Eat yo' Pi.
Love teaching. Had great discussions with classes today. Ninth graders got funny because I got what I thought was a crank phone call during class and turned out to be a member of the Key Club wanting to pick up the Clubbers for the convention. Was most disconcerting. Also reading the Balcony scene of R&J, which is always a riot.
As today is 3.14.03, it was pi day. Melissa's kids brought in copious amounts of pie. Ate pie. Took apple pie home. Mmmmmm, pie. I lurv pie.
Wrote Tritorella: "I don't know if people are keeping an eye on this, but this list is about to pass the 700 mark for memberships for the first time. I think that's a pretty amazing achievement for a single pairing list in a fandom which is allegedly slowing down!
"So, I'm issuing a Challenge to the writers here - how about a story to commemorate this? D/M of course, and to include something about breaking a record (what record, is up to you, but I can hear the evil minds ticking over all ready). What do you reckon? Anyone up to the task, ladies?"
It's Tritorella's fault, even if she wants nothing to do with this snippy snippet. It started out as a five-paragraph thingie to take her literally, and turned into this. In addition, I haven't written Methos in about seven months, so bear with me. I'm ruuuuuuuuuuuusty.
Beta: thenks to Diane for the "Nestle Kwickie."
Literal Interpreration
--snippie poo by Amand-r ( no ending A)
"I didn't even know that they came that large," Duncan murmured into the open box that sat on the kitchen table. Methos peered over his shoulder on his way into the kitchenette, undoubtedly for his afternoon beer.
"What?" he asked mildly. He pulled the beer from the icebox, twisted off the cap and shoved it in his pocket. "I could make several pointed sexual remarks right now, but I'll avoid them."
Duncan rolled his eyes, pulled one of the cardboard volumes from the box and smiled. "Oh, it's for us," he said absently, crossing the room to the stereo system. He knew he had kept the turntable for a reason. Pulling the vinyl out of the protective plastic, he set it gently on the spool, depressed the lever, and watched as the player let the flat disk drop onto the table before starting to spin.
"For us? Presents?" Oh, so *now* he was interested. Duncan let Methos wind an arm around his waist and rest his chin on his shoulder before answering. The needle arm was moving towards the grooves. He had forgotten how long it could take with LPs. Compact discs and tapes were so much faster.
"Joe sent us a present, for uhm," he hesitated. Perhaps Methos wouldn't remember. Not that Duncan cared any, but he never knew what would rankle his partner. Some days he was happy as a clam for getting junk mail, other days he became irritated when his oatmeal was too runny.
Of course, by all rights, this was a little more important than either mail or meal.
But Methos had pushed off his shoulder and was fingering through the open box, eyes wide, face almost aghast. "Joe did this?" he said, voice rising in pitch every so slightly. "I didn't even know you could really order this stuff. I gathered it was a late night TV scam."
Part of Duncan agreed with him when the first strains of "Forever" by Kenny Loggins had come over the speakers. He almost winced when Methos turned towards the speaker embedded in the wall with an accusatory glare. To be truthful, he didn't really want to listen to the record, just play with the long forgotten machine, like he did with the breadmaker he had owned for five years but used three times.
"'Seven hundred romantic songs,'" Methos read from the album sleeve cover. He turned back the Mac, record in one hand, beer in the other. "Does he hate us this much? I know I distinctly said I'd pay for the damage we did to his desk-"
"It's for our anniversary, "Duncan said softly. Part of him wanted Methos to accept the gift graciously, although he knew it had been a colossial joke. Joe had done it for spite, for humor, for the tickling satisfaction of getting under Methos's skin. Part of Duncan also wanted Methos to be pleased. If he was pleased, then it might also mean that he was pleased with what the day really meant.
They were still there. Together. That had to count for something, right?
