Fic: George
Fic: George
Fandom: Due South
Characters: Turnbull, Guy, Longfellow, Mark
Rating: PG-13ish
Words: 1519
Summary: Andrew Longfellow discovers the secret to knocking Guy off his constant mellow.
Notes: Written on a camping trip, on notebook paper, for sl_walker while she was working. Not totally happy with it, but it might be worth some laughs. Arch to the Sky. Sometime in the midst of Mark through Second.
"Why do you have a puppet."
Well. That tone shocked all four men at the table, including the speaker. Guy positively blanched; Turnbull had never in his life heard Guy speak in such a frankly perturbed tone, and from the look on his face, Guy might never have heard himself do so either.
A slow, almost vicious smile crept up Longfellow's face, for he was the bearer of said puppet.
In tandem, the eyebrows of the ventriloquist's abomination crept up. It was the standard nightmarish doll with taunting wooden death-rictus, ambulatory eyes and mouth, and a sadist's hand buried where no such limb should reside.
Which was to say, Turnbull emphatically understood Guy's tone, however able Turnbull was to maintain composure.
God knew where Longfellow had gotten the thing, and God knew where he'd kept it during the game. It was here now. Their little group had been known to prank one another - there was an incident involving vegetables and curling stones that Turnbull was modestly proud of - and now one of their own had most unwisely shown weakness.
Mark was chuckling quietly. Turnbull shook his head, taking a rare opportunity to tease his friend. "Why, Guy Laurent. If I didn't know better, I'd suspect you were frightened of a simple lump of wood."
"Yeah," Andrew added ineffectually, grinning impossibly wider.
"Given the amount of it you catch on fire, I suppose it was only a matter of time before its fellow sought retribution. He looks very happy to see you."
"Quiet, Mountie," Guy snapped, not looking away from the doll. Longfellow swiveled the eyes of the thing to take Guy in, and Guy raised an outstretched finger at it in answer. "That is no doll. It's a demon from the very pits of Hell. Why. Do you have that thing."
Mark whistled low, before laughing and reaching over to pat the doll on the head. Longfellow jerkily moved the mouth, voicing a 'thank you' in a squeaky voice, making no effort to mask the movement of his own mouth.
The simple sentence had Guy off his chair with a screech of it across the floor. Still, he pointed.
Guy Laurent said only one thing before fleeing.
"Kill it."
Oh. This was going to be splendid.
--
As it happened, Andrew Longfellow had found his new friend at a thrift store, nestled amongst church junk, old plates and china dolls. Waiting for him. He didn't know what he wanted it for at the time.
He did now.
There wasn't a lot he'd found to trip up Guy Laurent in the years he'd known him. If Guy was high enough, sometimes one could convince him of utterly outlandish bullshit, wind him up and watch him go, but that got surprisingly old after a few identity crises and one attempt to curl sweet potatoes. Turnbull was still trying to take credit for that one. They should've tried pumpkins.
Having an apparent deep-seated fear of ventriloquist's dummies handed to him on a silver platter was an unexpected windfall.
Drew was always an instant-gratification kind of guy, which was why it took so damn much willpower to wait until even the next day to exploit the living Hell out of that fear.
A man as laid-back as that shouldn't look for all the world like a doused cat clinging to his own headboard. Being gently awakened by the sweet nothings of George the dummy could do that to a man, Drew supposed. He wasn't really shocked to feel the alarm clock bounce off his face. The damn thing had been broken as long as Guy had kept it anyway.
"Ow!" Hey. Just because it wasn't surprising didn't mean it wasn't painful.
"What-- What--" Guy was pointing at George, a wild look in his eye that Longfellow could see even behind the crooked sunglasses and through the fading pain of plastic meeting face and going on a brunch date.
Guy panted a long moment before lunging at puppet and master alike.
A guy like Drew didn't get very far in life without learning how to dodge, and he skipped the house two seconds ahead of what he was sure would've been a colorful asskicking with the butt of his own toy.
