Fic: Gene and the Frog
Title: Gene and the Frog
Pairing: Gene/Frog/Wendy Barton ;)
Rating: Universal
Summary: For the Luigi's episode one fic challenge - just made it. It's unbeta-d, which causes me physical pain, but when you leave things to the last minute... Inspired by Gene's response to being asked if he'd ever been in love. Thanks to the ladies in the Naughty Corner for ideas of where to find the frog :)
Gene and the Frog.
The hot August sun blazed down on the dozing streets of Manchester; bouncing off the red brick of the terraced walls, the narrow streets seeming to trap the heat and intensify it. It fell upon the tousled head of a small boy, slouching along the gutter, hands deep in pockets, socks around his ankles, scuffing a small stone along in front of him in a desultory manner. It was a sight calculated to make Mr Braithwaite yell a stentorian 'You, boy!' and impart a five minute lecture on the importance of personal appearance. But Mr Braithwaite wasn't there. It was Bank Holiday Monday, and Mr Braithwaite was enjoying the amenities of the countryside along with every other God fearing inhabitant of the parish.
The boy hunched his shoulders and contrived to thrust his hands even deeper into his pockets.
"S'not my fault," he muttered. "S'not my fault stupid old Doreen Granger doesn't like spiders."
While his peers were frolicking amongst wild flowers and bringing terror to unsuspecting farm animals on the Church Social trip, he, Gene Hunt, was left behind. His timing, he realised, had been fatally flawed. Next Sunday it wouldn't have mattered. But next Sunday the happy combination of Doreen Granger's pigtails and a particularly large and frisky spider might not have presented itself. If God chose to present a boy with those pigtails hanging over the back of the pew in front of him and a spider in a matchbox in his pocket, what else was a boy going to do? It wasn't his fault the spider had decided to hare over her shoulder and scrabble over her hand right in the middle of Mr Braithwaite's sermon, was it?
"Huh," observed Gene to a passing ginger cat.
The cat stalked on, its tail upright and demeanour one of feline disdain. As a matter of course, Gene picked up the stone he'd been dribbling along the road and shied it at the retreating animal. He missed. The cat barely broke into a jog.
"Huh."
So instead of playing cricket on real grass and eating a picnic lunch with his mates, Gene was having to make his own amusement. Alone. Gene was not a naturally solitary creature. He craved company; he needed someone to lead. His schoolmates recognised his inherent ability to provide drama and excitement in their lives, and gravitated to him like iron filings to a magnet. Gene it was, who decided whether they were to play American Paratroopers v. German Panzers, Cops and Robbers, or Cowboys and Indians. It was always he they looked to to lead them to victory against the bad guys. Occasionally one of his more daring friends would ask why he never wanted to be an Indian. Or a bank robber. After a short scuffle the question tended to be dropped.
Gene had absolutely no doubts about it. He was one of the good guys.
Mr Braithwaite was less convinced.
The funny thing about being on your own, Gene thought, was how slowly time passed. How many times had he started a successful assault on the beaches of Normandy at 3 o'clock, only to hear the church clock telling him he was already late for tea before he'd barely made a bridgehead? Even taking the dangerous short cut through the ruins of Partridge's old chippy he could never be anything less than five minutes late, with all the consequences that entailed. But today? Today, the hours had dragged. He'd made his way to the Bomb Site as usual, but it's charms paled when there was no-one else to help build secret club houses or set up dangerous assault courses from the piles of debris that littered the site.
It was only when a frog made a fatal mis-judgement and ventured out into the open that the morning had picked up. Gene spent a patient hour stalking the wretched amphibian until finally capturing it with a yell of satisfied triumph. True, his first attempt to hold it in an old tobacco tin half full of water hadn't been a total success. The left leg of his shorts was still rather damp. Inspiration had come in the form of his handkerchief. The frog now sat hunched and miserable on the damp square of grey cotton in the bottom of the tin, drugged by the heady fumes of Old Virginia pipe tobacco. Gene automatically patted the tin in his pocket to make sure it was still secure. He was wondering what frogs ate; an offer of a piece of cheese from his own dinner had been met with froggy terror. He didn't want the creature dying before he'd had a chance to show someone, did he?
