003. misfits ficlets: mad as a; the funeral march.
title: mad as a
fandom: misfits.
pairing: nathan/kelly.
rating: pg-13.
word count: 511.
summary: He gives the hats to Kelly for her birthday. "What the fuck am I holding?" she says.
warnings: swearing, nathan, i have no idea wtf this is.
The best thing about being immortal is that everything slows down.
(And, yeah, it's also nice to be able to take a round of bullets to the head and still wake up bright and early next morning, with enough time to scrub off the blood still caked to the side of his face.)
Well, not everything, but he does, and that's everything to him. There's no need to hurry anymore, because, hey, he can just do whatever needs doing in a hundred years from now, can't he?
He tries his best to explain this to his mum when she gets all put off about him skipping out on his fourth driving test--adding that the bloke across the way was having a garage sale and he was in need of a slightly less lumpy mattress, never mind that the only thing he ended up purchasing was three pounds worth of hats with birds and fruits and shit on them--but she still won't let him borrow the car.
Whatever. She'll be begging him to when she's eighty and needs his still young and beautiful self to pick up a new tube of denture cream for her.
---
He gives the hats to Kelly for her birthday. There's no gift wrap in the community center, but he finds some decent-looking ribbon in the storeroom, and if, when he ties it on, he can't tell it from all the trappings already on the damn things, that's really just part of the charm, then, isn't it?
"What the fuck am I holding'?" she says when he gives them to her. A bit ungrateful, that.
"Hats," he says.
"Yeah, what the fuck am I supposed to do with 'em?"
"Whatever you're into"--he lifts his eyebrows charmingly--"but, typically we put them on our heads."
"Fuck off," she says, smiling a little, "this is the worst gift I've ever gotten." Still smiling.
"No need to get nasty, I just thought they'd suit you." He's totally not smiling back. "Or something."
She hmmphs. "They're proper ugly."
"Yeah, well you can make them prettier, then." He obviously doesn't believe that, because there's nothing wrong with them to begin with and he has half a mind to take them back, only she's still smiling, but bigger and more self-satisfied now, and he can't do anything but slip his hands in his pockets and say, "you should be grateful I got you anything at all."
She looks at the hats and her smile fades a little. "Yeah, thanks."
And it's not awkward or anything, but for a moment it's quiet and his make-shift bedroom is only a few feet away and he knows that mattresses can't talk, but if they could, his would probably be screaming at them about fumbled fingering attempts and "just mates."
He scratches at his lower chest. "So, birthday-suit time?"
And then she ughs and rolls her eyes and walks away. But she keeps the hats, and it's not as if he doesn't have the rest of her life to work his masterful charms on her, anyway.
---
title: the funeral march
fandom: misfits.
pairing: nathan/simon, simon/alisha.
rating: r
word count: 476.
summary: "You should go to sleep," Simon mutters pointlessly into the mop of curly hair next to him.
warnings: swearing, implied sexy times, minor character death, screwy dynamics. vaguely nathan/simon/alisha.
It's weird, because Nathan can't be bothered with any funeral that doesn't feature him as the main attraction, but he always shows up for the wakes, looking like he dressed himself blind and, if Simon had to wager a guess, probably just for the open bar.
There's the one where he throws up twice in his Mum's azalea bush and she yells at his slumped, shaking back that he'd never liked Jeremy, anyway, and to not come back, please. The rest of them stand around awkwardly like you do when there's family drama that isn't yours, and when Kelly finally manages to berate Nathan into the car and they're all sitting there with nothing to do but listen to the woman on the radio try to guess the price of a refrigerator, Alisha's eyes get watery and she looks at her hands and says, "I hate this kind of shit," and nobody asks for more clarification than that, because it's all shit right then, either way.
And later, when Nathan's been carted off on Simon, because no one else would have him--Kelly'd kissed him on the cheek and whispered something calming enough to make him stop fisting her sweater and laughing like a maniac, but she wouldn't have him--he's sure that Nathan doesn't actually have any idea who's bed he's getting into when he climbs up from the floor on unsteady limbs and steals most of the covers.
"You should go to sleep," Simon mutters pointlessly into the mop of curly hair next to him, but his hands are straying down across Nathan's chest and around to his back, inelegant and clumsy, and he feels like a creep, because he's not really sure if this kind of thing is considered comfort of just taking advantage, but Nathan is doing this weird half-laughing, half-snoring, half-clutching thing, and that's three halves that Simon doesn't know what else to do about.
The first jab of Nathan's cock against his stomach is expected, but scares him a bit anyway.
It's odd and fucked up and he's pretty sure Alisha knows that they've done this more times than you can count on one hand--but not so many that you can't count on two-- but she doesn't really seem to mind when she comes in the next morning with tea and bagels to find Nathan, naked and curled up around Simon, breathing evenly against his chest.
She just throws a bagel at his head to wake him, and kisses Simon on the cheek.
"You're a good guy, you know," she tells him softly. He nearly believes her.
"Thank you," Nathan mumbles blearily into the covers.
"Oh, shut-up, you prick."
