Crackiversary Fic (Resurrection AU)
Jan. 25th, 2008 12:07 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
amari_zHappy Crackiversary! In honor of the occasion, we go back to the beginning and pure, unadulterated (I hope), old school crack. ;) I was going to call this a ficlet, until I realized that it was longer than the first two stories of the series, and nearly as long as the third. Ah, the good old days.
The second morning after Lancelot woke up . . . .
Arthur rang off the telephone and sat back in his chair. He glanced at his watch and frowned. It had taken a lot longer than he had hoped, but he had dealt with the day's business, and Robert Scott and Ms. Delaney would clear his schedule for the rest of the week. What matters still needed his attention he should be able to handle from the house.
He checked the time again and stood. There was one more call he had meant to make—that he really should have made yesterday—but he found himself putting it off again. Besides, he had meant to wrap up his work before Lancelot woke, and, given how late it was, Lancelot was likely already awake. And likely annoyed by Arthur’s disappearance.
Part of the problem was that had he gotten a later start than he had intended, for he had found it difficult to leave his bed. He had watched Lancelot sleep for a long time before rising. His lingering was part awe at what God had wrought, part fear that it was not real, and more than a little pure physical reluctance.
Hearing voices as he stepped out into the hall, he followed the sounds to the large sitting room. A double handful of knights were lounging about the room, but there was no sign of Lancelot. Bors—Arthur was a little surprised to see him awake and apparently sober at this time of morning—caught Arthur's eyes and grinned. "Sleeping Beauty hasn't made an appearance." He smacked his lips. "He missed breakfast."
"I made it special for him, but it's all gone now." Bruenor's voice was plaintive, although he was glaring at Bors. Arthur, who found Bruenor's cooking, while significantly improved, a bit of a gamble, was not upset to realize that he too had missed breakfast.
"Tell him to get a move on, will you?" Gawain said from the depths of one of the couches. "We're waiting."
Arthur refrained from retorting that he had not necessarily come here looking for Lancelot, but who would he be fooling? So he merely nodded. Before he could turn to go, he felt as if eyes were boring into him. He looked around to find it was only Galehaut watching him from the corner where he sat with Agravaine and Meligaunt. It seemed as though everyone was indeed waiting for Lancelot.
A thought occurred to Arthur as he left the room. If Lancelot had awoken in his absence, a peace offering might not go amiss. Besides, he was hungry himself. He detoured from the stairs, greeting Dagonet as he passed him in the hallway.
He found Galahad, Tor and Percival in the kitchen. Tor and Percival seemed to be having some kind of argument, which fell silent when Arthur walked in, but not before a cereal box went flying, sending its contents all over the kitchen. Arthur gave them a look that had both of them scrambling across the floor to clean up the mess, while Galahad, crunching on the cereal in his own large bowl (was the milk brown?), grinned smugly. Arthur briefly considered telling him to help them, but then dismissed the thought as too much trouble. He also needed to talk to Galahad about the erroneous charges that had appeared on the credit card in his name, but he would do that later.
He turned his attention to what Lancelot might want for breakfast. It had taken many of them some time to get accustomed to the taste of modern food. He tried to remember what it was Lancelot had actually eaten yesterday, but he found he had not been paying attention to that. He finally settled on some plain bread accompanied by butter and preserves, and a glass of milk. The Sarmatians had been making the milk disappear in vast quantities—not so surprising, Arthur supposed, given the diet they were likely raised on as children—and Lancelot had been vocally unimpressed by the tea he had tried yesterday. But for himself, Arthur brewed a pot. He put the whole of it on a silver tray he found, and felt quite pleased.
He carried the tray carefully, stepping over Tor who was rooting out bits of cereal from under the counter. He ignored how loud voices erupted behind him as soon as he walked out of the kitchen, and forced himself not to turn back even at the loud crash. Arthur could hardly be blamed if he felt relieved at the thought that Lancelot would now be around to keep some degree of control. Gareth tried, but he lacked the intimidating edge of sheer self-interested ruthlessness Lancelot applied.
