WW WiP: Oro's crossover smut challenge
Feb. 2nd, 2004 06:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
out_thereI don't know who I'm going to crossover in ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
bananasrock's WW challenge, but it'll be Sam/somebody. (Actually, I'm watching St Elmo's Fire this weekend, so we may get doppleganger crossover fic.
The club was smokey and filled with the sounds of forced laughter and false cheer. A saxophone bled a low bluesy tune, and Sam ordered another scotch with a nod of his head. He brought the glass up, and through the amber liquid, he could see his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. The sight was tinted yellow and the metaphorical golden boy in the mirror smiled drunkenly, white teeth bared, as straight as orthodontics and teenage braces could make them.
His reflection sneered at the self-indulgent thoughts, and Sam eptied the glass in a quick swallow, loving the way it burned his throat, the way it fought off the chill of bad news.
"Hey."
Sam shook his head, but didn't look up. No one knew him, or no one should, so he wasn't under any obligation to be sweet, to be polite, to be civil. He was just here to get drunk, and get a plane home in the morning.
He nodded for another shot, and a warm handed landed on his. "Hey, I think you've already had enough."
"I haven't had anywhere near enough." His voice slurred and the words felt blurry on his tongue. But his head felt clear, still clear enough to remember CJ's blood-shot eyes, still clear enough to remember Toby's profile as he turned away from the news. If he thought about it, he could picture the cold calm of the President's face. He hadn't drank anywhere near enough.
"They won't serve you any more," the guy pointed out reasonably, and Sam tilted his head to the side. He didn't turn his head, didn't look over at him, didn't want to see him. But from the corner of his eye, Sam saw the brassy finish of a saxophone, and figured it was the player.
"Nice playing," he said. It was. Nice, slow, painful notes that made Sam want to curl up into his glass, that made him want to tape it and send it to Josh. Tape it so he can tell Josh this is what heartbreak should sound like, not CJ's muffled sobs, not your quiet voice via telephone. It should sound like this. (It shouldn't break people in half.) You should be able to turn it off.
The guy beside him shifted, moving on his feet, hiding the instrument out of sight. "Thanks."
"Why are you here?" Sam felt sharp and cruel. He wanted to think of himself as a sword, as a blade, deadly, but he felt like a pen. Enough to hurt, but never enough to draw blood.
"You're drunk." Sam heard the smile in the guy's voice and it made him bristle, made him want to growl and curse, made him want another drink.
"So?"
He shifted again, and Sam turned to look at him. His face is a mass of unruly dark hair, and his clothes are... trendy, well-worn, well-fitted. They looked good, layers against the cold. Oddly bohemian. "You don't look like you belong here."
Sam barked out a harsh laugh that almost hurt his throat. "I used to." It was close enough to the truth, a small white lie. He used to live in New York, but he didn't belong. He didn't belong there any more than he belonged in California as a kid, or Washington as an adult. Maybe he just didn't belong anywhere.
"Let me call you a cab." The guy's hand was warm against his shoulder and Sam couldn't remember where he left his jacket. He knew he changed into an everyday suit, into a shirt and jacket, no tie. But that was after the news, after they decided to stay here for a night and he can't remember who decided that they should stay.
In fact, he doesn't remember *where* they decided he should stay. "I don't know where I'm staying," he whined helplessly, and he glanced in the mirror to find his reflection pouting back at him.
The guy shrugged, and the layers of dark clothes moved with him. "You can stay with me." He can't see much of the guy's face behind the long dark fringe, but the hand on his shoulder squeezed, and Sam knew what was being offered.
He nodded, and pushed away from the bar, laughing as the world decided to tilt. The stranger wrapped an arm around him, just the right height to steady him, and led him out to an old car.
Sam sniggered as he sat down. "My car's better than this."
"I'm sure it is." The guy looked at him, and ran a firm hand up Sam's thigh. Sam wasn't wrong about this. At least, he wasn't wrong about the details. He refused to worry about the overall picture right now.
He stared out the window as the guy drove and closed his eyes as an ambulance passed by, red lights signalling blood and loss and other things that he should be too drunk to remember. "I saw Shakespeare tonight."
"In person?" In the gleam of the passing street lights, Sam saw the amused smirk.
He laughed, imagining that, imagining meeting someone who could rewrite the English language into his image. "No, one of his plays."
The conversation was meaningless, and rambled, but Sam liked the way this stranger indulged him. "Which one?"
Sam shook his head, too drunk to remember precisely. "One of the Henry's. I think."
"Ah. All blood and battles and trying to get the crown," the guy said, mock-seriously, sounding like a newscaster, as if blood and pain was something to be mentioned, not something to be mourned.
"No. All fighting and scheming, trying to keep control." Sam was about to say something else, was about to say it was just like his life, just like modern-day politics. All about out-thinking the opponent and trying not to feel.
The idicator light blinks which a tiny swishing tch of a sound. The car turned around the corner, and the guy's words bounced around it's interior. "Well, politics is politics, right? Hasn't changed much."
"No," Sam said, and felt like he was betraying everyone he knew. Betraying them with truth that they couldn't see. Except for Toby, his sarcasm, his loss of political faith worn like a medal of honour.
The guy didn't speak again and Sam was glad for it. Not glad to be stuck amongst his own thoughts, but glad to not have to say them outloud. To keep them quiet and trecherous, easily denied.
Oh, man, that took me an hour. Even with the shockingly shifting tenses. *scowls at tenses* I'm going home, and going to catch up on my work in the morning.)
Anyway, I was refreshing myself on the episode in question (the S3 finale) and came across this on TWoP's recap:
When this doesn't quite do the job, Leo brings up "the monk who wrote, 'I don't always know the right thing to do, Lord, but I think the fact that I want to please you pleases you.'"
