Hell
Characters: Peter and Claude
Rating: PG-13, for language (all Claude's, natch)
Word count: 850
Spoilers: If you know who they are, you're good.
Warnings: contains references to, and lyrics from, an Andrew Lloyd-Weber musical. Proceed with caution.
Summary: Peter gets two free tickets for Cats.
A/N: I offer no apologies whatsoever to Andrew Lloyd-Weber. None. This is for f4f3, to whom thanks for unblocking my block :)
"You've got to be bloody kidding, mate."
Peter holds up the tickets, hopefully. "But - they'll just go to waste, otherwise!"
"Yeah, well - recycle 'em, if that saves your bleedin'-heart conscience."
"But it's the theatre!"
"Just 'cause somethin's at the theatre, Peter, doesn't make it good."
"Look - you don't like it, I'll buy you dinner, okay?"
Claude frowns and mutters something that sounds like "Better start savin', then."
...
The curtain rises and Peter's attention is immediately torn from their conversation. He looks forward, stage lighting reflecting off his his eager face.
Because Jellicles are and Jellicles do
Jellicles do and Jellicles would
Jellicles would and Jellicles can
Jellicles can and Jellicles do
Claude, next to him, rolls his eyes in an expression of suffering with which Peter will, over the next two and a half hours, come to be intimately acquainted. "For Christ's sake. Is anyone over five entertained by this shit?"
"Shhhh." Peter nudges him.
...
"You think any of 'em even know what "physiognomy" means?" mutters Claude, frowning at the stage.
"They're actors!" Peter shushes him, motioning to Claude to keep his voice down. "Actors are smart," he whispers, never entirely looking away from the spotlight on the stage.
"They're hacks, mate. Prancin' around in a bit of make-up and some fur ... 's embarrassin', yeah? Lear - that's actin'."
Peter sighs and pats Claude on the arm. Whispers "You're a terrible snob, you know that?"
"Get off me." And Claude sinks down into the uncomfortable seat. "When's the damned interval? I'm goin' to need a drink. Several, actually."
...
Peter blames the interval drinks for Claude falling asleep and snoring loudly through the whole of Gus: The Theatre Cat and Growltiger's Last Stand, until Peter nudges him and Claude grumbles a tired and rather cranky "Is it finished yet?"
"No. C'mon, wake up. This bit's good, it's about a railway cat."
"Thrilling," Claude mutters, but at Peter's beseeching look, he sits up a little in his seat, digging his hands into his coat pockets.
...
Sometime later, Claude hisses at Peter in a way that makes several middle-aged women from the row in front turn around and purse their lips disapprovingly: "It's Mephistopheles! Christ." He drops his face into his hands. "No meal is worth this."
...
"Well?" Peter asks, breathlessly, as the theatre disgorges chattering families into the night. "What did you think of it?"
The invisible man breathes in and exhales in a sharp, frustrated sigh. "I think Lloyd-Weber should be shot." He glances at Peter's wavering expression of enthusiasm, already intent on continuing. "Eliot's probably rolling in his grave. Probably wrote all this as a joke. Ash Wednesday, mate, now that's a poem. This nonsense is just ... it's trash, Peter. Lowest common denominator stuff, yeah?"
Claude glances at Peter, face untroubled by this outburst, and sighs. "You liked it, didn't you."
Peter grins apologetically. "Yeah. I dunno, it makes me happy. Being in a room with all those people with smiles on their faces ..." He stops, considering. "You know ... you kind of remind me of Macavity."
He's not quick enough to dodge the invisible man's hand as it smacks the top of his head.
Claude folds his arms and glares. "You owe me dinner. A really bloody good dinner."
...
They end up in the West Village, eating fish and chips.
"See, that's clever - A Salt & Battery."
Peter swallows the piece of haddock and licks salt off his fingers. Glances sidelong at the invisible man. "You're a snob."
Claude shrugs. "It's not snobbery when somethin's crap."
Peter grins and shakes his head. "Whatever. Pass the ketchup, please?"
"Should be havin' vinegar," Claude mutters, but he hands over the red container.
...
It's late by the time they wander down 7th Avenue, and at the sight of the moon hanging low above the streets, Peter can't help humming.
Claude glares at him. "Stop it."
"But it's Memory! You know, with moonlight and pavements-" and he grins at himself, exaggerating the peculiar English pronunciation.
Claude snorts. "Don't ever try that in England, mate. They'll tear you limb from limb."
Peter shrugs, amiably. "I can regenerate."
"Showoff."
But Peter grins and runs ahead, swirling around a lamppost.
Claude shakes his head. "You're hopeless, mate."
Peter swirls around the lamppost again and catches up with him. Nudges his elbow. "Cheer up, old man. At least I didn't compare you to Old Deuteronomy."
