"We all thought you were cracked, you know," says Gene, looking up as Sam leans across him to grab the computer mouse.
"I know," says Sam. "Now, for God's sake, what have you done this time? It's really not complicated - would you stop that?!"
Gene had just grabbed Sam's chin and was twisting his face from side to side. "It's not bloody fair, Tyler."
"What?" asks Sam, though he knows, and pulls away from the computer screen.
"At least I'm aging gracefully and not wallowing in me sodding kid-boy features," says Gene, letting go, and then he's quiet.
Sam looks at him for a moment, and Gene is not looking at him now. He sighs, goes back to the computer, and soon the error message has stopped flashing and the computer looks as complacent and competant as it normally does, which is not at all.
The silence stretches on, and on, and on, and Sam is sick of stale pauses. "Yeah," he says, "Yeah, but you're so dashing." He rolls his eyes, dripping sarcasm as much as he is able, and Gene starts to smile and coughs over the top.
"Don't push it, Sammy-boy," he says, and gets up. "It's your round."
"Of course it is," says Sam, following Gene to the door.
"You've got thirty bloody years of rounds to make up for," snaps Gene, turning quickly into Sam's face. "And don't think you're gonna wriggle your skinny coma arse out of them."
Sam smiles. "I didn't realise I was going to be sitting in the pints," he says, and ducks round Gene before he can hit him.
Later, in the pub, Gene downs his drink fast and comes back out of the glass with a foam moustache, and Sam thinks nothing of wiping it away.
Some things have changed, in this new age and this new era, but they haven't. *
Shut up, that's a drabble. It may not be that good, but meh. 45 MINUTES OH DEAR GOD.
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Date: 2007-04-10 07:14 pm (UTC)Okay, drabbleness:
"We all thought you were cracked, you know," says Gene, looking up as Sam leans across him to grab the computer mouse.
"I know," says Sam. "Now, for God's sake, what have you done this time? It's really not complicated - would you stop that?!"
Gene had just grabbed Sam's chin and was twisting his face from side to side. "It's not bloody fair, Tyler."
"What?" asks Sam, though he knows, and pulls away from the computer screen.
"At least I'm aging gracefully and not wallowing in me sodding kid-boy features," says Gene, letting go, and then he's quiet.
Sam looks at him for a moment, and Gene is not looking at him now. He sighs, goes back to the computer, and soon the error message has stopped flashing and the computer looks as complacent and competant as it normally does, which is not at all.
The silence stretches on, and on, and on, and Sam is sick of stale pauses. "Yeah," he says, "Yeah, but you're so dashing." He rolls his eyes, dripping sarcasm as much as he is able, and Gene starts to smile and coughs over the top.
"Don't push it, Sammy-boy," he says, and gets up. "It's your round."
"Of course it is," says Sam, following Gene to the door.
"You've got thirty bloody years of rounds to make up for," snaps Gene, turning quickly into Sam's face. "And don't think you're gonna wriggle your skinny coma arse out of them."
Sam smiles. "I didn't realise I was going to be sitting in the pints," he says, and ducks round Gene before he can hit him.
Later, in the pub, Gene downs his drink fast and comes back out of the glass with a foam moustache, and Sam thinks nothing of wiping it away.
Some things have changed, in this new age and this new era, but they haven't.
*
Shut up, that's a drabble. It may not be that good, but meh. 45 MINUTES OH DEAR GOD.