He slouched on round the corner, pondering the problem, and looked up to see a figure sitting on the wall next to the Red Lion. It was a girl, sitting with her back to him. Gene stopped and regarded her warily. She had pigtails too. Golden pigtails, paler even than his own sun bleached mop. Wendy Barton.
Wendy Barton never went on the Church outings. Wendy Barton never went to church. Her parents believed in vegetarianism, hand woven cloth and mankind being at one with nature. For a while they're run a smallholding to prove it, but it turned out nature wasn't at one with them and they'd had to move back to the city. Gene's mam didn't approve of being at one with nature and vegetarianism and had forbidden her sons from having anything to do with Wendy Barton. To Gene, this made her as desirable an acquaintance as a candle for a moth.
Circumstances had thus far prevented him from acting on this fascination, but it seemed God was once more in the mood to provide him with opportunity. He approached slowly and lent against the wall opposite her, radiating insouciance. There was a long pause while they looked at each other in silence. Gene cracked first.
"You're Wendy Barton. You don't go to church. My mam says you'll go to hell."
As chat up lines went, it lacked everything but honesty.
Wendy Barton coloured slightly, but rallied.
"You're Gene Hunt. I've heard all about you," she said, in tones of deep disapproval.
Gene remained stony-faced, but internally he preened. He'd take infamy over anonymity every time.
Another silence.
"Why aren't you with the others?" Wendy asked, chewing on the end of one plait.
"Wasn't allowed," Gene huffed. "Stupid Doreen Granger screamed 'cos of a spider. Wasn't my fault."
"Don't like Doreen Granger. She took my blue pencil and won't give it back."
Gene beamed. He'd found an ally.
"'M going to the Bomb Site," he observed, levering himself off the wall.
It wasn't obviously an invitation, but nevertheless, as Gene slouched off, Wendy Barton followed ten steps behind.
Gene didn't mind. He was wondering if she'd like to see his frog.
Pairing: Gene/Frog/Wendy Barton ;)
Rating: Universal
Summary: For the Luigi's episode one fic challenge - just made it. It's unbeta-d, which causes me physical pain, but when you leave things to the last minute... Inspired by Gene's response to being asked if he'd ever been in love. Thanks to the ladies in the Naughty Corner for ideas of where to find the frog :)
Gene and the Frog.
The hot August sun blazed down on the dozing streets of Manchester; bouncing off the red brick of the terraced walls, the narrow streets seeming to trap the heat and intensify it. It fell upon the tousled head of a small boy, slouching along the gutter, hands deep in pockets, socks around his ankles, scuffing a small stone along in front of him in a desultory manner. It was a sight calculated to make Mr Braithwaite yell a stentorian 'You, boy!' and impart a five minute lecture on the importance of personal appearance. But Mr Braithwaite wasn't there. It was Bank Holiday Monday, and Mr Braithwaite was enjoying the amenities of the countryside along with every other God fearing inhabitant of the parish.
The boy hunched his shoulders and contrived to thrust his hands even deeper into his pockets.
"S'not my fault," he muttered. "S'not my fault stupid old Doreen Granger doesn't like spiders."
While his peers were frolicking amongst wild flowers and bringing terror to unsuspecting farm animals on the Church Social trip, he, Gene Hunt, was left behind. His timing, he realised, had been fatally flawed. Next Sunday it wouldn't have mattered. But next Sunday the happy combination of Doreen Granger's pigtails and a particularly large and frisky spider might not have presented itself. If God chose to present a boy with those pigtails hanging over the back of the pew in front of him and a spider in a matchbox in his pocket, what else was a boy going to do? It wasn't his fault the spider had decided to hare over her shoulder and scrabble over her hand right in the middle of Mr Braithwaite's sermon, was it?
"Huh," observed Gene to a passing ginger cat.
The cat stalked on, its tail upright and demeanour one of feline disdain. As a matter of course, Gene picked up the stone he'd been dribbling along the road and shied it at the retreating animal. He missed. The cat barely broke into a jog.