He got the tray upstairs without mishap—despite nearly being run down by Urré, who seemed to view the stairs as some kind of obstacle course to be overcome, and ignoring what sounded like Gaheris’s outraged voice yelling something about hot water. He balanced the tray on one arm to open the door to his room, and stopped short at the sight that met his eyes.
Lancelot was indeed awake. He was sitting on the floor, his posture elegant, one long leg bent as he considered something in his hands. The sunlight streaming in from the window shone on him, haloing his hair, suggesting highlights of red and honey brown amid the dark curls. His face was in quarter profile, and Arthur found himself caught and staring like a man bewitched, and foolishly thinking that he had never seen anything so beautiful.
His trance was broken when a shoe smacked him in the face.
Arthur let out an omphf of surprise and the tray dropped with a crash. Lancelot looked over his shoulder at the sound, the shift of posture making the halo around his head disappear. One of his eyebrows was raised in arrogant disdain, his superior expression suggesting that Arthur was a clumsy oaf who had managed to drop the tray quite on his own. And Arthur was suddenly reminded that, as often as not, he had wanted to strangle Lancelot.
"What—" Arthur began. He rubbed at the side of his face, which felt numb. He looked down at the mess of the spilled tray. Then back around the room. There were shoes tossed everywhere, he realized. His shoes. He had not realized he had come to have quite so many pairs.
Lancelot had turned back to face the closet. He was dressed in those well-fitting jeans again and his hair, Arthur realized, was wet, dripping onto his shirt. Arthur's shirt. Which Lancelot was wearing backwards.
Refraining from commenting on that for the moment and mindful of the shards on the floor, Arthur stepped further into the room. He glanced quickly through the open door leading to the bathroom. Lancelot must have used the shower, but he was relieved to see no sign of flooding. The Tristan incident had been bad enough. Not to mention the time that Owein and Yvain had taken it into their heads to flush things down the toilet. Arthur had no idea what they had been thinking. The plumber, who had indignantly told Arthur, in exacting detail, what he had found in the pipes, had peevishly suggested a safety latch. It had taken Arthur a few moments to understand what the man was talking about. Luckily, he had managed to keep from automatically correcting the man about the presence of small children in the house.
Arthur took a deep breath and shut the bedroom door. He then asked, as calmly as he could manage, "What are you doing?"
"Looking for footwear," Lancelot answered his question as though it were quite obvious. As though that explained why he had been tossing shoes over his shoulder with enough force to reach the door. And Arthur‘s face. For the sake of his own sanity, Arthur decided to operate under the premise that the in-the-face part had been an accident. He would never get Lancelot to admit it one way or the other, anyway.
Arthur looked around the room that had been in perfect order when he had left it this morning. He winced as he caught sight of one particular shoe tossed into a corner. He hoped it was not too badly scuffed. He understood that those limited edition John Lobb’s were rather expensive.
He was trying to locate the mate when Lancelot held up the shoe he was holding. "These are all enormous, Arthur." He looked pointedly at Arthur's feet, and Arthur reflexively followed his gaze. "I don't remember your feet being that big. Are you sure Merlin”—he practically sneered the name—“brought you back all together correctly? Maybe he mistakenly mixed your bones up with those of some Saxon giant. Or perhaps it was his idea of a joke."
Arthur stared hard at his feet. They did look rather big . . . . He shook his head as if to dislodge the ridiculous thought. His eyes caught sight of the tray on the floor again, and he crouched down to gather up the broken crockery. Rather than offering to help, Lancelot watched him, looking amused. While Lancelot had always seen to his own horses and gear—indeed, woe betide anyone who laid a hand on any of Lancelot's possessions—Lancelot did not clean. Well, he was going to have to learn. All the knights had. Although Arthur sometimes thought that the risks associated with having a cleaning staff in the house were insignificant when compared with the disastrous results of some of the knights’ "cleaning" efforts.
Keeping his voice neutral with effort, Arthur said, "I thought Lavaine's shoes fit you."
Lancelot spoke as if to a particularly slow child. "But those were Lavaine's shoes." Arthur bit back the retort that and these were his shoes. Lancelot had always seemed to view it as his undisputable right to use whatever of Arthur's possessions struck his fancy. Of course, the reverse did not apply.
