Petshop of Horrors: Catching up with the drabbles
Because I HAVE actually written more PSoH drabbles, even if I feel rusty as hell - and actually discovered some more that I didn't link to.
Just copying and pasting these, so you get them exactly as they appeared over at psohdrabble. Yeah, they suffer just as much as you do.
Originally posted on the 28th December, last year:
Title: Fighting with Girls
Author: Susan
Word Count: 181
Rating: G
Characters: Papa D, Howell
Notes: Papa D has still eaten my brain, and I am still cleaning out my old drabbles. That is my excuse, and I stick by it. Yes, I know girls can fight properly, but I doubt Howell would.
Howell knew how girls fought. They pulled hair and spat curses and slapped and ripped out hair. He didn’t fight with girls: even if they hit him first, he never hit them back.
That extended to D too: despite every conversation they had turning into an argument, he’d never smacked the bastard. Every wall on campus had born the brunt of his temper, sparing D’s beautiful, feminine face.
In fact, the only thing that changed his mind was when D decided - for whatever reason - that Howell had gone to far and blacked his eye for him.
Punched.
Not slapped.
Once the ice pack was gone, and the swelling down enough that he could see, he walked into the lab and started a brawl. He lost - deliberately thankyouverymuch, because he couldn’t go too hard on the bastard, seeing as he was a skinny little Chinese shortarse with a left hook Tyson would envy - but it was the most satisfying thing he’d done in ages.
From the proud smirk on D’s face, he was thinking exactly the same thing.
Title: Misjudgement
Author: Susan
Rating: G
Word Count: 193
Characters: Papa D/Howell
Notes: This was both old and half finished, and when I was done typing it, my intended punchline didn't fit. Dammit, if Vesca is Howell's real name I'm going to be VERY annoyed. Therefor, instead of attempting-to-be-entertaining crack, you just get crack. *pokes the purpled-eyed drabble bunny with a stick and tries to get it to leave her alone*
In a few hours, the sun will come up. The drapes have been arranged so that the light will fall onto the face of the blond man on the bed. He will wake up slowly, arms sliding across the bed, feeling for someone who should be there but isn’t. His brain will refuse to compute this and tell him, regretfully, to wake up.
He’ll obey, slowly surfacing, waking to a bed that smells of sweat and sex and fine perfume. The colours will seem muted, and the sounds dimmed. He’ll stare around him, knowing what’s missing and refusing to believe it.
The rainbow of clothes in the wardrobe will be gone. The flat will be spotless, and there will be nearly no trace of his lover in the place. Claw marks on the headboard. A smudge of lipstick on his shirt. A few long black hairs caught in a hairbrush.
A note propped against the mirror, bearing a few words that were meant to shrivel his soul, anger him, make him wish to forget the man had ever existed.
Only decades later will D realise how badly he misjudged in writing that letter.
Originally posted on the 1st of July
Title: In the Beginning there was a voice
Author: A very rusty Susan
Rating: G
Word Count: 206
Characters: New!D, Papa D, Sofu D
Notes: I know, I know. I'm so rusty it's not even funny - I haven't written anything for PSOH in FOREVER. I've been flirting with other fandoms. I feel like such a whore. :S That is my excuse for the suck, and I stick to it. Excuse me while I try and flex my writing muscles into something resembling usable condition.
In the beginning, there was a Voice. It didn’t seem to pay any attention to him, but it babbled to itself in the back of his mind, reciting
My son - the only flaw with cloning and asexual reproduction is that any flaws in the parent are reproduced perfectly in the child - my son - father - Vesca - Howell - Damn you father - I WILL remember -
things that made no sense in a hoarse whisper.
Eventually, when he was older, the voice shushed itself, only emerging to whisper advice and comfort, to snarl
Damn you father
vague threats and fury at Grandfather when he started to speak ill of
my son
the child’s brother, or to laugh at Grandfather with furious hysteria.
Ask him about his son,
the Voice suggested once, when D wondered why it hated him so much.
Ask him and see what he admits to.
He never gets the opportunity to ask. If he looked at Grandfather when the voice was whispering, Grandfather reacted much as he did when the child asked about the
biology theorems
incomprehensible babble he woke up to sometimes.
Grandfather turned pale, lips thinning, and slapped the child.
For once, Grandfather and the Voice were in perfect agreement.
I won’t let what happened to my son happen to you.
