A Valentine’s Bouquet: Darla, D’Hoffryn, Fred, Joyce, Lorne, Wesley
TITLE: A Valentine’s Bouquet - of Gen Rare Character Drabbles!
Summary: Seasonal musings from the single
Rating: PG-13
Notes: For some reason I’ve never posted here, though I’ve been a member for ages and goodness knows I’ve written plenty of gen lately. So to make my apologetic debut, here’s a ficathon contribution to bringing some of those rare characters to the fore. It’s Valentine’s Day; but guaranteed not a ship in sight!
Joyce
It is the first Valentine’s Day post-Divorce. Joyce still thinks of it with a capital. Someday, when the wounds have scabbed, she’ll simply be divorced. Not this year. This is Dolly Parton DIVORCE territory.
She tries for a better slant on the situation. Meet Joyce Summers. Strong, confident, liberated woman, forging her way in a beloved career, finding her feet in a new town. Who needs co-dependence? Who needs romantic slush?
Joyce Summers would give her left arm for a box of chocolates and a card from an all-night garage. Because today, everyone wants to be someone’s Someone Special.
Dammit.
~~~~~~~~~~
Wesley
The day of St Valentine is a sentimental marketing gimmick. It is wholly unclear whether the Roman martyr of that name is more than fiction. The Orthodox St Valentines, priest and bishop, are honoured in July. Neither, to my knowledge, is renowned for his enjoyment of kitten pictures and chocolate hearts.
A few romantic poets invented the idea of a day of love. Hundreds of gift-shop owners doubtless light (scented, glittery) candles in their honour every February 14th.
No, it’s pure Victorian fakery, and I couldn’t be more indifferent. A Watcher thrives on realism.
A card? For me? How lovely!
~~~~~~~~~~~
Lorne
Welcome to Caritas’ Anti-Valentine’s Celebration! Step right in, take refuge from the warm fuzzies out there. That’s right, solitary singles, you’re guaranteed no pink, no couples, no reminders that there’s any particular date between February 13 and 15.
We have plenty of booze and the karaoke is censored. No mention of the l-word here. No heartbreak, no longing, no new-found romance. ’Course, that does mean it’s a pretty limited repertoire, but who minds hearing Folsom Prison Blues and Sultans of Swing on a continuous loop? (Oh dear Lord.)
It’s tough, sometimes, offering sanctuary. But believe me, this one is needed.
~~~~~~~~~
Darla
Darla adores Valentine’s Day. There is nothing so sweet as young love. Two young things, hearts entwined.
Though in practice, it proves difficult to accomplish. Hearts are disappointingly bulbous and don’t twine well. This hasn’t stopped Dru from attempting it. Repeatedly.
But Darla is beyond such literalism. Entwined corpses suits perfectly - pale faces, bloodless, breathless lips never to kiss again. Poetry in stillness. They will never be disappointed. Their love lasts, eternally cherished by those they left behind. Their names will echo, paired and revered.
It’s a kindness, really, to kill them in their flowering. And delicious, of course.
~~~~~~~~~~
Fred
It’s hard to know, what with the alien dimensional calendar differences, the twin Pylaean suns and all, but I think we’re roundabout February time. There’s that sense of winter gotten old, when the shoots of spring aren’t ready to sprout up yet but we’re all so sick of grey-brown-chill we’d just about smother a fresh budded flower in our eagerness for signs of new life. I guess that’s why they set the big pink Hallmark holiday now. Saturnalia to get you through the dark days, then Valentine’s to brighten the dreary ones.
Not that cow-slaves get cards.
I miss that.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
D'Hoffryn
I love this time of year. Just like Christmas. Filled with expectation. Hope, love and shiny, shiny presents. Vengeance comes so naturally from these celebrations, designed to promote warm snuggly togetherness. But the roses are too bedraggled. The teddy bear too pink. Sick children thwart long-planned sex. The secretary muddles the gifts and the wife gets the mistress’s size six basque. Dinner reservations fall through. Secret love is revealed, and spurned.
