Fuckin' A
folder
Gundam Wing/AC › Yaoi - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
6
Views:
1,227
Reviews:
15
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Gundam Wing/AC › Yaoi - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
6
Views:
1,227
Reviews:
15
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Gundam Wing/AC, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
III
F'n A pt III
please check out my forum: http://board5.cgiworld.net/list.cgi?id=tinykitfic&now=1
I'm sticking my fics in there (active and completed fics), and sporadic journal entries
And, if there is ever a time aff.net isn't working, you know where I am^_^
ALSO, at the forum is a poll (you can get to it by clicking on the "Fuckin' A" synopsis post), and the poll is about...
THE IDENTITY OF THE MAN FROM THE BUS
please vote
"What do you think of her?" Quatre asked Stabler as they looked over the adoption flyers 'together.'
Stabler stayed impartial to the scruffy looking terrier framed neatly on the paper.
"Yeah, I suppose it'd be a problem since I wanted to name my next pet McCoy or Munch...though VanBuren is a pretty cool name..." Quatre supposed. "Let's entertain her as a possibility." And, accordingly, set her paper down in the 'maybe' stack.
He'd been taking the bus for about a week and a half. His soreness was mostly gone and only reawakened with the application of pressure to the bruises that had become uglier than they felt. Many of his more superficial bruising had disappeared.
He still rode the bus, and saw the same man every morning, and missed him every afternoon. They still hadn't spoken since the first day. The silence was such a regular habit that to violate it would create an awkward atmosphere.
Since Quatre's awakening to Stabler's isolat he' he'd considered on more than one occasion, leaving the TV on during the day, if only for the comfort of the white noise. Then the price of gas and electric would make a mad dash through his head and stomp the thought to smithereens.
"Well, I think...that'st," t," Quatre sighed and placed his 'maybe' stack into a spread. They were all terriers. Stabler was a mutt terrier-mix. His fur was long and curly and had the coloring of a German Sheperd. His previous owners had called him 'Scrappy,' obviously capitalizing on Stabler's more notable physical attributes. Quatre liked to think of him as a tank covered with shag carpet.
Stabler wound up in Quatre's care after gobs of misfortune and eighty-dollars worth of medical bills.
It was after one and a half years of living alone that Quatre decided that a pet with an endless supply of unconditional love was in order, which he found in Stabler.
"I suppose, it'd be easier for you if we got a bitch..." Quatre said stacking all the male dogs and setting them aside. "And...It'd be easier for me if we got a small bitch..." He said, scanning the papers for the lightest dogs.
Eventually, he settled on three final possibilities, all of them promised non-shedders. He didn't know whether he was allergic, or not, but the mere thought of dog hair everywhere was enough to make him shudder.
He called the contact numbers and arranged appointments for two of the dogs, but the last one, he caught the answering machine. There was a machine prompt, and he felt apprehensive about the possibility of recording his voice on the wrong machine.
At the last moment, he hung up.
"I'll call tomorrow," he said aloud, as if to reassure Stabler, who recieved his comment with the casual indifference of one who does not understand. He lay on his side a few feet to the left of the television and extended all of his legs outward, spreading his webbed toes as far apart as they would go, and then sucked all of his limbs back towards himself with the elasticity of a rubber band. For all he cared, Quatre could have been talking about peanut butter.
++
On Sunday, early in the morning, Quatre took a trip to the grocery store.
All of the roads trickled with sparse traffic under shifting cloud cover that rolled where it pleased. Sunlight cascaded down from the sky like golden waterfalls, spilling over stationary objects, making even the most sickly sitting bench look like a glittering island of paradise.
A trip to the grocery store seemed a tad different from Quatre's vantage point on the nearly empty bus. He had an elevated view (by some feet) of the world around him, and didn't have to concentrate on any specific point since he didn't need to be on the look-out for dumb bunnies doing stupid things in traffic. He could choose to notice aforementioned dumb bunnies if the mood suited him, now, but it would be an observation made by pure chance than by strict necessity. There was a guilty pleasure in the laziness that bus riding had recently cultivated in him.
