Fic: Rapture in Clingfilm
Title: Rapture in Clingfilm
Pairing: Richard/The Stig, hints of Richard/James
Rating: PG, contains slashy themes and clingfilm.
Word count: ~1300
Disclaimer: Ahem. Not real. Not for profit. No slander intended.
Summary: In which Richard hosts a party, James does not eat cheese, The Stig makes a strange request of Richard, and Richard discovers the meaning of life is something quite different to the number 42.
Author’s Notes: My thanks go to sweet mycenaeanqueen for taking a look at this and for generally encouraging me towards insanity to post this. It is my homage to the great works of Ulrich Haarbürste, which can be found by clicking here. Comments, feedback, responses through the medium of your choice (whether it be intrepretive dance or macros) are welcome and will be treasured by the author.
Richard was drunk. He forgot the question. James laughed, lent in and whispered it again into his ear.
Richard looked confused.
“It’s not a costume party,” he said. “Why?”
“Well,” said James, taking his time to sip his beer before continuing, “I think that’s The Stig over there-” He pointed through a group of people to someone Richard couldn’t quite see. “-but there’s someone dressed as The Stig.” James pointed to the familiar figure, dressed in white racing-suit and helmet, who was leaning against the fireplace. “And you look like you’re meant to be Johnny Cash or someone.”
“What?” said Richard, looking down at his clothes, “Because I’m dressed all in black? Black is the new…” His voice trailed off.
James eyes were lit-up and playful. “Want another drink?” he said.
“I should go and mingle,” Richard said.
“Ok,” said James, one eyebrow making a swift movement up and down, his blue eyes looking straight at Richard. Richard wanted to lean in and kiss him, just then and there. He looked around the room.
“I don’t know half these people,” he said. “How did this happen? It’s my house too.”
James shrugged.
“Ok,” said Richard and wandered off into the throng of people. He lost James for the rest of the night.
* * * *
“You look more like Roy Orbison,” said a voice behind Richard.
Richard turned around.
“Oh,” he said. “It’s you.”
It was the person dressed as The Stig. He was still leaning against the fireplace.
Richard lent to pick up an empty beer bottle and put it in the garbage bag he was holding. He looked up again at the person. “Hold on,” he said, “Who are you?”
“I am The Stig,” said the voice. Richard couldn’t tell if the voice was coming from under the helmet. It seemed to resonate inside Richard’s head.
“Sorry,” said Richard. “Of course you are. Um.” He lent to pick up another empty. He thought about vacuuming. “You know,” he said, “You don’t have to keep that helmet on. You can take it off. If you like.”
“I know,” replied The Stig enigmatically.
“Ok,” said Richard, softly, under his breath. “Just checking.”
He continued his cleaning, occasionally wondering if The Stig was still watching him. He gave up trying to make conversation. He was too tired for that. He just wanted things to be clean so he could go to bed and not wake up to a messy house. He had the sudden realisation that he was becoming James May. He couldn’t decide if this bemused him or horrified him.
He looked at the half finished cheese plate. Why didn’t James eat that St Agur? He’d bought that especially for him. All the brie was gone, of course, but what to do with this other stuff? He resolved to cover it with clingfilm, put it in the fridge and decide what to do with it tomorrow.
He was coming back from the kitchen, a roll of clingfilm in his hand, when he heard The Stig speak again.
“Maybe I will take it off.”
“What?” said Richard. “Hey, what, now?” He glanced up at The Stig.
“But first I must wrap you completely in clingfilm.”
“WHAT?” Richard hadn’t meant to yell.
“You are impersonating Roy Orbison, are you not?”
“What?” said Richard, increasingly confused. He wondered if Jeremy had put something in one his drinks. “It’s just black,” he muttered. “They all wear it in Melbourne.”
“You will be Roy Orbison, I will be Ulrich Haarbürste,” said The Stig, unmoving. “And that plate of cheese will be Jetta, the terrapin.”
“Um,” said Richard. He had no idea how he should be reacting. Perhaps he should be phoning some relevant authority? He didn’t even know who The Stig was. He was just some racing driver who worked on the same show as him. Wasn’t he? Wasn’t he?
He wrapped the plate of cheese in clingfilm.
“Roy, you’re doing it wrong,” said The Stig. He sounded downcast. This whole time, he hadn’t moved from his spot leaning against the fireplace. “You’re not meant to wrap Jetta in clingfilm. I am meant to wrap you in clingfilm.” The last sentence was spoken slowly, as though he was speaking to child who didn’t understand something utterly logical and simple.
“Um,” said Richard. “I’m not sure.” He lowered the clingfilm slowly to the coffee table. “Let me just take this cheese plate to the fridge.”
When he returned, The Stig was holding the roll of clingfilm.
“Trust me,” said The Stig into Richard’s brain. The voice was soft and persuasive. It was kind and gentle and almost-sad, with a bittersweetness to it that melted something inside Richard. He was too tired. This was probably a dream. Probably Jeremy had slipped him something that made him hallucinate. Probably he would have to clean his house all over again in the morning, when he woke up on the lounge room floor with a magic mushroom hangover. He sighed.
