Flashfic Challenge: Show Business.
This is for mpoetess -- 1,000 words of Lorne/Groo fun and sun. Somewhat slashy, implied sex (especially if you know the lingo), yes, I am occasionally rated M for mature. Don't read if you don't wanna know.
Title: 'Show Business.'
Subject: Groo/Lorne, PG-13, homosexual themes and implied sex.
Length: 1,000 words exactly. Owie.
Spoilers: Set somewhere in the middle of 'Angel', season three.
***
Here’s the thing, kids: in Pylea, there is not just a total lack of song, dance and all the other lovely redeeming features that make this dimension worth bearing -- although the heavens know, that would be more than enough to make this clever little lad flee screaming. No, even though admitting this makes me feel like a cartoon bear with hearts tattooed where hearts shouldn’t be...what Pylea really lacks is the ability to give one good goddamn about the hearts it breaks. My home dimension’s a user, plain and simple.
That’s what made Groo such a sad case. Here’s this mighty warrior, bravest of the brave, boldest of the bold, tied up in emotional knots over a spoiled little Sunnydale princess -- our princess. Cordelia Chase, high queen of snark and wielder of the double-edged tongue that is her sword. Not that I don’t love our darling hometown girl; these days she’s the Pylean equivalent of Princess Diana, and I’m a sucker for the mushy stuff.
But I digress.
Here you have Groo, savior of Pylea, mooning over Cordelia -- who supposedly loves him back, but isn’t showing it -- and here you have Cordelia, carrying a torch for Angel and having difficulty dealing with the fact that her available side of Pylean beef has the sense of humor of a Labrador retriever. The boy’s like a big, buff Amelia Bedelia, providing literal interpretations of everything he sees, and that shtick only gets you so far before someone starts trying to shove you off the stage.
That, in case you were wondering, is where my part in this little passion play comes into the spotlight. I walked out into the garden and found poor Groo sitting by the fountain, looking dejected as a Hvacknar demon whose mate threw it over after eating all its eggs and insulting its generative organs. During spawning season. Before actually spawning.
“Aw, Groo, what’s wrong?” I asked, sitting down next to him. And yes, I know how cliched that sounds -- sometimes things become cliches because they work.
“My Princess says I have no sense of humor,” Groo said, turning those big, doleful puppy-dog eyes my way. Nothing like a man without distinct pupils to really turn on the charm.
“Unfortunately, sweetie, your Princess is right.” I am Lorne, King of Tact. All right, not really, but what did you want me to do -- lie to the man? He’s got biceps to spare, yes; that doesn’t mean he has the sense of comedic timing Balthar gave the little green monkeys of the Irritating Rash dimension. “You’re a lovely man who can crack walnuts with his toes. You’re just not as funny as the common cold.”
He kept the puppy-eyes going as he said, mournfully, “I must learn to be funny for the sake of my Princess. She says she needs a man who can make her laugh.”
Well, that explains her fascination with Angel -- she must have seen his closet. “Humor’s not something you learn, hon. It’s something you’re born with.”
“Everything can be learned.”
“Spoken like a man who’s never encountered the public education system.”
“What?”
“Don’t worry your pretty little head, sweetie. I’ll try to figure something out for you.” What else was I supposed to say? The lug needed help -- and I’m a sucker for big sad puppy-dog eyes. Only reason Angel’s managed to keep me around for so long, and he’s an amateur compared to Groo. If they had rankings for ‘too cute to kill’, Groo would be Olympic level.
Let me tell you, I tried everything. Funny movies? We watched them by the dozen. The great comics, the not-so-great comics, the amateurs and losers, more fart jokes than you can shake a stick at -- and nothing. He didn’t get the point. Musicals? I’ll admit that I enjoyed this part; we watched every classic of modern musical theater that I could get my hands on, including a few that aren’t even from this dimension. On-Broadway, off-Broadway, summer stock and high school drama, we did it all.
Spending time with the big guy was actually nice, once I got used to the idea that he was taking everything I said literally. There are worse crosses to bear than shepherding burly, attractive men through the Los Angeles comedy scene. Even if I had to keep trying to distract him from the fact that Cordelia didn’t really notice when he was gone.
Which leads us to why I kissed him.
It wasn’t intentional, and it wasn’t preplanned. It was just sort of sudden, spur-of-the-moment. He was telling me, again, how wonderful his Princess was. And then his face fell, and he started to mention how he’d been away from her so much recently, but she didn’t seem bothered by it. It was a short step from there to realizing she hadn’t noticed -- so I cut him off at the pass. So to speak.
When I pulled back he stared at me, puppy-dog eyes wide. Trying to look like I hadn’t just changed the tempo of the dance we’d been doing for the last few weeks, I said blithely, “And that is why the kiss was comedy gold in the hands of the late, great Rock Hudson.”
“I see,” said Groo, frowning. And then he kissed me.
It would be easy to devolve into song lyrics here -- which is exactly why I won’t. Yes, things went a little further that night, and yes, we comshuked like my shuk had never been commed before.
And yes, he has beautiful eyes.
But the thing about being the court jester is this: you can love the champion of the Princess, if you really want to. No one will stop you. You can teach him anything he needs to know. And in the end, when he walks away, he won’t even say goodbye, because Pylea teaches you how to hurt people, and he was always beautifully Pylean.
