Disclaimers: If they were mine, they'd just drag me the fuck
down.
Spoilers: None, really.
Summary: Two mostly unrelated views.
Ratings Note: Gentle R, mostly for language.
Author's Note: Deb made me do it. Part of the Improv slash,
helpfully teased from the rest.
*
Daddy793: But Whose Line... you give me three things, I try to
fit them into something no longer than a page. Then we switch. <g>
debitchan: Oh man.
debitchan: You're asking me to be clever. *g*
Daddy793: Or psychotic. <g>
debitchan: Oh, well. That I can do. <laugh> <thinking>
Daddy793: <settling in>
debitchan: How would you feel about Joe and Billy, in a hotel room,
watching porno?
debitchan: Or does that not qualify?
Daddy793: Too specific. <g>
Daddy793: Joe, Billy, porno.... that works. <snickering at self>
debitchan: Well then. <laugh>
Daddy793: <thinking>
debitchan: <rubbing your brain>
Daddy793: mmmmm
Daddy793: There's something really fucking satisfying about cheap
and degrading when it isn't -- necessarily -- your life.
And it isn't. The Logo's riding high for the time being. We could afford
better than this vibro-mattress that may be giving me fleas right now.
Better than the house special amateur porn on the TV.
Billy is... rapt. Spun out some shit about the green walls and orange
shag
and the way the whole little porno world seems to vibrate to the same
rhythm as the star's gently sagging tits.
Something. I don't worry about focusing on Billy-boy right away, never
do. Too much to sift there. Take it in, swallow in all his bullshit,
spit it
back out the way he never could. Nice and angry and tasteless.
I'm penning it out now, in my head. On his back.
Ballpoint pen. I live for the tiny grimaces, the ones that tear his
attention a little away from what's going on onscreen. It's a fucked
up
hobby, but it's mine.
Done this before, won't break the skin.
Just the words. Just what I heard, Billy, right there. In two hours
we'll
be onstage and you'll spin around and dance and fuck your guitar. Our
very own big screen Billy. Punk for the hearing impaired.
When I forget the lyrics I'll hold you right out in front of me. Pin
you
there for their curses and the grabby ones just trying to get a sweaty
rag to pin to their walls. I'll hold you right there and I'll *read*
you.
Right there in front of everybody, and they'll check out the bruises
on
your neck, your arms, your chest. They'll watch me reading you and
*know*.
Even if you don't.
*
Daylight creeps indifferently through the disintegrating vinyl
shade, stopping just before hitting the tangled sheets. Billy hates
the damned thing, never can tell what time it is.
Just another one of Joe's little tricks. Ask him why and earn a slap
and a Shakespeare quote mangled with curses.
Only birds singing outside this window are fat, glossy crows. The whole
neighborhood is a garbage heap and Billy knows if he breathes a little
deeper the smell will creep much, much further than the sunlight. Fucking
Joe and his fucking Method Living.
"Billiam, I can hear your brain bitching from *here*. Shut up and get
me
a fucking beer."
"Eat me."
"You're so fucking easy."
*random end*