[fic] LoM: A Midwinter Nights' Dream
SPOILERS: none, although I'd be familiar with the series if I were you or really, what's the point?
RATING: pretty White Cortina-ish, I'd say.
SUMMARY: Sam's insomnia rides again. Alas, no TCG. What's a boy to do?
It had been a ridiculously late night, even by his standards.
Not that he'd been a night owl by habit, but sometimes he just couldn't sleep. On those nights, even the threat of that creepy little girl with the clown coming to talk to him again couldn't help.
At first, when this happened, he used to lie awake on his bed, staring at the ceiling. Occasionally he'd try to time himself to see how long he could do it without blinking. Then he'd progress to trying to talk himself into sleep in all the usual ways; counting sheep, counting bad men he'd put away, counting procedures, reciting codes to himself...but soon, none of it worked anymore.
On those nights, if he hadn't been drinking already, he always had a bottle of Nelson's house red in reserve. Usually, if nothing else would do it, this did the trick. Sometimes, I really miss NyQuil...if there's one thing that medicine did well, it was knocking you out...
Unfortunately, tonight, it seemed like he'd built up a resistance to this particular form of medication as well. His reserve bottle was well gone, it was 4:30am, and sleep was still nowhere in sight.
Frustrated enough to smash something, Sam Tyler stumbled away from his sagging mattress and into his wardrobe, rummaging around in what might almost be mistaken as an eager fashion.
"Aha. Here we are," he mumbled, dragging out a 1969 walnut-coloured Gibson ES355. He'd bought this some time ago, rationalising that as long as he was stuck here, he might as well make the best of it. Blearily, he eyed his Orange OR80R amp and smiled slightly, as though he couldn't quite believe it---but the neighbours wouldn't either, and certainly wouldn't thank him for it this hour of the morning. Evening. Morning. Whichever.
It didn't matter whether he was amplified anyway; the important thing was just playing till he was exhausted and could hopefully get at least an hour or two in before waking up to the Guv busting in his door. Again. He really must enjoy watching me struggle putting that door back on its hinges, Sam thought to himself, snorting slightly.
So it was that 4:30am Thursday found Sam slumped against the foot of his bed barefoot, hair rumpled, and in his pajama bottoms with the Gibson strapped on, ready to rock. Rock back and forth quietly in a corner, morelike, Sam berated himself. What makes you think this will work? You can never think of anything to play.
Left brain/right brain challenge again. Many nights were spent with this sort of engaging conversation ringing throughout his brain as well, guitar or no guitar. He was well used to it by now.
"I'm not listening," he said aloud, eyes half-closed. "I'll start something right now, first thing that comes into my head."
His eyes drifted all the way closed, and he began playing and singing softly to himself. "Eating all the right food, taking all the right pills, turning on the TV...just tryin to make the days a little shorter so the night comes quicker when I see you..."
He strummed absently, losing bits of self-consciousness along the way, confidence creeping into his voice as it warmed up, "...but the food doesn't work, and the pills don't work, and the silence hurts, and I can't make myself fitter for you no matter how I try..."
He stood up for the next bit. "And the science fiction helps just a little, numbs a little piece of me...and the noise from the neighbours helps just a little...stops me from missing youuuu...and the stabbin in my heart, it starts once too often...why won't you soften those blows? Cos what you do to me stays with me...oh honey, I can't wait till you're with me...I need your body underneath me EVERY SINGLE NIGHT," he spat, becoming more agitated than drowsy. "Fat chance that ever happening," he stopped and flounced backward onto his bed, glaring at nothing in particular but feeling better just for the act of doing it.
At exactly that moment, his door came crashing in off the hinges once more. "I heard a complaint of screeching cats in an alley behind your building," the Guv said, taking a puff from his cigarette and eying Sam appraisingly.
Oh great, just what I needed... was all Sam had the chance to think before the Guv strode up to him, all smiles. Eerie smiles actually. "What's this then, are you secretly Noddy Holder? Am I in the presence of a rock god?" Gene smirked.
Sam started, thoroughly broken from his already rather-more-violent-than-intended reverie. "I wouldn't have thought you'd have known who that was," he retorted lamely, squinting up at the triple Guvs stood in front of him.
"I do read papers occasionally, and you look about as daft as he does. Get up, we've got work to do." Gene grabbed Sam's arms and hoisted him up to his feet, whereupon Sam stumbled and fell forward, nearly knocking Gene off his balance.
"I wouldn't be so sure about that if I were you." Sam squinted, somewhere between smiling and sicking up all over Gene's prized camel coat.
[NOTE: lyrics Sam recalls are from Hefner's "The Science Fiction." No misappropriation is intended or implied.]