What did shock him was hearing the barely-used deadbolt click shut behind him.
--
Jesus, was Longfellow ever going to give that damn dummy a rest?
Mark had to admit that finally finding something to get a rise out of Guy was entertaining, but the joke stopped being funny the first hundred times, and the thing Longfellow had apparently named George was like bug spray to Guy. Which was to say it kept him from buzzing around, and there were a couple of kinds of buzz that made Guy useful. Mark didn't want to go anywhere near Guy's place if he could avoid it.
Not that it mattered today; Renfield leaned against the wall beside them, looking as always like he'd rather be moving. Mark would rather be moving, too. Fucking RCMP.
Longfellow slumped down the opposite side of the Mountie, rolling George's eyes and making his mouth randomly move.
"Almost lifelike," Renfield piped up. "Though I cannot say the same for George."
Wow. Cheesy.
"Fuck you," Longfellow answered absently, moving George's mouth with it, too.
"Put the dolly away now, Drew," Mark finally said, mustering what he figured was probably a parent-voice. "Play nice with the other children. We've got curling to do."
There was an eyeroll from ventriloquist and dummy alike, and Longfellow finally pulled his hand from the doll, leaving it limp. So many jokes. "Fine."
"Hey, don't sulk at me. I'm not the one jumping out of my skin at the new mascot, okay? Talk to your better half about it. If you're not careful it'll be that thing crammed in your ass and you can finally move a mouth when you're talking out of it."
Mark fazed out of the cursing he got back as they headed for the door. He hung back a little, thinking better of it.
Sure enough, Guy Laurent peered around a corner, checking the coast was clear.
Fuck. Practice was going to be just peachy.
--
Over the years people had been known to tell Longfellow that he didn't really know when to quit.
Maybe that was true. He liked a good joke. He'd keep beating it long after the horse was dead, rotted, buried and reincarnated as a stoned chick with star tattoos down her neck. But maybe after enough buckets of water in the morning at the hands of a man so laid back that you could saddle up said chick and ride her naked through town and get no more than a huff of vague interest, a man deserved a pass on the one thing that got him going.
It helped when a man didn't have locks on his windows. George had visited Guy at dawn outside his window; hidden with Longfellow behind the shower curtain for hours just to spring out the second Guy got naked; appeared over the stall door while Guy was on the crapper at the bar; Longfellow even once followed him to the grocery store and popped out from behind a stand of bread to scare the shit out of him. They'd both been asked to leave.
The scare potential just didn't seem to die, and while both Longfellow and George had sustained some damage in each altercation, Longfellow just kept on. Against repeated advice of Mountie and skip.
The latter had lent Longfellow his couch, given that Guy had locked him out. Longfellow had drifted off to nap, scheming of where next to torture the man. It wasn't like Guy didn't expect it now. Creativity was key.
Longfellow was woken to darkness outside and a wolf-whistle that could only belong to one man.
He ignored the first three, sleep pulling its automatic veto, before he pried his eyes fully open to the realization that his new prized torture device was missing.
Consciousness was fully realized as it often was between Guy and Longfellow: on the orange flicker of flames. He stood at Mark's front door, looking out.
George hung from one foot tied to a tree branch, swinging in the breeze. Most of that bright smiling face had cracked and distorted in the fire.
Mark and Guy stood roasting marshmallows off George's face. Guy tipped his beer companionably in Longfellow's direction.
"Evening," he offered cheerfully.
One arm disintegrated, falling to the ground with a scattering of cinders.
Longfellow slumped against the open door frame. Mourning.
He watched it burn for a little while before jogging over to steal one of those beers.
---
Epilogue
"Whassat...?"
"Hn?" Dammit. Didn't this woman realize it was bad etiquette to interrupt the afterglow with questions? Guy cracked open an eye to follow her line of sight.
The charred, disembodied head of George smiled back from its nailed mount above the headboard.
