Original x SPN -- Take Me Out to a Film
Title: Take Me Out to a Film
Fandom: SPN attacks Vincent & Co. (PART II!)
Characters/Pairing: Vincent/Maion, with much Belial and Edward Blevins
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,069
Warnings: language, insanity, obscene geekery
Prompt: In the previous installment, there is talk of Vincent and Maion going to see "The Hobbit". sabriel75 wanted to know if they ever manage it. This happened.
Summary: Going to see An Unexpected Journey turns out to be A Tremendous Ordeal.
Author's Note: Dear Thorin/Bilbo shippers: I respect your pairing and regularly admire your amazing fanart. It's nothing personal that Edward Blevins is not so openminded a fanboy. XDDDD Dear sabriel75: HOLY CRAP, WHAT IS THIS MADNESS?! I hope you enjoy the rampant nerdery, bb; I love you so very, very, very much. ♥;
TAKE ME OUT TO A FILM
Belial is singing. It is a terrible pity that Maion starts whimpering every time a driver takes their hands away from the ten-and-two position on the wheel, because Vincent would kill to be able to douse the demon with the travel mug full of holy water that currently occupies the front seat cup-holder.
“Take me out to the ciiiiinemaaaa-”
A stint in hell itself must be more pleasant than being trapped in an enclosed vehicle with Belial.
“Take me out to a fiiiiiilm-buy me some overpriced movie snacks-I don’t care if your credit card’s maxed-”
Vincent has never given Blevins’s aesthetic sense much credit, but since the werewolf is currently pressed to the window with his hands over his ears, it may be necessary to revisit that opinion.
“’Cause it’s cat-cat-catcall the loooove plot; if they don’t fuck it’s a shame-”
“Shouldn’t say that word,” Maion murmurs.
“And it’s one-two-three trailers, but they all look the saaaaame!”
Blevins peels a hand away from his ear and scowls darkly. “There’s no love plot in ‘The Hobbit’, asshole.”
“Of course there is,” Belial says cheerfully. “Just ask the internet.”
Blevins looks mortified.
Vincent doesn’t have time to fret about the slow and devastating desecration of Blevins’s fanboy dreams; he’s on a rigorous schedule of worrying about whether Maion will make through a three-hour movie without experiencing any symptoms of post-traumatic stress. The last thing he wants to cope with today is an angelic panic attack in the middle of a movie theater. He’s cautiously optimistic about the fact that Peter Jackson’s Hobbit dwarves appear to be a cross between Snow White’s miniature harem and a particularly hairy selection of Harlequin cover subjects, such that they bear little more than a passing resemblance to the real thing, but it nonetheless pushes Blevins’s concerns about authorial intent to the most distant of backburners.
“Settle down, children,” Vincent says, focusing on the road as he pulls into the nightmarishly crowded parking structure of the shopping mall.
“I’m older than you,” Belial says. “I’m older than Hebrew. I’m older than Neanderthals. I’m older than-”
“Dirt?” Blevins hazards.
“I’m still keeping score of your Soul Points,” Belial says. “You’re gonna be mine when you die, bitch.”
“Guess I’ll have to live forever,” Blevins says.
“Well, you’re in the perfect line of work for it,” Belial says sweetly.
“Shut up,” Blevins says.
“Both of you shut up,” Vincent says.
“All of you be nice,” Maion says.
Vincent swings the Bentley into a parking space and hauls up the parking brake. This outing cannot be over fast enough.
“Great,” Blevins says. “That just took another five years off my life. Thanks for your unwavering support in my quest for immortality, Duval.”
“You don’t want immortality,” Vincent says as he opens his door. “Trust me.”
“I don’t trust you,” Blevins says, clambering out as well.
“Touché.”
“It’s not so bad,” Maion says brightly, slipping his arm through Vincent’s as they start off towards the nearest mall entrance. “When you get bored, you can catalogue tectonic movement since the dawn of time. It’s very interesting. I did a university presentation on it once, but nobody believed me about my data.”
“I guess they didn’t think you were-” Belial stops walking to emphasize his dramatic pause. “-down to Earth.”
“Oh, my God,” Blevins says. “Fuck you.”