This is another item coming from conversations at lozenger8's about our favourite DI's oh-so-angsty adolescence spent with floppy hair and his guitar in his room, and the fact there's no way he's over it. >3
RATING: pretty White Cortina-ish, I'd say.
SUMMARY: Sam's insomnia rides again. Alas, no TCG. What's a boy to do?
It had been a ridiculously late night, even by his standards.
Not that he'd been a night owl by habit, but sometimes he just couldn't sleep. On those nights, even the threat of that creepy little girl with the clown coming to talk to him again couldn't help.
At first, when this happened, he used to lie awake on his bed, staring at the ceiling. Occasionally he'd try to time himself to see how long he could do it without blinking. Then he'd progress to trying to talk himself into sleep in all the usual ways; counting sheep, counting bad men he'd put away, counting procedures, reciting codes to himself...but soon, none of it worked anymore.
On those nights, if he hadn't been drinking already, he always had a bottle of Nelson's house red in reserve. Usually, if nothing else would do it, this did the trick. Sometimes, I really miss NyQuil...if there's one thing that medicine did well, it was knocking you out...
Unfortunately, tonight, it seemed like he'd built up a resistance to this particular form of medication as well. His reserve bottle was well gone, it was 4:30am, and sleep was still nowhere in sight.
Frustrated enough to smash something, Sam Tyler stumbled away from his sagging mattress and into his wardrobe, rummaging around in what might almost be mistaken as an eager fashion.
"Aha. Here we are," he mumbled, dragging out a 1969 walnut-coloured Gibson ES355. He'd bought this some time ago, rationalising that as long as he was stuck here, he might as well make the best of it. Blearily, he eyed his Orange OR80R amp and smiled slightly, as though he couldn't quite believe it---but the neighbours wouldn't either, and certainly wouldn't thank him for it this hour of the morning. Evening. Morning. Whichever.
It didn't matter whether he was amplified anyway; the important thing was just playing till he was exhausted and could hopefully get at least an hour or two in before waking up to the Guv busting in his door. Again. He really must enjoy watching me struggle putting that door back on its hinges, Sam thought to himself, snorting slightly.
So it was that 4:30am Thursday found Sam slumped against the foot of his bed barefoot, hair rumpled, and in his pajama bottoms with the Gibson strapped on, ready to rock. Rock back and forth quietly in a corner, morelike, Sam berated himself. What makes you think this will work? You can never think of anything to play.
Left brain/right brain challenge again. Many nights were spent with this sort of engaging conversation ringing throughout his brain as well, guitar or no guitar. He was well used to it by now.
"I'm not listening," he said aloud, eyes half-closed. "I'll start something right now, first thing that comes into my head."
His eyes drifted all the way closed, and he began playing and singing softly to himself. "Eating all the right food, taking all the right pills, turning on the TV...just tryin to make the days a little shorter so the night comes quicker when I see you..."
He strummed absently, losing bits of self-consciousness along the way, confidence creeping into his voice as it warmed up, "...but the food doesn't work, and the pills don't work, and the silence hurts, and I can't make myself fitter for you no matter how I try..."
He stood up for the next bit. "And the science fiction helps just a little, numbs a little piece of me...and the noise from the neighbours helps just a little...stops me from missing youuuu...and the stabbin in my heart, it starts once too often...why won't you soften those blows? Cos what you do to me stays with me...oh honey, I can't wait till you're with me...I need your body underneath me EVERY SINGLE NIGHT," he spat, becoming more agitated than drowsy. "Fat chance that ever happening," he stopped and flounced backward onto his bed, glaring at nothing in particular but feeling better just for the act of doing it.
At exactly that moment, his door came crashing in off the hinges once more. "I heard a complaint of screeching cats in an alley behind your building," the Guv said, taking a puff from his cigarette and eying Sam appraisingly.
Oh great, just what I needed... was all Sam had the chance to think before the Guv strode up to him, all smiles. Eerie smiles actually. "What's this then, are you secretly Noddy Holder? Am I in the presence of a rock god?" Gene smirked.
Sam started, thoroughly broken from his already rather-more-violent-than-intended reverie. "I wouldn't have thought you'd have known who that was," he retorted lamely, squinting up at the triple Guvs stood in front of him.
"I do read papers occasionally, and you look about as daft as he does. Get up, we've got work to do." Gene grabbed Sam's arms and hoisted him up to his feet, whereupon Sam stumbled and fell forward, nearly knocking Gene off his balance.
"I wouldn't be so sure about that if I were you." Sam squinted, somewhere between smiling and sicking up all over Gene's prized camel coat.
[NOTE: lyrics Sam recalls are from Hefner's "The Science Fiction." No misappropriation is intended or implied.]
This is another item coming from conversations at lozenger8's about our favourite DI's oh-so-angsty adolescence spent with floppy hair and his guitar in his room, and the fact there's no way he's over it. >3