"Huh."
So instead of playing cricket on real grass and eating a picnic lunch with his mates, Gene was having to make his own amusement. Alone. Gene was not a naturally solitary creature. He craved company; he needed someone to lead. His schoolmates recognised his inherent ability to provide drama and excitement in their lives, and gravitated to him like iron filings to a magnet. Gene it was, who decided whether they were to play American Paratroopers v. German Panzers, Cops and Robbers, or Cowboys and Indians. It was always he they looked to to lead them to victory against the bad guys. Occasionally one of his more daring friends would ask why he never wanted to be an Indian. Or a bank robber. After a short scuffle the question tended to be dropped.
Gene had absolutely no doubts about it. He was one of the good guys.
Mr Braithwaite was less convinced.
The funny thing about being on your own, Gene thought, was how slowly time passed. How many times had he started a successful assault on the beaches of Normandy at 3 o'clock, only to hear the church clock telling him he was already late for tea before he'd barely made a bridgehead? Even taking the dangerous short cut through the ruins of Partridge's old chippy he could never be anything less than five minutes late, with all the consequences that entailed. But today? Today, the hours had dragged. He'd made his way to the Bomb Site as usual, but it's charms paled when there was no-one else to help build secret club houses or set up dangerous assault courses from the piles of debris that littered the site.
It was only when a frog made a fatal mis-judgement and ventured out into the open that the morning had picked up. Gene spent a patient hour stalking the wretched amphibian until finally capturing it with a yell of satisfied triumph. True, his first attempt to hold it in an old tobacco tin half full of water hadn't been a total success. The left leg of his shorts was still rather damp. Inspiration had come in the form of his handkerchief. The frog now sat hunched and miserable on the damp square of grey cotton in the bottom of the tin, drugged by the heady fumes of Old Virginia pipe tobacco. Gene automatically patted the tin in his pocket to make sure it was still secure. He was wondering what frogs ate; an offer of a piece of cheese from his own dinner had been met with froggy terror. He didn't want the creature dying before he'd had a chance to show someone, did he?
He slouched on round the corner, pondering the problem, and looked up to see a figure sitting on the wall next to the Red Lion. It was a girl, sitting with her back to him. Gene stopped and regarded her warily. She had pigtails too. Golden pigtails, paler even than his own sun bleached mop. Wendy Barton.
Wendy Barton never went on the Church outings. Wendy Barton never went to church. Her parents believed in vegetarianism, hand woven cloth and mankind being at one with nature. For a while they're run a smallholding to prove it, but it turned out nature wasn't at one with them and they'd had to move back to the city. Gene's mam didn't approve of being at one with nature and vegetarianism and had forbidden her sons from having anything to do with Wendy Barton. To Gene, this made her as desirable an acquaintance as a candle for a moth.
Circumstances had thus far prevented him from acting on this fascination, but it seemed God was once more in the mood to provide him with opportunity. He approached slowly and lent against the wall opposite her, radiating insouciance. There was a long pause while they looked at each other in silence. Gene cracked first.
"You're Wendy Barton. You don't go to church. My mam says you'll go to hell."
As chat up lines went, it lacked everything but honesty.
Wendy Barton coloured slightly, but rallied.
"You're Gene Hunt. I've heard all about you," she said, in tones of deep disapproval.
Gene remained stony-faced, but internally he preened. He'd take infamy over anonymity every time.
Another silence.
"Why aren't you with the others?" Wendy asked, chewing on the end of one plait.
"Wasn't allowed," Gene huffed. "Stupid Doreen Granger screamed 'cos of a spider. Wasn't my fault."
"Don't like Doreen Granger. She took my blue pencil and won't give it back."
Gene beamed. He'd found an ally.
"'M going to the Bomb Site," he observed, levering himself off the wall.
It wasn't obviously an invitation, but nevertheless, as Gene slouched off, Wendy Barton followed ten steps behind.
Gene didn't mind. He was wondering if she'd like to see his frog.