(no subject)
Title: leave your body and soul at the door
Author: spamdilemma
Requested by: shanalle
Fandom: Arrested Development/Friends
Rating: PG
Words: 1,050
Pairing: Buster/Phoebe. Ish.
Phoebe's Saturday at noon isn't a regular, but walks in as if she is, all frosted lipstick and tone and purpose. Under all the Armani trappings, there are scratches running down her spindly back.
"My son," says Frosty, as if she read minds. "He keeps jamming his hook in my zipper."
**
Lucille rolls her eyes knowingly, and reaches for her one o'clock scotch. "Don't be ridiculous. I bribed the army only yesterday," she says.
"I happen to be a top recruit," says Buster, standing in the doorway, hook resting against his hip until pain registers. "And this is not for army, mother --"
"Then who could it have been?" says Lucille in wonder. "Vagrants these days, they all wear fatigues and those little purple buttons. I suppose it makes mugging easier."
"I am being recruited," says Buster loudly, "to the finest organization this country has ever known: The Olympic Games."
"You?"
"Yes," says Buster. "I have the paperwork right here."
Lucille reads on with a twist of a smile. "Where do I sign?" she asks.
**
Phoebe's one o'clock Mondays reminds her of Monica, fussy and body all in knots, talking faster than he can breathe. He loves his son and loves to hate his family, and he really is Monica all over.
"-- my brother, Buster. He has no direction in life. I mean, with all the Cartography classes he's taken, he should know, well, something. And Lindsay --"
Phoebe nods along, because clients like that sort of thing. An hour of pity massage goes a long way to meeting each month's rent.
On her chai break, she checks her voicemail. "Pheebs -- I'm on the waiting list," Joey says, pride rising above the static. "There's only like, two people ahead of me, so yeah." Yeah, Phoebe thinks, picking at her cheap purple nail polish, hoping she can squeeze in an extra session on Thursday. She hates knowing better.
**
Lucille watches his face -- hers, really, reflected in the lens -- with amusement. "What the --" curses George Sr. by proxy. "What are you doing sending him out to the wolves like that?"
"The last time I checked, wolves didn't foam at the mouth," says Lucille. "Unless they had rabies."
"What?" asks the surrogate, a beat later.
"George," says Lucille, level with the camera, "What harm could come to him? They'll run around for a few hours, or until one of them goes into a fit, and the foaming commences. Besides, since when are you concerned just what our son does?"
"Don't give me that garbage, Lucille," says the surrogate blankly. "I care what Buster does when he's about to make an ass of himself and our name during a televised event."
"Oh, so now you worry about image," snits Lucille. "You can't even look me in the eye when you say that."
"I don't want our turd son shitting all over a racetrack!" says George Sr., all vehemence lost in translation.
"I am an Olympian!" says Buster, his presence sudden, mostly.
"Special," adds Lucille.
"Para!" says Buster. "And for your information, I won't be anywhere near the racetrack. I'll be in the pool, where turds happen to float!"
"I'll call Michael," says Lucille, reaching for the phone. "He's dipped his heel into this sort of thing, of his own volition."
Michael refuses her Rita's number, grumbling, "We broke up weeks ago, mom. I can't believe how little tact -- well, I can believe that, but --"
Lucille makes a face. "Is that still a sore spot with you, Michael?"
"Yes, mom, still sore," Michael exasperates. "And I'm late for my one o'clock appointment, so. Goodbye."
"Michael's still grieving over his sweet idiot," Lucille announces. "He never could handle a woman who could bench press his weight."
"Rita can bench press his weight?" asks Buster.
"She has thick arms," says Lucille, pouring herself another drink. She gestures to the surrogate, who shrugs. Why not?
**
Her ten o'clock Thursdays makes Phoebe think of Rachel. Issues cured by the shopping bags in hand, and no job to speak of. She loves herself just enough to forget about her hate.
