(no subject)
Author:
llassah
Fandom: Slings and Arrows
Pairing: Geoffrey/Ellen
Rating: PG-13, possibly R
Length: 1,100 words(ish)
Notes: Written for the March
shuffleupagus challenge, for the picture prompt Moving. As it transpires, this is moving in all its forms, but shelves are featured. It was interesting writing this one, it's vaguely tempting to go all metaish about picture prompts, but thankfully I think the temptation will pass if I lie down for a few minutes *g*. This is Geoffrey preshow, in that he's mad. If you prefer your Geoffrey to be all sunshine and bunnies, give this one a miss. But no more misery is heaped upon him than that which the series has depicted.
When the wind is southerly, he knows he is mad. That is his blessing, his curse, an awareness that staring at a blank wall is not all he has ever done. And when he welcomes the knowledge, he knows that the madness is in a desire for sanity.
He decides one day that he wants to be mad; he wants to stop fighting it, to move with it, not against it. He stops struggling with the nurses, sits quietly at mealtimes and answers questions- how are we today? Do you want one or two pills? Why did you just do that?- sometimes with a lie, sometimes with the truth, always with an even tone and a measured smile. The rope he is teetering along becomes a board of wood, and the adventure is not in getting across the ravine, but in staying still and quiet suspended between the cliffs. He does it well: makes himself a little world built cunningly, stays silent when he has nothing to say and his room seems to get smaller, less blank.
One day they let him out even though he’s sure that he is still insane. He picks a street on one of the bus routes, gets off the bus and stands with one foot on each paving slab, trying not to think about blocking. The first apartment he sees that does letting, he goes into and asks for, very politely. The landlady asks about money. He tells her he has some. It might even be the truth. He might be lying. He doesn’t know, so she doesn’t either.
All the people he sees are beautiful, eyes shining, all angels, all moving with stained glass shimmers. The sunlight blazes on their skins, like the fire of angels. He almost goes into a church but his fists clench and something curls, dark and fierce, in his stomach. He wants to go up to one of the people in the street and check that they’re alive, put his fingers on their pulsepoint, on the neck near where the jaw hinges. Then he wants to make them celebrate that they are alive and they take it for granted. They should be praised for their complacency, for their simplicity. They should be kissed and worshipped, venerated, these living ignorant saints. He keeps moving.
He had wanted to marry her. It hits him as he is buying a carton of milk a week later. He stays silent as he pays for the milk, bites his lip as he walks along the sidewalk, and it feels like it’s a race to get home before he says something, does something and the sanity’s back, reminding him of the madness. He moves quickly. Blood trickles down where he has bitten his lip.
The next day he buys a set of bookshelves- the money exists, apparently- and writes to one of his college friends. The message is simple: ask her for my books please, and they are returned within a week. She has also put in his records, and three of his belts. He puts the crate by the bookshelves, and makes himself some soup. He thinks vaguely of reading one of them, but never gets around to it. He doesn’t have a record player either, but takes out one of the records, an old Stones LP and strokes along the grooves in it, following their lines with gentle fingers. If he isn’t gentle, he knows he will throw it against the wall, shatter it, and the noise will make his head hurt. He stands up, looks at the rickety old table he bought from a yard sale and sets it with knives and forks, and plates. He sticks a candle in a wineglass and goes out to find himself a way to fill the silences.
Her name is Cheryl. She used to be a communist, but found out Lenin was a complete bastard, so she doesn’t know what she is really. She talks rapidly, makes many gestures with her hands and slurps the spaghetti. She knows about Aphra Behn, and read Virginia Woolf because she thought briefly about becoming a feminist, she still might be but she doesn’t know. I don’t know is a frequent, refreshing addition to most of her remarks. He listens to her chatter, and nods dumbly to her inviting herself back the next week.
He agrees to do what she wants him to because it is easier that way. He lets her change things, shift things around in his life, and the impermanence is a beautiful thing, without the foreverness of madness, damnation, love. He doesn’t think any of this will last, and never asks her if she does. She feeds him, and would darn his socks if he let her. She is still a feminist communist artistic rebel. She still doesn’t know. She seems to expect him to sometimes, though.
Things move again.
Things move, shift, keep moving. He talks to Oliver’s skull, holds a razorblade in his mouth, kisses Ellen, cuts Darren, feels life shifting into something more permanent. Things change, and keep changing. He cries for some of the changes, laughs for some of them, and eats mints for the ones he doesn’t know how to react to. The church is a place for a more ordinary angel, and he finds the fire of Michael’s sword is not steel, but in a question gently asked. He prepares for flight, but can only stay still now that he is freed.
She takes him away with her, and the sunlight shines on her face. There are wrinkles on that pale skin, still fear in that bright smile. She fears death, getting older, change. Movement.