“Good thing your mother’s not around to hear that,” Belial says. “You’d be grounded.”
Blevins grits his teeth. “Can the power of Christ to compel you to go away?”
“C’mon,” Belial says. “You don’t want to do that. I rock.”
Blevins hunches his shoulders and glares daggers. “Remind me why the fuck we had to bring him along again?”
“Have you ever tried getting rid of him?” Vincent asks.
“I’ve tried killing him,” Blevins says, and he seems to be attempting an intimidating voice.
“That was cute,” Belial says cheerfully. “I forgive you.”
“Really?” Maion asks, wide-eyed, clinging a little tighter to Vincent’s elbow in his amazement. “That-that is awfully generous of you.”
“I’m just classy like that,” Belial says.
Blevins darts forward to reach the escalator first in order to put the joined-at-the-arm Vincent and Maion between himself and the demon. “Yeah. Sure.”
“Uncharitable skepticism,” Belial says primly. “That’s a vice. I know, because I invented it.”
“Bullshit,” Blevins says.
“Unnecessary swearing I also invented, you adorable little bastard.”
Maion clears his throat. “You should both consider minced oaths as an alternative method for sublimating your suppressed emotions.”
“Fuck off,” Blevins and Belial say in perfect unison, the former darkly, the latter with a beaming grin.
“Leave him alone,” Vincent says, “or you’re buying your own tickets.”
“Dastardly,” Belial says.
“One does one’s best,” Vincent says.
As soon as Maion spots the marquee of the theater, he starts hauling on Vincent’s arm and generally resembling an overexcited puppy. “We’re here, we’re here, we’re here! How much time do we have until the show starts?” He gasps as they step into the line. “Vincent! Can I have popcorn?”
“Yes, dear,” Vincent says.
“Puke,” Belial says.
Vincent bites his tongue-not literally; that tends to end badly-and bides his time. Five minutes isn’t too long to wait to wreak revenge.
“Three waters,” he says to the beleaguered-looking concessions cashier; “this horrifying pile of candy, a cherry ICEE-” Because Blevins is, apparently, six years old. “-and a large popcorn.” He gives it a dramatic pause, which he feels is poetically just. “With extra salt.”
Belial wails aloud, which makes the cashier look more beleaguered still.
Vincent tries not to notice the insane number on the register display as he passes his credit card across the counter. “That’s what you get,” he says to the demon. “Thank you very much; have a nice night,” he says to the wage-slave.
“You, too, sir,” Wage-Slave squeaks.
Vincent looks Belial in the eye and puts a ten-dollar bill in the tip jar; he knows from experience that there’s very little demons hate more than generous tipping. Sure enough, he earns a rather pained grimace and a very antiquated rude gesture.
Belial disappears momentarily while they’re surveying the rows of theater seats for the ideal viewing location, which disconcerts Vincent a great deal, but he forgets about it when Maion shoves him down into one of the grimy theater chairs. Maion doesn’t get… pushy… very often-only ever when he’s excited, one way or another-but it makes Vincent’s old, ichor-squishing heart tighten up in a way he loves. He hopes Maion is planning to save a bit of that energy for when they get home.
Maion plunks down next to him and squirms happily to settle himself on the cushion, digging a hand into the popcorn. “I can’t wait for the previews!” he says. “Or the intro! Or the dwarves! Or the trolls! Or Smaug! Or-”
“Jeez louise,” Belial says. “You need to get out more, babycakes. Does Vincent usually keep you locked up in his bedroom or something?”
“Only on Fridays,” Maion says solemnly.
The shit Vincent is going to get for that later is entirely worth the shock on Belial’s face.
Maion grins slowly and shyly. “I’m just kidding. The one time we tried bondage, I got nervous and accidentally set the rope on fi-”
“Let’s never talk about that ever again,” Vincent says. “Ever. Especially in public. Ever.”
Maion blushes. It really is unfortunate that he’s so fucking cute.
“I second that motion,” Blevins says. “Now can we please shut up and stop being Those People?”
“I always want to be one of Those People,” Belial says. “I invented Those People.”
“Like fuck you did.”
Belial mock-gasps. “There are children present! Now who’s one of Those People?”
Blevins slouches in his seat and demonstrates that it is possible to slurp an ICEE vindictively.
