play along with this charade ....
Return of the revenge of the tag-team Venture fic! lolisodapop and I started writing this via email when I was still working at Hell Office, but we both got sniped away from our emails... sniffle. I found it in my outbox, and since she's having a crap day, and I could use a little Venture snark, we decided to dust it off and keep going.
For the record, we decided it was mid-first-season... and here's how far we got:
His first thought upon waking up was that Hank and Dean had tried to put science experiments in the Easy-Bake oven again ... it smelled like something that was not meant to burn pleasantly had gone past the point of burning and into charcoal. The second thought was that maybe, in the process, they'd dropped the oven on his head, because it
was hurting like a son of a bee. The third and fourth, hot on the heels of the second? The arm his head was resting on was very warm and wet - Christ, was he starting to drool in his sleep again? the anxiety pills were NOT doing their job - and he felt like he'd been thrown around like a wet sack of yams.
Then he opened his eyes, and it all made sense.
"Sweet Second Cousin of Kwanzaa," Rusty Venture whined, glaring at the all-too-familiar magenta walls of the Monarch's holding cell. "NOT AGAIN. HEY. HELLO? Anybody IN here? I'm bleeeeeediiinnnng .... all over your nice caaaaaaaaaarpeeet..... and trust me I know, this is gonna be a MOTHER to get out of shag .... whythehell do you carpet your holding cells, anyway? HEY! HELLO!!! DR. VENTURE PAGING JACKASS!"
As Dr. Girlfriend rounded the corner with a makeshift first aid kit in hand, the only thought that would pierce through her headache was how she really didn’t have time for this. She had been up for weeks trying to puzzle out why the cocoon kept losing power when they went into fourth gear (the thing was like driving a parade float, only without all the fun and attention of being in a parade) her allergies were acting up, and her list of things to do was getting longer by the minute. There were new henchmen to replace the ones who had died in her boyfriend’s latest (successful) attempt to abduct Dr. Venture, plus the Swedish guy would be showing up soon enough to get his boss back.
Of course, something inside the villainess told her this was all her own fault, she should have managed their time better, but how could she have assumed the henchmen would get it right on the first try? When had they ever gotten it right on the first try?
She unlocked the cell door and stepped inside, locking it behind her. It wasn’t as if Dr. Venture was much of a threat to her. Mostly, she just didn’t want him escaping and dripping blood from one side of the cocoon to the other. Dr. Venture was right, it was a bitch to get out of the carpet.
“I don’t know where the Monarch is, don’t ask.” She said, before their prisoner could ask the obvious question. “You’re bleeding from somewhere, try not to flail around too much.” She added, after a moment. Well duh, Sheila. Well thought out.
"Oh. Somewhere, yeah. Real nice assessment for someone in a nurse's outfit," Dr. Venture scoffed, touching his fingers gingerly to the gash in the side of his head. "Lemme guess, your next assessment runs somewhere along the lines of: 'As long as nothing grey starts leaking out, I should be just fine'. Wonderful. ... And how the hell can
you not know where the Mighty Moron is? You two are practically attatched at the hip." He paused, looking her over. "Not that I blame him. Rrrrrow."
She rolled her eyes at Dr. Venture's...what was that, an attempt at a come on?
"I don't know where the Monarch is because this place is like, four stories high. And it's not supposed to be a nurse's outfit, it's- forget it." Dr. Girlfriend sighed, and cupped his jawline in her hand, tilting his head slightly up so she could get a better look at the wound on the side of his head. "You probably need stitches, mister, so if you want to lie down there... don't look at me like that, I went to nursing school, okay?" For all of four days, before she realized she was just in it for all the older, dreamy medical residents and the ability to wear a costume to work every day.
"If it's not supposed to be a nurse's outfit, how come you went to nursing school?" He sing-songed, folding his arms. "Nope. Forget it. I'm not letting anyone in league with Captain Fancy Wings - wherever the hell he is - stick ANYTHING sharp and pointy in my general vicinity. Not unless you can prove me two things: One! The needle's
sterile, and not covered in like, iocaine powder or something ... and Two: You actually know what the crap you're doing." Pause for effect. ... Flail. "What the hell is his problem with me, anyway?"
"I do know what I'm doing." She replied, a bit too defensively. He had a point. "The Monarch wanted me to do this whole Jackie-O thing one night and it just sort of..." She trailed off, smiling slightly to herself at that particular memory. "Anyway, as for his hating you, your guess is as good as mine, mister." She dug around her the pocket of her jacket for a tissue, which was sort of useless against all that blood, but it was better than nothing if he wasn't going to stop thrashing around and getting blood everywhere. Not even the henchmen were this bad about a few simple stitches. In an effort to at least keep the mess to a minimum, she reached over and pinned his wrist to the bed, leaning forward with her slight weight to try and calm the prisoner. Despite her size, she could easily overpower Dr. Venture, it was just a matter of who had more blood in them to keep going.
"Look, do you want the Monarch to come down here? Do you want him stitching you up because I promise, my four days of nursing school are way better than his six months running around in the woods or wherever and - are you staring at my tits?"
Rusty blanched a little at the Jackie O anecdote. Ugh, TMI. The last thing he wanted to hear about was the Monarch's horizontal mambo dance-card. ... Especially since the thought made him a bit on the jealous side. .... Maybe a lot. Goddamnit. However, he'd take what he could: namely, the fact that she was pinning him down. It wasn't the Ritz Carlton, the sheets weren't satin, and there weren't any cans of whipped cream around ... but still. It was something. It was anything.
