Log in

No account? Create an account
Living Loz
No one here played any practical jokes today... 
1st-Apr-2011 10:44 pm
Loz Target
1. In the spirit of April Fool's Day, feel free to prompt me with fic you think I'd never write.
2. I'll attempt a snippet.
3. ?
4. Profit!
1st-Apr-2011 01:40 pm (UTC)
Gene Hunt and Supermac in the steam room!

(In first draft, that actually said 'Superman', which I **double dog dare you**!!!)
1st-Apr-2011 03:27 pm (UTC)

The problem with steam, Gene contemplated, feeling twitchy in his skin the way he hadn't since he was a thirteen year old lad, was that it made everything blur and soften. Vice was vice, but for his sins, it seemed so less anger-making amongst the ripples in the air.

On the other side of the room, Supermac was staring at him, lazily, like the cat that got the creamed canary.

"In another lifetime I might have said you were rather fetching, DCI Hunt."

"Another lifetime after reincarnation due to a nasty, unexpected head-wound?" Gene returned. There was less acid in his tone than he'd intended. It was the way Supermac curled his tongue around his words, made them velvet plush and caramel rich; a sticky situation. There was nothing Gene liked less than being bested at his own game.

Supermac's laughter was a low reverberation that felt like it went right through Gene's bones.

"You're not curious?"

"Depends on your definition, doesn't it?"

"Do I have to spell it out for you, Gene? I can offer you so much."

"Maybe I don't want it."

"Then you're a fool."

Gene's resolve strengthened. Even through the haze he could see the flash of anger in Supermac's eyes. It made him bold.

"Either you're with me or you're against me," Supermac warned.

Gene took the opportunity. He stood and sauntered across the room, dashing water onto the rocks before settling tight against Supermac's side.

"Why can't I be both?"


It was all Tyler and Drake's fault, he decided, as he pounded against the steel door. Only those two could get him sodding trapped in the control room of a steam engine hurtling towards the end of the railway line and a deep, dark ravine. All in the name of some lead for a piss-poor case that wouldn't even make the headlines. Smug, manipulative bastards.

"Calm down, please, Sir. I'll have you safe in a second."

"Really now? A second? You just wasted three seconds listening to my scorn. Get your arse into gear you underpanted, lily-livered, degenerate muscle-bound pissant, before this train goes bye bye and your credibility goes kaboom."

"Ka-boom? Uh..."

"Shut it and shove it, Supersnot. Either help or be tossed hindering."

"I'm not sure you understand how this works. You see, usually, I help and then you fawn over me, and then we both feel gratified because I did a good thing and you're still alive."

The sweat was running off Gene's brow and he was not best pleased. He blinked to get it out of his eyes. It made him ever so slightly less patient than normal.

"Yeah? Well, I'm not usual. This time all that's gonna happen is my foot up your jacksie."

"I'd break all your toes. Not by intention, you understand."

"It would be worth it. Look, I estimate we've got about two minutes, so for God's sake, do whatever it is you do."

"I already have."

"You what?"

"I lifted up the train and set it down safe near a diner when you blinked. It seemed... prudent."

Gene glanced out the window. Sure enough, the outside scenery was static. He rounded on the blue-lycra-clad bloke close by.

"No one likes a smart-arse."
1st-Apr-2011 05:08 pm (UTC)
Another lifetime after reincarnation due to a nasty, unexpected head-wound?

LOL, that's classic Loz!

As for the other one - yep, Gene would get the last word even with Supes!

Well done, best laugh I've had all week!
2nd-Apr-2011 03:37 am (UTC)
Thank you, I'm glad you enjoyed them :D
1st-Apr-2011 03:15 pm (UTC)
Hee! All right then.

LoM wingfic :-P ...Where the bewingèd one isn't Gene or Sam. (Ray, maybe?)

P.S. I appear to have killed the weekly drabble.
2nd-Apr-2011 03:16 am (UTC)
This went weirdly angsty, for which I can only apologise.

She Won't Forsake Me

It's a dirty job, but someone's got to do it. The new ones are always so confused, bringing with them emotional baggage that multiplies and manifests; becoming as real as any of them stuck here --- skin and sinew and feathers. It took her a long time to discover the key to making the whole thing work. She's had so many failures, she strives for perfection now.

It's all about the illusion of normal, the illusion of the mundane, the illusion of life. You start off pretending that this place the unwitting and unwilling find themselves in is everyday, regular, bound by rules and constraints. You act the innocent. "Thirty-three years in the future? That's where you're saying you're from? I think you should go to the hospital."

Then, as time wears on, you normalise oddities and contradictions. You pare back reality to reveal the lie, like peeling an apple. So busy making sure you have it all, that the spiral's intact, that the calculated coldness of the action doesn't even chill your bones anymore.

