(no subject)
Title: A Rose By Any Other Name
Author: dracothelizard
Rating: PG
Beta'd by rionaleonhart
Disclaimer: Everything in this fic actually happened, except for the stuff that didn't.
Characters: Adam Monroe
Table/Prompt: Table 11, prompt Drunk
Word Count: 1204
Summary: In which Adam/Kensei decides that what he really needs is a new fake name. Unfortunately, he's drunk and not really capable of making one up.
It’s the 1890s. He’s fairly certain of that. Or maybe it’s already the 1900s. He wouldn’t be that put out about missing the change of one century for a new one, because if you’ve experienced one of those, you’ve experienced them all, and besides, the switch from the 1990s to the 2000s seems far more exciting, as that’s the change of one millennium for a new one.
Then again, that probably won’t be that spectacular either. Bigger festivities than normal, perhaps, but nothing life-changing. It’s the world that changes, but never the people. Cultures are different, he has experienced that during his travels, but those differences are on the surface. Deep down, all humans are alike, and he thinks that it would stop a lot of wars if they could just realise that.
He hates it when he gets philosophical; it’s why he starts his bouts of drunkenness in the first place. This cycle has been going on for some time, and he can see it coming now. It starts after happily spending a few years in one place, getting to know the people, fitting in, making himself useful in a community, sometimes even finding a wife. But then it starts going wrong. The community starts to realise that he doesn’t age, or someone discovers that he can heal himself. And that’s when he realises that nothing ever really changes, even though he has seen the world go through so much. Wars, revolutions, peace treaties, scientific breakthroughs, products from all over the world now at the local market. The list goes on.
The people stay the same, and every time he realises that, he can’t help but spend the following couple of years in a drunken haze. Once he’s had enough of that, he goes some place new, makes up a new name, and the whole process starts again. At least his experience means that he’s away before they plan to chase him out with torches and pitchforks.
He’s in a new place at the moment, a nice little town near New York City. He’s forgotten the name, but it’s big enough for him to be anonymous. Just one more drunkard for everyone else to ignore.
Except, of course, when a bar brawl breaks out. Then some concerned citizen will always call the police, who will do their best to arrest everyone involved.
The problem with that is that the police require names, and he hasn’t really spent that much time coming up with a new name. He could use an old one, of course, but, as he’s leaning against the wall of the grubby prison cell with a dozen drunkards surrounding him, he thinks that this is a new start, and that using an old name would somehow be wrong.
The police are taking his fellow arrestees out of the cell one by one, and he’s sure it’s his turn soon. He needs a new name, and he needs one now. He can’t very well ask the others; it’d be weird to ask them to name him. Besides, he’s drunk and he can’t even think of a name, so it’s a fair bet to assume they won’t be able to come up with something either.
He looks over at the next cell, where a couple of small children are sitting. They’re as far away from the rowdy drunkards as possible, and he can’t quite blame them. Still, children are creative, and, most importantly, they’re sober.
He walks over to the bars connecting them and gets down on his knees, trying not to look threatening. “Hey, psst.”
Some of the children look up, but they don’t say anything.
“I need a small favour.”
“We don’t do that,” one of the older children immediately says. “We just beg.”
“Not that,” he replies, disgusted. As if sex would be on his mind in a situation likes this. “You don’t even really need to do anything.”
This doesn’t really make the children any less suspicious of him, and he can’t really blame them. “What do you want, then?” the same child asks.
“A name,” he says. “Just a name.”
“One of ours?” another child asks, and he thinks it’s a girl, although it’s hard to tell with the rags and the dirt.
“No, no, a new one. A made-up one.”
“Snuggles Fluffybottom,” one of them says after a short silence, and the others snigger quietly.
“Snuggles Fluffybottom,” he says, trying it out. It doesn’t sound too bad, actually. “Thanks,” he tells the children, and he gets away from the bars.
A few seconds later, two policemen grab him and drag him away for the formalities.
