Metalocalypse Drabble
Dec. 20th, 2006 06:19 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dethoratsTitle: Stay
Pairing: Charles and Pickles
Rating: G
Word Count: 404
“Wait a sec’. Don’ go yet, dood.”
A few drops of…he squinted, caught a glimpse of the label…rum splashed across his front, dotting his tie and he could feel a spot on his stomach where a larger patch had soaked through his dress shirt. It wasn’t intentional. Things around the band rarely were. They just lacked a sense of, well, practically everything. A sense of self, a sense of space, a sense of awareness, of propriety, of, especially in the case of the man in front of him, sobriety. The bottle of rum waved in his direction again, a wild swing meant as a placating and welcoming gesture even though more of the alcohol flew out of the open neck. With a sense of calm he suddenly didn’t feel, he slid his glasses off and wiped a spotty lens with the back of his, currently dry, suit jacket.
There was a pile of paperwork waiting and four of the little headache pills that kept him sane and let him sleep at night sitting right next to the stack, calling his name. Dethklok was drunk and channel surfing, currently fixated on some old black-and-white Japanese movie with lots of samurai and sword wounds. Remaining would mean being forced to listen to drunken ideas, ideas he’d have to find ways to shoot down carefully or else accommodate, no matter how ridiculous they were. Sometimes, against his will, he found the ideas they came up with quite amusing. But tonight he just didn’t want to deal with anything. He was tired and that paperwork still had to be tended to before he could seek his bed. He sighed, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose and trying to find the words to frame his excuse.
“Stay.”
It was more a hopeful request than a command, judging from the inflection of the flat Midwestern vowel and the openness of the drummer’s face. Pickles was, thank goodness considering how often he was in the particular state, a happy drunk, and he offered a crooked smile that reached his clouded green eyes as he scootched over to make room on the couch. He was going to regret it, he knew as he reached up to loosen the knot in the red tie, but he always felt a tiny bit bad about crushing their hopes, even the really REALLY stupid ones.
“Very well. But only until the movie’s over.”
Pairing: Charles and Pickles
Rating: G
Word Count: 404
“Wait a sec’. Don’ go yet, dood.”
A few drops of…he squinted, caught a glimpse of the label…rum splashed across his front, dotting his tie and he could feel a spot on his stomach where a larger patch had soaked through his dress shirt. It wasn’t intentional. Things around the band rarely were. They just lacked a sense of, well, practically everything. A sense of self, a sense of space, a sense of awareness, of propriety, of, especially in the case of the man in front of him, sobriety. The bottle of rum waved in his direction again, a wild swing meant as a placating and welcoming gesture even though more of the alcohol flew out of the open neck. With a sense of calm he suddenly didn’t feel, he slid his glasses off and wiped a spotty lens with the back of his, currently dry, suit jacket.
There was a pile of paperwork waiting and four of the little headache pills that kept him sane and let him sleep at night sitting right next to the stack, calling his name. Dethklok was drunk and channel surfing, currently fixated on some old black-and-white Japanese movie with lots of samurai and sword wounds. Remaining would mean being forced to listen to drunken ideas, ideas he’d have to find ways to shoot down carefully or else accommodate, no matter how ridiculous they were. Sometimes, against his will, he found the ideas they came up with quite amusing. But tonight he just didn’t want to deal with anything. He was tired and that paperwork still had to be tended to before he could seek his bed. He sighed, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose and trying to find the words to frame his excuse.
“Stay.”
It was more a hopeful request than a command, judging from the inflection of the flat Midwestern vowel and the openness of the drummer’s face. Pickles was, thank goodness considering how often he was in the particular state, a happy drunk, and he offered a crooked smile that reached his clouded green eyes as he scootched over to make room on the couch. He was going to regret it, he knew as he reached up to loosen the knot in the red tie, but he always felt a tiny bit bad about crushing their hopes, even the really REALLY stupid ones.
“Very well. But only until the movie’s over.”
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no subject
Date: 2006-12-20 06:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-21 05:55 am (UTC)I MAY REACH THAT POINT. PICKLES IS GROWING ON ME. (Not literally, thank god.) I'm also weak to the drunken/grumpy dynamic.
no subject
Date: 2006-12-22 11:38 am (UTC)Thanks again for reviewing something that isn't One Piece.