Life on Mars Anonymous Pornfest II - The Porn Bites Back
Please Note: We've declared the Very First Second Pornfest over, so any new prompts posted will be deleted. However, we do encourage you to post any anon fic in response to the existing prompts and comment on the lovely responses that we've already got
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He let out a little burp, and for a moment Sam was frightened he might be sick. He'd never seen Gene vomit when drunk, though it wasn't impossible. In the end, though, Gene seemed to swallow it back down, along with any more insults he might have been holding on the tip of his tongue.
After a minute, Sam asked in a small voice,
'Was it horrible?'
Gene opened his eyes. They seemed clearer than they had any right to be.
'You ask me, Gladys,' he said, in a remarkably steady voice, 'Whether it was "horrible". The answer is "no." No. It was distinctly un-horrible.'
'In what way?' asked Sam, wondering if he was pushing his luck with all these direct questions.
'By "horrible," I assume you imply "Was there shouting? Was there gnashing of teeth and pounding of petulant feet and breaking of the Mam's best crockery that she gave us as a wedding present along with a pair of bloody lace and cotton booties for the three-month-old bump that Ellen hid under an empire-line wedding dress and that never made it to four months or got to wear the fucking booties anyway."'
It was a quiet, slightly slurred tirade, delivered through clenched teeth, but Sam was hammered flat by the hail of personal revelations it rained down on him. And Gene hadn't even finished.
'No, Sammy. Your answer is no. There was no noise. No noise at all. I asked her what there was for tea. And she just stood up and walked out the front door. Found the empty wardrobe and the 'goodbye' note ten minutes later.'
'What'd it say?' asked Sam.
'The note?' asked Gene. 'It said,"Goodbye."
'Short and to the point,' said Sam, wryly. Then he felt awful for his flippancy. Gene, however, didn't seem to mind. He had hauled himself to his feet, and was stumbling in the direction of the kitchen counter.
'This a "kitchenette?"' asked Gene.
'A what?' said Sam.
'A "kitchenette,"' repeated Gene. 'Is this one of 'em? I mean, it's not a whole kitchen, issit? There's no... wall. To separate it from the rest of the scummy little flat. So by my reasoning, it must be a kitchenette.'
'Whatever you say,' said Sam, lying back on the bed and pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes.
He felt rather than saw Gene's dark, solid shape looming over him. He could almost feel the shadow slick its way across his body as Gene approached to stand unsteadily at the side of his bed. When Sam removed his hands and opened his eyes, Gene was holding something out unsteadily towards him.
It was a large, navy blue mug. His favourite mug. Pristinely clean. No ingrained coffee stains or rings of tea scum on the inside rim, though he'd had it since he'd arrived here two years ago.
'Thanks,' said Sam, accepting the mug, only to realise that there was nothing inside of it. 'What's this supposed to be?' he asked, puzzled.
'It's a mug,' said Gene.
'What do you want me to do with it?' asked Sam, still nonplussed.
'Throw it,' said Gene, his voice hard and demanding.
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Because it says so much, in just a few words.
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