FIC: Dining on Pluto
Fandom Life on Mars
Characters: Sam Tyler, Gene Hunt
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1060
Summary: In which we discuss the significance of the pomegranate, much to Gene's chagrin.
Notes: This plotless ficlet brought to you by the 1973flashfic Food Challenge, and my continued infatuation with all things Classics. Set at some vague point in time prior to the series finale.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Three bright red drops bloomed on Sam’s shirt sleeve, just as several loud bangs on the door signaled that his flat was a few seconds away from a break-in. Sam decided that the costs of door repair took precedence over stain prevention, and set his evening snack down on the table before going to answer the door.
He got there just in time, too.
“Have you got a good single malt?” said Gene without preamble, pushing past him.
“Why hello, Gene,” said Sam, to the empty hallway. “Pleasant night out, isn’t it? Would you like to come in?” He turned around. “Oh, yes, make yourself at home.”
“What are you blathering on about over there?”
“I said I haven’t got any scotch.” More’s the pity, he thought. Two empty bottles, haphazardly shoved under a chair, glared their condemnation at him from the floor.
Sam reclaimed his place at the table with a sigh. Gene looked about to take the seat opposite, but then he paused to glare down at the table as if it had personally offended him. Sam couldn’t blame him, because the table was offensive to any reasonable sense of aesthetic. Not that Gene possessed a reasonable sense of aesthetic. In fact, ‘sense of aesthetic’ was probably considered a cardinal sin in the Church of Hunt.
“What the bloody hell is that?” he said, pointing. “That’s not proper food.”
Sam glanced down. “It’s a pomegranate.”
“I know that, smart-arse. I was being-” Gene plopped himself into the opposite chair, “-rhetorical.”
“You’ve got something against pomegranates? Or is this just part of your general disdain for any food item that isn’t traditionally fried in lard?”
“If you’re going to eat fruit instead of just being one, you should go for something you can really stuff your gob with - put a stopper in, block up all that rubbish comes pouring outta your mouth,” said Gene. “A banana’d be right up your alley,” he added, with a leer.
“So it is the pomegranate. Fascinating. It’s like witnessing the birth of a new psychological condition. Carpoxenophobia, say.”
“Give over, I didn’t say anything about fish.”
“Fear of foreign fruit,” finished Sam. “Carpo, not ‘carp.’ It’s from the Greek, karpos. Means ‘fruit.’”
“Keep that up, and I’ll carpo you, right quick - and your diem too, for good measure.”
Sam popped another seed into his mouth with relish. “Okay, 1) the phrase is carpe diem, 2) it’s Latin, not Greek, and 3) that doesn’t make even the slightest amount of sense.”
“I’ve been spending too much time around you, then. Everything stops making sense.” Gene pulled one of his ubiquitous hipflasks out and took a long swallow. Then he screwed the lid back on and tossed it to Sam without a word.
Sam took a sip. “Not that I don’t enjoy having my eating habits berated in my own home in the middle of the night, but what are you doing here?”
Gene looked, for the first time, a little forlorn. “Let’s just say that the Missus isn’t nearly as susceptible to the old Gene Genie charms as she was twenty years ago.”
“You have charms?” said Sam, but he gave him a sympathetic smile. “So, what you're saying is, you’re here to criticize my food, insult my person, and nick my bed?”
“That’s about the size of it.”
“Yeah, and with the size of you, I’ll be lucky if I still have a bed in the morning.”
“Not my fault that thing’s only designed to accommodate skinny little girls.”
“And you can’t imagine why your missus won’t put up with you of an evening?”
“Birds, eh?”
Sam rolled his eyes with well-practiced exaggeration, and plucked several more red seeds from the pomegranate. Gene eyed them with distrust.
“You would take the most complicated option, even with your choice of fruit. Bloody typical,” he muttered.
“They’re quite interesting, pomegranates,” said Sam, mildly. And then, because something made him think of it, he added, “It was six pomegranate seeds that condemned Persephone to live half the year in Hades.”