Maion hefts his unreasonably large fountain drink and sucks continuously on the straw for so long that Vincent gets… distracted.
“They always start late,” Belial comments. “I invented that, too.”
“I am seriously gonna exorcise you one of these days,” Blevins says.
“You seriously need to expand your vocabulary,” Belial says.
“Shut up!”
“No point,” Belial says. “I told you, they won’t start for another, oh, four mi-”
The lights start to dim.
“What?” Belial looks around himself in horror. “Blasphemy!”
For the next three hours, Maion chain-munches popcorn and drinks nonstop, and Vincent bemusedly tries (and fails) to remember when The Hobbit was adapted into a graphic novel with lengthy battle sequences and several explosions.
As the credits begin to roll, Vincent glances over and discovers that Maion is gazing at the screen in almost teary-eyed rapture.
“I thought I could never ship Thorin and Bilbo,” Belial says reverently. He throws his arms around Blevins’s neck. “I have never been so wrong!”
Blevins writhes to no avail; the demon-limpet clinging to him refuses to be displaced. “Oh, my God, get off!”
“In the middle of a theater?” Belial asks. “How scandalous.”
“Eugh!”
“Maion?” Vincent says, touching the staring angel’s arm gently. “Are you-”
Maion rockets up out of his seat and starts applauding wildly. His eyes glisten in the strengthening lights. “That,” he says, voice rising in pitch and volume simultaneously, “was the best movie I have ever seen!” He whirls on Vincent, hands pressed over his mouth, though they certainly don’t stop him from talking. “Ohmygosh! When does the next one come out? Can we go at midnight? Can we dress up? Can we buy collectible merchandise?”
“I suppose,” Vincent says slowly. “It’s-are you feeling all r…”
The giant advertisement-plastered soft drink cup in Maion’s cup-holder catches his eye. Now that he’s no longer focused on (a) making sure Maion doesn’t choke on popcorn and (b) resisting the urge to slap Blevins roundly every time he heard muttering about what ‘wasn’t in the book’, it occurs to Vincent that he never bought Maion a soft drink.
As the angel hugs himself happily and babbles about how to make an antler crown of papier-mâché in order to dress up as Thranduil, Vincent reaches over, picks up the empty cup, and sniffs at the straw.
“Mountain Dew,” he says. He turns to Belial. “You gave him Mountain Dew.”
“More like Misty Mountain Dew!” Belial chirps.
Instead of throwing the cup at Belial’s head, Vincent crushes it in his hand until he’s clutching a mangled wreck of sticky wax paper and crumpled plastic. They tend to ban one from the theater if one tackles a companion and tries to bite said individual’s neck, regardless of whether or not one’s victim absolutely deserves it.
“Oh, sweet holy…” Blevins blinks. “Well, like, literally sweet and holy-crap. Is he ever going to sleep again?”
“No!” Maion sings, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Come on! Come on! Let’s go home; I want to watch the first trilogy back-to-back and then watch the special features and then read the books again!”
“You win this round,” Vincent says to Belial, who is so overcome with delight that he appears to be unable to speak-so at least that’s a plus. “Vengeance will be swift, merciless, and unexpected.”
“Game on,” Belial says thickly. He fans at his face with both hands, sniffling, and grins through the tears. “I’m sorry; I’m just so happy.”
“Me too!” Maion says, dragging the demon out of his seat by way of a pouncing hug. “Let’s read The Silmarillion and do all the voices!”
Blevins pats Vincent’s shoulder gingerly. “Nice knowing you.”
Maion is nuzzling at Belial’s shoulder and rambling at high speed about Elvish cultural derivations and the most appropriate way to put the songs to music.
“I think I’m going to have to start a charity in Belial’s name,” Vincent says. “One that rescues orphaned bunny rabbits from the rainforest and feeds them free-range spinach.”
Blevins grins. “Nah, save the wolves!”
“He does seem to hate you.”
“I kinda take that as a good sign.”
Maion is now draped over the back of one of the theater chairs, drawing the Baggins family tree up his own forearm in ballpoint pen and explaining it as he goes. Belial looks slightly dazed now that he’s had a taste of the medicine he concocted.
