(no subject)
Drabblet 1
Fandom: The Office (pre-just about everything)
Pairing: Jim/Pam
Rating: G
This one time they work late and it rains all day, which nobody even realizes, because nobody’s got a window. Sure, Creed comes back from his 10:30 a.m. lunch hour soaking wet with grass in his teeth, but you know? It’s Creed. Only then Jim’s walking with Pam to the parking lot and when they break the air-conditioned seal at the glass door, in rushes that heavy sweetness in the air, that dark green smell.
And he’s thinking: Dark green? Seriously?
“Hey,” he says, blinking. “Check it out. I forgot about weather.” He breathes in. It smells like not-carpet-cleaner, which is amazing and great.
Pam goes, “There’s a word for that smell, did you know that?” In the damp air her hair is all fizzing around her face, catching a white glow from the streetlights.
“I did not know that,” Jim says. He has to pretend like he doesn’t know where his car is, just to have somewhere else to look.
“Well, there is one,” she says, glancing up and sideways at him. There’s that little curve at the side of her mouth, and her shoulders are up like they always are but her eyes are warm and dark and promising that he’s in on this joke, too, whatever it is--which is bull, by the way. Not only is he not on the board, he doesn’t even know who makes the rules.
When he doesn’t answer she says, with great patience, “Do you want to know what it is, or what?”
“Beesly, I don’t need you to tell me about hydrostank,” Jim says, because talking: that’s a great thing. “Dirtfume. Humessence. Mudsession, by Calvin Klein.”
“Fine, well, you’ll just never know it then,” she says, and he can’t help looking down at her and God damn, if it’s the light or whatever (which it isn’t), but she’s got the prettiest smile.
Drabblet 2
Fandom: Patrick O'Brien/Master & Commander
Pairing: none really
Rating: G
They had been to see Mrs. Billington’s Countess at the Haymarket. It was a superlative evening, though Jack had apparently begun in earnest endeavor to spoil it. Predictably he went tump-tumpty-tumping along to the “se vuol,” and had practically to be sat on before he would stop; and then in the middle of Cherubino’s first aria he leaned across to Stephen and said, in an indignant mutter presumably intended for a whisper, “Hear how the first violin drags along astern of the rest! Why, it is abominable; if he were my man, I’d have him started for idling,” whereupon Stephen very nearly clubbed him round the ear. But he only said mildly, “He is not your man, my dear, so hush,” and Jack settled back, glowering, into his own chair.
Still he could not remain displeased very long, being opposed in malice by such an opera and by such performers. Toward the end of the second act Stephen risked a glance to see Jack nearly floating in his seat, his face alight with admiration and enjoyment. He had hummed contentedly all the way home, and a half-hour later his good humor still carried him.
“And Miss Fletcher’s Susanna!” he cried now, leaping from his chair again in delighted agitation. “Susannas are a shrill, quarrelsome lot as a rule, but she was as dear and lively a thing as you could hope to see. I can’t recall ever seeing anyone quite so pretty in the part.”
“The vivacity to which you allude,” said Stephen, pouring himself another glass of wine, “may have been the result of her milieu rather than her merits; for I do not think there was anyone on that stage below the age of thirty-five, but she cannot have been more than two-and-twenty.”
“Oh, come, Stephen!” Jack exclaimed. “You can’t mean to tell me you were not taken with her, for I saw that you were, you know. When she sang ‘Deh vieni’ you were quite a different man than you are now. I believe you nearly smiled.”
“Her voice was very fine, to be sure,” Stephen conceded, with a stiffness he did not like. It had not been fine: it had been perfection. It was a voice that could only have belonged to someone quite young, despite the startling purity of the tone. In it there was a golden thread of innocent longing, a kind of dear virginal wickedness. It was a voice that yearned and did not know for what, that invited without being tainted by the invitation. He had been lost in it as in a dream and it had withdrawn from him like a dream, leaving him feeling old and corrupt. Vague regrets assailed him, and idiotic ruminations. He had almost begun to ask Jack questions about love, in God’s name. He had hoped his friend would not bring her up at all.
“‘Very fine?’” Jack echoed in open disbelief. “You know perfectly well it was not. It was sublime. Choirs of angels ain’t in it. There was some mischief to her, what’s more--Figaro does love her, you know, so there must be some of that in her nature, and she will torment him, so there ought to be--but it was all spirit and fondness, not sniping. She was a true girl: astonishingly true. If you were not enraptured I am a herring. But Stephen,” glancing sharply at him, “you’ve hardly spoken a word all evening.”
“I am a little out of spirits,” said Stephen, “that is all.”
“I’ve done it,” Jack said humbly, sinking back into his chair, which creaked with the effort. “It was my talking in the middle, I know. And the humming. And how beastly I am to rant and froth like this, when any idiot could have seen you haven’t the constitution for it. I am sorry, Stephen, if I’ve put your evening out of joint.”
“Never think so, joy,” Stephen said, smiling at him, and touched his friend’s large hand. “I am only thinking of her voice.” What oppressed him was that it would all get so complicated, he wanted to explain. She would grow into a different sort of selfishness, a harder, darker one; a voice like that hovered so precariously on the edge of change. He could not remember the last time he had witnessed--much less felt--that kind of desire: like cool, clear water in the heart.
"You understand, surely," he said, and it surprised him how imploring he sounded; how he needed Jack to see, and was not sure he would.
“Ahh,” said Jack, a long exhalation. “Yes. Yes.”
