... in which Katie is iconic
Um, so, does anyone remember the random icon drabbles I promised I'd write? Well, I've written them. Here they are.
As a child he'd come here all the time. Under the bridge had always been a haven for local kids on long summer days, messing around with bricks and footballs, anything they could find.
Later, he'd spend evenings there instead. When he could he brought girls, but more usually he'd go with friends and a bottle of something cheap, huddled against the cold concrete as a shelter from the wind. They knew it was crap even then, but it was where they went, and that made it the centre of the universe.
And now he's back. He leans out over the dingy water, smokes his cigarette, and waits.
-----------------
She loves airports. Always has.
Whenever she takes a flight she arrives far too early and spends hours over a single coffee. High class this time; Starbucks. She looks at the people, tiny like ants as they go about their business. Everyone you see in an airport is lost, looking for their departure gate, their luggage, their loved ones, their life. She wonders who they are, why they’re here.
She listens to the PA system call a litany of other people’s flights, stares at the plastic seating in the harsh electric light. Yeah, airports were designed for people like her.
------------------------
At the time, you’d given up any thought of getting out alive. You knew that even if he turned up, it wouldn’t be to save you. To hope otherwise was foolish; that wasn’t the way things worked.
You wanted to damn him, hate him for it in advance, but you weren’t even sure, then, that you wanted to be saved. Sat there in the damp and darkness, the manacles cutting into your wrists, you couldn’t help thinking that maybe he’d be doing you a favour.
You never forgot that endless wait for death. You’re glad, though, that you were wrong.
--------------------
“If you could just stop sulking, this might get done quicker, you know that?”
I scowl half-heartedly at the back of Sam’s head.
“I am not sulking. I’m trying to work out if there’s ever been a more exciting speech in the entirety of human existence.”
“Really.” Sam suddenly looks up from the papers he was holding. "Hey - didn’t you finish up over an hour ago? How come you’re not home already?”
I shrug.
“I’m fascinated by the, ah, subtleties of subsidy quotas to farmers in Idaho, what can I say.”
“Okay...” Sam rolls his eyes and goes back to looking at his figures.
--------------
”Jeeves, this really is just the thing! I do believe tonight’s festivities will go down in history, and it will all be thanks to this shirt.”
“Indeed, sir?”
I will not conceal it from you, dear readers - I heard doubt. I mean, there are many things a man will put up with from a cove as top-notch as Jeeves, but this was Not On.
“Jeeves,” I said sternly, “if you have doubts, express them forthwith. Has this shirt offended you in some way - murdered a relative, perhaps?”
“No, sir.”
He paused.
“But do you not think it possible that the shirt is perhaps a little... pink?”
--------------
I heard a story once about a writer who was cursed to tell the truth. Those who read his words fell in love, committed suicide, found religion. People camped outside his house, drunk on the truth, until the poor author simply caved from the pressure, spending the rest of his days in a madhouse.
He puts the book down, thinks of the many hours spent sat at his desk growing more and more frustrated as the words refuse to come. He thinks of how false the words seem still in the face of the vibrant reality he longs to express.
Perhaps it is better to be a liar.
---------------
Stephen has a perpetual air of mystery these days.
It bothers Jack; he has always known his friend to be a man of many secrets, from necessity if nothing else, but those were always facts, and this seems altogether different. The more he contemplates the expression on his friend’s face, the more certain he is: something is wrong.
He finds himself wondering if perhaps Stephen has worked out something he has not; it would not be the first time in their friendship. He wishes he knew what questions to ask.
Stephen, on the other side of the cabin, merely looks up from his notebook and smiles.
----------------
He took his duties as Messiah very seriously. It was important to check in person, make sure that everything was in order. Things always went wrong otherwise; one pairing, an Air Force colonel and his nerdy anthropologist best friend, had writers who kept trying to kill them or, worse, set the colonel up with his female second in command.
