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3pipeproblemAt least I left Donnie Darko and Far From Heaven alone. For now.
You may be wondering, "Who's to blame for this mess you have the temerity to call a fic?" And the answer is![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
contrelamontre. This week's challenge was a structural one, which I usually have trouble with (and accordingly don't answer). The challenge was to write two scenes with the same dialogue but different subtext. So, of course, the first thing that came to my mind was a Homicide scene and a Matchstick Men scene. Why? Because they both have characters named Frank! (Sometimes my stupidity impresses even me).
I might not even post this over on contrelamontre (although, being the review whore I am, I'll prolly give in and do it), because Homicide fans will burn me in effigy over my rape of their fandom (sheesh, people can be so touchy). And the Homicide one isn't all that slashy. Well, neither is the MM one, but it's a lot slashier than the Homicide. I mean, there's bodily contact!
These notes are longer than the fic. I am aware of this. Feel free to skip them.
So, yeah. The Homicide fic is post "Night of the Dead Living" (ep 3 of season 1, as far as I've gotten in the series). The MM fic takes place whenever. Presumably Roy is drinking because something bad happened. Or Frank took him out and got him drunk the night before. Take your pick.
I guess that's all I have to say. I suspect it took longer than the alotted hour, but does anyone really care? And I do have a fluffy, semi-humorous entry that I will post later. To appeaseanyone everyone this pisses off.
And yes, I am aware that my Frank/Roy is vastly superior to my Frank/Tim. Or my Frank/Tim is vastly inferior to my Frank/Roy. Whatever.
" ‘m surprised he let us back in like this," Bayliss smirks, tired and resigned, as he gathers all their little notes. Diagrams sketched out on napkins. Bold pen strokes that, even looking at them closely, make no sense to Frank now.
"You're just lucky it's not me running things." He ignores Bayliss' snort of laughter—the man doesn't even make an effort not to—chalking it up to the heat and the hour. "This place'd be under quarantine."
Bayliss smiles again, rather faintly, and Frank thinks that when the kid smiles and he's tired and desperate like this he looks kinda drunk. Some, the type of people who spend too much of their time reading poetry and watching weepy movies, might say dreamy, haunted. Intoxicated, though, is the only word that really fits the way Tim gathers everything in his arms (and Frank can just imagine the ink running into his still-damp shirt, staining it) and, clutching it all to his chest smiles once more and nods at Frank. Like Frank just bought him another beer.
Frank doesn't think anyone's ever smiled at him this much in his entire life.
"Need any help?" he offers suddenly, taken aback when the words come out because the question he'd intended to ask was more along the lines of "What the hell do you think your desk is for, rookie?" He slides into it, though, shrugging when Bayliss shakes his head no.
Probably something about the feel of the stuff in his arms. Like that baby that'd been there earlier, almost.
Christ, he needs sleep.
"I appreciate it, though," Bayliss adds as an afterthought. Ah, so he is being allowed access to the world of Bayliss and His Case and His Files. Reluctantly.
The world of Bayliss: His Case, His Files, His Responsibility. His Guilt?
"Yeah." Flat. A word that's not going anywhere. A lot like this conversation, actually. Still keeping a weary eye on Bayliss, Frank searches his pockets for his car keys, comes up empty, remembers his jacket and finds them there. "Look--"
Bayliss raises his eyebrows, caught right before he's about to leave, pinned down by the question.
Frank sighs almost inaudibly. What? "You did well today"? (grammatically correct, at least) "Glad we worked through that"? "Wanna stop by a bar for some drinks even though we're both still sopping wet"? He settles for "I'll see you tomorrow."
"Tomorrow." Bayliss is gazing God knows where, looking distantly over Frank's shoulder. It's a miracle he doesn't trip over anything when he finally exits the office.
Frank rolls his eyes and gives his partner a five-minute head start before leaving himself.
Frank slides onto the barstool next to Roy. His eyes narrow as he catches sight of the drink already in front of his partner. " ‘m surprised he let us back in like this." Not too surprised, though. The bartender probably thinks Roy's his new best customer.
Not if Frank can help it, though. Alcoholism and obsessive-compulsive disorder aren’t exactly what you’d call a formula for success.
