(no subject)

[buyatoaster]

What is this, lady?

I've been off the air for five years. Five bloomin' years, and don't you talk to me about that charade with the scarcely clad psychology graduate. That's after my 'canon point', as you would put it. See? I speak your language. No wonder, as you've moved me into your head.

Don't know what I'm doing here. 's full of goody-two-shoes and bits of skirts I'm not allowed to look at 'cos they'll take my head off with their Japanese friggin' swords. Is there anyone in here I can have a drink with? Apart from the vampire? He's wearing lace and drinking something even I can't identify. Heretic.

Anyway. You've put me in here, now you've got me. Don't come crying to me if you realize you don't like it. To put it in words you might understand: you want a guarantee, buy a toaster.

Comments

[regardstotheid]

Oh, don't tell me you're feeling displaced in time. If you think five years is a problem, try thirty-three. [Sigh.]

They don't usually "come crying to you" if it doesn't work out, you know. Best case scenario, you'll spend the rest of your days being quietly ignored. Which I'm sure will do wonders for your exceptionally large ego.

[buyatoaster]

Oh, there we go. Figures you'd be the first soul I'd run into.

Yeah, in fact, I do feel a little 'displaced in time' considering I live in the head of some bloody southern 2012 lass. How many years' that, thirty-nine? Looks like I got you beat, Gladys.

You think my ego's big, you should look at some of my flatmates'. That didn't sound right. You know what I mean.

[regardstotheid]

Which might be true. If I wasn't, technically, also living in someone's head. So I think we're tied, actually. Sorry to take that victory away from you.

That sounds like a horror story in itself: Gene Hunt with flatmates. I'm really not sure who to feel more sympathy for, you or them.

[buyatoaster]

Well. [Sniffing.] At least yours doesn't live in sodding London.

You'd have to see them first to make that call, wouldn't you? Trust me, you don't want to see them. It's like a menagerie in here. Little shop of bleedin' horrors.

[regardstotheid]

What've you got against London, then?

I'm not exactly rejoicing about being stuck in here, either. I've got people who look like me. Several, actually. Seriously, whatever you're dealing with can't possibly be that disorienting.

[buyatoaster]

What've I got-- [Indignant splutter, and he rolls his eyes.] I guess they like the South in Hyde.

There's more than one of you? Talk about horror stories. So how d'you like putting up with yourself? You freaked out on you yet? Thrown punches? Maybe pulled a gun on you?

[regardstotheid]

In "Hyde," they don't regard every place that isn't Manchester with automatic disdain.

No, I said-- I said they looked like me. They're not actually-- [He shakes his head. Talking about that is just. Too bizarre and disturbing. He's gone a little white, in fact.] You know what, never mind. Why don't you tell me how many of your new flatmates you've thrown punches at? I would be shocked if you could stay in close quarters with anyone for that long without banging a few heads.

[buyatoaster]

Yeah, well, haven't been here for that long yet, have I. Between the Amazon with the sodding great sword and the blue bloke with the antlers, I kind of decided to hang back a bit. Let them come to me. Y'know. [Not that the fact that there's a blue-skinned man with moving antennae unsettles him. He's Gene Hunt. He doesn't get unsettled.]

[And then he's going to side-eye Sam. You're doing your thing. Your twitchy freak-out thing.] What d'you mean, they looked like you?

[captjacksparrow]

Er, vampire?

[He has a bottle of rum, if you're wanting a drink with someone.]

[buyatoaster]

[He sees that. The bottle of rum. And he sees you. What's with that hair? And the--the whole everything of you?]

Yeah, vampire. And look at that, now we've got pirates. What is this, Mardi Gras and I've misplaced my invitation?

[captjacksparrow]

Is it? [Looking down and patting his clothes, as though whether or not it's Mardi Gras would be evidenced somewhere on his person.] Oh. Mm. [He can't see anything amiss with his dress.] Apparently you're overflowing with good fortune, or encapsulated by un-fortunate as the case may be, dependent upon the perspective of your choice. Luckily, I know the cure to such luck, ill- or healthy.

Did say you wanted a drink, didn't you?

[buyatoaster]

[Gene watches the pirate, meeting the weird mannerisms and body language with a wary, almost put-upon look. You're weird. And whatever you're saying isn't helping that impression; Gene narrows his eyes and stares for a while, trying to disentangle the meaning of what the hell was just said to him. Without success, but he gets far enough to decide to dismiss it as unimportant. His eyes drop down to the bottle in the pirate's hand.]

Did say that, yeah. [Eyes go back up to the pirate's face, no less wary, but definitely interested in the offer. He holds out his hand; are you going to give the bottle to him, or are they going to play this game a different way?] What's your name?

[captjacksparrow]

[The bottle happens to be a legitimate offer--rare as they may be. Jack's always prefered company over drinking alone. Taking a swallow himself, he passes it to you with little fanfare.]