"And these shoes," Lancelot continued. "Look at them." Carelessly tossing aside the shoe he was still holding, he picked up another. "They're utterly useless. Flimsy." He bent the shoe nearly in half to demonstrate, making Arthur grimace. "Where are you keeping the real ones?" Without waiting for an answer, he threw that one aside as well and began to dig through Arthur's once carefully ordered closet again.
"Those are the real ones," Arthur protested, dropping the broken bits of the tea pot onto the tray—he had rather liked that pot too. "People nowadays don't have much need for more sturdy shoes. There are some who work on the land or in construction or those types of occupations, but most of the people ride in their cars and walk on paved paths."
"Most? You mean the rich ones." Lancelot snorted, still pulling shoes out of Arthur's closet.
Arthur bit back a retort. There was time enough to get Lancelot familiar with the economic realties of this time. Instead, he concentrated on the far more immediate need to preserve his shoes. "We'll get you some shoes of your own, alright? Ones you like. Just come away from the closet."
To his relief, Lancelot sat back. Arthur abandoned his tidying efforts and went over to him, intending to pull him away from the closet. As he bent down, he caught a whiff of Lancelot's hair. It smelled different from the shampoo or the soap that Arthur had in the bathroom.
"What is that scent?" he found himself asking as he took another deep breath.
"Oh, that. Galahad gave it to me. Said it was soap for one's hair.” Lancelot sounded half amused, half disgusted by the decadence of it. "He didn't say it would smell like bloody flowers. Don't worry, I'll get back at the little bastard."
Arthur thought that Galahad might have been trying to be helpful rather than playing a prank, but knew better than to get in between Lancelot and a grudge—real or perceived—with one of the other knights.
"I like it," was all he said, inhaling. Lancelot turned to look at him, and Arthur did not resist the urge to bend to kiss him, noting Lancelot’s rather surprised expression before he moved closer, practically into Arthur's lap as Arthur settled on the floor.
"You lied you know," Lancelot said, as Arthur released his mouth to kiss his neck.
"About what?" The indignation such an accusation would normally engender was dampened by his current preoccupation.
"There's not an unlimited supply of hot water. You said there was."
Surprised, he drew back far enough to look at Lancelot's eyes and absently pulled clear a shoe he had been sitting on. He recalled his explanation about how the bathroom worked. "Just how long were you in the shower?” he demanded. Then he thought better of getting into a debate about that. “Never mind." He wanted to put that mouth to better use.
He had one hand buried in Lancelot's damp hair, the other straying down to the front of Lancelot's jeans when a knock sounded at the door. Once such an interruption would have had Arthur springing away, but although he drew back reflexively, he realized—somewhat to his chagrin—that there was no one in this house who did not have a good idea of exactly what he and Lancelot did together. Having Lancelot in his room the last two nights would have been clue enough, even if the knights had not long since known the truth.
Gawain opened the door. He barely gave them a second glance, although he did look askance at the mess on the floor. "Lancelot, come on, will you? We've been waiting for ages."
Lancelot abandoned Arthur on the floor with rather insulting alacrity. As he stood, Gawain observed, "You have your shirt on backwards, you know."
Lancelot cast an affronted, accusatory look at Arthur. "Where are you going?' Arthur asked in a hasty attempt at deflection.
Lancelot pulled his arms out of the sleeves to turn the shirt about, in the course revealing the flat muscles of his stomach and the fact that the jeans were low slung enough to show his hipbones and that no one had thought to buy him underwear. Arthur swallowed and shifted a bit on the floor. He didn't quite catch Lancelot's answer. Something about a promise involving pigs.
He was just trying to puzzle it out when Lancelot paused by the door to comment, his tone mildly chiding, “If you don't clean it up properly, that milk you spilled is going to stink.”
Arthur was sputtering in indignation when Lancelot followed Gawain out the door—still barefoot—and then the meaning of the Lancelot’s earlier words caught up with him.
There was no way in hell he was letting Lancelot loose on one of Gawain's motorcycles.