That’s show business, babe. Ciao.
Title: 'Show Business.'
Subject: Groo/Lorne, PG-13, homosexual themes and implied sex.
Length: 1,000 words exactly. Owie.
Spoilers: Set somewhere in the middle of 'Angel', season three.
***
Here’s the thing, kids: in Pylea, there is not just a total lack of song, dance and all the other lovely redeeming features that make this dimension worth bearing -- although the heavens know, that would be more than enough to make this clever little lad flee screaming. No, even though admitting this makes me feel like a cartoon bear with hearts tattooed where hearts shouldn’t be...what Pylea really lacks is the ability to give one good goddamn about the hearts it breaks. My home dimension’s a user, plain and simple.
That’s what made Groo such a sad case. Here’s this mighty warrior, bravest of the brave, boldest of the bold, tied up in emotional knots over a spoiled little Sunnydale princess -- our princess. Cordelia Chase, high queen of snark and wielder of the double-edged tongue that is her sword. Not that I don’t love our darling hometown girl; these days she’s the Pylean equivalent of Princess Diana, and I’m a sucker for the mushy stuff.
But I digress.
Here you have Groo, savior of Pylea, mooning over Cordelia -- who supposedly loves him back, but isn’t showing it -- and here you have Cordelia, carrying a torch for Angel and having difficulty dealing with the fact that her available side of Pylean beef has the sense of humor of a Labrador retriever. The boy’s like a big, buff Amelia Bedelia, providing literal interpretations of everything he sees, and that shtick only gets you so far before someone starts trying to shove you off the stage.
That, in case you were wondering, is where my part in this little passion play comes into the spotlight. I walked out into the garden and found poor Groo sitting by the fountain, looking dejected as a Hvacknar demon whose mate threw it over after eating all its eggs and insulting its generative organs. During spawning season. Before actually spawning.
“Aw, Groo, what’s wrong?” I asked, sitting down next to him. And yes, I know how cliched that sounds -- sometimes things become cliches because they work.
“My Princess says I have no sense of humor,” Groo said, turning those big, doleful puppy-dog eyes my way. Nothing like a man without distinct pupils to really turn on the charm.
“Unfortunately, sweetie, your Princess is right.” I am Lorne, King of Tact. All right, not really, but what did you want me to do -- lie to the man? He’s got biceps to spare, yes; that doesn’t mean he has the sense of comedic timing Balthar gave the little green monkeys of the Irritating Rash dimension. “You’re a lovely man who can crack walnuts with his toes. You’re just not as funny as the common cold.”
He kept the puppy-eyes going as he said, mournfully, “I must learn to be funny for the sake of my Princess. She says she needs a man who can make her laugh.”
Well, that explains her fascination with Angel -- she must have seen his closet. “Humor’s not something you learn, hon. It’s something you’re born with.”
“Everything can be learned.”
“Spoken like a man who’s never encountered the public education system.”
“What?”
“Don’t worry your pretty little head, sweetie. I’ll try to figure something out for you.” What else was I supposed to say? The lug needed help -- and I’m a sucker for big sad puppy-dog eyes. Only reason Angel’s managed to keep me around for so long, and he’s an amateur compared to Groo. If they had rankings for ‘too cute to kill’, Groo would be Olympic level.
Let me tell you, I tried everything. Funny movies? We watched them by the dozen. The great comics, the not-so-great comics, the amateurs and losers, more fart jokes than you can shake a stick at -- and nothing. He didn’t get the point. Musicals? I’ll admit that I enjoyed this part; we watched every classic of modern musical theater that I could get my hands on, including a few that aren’t even from this dimension. On-Broadway, off-Broadway, summer stock and high school drama, we did it all.
Spending time with the big guy was actually nice, once I got used to the idea that he was taking everything I said literally. There are worse crosses to bear than shepherding burly, attractive men through the Los Angeles comedy scene. Even if I had to keep trying to distract him from the fact that Cordelia didn’t really notice when he was gone.
Which leads us to why I kissed him.
It wasn’t intentional, and it wasn’t preplanned. It was just sort of sudden, spur-of-the-moment. He was telling me, again, how wonderful his Princess was. And then his face fell, and he started to mention how he’d been away from her so much recently, but she didn’t seem bothered by it. It was a short step from there to realizing she hadn’t noticed -- so I cut him off at the pass. So to speak.
When I pulled back he stared at me, puppy-dog eyes wide. Trying to look like I hadn’t just changed the tempo of the dance we’d been doing for the last few weeks, I said blithely, “And that is why the kiss was comedy gold in the hands of the late, great Rock Hudson.”
“I see,” said Groo, frowning. And then he kissed me.
It would be easy to devolve into song lyrics here -- which is exactly why I won’t. Yes, things went a little further that night, and yes, we comshuked like my shuk had never been commed before.
And yes, he has beautiful eyes.
But the thing about being the court jester is this: you can love the champion of the Princess, if you really want to. No one will stop you. You can teach him anything he needs to know. And in the end, when he walks away, he won’t even say goodbye, because Pylea teaches you how to hurt people, and he was always beautifully Pylean.
That’s show business, babe. Ciao.