***
The next morning, he wakes up feeling quite refreshed. He never has to deal with the after-effects of drinking, which is one of the reasons why he does it so thoroughly. He crawls over the pile of other drunkards, who are still asleep, and gets the attention of one of the policemen on duty. “I’d like to leave, please,” he says.
The policeman stares down at him. “Would you now?”
He gets up. “Yes. Look, I know I’ve been arrested for drunk and disorderly behaviour, and I know you only keep people in a cell for one night for that, so I think it’s time for me to leave.”
“I’ll talk to the chief,” the policeman says, and wanders off.
He strongly suspects the policeman didn’t immediately go to the chief, because he returns about an hour later, with a mug of coffee and a newspaper, and goes to sit at his desk. He knows it’s done purely to infuriate him and to put him in his place, but it gets to him every damn time.
“Hey! Can I leave?” he asks, grabbing the bars.
“Oh, sure, let me grab the keys.”
He fully expects this to take another hour as well, but the policeman returns after a minute or so, and lets him out.
“Now, I hope you won’t be doing that any time again soon, Mister Fluffybottom,” the policeman tells him, mouth twitching with the effort not to laugh.
He stares at the other man. “What did you call me?”
“Mister Fluffybottom,” the policeman repeats, smiling now. “Mister Snuggles Fluffybottom. At least, that’s what you said your name was, and none of the others knew who you were, so we just assumed you were speaking the truth. And if we were to find out that you’ve been lying to the police, well, then you’d be looking at a lot more nights in our fine establishment, Mister Fluffybottom.” The grin turns to a smirk, and the policeman damn well knows it’s not his real name, but he’s forced to go with it now, because he’s quite attached to his freedom.
“My parents were on opium,” he says, which seems to be an acceptable explanation for just about anything even remotely strange these days.
The policeman nods and lets him out of the police station.
He stands outside for a moment, taking in the sunlight, the fresh air, and the crowds around him. Snuggles Fluffybottom. Well, it could be a lot worse. Maybe he could even get used to it, and if he can’t, well, there’s always the next little town.
Author: dracothelizard
Rating: PG
Beta'd by rionaleonhart
Disclaimer: Everything in this fic actually happened, except for the stuff that didn't.
Characters: Adam Monroe
Table/Prompt: Table 11, prompt Drunk
Word Count: 1204
Summary: In which Adam/Kensei decides that what he really needs is a new fake name. Unfortunately, he's drunk and not really capable of making one up.
It’s the 1890s. He’s fairly certain of that. Or maybe it’s already the 1900s. He wouldn’t be that put out about missing the change of one century for a new one, because if you’ve experienced one of those, you’ve experienced them all, and besides, the switch from the 1990s to the 2000s seems far more exciting, as that’s the change of one millennium for a new one.
Then again, that probably won’t be that spectacular either. Bigger festivities than normal, perhaps, but nothing life-changing. It’s the world that changes, but never the people. Cultures are different, he has experienced that during his travels, but those differences are on the surface. Deep down, all humans are alike, and he thinks that it would stop a lot of wars if they could just realise that.
He hates it when he gets philosophical; it’s why he starts his bouts of drunkenness in the first place. This cycle has been going on for some time, and he can see it coming now. It starts after happily spending a few years in one place, getting to know the people, fitting in, making himself useful in a community, sometimes even finding a wife. But then it starts going wrong. The community starts to realise that he doesn’t age, or someone discovers that he can heal himself. And that’s when he realises that nothing ever really changes, even though he has seen the world go through so much. Wars, revolutions, peace treaties, scientific breakthroughs, products from all over the world now at the local market. The list goes on.
The people stay the same, and every time he realises that, he can’t help but spend the following couple of years in a drunken haze. Once he’s had enough of that, he goes some place new, makes up a new name, and the whole process starts again. At least his experience means that he’s away before they plan to chase him out with torches and pitchforks.
He’s in a new place at the moment, a nice little town near New York City. He’s forgotten the name, but it’s big enough for him to be anonymous. Just one more drunkard for everyone else to ignore.