"My brother Michael can't stop hounding me," she says with reproach. "All he cares about is money, and all I care about is making a difference in this crazy world. I've been fighting for some terrific causes -- like TBA. Well." She falters. "Did I ever tell you my little brother's Para? Can you imagine, my sweet brother, the Para Olympian?"
"Oh, I always thought that that was a neat cause," says Phoebe. "You know, with the ribbons and the torches and the elevated shoes. Did you ever sponsor those?"
"This year -- this year is our first, actually. We finally beat that darn TBA. Found the cure and beat it to a pulp."
"That is so great." Phoebe smiles and tries not to think about Joey's phone calls about coming up short or always having to twist out whatever change she can with her bare hands. "I want to help," she says.
"You do?" asks Rachel II.
"I had my doubts after my competition busted out the glitter confetti, but I'm still in the running," says Joey over a cup of hot coffee. It makes her sweat, but she can't take it with ice. It still feels wrong. But it tastes good again, like it's just coffee and not the remains of a life spent on orange couches and crappy folk songs.
"Yeah, you are," says Phoebe, and means it.
**
"Really, Michael. Not even for your own Para brother?" says Lindsay meaningfully.
"This is not about Bust -- and could you stop calling him that?"
"No, I know exactly what this is about. Your vanity, Michael. Your selfish, hideous vanity."
Michael rubs a hand through his hair. "I'm not even going to respond to that. And this is not remotely about Buster. It's about you committing yourself to something you have no intention of seeing through."
"You just watch and see," dares Lindsay.
Lindsay puts Phoebe on speed dial, 'M' for 'Masseuse.' It's kind of nice to talk down to someone and not have to pay for it.
**
Lindsay gives her no direction, but Phoebe's come to expect it. Phoebe's come to expect a lot of things, weirdly enough. And it's not weird at all to travel down the length of the pool and discover someone totally new.
He's like Joey, brand new soul smell and all. Phoebe knows him. She's known him all along somehow.
**
Buster turns at his name, and standing there is the most beautiful woman he's ever seen.
Author: spamdilemma
Requested by: shanalle
Fandom: Arrested Development/Friends
Rating: PG
Words: 1,050
Pairing: Buster/Phoebe. Ish.
Phoebe's Saturday at noon isn't a regular, but walks in as if she is, all frosted lipstick and tone and purpose. Under all the Armani trappings, there are scratches running down her spindly back.
"My son," says Frosty, as if she read minds. "He keeps jamming his hook in my zipper."
**
Lucille rolls her eyes knowingly, and reaches for her one o'clock scotch. "Don't be ridiculous. I bribed the army only yesterday," she says.
"I happen to be a top recruit," says Buster, standing in the doorway, hook resting against his hip until pain registers. "And this is not for army, mother --"
"Then who could it have been?" says Lucille in wonder. "Vagrants these days, they all wear fatigues and those little purple buttons. I suppose it makes mugging easier."
"I am being recruited," says Buster loudly, "to the finest organization this country has ever known: The Olympic Games."
"You?"
"Yes," says Buster. "I have the paperwork right here."
Lucille reads on with a twist of a smile. "Where do I sign?" she asks.
**
Phoebe's one o'clock Mondays reminds her of Monica, fussy and body all in knots, talking faster than he can breathe. He loves his son and loves to hate his family, and he really is Monica all over.
"-- my brother, Buster. He has no direction in life. I mean, with all the Cartography classes he's taken, he should know, well, something. And Lindsay --"
Phoebe nods along, because clients like that sort of thing. An hour of pity massage goes a long way to meeting each month's rent.
On her chai break, she checks her voicemail. "Pheebs -- I'm on the waiting list," Joey says, pride rising above the static. "There's only like, two people ahead of me, so yeah." Yeah, Phoebe thinks, picking at her cheap purple nail polish, hoping she can squeeze in an extra session on Thursday. She hates knowing better.