But they spend the rest of the morning--after Alisha makes them both get dressed--sitting on Simon's bed, drinking tea and recounting to Nathan in excruciating, hilarious detail, the events of the previous night.
fandom: misfits.
pairing: nathan/kelly.
rating: pg-13.
word count: 511.
summary: He gives the hats to Kelly for her birthday. "What the fuck am I holding?" she says.
warnings: swearing, nathan, i have no idea wtf this is.
The best thing about being immortal is that everything slows down.
(And, yeah, it's also nice to be able to take a round of bullets to the head and still wake up bright and early next morning, with enough time to scrub off the blood still caked to the side of his face.)
Well, not everything, but he does, and that's everything to him. There's no need to hurry anymore, because, hey, he can just do whatever needs doing in a hundred years from now, can't he?
He tries his best to explain this to his mum when she gets all put off about him skipping out on his fourth driving test--adding that the bloke across the way was having a garage sale and he was in need of a slightly less lumpy mattress, never mind that the only thing he ended up purchasing was three pounds worth of hats with birds and fruits and shit on them--but she still won't let him borrow the car.
Whatever. She'll be begging him to when she's eighty and needs his still young and beautiful self to pick up a new tube of denture cream for her.
---
He gives the hats to Kelly for her birthday. There's no gift wrap in the community center, but he finds some decent-looking ribbon in the storeroom, and if, when he ties it on, he can't tell it from all the trappings already on the damn things, that's really just part of the charm, then, isn't it?
"What the fuck am I holding'?" she says when he gives them to her. A bit ungrateful, that.
"Hats," he says.
"Yeah, what the fuck am I supposed to do with 'em?"
"Whatever you're into"--he lifts his eyebrows charmingly--"but, typically we put them on our heads."
"Fuck off," she says, smiling a little, "this is the worst gift I've ever gotten." Still smiling.
"No need to get nasty, I just thought they'd suit you." He's totally not smiling back. "Or something."
She hmmphs. "They're proper ugly."
"Yeah, well you can make them prettier, then." He obviously doesn't believe that, because there's nothing wrong with them to begin with and he has half a mind to take them back, only she's still smiling, but bigger and more self-satisfied now, and he can't do anything but slip his hands in his pockets and say, "you should be grateful I got you anything at all."
She looks at the hats and her smile fades a little. "Yeah, thanks."
And it's not awkward or anything, but for a moment it's quiet and his make-shift bedroom is only a few feet away and he knows that mattresses can't talk, but if they could, his would probably be screaming at them about fumbled fingering attempts and "just mates."
He scratches at his lower chest. "So, birthday-suit time?"
And then she ughs and rolls her eyes and walks away. But she keeps the hats, and it's not as if he doesn't have the rest of her life to work his masterful charms on her, anyway.
---
title: the funeral march
fandom: misfits.
pairing: nathan/simon, simon/alisha.
rating: r
word count: 476.
summary: "You should go to sleep," Simon mutters pointlessly into the mop of curly hair next to him.
warnings: swearing, implied sexy times, minor character death, screwy dynamics. vaguely nathan/simon/alisha.
It's weird, because Nathan can't be bothered with any funeral that doesn't feature him as the main attraction, but he always shows up for the wakes, looking like he dressed himself blind and, if Simon had to wager a guess, probably just for the open bar.
There's the one where he throws up twice in his Mum's azalea bush and she yells at his slumped, shaking back that he'd never liked Jeremy, anyway, and to not come back, please. The rest of them stand around awkwardly like you do when there's family drama that isn't yours, and when Kelly finally manages to berate Nathan into the car and they're all sitting there with nothing to do but listen to the woman on the radio try to guess the price of a refrigerator, Alisha's eyes get watery and she looks at her hands and says, "I hate this kind of shit," and nobody asks for more clarification than that, because it's all shit right then, either way.
And later, when Nathan's been carted off on Simon, because no one else would have him--Kelly'd kissed him on the cheek and whispered something calming enough to make him stop fisting her sweater and laughing like a maniac, but she wouldn't have him--he's sure that Nathan doesn't actually have any idea who's bed he's getting into when he climbs up from the floor on unsteady limbs and steals most of the covers.
"You should go to sleep," Simon mutters pointlessly into the mop of curly hair next to him, but his hands are straying down across Nathan's chest and around to his back, inelegant and clumsy, and he feels like a creep, because he's not really sure if this kind of thing is considered comfort of just taking advantage, but Nathan is doing this weird half-laughing, half-snoring, half-clutching thing, and that's three halves that Simon doesn't know what else to do about.
The first jab of Nathan's cock against his stomach is expected, but scares him a bit anyway.
It's odd and fucked up and he's pretty sure Alisha knows that they've done this more times than you can count on one hand--but not so many that you can't count on two-- but she doesn't really seem to mind when she comes in the next morning with tea and bagels to find Nathan, naked and curled up around Simon, breathing evenly against his chest.
She just throws a bagel at his head to wake him, and kisses Simon on the cheek.
"You're a good guy, you know," she tells him softly. He nearly believes her.
"Thank you," Nathan mumbles blearily into the covers.
"Oh, shut-up, you prick."
But they spend the rest of the morning--after Alisha makes them both get dressed--sitting on Simon's bed, drinking tea and recounting to Nathan in excruciating, hilarious detail, the events of the previous night.