“Well,” Vincent says. “This is going to be interesting.”
Fandom: SPN attacks Vincent & Co. (PART II!)
Characters/Pairing: Vincent/Maion, with much Belial and Edward Blevins
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,069
Warnings: language, insanity, obscene geekery
Prompt: In the previous installment, there is talk of Vincent and Maion going to see "The Hobbit". sabriel75 wanted to know if they ever manage it. This happened.
Summary: Going to see An Unexpected Journey turns out to be A Tremendous Ordeal.
Author's Note: Dear Thorin/Bilbo shippers: I respect your pairing and regularly admire your amazing fanart. It's nothing personal that Edward Blevins is not so openminded a fanboy. XDDDD Dear sabriel75: HOLY CRAP, WHAT IS THIS MADNESS?! I hope you enjoy the rampant nerdery, bb; I love you so very, very, very much. ♥;
TAKE ME OUT TO A FILM
Belial is singing. It is a terrible pity that Maion starts whimpering every time a driver takes their hands away from the ten-and-two position on the wheel, because Vincent would kill to be able to douse the demon with the travel mug full of holy water that currently occupies the front seat cup-holder.
“Take me out to the ciiiiinemaaaa-”
A stint in hell itself must be more pleasant than being trapped in an enclosed vehicle with Belial.
“Take me out to a fiiiiiilm-buy me some overpriced movie snacks-I don’t care if your credit card’s maxed-”
Vincent has never given Blevins’s aesthetic sense much credit, but since the werewolf is currently pressed to the window with his hands over his ears, it may be necessary to revisit that opinion.
“’Cause it’s cat-cat-catcall the loooove plot; if they don’t fuck it’s a shame-”
“Shouldn’t say that word,” Maion murmurs.
“And it’s one-two-three trailers, but they all look the saaaaame!”
Blevins peels a hand away from his ear and scowls darkly. “There’s no love plot in ‘The Hobbit’, asshole.”
“Of course there is,” Belial says cheerfully. “Just ask the internet.”
Blevins looks mortified.
Vincent doesn’t have time to fret about the slow and devastating desecration of Blevins’s fanboy dreams; he’s on a rigorous schedule of worrying about whether Maion will make through a three-hour movie without experiencing any symptoms of post-traumatic stress. The last thing he wants to cope with today is an angelic panic attack in the middle of a movie theater. He’s cautiously optimistic about the fact that Peter Jackson’s Hobbit dwarves appear to be a cross between Snow White’s miniature harem and a particularly hairy selection of Harlequin cover subjects, such that they bear little more than a passing resemblance to the real thing, but it nonetheless pushes Blevins’s concerns about authorial intent to the most distant of backburners.
“Settle down, children,” Vincent says, focusing on the road as he pulls into the nightmarishly crowded parking structure of the shopping mall.
“I’m older than you,” Belial says. “I’m older than Hebrew. I’m older than Neanderthals. I’m older than-”
“Dirt?” Blevins hazards.
“I’m still keeping score of your Soul Points,” Belial says. “You’re gonna be mine when you die, bitch.”
“Guess I’ll have to live forever,” Blevins says.
“Well, you’re in the perfect line of work for it,” Belial says sweetly.
“Shut up,” Blevins says.
“Both of you shut up,” Vincent says.
“All of you be nice,” Maion says.
Vincent swings the Bentley into a parking space and hauls up the parking brake. This outing cannot be over fast enough.
“Great,” Blevins says. “That just took another five years off my life. Thanks for your unwavering support in my quest for immortality, Duval.”
“You don’t want immortality,” Vincent says as he opens his door. “Trust me.”
“I don’t trust you,” Blevins says, clambering out as well.
“Touché.”
“It’s not so bad,” Maion says brightly, slipping his arm through Vincent’s as they start off towards the nearest mall entrance. “When you get bored, you can catalogue tectonic movement since the dawn of time. It’s very interesting. I did a university presentation on it once, but nobody believed me about my data.”
“I guess they didn’t think you were-” Belial stops walking to emphasize his dramatic pause. “-down to Earth.”
“Oh, my God,” Blevins says. “Fuck you.”
“Good thing your mother’s not around to hear that,” Belial says. “You’d be grounded.”
