WA-verse spells 'whipped.'
Jul. 10th, 2003 01:06 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hackthis_archiveThis is dedicated to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lyra_sena for forcing me to get Cal and Sean’s shit together. They have now laid siege to my attentions just to remind me that even they were happy once upon a time.
Warrior Angel
This One Is For You
It’s the same friggin song, just on a different night, and Sean’s sure that Jack Spratt knows more than one 45-minute song about wine, women and animatronic bloodhounds. At least he could tell that joke about the horse and the bar again. Anything but this racket. Sadly, however, open-mic night at The Molotov really is for anybody and everybody, even cowboys who have never left the Fifteenth Dimension.
Out the corner of his eye, Sean watches Cal’s wince turn into a blinding grin. Spratt must be looking at them from the stage, and automatically Sean’s mouth twists into an acceptable parody of a smile. He certainly knows how to do that on demand, if nothing else, but the clunking and boot stomping is driving him crazy. It’s a Catch Joseph Heller, no doubt about it. As long as Jack keeps singing, Sean’s head is going to keep ringing, but when Jack stops...
Sean's chair is growing more uncomfortable by the millisecond, plus, he's keeping his hands under the table because after two drinks they still haven’t stopped shaking. Actually, they’ve been shaking since Sean walked through the door after work. Cal is going to notice any minute, which means he’s going to ask, and if they hadn’t had that anonymous tip today about Theodore ‘The Urgin’ Surgeon’ Hunter, Sean would really be up Liar’s Creek with no paddle.
“You all right?” Cal’s lips brush against Sean’s earlobe, and Sean jumps about a kilometer in his chair. Like his nerves aren’t already bad enough. He doesn’t need to be horny too, that’s just masochistic.
“Yeah,” he says, placing his right hand on the back of Cal’s chair to curtail its movement. “Of course, why?”
“You’re sitting through a Spratt set without talking trash; it’s like Pepper going to the bathroom without Harry and Sally.”
Cal scoots his chair closer until his thigh is pressed against Sean’s, and Sean swallows hard and his blood thrums for a whole new reason. Focus. He’s gotta focus. “If Pepper feels safer going to the bathroom fully strapped and packing heavy fire power, that’s her business. I can’t say that I blame her after the time that Terry came floating through the door when I was in there, transparent spectre or not.”
Cal’s laughter feels warm against Sean’s face, and he blinks before turning away. The Molotov isn’t packed this evening, ‘thank Devlin’ as his father used to say.
“Sean, seriously, are you all right, you seem really preoccupied? This isn’t about that Hunter thing, is it? I don’t like it anymore than the next guy, but he does have rights, and the lab wasn’t giving off any toxic fumes that we could pick up on the detectors, and the clones, well…”
“Cal, we’re talking about an alligator cloning humans. And not just any humans, but bad singers from the 21st Century: J.Lo, Avril Lavigne, Ricky Martin. What’s next Milli Vanilli? This has to break some kind of law somewhere in the Federation.”
Cal shrugs. “He’s got a license.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I should get one too. I could bring back some good bands, like The Beatles or the rest of the Rolling Stones. Keith Richards has to be bored being the last one left. What is he now, 400 and something? With all those drugs in his system he doesn’t look at day over 100.”
Sean laughs, but Cal tilts his head to the side and his tone is strangely serious. “If you wanted to clone the Rolling Stones, I would help you, you know. Hell, I’d steal whatever you need.”
“I know Warrior Angel isn’t advocating breaking the law,” Sean mocks.
“Of course not, just saying.”
“Of course not,” Sean repeats. “Still, it’s not fair that people aren’t required to have good musical taste by law.”
On stage Jack Spratt is swinging his hips and strumming his guitar for all he’s worth.
"Elvis must be mortified," Sean mumbles as Jack yodels about blue suede shoes that his hound dog ate. It’s his version of a grand finale, and Sean shakes his head, sighing when Cal leans forward and presses a kiss to his temple.
“Life’s not fair, Devlin, you can’t always get what you want.”
“Yeah, well what I need is another drink,” Sean says, climbing to his feet. “I’ll be right back.”