“Bollocks.”
“You think the Greeks got their own mythology wrong, do you?” said Sam, raising his eyebrows.
“I think it’s bollocks that the girl was condemned to anything. She was exactly where she wanted to be. Stands to reason.”
“Only if the reasoning involves victim-blaming,” said Sam, crossing his arms. “Persephone was kidnapped. Drove her goddess mother frantic with worry, until she plunged the earth into permanent winter. By the time she asked Zeus to intervene, it was too late - by eating the food of the Underworld, she was doomed to stay there.”
Gene leaned back and crossed his own arms, mirroring Sam’s posture. “Her mum was a goddess, and you’re telling me she didn’t know better than to go stuffing herself down there? Just slipped her mind, did it? And for what, for six ruddy seeds, not even a proper fry-up? Either she was an absentminded cow, or she did it on purpose.”
“Why on earth would she do that?”
“Well, wouldn’t be the first girl to run off with a bloke her old mum didn’t approve of.”
“It wasn’t just Hades the person, though. She was choosing Hades the place. The Underworld wasn’t exactly the land of rainbows and fluffy bunny rabbits.”
Gene pulled a face, as if the only fluffy bunnies he wanted to see came with a side of chips. “Maybe she did it for a lark. Some people think anything that looks different is bound to be full of adventure and excitement. So maybe she’s bored. Maybe life on the surface isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. You know how kids are.”
“And sometimes,” said Sam, thoughtfully, “people don’t choose the place where they ought to belong.”
“You only belong in the place you choose, Sam.”
It isn’t that simple, Sam didn’t say. He wasn’t sure it was Persephone’s fate they were discussing, anymore.
“If you’re done reliving your O-Levels, Gladys, let’s go find a cure for that little alcohol problem of yours.”
“Buy more, you mean?”
Gene was already half-way to the door, which was answer enough.
Sam stopped to pull his jacket on, and shot the pomegranate a quizzical look, as if he’d forgotten why it was there.
With a strange deliberation, he chucked it in the bin.
Finis
Characters: Sam Tyler, Gene Hunt
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1060
Summary: In which we discuss the significance of the pomegranate, much to Gene's chagrin.
Notes: This plotless ficlet brought to you by the 1973flashfic Food Challenge, and my continued infatuation with all things Classics. Set at some vague point in time prior to the series finale.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Three bright red drops bloomed on Sam’s shirt sleeve, just as several loud bangs on the door signaled that his flat was a few seconds away from a break-in. Sam decided that the costs of door repair took precedence over stain prevention, and set his evening snack down on the table before going to answer the door.
He got there just in time, too.
“Have you got a good single malt?” said Gene without preamble, pushing past him.
“Why hello, Gene,” said Sam, to the empty hallway. “Pleasant night out, isn’t it? Would you like to come in?” He turned around. “Oh, yes, make yourself at home.”
“What are you blathering on about over there?”
“I said I haven’t got any scotch.” More’s the pity, he thought. Two empty bottles, haphazardly shoved under a chair, glared their condemnation at him from the floor.
Sam reclaimed his place at the table with a sigh. Gene looked about to take the seat opposite, but then he paused to glare down at the table as if it had personally offended him. Sam couldn’t blame him, because the table was offensive to any reasonable sense of aesthetic. Not that Gene possessed a reasonable sense of aesthetic. In fact, ‘sense of aesthetic’ was probably considered a cardinal sin in the Church of Hunt.
“What the bloody hell is that?” he said, pointing. “That’s not proper food.”
Sam glanced down. “It’s a pomegranate.”
“I know that, smart-arse. I was being-” Gene plopped himself into the opposite chair, “-rhetorical.”
“You’ve got something against pomegranates? Or is this just part of your general disdain for any food item that isn’t traditionally fried in lard?”
“If you’re going to eat fruit instead of just being one, you should go for something you can really stuff your gob with - put a stopper in, block up all that rubbish comes pouring outta your mouth,” said Gene. “A banana’d be right up your alley,” he added, with a leer.