Of course, it just left me wondering, but where are the cheese graters? *giggles*
bananasrock's WW challenge, but it'll be Sam/somebody. (Actually, I'm watching St Elmo's Fire this weekend, so we may get doppleganger crossover fic. The club was smokey and filled with the sounds of forced laughter and false cheer. A saxophone bled a low bluesy tune, and Sam ordered another scotch with a nod of his head. He brought the glass up, and through the amber liquid, he could see his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. The sight was tinted yellow and the metaphorical golden boy in the mirror smiled drunkenly, white teeth bared, as straight as orthodontics and teenage braces could make them.
His reflection sneered at the self-indulgent thoughts, and Sam eptied the glass in a quick swallow, loving the way it burned his throat, the way it fought off the chill of bad news.
"Hey."
Sam shook his head, but didn't look up. No one knew him, or no one should, so he wasn't under any obligation to be sweet, to be polite, to be civil. He was just here to get drunk, and get a plane home in the morning.
He nodded for another shot, and a warm handed landed on his. "Hey, I think you've already had enough."
"I haven't had anywhere near enough." His voice slurred and the words felt blurry on his tongue. But his head felt clear, still clear enough to remember CJ's blood-shot eyes, still clear enough to remember Toby's profile as he turned away from the news. If he thought about it, he could picture the cold calm of the President's face. He hadn't drank anywhere near enough.
"They won't serve you any more," the guy pointed out reasonably, and Sam tilted his head to the side. He didn't turn his head, didn't look over at him, didn't want to see him. But from the corner of his eye, Sam saw the brassy finish of a saxophone, and figured it was the player.
"Nice playing," he said. It was. Nice, slow, painful notes that made Sam want to curl up into his glass, that made him want to tape it and send it to Josh. Tape it so he can tell Josh this is what heartbreak should sound like, not CJ's muffled sobs, not your quiet voice via telephone. It should sound like this. (It shouldn't break people in half.) You should be able to turn it off.
The guy beside him shifted, moving on his feet, hiding the instrument out of sight. "Thanks."
"Why are you here?" Sam felt sharp and cruel. He wanted to think of himself as a sword, as a blade, deadly, but he felt like a pen. Enough to hurt, but never enough to draw blood.
"You're drunk." Sam heard the smile in the guy's voice and it made him bristle, made him want to growl and curse, made him want another drink.
"So?"
He shifted again, and Sam turned to look at him. His face is a mass of unruly dark hair, and his clothes are... trendy, well-worn, well-fitted. They looked good, layers against the cold. Oddly bohemian. "You don't look like you belong here."
Sam barked out a harsh laugh that almost hurt his throat. "I used to." It was close enough to the truth, a small white lie. He used to live in New York, but he didn't belong. He didn't belong there any more than he belonged in California as a kid, or Washington as an adult. Maybe he just didn't belong anywhere.
"Let me call you a cab." The guy's hand was warm against his shoulder and Sam couldn't remember where he left his jacket. He knew he changed into an everyday suit, into a shirt and jacket, no tie. But that was after the news, after they decided to stay here for a night and he can't remember who decided that they should stay.
In fact, he doesn't remember *where* they decided he should stay. "I don't know where I'm staying," he whined helplessly, and he glanced in the mirror to find his reflection pouting back at him.
The guy shrugged, and the layers of dark clothes moved with him. "You can stay with me." He can't see much of the guy's face behind the long dark fringe, but the hand on his shoulder squeezed, and Sam knew what was being offered.
He nodded, and pushed away from the bar, laughing as the world decided to tilt. The stranger wrapped an arm around him, just the right height to steady him, and led him out to an old car.
Sam sniggered as he sat down. "My car's better than this."
"I'm sure it is." The guy looked at him, and ran a firm hand up Sam's thigh. Sam wasn't wrong about this. At least, he wasn't wrong about the details. He refused to worry about the overall picture right now.
He stared out the window as the guy drove and closed his eyes as an ambulance passed by, red lights signalling blood and loss and other things that he should be too drunk to remember. "I saw Shakespeare tonight."
"In person?" In the gleam of the passing street lights, Sam saw the amused smirk.
He laughed, imagining that, imagining meeting someone who could rewrite the English language into his image. "No, one of his plays."
The conversation was meaningless, and rambled, but Sam liked the way this stranger indulged him. "Which one?"
Sam shook his head, too drunk to remember precisely. "One of the Henry's. I think."
"Ah. All blood and battles and trying to get the crown," the guy said, mock-seriously, sounding like a newscaster, as if blood and pain was something to be mentioned, not something to be mourned.
"No. All fighting and scheming, trying to keep control." Sam was about to say something else, was about to say it was just like his life, just like modern-day politics. All about out-thinking the opponent and trying not to feel.
The idicator light blinks which a tiny swishing tch of a sound. The car turned around the corner, and the guy's words bounced around it's interior. "Well, politics is politics, right? Hasn't changed much."
"No," Sam said, and felt like he was betraying everyone he knew. Betraying them with truth that they couldn't see. Except for Toby, his sarcasm, his loss of political faith worn like a medal of honour.
The guy didn't speak again and Sam was glad for it. Not glad to be stuck amongst his own thoughts, but glad to not have to say them outloud. To keep them quiet and trecherous, easily denied.
Oh, man, that took me an hour. Even with the shockingly shifting tenses. *scowls at tenses* I'm going home, and going to catch up on my work in the morning.)
Anyway, I was refreshing myself on the episode in question (the S3 finale) and came across this on TWoP's recap:
When this doesn't quite do the job, Leo brings up "the monk who wrote, 'I don't always know the right thing to do, Lord, but I think the fact that I want to please you pleases you.'"
Of course, it just left me wondering, but where are the cheese graters? *giggles*