But Methos had been up at dawn, gone to work at the bookstore he ran as a hobby, and stayed there for the better part of the morning, as he did every day. Then he returned at one in the afternoon for lunch before going out to run the flea market circuit in search of new volumes for his personal literary collection (Duncan secretly suspected that the whole store was Methos's "collection". He never sold anything, even when offered money). Then he had returned at five, kicked off his shoes, taken a shower, and was standing in the kitchen, hair still wet and tousled, jeans and t-shirt damp because he's put them on without drying off, as if towels were suspect objects.
Not that Duncan was romantic or anything. But five years at least earned a mention in the day, a 'hey, five years, eh? Let's have some good wine with dinner tonight.'
"'This fifty volume collection is guaranteed to fuel your home fires for-' what the hell was he thinking?" Methos dropped the bottle on the counter and reached for the second he had placed there earlier, eyes never leaving the jacket sleeve.
"Perhaps he was thinking that we might possibly be in love," Duncan muttered, trying not to sound petulant. He knew he did. And he regretted it. Probably.
No response from the other man. Methos cocked his head, listening to the song intently. "And this," he said in a low voice, "is illustrative of our love," he stated, to no one in particular. His eyes were the only things that moved as they rolled in their sockets to connect with Duncan's. He blinked once. Twice. Then he almost pointedly set both the record and the beer bottle down on the table before brushing past Duncan into the living area of the loft.
Methos picked up the record from the player, making the needle skip over and screech across "All My Life" by K-Ci & Jo Jo. Duncan sat dumbly as his companion walked calmly to the kitchen window, opened the sash, and tossed the record out in the manner of a Frisbee throw.
There was a crash outside, the sound of vinyl LP hitting the building next door. It was, part of Duncan admitted, rather satisfying, as most crashes were.
Still, it had been a *gift*.
"You-you-you..." Flabbergasted, Duncan could only wave his hands around to demonstrate his confusion.
Methos gave a sugary sweet smile. "Mac, you sound like a broken record," he crooned. He was making his way towards the rest of the collection, and it was plain what he meant to do. Duncan intercepted him, grabbing him from behind and tsking.
"Do you have some sort of grudge against romantic music?"
Methos wrenched out of his grasp. "I have some sort of grudge against forced romanticism," he replied, pulling an LP out of its sheath and flipping it over to scan the titles. "And Peter-fucking-Frampton." He offered Duncan the cardboard sheath. "Case in point."
Duncan took the sheath from him and examined the list of tracks:
SIDE ONE:
1. "Cherish," Kool & the Gang
2. "Don't Know Much," Linds Ronstadt & Aaron Neville
3. "You've Made Me So Very Happy," Blood, Sweat & Tears
4. "Here and Now," Luther Vandross
5. "Let's Stay Together," Al Green
6. "My All," Mariah Carey
7. "Make It With You," Bread
8. "Baby, I Love Your Way," Peter Frampton
He stopped, looked up, and made eye contact with Methos.
Something had to be done
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
"You know," Duncan said nonchalantly, "I have a friend who said there were two types of people in this world: people who have heard Journey's 'Open Arms' and loved it, and people who have heard it and won't admit to loving it."
Methos read over the track list of the LP in his hands. He managed to raise one eyebrow. Duncan understood completely. He took the plastic disk, pulled back his arm, and let it soar across the alley. It hit the brick wall of the dojo like a saw blade. Just a very fragile saw blade that cut nothing, instead shattering into more than several pieces, which fell into a rather large pile of more of the same.
Methos sipped his beer and kicked his feet against the sides of the dumpster on which they were perched. "Oh, love it." he offered jovially. "Loved it when it went flying across the alley, does that count?"
The alley was getting dark, and he wanted another beer. Methos sighed and raised his beer to his lips, drinking a long pull before giving it to him. Duncan took it, thinking absently to himself that sometimes he was living another life in his head, and this surreal one, where people drank alcohol on dumpsters in back alleys, shagged men, and tossed lifetime record collections at walls was so much more complicated than any of the previous ones. Perhaps it was the beer talking.