Perhaps, a book was in order.
He got off on Simmons and walked the last few blocks to the store.
It was always more pleasant when it was mostly deserted, and he considered it to be particularly advantageous given that his face still retained vivid colors of plum, pear, rotting pear, and fish scale blue.
He visited the bread aisle, first, it being the most immediate to the right upon entering the grocery. The next aisle after that housed canned goods, and after that, pastas and ready dinners, and the aisle after that, ethnic foods and spices, and so on, and so forth.
On the other side of the store, toiletricleacleaners, cards, medical supplies, cameras, and film were shelved. Towards the back of the store, all of the meats, dairy, and other miscellany refridgerated goods sat, freshly stacked
In the heart of the store, at the time of the incident, he was looking at fresh produce, items that were on sale. As poor as he was, he didn't feel that it was proper to have all of his food come to him in a vacum sealed package. He was inspecting peaches when an overtly gay man accosted him.
It wasn't that Quatre was entertaining a bout of terrible prejudice, but, it seemed that every possible stereotype that typified the modern gay man, lay mortifyingly bare in this one. Just the look of him sent Quatre's gaydar into a panicked frenzy. Danger! Danger! Danger!
He was so flaming that he could have sent the cereal aisle up in smoke.
"Hey," the man said smoothly, leaning on a crate of oranges that grumbled under his weight. "You look very," he plunged his eyes downward, and then bobbed them back up, "beautiful."
An unstoppable expression of pain and befuddlement morphed Quatre's face. "W-what?" he blurted incredulously.
Undeterred, the man marched on, "Can I take you out to lunch, sometime?"
Quatre's jaw dropped. The audacity! Anger floated up in him, but couldn't connect enough with his brain to form a coherent thought. He wanted to tell the guy off, but could only manage an ineffectual tremble in his jaw.
"What's your number?" the man pressed, leaning in closer, forcing Quatre to retreat.
Quatre felt an intense anger manifest itself in his sinus. It was so potent that it would either come out in a wordless cry of disgust or a quick shove to make room for an escape.
This person, obviously, was attracted to Quatre's seeming vulnerability, submissive pheremones, and battered condition. Who, honestly, propositions a bruised up man (or woman)?
He would've stayed stuck in shock and crippling upset if no one had intervened.
"Pardon me, sir," a familliar voice cut in, "but you happen to be hitting on my boyfriend."
Quatre turned his eyes to the stranger, the handsome man from the bus.
His heart throbbed, just a little bit, and he cracked a smile halfway between a dreamy daze and relief.
He thought of a name, quick, "Joe!" and stepped into the calculated embrace of his 'beloved.'
'Joe' smiled warmly at him, a serene and thoughtful smile.
Then, 'Joe' turned more severe sights on the object of upset, "I think that you ought to go, now."
The flaming man raised up his palms in surrender and sauntered off in the opposite direction, knowing that he had lost to a greater power.
Quatre and 'Joe' watched him leave, and breathed a collective sigh of relief when he was out of sight.
Almost immediately, the arm that had been slung around Quatre's narrow shoulders slackened, allowing him to step out of the loose half-embrace of his own accord, which he did.
"Are you alright?" 'Joe' asked as Quatre straightened himself out.
"I'm fine," Quatre replied, a slight too sharp. "Sorry..." He paused a moment and didn't detect any signs that the handsome target of all of his bus-affiliated affections was interested in his life story, so, he followed up with a sincerely sheepish, "Thank you."
"Don't think too much of it," the handsome guy from the bus asserted, without missing a beat.
...Okay...
The right side of Quatre's mouth ticked, "Th-thanks, anyway."
The man seemed to smile, "I hope that I didn't embarrass you."
Quatre shook his head, "Not at all."
++
They rode the same bus home, and didn't speak a word.