His hands shake slightly as he bypasses the bar and heads straight for the bathroom.
He’s going to be sick.
::
Sean has always been a reluctant performer.
When he was small, his recalcitrant behavior was chalked up to his age, but when he grew older and it became clear that he was going to be the only Devlin progeny available, obligation took over. Model pod cars were traded in for etiquette courses and music lessons. Vocal coaches were hired. State dinners, business socials, glad-handing, recitals and various other things Sean never wanted to do became the norm. Piano became a requirement instead of something he enjoyed, and his guitar was tossed out in the refuse.
All in the grand scheme to create the ultimate heir.
Except that the more time Sean was required to spend in the limelight the more introverted he became, until the only time people ever saw him was at official functions and recitals. This did not going over particularly well with his mother and father, but when a Devlin doesn’t want to do something, well.
Of course he heard all the stories about ‘that strange Devlin kid’ who was probably ‘in rehab or the psych ward’ and ‘poor Siobhan and Seamus getting stuck with such a strange little boy.’
Whatever.
Sean didn’t like people, big deal. Most people weren’t worth liking anyway.
Since the Academy Sean had had Cal, and during their studies Sean had been able to escape required society by consistently getting top marks in his courses. But every holiday break he was thrust right back into the limelight, and then there was graduation and then the accident. And after his parents passed, Sean vowed he would never go back to that sort of life unless it was absolutely necessary.
::
The steel seat is cold against Sean’s cheek as he vomits into the toilet. There goes lunch and 25 credits worth of alcohol.
Droplets of water sprinkle his face as the commode flushes automatically, and he reaches out blindly when the retractable arm offers him the standard five squares of toilet paper. Something is better than nothing.
He scrambles to his feet, wipes his mouth, and makes his way to the sink to wash his face. When the door bangs open, Sean’s head snaps up and he bangs the back of his head on the ledge above the sink.
“Two minutes, swee’pea!”
Dame Judy’s voice trills in his ears, and Sean turns and nods mutely as she backs out the door. Searching the pockets of his jumpsuit for mints or nerves or a spare set of balls, Sean considers his reflection in the mirror: his eyes are blood-shot and his black hair looks like he just went through a pod wash.
He’s really going to do this. He must be insane. He must be in love.
Cal’s probably wondering where the hell he’s gone.
::
Behind the stage there’s barely enough room for Sean to breathe, let alone move. The neck of his guitar is strangely cool in his damp grasp, and a small shaft of light peaks through a break in the curtains. There are Rocketboots going off in his stomach, and he’s going to be sick at any moment, again.
He has no idea what the hell he’s doing, and it’s not as though Cal even knows Sean can sing. He’s seen Sean mucking around with his guitar, sure, but this is completely different. What the hell was he thinking about when he asked Judy if he could do this?
Cal.
He’s always thinking of Cal, and when the curtain is pulled back, the glare of the spotlight throws Sean completely off guard. He holds his hand up to block out some of the brightness, and he’s amazed by all the people in the audience. Where did they all come from? There must be at least 20 people out there. He can’t do this. It doesn’t matter that he once played piano for 4000 people at the InterStellar Opera House in Australia Prime. Cal wasn’t there then, and Sean stumbles badly when Dame Judy grabs his arm and drags him forward.
“It’s been a long time, folks, but I’m sure he’s just as good as I’ve heard, and if he’s not we can always get his partner to arrest him.”
There’s laughter coming from somewhere, and this close to the edge of the stage, the lights are even brighter. Sean blinks when Dame Judy gives him a kiss on the cheek before jumping off the front of the stage in her goldfish platforms. He turns back to the microphone and a sea of expectant faces.
It’s been a really long time. He’s going to hurl.
“I- um. I haven’t done this is a really long time” Sean says. His voice is shaking, and it’s only when his guitar bangs against his shin that he remembers what he’s doing up there. “So if I suck, I apologize in advance.”
There’s more laughter as Sean adjusts the mic stand, and he can’t resist taking a quick glance at Cal who seems completely stymied by what’s happening on stage.