“Ok,” he said.
The Stig started at Richard’s feet. He was tender and deft, wrapping the clingfilm firmly but comfortably around Richard’s lower legs. He worked his way upwards. He was neat and careful. He layered the clingfilm artfully. His gloved hands manipulated Richard’s arms to the side of his body, so that they were wrapped in a comfortable position.
Richard found himself relaxing into the sensation. It was surprisingly pleasant. He felt himself cocooned from the world, safe in a silvery, full-bodied embrace.
The Stig wrapped his whole body, working quickly around his torso and up to his neck. Through the touch of his fingers, Richard knew he could trust him. The Stig wrapped the clingfilm up around his neck and head, leaving holes for his mouth and nose. At one point, Richard even felt a gloved finger slide briefly inside his mouth. The Stig left no holes for Richard’s eyes, but Richard could still see out of the layers of clingfilm - a soft, blurred version of the world. It comforted him somehow.
He felt The Stig slow his movements and come to a stop.
“You are now completely wrapped in clingfilm,” The Stig told Richard.
“Yes,” said Richard. He wondered what was to come next.
For a long time, The Stig did nothing. He admired his creation. He stood close to Richard on one side. They were peaceful together. Time passed and nothing mattered.
Richard wondered if he was sleeping. He felt utterly relaxed. He wasn’t sure if he was dreaming or waking. Through the semi-transparency of the clingfilm, he saw The Stig’s hands rising to the base of his helmet. The Stig slowly pulled the helmet from his head and placing his hands on Richard’s shoulders, he looked into Richard’s face. Though Richard couldn’t distinguish his features, he felt like he was looking into the face of eternity, the face of God, the face of the void, the face of all meaning and no meaning. He felt tears between his own face and the clingfilm. He felt rapture.
Nothing else mattered. He had found meaning and lost meaning. He’d attained what he never knew he’d been striving for. It meant everything. It filled him and emptied him. He’d become light. He’d become love. He’d become the very air, the particles of life, the fabric of existence, the clingfilm itself. He’d felt all this - looking into the face of The Stig - felt it all.
Then it was gone. And everything was nothing.
The following morning, Richard found himself safely tucked into his own bed. He got up. There was not a scrap of clingfilm to be seen. The house was spotless. He walked about in a daze. He phoned James.
“You’ll never guess,” said James. “Go on,” he said, “Try to guess.”
“No,” said Richard.
“New Stig!” said James, excitedly. “White Stig’s gone. We’re got Purple Stig now!”
“Oh,” said Richard.
He hung up the phone and went to the bathroom. He looked in the mirror. He looked for a very long time.
Pairing: Richard/The Stig, hints of Richard/James
Rating: PG, contains slashy themes and clingfilm.
Word count: ~1300
Disclaimer: Ahem. Not real. Not for profit. No slander intended.
Summary: In which Richard hosts a party, James does not eat cheese, The Stig makes a strange request of Richard, and Richard discovers the meaning of life is something quite different to the number 42.
Author’s Notes: My thanks go to sweet mycenaeanqueen for taking a look at this and for generally encouraging me towards insanity to post this. It is my homage to the great works of Ulrich Haarbürste, which can be found by clicking here. Comments, feedback, responses through the medium of your choice (whether it be intrepretive dance or macros) are welcome and will be treasured by the author.
Richard was drunk. He forgot the question. James laughed, lent in and whispered it again into his ear.
Richard looked confused.
“It’s not a costume party,” he said. “Why?”
“Well,” said James, taking his time to sip his beer before continuing, “I think that’s The Stig over there-” He pointed through a group of people to someone Richard couldn’t quite see. “-but there’s someone dressed as The Stig.” James pointed to the familiar figure, dressed in white racing-suit and helmet, who was leaning against the fireplace. “And you look like you’re meant to be Johnny Cash or someone.”
“What?” said Richard, looking down at his clothes, “Because I’m dressed all in black? Black is the new…” His voice trailed off.
James eyes were lit-up and playful. “Want another drink?” he said.
“I should go and mingle,” Richard said.
“Ok,” said James, one eyebrow making a swift movement up and down, his blue eyes looking straight at Richard. Richard wanted to lean in and kiss him, just then and there. He looked around the room.
“I don’t know half these people,” he said. “How did this happen? It’s my house too.”
James shrugged.
“Ok,” said Richard and wandered off into the throng of people. He lost James for the rest of the night.
* * * *
“You look more like Roy Orbison,” said a voice behind Richard.
Richard turned around.
“Oh,” he said. “It’s you.”
It was the person dressed as The Stig. He was still leaning against the fireplace.
Richard lent to pick up an empty beer bottle and put it in the garbage bag he was holding. He looked up again at the person. “Hold on,” he said, “Who are you?”
“I am The Stig,” said the voice. Richard couldn’t tell if the voice was coming from under the helmet. It seemed to resonate inside Richard’s head.
“Sorry,” said Richard. “Of course you are. Um.” He lent to pick up another empty. He thought about vacuuming. “You know,” he said, “You don’t have to keep that helmet on. You can take it off. If you like.”
“I know,” replied The Stig enigmatically.