It has to be done. When she'd simply tell the truth, when she'd show them straight away, they'd send themselves to hell. A jump or a spark or a bullet. Never thought of the consequences. She doesn't know why there's the myth that there's nothing worse than limbo. Those who perpetuate it have clearly never witnessed eternal fires scorching eternal flesh.

It has to be done and it has to be slow, a relationship, not an instant revelation. It's hand-holding, smile-inducing, soft-kiss-to-the-lips, hand-on-her-chest, can-you-feel-my-heart-it-beats-for-you. And if it hurts at all, she ignores and forgets it soon enough. She's been here a while.

She gets to know him, she helps him fight the products of his subconscious, she becomes his confidante, until they're so close it doesn't take a leap. Not a hop, nor a skip. He trusts her now. That's the benefit of love.

She looses her ties and lets him see. He's amazed. Of course he's amazed. He asks a dozen questions, reaches out to touch. They've been alone a million times in what masquerades as seven years, but nothing has ever been this intimate --- not even the love-making.

His fingers stroke caresses that feel like humming in her soul. Every sweep of his hand is acceptance and warmth too long denied. He sees the whole of her now, for the first time since they met. He's so impressed with her majesty, the brown and the gold, how the fluroescent light glisters over her wings like sunset on the ocean, he doesn't even think about the implications.

But it has to be done. There's a choice to be made. He can cross over or he can stay to fight an endless battle in which there can never be a victor. When he makes the wrong choice, she pushes him through the door.

It's a dirty job, but someone's got to do it.
2nd-Apr-2011 03:32 am (UTC)
*is breathless for a moment*


I can't BEGIN to find words to express how utterly, spellbindingly lovely this is. Poignant and glorious and heartbreaking. A universe in a handful of words.

Oh, Annie. Oh, SAM.

I really, really hope you post this on li73 or elsewhere, because it is far too good not to share.
2nd-Apr-2011 03:36 am (UTC)
Thank you! I'm glad you like it. ♥
2nd-Apr-2011 05:04 pm (UTC)
Is it too late to play? If not... Um, Gene knits Sam a sweater.
3rd-Apr-2011 11:07 am (UTC)
... now, does it have to be a sweater, or can it just the more appropriate 'jumper'? (Asking because if you are hellbent on a sweater, it will probably become meta!crack about americanisms in fic...)

Edited at 2011-04-03 11:07 am (UTC)
3rd-Apr-2011 12:04 pm (UTC)
Wow. Now I'm torn between the possibilities. No, I'm hellbent.
3rd-Apr-2011 02:14 pm (UTC)
You could always do both??? I suppose whichever is the one you're least likely to do is the one you SHOULD do.

Edited at 2011-04-03 02:14 pm (UTC)
5th-Apr-2011 10:34 am (UTC)
I'm less likely to do straight fic as opposed to meta, so I'll give it a go.
5th-Apr-2011 02:10 pm (UTC)
It started because it was bloody freezing in the house. The gas heater had broken three weeks previous and the electric jobby he'd got from Kenneth the Salesweasel (a name Ken had chosen himself) was a load of shit, as to be expected. Sam had come round to work on casefiles, which was all well and good, except that Sam, henceforth never to be referred to as anything so short and sweet as 'Sam' again, wouldn't shut up about the lack of heat.

Gene had initially told the snivelling gobshite he could buy himself a cardigan, that the style would suit him down to a tee, but that had only launched the voluable and verbose nutjob into a screed about how poorly he was paid and how exactly he had to invest his money, and sod it, a man only lived a set amount of time, Gene was not eternal.

So, as a joke, he told the whinging little snotnose he'd make him a damn jumper, which the supercilious prick somehow managed to turn into a dare.

This is how Gene Hunt, not known for his forays into the world of arts and crafts, found himself elbow deep in wool. He vowed he would knit this miraculous article of clothing if he died trying and the underestimating and ignorant his Lord of Tyler would have to wear it for a week, with all the world to see.

What Gene hadn't told his royal prissypants waa that the pattern he was using had the message "S ♥ G" emblazoned in fire-engine red in the centre. It would be an exciting surprise. (And, at any rate, with the talent he was showing, chances are the whole thing would be comprehensible anyway. At the very least, Gene himself would always know.)
6th-Apr-2011 11:49 am (UTC)

Oh yes. And I must tell you that this hatched an immediate fanart bunny.
7th-Apr-2011 05:15 pm (UTC)
You may have mentioned by the time you see this that I did a drawing. Can I link to your ficlet?
8th-Apr-2011 11:16 am (UTC)
Hee, thank you. Of course you can :D
This page was loaded Jul 20th 2019, 11:52 pm GMT.