![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
laughingacademy.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
ds_flashfictionHere’s a second take on the Naked Without Sex challenge. I may expand it at some point; it’s fragmentary as it stands, and the ending is pretty evil, but this was all I had time to do before the deadline.
Oh, and in re: the title—rest assured that I am deeply ashamed of myself.
Title: “The Full Mountie; or, A Form of Modern Dance”
Rating: PG
Pairing: none, though if I do write more it’ll probably end up BF/RK
Words: 830
* * *
So one day the Lieu calls me into his office and tells me I’m just the man they need for this very delicate case that’s landed on his desk. A week later, I’m standing in a spotlight twirling a six-shooter while wearing a black ten-gallon hat, cowboy boots, a low-slung belt and holsters over boxer shorts, and a grin. People were applauding, with a few hoots and whistles thrown in. I holstered the prop gun, grabbed the crumpled shirt, vest, chaps, and breakaway pants that made up the rest of my costume, and waved to the crowd one last time before popping behind the curtain, Omigod-I-did-it! running on a loop in my head.
Hannah, the venue’s namesake and proprietress, was in the wings, beaming. “Way to go, Vecchio!”
“Aw, shucks, ma’am, ’tweren’t nuthin’,” I drawled, feeling like my own face was about to split in half and thinking (not for the first time) that it’s a good thing I’m not the real Vecchio, ’cause he might wear nicer clothes than me, but I for damn sure look better taking them off.
Just then I caught sight of Fraser over Hannah’s shoulder and whistled. His answering smile was a little strained. Hannah linked arms with him and asked, “What do you think?”
The Mountie had been turned into The Man in the Gray Flannel Suit, complete with fedora hat, briefcase, and a folded overcoat slung over one arm. Hannah’s hair was up in a twist, and she was wearing white gloves, a pink sweater set, a little frilly apron over a big, light gray skirt with lots of rustling petticoats, sheer stockings, pink high heels, and a pearl necklace with matching earrings.
“Wow. You’re, like, Mister and Missus Squaresville.”
She bounced on her toes. “Isn’t it perfect? Hannah E. Hepplewhite: suuupah-geeenyus.”
“That remains to be seen,” Fraser said in a tight voice.
“Whatsa matter,” I asked him, “you had a preposition?”
Little Miss Homemaker snorted. “More likely a proposition.”
I wasn’t sure if Fraser was playing straight man or if he really thought we’d both gotten it wrong, but at least he looked a little less like he was about to throw up. “If you’re asking if I’ve had a premonition, then the answer is no—just a general sense of foreboding.”
Hannah patted a flanneled shoulder. “Hey, none of that. The last rehearsal went off without a hitch. You just have to do exactly what you did then.”
He scratched an eyebrow. “In front of a titillated and intoxicated audience.”
“Fraser, relax! They’re friendly. Really, really friendly. They’ll be rooting for you! And they haven’t had enough time to get really drunk. Besides, there are bouncers.”
“Thank you, Ray. You are, as ever, a great comfort.”
At that point we had to stand aside so the crew guys could carry out the props for Hannah and Fraser’s act.
“I’m gonna go get dressed. As for you—” I grabbed Fraser by both shoulders “—you keep your feet on the ground and your head on those shoulders of yours and go out, and, Fraser, you’re going out a Mountie, but you’ve got to come back a star!”
To which he replied, totally deadpan, “Bite me, Ray.”
I could hear Hannah’s snickers until I closed the door of the men’s dressing room. I unlocked my cubby, sat, pulled off the boots and my showtime skivvies, and that was when the shakes hit as Omigod-I-did-it! was replaced by the B-side, Omigod-I-can’t-believe-I-did-that! I cut it short, though—I had to dress and go to the main room so I could (one) try to figure out if whoever’d assaulted four of Hannah’s male employees was in the audience and (B) see if Fraser would really strut his stuff in the buff. Because let’s face it: there was no question the Mountie had a pair, but trying to imagine him showing them off to paying customers made me feel like my head was gonna—not explode, the other way—implode. Plus, when he tries to dance the guy moves like a block of wood.
Five minutes later I was standing by the bar in a white shirt and black slacks to blend with the staff, bobbing my head along to a remix of Soul Coughing’s “Down to This” and admiring Hannah’s solution to the problem of working with the Canadian Maple: In his role as Fatigued-but-Increasingly-Intrigued-Breadwinner, he pretty much just stood there while she, playing Hot-to-Trot-Housewife, handled the dancing and actual clothes removal. As she peeled off Fraser’s pinstriped shirt to reveal a sleeveless undershirt, I scanned a table of women who’d been seated while I was changing. Forensics indicated our perp was probably a guy, but it was possible he stayed outside while an accomplice went in and chose the vics, so I looked them over carefully. They all seemed caught up in the show, especially the blonde on the end, though she didn’t look turned on so much as…horrified?
Oh holy CRAP, STELLA!
Oh, and in re: the title—rest assured that I am deeply ashamed of myself.