“If I can say more than two words at one time, I’m going to be doing some covers tonight,” Sean explains,” for my boyfriend’s birthday, which isn’t actually until tomorrow. But since I know he thinks I forgot, I thought I would surprise him.”
There’s some whistling and clapping, and Sean knows he’s blushing. It doesn’t matter because Cal’s currently dragging his chair away from the table and right to the front of the stage. Well, at least he’ll be right there when the whole things goes to mierda. Cal shakes his head when Sean tries to step back several feet, and it’s only when somebody coughs that Sean remembers they’re not alone. Birthday. Singing. Massive nerves. Right.
“He’s a big fan of The Rolling Stones and live music, and since some things never go out of style, this is for him.”
Lifting the guitar, Sean slips the strap over his head, and digs into his pocket for an available pick. “I’ve only ever seen Mick Jagger on holo-video and telescreen, but I’m sure if I get something wrong, somebody will tell me.”
There’s a shout of ‘damn right!’ from somewhere in the back, which makes Sean laugh for the first time all evening long. A glance at Cal shows that he’s smiling as well, and with a deep breath Sean’s fingers find the opening chord.
“This is called ‘You Can’t Always Get What You Want,’” he says, “but if you had a boyfriend like mine you probably wouldn’t care either.”
The opening notes are a bit shaky, but when Sean opens his mouth to sing the words come easily, and when he looks over at Cal, he finds him singing along. And yes, it’s been a long time since Sean’s sung in public, but his nerves are settling down and he’s got Cal supporting him and he knows that as long as they're together, nothing else really matters.
That’s all he needs.
-finis-
Notes: I understand that people might like art for Warrior Angel, but I’m a writer, not a graphic artist, so you know, use your imaginations that’s what they’re there for.
lyra_sena for forcing me to get Cal and Sean’s shit together. They have now laid siege to my attentions just to remind me that even they were happy once upon a time.Warrior Angel
This One Is For You
It’s the same friggin song, just on a different night, and Sean’s sure that Jack Spratt knows more than one 45-minute song about wine, women and animatronic bloodhounds. At least he could tell that joke about the horse and the bar again. Anything but this racket. Sadly, however, open-mic night at The Molotov really is for anybody and everybody, even cowboys who have never left the Fifteenth Dimension.
Out the corner of his eye, Sean watches Cal’s wince turn into a blinding grin. Spratt must be looking at them from the stage, and automatically Sean’s mouth twists into an acceptable parody of a smile. He certainly knows how to do that on demand, if nothing else, but the clunking and boot stomping is driving him crazy. It’s a Catch Joseph Heller, no doubt about it. As long as Jack keeps singing, Sean’s head is going to keep ringing, but when Jack stops...
Sean's chair is growing more uncomfortable by the millisecond, plus, he's keeping his hands under the table because after two drinks they still haven’t stopped shaking. Actually, they’ve been shaking since Sean walked through the door after work. Cal is going to notice any minute, which means he’s going to ask, and if they hadn’t had that anonymous tip today about Theodore ‘The Urgin’ Surgeon’ Hunter, Sean would really be up Liar’s Creek with no paddle.
“You all right?” Cal’s lips brush against Sean’s earlobe, and Sean jumps about a kilometer in his chair. Like his nerves aren’t already bad enough. He doesn’t need to be horny too, that’s just masochistic.
“Yeah,” he says, placing his right hand on the back of Cal’s chair to curtail its movement. “Of course, why?”
“You’re sitting through a Spratt set without talking trash; it’s like Pepper going to the bathroom without Harry and Sally.”
Cal scoots his chair closer until his thigh is pressed against Sean’s, and Sean swallows hard and his blood thrums for a whole new reason. Focus. He’s gotta focus. “If Pepper feels safer going to the bathroom fully strapped and packing heavy fire power, that’s her business. I can’t say that I blame her after the time that Terry came floating through the door when I was in there, transparent spectre or not.”
Cal’s laughter feels warm against Sean’s face, and he blinks before turning away. The Molotov isn’t packed this evening, ‘thank Devlin’ as his father used to say.
