Ficlet: Fruit-Flavored, Life on Mars
FRUIT-FLAVORED
Fandom: Life on Mars
Pairing: Sam/Gene (sort of)
Genre: Humor
Words: ~500
Rating: PG; minor language
Spoilers: None!
Notes: Originally posted to my tumblr back in November as a kneejerk response to a certain photo. Expect: Accidental Americanisms. Don't expect: Sense.
Summary: Sam buys Gene a drink. At a coffeeshop. In 2006.
"It's small."
Sam glanced up from his wallet to Gene, who glared darkly at the disposable red cup in his hand.
"Yeah," Sam said, frowning. "It's the smallest size."
"You said it was tall," Gene growled, an edge of violence to his tone that made the queue behind Sam collectively twitch and avert their eyes toward the register.
Sam steeled his expression and snapped his wallet shut, then turned on his heel and yanked Gene's arm toward the door. Gene shoved him off momentarily, but at least he got the point.
Sort of.
"Tall is small," Sam hissed.
"Sounds like a poor man's excuse for a shrunken trouser snake. Meaning yours," Gene shot back, at full volume, as if he didn't understand that in not-1970's-cop-program-inspired-Manchester, you kept your own bloody thoughts locked up neatly in your own bloody self.
Which is, perhaps -- if he's absolutely honest with himself -- how Sam might have ended up so absurdly barmy that he had a mental apparition tagging along with him the first place. Or -- wait, no. No, there was no logical explanation for anything that had occurred between his coach collision and this very moment, least of all suddenly and inexplicably waking up in his 2006 flat after a few-months holiday in sepia 1973. Truth be told, he'd nearly pissed himself when he'd stumbled out of his bedroom and seen the Guv sleeping his modern, hard-edged, utterly uncomfortable sofa. And nearly laughed until he'd cried when Gene had woken up and landed arse-end on the floor in equal parts shock and hangover, spouting something about Nelson's scotch and Ray's elaborate pranks.
God. Sam missed Ray's pranks.
Which was about the moment when Sam felt the need to narrow his eyes and turn to appraise Gene, who was currently glaring down at himself with an expression of unadulterated disgust.
"I look a bloody nonce," he muttered. "This scarf is ridiculous."
"You look like whatever poor sod you replaced that apparently everyone else in my complex remembers -- now, can we please--" Sam intoned, forcing a smile at a nearby Uni kid who was busy snapping photos at the intersection, "pretend to be normal for one sodding minute until we get back to the flat?"
"Right," Gene grated, acidly, "because two officers sharing a flat like Liberace's bandmates is normal," which, yes, okay, Sam admits that when he found Gene-sized loafers and trousers strewn across his closet like they belonged there, he'd nearly pissed himself. Again.
"I know, just..." Sam sighed and ran a hand down his face. "I'll figure this out, yeah? And then we can get the hell out of this mess and back home."
And that's when Sam stopped. And balked. And thought: God, I am utterly, utterly mad.
Gene snorted in that annoyingly psychic yes, yes you bloody are way, and then took a sip of his tea. He froze and stared down at it with an exaggerated grimace.
"Is this fruit-flavored?"
Crossposted from hughes@dreamwidth.
Fandom: Life on Mars
Pairing: Sam/Gene (sort of)
Genre: Humor
Words: ~500
Rating: PG; minor language
Spoilers: None!
Notes: Originally posted to my tumblr back in November as a kneejerk response to a certain photo. Expect: Accidental Americanisms. Don't expect: Sense.
Summary: Sam buys Gene a drink. At a coffeeshop. In 2006.
"It's small."
Sam glanced up from his wallet to Gene, who glared darkly at the disposable red cup in his hand.
"Yeah," Sam said, frowning. "It's the smallest size."
"You said it was tall," Gene growled, an edge of violence to his tone that made the queue behind Sam collectively twitch and avert their eyes toward the register.
Sam steeled his expression and snapped his wallet shut, then turned on his heel and yanked Gene's arm toward the door. Gene shoved him off momentarily, but at least he got the point.
Sort of.
"Tall is small," Sam hissed.
"Sounds like a poor man's excuse for a shrunken trouser snake. Meaning yours," Gene shot back, at full volume, as if he didn't understand that in not-1970's-cop-program-inspired-Manchester, you kept your own bloody thoughts locked up neatly in your own bloody self.
Which is, perhaps -- if he's absolutely honest with himself -- how Sam might have ended up so absurdly barmy that he had a mental apparition tagging along with him the first place. Or -- wait, no. No, there was no logical explanation for anything that had occurred between his coach collision and this very moment, least of all suddenly and inexplicably waking up in his 2006 flat after a few-months holiday in sepia 1973. Truth be told, he'd nearly pissed himself when he'd stumbled out of his bedroom and seen the Guv sleeping his modern, hard-edged, utterly uncomfortable sofa. And nearly laughed until he'd cried when Gene had woken up and landed arse-end on the floor in equal parts shock and hangover, spouting something about Nelson's scotch and Ray's elaborate pranks.
God. Sam missed Ray's pranks.
Which was about the moment when Sam felt the need to narrow his eyes and turn to appraise Gene, who was currently glaring down at himself with an expression of unadulterated disgust.
"I look a bloody nonce," he muttered. "This scarf is ridiculous."
"You look like whatever poor sod you replaced that apparently everyone else in my complex remembers -- now, can we please--" Sam intoned, forcing a smile at a nearby Uni kid who was busy snapping photos at the intersection, "pretend to be normal for one sodding minute until we get back to the flat?"
"Right," Gene grated, acidly, "because two officers sharing a flat like Liberace's bandmates is normal," which, yes, okay, Sam admits that when he found Gene-sized loafers and trousers strewn across his closet like they belonged there, he'd nearly pissed himself. Again.
"I know, just..." Sam sighed and ran a hand down his face. "I'll figure this out, yeah? And then we can get the hell out of this mess and back home."
And that's when Sam stopped. And balked. And thought: God, I am utterly, utterly mad.
Gene snorted in that annoyingly psychic yes, yes you bloody are way, and then took a sip of his tea. He froze and stared down at it with an exaggerated grimace.
"Is this fruit-flavored?"
Crossposted from hughes@dreamwidth.