Eight more drabbles.
May. 26th, 2008 01:25 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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jekesta Michael Schumacher/Stephen Hendry
They have two chalkboards: one with Michael’s top ten lap times and one with Stephen’s ten highest breaks. ‘Cause Stephen doesn’t drive against him and Michael won’t pick up a cue, they find alternative uses for their stunning geometrical instincts.
Other times they dance. Stephen takes some twisted pleasure in kicking off at a stumbling snail’s pace and stressfully rising to callous brilliance by midnight.
Michael likes best to lead him outside, incorrectly shod, and twirl around him in the rain, dip him and flex him absurdly … backheel him in the shin if he pirouettes too superbly on his own.
Fornerdcakes Annually Retentive: Rob Brydon/Ben the Producer
‘But I’m not really here.’
Ben parks his lips an inch from Rob’s.
‘It’s a waste. I’m not really here.’
‘What you on about?’
‘He’s a character. A caricature. He’s nothing to do with me.’
‘I … well … never mind.’ Ben closes half an inch. ‘I’m here anyway.’
‘Are you?’
‘Totally. Ben isn’t Russell.’
‘Last time you kissed me you were just a big licky dog.’
‘I’m not a big licky dog today. I’m properly Ben.’
‘The dog was called Ben.’ He puts up a hand. ‘I want it to be me.’
Ben kisses the fingers. ‘Is it not then, Rob?’
Forlolabobs M*A*S*H: Radar
He slipped back into his perpetual adolescence some time after Henry died. Although he could barely remember that treasured last night for the drink, he allowed Captain Potter to initiate him into the world of grown-up refreshment, away from his newly discovered lifelong fondness for nothing more stimulating than grape nehi. He smoked his last cigar in 1950, after which he’d never smoked one in his life. He dithered over getting his second first tattoo.
It wasn’t much fun, he guessed, being a grown-up. That or it was special; an alternative timeline; not for sharing lightly with the second generation.
For Yonmei M*A*S*H: Hawkeye, Mulcahy and a cat
‘It takes messages? What’s it say?’ BJ reaches for the scrap of paper in the tabby’s collar. Hawkeye slaps his hand.
‘You won’t sleep tonight.’ He places the cat on the floor and roughly aims it. ‘Nursewards.’
The cat scarpers through the base of the tent-flap. BJ rests a temple on the pole and tweaks the canvas aside.
‘Don’t stare, Beej. You’ll put her off.’
‘Ah … Hawk?’
‘What?’
‘It went into the padre’s tent. You’ll have some explaining to do in the morning.’
***
Across the yard, Mulcahy folds the note into his pocket. The cat licks his fish-tainted fingers.
Forhuskyteer Red Dwarf: Rimmer
‘You gave me a succession of debilitating childhood ailments … as a present?’
‘I’m sorry, man.’
‘Were they yours?’
‘Some of them.’
‘What’s feline infectious enteritis?’
‘Got that off the Cat. I thought it was what you needed.’
‘You thought …?’
‘I mean, I know you’ve got your parents to blame and that, for how it turned out. But it didn’t seem enough. Okay, we said after the Lisa thing … but I didn’t think it’d traumatise you exactly, finding out the chicken pox wasn’t really yours.’
‘It's the months of boils and agony that’s traumatising me. Gimboid.’
‘Yeah. Sure it is, man.’
For Yonmei. Blazing Saddles: Bart/Jim
Jim took three days to tidy. He was all over stubble and dust. His head was mostly knots and his breath was wholly flammable. He almost had to be taught to do up buttons. Rock Ridge could simmer all it liked for the duration. The sheriff had a man inside worth mending.
One morning, Jim towelled flecks of soap from his very own chin with his very own rock-steady hands. He glanced up, oddly clear in the eye. Bart looked long and proud at what he’d made. There was nothing more to do.
‘Let’s not play chess,’ said Bart.
Forpeeeeeeet 'Peet would like a drabble about Hendry/Williams. HE TOLD ME THAT.'
One day Mark Williams teased his rottweiler with a pig’s ear till he needed several stitches in his hand.
‘He won’t be doing that again,’ said his mam.
One day Mark Williams, idly in practice, knocked in a maximum a frame after Hendry had failed on the final black. He danced a bit and punched the air and chanted slightly into the dark and brooding corner where the other fellow glowered because he liked to feel the death rays wafting off him like a dozen Severn bores.
‘He won’t be doing that again,’ said his mam.
One day Mark Williams ….
Forslemslempike 'I would like Wodehouse with some girls in it, please.' (Note: not 100 words. Jeeves is hard to make concise.)
It is the valet’s duty not so much to question his young master’s whims and foibles as to silently steer him to safety, yet one is hard pressed to subdue one’s curiousity at the young master’s unfathomable propensity to cultivate – or at least to blindly stumble into – unsuitable attachments to the likes of Miss Glossop, patently in apprenticeship to Mr Wooster’s beloved but domestically oppressive aunt, Mrs Travers; to Miss Florence Kray, striving daily to resemble the formidable Agatha Griegson.
No doubt he is unduly bound by convention, by sheer politeness, by his code; by his bumbling inability to concoct two or three happier scenarios prompted by the sight of the Misses Byng and Bassett – happy – either side of the tennis net.
