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bossymarmalade) wrote2004-01-14 01:10 pm
bossymarmalade) wrote2004-01-14 01:10 pm
Entry tags:
funzo's cute and cuddly -- with tons of firepower!
Everybody on my flist has been having nightmares lately, so I find it only fitting that I tell you about mine.
So I was walking on the sidewalk, and I went past one of those stone underground washrooms -- you know when the entrance is up on street level, but you have to go down stairs to get in, and there's a big open area at the bottom of the steps? -- and I happened to look down and I saw the fucking Joker getting a blowjob from one of his flunkies. The flunky was in full Joker-thug makeup and everything, with the painted-on smile, but the Joker wasn't smiling at all. I freaked out and backed up, but the Joker turned towards the entrance with that unsmiling face and started coming up the stairs, and I swear I was so fucking terrified I woke up that I couldn't go back to sleep for the next hour.
...righty-o -- back to the ficlets, then. Have I mentioned what unseemly glee my friends have exhibited through this whole venture?
---
"You don't call anymore," Justin mentions, sounding hurt, and Chris snorts.
"Why should I bother?" he says, fingers tightening on the phone. "You're always out somewhere. With Trace or Cammy or one of your new best friends."
There's a second's beat, and Chris shifts uncomfortably. He's not used to not knowing what Justin's thinking; it's been ten years of knowing what Justin's thinking and now that's changed.
"You know what my schedule's like, man," Justin says finally. "It's fucking tight."
Chris lets out a little bark of laughter, lets it be just as bitter as it wants. "Yeah," he said. "So tight you can find time for every little interview or photo op or party, or shutting down whole goddamn department stores. Tight like that?"
"I didn't --" Justin starts, sounding small and contrite, and Chris's heart is just beginning to thaw a little when the new unimproved Justin comes back, big and brash and arrogant. "Look, man. I can't help being where I am, okay? I gotta stay on top for when I drop the next album --" He cuts himself off, but Chris is already on it.
"The next album," he scoffs. "You know, the least you could do is be honest with me, Justin. You want to go solo for good."
More silence. Chris isn't averse to silence as a rule, but in this instance it makes him want to scream down the phone. When Justin does come back, he's defensive, loud.
"Well, yeah," he says. "Don't tell me you wouldn't, Chris, if you were in my shoes."
Chris rubs his fingers across his eyebrows. "Yeah," he says, "yeah. I'd do the same thing. But Justin...I wouldn't knock my friends down to get there."
And now this is the longest silence of all, until Justin starts sniffling. When he talks again, his voice is crackly, hushed and thick, full of emotion. "I never --" he starts, then coughs. "I'm so sorry. You're right, I fucked up, I'm an asshole, I'm so, so sorry, Chris. Forgive me, please?"
Chris thinks of all the times he's said the same thing, channeled through buying underaged Justin drinks, or letting him win a pickup game, or accompanying him to functions he didn't want to go to. He smiles a little to himself, even though Justin can't see it, and hangs up the phone.
===
revisionary, you damn bitch. That was like pulling teeth and then sewing my cheek to my gums.
Angelo had never thought about their relationship much. It makes sense, in a way, because hopping into Hank's car was what got him into this whole mutant crap in the first place. In another way, it made no sense at all, since this was arguably one of the most significant turns his life had taken so far.
He would never tell Hank -- or anybody, for that matter -- but Angelo kind of unofficially thought of the Stones' "Satisfaction" as their song. He listened to it on repeat, sometimes, when he wanted to get high. He didn't get high anymore. Having a partner who was a doctor with heightened senses put kind of a damper on that kind of thing.
"I'm thinking of being nosy and asking what you're thinking about," Hank said casually, not moving from where he was peering into a microscope. Angelo grinned, shifting in the chair he was draped across.
"Yeah, you could...if you were a girl," he said, putting as much scorn into the statement as he could muster. Hank, unperturbed, smiled as his tiny glasses slid down his nose.
"Well, then," he murmured. "Far be it from me to say anything that would compromise my seemingly tenuous masculinity."
