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itsallovernowNot porny, not slashy, and it actually has talk of birthday's within it. What's the world coming to? It's also beta free.
However, I wanted to write something for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
shrift because she has, without fail, and even more amazingly, without complaint, fixed my work so that it's readable (and once so that it had punctuation when I managed to remove all of said punctuation) and never once laughed at my formatting idiocy:)
So a trifle, as fluffy and filling as Angel Food cake, and about as pointed. Oh, and sadly rated G. Farscape. Season 3, post RA.
Of Cabbages, and Kings and Things That Make Men, Well, Men
He heard D’Argo come into the room, but ignored him until the Luxan pointedly cleared his throat. John angled his head a little, acknowledging the presence but not bothering to look away from the buzzing spark of the pseudo-candle.
“Um, John, what are you doing?”
These days D’Argo sounded so logical, so concerned and fatherly, at least when they weren’t bitching at each other like teenage girls, frustration and testosterone proving a lethal combination.
“It’s a birthday cake.”
Ok it wasn't so much a verb as a noun, but still. It was technically what he was doing. He didn’t need to turn around, though, to see the raised eyebrow.
“Is it your birthday?”
John shook his head. “Nah. Not today.”
“Then…” D’Argo let the why dangle in the air and John shrugged.
“I don’t know, wanted to mark the date, mark something. Beats scratchin’ hatch marks into Moya. Pisses off the DRD’s less, I think.”
The “candle” was sputtering more like a firecraker than like wax, sending off tiny darting sparks that flared and faded as they touched on material. It was half-assed at best, but at least it burned. The cake wasn’t any great shakes either, something he’d compiled with a lick and a promise, using what he thought was pretty close to flour and eggs and a sugary substance that Rygel had to be kept far away from.
But Rygel was on Talyn, tagging along with his twin and his gun and his girl and his frelling coat. Didn’t need to hide the rila syrup these days.
D’Argo sat down on the bed next to him and contemplated the sparkling cake dubiously. “What is that, exactly?”
“Some filed shavings, a little lutra oil, some random saw dust all packed into a bolt mold.”
D’Argo scooted back on the bed, trying to distance himself from the candle. “And what is the purpose of all of this?”
John was transfixed. “You light candles on your birthday, make a wish, blow ‘em out. Do it in one breath, get your wish.”
D’Argo snorted. “So humans hyperventilate in order to guarantee wish fulfillment?”
John raised an eyebrow and chuckled. “Yeah, well, some more than others I suppose, but we don’t really talk about that in public. Also, I wanted to see if this would work.”
They sat in silence for a few more microts watching the candle burn lower.
“What do you suppose will happen when it gets to the cake?” D’Argo asked finally, the deeply ingrained male curiosity about the effects of fire overriding his suspicion of John's current experiment.
John shrugged again. “It’ll either burn out or blow up. Either way it’s somethin’ to do.”
“So why don’t you blow it out, make your wish?”
“You only get one,” he replied absently, sounding weary. “And that just leaves too many loose ends.”
D’Argo struggled not to roll his eyes, despite his sympathy. Instead, he thumped his friend on the back, sending him forward a little. “You, my friend, need a hobby! A distraction.”
D’Argo’s large hand was spread out over his back. His palm was warm, solid. It’d been a hell of a long time since anyone had touched him, and it felt good, felt comforting. Chiana and Jool had been either too wrapped up in each other or too sick of his misery and his grousing to spend much time with him these days, and he and D’Argo had sort of declared a truce of absence. It left him with a lot of time on his hands. D'Argo, being here, in his quarters, trying for something like companionable conversation was definitely something.
Still, he thought, as D's hand stayed on his back, he wasn’t really ready to turn over a whole new leaf.
John looked over at his shoulder warily. “Uh, D’, thought we cleared up that whole best man thing?”
D’Argo stroked his back gently and leered at him with liquid eyes, then burst into laughter at John’s look of panic.
“I was thinking more of teaching you to play the shilquin.” He thumped John on the back again. There was gonna be a Luxan shaped handprint there.
John rolled his shoulders, thought about playing along, gave it a shot.
“That a euphamism big guy?” He achieved a grin even if the rebuttal was a little forced. But D’Argo shook his head and John gave up the pretext and sighed.
“I have a hobby, D’Argo,” he muttered, jerked his head at the stack of papers and flimsies that littered the floor around the table. “I’m unlocking the secrets of the universe!”