Under normal circumstances, Roy would have caught the look, deflected it with an indignant one of his own. Right now, though, he's studying the drink. As if coming to a sudden decision, he takes a gulp, then looks at Frank.
What, he need courage to do that or something?
"You're lucky it's not me running things," Roy murmurs, a tiny smile forming at the corners of his mouth. "This whole place'd be under quarantine."
Frank rolls his eyes. Then what the hell are you doing here? he desperately wants to ask.
As Roy reaches for the drink again, Frank catches him by the wrist.
It feels wrong, somehow. He and Roy have always had very definite boundaries of personal space. The two desks in the office. The house he's only allowed into sometimes—and grudgingly, at that. Now he's crossed that line and he's wondering if there's any going back.
It is with a sense of impending...something that he nods towards the door, nods so gently and cautiously that only Roy (only sober Roy?) would be able to recognize it as a suggestion to leave.
Which, miraculously, he does.
"Need any help?" Frank asks anxiously as Roy struggles off the barstool. Not that he needs an answer, since he's already on his feet, gripping his partner's arm, steadying him.
Roy shakes his head, worms his way out of Frank's grasp in the same moment. He staggers a little, on his own, but recovers quickly enough. "I appreciate it, though."
Frank shrugs, tosses some money on the counter to pay for the drinks without even counting how much is there. He swallows, tries not to think about why it is that he suddenly feels sick. "Yeah."
"Look--" They've made it outside, now, absurdly distant from one another. Each cowering on his own side of the entrance.
"I'll see you tomorrow," Frank says abruptly, harshly. If he could, he'd turn on his heel and walk away without so much as a backward glance. Instead he calls a cab, stands there with his arms crossed as he watches Roy stumble into it. "Tomorrow," he repeats threateningly, as he strides over to the car and, reaching across his partner without actually touching the man, pays the cabbie in advance.
Frank slams the door shut. Roy's already out of sight, probably spread out in the back seat. Maybe asleep already. If there's any justice.
God damn it. What Frank really needs right now is a drink…and it's the only thing he can't have.
Typical of anything to do with Roy.
You may be wondering, "Who's to blame for this mess you have the temerity to call a fic?" And the answer is
contrelamontre. This week's challenge was a structural one, which I usually have trouble with (and accordingly don't answer). The challenge was to write two scenes with the same dialogue but different subtext. So, of course, the first thing that came to my mind was a Homicide scene and a Matchstick Men scene. Why? Because they both have characters named Frank! (Sometimes my stupidity impresses even me). I might not even post this over on contrelamontre (although, being the review whore I am, I'll prolly give in and do it), because Homicide fans will burn me in effigy over my rape of their fandom (sheesh, people can be so touchy). And the Homicide one isn't all that slashy. Well, neither is the MM one, but it's a lot slashier than the Homicide. I mean, there's bodily contact!
These notes are longer than the fic. I am aware of this. Feel free to skip them.
So, yeah. The Homicide fic is post "Night of the Dead Living" (ep 3 of season 1, as far as I've gotten in the series). The MM fic takes place whenever. Presumably Roy is drinking because something bad happened. Or Frank took him out and got him drunk the night before. Take your pick.
I guess that's all I have to say. I suspect it took longer than the alotted hour, but does anyone really care? And I do have a fluffy, semi-humorous entry that I will post later. To appease
And yes, I am aware that my Frank/Roy is vastly superior to my Frank/Tim. Or my Frank/Tim is vastly inferior to my Frank/Roy. Whatever.
" ‘m surprised he let us back in like this," Bayliss smirks, tired and resigned, as he gathers all their little notes. Diagrams sketched out on napkins. Bold pen strokes that, even looking at them closely, make no sense to Frank now.
"You're just lucky it's not me running things." He ignores Bayliss' snort of laughter—the man doesn't even make an effort not to—chalking it up to the heat and the hour. "This place'd be under quarantine."
Bayliss smiles again, rather faintly, and Frank thinks that when the kid smiles and he's tired and desperate like this he looks kinda drunk. Some, the type of people who spend too much of their time reading poetry and watching weepy movies, might say dreamy, haunted. Intoxicated, though, is the only word that really fits the way Tim gathers everything in his arms (and Frank can just imagine the ink running into his still-damp shirt, staining it) and, clutching it all to his chest smiles once more and nods at Frank. Like Frank just bought him another beer.
