bob fic #3: Snowglobes
Bob/Gerard
Standalone
PG
written May 2006
Bob shoves his hands deeper in his pockets and shrugs, hoping the movement will peel the sweat-soaked fabric away from his back. The shirt clings to him like a second skin and he shrugs again, frowning. It's not supposed to be this hot in December, he thinks as he wanders along the aisle, eyes casually scanning the displays. It's supposed to be cold. It's supposed to be snowing. The air's supposed to be crisp and fresh, not thick and humid. He wants to smell mud and slush, not salt and sweat.
This Southern Hemisphere shit's kinda fucked-up, he thinks.
"Can I help you there, sir?"
Bob looks up and smiles, shaking his head. "I'm fine, thanks. Just lookin' around," he says, and the shop assistant grins back before disappearing. Hmm, he thinks. Australian accents are cute. Sure, they make an "i" sound like an "e", and the pitch rises at the end of every sentence ... but it's cute.
He stops in front of the store's Christmas display and his breath catches. It's the proverbial winter wonderland -- wreaths and spray-on snow, tinsel and candles, stockings hung by the fireplace -- and Bob wonders whether these Aussies are out of their minds. They're trying to recreate winter in the middle of fucking summer. It's stinking hot, perfect weather for surfing and barbecues and lazing by the pool, and they're decorating their homes for the holidays with holly and mistletoe? Eating roast turkey and plum pudding when a salad would be better?
Does holly even grow in this climate?
He rubs his chin and exhales, remembering that most Christmas traditions come from Europe -- and so do most Australians, give or take a few generations -- so it makes sense that they'd take the traditions from their original countries. Bob understands this, but he still thinks the logic is flawed. Man, I bet they sing Jingle Bells and Let it Snow, even if it's a hundred fucking degrees outside ...
Bob keeps walking, past the plush reindeers and Santas, the gift-wrapping stalls and carved Nativity scenes, grinning when he notices a Bob the Builder advent calendar. He only stops when he sees the snowglobe.
It's like the one he had as a child -- only better. It's better because it doesn't have a perfect little cottage and flower garden. No, this snowglobe is a cityscape; a lone boy in front of a row of tall, grey buildings. There's even a little car driving past. And all Bob can think of is home, as he picks up the globe and shakes it, watching the white flakes flutter down, coating the city, cleansing it.
There's that brief moment, before the snow turns slushy brown and people's feet track through it ... where everything seems so pristine. Like a fairytale, but better, he thinks, because there aren't any stupid princesses. Just people. People like Bob, ordinary people without servants or magic or fairy godmothers to help them through life, people who have to work to make their money. People who have to work their asses off for their happy endings.
"Whatcha lookin' at?"
Bob turns around to see Gerard standing behind him, a small stack of comic books tucked under one arm. He shrugs and holds up the snowglobe. "Just -- you know."
"Ooh, lemme see." Christmas always brings out the child in Gerard; he takes the snowglobe from Bob and examines it carefully, moving it from one hand to the other, watching the snow swirl around. Then he looks up. "It's you."
"What are you -- "
"Look," Gerard says, pointing at the boy inside. "That's you, Bob. Like, no matter how hard the snow is falling, you're still there. Everyone else -- like the guy in the car there -- they take off, 'cause they can't deal. It's cold, and their houses are warm. But you don't care about that. You always stay until it stops snowing."
Bob pulls a face and crosses his arms. "Why would I do that?"
"So you can clean up afterwards and make the sun shine again." Gerard looks up at Bob shyly, then laughs softly at the bemused look on his face. "Hmm, I think I'm gonna buy this ... Come on, let's get outta here."
"Okay," he says slowly, still confused. Gerard, the snowglobe clasped in one hand, tugs at Bob's shirt sleeve with the other.
"Hurry up."
"What's the big deal? Why are you in such a rush?" Bob says, eyebrows raised as Gerard literally drags him towards the checkout.
The dark-haired singer turns and grins at him. "Why?" he whispers. "Because I really wanna kiss you right now, and I can't do it here."