***
(Normal and boringly obvious disclaimers for the RPS etc. Slightly judgey on disclaimers.)
jekesta Michael Schumacher/Stephen HendryThey have two chalkboards: one with Michael’s top ten lap times and one with Stephen’s ten highest breaks. ‘Cause Stephen doesn’t drive against him and Michael won’t pick up a cue, they find alternative uses for their stunning geometrical instincts.
Other times they dance. Stephen takes some twisted pleasure in kicking off at a stumbling snail’s pace and stressfully rising to callous brilliance by midnight.
Michael likes best to lead him outside, incorrectly shod, and twirl around him in the rain, dip him and flex him absurdly … backheel him in the shin if he pirouettes too superbly on his own.
For
nerdcakes Annually Retentive: Rob Brydon/Ben the Producer‘But I’m not really here.’
Ben parks his lips an inch from Rob’s.
‘It’s a waste. I’m not really here.’
‘What you on about?’
‘He’s a character. A caricature. He’s nothing to do with me.’
‘I … well … never mind.’ Ben closes half an inch. ‘I’m here anyway.’
‘Are you?’
‘Totally. Ben isn’t Russell.’
‘Last time you kissed me you were just a big licky dog.’
‘I’m not a big licky dog today. I’m properly Ben.’
‘The dog was called Ben.’ He puts up a hand. ‘I want it to be me.’
Ben kisses the fingers. ‘Is it not then, Rob?’
For
lolabobs M*A*S*H: RadarHe slipped back into his perpetual adolescence some time after Henry died. Although he could barely remember that treasured last night for the drink, he allowed Captain Potter to initiate him into the world of grown-up refreshment, away from his newly discovered lifelong fondness for nothing more stimulating than grape nehi. He smoked his last cigar in 1950, after which he’d never smoked one in his life. He dithered over getting his second first tattoo.
It wasn’t much fun, he guessed, being a grown-up. That or it was special; an alternative timeline; not for sharing lightly with the second generation.
For Yonmei M*A*S*H: Hawkeye, Mulcahy and a cat
‘It takes messages? What’s it say?’ BJ reaches for the scrap of paper in the tabby’s collar. Hawkeye slaps his hand.
‘You won’t sleep tonight.’ He places the cat on the floor and roughly aims it. ‘Nursewards.’
The cat scarpers through the base of the tent-flap. BJ rests a temple on the pole and tweaks the canvas aside.
‘Don’t stare, Beej. You’ll put her off.’
‘Ah … Hawk?’
‘What?’
‘It went into the padre’s tent. You’ll have some explaining to do in the morning.’
***
Across the yard, Mulcahy folds the note into his pocket. The cat licks his fish-tainted fingers.
For
huskyteer Red Dwarf: Rimmer‘You gave me a succession of debilitating childhood ailments … as a present?’
‘I’m sorry, man.’
‘Were they yours?’
‘Some of them.’
‘What’s feline infectious enteritis?’
‘Got that off the Cat. I thought it was what you needed.’
‘You thought …?’
‘I mean, I know you’ve got your parents to blame and that, for how it turned out. But it didn’t seem enough. Okay, we said after the Lisa thing … but I didn’t think it’d traumatise you exactly, finding out the chicken pox wasn’t really yours.’
‘It's the months of boils and agony that’s traumatising me. Gimboid.’
‘Yeah. Sure it is, man.’
For Yonmei. Blazing Saddles: Bart/Jim
Jim took three days to tidy. He was all over stubble and dust. His head was mostly knots and his breath was wholly flammable. He almost had to be taught to do up buttons. Rock Ridge could simmer all it liked for the duration. The sheriff had a man inside worth mending.
One morning, Jim towelled flecks of soap from his very own chin with his very own rock-steady hands. He glanced up, oddly clear in the eye. Bart looked long and proud at what he’d made. There was nothing more to do.
‘Let’s not play chess,’ said Bart.
For
peeeeeeet 'Peet would like a drabble about Hendry/Williams. HE TOLD ME THAT.' One day Mark Williams teased his rottweiler with a pig’s ear till he needed several stitches in his hand.
‘He won’t be doing that again,’ said his mam.
One day Mark Williams, idly in practice, knocked in a maximum a frame after Hendry had failed on the final black. He danced a bit and punched the air and chanted slightly into the dark and brooding corner where the other fellow glowered because he liked to feel the death rays wafting off him like a dozen Severn bores.
‘He won’t be doing that again,’ said his mam.
One day Mark Williams ….
For
slemslempike 'I would like Wodehouse with some girls in it, please.' (Note: not 100 words. Jeeves is hard to make concise.)It is the valet’s duty not so much to question his young master’s whims and foibles as to silently steer him to safety, yet one is hard pressed to subdue one’s curiousity at the young master’s unfathomable propensity to cultivate – or at least to blindly stumble into – unsuitable attachments to the likes of Miss Glossop, patently in apprenticeship to Mr Wooster’s beloved but domestically oppressive aunt, Mrs Travers; to Miss Florence Kray, striving daily to resemble the formidable Agatha Griegson.
No doubt he is unduly bound by convention, by sheer politeness, by his code; by his bumbling inability to concoct two or three happier scenarios prompted by the sight of the Misses Byng and Bassett – happy – either side of the tennis net.
***
(Normal and boringly obvious disclaimers for the RPS etc. Slightly judgey on disclaimers.)