Title: “The Full Mountie; or, A Form of Modern Dance”
Rating: PG
Pairing: none, though if I do write more it’ll probably end up BF/RK
Words: 830
* * *
So one day the Lieu calls me into his office and tells me I’m just the man they need for this very delicate case that’s landed on his desk. A week later, I’m standing in a spotlight twirling a six-shooter while wearing a black ten-gallon hat, cowboy boots, a low-slung belt and holsters over boxer shorts, and a grin. People were applauding, with a few hoots and whistles thrown in. I holstered the prop gun, grabbed the crumpled shirt, vest, chaps, and breakaway pants that made up the rest of my costume, and waved to the crowd one last time before popping behind the curtain, Omigod-I-did-it! running on a loop in my head.
Hannah, the venue’s namesake and proprietress, was in the wings, beaming. “Way to go, Vecchio!”
“Aw, shucks, ma’am, ’tweren’t nuthin’,” I drawled, feeling like my own face was about to split in half and thinking (not for the first time) that it’s a good thing I’m not the real Vecchio, ’cause he might wear nicer clothes than me, but I for damn sure look better taking them off.
Just then I caught sight of Fraser over Hannah’s shoulder and whistled. His answering smile was a little strained. Hannah linked arms with him and asked, “What do you think?”
The Mountie had been turned into The Man in the Gray Flannel Suit, complete with fedora hat, briefcase, and a folded overcoat slung over one arm. Hannah’s hair was up in a twist, and she was wearing white gloves, a pink sweater set, a little frilly apron over a big, light gray skirt with lots of rustling petticoats, sheer stockings, pink high heels, and a pearl necklace with matching earrings.
“Wow. You’re, like, Mister and Missus Squaresville.”
She bounced on her toes. “Isn’t it perfect? Hannah E. Hepplewhite: suuupah-geeenyus.”
“That remains to be seen,” Fraser said in a tight voice.
“Whatsa matter,” I asked him, “you had a preposition?”
Little Miss Homemaker snorted. “More likely a proposition.”
I wasn’t sure if Fraser was playing straight man or if he really thought we’d both gotten it wrong, but at least he looked a little less like he was about to throw up. “If you’re asking if I’ve had a premonition, then the answer is no—just a general sense of foreboding.”
Hannah patted a flanneled shoulder. “Hey, none of that. The last rehearsal went off without a hitch. You just have to do exactly what you did then.”
He scratched an eyebrow. “In front of a titillated and intoxicated audience.”
“Fraser, relax! They’re friendly. Really, really friendly. They’ll be rooting for you! And they haven’t had enough time to get really drunk. Besides, there are bouncers.”
“Thank you, Ray. You are, as ever, a great comfort.”
At that point we had to stand aside so the crew guys could carry out the props for Hannah and Fraser’s act.
“I’m gonna go get dressed. As for you—” I grabbed Fraser by both shoulders “—you keep your feet on the ground and your head on those shoulders of yours and go out, and, Fraser, you’re going out a Mountie, but you’ve got to come back a star!”
To which he replied, totally deadpan, “Bite me, Ray.”
I could hear Hannah’s snickers until I closed the door of the men’s dressing room. I unlocked my cubby, sat, pulled off the boots and my showtime skivvies, and that was when the shakes hit as Omigod-I-did-it! was replaced by the B-side, Omigod-I-can’t-believe-I-did-that! I cut it short, though—I had to dress and go to the main room so I could (one) try to figure out if whoever’d assaulted four of Hannah’s male employees was in the audience and (B) see if Fraser would really strut his stuff in the buff. Because let’s face it: there was no question the Mountie had a pair, but trying to imagine him showing them off to paying customers made me feel like my head was gonna—not explode, the other way—implode. Plus, when he tries to dance the guy moves like a block of wood.
Five minutes later I was standing by the bar in a white shirt and black slacks to blend with the staff, bobbing my head along to a remix of Soul Coughing’s “Down to This” and admiring Hannah’s solution to the problem of working with the Canadian Maple: In his role as Fatigued-but-Increasingly-Intrigued-Breadwinner, he pretty much just stood there while she, playing Hot-to-Trot-Housewife, handled the dancing and actual clothes removal. As she peeled off Fraser’s pinstriped shirt to reveal a sleeveless undershirt, I scanned a table of women who’d been seated while I was changing. Forensics indicated our perp was probably a guy, but it was possible he stayed outside while an accomplice went in and chose the vics, so I looked them over carefully. They all seemed caught up in the show, especially the blonde on the end, though she didn’t look turned on so much as…horrified?
Oh holy CRAP, STELLA!
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2004-12-05 11:06 pm (UTC)I’ve toyed with the idea of having Fraser arrange for a post-hypnotic trigger that would enable him to perform, because hey! Hypnotism is in the canon! Stephen Fry apparently did this once when he had to sing in a televised skit, something which he’d be unable to do under normal circumstances. Fry’s trigger was the phrase “Hit it, bitch”; Fraser’s probably would have been “ecdysiast.”