Panto Chronicles Finale: It's All Wrung In
Jan. 7th, 2008 01:57 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
peg22So, I got a reprieve from the airlines and am still sitting in Canada, looking out this window: (which by the way, is apparently a fantastic place to write S/H fic AND crack . . .)
So I thought I'd finish up dictating the missives from London and all points east . . .
So far 2008 is good - but I am always suspect of even numbered years - deceptively divisible, I guess . . .
I'll miss the boys in London, but the Bay City ones are impatient, as well as the Princeton Plainsboro Hospital ones (who have NO ONE writing anything for them these days . . .) and so for now . . . au revoir (see, how good is my French now, eh?)
The Panto Chronicles: It's All Wrung In
by Kaye
David Soul received the following note, delivered in a rather old-fashioned way by a rather old fashioned half-naked young man in jodphurs and two nipple rings. He tipped the poor boy and closed the door, unwrapping the note, breaking the wax seal, muttering under his breath.
Paul, just coming out of the shower, hair damp,towel clinging dangerously low on his hips grabbed the note, avoided David's hands, and sat on the bed to read.
"My dearest nancy boys (and you too, Paul),
Thank you ever so and a bag of chips for the delightful, albeit eventful Christmas. I do believe all the reviews are in and we are apparently the "hot new things for 2008". I've sent around all the appropriate apologies and gift baskets, so you can breathe a little easier around town.
So sorry I missed you both on the New Year. I was hibernating quite comfortably in my flat with just my nearests and dearests and we rung in the year in our usual way - there will be pictures, David, so don't be despondent.
So the "word on the street" is that you two caved it up yourselves at the Savoy - I must say I'm particularly jealous that Starsky and Hutch were able to procure the Princess Suite, while poor, poor Jeeves and Wooster were only able to manage a third floor walk-up and a Finn named Hano. (once again, David dear boy, there are piccies - be patient)
I know Paul is just a week from heading back over and I know you have yet to check out of said Princess Suite, and I know how you get when he leaves, David , so I took the liberties of ordering you a few items. I do hope that when I come stateside (naughty thoughts again, Paul?) this spring that we can once again enjoy each other's company, twine together in rich comraderie, and commune as only randy schoolboys in the midst of a spring fever can commune.
I am forever and always your number one fan,
Stephen "Huggy" Fry (you don't think Tony'd mind do you? I so want to wear that apple hat . . .)
While Paul finished reading, David opened the door and looked down the hall, closed the door and snaked a cigarette from his front pocket.
"Don't smoke in here." Paul fell back on the bed and flung an arm over his face. "Any bombs out there? Naked people? Horses?"
David leaned against the door, watching Paul's towel drift away from Paul's hips. "Are you trying to make me crazy?"
"No, I just don't want you to smoke-" Paul realized where's David's eyes had fixed. He quickly rolled over and rearranged. "I guess I should get dressed."
"What for?"
"You want to go smoke."
"I can smoke by myself. Been smoking by myself for years now."
Paul got up and headed back into the bathroom. "I know, but I want to smoke, too. Plus, how can I pass up the opportunity to have tourists yell, "Starsky and Hutch" at us in the lobby?" He disappeared in the bathroom.
David pushed himself off the door and walked over to the window, tipping the open bottle of Scotch into a clean glass. "You're going to miss all the attention when you get back to L.A. you know. You can play serious career actor slash director all you want, but I know you , Paulie - you're even more of a whore than I am."
Paul peeked his head out the bathroom door. "Whores get paid - you give it away every night at that pub of yours . . ."
"Fuck off - those people love me."
"I love you, Davey - those people stalk you. Someday you'll learn the difference."
"Just get dressed or I'm leaving you in here when Fry delivers his "items". My guess is a monkey and a couple of twin contortionists he smuggled in from Malaysia."
"Oh, really? I've changed my mind about smoking." Paul finally came out of the bathroom and David had to grip the edge of the table.
Paul had pulled a thin white sweatshirt over his damp hair, and was wearing what Ian McKellan had once called his "Don't just fuck me, fuck me now" jeans.