The comfortable awkwardness had wedged itself between them, again.
TBC...
note(s):
THANK YOU for the reviews~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
please check out my forum: http://board5.cgiworld.net/list.cgi?id=tinykitfic&now=1
I'm sticking my fics in there (active and completed fics), and sporadic journal entries
And, if there is ever a time aff.net isn't working, you know where I am^_^
ALSO, at the forum is a poll (you can get to it by clicking on the "Fuckin' A" synopsis post), and the poll is about...
THE IDENTITY OF THE MAN FROM THE BUS
please vote
"What do you think of her?" Quatre asked Stabler as they looked over the adoption flyers 'together.'
Stabler stayed impartial to the scruffy looking terrier framed neatly on the paper.
"Yeah, I suppose it'd be a problem since I wanted to name my next pet McCoy or Munch...though VanBuren is a pretty cool name..." Quatre supposed. "Let's entertain her as a possibility." And, accordingly, set her paper down in the 'maybe' stack.
He'd been taking the bus for about a week and a half. His soreness was mostly gone and only reawakened with the application of pressure to the bruises that had become uglier than they felt. Many of his more superficial bruising had disappeared.
He still rode the bus, and saw the same man every morning, and missed him every afternoon. They still hadn't spoken since the first day. The silence was such a regular habit that to violate it would create an awkward atmosphere.
Since Quatre's awakening to Stabler's isolat he' he'd considered on more than one occasion, leaving the TV on during the day, if only for the comfort of the white noise. Then the price of gas and electric would make a mad dash through his head and stomp the thought to smithereens.
"Well, I think...that'st," t," Quatre sighed and placed his 'maybe' stack into a spread. They were all terriers. Stabler was a mutt terrier-mix. His fur was long and curly and had the coloring of a German Sheperd. His previous owners had called him 'Scrappy,' obviously capitalizing on Stabler's more notable physical attributes. Quatre liked to think of him as a tank covered with shag carpet.
Stabler wound up in Quatre's care after gobs of misfortune and eighty-dollars worth of medical bills.
It was after one and a half years of living alone that Quatre decided that a pet with an endless supply of unconditional love was in order, which he found in Stabler.
"I suppose, it'd be easier for you if we got a bitch..." Quatre said stacking all the male dogs and setting them aside. "And...It'd be easier for me if we got a small bitch..." He said, scanning the papers for the lightest dogs.
Eventually, he settled on three final possibilities, all of them promised non-shedders. He didn't know whether he was allergic, or not, but the mere thought of dog hair everywhere was enough to make him shudder.
He called the contact numbers and arranged appointments for two of the dogs, but the last one, he caught the answering machine. There was a machine prompt, and he felt apprehensive about the possibility of recording his voice on the wrong machine.
At the last moment, he hung up.
"I'll call tomorrow," he said aloud, as if to reassure Stabler, who recieved his comment with the casual indifference of one who does not understand. He lay on his side a few feet to the left of the television and extended all of his legs outward, spreading his webbed toes as far apart as they would go, and then sucked all of his limbs back towards himself with the elasticity of a rubber band. For all he cared, Quatre could have been talking about peanut butter.
++
On Sunday, early in the morning, Quatre took a trip to the grocery store.
All of the roads trickled with sparse traffic under shifting cloud cover that rolled where it pleased. Sunlight cascaded down from the sky like golden waterfalls, spilling over stationary objects, making even the most sickly sitting bench look like a glittering island of paradise.
A trip to the grocery store seemed a tad different from Quatre's vantage point on the nearly empty bus. He had an elevated view (by some feet) of the world around him, and didn't have to concentrate on any specific point since he didn't need to be on the look-out for dumb bunnies doing stupid things in traffic. He could choose to notice aforementioned dumb bunnies if the mood suited him, now, but it would be an observation made by pure chance than by strict necessity. There was a guilty pleasure in the laziness that bus riding had recently cultivated in him.
