Fic: Bad Luck - Lester, PG14
Title: Bad Luck
Warnings: foul & perverse language, capslock abuse, deliberate misuse of punctuation
Rating: PG14 (for language)
Category: Het-Gen (no sexual situations, brief mention of Het relationship)
Spoilers: No. Tis backstory.
Author's Notes: Inspired by listening to Mr. Pinstripe Suit by Big Bad Voodoo Daddy (yes, from the crack!mix)
Summary: Young James Lester comes home late one night...
"I hate you! Get out! OUT!"
James cursed and ducked as a worryingly spiky shoe crashed into the door above his head. What had he done now?
"Chrissie! Just - hold up! What-"
"OUT!" Came the piercing shriek. It was followed by another shoe, hurtling at him from the tiny bathroom of their equally tiny flat. This one went wide, fortunately, and James spared a moment's worry for his girlfriend's aim. But only a moment, as she had now run out of shoes to throw and goodness only knew what was coming next.
A surly snarl of 'Are you gone yet?' hastened his retreat.
With the wood of the door firmly against his back James took a moment to - as Chrissie would say - take scope of the incident. He had no idea why she was mad. He had no idea when she had started being mad, having only just got back from the club. And he had the unfortunate position of being stuck in the small stairwell, empty of anything except a disgusting blob that might have been cat sick. Or might not have. James heaved a sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. This was not good.
"Chrissie, could we just talk?"
"NO."
James grimaced. So much for that. If he wanted to see his bed any time soon, he would have to... make her even angrier.
"Alright, this is bloody ridiculous, Christine. What are you? On your monthlies or something?"
A deathly silence greeted his shouted words. The wood at his back felt suddenly fragile. James scurried over to one side of the stairwell, opposite the cat-sick. The room felt too close to his hot skin; his breathing was too loud. Somehow, fighting with Chrissie always felt like walking through a minefield. Naked.
The thunderous peel of wood crashing into wood broke the pause. Cracks spidered across the door and woodchips flew off but it remained in one piece. That was more than he could hope for whatever had hit the door, James supposed.
"You BASTARD! You motherfucking, sexist SOD!"
"Don't think it works like that, Christine," he drawled, resisting the mad urge to giggle.
"You- you-"
She was incoherent. This was progress, anyhow.
"I what? What about me?"
"EVERYTHING. Every fucking li'l thing! You stay out late! You don't come home! You leave me bloody alone when you bloody well know I had plans for us! You leave sheets of fucking music everywhere and then yell at me for stepping on them! You're, you're just... 'orrible! You miserable, motherless bastard!"
James listened to the rant with increasing annoyance. So she didn't have an actual reason. Damn it, it probably was that time of month, or getting close to it, at any rate. He foresaw a week of no sex and sleeping on the couch. Pulling a face, he snapped:
"I was working, and you bloody well know it."
"Working? WORKING? Getting high as fuck more like! I know what you idiots do when you're "working"!'
Oh that was just too far. James stiffened and glared at the door, wishing for one insane moment that it wasn't there.
"I. Was not. Getting high." How could his voice sound so cold, he wondered, when he was boiling over inside?
This prompted another silence from inside the flat. James opened his mouth, but like always, she beat him to it.
"Yeah. I know." The gruff words were as close as he'd come to an apology. James held his breath, hoping to hear the magic words that often followed those ones. But they didn't come, and he was getting blue in the face.
"Can I... come in? Chrissie?"
"NO," was followed by mumbling that sounded suspiciously like 'you can go sleep in Hell', or alternatively, 'bugger a sheep with a bell'.
James groaned. Make that a week of no sex, sleeping on Joey's couch. But he knew when he was beaten, and it was nearly 4:00 in the morning. Turning, he hefted his sax case once more and began to squeeze down the narrow, winding stairs, Christine's rant trailing after him.
A/N: Any critique is appreciated! Especially for Errors in Britishness, or possible OOC-ness.