“And how’s that coming along?” the Luxan asked, sarcasm and a little anger thick in his voice, the truce nearing it's end.
He could bitch back, start the endless rounds of “ You did. I did not. It’s your fault, No it’s yours,” but this had been a moment of relative peace, and after the whole near death experience thing, he found he really didn’t want to fight any more. He had his list of wishes, written in carefully scripted English - no Sebacean shortcuts on this list - sitting under the cake.
And it started off pretty simply:
1 - See Aeryn again.
2- Make sure she’s okay.
3-See Earth again.
4- Take Aeryn home.
5-Lose the twin on a crowded commerce planet, prefereably under a horde of rampaging cirtters.
6-Make some peace with D’Argo.
7- Figure out wormholes to facilitate wishes 3 and 4.
8 – Drink beer, lots of beer. No fellip nectar. In fact, try every beer there is, just so he’d never forget the taste again.
9 – Kick Crais’s ass. Just once. Just because.
The list kind of deteriorated after that. Killing Scopry, ditching Harvey, those were pretty high up there, but not at the top of the list. But every wish came with strings attached, and most of those strings held threads that he didn’t want to think about.
He looked up at the candle again, the spark nearing the end of its journey. It seemed more than a little absurd now. His own unbirthday celebration. He was the Mad Hatter he decided, had long ago ceased to be Alice. Chi’d look hot in the blue dress and the petticoats, but he’d be willing to bet she’d rather be the Cheshire cat, disappearing into the ether, leaving behind only her smile.
Nah, he and D’Argo were Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber. His twin was the one who’d found Wonderland.
D’Argo was watching the cake now, the candle smoldering towards the end of it’s existence, looking very much like it was going to fade and fizzle. John turned to his friend, halfway thinking maybe he’d take him up on the offer to learn the shilquin, that it would at least give them something new to talk about, when the candle flared a bright blue and then, BOOM. Cake and paper and sawdust exploded up from the table, the noise defeaning, the debris splattering the walls with a relatively satisfying whomp.
He could hear D’Argo bellowing his name as he shook his head, trying to clear eardrums which were ringing like bells from the explosion. D’Argo stood up, brushing cake off of his tunic, glaring menacingly at John who suddenly felt the overwhelming urge to laugh, at himself, at the situation, at the joy of blowing things up, and so he did, let the laughter bubble up out of him. “Guess I got my answer, huh?” he said, tears running down his face now at the sight of the pastry covered Luxan trying to cow him into a quivering mass of fear.
And D’Argo gave up, chortling along with him.
“Well,” D'Argo said, looking around at the mess, cake and debris drifting down over the surface of the room, coating the papers and flimsies, the equations and experiments he'd been pouring over for monens. “Now at least you have something to do.”
I'd have to say that this was partiall inspired by years of living with men, all of whom long for Zippo lighters and the secrets of the world's best potato gun. (Yeah, yeah, it's a blatant blanket sterotyping statement).
My favorite story of M.'s childhood is about the potato gun that he and a friend made out of PVC pipe. It not only eradicated the potato into liquid pulp, it also, much to their surprise blew itself up. The dad of M's friend, in whose basement they were constructing this instrument of startchy destruction, came downstairs, looked at the mess, and suggested that next time, they not use the propane torch to touch off the spark.
However, I wanted to write something for
shrift because she has, without fail, and even more amazingly, without complaint, fixed my work so that it's readable (and once so that it had punctuation when I managed to remove all of said punctuation) and never once laughed at my formatting idiocy:)So a trifle, as fluffy and filling as Angel Food cake, and about as pointed. Oh, and sadly rated G. Farscape. Season 3, post RA.
Of Cabbages, and Kings and Things That Make Men, Well, Men
He heard D’Argo come into the room, but ignored him until the Luxan pointedly cleared his throat. John angled his head a little, acknowledging the presence but not bothering to look away from the buzzing spark of the pseudo-candle.
“Um, John, what are you doing?”
These days D’Argo sounded so logical, so concerned and fatherly, at least when they weren’t bitching at each other like teenage girls, frustration and testosterone proving a lethal combination.
“It’s a birthday cake.”
Ok it wasn't so much a verb as a noun, but still. It was technically what he was doing. He didn’t need to turn around, though, to see the raised eyebrow.
“Is it your birthday?”
John shook his head. “Nah. Not today.”
“Then…” D’Argo let the why dangle in the air and John shrugged.