Perhaps, a book was in order.
He got off on Simmons and walked the last few blocks to the store.
It was always more pleasant when it was mostly deserted, and he considered it to be particularly advantageous given that his face still retained vivid colors of plum, pear, rotting pear, and fish scale blue.
He visited the bread aisle, first, it being the most immediate to the right upon entering the grocery. The next aisle after that housed canned goods, and after that, pastas and ready dinners, and the aisle after that, ethnic foods and spices, and so on, and so forth.
On the other side of the store, toiletricleacleaners, cards, medical supplies, cameras, and film were shelved. Towards the back of the store, all of the meats, dairy, and other miscellany refridgerated goods sat, freshly stacked
In the heart of the store, at the time of the incident, he was looking at fresh produce, items that were on sale. As poor as he was, he didn't feel that it was proper to have all of his food come to him in a vacum sealed package. He was inspecting peaches when an overtly gay man accosted him.
It wasn't that Quatre was entertaining a bout of terrible prejudice, but, it seemed that every possible stereotype that typified the modern gay man, lay mortifyingly bare in this one. Just the look of him sent Quatre's gaydar into a panicked frenzy. Danger! Danger! Danger!
He was so flaming that he could have sent the cereal aisle up in smoke.
"Hey," the man said smoothly, leaning on a crate of oranges that grumbled under his weight. "You look very," he plunged his eyes downward, and then bobbed them back up, "beautiful."
An unstoppable expression of pain and befuddlement morphed Quatre's face. "W-what?" he blurted incredulously.
Undeterred, the man marched on, "Can I take you out to lunch, sometime?"
Quatre's jaw dropped. The audacity! Anger floated up in him, but couldn't connect enough with his brain to form a coherent thought. He wanted to tell the guy off, but could only manage an ineffectual tremble in his jaw.
"What's your number?" the man pressed, leaning in closer, forcing Quatre to retreat.
Quatre felt an intense anger manifest itself in his sinus. It was so potent that it would either come out in a wordless cry of disgust or a quick shove to make room for an escape.
This person, obviously, was attracted to Quatre's seeming vulnerability, submissive pheremones, and battered condition. Who, honestly, propositions a bruised up man (or woman)?
He would've stayed stuck in shock and crippling upset if no one had intervened.
"Pardon me, sir," a familliar voice cut in, "but you happen to be hitting on my boyfriend."
Quatre turned his eyes to the stranger, the handsome man from the bus.
His heart throbbed, just a little bit, and he cracked a smile halfway between a dreamy daze and relief.
He thought of a name, quick, "Joe!" and stepped into the calculated embrace of his 'beloved.'
'Joe' smiled warmly at him, a serene and thoughtful smile.
Then, 'Joe' turned more severe sights on the object of upset, "I think that you ought to go, now."
The flaming man raised up his palms in surrender and sauntered off in the opposite direction, knowing that he had lost to a greater power.
Quatre and 'Joe' watched him leave, and breathed a collective sigh of relief when he was out of sight.
Almost immediately, the arm that had been slung around Quatre's narrow shoulders slackened, allowing him to step out of the loose half-embrace of his own accord, which he did.
"Are you alright?" 'Joe' asked as Quatre straightened himself out.
"I'm fine," Quatre replied, a slight too sharp. "Sorry..." He paused a moment and didn't detect any signs that the handsome target of all of his bus-affiliated affections was interested in his life story, so, he followed up with a sincerely sheepish, "Thank you."
"Don't think too much of it," the handsome guy from the bus asserted, without missing a beat.
...Okay...
The right side of Quatre's mouth ticked, "Th-thanks, anyway."
The man seemed to smile, "I hope that I didn't embarrass you."
Quatre shook his head, "Not at all."
++
They rode the same bus home, and didn't speak a word.
The comfortable awkwardness had wedged itself between them, again.
TBC...
note(s):
THANK YOU for the reviews~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!