“Sean, seriously, are you all right, you seem really preoccupied? This isn’t about that Hunter thing, is it? I don’t like it anymore than the next guy, but he does have rights, and the lab wasn’t giving off any toxic fumes that we could pick up on the detectors, and the clones, well…”
“Cal, we’re talking about an alligator cloning humans. And not just any humans, but bad singers from the 21st Century: J.Lo, Avril Lavigne, Ricky Martin. What’s next Milli Vanilli? This has to break some kind of law somewhere in the Federation.”
Cal shrugs. “He’s got a license.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I should get one too. I could bring back some good bands, like The Beatles or the rest of the Rolling Stones. Keith Richards has to be bored being the last one left. What is he now, 400 and something? With all those drugs in his system he doesn’t look at day over 100.”
Sean laughs, but Cal tilts his head to the side and his tone is strangely serious. “If you wanted to clone the Rolling Stones, I would help you, you know. Hell, I’d steal whatever you need.”
“I know Warrior Angel isn’t advocating breaking the law,” Sean mocks.
“Of course not, just saying.”
“Of course not,” Sean repeats. “Still, it’s not fair that people aren’t required to have good musical taste by law.”
On stage Jack Spratt is swinging his hips and strumming his guitar for all he’s worth.
"Elvis must be mortified," Sean mumbles as Jack yodels about blue suede shoes that his hound dog ate. It’s his version of a grand finale, and Sean shakes his head, sighing when Cal leans forward and presses a kiss to his temple.
“Life’s not fair, Devlin, you can’t always get what you want.”
“Yeah, well what I need is another drink,” Sean says, climbing to his feet. “I’ll be right back.”
His hands shake slightly as he bypasses the bar and heads straight for the bathroom.
He’s going to be sick.
::
Sean has always been a reluctant performer.
When he was small, his recalcitrant behavior was chalked up to his age, but when he grew older and it became clear that he was going to be the only Devlin progeny available, obligation took over. Model pod cars were traded in for etiquette courses and music lessons. Vocal coaches were hired. State dinners, business socials, glad-handing, recitals and various other things Sean never wanted to do became the norm. Piano became a requirement instead of something he enjoyed, and his guitar was tossed out in the refuse.
All in the grand scheme to create the ultimate heir.
Except that the more time Sean was required to spend in the limelight the more introverted he became, until the only time people ever saw him was at official functions and recitals. This did not going over particularly well with his mother and father, but when a Devlin doesn’t want to do something, well.
Of course he heard all the stories about ‘that strange Devlin kid’ who was probably ‘in rehab or the psych ward’ and ‘poor Siobhan and Seamus getting stuck with such a strange little boy.’
Whatever.
Sean didn’t like people, big deal. Most people weren’t worth liking anyway.
Since the Academy Sean had had Cal, and during their studies Sean had been able to escape required society by consistently getting top marks in his courses. But every holiday break he was thrust right back into the limelight, and then there was graduation and then the accident. And after his parents passed, Sean vowed he would never go back to that sort of life unless it was absolutely necessary.
::
The steel seat is cold against Sean’s cheek as he vomits into the toilet. There goes lunch and 25 credits worth of alcohol.
Droplets of water sprinkle his face as the commode flushes automatically, and he reaches out blindly when the retractable arm offers him the standard five squares of toilet paper. Something is better than nothing.
He scrambles to his feet, wipes his mouth, and makes his way to the sink to wash his face. When the door bangs open, Sean’s head snaps up and he bangs the back of his head on the ledge above the sink.
“Two minutes, swee’pea!”
Dame Judy’s voice trills in his ears, and Sean turns and nods mutely as she backs out the door. Searching the pockets of his jumpsuit for mints or nerves or a spare set of balls, Sean considers his reflection in the mirror: his eyes are blood-shot and his black hair looks like he just went through a pod wash.
He’s really going to do this. He must be insane. He must be in love.
Cal’s probably wondering where the hell he’s gone.