“Ok,” said Richard, softly, under his breath. “Just checking.”
He continued his cleaning, occasionally wondering if The Stig was still watching him. He gave up trying to make conversation. He was too tired for that. He just wanted things to be clean so he could go to bed and not wake up to a messy house. He had the sudden realisation that he was becoming James May. He couldn’t decide if this bemused him or horrified him.
He looked at the half finished cheese plate. Why didn’t James eat that St Agur? He’d bought that especially for him. All the brie was gone, of course, but what to do with this other stuff? He resolved to cover it with clingfilm, put it in the fridge and decide what to do with it tomorrow.
He was coming back from the kitchen, a roll of clingfilm in his hand, when he heard The Stig speak again.
“Maybe I will take it off.”
“What?” said Richard. “Hey, what, now?” He glanced up at The Stig.
“But first I must wrap you completely in clingfilm.”
“WHAT?” Richard hadn’t meant to yell.
“You are impersonating Roy Orbison, are you not?”
“What?” said Richard, increasingly confused. He wondered if Jeremy had put something in one his drinks. “It’s just black,” he muttered. “They all wear it in Melbourne.”
“You will be Roy Orbison, I will be Ulrich Haarbürste,” said The Stig, unmoving. “And that plate of cheese will be Jetta, the terrapin.”
“Um,” said Richard. He had no idea how he should be reacting. Perhaps he should be phoning some relevant authority? He didn’t even know who The Stig was. He was just some racing driver who worked on the same show as him. Wasn’t he? Wasn’t he?
He wrapped the plate of cheese in clingfilm.
“Roy, you’re doing it wrong,” said The Stig. He sounded downcast. This whole time, he hadn’t moved from his spot leaning against the fireplace. “You’re not meant to wrap Jetta in clingfilm. I am meant to wrap you in clingfilm.” The last sentence was spoken slowly, as though he was speaking to child who didn’t understand something utterly logical and simple.
“Um,” said Richard. “I’m not sure.” He lowered the clingfilm slowly to the coffee table. “Let me just take this cheese plate to the fridge.”
When he returned, The Stig was holding the roll of clingfilm.
“Trust me,” said The Stig into Richard’s brain. The voice was soft and persuasive. It was kind and gentle and almost-sad, with a bittersweetness to it that melted something inside Richard. He was too tired. This was probably a dream. Probably Jeremy had slipped him something that made him hallucinate. Probably he would have to clean his house all over again in the morning, when he woke up on the lounge room floor with a magic mushroom hangover. He sighed.
“Ok,” he said.
The Stig started at Richard’s feet. He was tender and deft, wrapping the clingfilm firmly but comfortably around Richard’s lower legs. He worked his way upwards. He was neat and careful. He layered the clingfilm artfully. His gloved hands manipulated Richard’s arms to the side of his body, so that they were wrapped in a comfortable position.
Richard found himself relaxing into the sensation. It was surprisingly pleasant. He felt himself cocooned from the world, safe in a silvery, full-bodied embrace.
The Stig wrapped his whole body, working quickly around his torso and up to his neck. Through the touch of his fingers, Richard knew he could trust him. The Stig wrapped the clingfilm up around his neck and head, leaving holes for his mouth and nose. At one point, Richard even felt a gloved finger slide briefly inside his mouth. The Stig left no holes for Richard’s eyes, but Richard could still see out of the layers of clingfilm - a soft, blurred version of the world. It comforted him somehow.
He felt The Stig slow his movements and come to a stop.
“You are now completely wrapped in clingfilm,” The Stig told Richard.
“Yes,” said Richard. He wondered what was to come next.
For a long time, The Stig did nothing. He admired his creation. He stood close to Richard on one side. They were peaceful together. Time passed and nothing mattered.
Richard wondered if he was sleeping. He felt utterly relaxed. He wasn’t sure if he was dreaming or waking. Through the semi-transparency of the clingfilm, he saw The Stig’s hands rising to the base of his helmet. The Stig slowly pulled the helmet from his head and placing his hands on Richard’s shoulders, he looked into Richard’s face. Though Richard couldn’t distinguish his features, he felt like he was looking into the face of eternity, the face of God, the face of the void, the face of all meaning and no meaning. He felt tears between his own face and the clingfilm. He felt rapture.
Nothing else mattered. He had found meaning and lost meaning. He’d attained what he never knew he’d been striving for. It meant everything. It filled him and emptied him. He’d become light. He’d become love. He’d become the very air, the particles of life, the fabric of existence, the clingfilm itself. He’d felt all this - looking into the face of The Stig - felt it all.
Then it was gone. And everything was nothing.
The following morning, Richard found himself safely tucked into his own bed. He got up. There was not a scrap of clingfilm to be seen. The house was spotless. He walked about in a daze. He phoned James.
“You’ll never guess,” said James. “Go on,” he said, “Try to guess.”
“No,” said Richard.
“New Stig!” said James, excitedly. “White Stig’s gone. We’re got Purple Stig now!”
“Oh,” said Richard.
He hung up the phone and went to the bathroom. He looked in the mirror. He looked for a very long time.