It amused him that the writers still didn’t realise why this kept failing, but it did show that frankly, humanity couldn’t be trusted for a minute with his precious characters. The atrocities they could commit - occasionally involving aliens, no less. With a sigh, he turned back to his computer.
-------------
“Hmm…. What about those two? They’re rather pretty.”
“A good choice, miss. Though they’re rather demanding - do you work from home? They’d need nearly constant care.”
“Really? I understood they were quite self-sufficient, really, almost naturally domesticated.”
“The problem is that they’re fussy. They need extras - like the stuff over there I was showing you before - to keep them amused and healthy and such.”
“Damn. That is a shame.”
“And those two, um, don’t seem to be separable, so you’d have to make sure you had room for two.”
“OK, maybe not, then. Do you have any kittens in?”
-----------
Crowley has, over the years, mastered the art of sauntering. There’s a lot more to it than meets the eye; he rather wants to say that it’s a state of mind, but fears Aziraphale will laugh at him. He refuses to admit to the time he’s spent perfecting his walk in the mirror for the same reason.
Aziraphale, for his part, lets Crowley persist in the illusion that he doesn’t know about it, despite the time he accidentally walked into Crowley’s house without looking in 1537. He doesn’t mind; since the Apocalypse, they’ve got all the time in the world.
----------------
Feedback is jumped upon delightedly - if you've got something constructively critical to say, so much the better.
I really feel quite impressed with myself, even if I should have been doing my Evil Essay O'Doom. Heh. Although I do have a random urge to assure everyone that my drabbles are no reflection on the canon of their respective fandoms - Wodehouse is really much, much funnier than that, and Good Omens is actually good! Patrick O'Brien writes slash better than I do!
In other news, I finished the Hamlet text adventure game! I felt so proud, even if it was with rather a lot of help, heh. Go me. I also watched Neverwhere on DVD for the first time - OMG OMG Neil's commentary and OMG OMG how gorgeous are Richard and Door?! - and The Prisoner, which was also incredibly cool and decidedly mind-fuck-y.
Possibly the title for this entry should have been I Am Nerd, Hear Me Roar. Heh.
As a child he'd come here all the time. Under the bridge had always been a haven for local kids on long summer days, messing around with bricks and footballs, anything they could find.
Later, he'd spend evenings there instead. When he could he brought girls, but more usually he'd go with friends and a bottle of something cheap, huddled against the cold concrete as a shelter from the wind. They knew it was crap even then, but it was where they went, and that made it the centre of the universe.
And now he's back. He leans out over the dingy water, smokes his cigarette, and waits.
-----------------
She loves airports. Always has.
Whenever she takes a flight she arrives far too early and spends hours over a single coffee. High class this time; Starbucks. She looks at the people, tiny like ants as they go about their business. Everyone you see in an airport is lost, looking for their departure gate, their luggage, their loved ones, their life. She wonders who they are, why they’re here.
She listens to the PA system call a litany of other people’s flights, stares at the plastic seating in the harsh electric light. Yeah, airports were designed for people like her.
------------------------
At the time, you’d given up any thought of getting out alive. You knew that even if he turned up, it wouldn’t be to save you. To hope otherwise was foolish; that wasn’t the way things worked.
You wanted to damn him, hate him for it in advance, but you weren’t even sure, then, that you wanted to be saved. Sat there in the damp and darkness, the manacles cutting into your wrists, you couldn’t help thinking that maybe he’d be doing you a favour.
You never forgot that endless wait for death. You’re glad, though, that you were wrong.
--------------------
“If you could just stop sulking, this might get done quicker, you know that?”
I scowl half-heartedly at the back of Sam’s head.
“I am not sulking. I’m trying to work out if there’s ever been a more exciting speech in the entirety of human existence.”
“Really.” Sam suddenly looks up from the papers he was holding. "Hey - didn’t you finish up over an hour ago? How come you’re not home already?”
I shrug.
“I’m fascinated by the, ah, subtleties of subsidy quotas to farmers in Idaho, what can I say.”