::
Behind the stage there’s barely enough room for Sean to breathe, let alone move. The neck of his guitar is strangely cool in his damp grasp, and a small shaft of light peaks through a break in the curtains. There are Rocketboots going off in his stomach, and he’s going to be sick at any moment, again.
He has no idea what the hell he’s doing, and it’s not as though Cal even knows Sean can sing. He’s seen Sean mucking around with his guitar, sure, but this is completely different. What the hell was he thinking about when he asked Judy if he could do this?
Cal.
He’s always thinking of Cal, and when the curtain is pulled back, the glare of the spotlight throws Sean completely off guard. He holds his hand up to block out some of the brightness, and he’s amazed by all the people in the audience. Where did they all come from? There must be at least 20 people out there. He can’t do this. It doesn’t matter that he once played piano for 4000 people at the InterStellar Opera House in Australia Prime. Cal wasn’t there then, and Sean stumbles badly when Dame Judy grabs his arm and drags him forward.
“It’s been a long time, folks, but I’m sure he’s just as good as I’ve heard, and if he’s not we can always get his partner to arrest him.”
There’s laughter coming from somewhere, and this close to the edge of the stage, the lights are even brighter. Sean blinks when Dame Judy gives him a kiss on the cheek before jumping off the front of the stage in her goldfish platforms. He turns back to the microphone and a sea of expectant faces.
It’s been a really long time. He’s going to hurl.
“I- um. I haven’t done this is a really long time” Sean says. His voice is shaking, and it’s only when his guitar bangs against his shin that he remembers what he’s doing up there. “So if I suck, I apologize in advance.”
There’s more laughter as Sean adjusts the mic stand, and he can’t resist taking a quick glance at Cal who seems completely stymied by what’s happening on stage.
“If I can say more than two words at one time, I’m going to be doing some covers tonight,” Sean explains,” for my boyfriend’s birthday, which isn’t actually until tomorrow. But since I know he thinks I forgot, I thought I would surprise him.”
There’s some whistling and clapping, and Sean knows he’s blushing. It doesn’t matter because Cal’s currently dragging his chair away from the table and right to the front of the stage. Well, at least he’ll be right there when the whole things goes to mierda. Cal shakes his head when Sean tries to step back several feet, and it’s only when somebody coughs that Sean remembers they’re not alone. Birthday. Singing. Massive nerves. Right.
“He’s a big fan of The Rolling Stones and live music, and since some things never go out of style, this is for him.”
Lifting the guitar, Sean slips the strap over his head, and digs into his pocket for an available pick. “I’ve only ever seen Mick Jagger on holo-video and telescreen, but I’m sure if I get something wrong, somebody will tell me.”
There’s a shout of ‘damn right!’ from somewhere in the back, which makes Sean laugh for the first time all evening long. A glance at Cal shows that he’s smiling as well, and with a deep breath Sean’s fingers find the opening chord.
“This is called ‘You Can’t Always Get What You Want,’” he says, “but if you had a boyfriend like mine you probably wouldn’t care either.”
The opening notes are a bit shaky, but when Sean opens his mouth to sing the words come easily, and when he looks over at Cal, he finds him singing along. And yes, it’s been a long time since Sean’s sung in public, but his nerves are settling down and he’s got Cal supporting him and he knows that as long as they're together, nothing else really matters.
That’s all he needs.
-finis-
Notes: I understand that people might like art for Warrior Angel, but I’m a writer, not a graphic artist, so you know, use your imaginations that’s what they’re there for.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2003-07-10 01:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-07-10 01:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-07-10 05:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-07-10 01:28 pm (UTC)Rock on, geek girl!
no subject
Date: 2003-07-10 02:14 pm (UTC)Rock on, geek girl!
Um, I have never read those titles: strictly geeking out on America's Best and DC and Marvel here, but I'm guessing you approve?
no subject
Date: 2003-07-10 02:05 pm (UTC)This *rocks*. Totally and completely rocks. I love the humor, and Sean's nervousness, and the fact that he sings the Rolling Stones! Love! It!