Frank doesn't think anyone's ever smiled at him this much in his entire life.
"Need any help?" he offers suddenly, taken aback when the words come out because the question he'd intended to ask was more along the lines of "What the hell do you think your desk is for, rookie?" He slides into it, though, shrugging when Bayliss shakes his head no.
Probably something about the feel of the stuff in his arms. Like that baby that'd been there earlier, almost.
Christ, he needs sleep.
"I appreciate it, though," Bayliss adds as an afterthought. Ah, so he is being allowed access to the world of Bayliss and His Case and His Files. Reluctantly.
The world of Bayliss: His Case, His Files, His Responsibility. His Guilt?
"Yeah." Flat. A word that's not going anywhere. A lot like this conversation, actually. Still keeping a weary eye on Bayliss, Frank searches his pockets for his car keys, comes up empty, remembers his jacket and finds them there. "Look--"
Bayliss raises his eyebrows, caught right before he's about to leave, pinned down by the question.
Frank sighs almost inaudibly. What? "You did well today"? (grammatically correct, at least) "Glad we worked through that"? "Wanna stop by a bar for some drinks even though we're both still sopping wet"? He settles for "I'll see you tomorrow."
"Tomorrow." Bayliss is gazing God knows where, looking distantly over Frank's shoulder. It's a miracle he doesn't trip over anything when he finally exits the office.
Frank rolls his eyes and gives his partner a five-minute head start before leaving himself.
Frank slides onto the barstool next to Roy. His eyes narrow as he catches sight of the drink already in front of his partner. " ‘m surprised he let us back in like this." Not too surprised, though. The bartender probably thinks Roy's his new best customer.
Not if Frank can help it, though. Alcoholism and obsessive-compulsive disorder aren’t exactly what you’d call a formula for success.
Under normal circumstances, Roy would have caught the look, deflected it with an indignant one of his own. Right now, though, he's studying the drink. As if coming to a sudden decision, he takes a gulp, then looks at Frank.
What, he need courage to do that or something?
"You're lucky it's not me running things," Roy murmurs, a tiny smile forming at the corners of his mouth. "This whole place'd be under quarantine."
Frank rolls his eyes. Then what the hell are you doing here? he desperately wants to ask.
As Roy reaches for the drink again, Frank catches him by the wrist.
It feels wrong, somehow. He and Roy have always had very definite boundaries of personal space. The two desks in the office. The house he's only allowed into sometimes—and grudgingly, at that. Now he's crossed that line and he's wondering if there's any going back.
It is with a sense of impending...something that he nods towards the door, nods so gently and cautiously that only Roy (only sober Roy?) would be able to recognize it as a suggestion to leave.
Which, miraculously, he does.
"Need any help?" Frank asks anxiously as Roy struggles off the barstool. Not that he needs an answer, since he's already on his feet, gripping his partner's arm, steadying him.
Roy shakes his head, worms his way out of Frank's grasp in the same moment. He staggers a little, on his own, but recovers quickly enough. "I appreciate it, though."
Frank shrugs, tosses some money on the counter to pay for the drinks without even counting how much is there. He swallows, tries not to think about why it is that he suddenly feels sick. "Yeah."
"Look--" They've made it outside, now, absurdly distant from one another. Each cowering on his own side of the entrance.
"I'll see you tomorrow," Frank says abruptly, harshly. If he could, he'd turn on his heel and walk away without so much as a backward glance. Instead he calls a cab, stands there with his arms crossed as he watches Roy stumble into it. "Tomorrow," he repeats threateningly, as he strides over to the car and, reaching across his partner without actually touching the man, pays the cabbie in advance.
Frank slams the door shut. Roy's already out of sight, probably spread out in the back seat. Maybe asleep already. If there's any justice.
God damn it. What Frank really needs right now is a drink…and it's the only thing he can't have.
Typical of anything to do with Roy.
no subject
Date: 2003-10-12 09:04 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-10-12 10:25 am (UTC)And that, my friends, is why I should just leave structural challenges alone.