Blevins grits his teeth. “Can the power of Christ to compel you to go away?”
“C’mon,” Belial says. “You don’t want to do that. I rock.”
Blevins hunches his shoulders and glares daggers. “Remind me why the fuck we had to bring him along again?”
“Have you ever tried getting rid of him?” Vincent asks.
“I’ve tried killing him,” Blevins says, and he seems to be attempting an intimidating voice.
“That was cute,” Belial says cheerfully. “I forgive you.”
“Really?” Maion asks, wide-eyed, clinging a little tighter to Vincent’s elbow in his amazement. “That-that is awfully generous of you.”
“I’m just classy like that,” Belial says.
Blevins darts forward to reach the escalator first in order to put the joined-at-the-arm Vincent and Maion between himself and the demon. “Yeah. Sure.”
“Uncharitable skepticism,” Belial says primly. “That’s a vice. I know, because I invented it.”
“Bullshit,” Blevins says.
“Unnecessary swearing I also invented, you adorable little bastard.”
Maion clears his throat. “You should both consider minced oaths as an alternative method for sublimating your suppressed emotions.”
“Fuck off,” Blevins and Belial say in perfect unison, the former darkly, the latter with a beaming grin.
“Leave him alone,” Vincent says, “or you’re buying your own tickets.”
“Dastardly,” Belial says.
“One does one’s best,” Vincent says.
As soon as Maion spots the marquee of the theater, he starts hauling on Vincent’s arm and generally resembling an overexcited puppy. “We’re here, we’re here, we’re here! How much time do we have until the show starts?” He gasps as they step into the line. “Vincent! Can I have popcorn?”
“Yes, dear,” Vincent says.
“Puke,” Belial says.
Vincent bites his tongue-not literally; that tends to end badly-and bides his time. Five minutes isn’t too long to wait to wreak revenge.
“Three waters,” he says to the beleaguered-looking concessions cashier; “this horrifying pile of candy, a cherry ICEE-” Because Blevins is, apparently, six years old. “-and a large popcorn.” He gives it a dramatic pause, which he feels is poetically just. “With extra salt.”
Belial wails aloud, which makes the cashier look more beleaguered still.
Vincent tries not to notice the insane number on the register display as he passes his credit card across the counter. “That’s what you get,” he says to the demon. “Thank you very much; have a nice night,” he says to the wage-slave.
“You, too, sir,” Wage-Slave squeaks.
Vincent looks Belial in the eye and puts a ten-dollar bill in the tip jar; he knows from experience that there’s very little demons hate more than generous tipping. Sure enough, he earns a rather pained grimace and a very antiquated rude gesture.
Belial disappears momentarily while they’re surveying the rows of theater seats for the ideal viewing location, which disconcerts Vincent a great deal, but he forgets about it when Maion shoves him down into one of the grimy theater chairs. Maion doesn’t get… pushy… very often-only ever when he’s excited, one way or another-but it makes Vincent’s old, ichor-squishing heart tighten up in a way he loves. He hopes Maion is planning to save a bit of that energy for when they get home.
Maion plunks down next to him and squirms happily to settle himself on the cushion, digging a hand into the popcorn. “I can’t wait for the previews!” he says. “Or the intro! Or the dwarves! Or the trolls! Or Smaug! Or-”
“Jeez louise,” Belial says. “You need to get out more, babycakes. Does Vincent usually keep you locked up in his bedroom or something?”
“Only on Fridays,” Maion says solemnly.
The shit Vincent is going to get for that later is entirely worth the shock on Belial’s face.
Maion grins slowly and shyly. “I’m just kidding. The one time we tried bondage, I got nervous and accidentally set the rope on fi-”
“Let’s never talk about that ever again,” Vincent says. “Ever. Especially in public. Ever.”
Maion blushes. It really is unfortunate that he’s so fucking cute.
“I second that motion,” Blevins says. “Now can we please shut up and stop being Those People?”
“I always want to be one of Those People,” Belial says. “I invented Those People.”
“Like fuck you did.”
Belial mock-gasps. “There are children present! Now who’s one of Those People?”
Blevins slouches in his seat and demonstrates that it is possible to slurp an ICEE vindictively.