Fandom: The Office (pre-just about everything)
Pairing: Jim/Pam
Rating: G
This one time they work late and it rains all day, which nobody even realizes, because nobody’s got a window. Sure, Creed comes back from his 10:30 a.m. lunch hour soaking wet with grass in his teeth, but you know? It’s Creed. Only then Jim’s walking with Pam to the parking lot and when they break the air-conditioned seal at the glass door, in rushes that heavy sweetness in the air, that dark green smell.
And he’s thinking: Dark green? Seriously?
“Hey,” he says, blinking. “Check it out. I forgot about weather.” He breathes in. It smells like not-carpet-cleaner, which is amazing and great.
Pam goes, “There’s a word for that smell, did you know that?” In the damp air her hair is all fizzing around her face, catching a white glow from the streetlights.
“I did not know that,” Jim says. He has to pretend like he doesn’t know where his car is, just to have somewhere else to look.
“Well, there is one,” she says, glancing up and sideways at him. There’s that little curve at the side of her mouth, and her shoulders are up like they always are but her eyes are warm and dark and promising that he’s in on this joke, too, whatever it is--which is bull, by the way. Not only is he not on the board, he doesn’t even know who makes the rules.
When he doesn’t answer she says, with great patience, “Do you want to know what it is, or what?”
“Beesly, I don’t need you to tell me about hydrostank,” Jim says, because talking: that’s a great thing. “Dirtfume. Humessence. Mudsession, by Calvin Klein.”
“Fine, well, you’ll just never know it then,” she says, and he can’t help looking down at her and God damn, if it’s the light or whatever (which it isn’t), but she’s got the prettiest smile.
Drabblet 2
Fandom: Patrick O'Brien/Master & Commander
Pairing: none really
Rating: G
They had been to see Mrs. Billington’s Countess at the Haymarket. It was a superlative evening, though Jack had apparently begun in earnest endeavor to spoil it. Predictably he went tump-tumpty-tumping along to the “se vuol,” and had practically to be sat on before he would stop; and then in the middle of Cherubino’s first aria he leaned across to Stephen and said, in an indignant mutter presumably intended for a whisper, “Hear how the first violin drags along astern of the rest! Why, it is abominable; if he were my man, I’d have him started for idling,” whereupon Stephen very nearly clubbed him round the ear. But he only said mildly, “He is not your man, my dear, so hush,” and Jack settled back, glowering, into his own chair.
Still he could not remain displeased very long, being opposed in malice by such an opera and by such performers. Toward the end of the second act Stephen risked a glance to see Jack nearly floating in his seat, his face alight with admiration and enjoyment. He had hummed contentedly all the way home, and a half-hour later his good humor still carried him.
“And Miss Fletcher’s Susanna!” he cried now, leaping from his chair again in delighted agitation. “Susannas are a shrill, quarrelsome lot as a rule, but she was as dear and lively a thing as you could hope to see. I can’t recall ever seeing anyone quite so pretty in the part.”
“The vivacity to which you allude,” said Stephen, pouring himself another glass of wine, “may have been the result of her milieu rather than her merits; for I do not think there was anyone on that stage below the age of thirty-five, but she cannot have been more than two-and-twenty.”
“Oh, come, Stephen!” Jack exclaimed. “You can’t mean to tell me you were not taken with her, for I saw that you were, you know. When she sang ‘Deh vieni’ you were quite a different man than you are now. I believe you nearly smiled.”
“Her voice was very fine, to be sure,” Stephen conceded, with a stiffness he did not like. It had not been fine: it had been perfection. It was a voice that could only have belonged to someone quite young, despite the startling purity of the tone. In it there was a golden thread of innocent longing, a kind of dear virginal wickedness. It was a voice that yearned and did not know for what, that invited without being tainted by the invitation. He had been lost in it as in a dream and it had withdrawn from him like a dream, leaving him feeling old and corrupt. Vague regrets assailed him, and idiotic ruminations. He had almost begun to ask Jack questions about love, in God’s name. He had hoped his friend would not bring her up at all.
“‘Very fine?’” Jack echoed in open disbelief. “You know perfectly well it was not. It was sublime. Choirs of angels ain’t in it. There was some mischief to her, what’s more--Figaro does love her, you know, so there must be some of that in her nature, and she will torment him, so there ought to be--but it was all spirit and fondness, not sniping. She was a true girl: astonishingly true. If you were not enraptured I am a herring. But Stephen,” glancing sharply at him, “you’ve hardly spoken a word all evening.”
“I am a little out of spirits,” said Stephen, “that is all.”
“I’ve done it,” Jack said humbly, sinking back into his chair, which creaked with the effort. “It was my talking in the middle, I know. And the humming. And how beastly I am to rant and froth like this, when any idiot could have seen you haven’t the constitution for it. I am sorry, Stephen, if I’ve put your evening out of joint.”
“Never think so, joy,” Stephen said, smiling at him, and touched his friend’s large hand. “I am only thinking of her voice.” What oppressed him was that it would all get so complicated, he wanted to explain. She would grow into a different sort of selfishness, a harder, darker one; a voice like that hovered so precariously on the edge of change. He could not remember the last time he had witnessed--much less felt--that kind of desire: like cool, clear water in the heart.
"You understand, surely," he said, and it surprised him how imploring he sounded; how he needed Jack to see, and was not sure he would.
“Ahh,” said Jack, a long exhalation. “Yes. Yes.”