Originally posted on the 19th of July.
Title: Stranger/Brother
Author: Susan - who is still rusty and still doesn't find it funny
Rating: G with NO swearing.
Word Count: 177
Characters: Chris, Josie
Notes: Written for fanfic100's "Strangers" challenge (And now I have the phrase "Stranger than fiction" stuck in my head, which I assume could be another drabble. ~_~) Taking great liberties with the fact that a) I have no idea about American geography and can assume Leon's too far away to visit regularly, b) I can't really picture Leon visiting his family that often whether he was in range or not.
“Chris?” She tapped the door. “You in there?”
Josie had been elected to fetch Chris on the grounds that Chris liked her, and she got on well with their visitor, which Dad Did Not Approve Of.
She knocked again, then opened the door. Chris was lying on the floor with a pad of paper in front of him and crayons scattered all over. The kid’s face lit up when she came in, and he offered her a handful.
Oh. That explained it.
Chris didn’t like being around strangers that much, and Josie was always sick of family gatherings after an hour or so, so they usually ended up in Chris’ room drawing silly wax crayon pictures - like a bright green alien with three eyes eating a stickman-granddad and his stupid pipe.
“Come on big guy, time to go downstairs.”
Chris’ bottom lip started wobbling, and his eyes started tearing up - a trick he’d definitely learnt off Sam - and Josie flumped down next to him.
“It’s not like Christmas or New Year, big guy. Leon’s not a stranger. He’s your brother.”
Title:
Rating: G with NO swearing.
Word Count: 177
Characters: Jill, Leon
Notes: Written for fanfic100's challenge "Death." I hate this one. ~_~ Spoilers for Volume 10 ahoy!
They were cops.
Not only cops, but homicide detectives.
Death was something you couldn’t really get used to, buy if you saw it every day, it... Numbed you a little.
Looking at Leon, Jill had to wonder just how numb they really were.
“I’m sorry Leon, but there’s no way-”
“I survived it, didn’t I? I was at the centre of the blast and I’m still here.”
“You were dead for two minutes and in a coma for three days.” Jill snapped, then leaned over and caught one of Leon’s hands. He didn’t look at her face, instead staring at their hands. “D was always lucky, Leon. Always. But he’s not you. He didn’t have anybody keeping an eye on him and handing out miracles.”
Just copying and pasting these, so you get them exactly as they appeared over at psohdrabble. Yeah, they suffer just as much as you do.
Originally posted on the 28th December, last year:
Title: Fighting with Girls
Author: Susan
Word Count: 181
Rating: G
Characters: Papa D, Howell
Notes: Papa D has still eaten my brain, and I am still cleaning out my old drabbles. That is my excuse, and I stick by it. Yes, I know girls can fight properly, but I doubt Howell would.
Howell knew how girls fought. They pulled hair and spat curses and slapped and ripped out hair. He didn’t fight with girls: even if they hit him first, he never hit them back.
That extended to D too: despite every conversation they had turning into an argument, he’d never smacked the bastard. Every wall on campus had born the brunt of his temper, sparing D’s beautiful, feminine face.
In fact, the only thing that changed his mind was when D decided - for whatever reason - that Howell had gone to far and blacked his eye for him.
Punched.
Not slapped.
Once the ice pack was gone, and the swelling down enough that he could see, he walked into the lab and started a brawl. He lost - deliberately thankyouverymuch, because he couldn’t go too hard on the bastard, seeing as he was a skinny little Chinese shortarse with a left hook Tyson would envy - but it was the most satisfying thing he’d done in ages.
From the proud smirk on D’s face, he was thinking exactly the same thing.
Title: Misjudgement
Author: Susan
Rating: G
Word Count: 193
Characters: Papa D/Howell
Notes: This was both old and half finished, and when I was done typing it, my intended punchline didn't fit. Dammit, if Vesca is Howell's real name I'm going to be VERY annoyed. Therefor, instead of attempting-to-be-entertaining crack, you just get crack. *pokes the purpled-eyed drabble bunny with a stick and tries to get it to leave her alone*
In a few hours, the sun will come up. The drapes have been arranged so that the light will fall onto the face of the blond man on the bed. He will wake up slowly, arms sliding across the bed, feeling for someone who should be there but isn’t. His brain will refuse to compute this and tell him, regretfully, to wake up.