Can say a lot about a man, his name. What's yours? [He may be weird but he's also cagey. You answer first; then he'll consider answering in return.]

[buyatoaster]

[He takes the bottle, not breaking eye contact. You're being cagey at him; he'll be cagey back. Not cagey enough to not want to give you his name, though. In his experience, only crooks, creeps and criminals are cagey about giving out their names. Crooks, creeps, criminals, and prostitutes.]

Hunt. [He takes a swig from your bottle and swallows. Were he a less experienced drinker, he would probably have coughed. Like this, he just grimaces. You're being very authentic about your whole pirate thing, including the bad rum.] Gene Hunt. [He bares his teeth at you in what isn't really a smile.] Pleasure.

[captjacksparrow]

[He likes that grimace. The rum's Caribbean rum-runners rum, which is a bit like drinking shelack on a good day, and a bit like drinking tar on a bad one. Weaker men have coughed it up on first taste. He wiggles his fingers for the bottle back.] An acquired taste, to be sure.

[But he likes that you can drink it. And he likes men who smile like that: predatory, like a big hunting dog, either guarding ground or about to chase prey. He likes being chased. So have his brand of one of those smiles back. Just an upturned corner of his mouth, showing gold and silver teeth, t might be intrigued, and a little bit lecherous, but it isn't particularly friendly.]

Delighted to make your acquaintance. [With a little wave of his arm signifying a bow, but not actually bowing. He won't shake hands unless you offer first and he can't decline it without looking suspicious. He knows better than to let people see the pirate brand until the opportune moment.] And what's it you do, Hunt-Gene-Hunt? Hunting? [There's some slight mockery there, but it could be with you and not at you, a harmless word-play on your name and your characteristics, if you're so inclined to take it that way.]

[buyatoaster]

[He's not going to shake hands with you. Mostly because if he took your hand, he would kiss it, not shake it. You can't move like that and then expect him to want to shake your hand, and he's not quite open-minded enough to set out to kiss a man's hand. He will hand the bottle back over to you, though.]

Mhm. [Instead of shaking your hand, he reaches into his coat and comes up with a pack of cigarettes. He shakes one out and lights it; then offers you the pack.] Reckon you could say hunting's what I do.

[stem_the_tide]

[You've got the pirate, now have the pirate's boyfriend. Looking and sounding long-suffering.]

I should recommend you simply ignore them; I am not in the habit of associating with those with whom I share my own... headspace. It does little for the sanctity of one's state of mind.

[buyatoaster]

[Have a once-over. You're looking very prim and proper there. Sounding very prim and proper, too; you're almost making him feel like he's at the annual high-rank CID Christmas gathering, a. k. a. the yearly CID shoulder-patting and backstabbing convention. Except your hair cut's wrong for CID, and this place doesn't have a free bar.]

And who're you supposed to be?

[stem_the_tide]

[That once-over will get an eyebrow in return. He doesn't know who you are, but the look in general is not impressive. But then, James lives with pirates, so he's learned not to judge.]

'Supposed to be'? I'm sure I couldn't say. Who I am is a less metaphysical question; Captain James Norrington.

[buyatoaster]

[Have you. You're pretty good at hiding it. Gene doesn't have a problem with people who judge, though. He judges.]

[Except then you introduce yourself, and some tentative respect creeps into the wariness Gene is eying you with.]

Captain, eh? [He's pretty good at placing military personnel, usually, but with you, he's not sure.] RAF?

[stem_the_tide]

[The eyebrow is just going to creep higher, though this time it's less dubiousness and more genuine incomprehension.]

RAF?

[In a tone of mildest inquiry.]

[buyatoaster]

[Narrowing his eyes. You could just tell him, you know. He's trying to be respectful of you as an officer of the military, here.]

Navy, then. [Because he doesn't think you're army. Not the way you're dressed. Which is generally a bit odd, but then, this place is a bit odd. Maybe there is a carnival going on somewhere. It's as likely as anything.]

[stem_the_tide]

[Ah, that makes sense, then. RAF must be... some branch of the military. Not one James has ever heard of.]

Navy. Formerly. [And, well, as they're on the subject, and the man seems to have a healthy respect for the military...] Former Commodore, actually.

[drumsinthedeep]

He's wearing lace?

[The tall man in black blinks at Gene. The Spike he knows hasn't reached the level of self-confidence required for lace. And also isn't a vampire, not any longer—but that hasn't occurred to him yet.]

[buyatoaster]

[What? Gene eyes the man who's talking to him up and down.]

's wearing some frilly neck thing, looks like my auntie Marge's nightie. 'cept he's also wearing a knuckledusting leather coat, which my aunt Marge would've only been caught in dead, considering she'd've had a heart attack if you'd put that thing on her. [He disapproves of Spike's outfit. He's from 1973; Goth is not exactly mainstream to him.]

[And returning his attention to the speaker. Have a squint.] Who're you, then? Got a few people in here look like you.