**
Lucille watches his face -- hers, really, reflected in the lens -- with amusement. "What the --" curses George Sr. by proxy. "What are you doing sending him out to the wolves like that?"
"The last time I checked, wolves didn't foam at the mouth," says Lucille. "Unless they had rabies."
"What?" asks the surrogate, a beat later.
"George," says Lucille, level with the camera, "What harm could come to him? They'll run around for a few hours, or until one of them goes into a fit, and the foaming commences. Besides, since when are you concerned just what our son does?"
"Don't give me that garbage, Lucille," says the surrogate blankly. "I care what Buster does when he's about to make an ass of himself and our name during a televised event."
"Oh, so now you worry about image," snits Lucille. "You can't even look me in the eye when you say that."
"I don't want our turd son shitting all over a racetrack!" says George Sr., all vehemence lost in translation.
"I am an Olympian!" says Buster, his presence sudden, mostly.
"Special," adds Lucille.
"Para!" says Buster. "And for your information, I won't be anywhere near the racetrack. I'll be in the pool, where turds happen to float!"
"I'll call Michael," says Lucille, reaching for the phone. "He's dipped his heel into this sort of thing, of his own volition."
Michael refuses her Rita's number, grumbling, "We broke up weeks ago, mom. I can't believe how little tact -- well, I can believe that, but --"
Lucille makes a face. "Is that still a sore spot with you, Michael?"
"Yes, mom, still sore," Michael exasperates. "And I'm late for my one o'clock appointment, so. Goodbye."
"Michael's still grieving over his sweet idiot," Lucille announces. "He never could handle a woman who could bench press his weight."
"Rita can bench press his weight?" asks Buster.
"She has thick arms," says Lucille, pouring herself another drink. She gestures to the surrogate, who shrugs. Why not?
**
Her ten o'clock Thursdays makes Phoebe think of Rachel. Issues cured by the shopping bags in hand, and no job to speak of. She loves herself just enough to forget about her hate.
"My brother Michael can't stop hounding me," she says with reproach. "All he cares about is money, and all I care about is making a difference in this crazy world. I've been fighting for some terrific causes -- like TBA. Well." She falters. "Did I ever tell you my little brother's Para? Can you imagine, my sweet brother, the Para Olympian?"
"Oh, I always thought that that was a neat cause," says Phoebe. "You know, with the ribbons and the torches and the elevated shoes. Did you ever sponsor those?"
"This year -- this year is our first, actually. We finally beat that darn TBA. Found the cure and beat it to a pulp."
"That is so great." Phoebe smiles and tries not to think about Joey's phone calls about coming up short or always having to twist out whatever change she can with her bare hands. "I want to help," she says.
"You do?" asks Rachel II.
"I had my doubts after my competition busted out the glitter confetti, but I'm still in the running," says Joey over a cup of hot coffee. It makes her sweat, but she can't take it with ice. It still feels wrong. But it tastes good again, like it's just coffee and not the remains of a life spent on orange couches and crappy folk songs.
"Yeah, you are," says Phoebe, and means it.
**
"Really, Michael. Not even for your own Para brother?" says Lindsay meaningfully.
"This is not about Bust -- and could you stop calling him that?"
"No, I know exactly what this is about. Your vanity, Michael. Your selfish, hideous vanity."
Michael rubs a hand through his hair. "I'm not even going to respond to that. And this is not remotely about Buster. It's about you committing yourself to something you have no intention of seeing through."
"You just watch and see," dares Lindsay.
Lindsay puts Phoebe on speed dial, 'M' for 'Masseuse.' It's kind of nice to talk down to someone and not have to pay for it.
**
Lindsay gives her no direction, but Phoebe's come to expect it. Phoebe's come to expect a lot of things, weirdly enough. And it's not weird at all to travel down the length of the pool and discover someone totally new.
He's like Joey, brand new soul smell and all. Phoebe knows him. She's known him all along somehow.
**
Buster turns at his name, and standing there is the most beautiful woman he's ever seen.