He’ll obey, slowly surfacing, waking to a bed that smells of sweat and sex and fine perfume. The colours will seem muted, and the sounds dimmed. He’ll stare around him, knowing what’s missing and refusing to believe it.
The rainbow of clothes in the wardrobe will be gone. The flat will be spotless, and there will be nearly no trace of his lover in the place. Claw marks on the headboard. A smudge of lipstick on his shirt. A few long black hairs caught in a hairbrush.
A note propped against the mirror, bearing a few words that were meant to shrivel his soul, anger him, make him wish to forget the man had ever existed.
Only decades later will D realise how badly he misjudged in writing that letter.
Originally posted on the 1st of July
Title: In the Beginning there was a voice
Author: A very rusty Susan
Rating: G
Word Count: 206
Characters: New!D, Papa D, Sofu D
Notes: I know, I know. I'm so rusty it's not even funny - I haven't written anything for PSOH in FOREVER. I've been flirting with other fandoms. I feel like such a whore. :S That is my excuse for the suck, and I stick to it. Excuse me while I try and flex my writing muscles into something resembling usable condition.
In the beginning, there was a Voice. It didn’t seem to pay any attention to him, but it babbled to itself in the back of his mind, reciting
My son - the only flaw with cloning and asexual reproduction is that any flaws in the parent are reproduced perfectly in the child - my son - father - Vesca - Howell - Damn you father - I WILL remember -
things that made no sense in a hoarse whisper.
Eventually, when he was older, the voice shushed itself, only emerging to whisper advice and comfort, to snarl
Damn you father
vague threats and fury at Grandfather when he started to speak ill of
my son
the child’s brother, or to laugh at Grandfather with furious hysteria.
Ask him about his son,
the Voice suggested once, when D wondered why it hated him so much.
Ask him and see what he admits to.
He never gets the opportunity to ask. If he looked at Grandfather when the voice was whispering, Grandfather reacted much as he did when the child asked about the
biology theorems
incomprehensible babble he woke up to sometimes.
Grandfather turned pale, lips thinning, and slapped the child.
For once, Grandfather and the Voice were in perfect agreement.
I won’t let what happened to my son happen to you.
Originally posted on the 19th of July.
Title: Stranger/Brother
Author: Susan - who is still rusty and still doesn't find it funny
Rating: G with NO swearing.
Word Count: 177
Characters: Chris, Josie
Notes: Written for fanfic100's "Strangers" challenge (And now I have the phrase "Stranger than fiction" stuck in my head, which I assume could be another drabble. ~_~) Taking great liberties with the fact that a) I have no idea about American geography and can assume Leon's too far away to visit regularly, b) I can't really picture Leon visiting his family that often whether he was in range or not.
“Chris?” She tapped the door. “You in there?”
Josie had been elected to fetch Chris on the grounds that Chris liked her, and she got on well with their visitor, which Dad Did Not Approve Of.
She knocked again, then opened the door. Chris was lying on the floor with a pad of paper in front of him and crayons scattered all over. The kid’s face lit up when she came in, and he offered her a handful.
Oh. That explained it.
Chris didn’t like being around strangers that much, and Josie was always sick of family gatherings after an hour or so, so they usually ended up in Chris’ room drawing silly wax crayon pictures - like a bright green alien with three eyes eating a stickman-granddad and his stupid pipe.
“Come on big guy, time to go downstairs.”
Chris’ bottom lip started wobbling, and his eyes started tearing up - a trick he’d definitely learnt off Sam - and Josie flumped down next to him.
“It’s not like Christmas or New Year, big guy. Leon’s not a stranger. He’s your brother.”
Title:
Rating: G with NO swearing.
Word Count: 177
Characters: Jill, Leon
Notes: Written for fanfic100's challenge "Death." I hate this one. ~_~ Spoilers for Volume 10 ahoy!
They were cops.
Not only cops, but homicide detectives.
Death was something you couldn’t really get used to, buy if you saw it every day, it... Numbed you a little.
Looking at Leon, Jill had to wonder just how numb they really were.
“I’m sorry Leon, but there’s no way-”
“I survived it, didn’t I? I was at the centre of the blast and I’m still here.”
“You were dead for two minutes and in a coma for three days.” Jill snapped, then leaned over and caught one of Leon’s hands. He didn’t look at her face, instead staring at their hands. “D was always lucky, Leon. Always. But he’s not you. He didn’t have anybody keeping an eye on him and handing out miracles.”