
He isn’t always miserable. There are many days when he’s okay with what he does and who he is, and even if his life doesn’t have any direction, he’s marginally okay with the way it’s panning out. But he can’t deny that it’s more common lately that he wants to pound his head into a wall and blot out his vision. Because he --- he became a cop because he wanted to help people and all too often it’s turned into a competition, or another rung on a ladder that leads to nowhere, and he wonders what happened to that young man with ideals and optimism and belief in the goodness of humanity.
Sometimes he thinks that if he could go back... he’d do everything exactly the same. He hates that he’s this honest with himself. But there has to be something he can do to be some form of content. Not just accepting, but actively happy as well. He doesn’t understand why every time he thinks he’s edging toward an answer, the perpetrator of the first largest pile of crock he’s ever heard comes and shakes up his understandings and expectations --- making him feel like he should look the opposite direction. They say misery loves company, and maybe they’re right, but not in the way they mean.
And I really adored this line: "Because he --- he became a cop because he wanted to help people and all too often it’s turned into a competition, or another rung on a ladder that leads to nowhere, and he wonders what happened to that young man with ideals and optimism and belief in the goodness of humanity."
I can completely picture him thinking such a thing. Great little fictlet!
Edited at 2010-03-17 06:47 pm (UTC)
:D?
I'd say sorry for being evil, but you know I'm not.