Top Gear, Music of Speed , PG
Title: Music of Speed
Pairing: None
Summary: Series 8, Episode 2: Based on James May's comment about people hoovering while on speed.
Warnings: Drug use
Author: blacktofade
Words: 640
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I am not associated with Top Gear or any of their affiliates. I don't mean any harm, this is all made up.
A/N: This has not been beta'd, so feel free to point out mistakes/offer concrit. This was written for chocolatepeach's episode challenge on topgearslash.
Forwards, backwards, side to side. Forwards, backwards, side to side.
Under the coffee table, under the chairs, over the rug, to the beat in his mind. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four.
He’s already polished, already dusted, all that is left is the hoovering.
Forwards, backwards, side to side.
The knocking on the door fits in all too well with the slow-forming song in his mind.
Rap, tap, rap, tap.
Forwards, backwards, side to side.
One, two, three, four.
He can’t stop. He can’t let the music slip away. On and on and on and on. Forwards, backwards, side to side.
The knocking stops and is replaced with shouts of, “I’m coming in, May”, and the clear thud of footsteps on the wooden floor of his hallway. Thump, thump, thump, thump.
It matches the rapid rhythm of his heart. Pound, pound, pound, pound.
The footfalls disappear as the person walking stops in the doorway of his living room. He can’t stop, won’t stop, shan’t stop.
Forwards, backwards, side to side.
In his head, his thoughts are surprisingly ordered and precise. He knows what he needs to do, and what he needs to do is clean. Brush this, dust that, wash this, mop that.
“May?”
The voice cuts through, but he doesn’t acknowledge it; he has a task to fulfil, no one can stop him.
Forwards, backwards, side to side.
“James, what have you taken?”
A voice so full of interest, he’s almost tempted to stop and look at the speaker. Almost.
The person in his house, who is identified as Jeremy Clarkson in some small, ignored part of his mind, wanders away and James forgets about him. He’s back to watching the hoover moving forwards, backwards, side to side.
The beat is in full swing. His head nods in time, his eyes fall shut, keeping the beat inside, stopping it from escaping.
Forwards, backwards-
Silence.
Jeremy holds the power cord in his left hand, his face unreadable. James turns in curiosity as to why his music has been taken away, and concentrates on Jeremy’s clenched fist; it shakes with anger, sadness (he doesn’t know which).
“How much have you taken, James?” Jeremy asks, his voice anything but quivering.
James begins to count in his head. He reaches four, forgets why he’s counting, but continues anyway. Endless numbers fill his mind, his cleaning all but forgotten. He’s reached sixty-seven when Jeremy finally drops the cord and the noise pulls him away from his thoughts.
It goes ever so quiet, and he hears the clock on the wall ticking like a bomb. Tick, tock, tick, tock.
He starts counting again, the numbers increasing with each tick and tock. His head lolls - left to right - in a steady beat, his eyes fall shut again.
The hand on his shoulder makes him jump, neurons firing, skin ablaze with electricity.
The numbers have vanished, and he feels more alive than ever, though he’s sure the look Jeremy is giving him should make him want to die.
James can’t stop his fingers as they flutter out to Jeremy’s face as he walks closer. They manipulate the other man’s lips in a grotesque imitation of a smile. Jeremy sniffs, his nose curling (probably at the strong scent of polish on his hands), and steps back to free his face of James’ twitching fingers.
They fall away, and begin to drum against James’ thighs.
Tap, tap, tap, tap.
Numbers linger in the back of his mind, floating among the recesses. Swirling and soaring and swishing about. There’s a beat alongside them.
One, two, three, four.
James ignores Jeremy, who’s calling someone on his mobile, his lips a blur of panic and words. He reaches for the hoover, and, although it isn’t plugged in, he moves it.
Forwards, backwards, side to side. Forwards, backwards, side to side.
Pairing: None
Summary: Series 8, Episode 2: Based on James May's comment about people hoovering while on speed.
Warnings: Drug use
Author: blacktofade
Words: 640
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I am not associated with Top Gear or any of their affiliates. I don't mean any harm, this is all made up.
A/N: This has not been beta'd, so feel free to point out mistakes/offer concrit. This was written for chocolatepeach's episode challenge on topgearslash.
Forwards, backwards, side to side. Forwards, backwards, side to side.
Under the coffee table, under the chairs, over the rug, to the beat in his mind. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four.
He’s already polished, already dusted, all that is left is the hoovering.
Forwards, backwards, side to side.
The knocking on the door fits in all too well with the slow-forming song in his mind.
Rap, tap, rap, tap.
Forwards, backwards, side to side.
One, two, three, four.
He can’t stop. He can’t let the music slip away. On and on and on and on. Forwards, backwards, side to side.
The knocking stops and is replaced with shouts of, “I’m coming in, May”, and the clear thud of footsteps on the wooden floor of his hallway. Thump, thump, thump, thump.
It matches the rapid rhythm of his heart. Pound, pound, pound, pound.
The footfalls disappear as the person walking stops in the doorway of his living room. He can’t stop, won’t stop, shan’t stop.
Forwards, backwards, side to side.
In his head, his thoughts are surprisingly ordered and precise. He knows what he needs to do, and what he needs to do is clean. Brush this, dust that, wash this, mop that.
“May?”
The voice cuts through, but he doesn’t acknowledge it; he has a task to fulfil, no one can stop him.
Forwards, backwards, side to side.
“James, what have you taken?”
A voice so full of interest, he’s almost tempted to stop and look at the speaker. Almost.
The person in his house, who is identified as Jeremy Clarkson in some small, ignored part of his mind, wanders away and James forgets about him. He’s back to watching the hoover moving forwards, backwards, side to side.
The beat is in full swing. His head nods in time, his eyes fall shut, keeping the beat inside, stopping it from escaping.
Forwards, backwards-
Silence.
Jeremy holds the power cord in his left hand, his face unreadable. James turns in curiosity as to why his music has been taken away, and concentrates on Jeremy’s clenched fist; it shakes with anger, sadness (he doesn’t know which).
“How much have you taken, James?” Jeremy asks, his voice anything but quivering.
James begins to count in his head. He reaches four, forgets why he’s counting, but continues anyway. Endless numbers fill his mind, his cleaning all but forgotten. He’s reached sixty-seven when Jeremy finally drops the cord and the noise pulls him away from his thoughts.
It goes ever so quiet, and he hears the clock on the wall ticking like a bomb. Tick, tock, tick, tock.
He starts counting again, the numbers increasing with each tick and tock. His head lolls - left to right - in a steady beat, his eyes fall shut again.
The hand on his shoulder makes him jump, neurons firing, skin ablaze with electricity.
The numbers have vanished, and he feels more alive than ever, though he’s sure the look Jeremy is giving him should make him want to die.
James can’t stop his fingers as they flutter out to Jeremy’s face as he walks closer. They manipulate the other man’s lips in a grotesque imitation of a smile. Jeremy sniffs, his nose curling (probably at the strong scent of polish on his hands), and steps back to free his face of James’ twitching fingers.
They fall away, and begin to drum against James’ thighs.
Tap, tap, tap, tap.
Numbers linger in the back of his mind, floating among the recesses. Swirling and soaring and swishing about. There’s a beat alongside them.
One, two, three, four.
James ignores Jeremy, who’s calling someone on his mobile, his lips a blur of panic and words. He reaches for the hoover, and, although it isn’t plugged in, he moves it.
Forwards, backwards, side to side. Forwards, backwards, side to side.