Notes: Two comment fics written for the on-line con rat_jam. What a fantastic weekend that was. Fangirls are awesome!
1. Prompt: Caroline, wonky
Off-balance. That's how she feels. To be honest, she's never felt particularly on-balance, not since the accident had put a rod in her spine and a wobble in her walk. That had put paid to her career as a prima ballerina. Well, more accurately it had put paid to her starring role as a daisy in the Second Year Infants' Easter Parade (though if anyone asked she always said she would have been the Anna Pavlova of her generation and then things would inevitably degenerate into a conversation about meringue and she'd have to find something sweet to eat and fast).
But at this moment in time, Caroline feels more off-balance than ever. Twenty-two tequila shots and bottles of beer (quantity: some) would do that to a woman. Even a doctor woman. It wasn't that, though. Or, at least, not just that.
It had been an inauspicious start to her new job, turning up unwashed, unkempt and ever so slightly unhinged. And then there had been the whole not-sleeping with the hospital Lothario to contend with on Day Two. That anyone gave her the time of day at all she considered a miracle. But that was just the thing. It wasn't only the time of day they were giving her. By her — still drunken — count, three men were at least a little in love with her (and possibly one woman, although she had her doubts about the sanity of that one) and that fact was hastening past the realms of 'aww' and 'nice' and 'mmm' into 'slightly disturbing'. Because. Three men? In love with her? Whatever for?
Okay, so Guy may just want to get into her knickers (she is still wearing them, isn't she?) and Martin may just assume he's in love because he'd only had to tell her his name once and she'd rescued him from the attentions of Crazy Mildred in bed 7 that time, and Mac may have been having some kind of bet with himself (or Guy) — who kisses a sicky mouth? Really? — but still, it's unprecedented. Caroline knows she makes rather a shoddy girl — small tits, manly gait, hair with which she is constantly at war, inability to appreciate the finer points of scrunchies and Heat magazine. Not like pretty, perfect Angela. If they'd all snogged Angela that would've made sense, but they didn't. They chose her. Which. No.
So here she lies, drunk in the dark, the world tipping askew and it works for her. She wonders if things will straighten out in the morning. She wonders if she wants them to.
2. Prompt: Guy/Mac, proof
"The thing is, Secretan, you're all talk. You have no follow-through."
"I do. I finish what I start. Except The Times cryptic crossword. Oh, and that noughts and crosses game when you ran out of thread. And that disgusting yoghurt Martin started bringing in. But other than that."
"Prove it then, you tosser."
"The thing is you can't handle it."
"Who said anything about handling? I'd have to sterilise afterwards."
"The truth, you great poofter, you can't handle the truth."
"Guy, haven't I told you about not watching A Few Good Men before bed. You always come to work the next day thinking you're Jack Nicholson and then you get mixed up and we get complaints about you rampaging with an axe. We had to replace three perfectly good doors last time."
"Yeah, well," mutters Guy, "it was all that haematology nurse's fault. I was just trying to show her my back swing."
"So that's what the hip kids are calling it these days. Anyway, what's the truth that I can't handle?"
"That I'm a better man than you are, Gunga Din."
Mac smiles his enigmatic smile. Guy spends half his time being irritated by it and the other half... He'd rather not think about the other half.
"You really want to see it?"
"I really do."
"And then you will bow down to my superiority and worship me always?"
"I will buy you a pint, if that's the same thing."
"Three."
"Two."
"Done. Shut the door."
Mac complies and sits loose-limbed in a chair, looking expectantly at Guy.
Guy removes his white coat and unbuttons his cuffs. Slowly, deliberately he rolls up his sleeves and then kicks off his shoes. He unbuckles his belt and starts to slide his hands inside his trousers. He stops.
"Two and a half?"
"Two."
Guy nods and starts to move again, hands, wrists and forearms disappearing. He performs a series of contortions, face reddening with effort until triumphant he waves his underpants in Mac's face.
"See!" he gloats. "Told you I could get them off without removing my trousers. Yes!"
"Indeed," says Mac, smiling that enigmatic smile once again. "You were right, I was wrong. You know what this means?"
"What?"
"It means you win."
"Yes! I win! I am the best. I should have been a Chinese acrobat I'm so bloody flexible. It's why I'm so fucking good at sex. Oh yes!"
Guy gets right into Mac's personal space, grinning his grin of victory. Out of the corner of his eye he sees something glint, the sun off a screen. It's only then he realises that Mac is holding a videophone.
Guy might have to rethink the winning thing.