He sprang up to rush after them, but tripped over one of the shoes strewn across the floor. He landed flat on his face with the wind knocked out of him. When he could breathe again, he realized his shirt was damp with milk, tea and strawberry preserves. An awkward look backward revealed the shoe that had tripped him—the other John Lobb—now crushed and mangled. The extent of the damage had him casting a suspicious look at the size of his own sprawled foot before he realized what he was doing. He closed his eyes and dropped his forehead on the floor for a moment.
After another moment, he scrambled to his feet to give chase, more alive than he had been in a long time.
End Notes: For a glimpse of Arthur’s abused shoes, go here (and click “ready to wear” and then “John Lobb 2007“), although his are black. Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
darklyscarlett for the suggestion. No shoes were actually harmed in the writing of this crack.
The second morning after Lancelot woke up . . . .
Arthur rang off the telephone and sat back in his chair. He glanced at his watch and frowned. It had taken a lot longer than he had hoped, but he had dealt with the day's business, and Robert Scott and Ms. Delaney would clear his schedule for the rest of the week. What matters still needed his attention he should be able to handle from the house.
He checked the time again and stood. There was one more call he had meant to make—that he really should have made yesterday—but he found himself putting it off again. Besides, he had meant to wrap up his work before Lancelot woke, and, given how late it was, Lancelot was likely already awake. And likely annoyed by Arthur’s disappearance.
Part of the problem was that had he gotten a later start than he had intended, for he had found it difficult to leave his bed. He had watched Lancelot sleep for a long time before rising. His lingering was part awe at what God had wrought, part fear that it was not real, and more than a little pure physical reluctance.
Hearing voices as he stepped out into the hall, he followed the sounds to the large sitting room. A double handful of knights were lounging about the room, but there was no sign of Lancelot. Bors—Arthur was a little surprised to see him awake and apparently sober at this time of morning—caught Arthur's eyes and grinned. "Sleeping Beauty hasn't made an appearance." He smacked his lips. "He missed breakfast."
"I made it special for him, but it's all gone now." Bruenor's voice was plaintive, although he was glaring at Bors. Arthur, who found Bruenor's cooking, while significantly improved, a bit of a gamble, was not upset to realize that he too had missed breakfast.
"Tell him to get a move on, will you?" Gawain said from the depths of one of the couches. "We're waiting."
Arthur refrained from retorting that he had not necessarily come here looking for Lancelot, but who would he be fooling? So he merely nodded. Before he could turn to go, he felt as if eyes were boring into him. He looked around to find it was only Galehaut watching him from the corner where he sat with Agravaine and Meligaunt. It seemed as though everyone was indeed waiting for Lancelot.
A thought occurred to Arthur as he left the room. If Lancelot had awoken in his absence, a peace offering might not go amiss. Besides, he was hungry himself. He detoured from the stairs, greeting Dagonet as he passed him in the hallway.
He found Galahad, Tor and Percival in the kitchen. Tor and Percival seemed to be having some kind of argument, which fell silent when Arthur walked in, but not before a cereal box went flying, sending its contents all over the kitchen. Arthur gave them a look that had both of them scrambling across the floor to clean up the mess, while Galahad, crunching on the cereal in his own large bowl (was the milk brown?), grinned smugly. Arthur briefly considered telling him to help them, but then dismissed the thought as too much trouble. He also needed to talk to Galahad about the erroneous charges that had appeared on the credit card in his name, but he would do that later.
He turned his attention to what Lancelot might want for breakfast. It had taken many of them some time to get accustomed to the taste of modern food. He tried to remember what it was Lancelot had actually eaten yesterday, but he found he had not been paying attention to that. He finally settled on some plain bread accompanied by butter and preserves, and a glass of milk. The Sarmatians had been making the milk disappear in vast quantities—not so surprising, Arthur supposed, given the diet they were likely raised on as children—and Lancelot had been vocally unimpressed by the tea he had tried yesterday. But for himself, Arthur brewed a pot. He put the whole of it on a silver tray he found, and felt quite pleased.