Maion hefts his unreasonably large fountain drink and sucks continuously on the straw for so long that Vincent gets… distracted.
“They always start late,” Belial comments. “I invented that, too.”
“I am seriously gonna exorcise you one of these days,” Blevins says.
“You seriously need to expand your vocabulary,” Belial says.
“Shut up!”
“No point,” Belial says. “I told you, they won’t start for another, oh, four mi-”
The lights start to dim.
“What?” Belial looks around himself in horror. “Blasphemy!”
For the next three hours, Maion chain-munches popcorn and drinks nonstop, and Vincent bemusedly tries (and fails) to remember when The Hobbit was adapted into a graphic novel with lengthy battle sequences and several explosions.
As the credits begin to roll, Vincent glances over and discovers that Maion is gazing at the screen in almost teary-eyed rapture.
“I thought I could never ship Thorin and Bilbo,” Belial says reverently. He throws his arms around Blevins’s neck. “I have never been so wrong!”
Blevins writhes to no avail; the demon-limpet clinging to him refuses to be displaced. “Oh, my God, get off!”
“In the middle of a theater?” Belial asks. “How scandalous.”
“Eugh!”
“Maion?” Vincent says, touching the staring angel’s arm gently. “Are you-”
Maion rockets up out of his seat and starts applauding wildly. His eyes glisten in the strengthening lights. “That,” he says, voice rising in pitch and volume simultaneously, “was the best movie I have ever seen!” He whirls on Vincent, hands pressed over his mouth, though they certainly don’t stop him from talking. “Ohmygosh! When does the next one come out? Can we go at midnight? Can we dress up? Can we buy collectible merchandise?”
“I suppose,” Vincent says slowly. “It’s-are you feeling all r…”
The giant advertisement-plastered soft drink cup in Maion’s cup-holder catches his eye. Now that he’s no longer focused on (a) making sure Maion doesn’t choke on popcorn and (b) resisting the urge to slap Blevins roundly every time he heard muttering about what ‘wasn’t in the book’, it occurs to Vincent that he never bought Maion a soft drink.
As the angel hugs himself happily and babbles about how to make an antler crown of papier-mâché in order to dress up as Thranduil, Vincent reaches over, picks up the empty cup, and sniffs at the straw.
“Mountain Dew,” he says. He turns to Belial. “You gave him Mountain Dew.”
“More like Misty Mountain Dew!” Belial chirps.
Instead of throwing the cup at Belial’s head, Vincent crushes it in his hand until he’s clutching a mangled wreck of sticky wax paper and crumpled plastic. They tend to ban one from the theater if one tackles a companion and tries to bite said individual’s neck, regardless of whether or not one’s victim absolutely deserves it.
“Oh, sweet holy…” Blevins blinks. “Well, like, literally sweet and holy-crap. Is he ever going to sleep again?”
“No!” Maion sings, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Come on! Come on! Let’s go home; I want to watch the first trilogy back-to-back and then watch the special features and then read the books again!”
“You win this round,” Vincent says to Belial, who is so overcome with delight that he appears to be unable to speak-so at least that’s a plus. “Vengeance will be swift, merciless, and unexpected.”
“Game on,” Belial says thickly. He fans at his face with both hands, sniffling, and grins through the tears. “I’m sorry; I’m just so happy.”
“Me too!” Maion says, dragging the demon out of his seat by way of a pouncing hug. “Let’s read The Silmarillion and do all the voices!”
Blevins pats Vincent’s shoulder gingerly. “Nice knowing you.”
Maion is nuzzling at Belial’s shoulder and rambling at high speed about Elvish cultural derivations and the most appropriate way to put the songs to music.
“I think I’m going to have to start a charity in Belial’s name,” Vincent says. “One that rescues orphaned bunny rabbits from the rainforest and feeds them free-range spinach.”
Blevins grins. “Nah, save the wolves!”
“He does seem to hate you.”
“I kinda take that as a good sign.”
Maion is now draped over the back of one of the theater chairs, drawing the Baggins family tree up his own forearm in ballpoint pen and explaining it as he goes. Belial looks slightly dazed now that he’s had a taste of the medicine he concocted.
“Well,” Vincent says. “This is going to be interesting.”