The way disappointment turns to bitterness just toasts my toes with joy. If only one could buy shares in irony. Its stock is skyrocketing today. Thank you, St Valentine.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Summary: Seasonal musings from the single
Rating: PG-13
Notes: For some reason I’ve never posted here, though I’ve been a member for ages and goodness knows I’ve written plenty of gen lately. So to make my apologetic debut, here’s a ficathon contribution to bringing some of those rare characters to the fore. It’s Valentine’s Day; but guaranteed not a ship in sight!
Joyce
It is the first Valentine’s Day post-Divorce. Joyce still thinks of it with a capital. Someday, when the wounds have scabbed, she’ll simply be divorced. Not this year. This is Dolly Parton DIVORCE territory.
She tries for a better slant on the situation. Meet Joyce Summers. Strong, confident, liberated woman, forging her way in a beloved career, finding her feet in a new town. Who needs co-dependence? Who needs romantic slush?
Joyce Summers would give her left arm for a box of chocolates and a card from an all-night garage. Because today, everyone wants to be someone’s Someone Special.
Dammit.
~~~~~~~~~~
Wesley
The day of St Valentine is a sentimental marketing gimmick. It is wholly unclear whether the Roman martyr of that name is more than fiction. The Orthodox St Valentines, priest and bishop, are honoured in July. Neither, to my knowledge, is renowned for his enjoyment of kitten pictures and chocolate hearts.
A few romantic poets invented the idea of a day of love. Hundreds of gift-shop owners doubtless light (scented, glittery) candles in their honour every February 14th.
No, it’s pure Victorian fakery, and I couldn’t be more indifferent. A Watcher thrives on realism.
A card? For me? How lovely!
~~~~~~~~~~~
Lorne
Welcome to Caritas’ Anti-Valentine’s Celebration! Step right in, take refuge from the warm fuzzies out there. That’s right, solitary singles, you’re guaranteed no pink, no couples, no reminders that there’s any particular date between February 13 and 15.
We have plenty of booze and the karaoke is censored. No mention of the l-word here. No heartbreak, no longing, no new-found romance. ’Course, that does mean it’s a pretty limited repertoire, but who minds hearing Folsom Prison Blues and Sultans of Swing on a continuous loop? (Oh dear Lord.)
It’s tough, sometimes, offering sanctuary. But believe me, this one is needed.
~~~~~~~~~
Darla
Darla adores Valentine’s Day. There is nothing so sweet as young love. Two young things, hearts entwined.
Though in practice, it proves difficult to accomplish. Hearts are disappointingly bulbous and don’t twine well. This hasn’t stopped Dru from attempting it. Repeatedly.
But Darla is beyond such literalism. Entwined corpses suits perfectly - pale faces, bloodless, breathless lips never to kiss again. Poetry in stillness. They will never be disappointed. Their love lasts, eternally cherished by those they left behind. Their names will echo, paired and revered.
It’s a kindness, really, to kill them in their flowering. And delicious, of course.
~~~~~~~~~~
Fred
It’s hard to know, what with the alien dimensional calendar differences, the twin Pylaean suns and all, but I think we’re roundabout February time. There’s that sense of winter gotten old, when the shoots of spring aren’t ready to sprout up yet but we’re all so sick of grey-brown-chill we’d just about smother a fresh budded flower in our eagerness for signs of new life. I guess that’s why they set the big pink Hallmark holiday now. Saturnalia to get you through the dark days, then Valentine’s to brighten the dreary ones.
Not that cow-slaves get cards.
I miss that.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
D'Hoffryn
I love this time of year. Just like Christmas. Filled with expectation. Hope, love and shiny, shiny presents. Vengeance comes so naturally from these celebrations, designed to promote warm snuggly togetherness. But the roses are too bedraggled. The teddy bear too pink. Sick children thwart long-planned sex. The secretary muddles the gifts and the wife gets the mistress’s size six basque. Dinner reservations fall through. Secret love is revealed, and spurned.
The way disappointment turns to bitterness just toasts my toes with joy. If only one could buy shares in irony. Its stock is skyrocketing today. Thank you, St Valentine.
~~~~~~~~~~~~