He carried the tray carefully, stepping over Tor who was rooting out bits of cereal from under the counter. He ignored how loud voices erupted behind him as soon as he walked out of the kitchen, and forced himself not to turn back even at the loud crash. Arthur could hardly be blamed if he felt relieved at the thought that Lancelot would now be around to keep some degree of control. Gareth tried, but he lacked the intimidating edge of sheer self-interested ruthlessness Lancelot applied.
He got the tray upstairs without mishap—despite nearly being run down by Urré, who seemed to view the stairs as some kind of obstacle course to be overcome, and ignoring what sounded like Gaheris’s outraged voice yelling something about hot water. He balanced the tray on one arm to open the door to his room, and stopped short at the sight that met his eyes.
Lancelot was indeed awake. He was sitting on the floor, his posture elegant, one long leg bent as he considered something in his hands. The sunlight streaming in from the window shone on him, haloing his hair, suggesting highlights of red and honey brown amid the dark curls. His face was in quarter profile, and Arthur found himself caught and staring like a man bewitched, and foolishly thinking that he had never seen anything so beautiful.
His trance was broken when a shoe smacked him in the face.
Arthur let out an omphf of surprise and the tray dropped with a crash. Lancelot looked over his shoulder at the sound, the shift of posture making the halo around his head disappear. One of his eyebrows was raised in arrogant disdain, his superior expression suggesting that Arthur was a clumsy oaf who had managed to drop the tray quite on his own. And Arthur was suddenly reminded that, as often as not, he had wanted to strangle Lancelot.
"What—" Arthur began. He rubbed at the side of his face, which felt numb. He looked down at the mess of the spilled tray. Then back around the room. There were shoes tossed everywhere, he realized. His shoes. He had not realized he had come to have quite so many pairs.
Lancelot had turned back to face the closet. He was dressed in those well-fitting jeans again and his hair, Arthur realized, was wet, dripping onto his shirt. Arthur's shirt. Which Lancelot was wearing backwards.
Refraining from commenting on that for the moment and mindful of the shards on the floor, Arthur stepped further into the room. He glanced quickly through the open door leading to the bathroom. Lancelot must have used the shower, but he was relieved to see no sign of flooding. The Tristan incident had been bad enough. Not to mention the time that Owein and Yvain had taken it into their heads to flush things down the toilet. Arthur had no idea what they had been thinking. The plumber, who had indignantly told Arthur, in exacting detail, what he had found in the pipes, had peevishly suggested a safety latch. It had taken Arthur a few moments to understand what the man was talking about. Luckily, he had managed to keep from automatically correcting the man about the presence of small children in the house.
Arthur took a deep breath and shut the bedroom door. He then asked, as calmly as he could manage, "What are you doing?"
"Looking for footwear," Lancelot answered his question as though it were quite obvious. As though that explained why he had been tossing shoes over his shoulder with enough force to reach the door. And Arthur‘s face. For the sake of his own sanity, Arthur decided to operate under the premise that the in-the-face part had been an accident. He would never get Lancelot to admit it one way or the other, anyway.
Arthur looked around the room that had been in perfect order when he had left it this morning. He winced as he caught sight of one particular shoe tossed into a corner. He hoped it was not too badly scuffed. He understood that those limited edition John Lobb’s were rather expensive.
He was trying to locate the mate when Lancelot held up the shoe he was holding. "These are all enormous, Arthur." He looked pointedly at Arthur's feet, and Arthur reflexively followed his gaze. "I don't remember your feet being that big. Are you sure Merlin”—he practically sneered the name—“brought you back all together correctly? Maybe he mistakenly mixed your bones up with those of some Saxon giant. Or perhaps it was his idea of a joke."
Arthur stared hard at his feet. They did look rather big . . . . He shook his head as if to dislodge the ridiculous thought. His eyes caught sight of the tray on the floor again, and he crouched down to gather up the broken crockery. Rather than offering to help, Lancelot watched him, looking amused. While Lancelot had always seen to his own horses and gear—indeed, woe betide anyone who laid a hand on any of Lancelot's possessions—Lancelot did not clean. Well, he was going to have to learn. All the knights had. Although Arthur sometimes thought that the risks associated with having a cleaning staff in the house were insignificant when compared with the disastrous results of some of the knights’ "cleaning" efforts.