Methos still hadn't said anything about the five years, and he never might. Did it matter? Perhaps Duncan placed too much emphasis on sequences of five. Perhaps it would take ten years for Methos to finally notice. Or twenty. Or a hundred.
This moment on a dumpster with cranky Methos, flying love albums and all hit him so suddenly, a moment of shock. Where he was. With whom. Why they were there. Perhaps, as Methos suggested earlier, when they were in the midst of record frisbee with a wall that didn't catch, this was the best expression of love there ever could be between them: mutual snarky destruction, followed by beer and a snogging session on the dojo's dumpster. Methos wickedly called it "dumpster love."
He sipped his beer, staring at a cat that had thought about approaching them, but had seemed to reconsider when it eyed the pile of plastic at the other end of the alley, as if afraid that it too would go flying. Methos held out his hand, making lisping noises under his breath. The cat seemed to pause, waver in its resolve, and attempted to ignore them for a full thirty seconds more before deigning to sniff Methos's sandaled feet. It jumped on the edge of the dumpster lid next to them.
"Why didn't Joe get us a cat?" Methos complained in a cheery voice, one of his hands reaching out to stroke the cat, the other finding Duncan's.
"Perhaps he thought I already had one aloof creature to pick up after and feed," Duncan told him, enjoying the feeling of the hand twined through his. All of Methos's fingers curled up except the middle one. "Not on the dumpster," he sang airily in response. "Garbage and skin do not mix."
Methos sighed. "It could have been worse," he murmured, resting his head on Duncan's shoulder. "He could have gotten us a dog. Or a sex dwarf." He shuddered. "Or Monster Ballads."
Duncan didn't even touch the dwarf remark. Instead he smirked and pulled out what he figured would be the trump card of the night. He had gotten over the shock, but then he had been the one to answer the phone that morning. "Oh, I dunno," he replied, "Amanda signed us up for TLC's 'A Wedding Story'."
END
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
for mailing list. Much Methos/Duncan goodness. And only after seven months of slashy abstinence. Oh, woe is me.
As today is 3.14.03, it was pi day. Melissa's kids brought in copious amounts of pie. Ate pie. Took apple pie home. Mmmmmm, pie. I lurv pie.
Wrote Tritorella: "I don't know if people are keeping an eye on this, but this list is about to pass the 700 mark for memberships for the first time. I think that's a pretty amazing achievement for a single pairing list in a fandom which is allegedly slowing down!
"So, I'm issuing a Challenge to the writers here - how about a story to commemorate this? D/M of course, and to include something about breaking a record (what record, is up to you, but I can hear the evil minds ticking over all ready). What do you reckon? Anyone up to the task, ladies?"
It's Tritorella's fault, even if she wants nothing to do with this snippy snippet. It started out as a five-paragraph thingie to take her literally, and turned into this. In addition, I haven't written Methos in about seven months, so bear with me. I'm ruuuuuuuuuuuusty.
Beta: thenks to Diane for the "Nestle Kwickie."
Literal Interpreration
--snippie poo by Amand-r ( no ending A)
"I didn't even know that they came that large," Duncan murmured into the open box that sat on the kitchen table. Methos peered over his shoulder on his way into the kitchenette, undoubtedly for his afternoon beer.
"What?" he asked mildly. He pulled the beer from the icebox, twisted off the cap and shoved it in his pocket. "I could make several pointed sexual remarks right now, but I'll avoid them."
Duncan rolled his eyes, pulled one of the cardboard volumes from the box and smiled. "Oh, it's for us," he said absently, crossing the room to the stereo system. He knew he had kept the turntable for a reason. Pulling the vinyl out of the protective plastic, he set it gently on the spool, depressed the lever, and watched as the player let the flat disk drop onto the table before starting to spin.