“I don’t know, wanted to mark the date, mark something. Beats scratchin’ hatch marks into Moya. Pisses off the DRD’s less, I think.”
The “candle” was sputtering more like a firecraker than like wax, sending off tiny darting sparks that flared and faded as they touched on material. It was half-assed at best, but at least it burned. The cake wasn’t any great shakes either, something he’d compiled with a lick and a promise, using what he thought was pretty close to flour and eggs and a sugary substance that Rygel had to be kept far away from.
But Rygel was on Talyn, tagging along with his twin and his gun and his girl and his frelling coat. Didn’t need to hide the rila syrup these days.
D’Argo sat down on the bed next to him and contemplated the sparkling cake dubiously. “What is that, exactly?”
“Some filed shavings, a little lutra oil, some random saw dust all packed into a bolt mold.”
D’Argo scooted back on the bed, trying to distance himself from the candle. “And what is the purpose of all of this?”
John was transfixed. “You light candles on your birthday, make a wish, blow ‘em out. Do it in one breath, get your wish.”
D’Argo snorted. “So humans hyperventilate in order to guarantee wish fulfillment?”
John raised an eyebrow and chuckled. “Yeah, well, some more than others I suppose, but we don’t really talk about that in public. Also, I wanted to see if this would work.”
They sat in silence for a few more microts watching the candle burn lower.
“What do you suppose will happen when it gets to the cake?” D’Argo asked finally, the deeply ingrained male curiosity about the effects of fire overriding his suspicion of John's current experiment.
John shrugged again. “It’ll either burn out or blow up. Either way it’s somethin’ to do.”
“So why don’t you blow it out, make your wish?”
“You only get one,” he replied absently, sounding weary. “And that just leaves too many loose ends.”
D’Argo struggled not to roll his eyes, despite his sympathy. Instead, he thumped his friend on the back, sending him forward a little. “You, my friend, need a hobby! A distraction.”
D’Argo’s large hand was spread out over his back. His palm was warm, solid. It’d been a hell of a long time since anyone had touched him, and it felt good, felt comforting. Chiana and Jool had been either too wrapped up in each other or too sick of his misery and his grousing to spend much time with him these days, and he and D’Argo had sort of declared a truce of absence. It left him with a lot of time on his hands. D'Argo, being here, in his quarters, trying for something like companionable conversation was definitely something.
Still, he thought, as D's hand stayed on his back, he wasn’t really ready to turn over a whole new leaf.
John looked over at his shoulder warily. “Uh, D’, thought we cleared up that whole best man thing?”
D’Argo stroked his back gently and leered at him with liquid eyes, then burst into laughter at John’s look of panic.
“I was thinking more of teaching you to play the shilquin.” He thumped John on the back again. There was gonna be a Luxan shaped handprint there.
John rolled his shoulders, thought about playing along, gave it a shot.
“That a euphamism big guy?” He achieved a grin even if the rebuttal was a little forced. But D’Argo shook his head and John gave up the pretext and sighed.
“I have a hobby, D’Argo,” he muttered, jerked his head at the stack of papers and flimsies that littered the floor around the table. “I’m unlocking the secrets of the universe!”
“And how’s that coming along?” the Luxan asked, sarcasm and a little anger thick in his voice, the truce nearing it's end.
He could bitch back, start the endless rounds of “ You did. I did not. It’s your fault, No it’s yours,” but this had been a moment of relative peace, and after the whole near death experience thing, he found he really didn’t want to fight any more. He had his list of wishes, written in carefully scripted English - no Sebacean shortcuts on this list - sitting under the cake.
And it started off pretty simply:
1 - See Aeryn again.
2- Make sure she’s okay.
3-See Earth again.
4- Take Aeryn home.
5-Lose the twin on a crowded commerce planet, prefereably under a horde of rampaging cirtters.
6-Make some peace with D’Argo.
7- Figure out wormholes to facilitate wishes 3 and 4.
8 – Drink beer, lots of beer. No fellip nectar. In fact, try every beer there is, just so he’d never forget the taste again.
9 – Kick Crais’s ass. Just once. Just because.
The list kind of deteriorated after that. Killing Scopry, ditching Harvey, those were pretty high up there, but not at the top of the list. But every wish came with strings attached, and most of those strings held threads that he didn’t want to think about.