Angelo grinned wider. He loved listening to Hank talk, his rumbly-soothing voice, his sixteen-dollar words. Hank used his words with love and attention, and with the Professor and his set the same as with the littler Guthries who came a-visiting. He didn't believe in multiple sets of standards. It was one of the reasons Angelo found him so likeable.
He scrabbled his heels against the floor and scooted his chair over to Hank; his chair was low and Hank's stool was high, but he leaned in anyhow and pressed his forehead against Hank's side. The white labcoat he was wearing pressed in against his fur, blue plush like the stuffed Grover doll that Angelo's cousin Graciela had dragged around everywhere when they were kids. Hank absently bumps his glasses up with a knuckle and they make him look like Benjamin Franklin.
"S'okay," Angelo mumbled, letting his nose scratch against the cloth. "I'm macho enough for the both've us." Whatever Hank was doing was important, so he didn't stop doing it, but he laughed a bit, gently, and reached over with one paw to stroke Angelo's hair. Bits of his fur tangled in Angelo's hair with each pass, and Angelo thought of the time when Graciela got a really bad fever and her mama burned the Grover doll. How much Graciela had cried, because she insisted on watching it, the blue wisps of fur turning black in snaps of flame.
Angelo can still see the flames if he closes his eyes, so instead he presses deeper against Hank's labcoat. It's white, so white, and everything turns blank.
===
Incidentally, I typed this whole fucking thing out once and then my browser unexpectedly quit. I think I should just kill myself as a pre-emptive measure.
So I was walking on the sidewalk, and I went past one of those stone underground washrooms -- you know when the entrance is up on street level, but you have to go down stairs to get in, and there's a big open area at the bottom of the steps? -- and I happened to look down and I saw the fucking Joker getting a blowjob from one of his flunkies. The flunky was in full Joker-thug makeup and everything, with the painted-on smile, but the Joker wasn't smiling at all. I freaked out and backed up, but the Joker turned towards the entrance with that unsmiling face and started coming up the stairs, and I swear I was so fucking terrified I woke up that I couldn't go back to sleep for the next hour.
...righty-o -- back to the ficlets, then. Have I mentioned what unseemly glee my friends have exhibited through this whole venture?
---
"You don't call anymore," Justin mentions, sounding hurt, and Chris snorts.
"Why should I bother?" he says, fingers tightening on the phone. "You're always out somewhere. With Trace or Cammy or one of your new best friends."
There's a second's beat, and Chris shifts uncomfortably. He's not used to not knowing what Justin's thinking; it's been ten years of knowing what Justin's thinking and now that's changed.
"You know what my schedule's like, man," Justin says finally. "It's fucking tight."
Chris lets out a little bark of laughter, lets it be just as bitter as it wants. "Yeah," he said. "So tight you can find time for every little interview or photo op or party, or shutting down whole goddamn department stores. Tight like that?"
"I didn't --" Justin starts, sounding small and contrite, and Chris's heart is just beginning to thaw a little when the new unimproved Justin comes back, big and brash and arrogant. "Look, man. I can't help being where I am, okay? I gotta stay on top for when I drop the next album --" He cuts himself off, but Chris is already on it.
"The next album," he scoffs. "You know, the least you could do is be honest with me, Justin. You want to go solo for good."
More silence. Chris isn't averse to silence as a rule, but in this instance it makes him want to scream down the phone. When Justin does come back, he's defensive, loud.
"Well, yeah," he says. "Don't tell me you wouldn't, Chris, if you were in my shoes."
Chris rubs his fingers across his eyebrows. "Yeah," he says, "yeah. I'd do the same thing. But Justin...I wouldn't knock my friends down to get there."
And now this is the longest silence of all, until Justin starts sniffling. When he talks again, his voice is crackly, hushed and thick, full of emotion. "I never --" he starts, then coughs. "I'm so sorry. You're right, I fucked up, I'm an asshole, I'm so, so sorry, Chris. Forgive me, please?"