"Of course I am," he said, crossly, "they're kinda RIGHT THERE." She was leaning over, after all. And a guy had to play it cool, didn't he?
For the record, we decided it was mid-first-season... and here's how far we got:
His first thought upon waking up was that Hank and Dean had tried to put science experiments in the Easy-Bake oven again ... it smelled like something that was not meant to burn pleasantly had gone past the point of burning and into charcoal. The second thought was that maybe, in the process, they'd dropped the oven on his head, because it
was hurting like a son of a bee. The third and fourth, hot on the heels of the second? The arm his head was resting on was very warm and wet - Christ, was he starting to drool in his sleep again? the anxiety pills were NOT doing their job - and he felt like he'd been thrown around like a wet sack of yams.
Then he opened his eyes, and it all made sense.
"Sweet Second Cousin of Kwanzaa," Rusty Venture whined, glaring at the all-too-familiar magenta walls of the Monarch's holding cell. "NOT AGAIN. HEY. HELLO? Anybody IN here? I'm bleeeeeediiinnnng .... all over your nice caaaaaaaaaarpeeet..... and trust me I know, this is gonna be a MOTHER to get out of shag .... whythehell do you carpet your holding cells, anyway? HEY! HELLO!!! DR. VENTURE PAGING JACKASS!"
As Dr. Girlfriend rounded the corner with a makeshift first aid kit in hand, the only thought that would pierce through her headache was how she really didn’t have time for this. She had been up for weeks trying to puzzle out why the cocoon kept losing power when they went into fourth gear (the thing was like driving a parade float, only without all the fun and attention of being in a parade) her allergies were acting up, and her list of things to do was getting longer by the minute. There were new henchmen to replace the ones who had died in her boyfriend’s latest (successful) attempt to abduct Dr. Venture, plus the Swedish guy would be showing up soon enough to get his boss back.
Of course, something inside the villainess told her this was all her own fault, she should have managed their time better, but how could she have assumed the henchmen would get it right on the first try? When had they ever gotten it right on the first try?
She unlocked the cell door and stepped inside, locking it behind her. It wasn’t as if Dr. Venture was much of a threat to her. Mostly, she just didn’t want him escaping and dripping blood from one side of the cocoon to the other. Dr. Venture was right, it was a bitch to get out of the carpet.
“I don’t know where the Monarch is, don’t ask.” She said, before their prisoner could ask the obvious question. “You’re bleeding from somewhere, try not to flail around too much.” She added, after a moment. Well duh, Sheila. Well thought out.
"Oh. Somewhere, yeah. Real nice assessment for someone in a nurse's outfit," Dr. Venture scoffed, touching his fingers gingerly to the gash in the side of his head. "Lemme guess, your next assessment runs somewhere along the lines of: 'As long as nothing grey starts leaking out, I should be just fine'. Wonderful. ... And how the hell can
you not know where the Mighty Moron is? You two are practically attatched at the hip." He paused, looking her over. "Not that I blame him. Rrrrrow."
She rolled her eyes at Dr. Venture's...what was that, an attempt at a come on?
"I don't know where the Monarch is because this place is like, four stories high. And it's not supposed to be a nurse's outfit, it's- forget it." Dr. Girlfriend sighed, and cupped his jawline in her hand, tilting his head slightly up so she could get a better look at the wound on the side of his head. "You probably need stitches, mister, so if you want to lie down there... don't look at me like that, I went to nursing school, okay?" For all of four days, before she realized she was just in it for all the older, dreamy medical residents and the ability to wear a costume to work every day.
"If it's not supposed to be a nurse's outfit, how come you went to nursing school?" He sing-songed, folding his arms. "Nope. Forget it. I'm not letting anyone in league with Captain Fancy Wings - wherever the hell he is - stick ANYTHING sharp and pointy in my general vicinity. Not unless you can prove me two things: One! The needle's
sterile, and not covered in like, iocaine powder or something ... and Two: You actually know what the crap you're doing." Pause for effect. ... Flail. "What the hell is his problem with me, anyway?"
"I do know what I'm doing." She replied, a bit too defensively. He had a point. "The Monarch wanted me to do this whole Jackie-O thing one night and it just sort of..." She trailed off, smiling slightly to herself at that particular memory. "Anyway, as for his hating you, your guess is as good as mine, mister." She dug around her the pocket of her jacket for a tissue, which was sort of useless against all that blood, but it was better than nothing if he wasn't going to stop thrashing around and getting blood everywhere. Not even the henchmen were this bad about a few simple stitches. In an effort to at least keep the mess to a minimum, she reached over and pinned his wrist to the bed, leaning forward with her slight weight to try and calm the prisoner. Despite her size, she could easily overpower Dr. Venture, it was just a matter of who had more blood in them to keep going.
"Look, do you want the Monarch to come down here? Do you want him stitching you up because I promise, my four days of nursing school are way better than his six months running around in the woods or wherever and - are you staring at my tits?"
Rusty blanched a little at the Jackie O anecdote. Ugh, TMI. The last thing he wanted to hear about was the Monarch's horizontal mambo dance-card. ... Especially since the thought made him a bit on the jealous side. .... Maybe a lot. Goddamnit. However, he'd take what he could: namely, the fact that she was pinning him down. It wasn't the Ritz Carlton, the sheets weren't satin, and there weren't any cans of whipped cream around ... but still. It was something. It was anything.
"Of course I am," he said, crossly, "they're kinda RIGHT THERE." She was leaning over, after all. And a guy had to play it cool, didn't he?