Warnings: foul & perverse language, capslock abuse, deliberate misuse of punctuation
Rating: PG14 (for language)
Category: Het-Gen (no sexual situations, brief mention of Het relationship)
Spoilers: No. Tis backstory.
Author's Notes: Inspired by listening to Mr. Pinstripe Suit by Big Bad Voodoo Daddy (yes, from the crack!mix)
Summary: Young James Lester comes home late one night...
"I hate you! Get out! OUT!"
James cursed and ducked as a worryingly spiky shoe crashed into the door above his head. What had he done now?
"Chrissie! Just - hold up! What-"
"OUT!" Came the piercing shriek. It was followed by another shoe, hurtling at him from the tiny bathroom of their equally tiny flat. This one went wide, fortunately, and James spared a moment's worry for his girlfriend's aim. But only a moment, as she had now run out of shoes to throw and goodness only knew what was coming next.
A surly snarl of 'Are you gone yet?' hastened his retreat.
With the wood of the door firmly against his back James took a moment to - as Chrissie would say - take scope of the incident. He had no idea why she was mad. He had no idea when she had started being mad, having only just got back from the club. And he had the unfortunate position of being stuck in the small stairwell, empty of anything except a disgusting blob that might have been cat sick. Or might not have. James heaved a sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. This was not good.
"Chrissie, could we just talk?"
"NO."
James grimaced. So much for that. If he wanted to see his bed any time soon, he would have to... make her even angrier.
"Alright, this is bloody ridiculous, Christine. What are you? On your monthlies or something?"
A deathly silence greeted his shouted words. The wood at his back felt suddenly fragile. James scurried over to one side of the stairwell, opposite the cat-sick. The room felt too close to his hot skin; his breathing was too loud. Somehow, fighting with Chrissie always felt like walking through a minefield. Naked.
The thunderous peel of wood crashing into wood broke the pause. Cracks spidered across the door and woodchips flew off but it remained in one piece. That was more than he could hope for whatever had hit the door, James supposed.
"You BASTARD! You motherfucking, sexist SOD!"
"Don't think it works like that, Christine," he drawled, resisting the mad urge to giggle.
"You- you-"
She was incoherent. This was progress, anyhow.
"I what? What about me?"
"EVERYTHING. Every fucking li'l thing! You stay out late! You don't come home! You leave me bloody alone when you bloody well know I had plans for us! You leave sheets of fucking music everywhere and then yell at me for stepping on them! You're, you're just... 'orrible! You miserable, motherless bastard!"
James listened to the rant with increasing annoyance. So she didn't have an actual reason. Damn it, it probably was that time of month, or getting close to it, at any rate. He foresaw a week of no sex and sleeping on the couch. Pulling a face, he snapped:
"I was working, and you bloody well know it."
"Working? WORKING? Getting high as fuck more like! I know what you idiots do when you're "working"!'
Oh that was just too far. James stiffened and glared at the door, wishing for one insane moment that it wasn't there.
"I. Was not. Getting high." How could his voice sound so cold, he wondered, when he was boiling over inside?
This prompted another silence from inside the flat. James opened his mouth, but like always, she beat him to it.
"Yeah. I know." The gruff words were as close as he'd come to an apology. James held his breath, hoping to hear the magic words that often followed those ones. But they didn't come, and he was getting blue in the face.
"Can I... come in? Chrissie?"
"NO," was followed by mumbling that sounded suspiciously like 'you can go sleep in Hell', or alternatively, 'bugger a sheep with a bell'.
James groaned. Make that a week of no sex, sleeping on Joey's couch. But he knew when he was beaten, and it was nearly 4:00 in the morning. Turning, he hefted his sax case once more and began to squeeze down the narrow, winding stairs, Christine's rant trailing after him.
A/N: Any critique is appreciated! Especially for Errors in Britishness, or possible OOC-ness.