She is an angel. He knows that now, knew it back then, will know it later on when things have moved again. She is an angel underneath him, wings furled, legs wrapped around him tight, so tight, feet cold pressed up against him as she welcomes him into her with gasps and cries and moans. These four walls are new around them, an old bed in a new room, and the sunlight shines through windows still bare of curtains. Her cry echoes from the room and into him, and when he comes fire blazes across the backs of his eyelids. She lies curled around him, still, so still. Across the room, there is a crate full of books. Soon, he will unpack them, and maybe stop moving for a while. The world is large, the world is in this room, the world is in her lips, her sighs. The world is that crate of books. He stops moving, lets the world come to him.
llassah
Fandom: Slings and Arrows
Pairing: Geoffrey/Ellen
Rating: PG-13, possibly R
Length: 1,100 words(ish)
Notes: Written for the March
shuffleupagus challenge, for the picture prompt Moving. As it transpires, this is moving in all its forms, but shelves are featured. It was interesting writing this one, it's vaguely tempting to go all metaish about picture prompts, but thankfully I think the temptation will pass if I lie down for a few minutes *g*. This is Geoffrey preshow, in that he's mad. If you prefer your Geoffrey to be all sunshine and bunnies, give this one a miss. But no more misery is heaped upon him than that which the series has depicted.
When the wind is southerly, he knows he is mad. That is his blessing, his curse, an awareness that staring at a blank wall is not all he has ever done. And when he welcomes the knowledge, he knows that the madness is in a desire for sanity.
He decides one day that he wants to be mad; he wants to stop fighting it, to move with it, not against it. He stops struggling with the nurses, sits quietly at mealtimes and answers questions- how are we today? Do you want one or two pills? Why did you just do that?- sometimes with a lie, sometimes with the truth, always with an even tone and a measured smile. The rope he is teetering along becomes a board of wood, and the adventure is not in getting across the ravine, but in staying still and quiet suspended between the cliffs. He does it well: makes himself a little world built cunningly, stays silent when he has nothing to say and his room seems to get smaller, less blank.
One day they let him out even though he’s sure that he is still insane. He picks a street on one of the bus routes, gets off the bus and stands with one foot on each paving slab, trying not to think about blocking. The first apartment he sees that does letting, he goes into and asks for, very politely. The landlady asks about money. He tells her he has some. It might even be the truth. He might be lying. He doesn’t know, so she doesn’t either.
All the people he sees are beautiful, eyes shining, all angels, all moving with stained glass shimmers. The sunlight blazes on their skins, like the fire of angels. He almost goes into a church but his fists clench and something curls, dark and fierce, in his stomach. He wants to go up to one of the people in the street and check that they’re alive, put his fingers on their pulsepoint, on the neck near where the jaw hinges. Then he wants to make them celebrate that they are alive and they take it for granted. They should be praised for their complacency, for their simplicity. They should be kissed and worshipped, venerated, these living ignorant saints. He keeps moving.
He had wanted to marry her. It hits him as he is buying a carton of milk a week later. He stays silent as he pays for the milk, bites his lip as he walks along the sidewalk, and it feels like it’s a race to get home before he says something, does something and the sanity’s back, reminding him of the madness. He moves quickly. Blood trickles down where he has bitten his lip.
The next day he buys a set of bookshelves- the money exists, apparently- and writes to one of his college friends. The message is simple: ask her for my books please, and they are returned within a week. She has also put in his records, and three of his belts. He puts the crate by the bookshelves, and makes himself some soup. He thinks vaguely of reading one of them, but never gets around to it. He doesn’t have a record player either, but takes out one of the records, an old Stones LP and strokes along the grooves in it, following their lines with gentle fingers. If he isn’t gentle, he knows he will throw it against the wall, shatter it, and the noise will make his head hurt. He stands up, looks at the rickety old table he bought from a yard sale and sets it with knives and forks, and plates. He sticks a candle in a wineglass and goes out to find himself a way to fill the silences.
Her name is Cheryl. She used to be a communist, but found out Lenin was a complete bastard, so she doesn’t know what she is really. She talks rapidly, makes many gestures with her hands and slurps the spaghetti. She knows about Aphra Behn, and read Virginia Woolf because she thought briefly about becoming a feminist, she still might be but she doesn’t know. I don’t know is a frequent, refreshing addition to most of her remarks. He listens to her chatter, and nods dumbly to her inviting herself back the next week.
He agrees to do what she wants him to because it is easier that way. He lets her change things, shift things around in his life, and the impermanence is a beautiful thing, without the foreverness of madness, damnation, love. He doesn’t think any of this will last, and never asks her if she does. She feeds him, and would darn his socks if he let her. She is still a feminist communist artistic rebel. She still doesn’t know. She seems to expect him to sometimes, though.
Things move again.
Things move, shift, keep moving. He talks to Oliver’s skull, holds a razorblade in his mouth, kisses Ellen, cuts Darren, feels life shifting into something more permanent. Things change, and keep changing. He cries for some of the changes, laughs for some of them, and eats mints for the ones he doesn’t know how to react to. The church is a place for a more ordinary angel, and he finds the fire of Michael’s sword is not steel, but in a question gently asked. He prepares for flight, but can only stay still now that he is freed.
She takes him away with her, and the sunlight shines on her face. There are wrinkles on that pale skin, still fear in that bright smile. She fears death, getting older, change. Movement.
She is an angel. He knows that now, knew it back then, will know it later on when things have moved again. She is an angel underneath him, wings furled, legs wrapped around him tight, so tight, feet cold pressed up against him as she welcomes him into her with gasps and cries and moans. These four walls are new around them, an old bed in a new room, and the sunlight shines through windows still bare of curtains. Her cry echoes from the room and into him, and when he comes fire blazes across the backs of his eyelids. She lies curled around him, still, so still. Across the room, there is a crate full of books. Soon, he will unpack them, and maybe stop moving for a while. The world is large, the world is in this room, the world is in her lips, her sighs. The world is that crate of books. He stops moving, lets the world come to him.