Standalone
PG
written May 2006
Bob shoves his hands deeper in his pockets and shrugs, hoping the movement will peel the sweat-soaked fabric away from his back. The shirt clings to him like a second skin and he shrugs again, frowning. It's not supposed to be this hot in December, he thinks as he wanders along the aisle, eyes casually scanning the displays. It's supposed to be cold. It's supposed to be snowing. The air's supposed to be crisp and fresh, not thick and humid. He wants to smell mud and slush, not salt and sweat.
This Southern Hemisphere shit's kinda fucked-up, he thinks.
"Can I help you there, sir?"
Bob looks up and smiles, shaking his head. "I'm fine, thanks. Just lookin' around," he says, and the shop assistant grins back before disappearing. Hmm, he thinks. Australian accents are cute. Sure, they make an "i" sound like an "e", and the pitch rises at the end of every sentence ... but it's cute.
He stops in front of the store's Christmas display and his breath catches. It's the proverbial winter wonderland -- wreaths and spray-on snow, tinsel and candles, stockings hung by the fireplace -- and Bob wonders whether these Aussies are out of their minds. They're trying to recreate winter in the middle of fucking summer. It's stinking hot, perfect weather for surfing and barbecues and lazing by the pool, and they're decorating their homes for the holidays with holly and mistletoe? Eating roast turkey and plum pudding when a salad would be better?
Does holly even grow in this climate?
He rubs his chin and exhales, remembering that most Christmas traditions come from Europe -- and so do most Australians, give or take a few generations -- so it makes sense that they'd take the traditions from their original countries. Bob understands this, but he still thinks the logic is flawed. Man, I bet they sing Jingle Bells and Let it Snow, even if it's a hundred fucking degrees outside ...
Bob keeps walking, past the plush reindeers and Santas, the gift-wrapping stalls and carved Nativity scenes, grinning when he notices a Bob the Builder advent calendar. He only stops when he sees the snowglobe.
It's like the one he had as a child -- only better. It's better because it doesn't have a perfect little cottage and flower garden. No, this snowglobe is a cityscape; a lone boy in front of a row of tall, grey buildings. There's even a little car driving past. And all Bob can think of is home, as he picks up the globe and shakes it, watching the white flakes flutter down, coating the city, cleansing it.
There's that brief moment, before the snow turns slushy brown and people's feet track through it ... where everything seems so pristine. Like a fairytale, but better, he thinks, because there aren't any stupid princesses. Just people. People like Bob, ordinary people without servants or magic or fairy godmothers to help them through life, people who have to work to make their money. People who have to work their asses off for their happy endings.
"Whatcha lookin' at?"
Bob turns around to see Gerard standing behind him, a small stack of comic books tucked under one arm. He shrugs and holds up the snowglobe. "Just -- you know."
"Ooh, lemme see." Christmas always brings out the child in Gerard; he takes the snowglobe from Bob and examines it carefully, moving it from one hand to the other, watching the snow swirl around. Then he looks up. "It's you."
"What are you -- "
"Look," Gerard says, pointing at the boy inside. "That's you, Bob. Like, no matter how hard the snow is falling, you're still there. Everyone else -- like the guy in the car there -- they take off, 'cause they can't deal. It's cold, and their houses are warm. But you don't care about that. You always stay until it stops snowing."
Bob pulls a face and crosses his arms. "Why would I do that?"
"So you can clean up afterwards and make the sun shine again." Gerard looks up at Bob shyly, then laughs softly at the bemused look on his face. "Hmm, I think I'm gonna buy this ... Come on, let's get outta here."
"Okay," he says slowly, still confused. Gerard, the snowglobe clasped in one hand, tugs at Bob's shirt sleeve with the other.
"Hurry up."
"What's the big deal? Why are you in such a rush?" Bob says, eyebrows raised as Gerard literally drags him towards the checkout.
The dark-haired singer turns and grins at him. "Why?" he whispers. "Because I really wanna kiss you right now, and I can't do it here."