Keeping his voice neutral with effort, Arthur said, "I thought Lavaine's shoes fit you."
Lancelot spoke as if to a particularly slow child. "But those were Lavaine's shoes." Arthur bit back the retort that and these were his shoes. Lancelot had always seemed to view it as his undisputable right to use whatever of Arthur's possessions struck his fancy. Of course, the reverse did not apply.
"And these shoes," Lancelot continued. "Look at them." Carelessly tossing aside the shoe he was still holding, he picked up another. "They're utterly useless. Flimsy." He bent the shoe nearly in half to demonstrate, making Arthur grimace. "Where are you keeping the real ones?" Without waiting for an answer, he threw that one aside as well and began to dig through Arthur's once carefully ordered closet again.
"Those are the real ones," Arthur protested, dropping the broken bits of the tea pot onto the tray—he had rather liked that pot too. "People nowadays don't have much need for more sturdy shoes. There are some who work on the land or in construction or those types of occupations, but most of the people ride in their cars and walk on paved paths."
"Most? You mean the rich ones." Lancelot snorted, still pulling shoes out of Arthur's closet.
Arthur bit back a retort. There was time enough to get Lancelot familiar with the economic realties of this time. Instead, he concentrated on the far more immediate need to preserve his shoes. "We'll get you some shoes of your own, alright? Ones you like. Just come away from the closet."
To his relief, Lancelot sat back. Arthur abandoned his tidying efforts and went over to him, intending to pull him away from the closet. As he bent down, he caught a whiff of Lancelot's hair. It smelled different from the shampoo or the soap that Arthur had in the bathroom.
"What is that scent?" he found himself asking as he took another deep breath.
"Oh, that. Galahad gave it to me. Said it was soap for one's hair.” Lancelot sounded half amused, half disgusted by the decadence of it. "He didn't say it would smell like bloody flowers. Don't worry, I'll get back at the little bastard."
Arthur thought that Galahad might have been trying to be helpful rather than playing a prank, but knew better than to get in between Lancelot and a grudge—real or perceived—with one of the other knights.
"I like it," was all he said, inhaling. Lancelot turned to look at him, and Arthur did not resist the urge to bend to kiss him, noting Lancelot’s rather surprised expression before he moved closer, practically into Arthur's lap as Arthur settled on the floor.
"You lied you know," Lancelot said, as Arthur released his mouth to kiss his neck.
"About what?" The indignation such an accusation would normally engender was dampened by his current preoccupation.
"There's not an unlimited supply of hot water. You said there was."
Surprised, he drew back far enough to look at Lancelot's eyes and absently pulled clear a shoe he had been sitting on. He recalled his explanation about how the bathroom worked. "Just how long were you in the shower?” he demanded. Then he thought better of getting into a debate about that. “Never mind." He wanted to put that mouth to better use.
He had one hand buried in Lancelot's damp hair, the other straying down to the front of Lancelot's jeans when a knock sounded at the door. Once such an interruption would have had Arthur springing away, but although he drew back reflexively, he realized—somewhat to his chagrin—that there was no one in this house who did not have a good idea of exactly what he and Lancelot did together. Having Lancelot in his room the last two nights would have been clue enough, even if the knights had not long since known the truth.
Gawain opened the door. He barely gave them a second glance, although he did look askance at the mess on the floor. "Lancelot, come on, will you? We've been waiting for ages."
Lancelot abandoned Arthur on the floor with rather insulting alacrity. As he stood, Gawain observed, "You have your shirt on backwards, you know."
Lancelot cast an affronted, accusatory look at Arthur. "Where are you going?' Arthur asked in a hasty attempt at deflection.
Lancelot pulled his arms out of the sleeves to turn the shirt about, in the course revealing the flat muscles of his stomach and the fact that the jeans were low slung enough to show his hipbones and that no one had thought to buy him underwear. Arthur swallowed and shifted a bit on the floor. He didn't quite catch Lancelot's answer. Something about a promise involving pigs.