Chris thinks of all the times he's said the same thing, channeled through buying underaged Justin drinks, or letting him win a pickup game, or accompanying him to functions he didn't want to go to. He smiles a little to himself, even though Justin can't see it, and hangs up the phone.
===
revisionary, you damn bitch. That was like pulling teeth and then sewing my cheek to my gums.
Angelo had never thought about their relationship much. It makes sense, in a way, because hopping into Hank's car was what got him into this whole mutant crap in the first place. In another way, it made no sense at all, since this was arguably one of the most significant turns his life had taken so far.
He would never tell Hank -- or anybody, for that matter -- but Angelo kind of unofficially thought of the Stones' "Satisfaction" as their song. He listened to it on repeat, sometimes, when he wanted to get high. He didn't get high anymore. Having a partner who was a doctor with heightened senses put kind of a damper on that kind of thing.
"I'm thinking of being nosy and asking what you're thinking about," Hank said casually, not moving from where he was peering into a microscope. Angelo grinned, shifting in the chair he was draped across.
"Yeah, you could...if you were a girl," he said, putting as much scorn into the statement as he could muster. Hank, unperturbed, smiled as his tiny glasses slid down his nose.
"Well, then," he murmured. "Far be it from me to say anything that would compromise my seemingly tenuous masculinity."
Angelo grinned wider. He loved listening to Hank talk, his rumbly-soothing voice, his sixteen-dollar words. Hank used his words with love and attention, and with the Professor and his set the same as with the littler Guthries who came a-visiting. He didn't believe in multiple sets of standards. It was one of the reasons Angelo found him so likeable.
He scrabbled his heels against the floor and scooted his chair over to Hank; his chair was low and Hank's stool was high, but he leaned in anyhow and pressed his forehead against Hank's side. The white labcoat he was wearing pressed in against his fur, blue plush like the stuffed Grover doll that Angelo's cousin Graciela had dragged around everywhere when they were kids. Hank absently bumps his glasses up with a knuckle and they make him look like Benjamin Franklin.
"S'okay," Angelo mumbled, letting his nose scratch against the cloth. "I'm macho enough for the both've us." Whatever Hank was doing was important, so he didn't stop doing it, but he laughed a bit, gently, and reached over with one paw to stroke Angelo's hair. Bits of his fur tangled in Angelo's hair with each pass, and Angelo thought of the time when Graciela got a really bad fever and her mama burned the Grover doll. How much Graciela had cried, because she insisted on watching it, the blue wisps of fur turning black in snaps of flame.
Angelo can still see the flames if he closes his eyes, so instead he presses deeper against Hank's labcoat. It's white, so white, and everything turns blank.
===
Incidentally, I typed this whole fucking thing out once and then my browser unexpectedly quit. I think I should just kill myself as a pre-emptive measure.
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Chris isn't averse to silence as a rule, but in this instance it makes him want to scream down the phone.
I got this perfect little image of Chris sitting calmly and having this cutaway bit, like in movies, where in his mind he is screaming into the reciever. Then cut back to him waiting, waiting. And the hang up. No, the smile as he hangs up. Greatness.
I heart your Chris. He's so delightfully fed up.
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Hee! That's a fabulous image. I wish we could have clones of them so we can make movies of them in our fics. Er -- not really *this* one, though, heh. Although I am kind of pleased that you seem to like it, because that means I was able to make it somewhat believable! Huzzah!! *g*
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::claps:: You remembered! You're the best Maggie ever! And it's startlingly sweet despite being, y'know, Hank and Ange, of all things. ;) You sure you don't want to write
memore Gen X and X-fic?'Course, there's always that deeeeeeeeeelightful Jono/Piotr you're working on to look forward to. ;)
::runs like hell::
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Heh! Okay, good, then. I'm glad I was able to write it decently. *g* And i do want to write more comicfic...hopefully, I'll actually DO it this year instead of just thinking about it!
that deeeeeeeeeelightful Jono/Piotr
*groan* You are the epitome of evil for thinking that unholy pairing up in the first place. Cruel!!
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!
::points at Lori:: She started it!
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I'm so glad I could cause you so much pain, darling. :)