“So it is the pomegranate. Fascinating. It’s like witnessing the birth of a new psychological condition. Carpoxenophobia, say.”
“Give over, I didn’t say anything about fish.”
“Fear of foreign fruit,” finished Sam. “Carpo, not ‘carp.’ It’s from the Greek, karpos. Means ‘fruit.’”
“Keep that up, and I’ll carpo you, right quick - and your diem too, for good measure.”
Sam popped another seed into his mouth with relish. “Okay, 1) the phrase is carpe diem, 2) it’s Latin, not Greek, and 3) that doesn’t make even the slightest amount of sense.”
“I’ve been spending too much time around you, then. Everything stops making sense.” Gene pulled one of his ubiquitous hipflasks out and took a long swallow. Then he screwed the lid back on and tossed it to Sam without a word.
Sam took a sip. “Not that I don’t enjoy having my eating habits berated in my own home in the middle of the night, but what are you doing here?”
Gene looked, for the first time, a little forlorn. “Let’s just say that the Missus isn’t nearly as susceptible to the old Gene Genie charms as she was twenty years ago.”
“You have charms?” said Sam, but he gave him a sympathetic smile. “So, what you're saying is, you’re here to criticize my food, insult my person, and nick my bed?”
“That’s about the size of it.”
“Yeah, and with the size of you, I’ll be lucky if I still have a bed in the morning.”
“Not my fault that thing’s only designed to accommodate skinny little girls.”
“And you can’t imagine why your missus won’t put up with you of an evening?”
“Birds, eh?”
Sam rolled his eyes with well-practiced exaggeration, and plucked several more red seeds from the pomegranate. Gene eyed them with distrust.
“You would take the most complicated option, even with your choice of fruit. Bloody typical,” he muttered.
“They’re quite interesting, pomegranates,” said Sam, mildly. And then, because something made him think of it, he added, “It was six pomegranate seeds that condemned Persephone to live half the year in Hades.”
“Bollocks.”
“You think the Greeks got their own mythology wrong, do you?” said Sam, raising his eyebrows.
“I think it’s bollocks that the girl was condemned to anything. She was exactly where she wanted to be. Stands to reason.”
“Only if the reasoning involves victim-blaming,” said Sam, crossing his arms. “Persephone was kidnapped. Drove her goddess mother frantic with worry, until she plunged the earth into permanent winter. By the time she asked Zeus to intervene, it was too late - by eating the food of the Underworld, she was doomed to stay there.”
Gene leaned back and crossed his own arms, mirroring Sam’s posture. “Her mum was a goddess, and you’re telling me she didn’t know better than to go stuffing herself down there? Just slipped her mind, did it? And for what, for six ruddy seeds, not even a proper fry-up? Either she was an absentminded cow, or she did it on purpose.”
“Why on earth would she do that?”
“Well, wouldn’t be the first girl to run off with a bloke her old mum didn’t approve of.”
“It wasn’t just Hades the person, though. She was choosing Hades the place. The Underworld wasn’t exactly the land of rainbows and fluffy bunny rabbits.”
Gene pulled a face, as if the only fluffy bunnies he wanted to see came with a side of chips. “Maybe she did it for a lark. Some people think anything that looks different is bound to be full of adventure and excitement. So maybe she’s bored. Maybe life on the surface isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. You know how kids are.”
“And sometimes,” said Sam, thoughtfully, “people don’t choose the place where they ought to belong.”
“You only belong in the place you choose, Sam.”
It isn’t that simple, Sam didn’t say. He wasn’t sure it was Persephone’s fate they were discussing, anymore.
“If you’re done reliving your O-Levels, Gladys, let’s go find a cure for that little alcohol problem of yours.”
“Buy more, you mean?”
Gene was already half-way to the door, which was answer enough.
Sam stopped to pull his jacket on, and shot the pomegranate a quizzical look, as if he’d forgotten why it was there.
With a strange deliberation, he chucked it in the bin.
Finis