He was just trying to puzzle it out when Lancelot paused by the door to comment, his tone mildly chiding, “If you don't clean it up properly, that milk you spilled is going to stink.”
Arthur was sputtering in indignation when Lancelot followed Gawain out the door—still barefoot—and then the meaning of the Lancelot’s earlier words caught up with him.
There was no way in hell he was letting Lancelot loose on one of Gawain's motorcycles.
He sprang up to rush after them, but tripped over one of the shoes strewn across the floor. He landed flat on his face with the wind knocked out of him. When he could breathe again, he realized his shirt was damp with milk, tea and strawberry preserves. An awkward look backward revealed the shoe that had tripped him—the other John Lobb—now crushed and mangled. The extent of the damage had him casting a suspicious look at the size of his own sprawled foot before he realized what he was doing. He closed his eyes and dropped his forehead on the floor for a moment.
After another moment, he scrambled to his feet to give chase, more alive than he had been in a long time.
End Notes: For a glimpse of Arthur’s abused shoes, go here (and click “ready to wear” and then “John Lobb 2007“), although his are black. Thanks to
darklyscarlett for the suggestion. No shoes were actually harmed in the writing of this crack.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2008-01-25 04:06 pm (UTC)This was good fun. And OMFG, he killed a John Lobb! *cries* BTW, your link to the site is hosed.
Hair soap? Good one. Really, this is lovely. Made my day, as I'm now going stir crazy at home (now I know how Tor feels), banned from returning until Monday by a germ-phobic G-money.
no subject
Date: 2008-01-25 05:46 pm (UTC)Personally, I would love to be banned from the office. Are you not feeling up to getting out of the apartment?
And thanks, fixed the link. I felt a bit bad about the mangling of the fancy shoe--but not bad enough not to do it.
no subject
Date: 2008-01-25 10:06 pm (UTC)I hate being even slightly sick, especially when we have no events and almost nothing going on because we're having the event floor carpet redone, so there's no excuse to come to work (and risk G-money's rebuke/Lysol spraying). I start becoming a depressed, neurotic slugabed with backache. Right now, I'm hating everyone and everything, so I'm trying to distract myself by doctoring some Whole Foods pasta sauce (I ran out of tomato paste and onions to make my own from scratch).
Anyway that's why I'm particularly thankful for the timing of Crackiversary. I get to mope alongside Gaheris and Din.
no subject
Date: 2008-01-26 03:44 pm (UTC)I get to mope alongside Gaheris and Din.
I don't know if Gaheris is actually moping, though. Although he was rather . . . displeased to find the water in the shower ice cold. I'm sure he'll vent his temper on someone. Din, yeah, at this point there's no denying he is.
no subject
Date: 2008-01-26 05:00 pm (UTC)I think Gaheris is moping about thee other two G's having nervous breakdowns and waking up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night AND refusing to talk to each other about it. Not that he would ever let on to either of them.
Oh, poor Din. I'm waiting for him to truly lose it on Tris.
no subject
Date: 2008-01-25 07:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-01-26 03:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-01-26 12:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-01-26 03:47 pm (UTC)Thanks for reading!
no subject
Date: 2008-01-26 01:28 am (UTC)Great stuff. Thanks for sharing.
no subject
Date: 2008-01-26 03:49 pm (UTC)Glad you liked it!
no subject
Date: 2008-01-26 01:45 am (UTC)Shelley
no subject
Date: 2008-01-26 03:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-01-26 12:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-01-26 03:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-01-28 08:55 pm (UTC)Poor Arthur....attempting to introduce Lance into modern times...gods...probably the most difficult thing Arthur has ever encountered. *laughs* And I love the reference to Harley Davidson motorcycles. *laughs* That was so funny and clever!
Well done as always....*hugs*
no subject
Date: 2008-01-29 05:34 pm (UTC)Thanks for reading!
no subject
Date: 2008-02-09 09:07 am (UTC)*sigh* I love this 'verse so dearly. And a crackiversary, how awesome is that! (Apologies for the delay in commenting. Could I have gotten here sooner, I would have.) Thanks for writing!
no subject
Date: 2008-02-10 04:22 pm (UTC)Thanks for reading!