Ficlet (not starring Hotdogs)
zeplum got me fired up to write a spot of The Pretender. She told me to use Jarod or Miss Parker (or both), and gave me the prompts jealousy and public transport. Go!
Title: Bus
Fandom: The Pretender, slight Jarod/Miss Parker
Disclaimer: Not mine. All Steven and Craig's.
Bus
By piecesofalice
Pretender-verse
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For zeplum
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The smells overwhelmed, the sounds like a symphony; the sun through the windows warm and unobtrusive as it struck his face, twisted into an expression of mild ecstasy at just being on the midday bus through Wilmington's twisting suburban streets.
There was a mild interest in him, from the passengers, he knew - they'd stared through his absolute bewilderment at the bus fare system; they'd responded half-heartedly and with layers of shock at his cheery "hello!", finding him infinitely more interesting than the streets flying past or the tinny rock music that had stopped blaring from a teenager passenger's Walkman.
But he stayed oblivious for the most part, feeling and smelling and being; watching and enjoying and living. A bus trip, such a taken-for-granted-thing, like foods in a can or TV shows about cops; a split in the seat's material worth more to his over-all worldliness than any fine leather couch in any culture-controlled environment.
The Small Things, pleasant for his simply complex mind but so sadly lost on those around him.
The bus crawled to a stop at the corner of the busy shopping district. He pressed his face against the smeared glass, taking in the hurry and scurry of the cafe life, a life he didn't understand but was entirely fascinated by. Women with large bags and small dogs, men on portable phones on one ear and their mistresses talking into the other; eating off huge plates and sipping out of tiny cups like this play on proportion was anything but bizarre.
It took a minute but he noticed her finally, all fingernails and sunglasses, because he hadn't expected her to be away from Blue Cove and in the mise-en-scene of his bus window. There she was, sipping a glass of water and ignoring a froth-covered coffee (cappuccino?), being "normal" and serene and so alive in the presence of her companion.
Thomas Gates was man, and he knew she loved him. They touched hands, obscured by a parked car, and she laughed - a real, genuine laugh that caused her head to tilt back and her teeth to show. Thomas Gates held her hand, away from his view, and knew the feeling of her manicured nails on his skin; the smell of her hair after a shower and before she left for work, for day after day of bitter cigarettes and The Chase that didn't end.
Like a buzz, from the engine, it bubbled up inside him. Overtaking, overwhelming, over a woman he should have hated yet couldn't bring himself to do so. (Hate? Was there a difference from this he was feeling?) He wanted to run from the bus and shake Thomas Gates, throw him to the ground - beat into him and prove he was a man, too, and while doing so, delete any reference from her brain.
Part of him knew at any second she could have looked up and his freedom would be over. Part of him wanted her to, wanted her to leave Thomas Gates at the cafe at the sight of him, leap onto the bus and - and, what, he didn't know.
The bus pulled away from the station and he stayed in his seat. He watched them, until they disappeared and nothing was left but blurred scenery and the stick of torn material in his back.
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Fin.
---------------
I really wanted to call this "The Wheels on the Bus (Go 'Round and 'Round)". But I quelled my need for stupid titles and went the simple route.
Australian viewers: why are there these inane "game" shows on every commercial network? Do our television stations have so much excess money, they are forced to feed it into the late night set's unemployed pockets via Hotdogs?
For that matter, why does Hotdogs have a Wikipedia entry? I'm going to bed.
Title: Bus
Fandom: The Pretender, slight Jarod/Miss Parker
Disclaimer: Not mine. All Steven and Craig's.
Bus
By piecesofalice
Pretender-verse
---------------
For zeplum
---------------
The smells overwhelmed, the sounds like a symphony; the sun through the windows warm and unobtrusive as it struck his face, twisted into an expression of mild ecstasy at just being on the midday bus through Wilmington's twisting suburban streets.
There was a mild interest in him, from the passengers, he knew - they'd stared through his absolute bewilderment at the bus fare system; they'd responded half-heartedly and with layers of shock at his cheery "hello!", finding him infinitely more interesting than the streets flying past or the tinny rock music that had stopped blaring from a teenager passenger's Walkman.
But he stayed oblivious for the most part, feeling and smelling and being; watching and enjoying and living. A bus trip, such a taken-for-granted-thing, like foods in a can or TV shows about cops; a split in the seat's material worth more to his over-all worldliness than any fine leather couch in any culture-controlled environment.
The Small Things, pleasant for his simply complex mind but so sadly lost on those around him.
The bus crawled to a stop at the corner of the busy shopping district. He pressed his face against the smeared glass, taking in the hurry and scurry of the cafe life, a life he didn't understand but was entirely fascinated by. Women with large bags and small dogs, men on portable phones on one ear and their mistresses talking into the other; eating off huge plates and sipping out of tiny cups like this play on proportion was anything but bizarre.
It took a minute but he noticed her finally, all fingernails and sunglasses, because he hadn't expected her to be away from Blue Cove and in the mise-en-scene of his bus window. There she was, sipping a glass of water and ignoring a froth-covered coffee (cappuccino?), being "normal" and serene and so alive in the presence of her companion.
Thomas Gates was man, and he knew she loved him. They touched hands, obscured by a parked car, and she laughed - a real, genuine laugh that caused her head to tilt back and her teeth to show. Thomas Gates held her hand, away from his view, and knew the feeling of her manicured nails on his skin; the smell of her hair after a shower and before she left for work, for day after day of bitter cigarettes and The Chase that didn't end.
Like a buzz, from the engine, it bubbled up inside him. Overtaking, overwhelming, over a woman he should have hated yet couldn't bring himself to do so. (Hate? Was there a difference from this he was feeling?) He wanted to run from the bus and shake Thomas Gates, throw him to the ground - beat into him and prove he was a man, too, and while doing so, delete any reference from her brain.
Part of him knew at any second she could have looked up and his freedom would be over. Part of him wanted her to, wanted her to leave Thomas Gates at the cafe at the sight of him, leap onto the bus and - and, what, he didn't know.
The bus pulled away from the station and he stayed in his seat. He watched them, until they disappeared and nothing was left but blurred scenery and the stick of torn material in his back.
---------------
Fin.
---------------
I really wanted to call this "The Wheels on the Bus (Go 'Round and 'Round)". But I quelled my need for stupid titles and went the simple route.
Australian viewers: why are there these inane "game" shows on every commercial network? Do our television stations have so much excess money, they are forced to feed it into the late night set's unemployed pockets via Hotdogs?
For that matter, why does Hotdogs have a Wikipedia entry? I'm going to bed.