"For us? Presents?" Oh, so *now* he was interested. Duncan let Methos wind an arm around his waist and rest his chin on his shoulder before answering. The needle arm was moving towards the grooves. He had forgotten how long it could take with LPs. Compact discs and tapes were so much faster.
"Joe sent us a present, for uhm," he hesitated. Perhaps Methos wouldn't remember. Not that Duncan cared any, but he never knew what would rankle his partner. Some days he was happy as a clam for getting junk mail, other days he became irritated when his oatmeal was too runny.
Of course, by all rights, this was a little more important than either mail or meal.
But Methos had pushed off his shoulder and was fingering through the open box, eyes wide, face almost aghast. "Joe did this?" he said, voice rising in pitch every so slightly. "I didn't even know you could really order this stuff. I gathered it was a late night TV scam."
Part of Duncan agreed with him when the first strains of "Forever" by Kenny Loggins had come over the speakers. He almost winced when Methos turned towards the speaker embedded in the wall with an accusatory glare. To be truthful, he didn't really want to listen to the record, just play with the long forgotten machine, like he did with the breadmaker he had owned for five years but used three times.
"'Seven hundred romantic songs,'" Methos read from the album sleeve cover. He turned back the Mac, record in one hand, beer in the other. "Does he hate us this much? I know I distinctly said I'd pay for the damage we did to his desk-"
"It's for our anniversary, "Duncan said softly. Part of him wanted Methos to accept the gift graciously, although he knew it had been a colossial joke. Joe had done it for spite, for humor, for the tickling satisfaction of getting under Methos's skin. Part of Duncan also wanted Methos to be pleased. If he was pleased, then it might also mean that he was pleased with what the day really meant.
They were still there. Together. That had to count for something, right?
But Methos had been up at dawn, gone to work at the bookstore he ran as a hobby, and stayed there for the better part of the morning, as he did every day. Then he returned at one in the afternoon for lunch before going out to run the flea market circuit in search of new volumes for his personal literary collection (Duncan secretly suspected that the whole store was Methos's "collection". He never sold anything, even when offered money). Then he had returned at five, kicked off his shoes, taken a shower, and was standing in the kitchen, hair still wet and tousled, jeans and t-shirt damp because he's put them on without drying off, as if towels were suspect objects.
Not that Duncan was romantic or anything. But five years at least earned a mention in the day, a 'hey, five years, eh? Let's have some good wine with dinner tonight.'
"'This fifty volume collection is guaranteed to fuel your home fires for-' what the hell was he thinking?" Methos dropped the bottle on the counter and reached for the second he had placed there earlier, eyes never leaving the jacket sleeve.
"Perhaps he was thinking that we might possibly be in love," Duncan muttered, trying not to sound petulant. He knew he did. And he regretted it. Probably.
No response from the other man. Methos cocked his head, listening to the song intently. "And this," he said in a low voice, "is illustrative of our love," he stated, to no one in particular. His eyes were the only things that moved as they rolled in their sockets to connect with Duncan's. He blinked once. Twice. Then he almost pointedly set both the record and the beer bottle down on the table before brushing past Duncan into the living area of the loft.
Methos picked up the record from the player, making the needle skip over and screech across "All My Life" by K-Ci & Jo Jo. Duncan sat dumbly as his companion walked calmly to the kitchen window, opened the sash, and tossed the record out in the manner of a Frisbee throw.
There was a crash outside, the sound of vinyl LP hitting the building next door. It was, part of Duncan admitted, rather satisfying, as most crashes were.
Still, it had been a *gift*.
"You-you-you..." Flabbergasted, Duncan could only wave his hands around to demonstrate his confusion.
Methos gave a sugary sweet smile. "Mac, you sound like a broken record," he crooned. He was making his way towards the rest of the collection, and it was plain what he meant to do. Duncan intercepted him, grabbing him from behind and tsking.
"Do you have some sort of grudge against romantic music?"