"...nothing."
Fandom: Due South
Characters: Turnbull, Guy, Longfellow, Mark
Rating: PG-13ish
Words: 1519
Summary: Andrew Longfellow discovers the secret to knocking Guy off his constant mellow.
Notes: Written on a camping trip, on notebook paper, for sl_walker while she was working. Not totally happy with it, but it might be worth some laughs. Arch to the Sky. Sometime in the midst of Mark through Second.
"Why do you have a puppet."
Well. That tone shocked all four men at the table, including the speaker. Guy positively blanched; Turnbull had never in his life heard Guy speak in such a frankly perturbed tone, and from the look on his face, Guy might never have heard himself do so either.
A slow, almost vicious smile crept up Longfellow's face, for he was the bearer of said puppet.
In tandem, the eyebrows of the ventriloquist's abomination crept up. It was the standard nightmarish doll with taunting wooden death-rictus, ambulatory eyes and mouth, and a sadist's hand buried where no such limb should reside.
Which was to say, Turnbull emphatically understood Guy's tone, however able Turnbull was to maintain composure.
God knew where Longfellow had gotten the thing, and God knew where he'd kept it during the game. It was here now. Their little group had been known to prank one another - there was an incident involving vegetables and curling stones that Turnbull was modestly proud of - and now one of their own had most unwisely shown weakness.
Mark was chuckling quietly. Turnbull shook his head, taking a rare opportunity to tease his friend. "Why, Guy Laurent. If I didn't know better, I'd suspect you were frightened of a simple lump of wood."
"Yeah," Andrew added ineffectually, grinning impossibly wider.
"Given the amount of it you catch on fire, I suppose it was only a matter of time before its fellow sought retribution. He looks very happy to see you."
"Quiet, Mountie," Guy snapped, not looking away from the doll. Longfellow swiveled the eyes of the thing to take Guy in, and Guy raised an outstretched finger at it in answer. "That is no doll. It's a demon from the very pits of Hell. Why. Do you have that thing."
Mark whistled low, before laughing and reaching over to pat the doll on the head. Longfellow jerkily moved the mouth, voicing a 'thank you' in a squeaky voice, making no effort to mask the movement of his own mouth.
The simple sentence had Guy off his chair with a screech of it across the floor. Still, he pointed.
Guy Laurent said only one thing before fleeing.
"Kill it."
Oh. This was going to be splendid.
--
As it happened, Andrew Longfellow had found his new friend at a thrift store, nestled amongst church junk, old plates and china dolls. Waiting for him. He didn't know what he wanted it for at the time.
He did now.
There wasn't a lot he'd found to trip up Guy Laurent in the years he'd known him. If Guy was high enough, sometimes one could convince him of utterly outlandish bullshit, wind him up and watch him go, but that got surprisingly old after a few identity crises and one attempt to curl sweet potatoes. Turnbull was still trying to take credit for that one. They should've tried pumpkins.
Having an apparent deep-seated fear of ventriloquist's dummies handed to him on a silver platter was an unexpected windfall.
Drew was always an instant-gratification kind of guy, which was why it took so damn much willpower to wait until even the next day to exploit the living Hell out of that fear.
A man as laid-back as that shouldn't look for all the world like a doused cat clinging to his own headboard. Being gently awakened by the sweet nothings of George the dummy could do that to a man, Drew supposed. He wasn't really shocked to feel the alarm clock bounce off his face. The damn thing had been broken as long as Guy had kept it anyway.
"Ow!" Hey. Just because it wasn't surprising didn't mean it wasn't painful.
"What-- What--" Guy was pointing at George, a wild look in his eye that Longfellow could see even behind the crooked sunglasses and through the fading pain of plastic meeting face and going on a brunch date.
Guy panted a long moment before lunging at puppet and master alike.
A guy like Drew didn't get very far in life without learning how to dodge, and he skipped the house two seconds ahead of what he was sure would've been a colorful asskicking with the butt of his own toy.