This is such a cool world. *sigh* Now I'm off to pimp it on my lj....*G*
no subject
Date: 2003-07-10 02:16 pm (UTC)This *rocks*. Totally and completely rocks. I love the humor, and Sean's nervousness, and the fact that he sings the Rolling Stones! Love! It!
This is such a cool world. *sigh* Now I'm off to pimp it on my lj....*G*
He's rich and he sings and he's only a little bit shady, really. Who wouldn't want Sean, right? Really, I never would have decided to flesh this out if you hadn't prodded, so thank you.
You Sexy Thing
Date: 2003-07-10 02:08 pm (UTC)He’s going to be sick.
Okay, right here? I saw Eminem in Caritas and my head whirled around backwards. I think this story pushed me over my pop-culture saturation point.
Also, the Rolling Stones *definitely* never go out of style and I don't know if Milli Vanilli should technically be considered singers. In other words, to paraphrase you yourself: AIEEEEEEEEEE!!!! *so much fun*
Re: You Sexy Thing
Date: 2003-07-10 02:17 pm (UTC)He’s going to be sick.
Okay, right here? I saw Eminem in Caritas and my head whirled around backwards. I think this story pushed me over my pop-culture saturation point.
Also, the Rolling Stones *definitely* never go out of style and I don't know if Milli Vanilli should technically be considered singers. In other words, to paraphrase you yourself: AIEEEEEEEEEE!!!! *so much fun*
Dude, now there is a serious crossover for you, Eminem and Angel? *cracks up*
Re: You Sexy Thing
Date: 2003-07-10 02:19 pm (UTC)Re: You Sexy Thing
Date: 2003-07-10 02:25 pm (UTC)Re: You Sexy Thing
Date: 2003-07-10 05:02 pm (UTC)*grinning like a loon*
Date: 2003-07-10 03:06 pm (UTC)Heh, now you have me hankering for more pre-Rift pre-Issue # 66 fic from you!
Thanks for sharing this.
Re: *grinning like a loon*
Date: 2003-07-10 04:15 pm (UTC)Heh, now you have me hankering for more pre-Rift pre-Issue # 66 fic from you!
Thanks for sharing this.
I wish I could take credit, but it's all them. I'm glad you liked it though, thank you!
no subject
Date: 2003-07-10 03:16 pm (UTC)*grins*
*loves*
no subject
Date: 2003-07-10 04:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-07-10 04:44 pm (UTC)Also, I don't know if this was on purpose but this this phrase: It’s a Catch Joseph Heller supposed to read like that? Or is it supposed to be Catch 22? *works in a bookstore. Is anal*
Re:
Date: 2003-07-10 04:49 pm (UTC)Yossarian said I was sane, but he's nuts, I'd just like to point that out for the record. Um, yes, it is supposed to be a Catch Joseph Heller, I thought Catch-22 might have morphed after three centuries.
no subject
Date: 2003-07-10 08:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-07-10 04:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-07-11 09:16 am (UTC)sean & cal: we have fans!
sean: whatever, she loves me.
cal: whatever, she loves me.
sean: you have no hair and are obviously delusional.
cal: that's not what you said last night!
sean: why do you always have to bring up old shit?
*referees* zahra: ENOUGH!
yes, well, you can see the boys are excited, thank you!
no subject
Date: 2003-07-10 07:07 pm (UTC)“Life’s not fair, but you can’t always get what you want, Devlin.”
“Yeah, well what I need is another drink,” Sean says, climbing to his feet. “I’ll be right back.”
in conjunction with the Rolling Stones conversation, I was hoping "You Can't Always Get What You Want" would show up and it did and this fic is so cool. I'm not really making sense, but it was lovely.
no subject
Date: 2003-07-11 09:16 am (UTC)“Life’s not fair, but you can’t always get what you want, Devlin.”
“Yeah, well what I need is another drink,” Sean says, climbing to his feet. “I’ll be right back.”
in conjunction with the Rolling Stones conversation, I was hoping "You Can't Always Get What You Want" would show up and it did and this fic is so cool. I'm not really making sense, but it was lovely.
I have no idea how any of this has come to pass, but I am thrilled, on behalf of myself and the guys: thank you very very much.