Except, of course, when a bar brawl breaks out. Then some concerned citizen will always call the police, who will do their best to arrest everyone involved.
The problem with that is that the police require names, and he hasn’t really spent that much time coming up with a new name. He could use an old one, of course, but, as he’s leaning against the wall of the grubby prison cell with a dozen drunkards surrounding him, he thinks that this is a new start, and that using an old name would somehow be wrong.
The police are taking his fellow arrestees out of the cell one by one, and he’s sure it’s his turn soon. He needs a new name, and he needs one now. He can’t very well ask the others; it’d be weird to ask them to name him. Besides, he’s drunk and he can’t even think of a name, so it’s a fair bet to assume they won’t be able to come up with something either.
He looks over at the next cell, where a couple of small children are sitting. They’re as far away from the rowdy drunkards as possible, and he can’t quite blame them. Still, children are creative, and, most importantly, they’re sober.
He walks over to the bars connecting them and gets down on his knees, trying not to look threatening. “Hey, psst.”
Some of the children look up, but they don’t say anything.
“I need a small favour.”
“We don’t do that,” one of the older children immediately says. “We just beg.”
“Not that,” he replies, disgusted. As if sex would be on his mind in a situation likes this. “You don’t even really need to do anything.”
This doesn’t really make the children any less suspicious of him, and he can’t really blame them. “What do you want, then?” the same child asks.
“A name,” he says. “Just a name.”
“One of ours?” another child asks, and he thinks it’s a girl, although it’s hard to tell with the rags and the dirt.
“No, no, a new one. A made-up one.”
“Snuggles Fluffybottom,” one of them says after a short silence, and the others snigger quietly.
“Snuggles Fluffybottom,” he says, trying it out. It doesn’t sound too bad, actually. “Thanks,” he tells the children, and he gets away from the bars.
A few seconds later, two policemen grab him and drag him away for the formalities.
***
The next morning, he wakes up feeling quite refreshed. He never has to deal with the after-effects of drinking, which is one of the reasons why he does it so thoroughly. He crawls over the pile of other drunkards, who are still asleep, and gets the attention of one of the policemen on duty. “I’d like to leave, please,” he says.
The policeman stares down at him. “Would you now?”
He gets up. “Yes. Look, I know I’ve been arrested for drunk and disorderly behaviour, and I know you only keep people in a cell for one night for that, so I think it’s time for me to leave.”
“I’ll talk to the chief,” the policeman says, and wanders off.
He strongly suspects the policeman didn’t immediately go to the chief, because he returns about an hour later, with a mug of coffee and a newspaper, and goes to sit at his desk. He knows it’s done purely to infuriate him and to put him in his place, but it gets to him every damn time.
“Hey! Can I leave?” he asks, grabbing the bars.
“Oh, sure, let me grab the keys.”
He fully expects this to take another hour as well, but the policeman returns after a minute or so, and lets him out.
“Now, I hope you won’t be doing that any time again soon, Mister Fluffybottom,” the policeman tells him, mouth twitching with the effort not to laugh.
He stares at the other man. “What did you call me?”
“Mister Fluffybottom,” the policeman repeats, smiling now. “Mister Snuggles Fluffybottom. At least, that’s what you said your name was, and none of the others knew who you were, so we just assumed you were speaking the truth. And if we were to find out that you’ve been lying to the police, well, then you’d be looking at a lot more nights in our fine establishment, Mister Fluffybottom.” The grin turns to a smirk, and the policeman damn well knows it’s not his real name, but he’s forced to go with it now, because he’s quite attached to his freedom.
“My parents were on opium,” he says, which seems to be an acceptable explanation for just about anything even remotely strange these days.
The policeman nods and lets him out of the police station.
He stands outside for a moment, taking in the sunlight, the fresh air, and the crowds around him. Snuggles Fluffybottom. Well, it could be a lot worse. Maybe he could even get used to it, and if he can’t, well, there’s always the next little town.