“Okay...” Sam rolls his eyes and goes back to looking at his figures.
--------------
”Jeeves, this really is just the thing! I do believe tonight’s festivities will go down in history, and it will all be thanks to this shirt.”
“Indeed, sir?”
I will not conceal it from you, dear readers - I heard doubt. I mean, there are many things a man will put up with from a cove as top-notch as Jeeves, but this was Not On.
“Jeeves,” I said sternly, “if you have doubts, express them forthwith. Has this shirt offended you in some way - murdered a relative, perhaps?”
“No, sir.”
He paused.
“But do you not think it possible that the shirt is perhaps a little... pink?”
--------------
I heard a story once about a writer who was cursed to tell the truth. Those who read his words fell in love, committed suicide, found religion. People camped outside his house, drunk on the truth, until the poor author simply caved from the pressure, spending the rest of his days in a madhouse.
He puts the book down, thinks of the many hours spent sat at his desk growing more and more frustrated as the words refuse to come. He thinks of how false the words seem still in the face of the vibrant reality he longs to express.
Perhaps it is better to be a liar.
---------------
Stephen has a perpetual air of mystery these days.
It bothers Jack; he has always known his friend to be a man of many secrets, from necessity if nothing else, but those were always facts, and this seems altogether different. The more he contemplates the expression on his friend’s face, the more certain he is: something is wrong.
He finds himself wondering if perhaps Stephen has worked out something he has not; it would not be the first time in their friendship. He wishes he knew what questions to ask.
Stephen, on the other side of the cabin, merely looks up from his notebook and smiles.
----------------
He took his duties as Messiah very seriously. It was important to check in person, make sure that everything was in order. Things always went wrong otherwise; one pairing, an Air Force colonel and his nerdy anthropologist best friend, had writers who kept trying to kill them or, worse, set the colonel up with his female second in command.
It amused him that the writers still didn’t realise why this kept failing, but it did show that frankly, humanity couldn’t be trusted for a minute with his precious characters. The atrocities they could commit - occasionally involving aliens, no less. With a sigh, he turned back to his computer.
-------------
“Hmm…. What about those two? They’re rather pretty.”
“A good choice, miss. Though they’re rather demanding - do you work from home? They’d need nearly constant care.”
“Really? I understood they were quite self-sufficient, really, almost naturally domesticated.”
“The problem is that they’re fussy. They need extras - like the stuff over there I was showing you before - to keep them amused and healthy and such.”
“Damn. That is a shame.”
“And those two, um, don’t seem to be separable, so you’d have to make sure you had room for two.”
“OK, maybe not, then. Do you have any kittens in?”
-----------
Crowley has, over the years, mastered the art of sauntering. There’s a lot more to it than meets the eye; he rather wants to say that it’s a state of mind, but fears Aziraphale will laugh at him. He refuses to admit to the time he’s spent perfecting his walk in the mirror for the same reason.
Aziraphale, for his part, lets Crowley persist in the illusion that he doesn’t know about it, despite the time he accidentally walked into Crowley’s house without looking in 1537. He doesn’t mind; since the Apocalypse, they’ve got all the time in the world.
----------------
Feedback is jumped upon delightedly - if you've got something constructively critical to say, so much the better.
I really feel quite impressed with myself, even if I should have been doing my Evil Essay O'Doom. Heh. Although I do have a random urge to assure everyone that my drabbles are no reflection on the canon of their respective fandoms - Wodehouse is really much, much funnier than that, and Good Omens is actually good! Patrick O'Brien writes slash better than I do!
In other news, I finished the Hamlet text adventure game! I felt so proud, even if it was with rather a lot of help, heh. Go me. I also watched Neverwhere on DVD for the first time - OMG OMG Neil's commentary and OMG OMG how gorgeous are Richard and Door?! - and The Prisoner, which was also incredibly cool and decidedly mind-fuck-y.
Possibly the title for this entry should have been I Am Nerd, Hear Me Roar. Heh.