What did shock him was hearing the barely-used deadbolt click shut behind him.
--
Jesus, was Longfellow ever going to give that damn dummy a rest?
Mark had to admit that finally finding something to get a rise out of Guy was entertaining, but the joke stopped being funny the first hundred times, and the thing Longfellow had apparently named George was like bug spray to Guy. Which was to say it kept him from buzzing around, and there were a couple of kinds of buzz that made Guy useful. Mark didn't want to go anywhere near Guy's place if he could avoid it.
Not that it mattered today; Renfield leaned against the wall beside them, looking as always like he'd rather be moving. Mark would rather be moving, too. Fucking RCMP.
Longfellow slumped down the opposite side of the Mountie, rolling George's eyes and making his mouth randomly move.
"Almost lifelike," Renfield piped up. "Though I cannot say the same for George."
Wow. Cheesy.
"Fuck you," Longfellow answered absently, moving George's mouth with it, too.
"Put the dolly away now, Drew," Mark finally said, mustering what he figured was probably a parent-voice. "Play nice with the other children. We've got curling to do."
There was an eyeroll from ventriloquist and dummy alike, and Longfellow finally pulled his hand from the doll, leaving it limp. So many jokes. "Fine."
"Hey, don't sulk at me. I'm not the one jumping out of my skin at the new mascot, okay? Talk to your better half about it. If you're not careful it'll be that thing crammed in your ass and you can finally move a mouth when you're talking out of it."
Mark fazed out of the cursing he got back as they headed for the door. He hung back a little, thinking better of it.
Sure enough, Guy Laurent peered around a corner, checking the coast was clear.
Fuck. Practice was going to be just peachy.
--
Over the years people had been known to tell Longfellow that he didn't really know when to quit.
Maybe that was true. He liked a good joke. He'd keep beating it long after the horse was dead, rotted, buried and reincarnated as a stoned chick with star tattoos down her neck. But maybe after enough buckets of water in the morning at the hands of a man so laid back that you could saddle up said chick and ride her naked through town and get no more than a huff of vague interest, a man deserved a pass on the one thing that got him going.
It helped when a man didn't have locks on his windows. George had visited Guy at dawn outside his window; hidden with Longfellow behind the shower curtain for hours just to spring out the second Guy got naked; appeared over the stall door while Guy was on the crapper at the bar; Longfellow even once followed him to the grocery store and popped out from behind a stand of bread to scare the shit out of him. They'd both been asked to leave.
The scare potential just didn't seem to die, and while both Longfellow and George had sustained some damage in each altercation, Longfellow just kept on. Against repeated advice of Mountie and skip.
The latter had lent Longfellow his couch, given that Guy had locked him out. Longfellow had drifted off to nap, scheming of where next to torture the man. It wasn't like Guy didn't expect it now. Creativity was key.
Longfellow was woken to darkness outside and a wolf-whistle that could only belong to one man.
He ignored the first three, sleep pulling its automatic veto, before he pried his eyes fully open to the realization that his new prized torture device was missing.
Consciousness was fully realized as it often was between Guy and Longfellow: on the orange flicker of flames. He stood at Mark's front door, looking out.
George hung from one foot tied to a tree branch, swinging in the breeze. Most of that bright smiling face had cracked and distorted in the fire.
Mark and Guy stood roasting marshmallows off George's face. Guy tipped his beer companionably in Longfellow's direction.
"Evening," he offered cheerfully.
One arm disintegrated, falling to the ground with a scattering of cinders.
Longfellow slumped against the open door frame. Mourning.
He watched it burn for a little while before jogging over to steal one of those beers.
---
Epilogue
"Whassat...?"
"Hn?" Dammit. Didn't this woman realize it was bad etiquette to interrupt the afterglow with questions? Guy cracked open an eye to follow her line of sight.
The charred, disembodied head of George smiled back from its nailed mount above the headboard.
"...nothing."