He looked up at the candle again, the spark nearing the end of its journey. It seemed more than a little absurd now. His own unbirthday celebration. He was the Mad Hatter he decided, had long ago ceased to be Alice. Chi’d look hot in the blue dress and the petticoats, but he’d be willing to bet she’d rather be the Cheshire cat, disappearing into the ether, leaving behind only her smile.
Nah, he and D’Argo were Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber. His twin was the one who’d found Wonderland.
D’Argo was watching the cake now, the candle smoldering towards the end of it’s existence, looking very much like it was going to fade and fizzle. John turned to his friend, halfway thinking maybe he’d take him up on the offer to learn the shilquin, that it would at least give them something new to talk about, when the candle flared a bright blue and then, BOOM. Cake and paper and sawdust exploded up from the table, the noise defeaning, the debris splattering the walls with a relatively satisfying whomp.
He could hear D’Argo bellowing his name as he shook his head, trying to clear eardrums which were ringing like bells from the explosion. D’Argo stood up, brushing cake off of his tunic, glaring menacingly at John who suddenly felt the overwhelming urge to laugh, at himself, at the situation, at the joy of blowing things up, and so he did, let the laughter bubble up out of him. “Guess I got my answer, huh?” he said, tears running down his face now at the sight of the pastry covered Luxan trying to cow him into a quivering mass of fear.
And D’Argo gave up, chortling along with him.
“Well,” D'Argo said, looking around at the mess, cake and debris drifting down over the surface of the room, coating the papers and flimsies, the equations and experiments he'd been pouring over for monens. “Now at least you have something to do.”
I'd have to say that this was partiall inspired by years of living with men, all of whom long for Zippo lighters and the secrets of the world's best potato gun. (Yeah, yeah, it's a blatant blanket sterotyping statement).
My favorite story of M.'s childhood is about the potato gun that he and a friend made out of PVC pipe. It not only eradicated the potato into liquid pulp, it also, much to their surprise blew itself up. The dad of M's friend, in whose basement they were constructing this instrument of startchy destruction, came downstairs, looked at the mess, and suggested that next time, they not use the propane torch to touch off the spark.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2004-01-06 12:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-01-06 01:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-01-06 12:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-01-06 01:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-01-06 01:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-01-06 01:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-01-06 02:00 pm (UTC)If you want, I'll beta.
no subject
Date: 2004-01-06 02:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-01-06 05:45 pm (UTC)The last food demolition I was made aware of involved pumpkins, dry ice, and a very large trash can to contain the shrapnel...
Suffice it to say we had to buy a new trash can. *g*
no subject
Date: 2004-01-07 10:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-01-06 10:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-01-07 10:22 am (UTC)So glad you liked it:)
no subject
Date: 2004-01-06 10:50 pm (UTC)So not fair...the gun...the girl and the frelling coat!
Oh Thea, even when you make me laugh, and this did...a lot, you have me on the verge of crying for John. The wish list. The craving of another's touch.
Loved the D'Argo/John interaction...and the slashy bits. All so very, very good.
no subject
Date: 2004-01-07 10:19 am (UTC)So, so glad you liked it.
no subject
Date: 2004-01-07 12:07 am (UTC)These days D’Argo sounded so logical, so concerned and fatherly, at least when they weren’t bitching at each other like teenage girls, frustration and testosterone proving a lethal combination.
This really is perfect to describe them at this stage. It really truly is.
Yeah, well, some more than others I suppose, but we don’t really talk about that in public.
Ahahaha! God, I love John.
“You only get one,” he replied absently, sounding weary. “And that just leaves too many loose ends.”
Ooooh. The pain. The angst. The emotional whallop of this one little bit.
Chi’d look hot in the blue dress and the petticoats, but he’d be willing to bet she’d rather be the Cheshire cat, disappearing into the ether, leaving behind only her smile.
Lovely, lovely. And perfect. Oh, yes.
The exploding cake! Rampaging critters!
Yay. This made me happy. Also, I definitely think you should write the story about the potato gun. Because I know those guys, too. I may have mentioned this at the con, but where I grew up, there wasn't much else to do as a teenager but drink and blow shit up. ;)
Thanks!
no subject
Date: 2004-01-07 10:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-01-07 04:52 am (UTC)The story grabbed me, made me tear up, and giggle - sometimes in the same paragraph. Thank you.
no subject
Date: 2004-01-07 10:15 am (UTC)(And you may be interested to know that the real potato gun incident took place in Long Lake, MN:) Those MN boys have a little too much time on their hands during the winter:)