Methos wrenched out of his grasp. "I have some sort of grudge against forced romanticism," he replied, pulling an LP out of its sheath and flipping it over to scan the titles. "And Peter-fucking-Frampton." He offered Duncan the cardboard sheath. "Case in point."
Duncan took the sheath from him and examined the list of tracks:
SIDE ONE:
1. "Cherish," Kool & the Gang
2. "Don't Know Much," Linds Ronstadt & Aaron Neville
3. "You've Made Me So Very Happy," Blood, Sweat & Tears
4. "Here and Now," Luther Vandross
5. "Let's Stay Together," Al Green
6. "My All," Mariah Carey
7. "Make It With You," Bread
8. "Baby, I Love Your Way," Peter Frampton
He stopped, looked up, and made eye contact with Methos.
Something had to be done
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
"You know," Duncan said nonchalantly, "I have a friend who said there were two types of people in this world: people who have heard Journey's 'Open Arms' and loved it, and people who have heard it and won't admit to loving it."
Methos read over the track list of the LP in his hands. He managed to raise one eyebrow. Duncan understood completely. He took the plastic disk, pulled back his arm, and let it soar across the alley. It hit the brick wall of the dojo like a saw blade. Just a very fragile saw blade that cut nothing, instead shattering into more than several pieces, which fell into a rather large pile of more of the same.
Methos sipped his beer and kicked his feet against the sides of the dumpster on which they were perched. "Oh, love it." he offered jovially. "Loved it when it went flying across the alley, does that count?"
The alley was getting dark, and he wanted another beer. Methos sighed and raised his beer to his lips, drinking a long pull before giving it to him. Duncan took it, thinking absently to himself that sometimes he was living another life in his head, and this surreal one, where people drank alcohol on dumpsters in back alleys, shagged men, and tossed lifetime record collections at walls was so much more complicated than any of the previous ones. Perhaps it was the beer talking.
Methos still hadn't said anything about the five years, and he never might. Did it matter? Perhaps Duncan placed too much emphasis on sequences of five. Perhaps it would take ten years for Methos to finally notice. Or twenty. Or a hundred.
This moment on a dumpster with cranky Methos, flying love albums and all hit him so suddenly, a moment of shock. Where he was. With whom. Why they were there. Perhaps, as Methos suggested earlier, when they were in the midst of record frisbee with a wall that didn't catch, this was the best expression of love there ever could be between them: mutual snarky destruction, followed by beer and a snogging session on the dojo's dumpster. Methos wickedly called it "dumpster love."
He sipped his beer, staring at a cat that had thought about approaching them, but had seemed to reconsider when it eyed the pile of plastic at the other end of the alley, as if afraid that it too would go flying. Methos held out his hand, making lisping noises under his breath. The cat seemed to pause, waver in its resolve, and attempted to ignore them for a full thirty seconds more before deigning to sniff Methos's sandaled feet. It jumped on the edge of the dumpster lid next to them.
"Why didn't Joe get us a cat?" Methos complained in a cheery voice, one of his hands reaching out to stroke the cat, the other finding Duncan's.
"Perhaps he thought I already had one aloof creature to pick up after and feed," Duncan told him, enjoying the feeling of the hand twined through his. All of Methos's fingers curled up except the middle one. "Not on the dumpster," he sang airily in response. "Garbage and skin do not mix."
Methos sighed. "It could have been worse," he murmured, resting his head on Duncan's shoulder. "He could have gotten us a dog. Or a sex dwarf." He shuddered. "Or Monster Ballads."
Duncan didn't even touch the dwarf remark. Instead he smirked and pulled out what he figured would be the trump card of the night. He had gotten over the shock, but then he had been the one to answer the phone that morning. "Oh, I dunno," he replied, "Amanda signed us up for TLC's 'A Wedding Story'."
END
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
for mailing list. Much Methos/Duncan goodness. And only after seven months of slashy abstinence. Oh, woe is me.