"Right, that's it-"
Peter's whoop rises to meet the moon as Claude chases him down the street.
x-posted to peterandclaude
Rating: PG-13, for language (all Claude's, natch)
Word count: 850
Spoilers: If you know who they are, you're good.
Warnings: contains references to, and lyrics from, an Andrew Lloyd-Weber musical. Proceed with caution.
Summary: Peter gets two free tickets for Cats.
A/N: I offer no apologies whatsoever to Andrew Lloyd-Weber. None. This is for f4f3, to whom thanks for unblocking my block :)
"You've got to be bloody kidding, mate."
Peter holds up the tickets, hopefully. "But - they'll just go to waste, otherwise!"
"Yeah, well - recycle 'em, if that saves your bleedin'-heart conscience."
"But it's the theatre!"
"Just 'cause somethin's at the theatre, Peter, doesn't make it good."
"Look - you don't like it, I'll buy you dinner, okay?"
Claude frowns and mutters something that sounds like "Better start savin', then."
...
The curtain rises and Peter's attention is immediately torn from their conversation. He looks forward, stage lighting reflecting off his his eager face.
Because Jellicles are and Jellicles do
Jellicles do and Jellicles would
Jellicles would and Jellicles can
Jellicles can and Jellicles do
Claude, next to him, rolls his eyes in an expression of suffering with which Peter will, over the next two and a half hours, come to be intimately acquainted. "For Christ's sake. Is anyone over five entertained by this shit?"
"Shhhh." Peter nudges him.
...
"You think any of 'em even know what "physiognomy" means?" mutters Claude, frowning at the stage.
"They're actors!" Peter shushes him, motioning to Claude to keep his voice down. "Actors are smart," he whispers, never entirely looking away from the spotlight on the stage.
"They're hacks, mate. Prancin' around in a bit of make-up and some fur ... 's embarrassin', yeah? Lear - that's actin'."
Peter sighs and pats Claude on the arm. Whispers "You're a terrible snob, you know that?"
"Get off me." And Claude sinks down into the uncomfortable seat. "When's the damned interval? I'm goin' to need a drink. Several, actually."
...
Peter blames the interval drinks for Claude falling asleep and snoring loudly through the whole of Gus: The Theatre Cat and Growltiger's Last Stand, until Peter nudges him and Claude grumbles a tired and rather cranky "Is it finished yet?"
"No. C'mon, wake up. This bit's good, it's about a railway cat."
"Thrilling," Claude mutters, but at Peter's beseeching look, he sits up a little in his seat, digging his hands into his coat pockets.
...
Sometime later, Claude hisses at Peter in a way that makes several middle-aged women from the row in front turn around and purse their lips disapprovingly: "It's Mephistopheles! Christ." He drops his face into his hands. "No meal is worth this."
...
"Well?" Peter asks, breathlessly, as the theatre disgorges chattering families into the night. "What did you think of it?"
The invisible man breathes in and exhales in a sharp, frustrated sigh. "I think Lloyd-Weber should be shot." He glances at Peter's wavering expression of enthusiasm, already intent on continuing. "Eliot's probably rolling in his grave. Probably wrote all this as a joke. Ash Wednesday, mate, now that's a poem. This nonsense is just ... it's trash, Peter. Lowest common denominator stuff, yeah?"
Claude glances at Peter, face untroubled by this outburst, and sighs. "You liked it, didn't you."
Peter grins apologetically. "Yeah. I dunno, it makes me happy. Being in a room with all those people with smiles on their faces ..." He stops, considering. "You know ... you kind of remind me of Macavity."
He's not quick enough to dodge the invisible man's hand as it smacks the top of his head.
Claude folds his arms and glares. "You owe me dinner. A really bloody good dinner."
...
They end up in the West Village, eating fish and chips.
"See, that's clever - A Salt & Battery."
Peter swallows the piece of haddock and licks salt off his fingers. Glances sidelong at the invisible man. "You're a snob."
Claude shrugs. "It's not snobbery when somethin's crap."
Peter grins and shakes his head. "Whatever. Pass the ketchup, please?"
"Should be havin' vinegar," Claude mutters, but he hands over the red container.
...
It's late by the time they wander down 7th Avenue, and at the sight of the moon hanging low above the streets, Peter can't help humming.
Claude glares at him. "Stop it."
"But it's Memory! You know, with moonlight and pavements-" and he grins at himself, exaggerating the peculiar English pronunciation.
Claude snorts. "Don't ever try that in England, mate. They'll tear you limb from limb."
Peter shrugs, amiably. "I can regenerate."
"Showoff."
But Peter grins and runs ahead, swirling around a lamppost.
Claude shakes his head. "You're hopeless, mate."
Peter swirls around the lamppost again and catches up with him. Nudges his elbow. "Cheer up, old man. At least I didn't compare you to Old Deuteronomy."
"Right, that's it-"
Peter's whoop rises to meet the moon as Claude chases him down the street.
x-posted to peterandclaude