"Well, it's official - you are trying to kill me." David stuck the cigarette in his mouth and dug for his lighter. "Fucking hell, Paulie."
"What?" Paul smiled and reached for his shoes. "And do not smoke in here."
David pulled open the door. "Why not - it's my after sex smoke."
"After sex smoke? You used the self-serve while I was getting ready? Jesus Davey, you've been hanging around Fry too long . . ."
"No, asshole - you. My eyes are being fucked right out of their sockets by your ass in those damn jeans . . ."
Paul smiled again and walked slowly toward the door. "Oh you mean these pants?" He ran a hand down his left leg. "I just like how they feel." He stopped in front of David, who was backed against the door, the knob digging into his ass.
"I'm sure you do." David breathed. "What are you doing, Paulie?"
"Wanna feel my jeans, Davey? They're kind of famous, you know . . ."
"Oh really?" David felt sweat beading on his upper lip, the cigarette forgotten.
"Yeah, I heard they once belonged to Starsky . . ."
The knock on the door interrupted.
David closed his eyes and swore. "Go the fuck away."
"Uh, delivery for a Mr. David Starsky and a Mr. Kenny Hutchy."
Paul reached around David and pulled the door open a crack.
"Uh, hi. We don't want that. Here." Paul pulled out a note from his jeans, which David found both disturbing and fucking sexy.
The perplexed room service waiter shook his head. "But the basket sir?"
"You keep the basket - compliments of Stephen Fry. Share it with the staff, okay?"
David closed the door with his back, Paul just pulling his head back in time. Then the door opened again and the DO NOT DISTURB hanger appeared and the door slammed shut.
The waiter walked slowly down the hall, where he met another staff member. He shook is head and told him what had just happened.
"Tell Bennie and Larry to meet us in the kitchen, there's enough stuff here for a feast."
"But Toby . . . what about the pony? What the hell are we supposed to do with the pony?"
fin
by Kaye
David Soul received the following note, delivered in a rather old-fashioned way by a rather old fashioned half-naked young man in jodphurs and two nipple rings. He tipped the poor boy and closed the door, unwrapping the note, breaking the wax seal, muttering under his breath.
Paul, just coming out of the shower, hair damp,towel clinging dangerously low on his hips grabbed the note, avoided David's hands, and sat on the bed to read.
"My dearest nancy boys (and you too, Paul),
Thank you ever so and a bag of chips for the delightful, albeit eventful Christmas. I do believe all the reviews are in and we are apparently the "hot new things for 2008". I've sent around all the appropriate apologies and gift baskets, so you can breathe a little easier around town.
So sorry I missed you both on the New Year. I was hibernating quite comfortably in my flat with just my nearests and dearests and we rung in the year in our usual way - there will be pictures, David, so don't be despondent.
So the "word on the street" is that you two caved it up yourselves at the Savoy - I must say I'm particularly jealous that Starsky and Hutch were able to procure the Princess Suite, while poor, poor Jeeves and Wooster were only able to manage a third floor walk-up and a Finn named Hano. (once again, David dear boy, there are piccies - be patient)
I know Paul is just a week from heading back over and I know you have yet to check out of said Princess Suite, and I know how you get when he leaves, David , so I took the liberties of ordering you a few items. I do hope that when I come stateside (naughty thoughts again, Paul?) this spring that we can once again enjoy each other's company, twine together in rich comraderie, and commune as only randy schoolboys in the midst of a spring fever can commune.
I am forever and always your number one fan,
Stephen "Huggy" Fry (you don't think Tony'd mind do you? I so want to wear that apple hat . . .)
While Paul finished reading, David opened the door and looked down the hall, closed the door and snaked a cigarette from his front pocket.
"Don't smoke in here." Paul fell back on the bed and flung an arm over his face. "Any bombs out there? Naked people? Horses?"
David leaned against the door, watching Paul's towel drift away from Paul's hips. "Are you trying to make me crazy?"
"No, I just don't want you to smoke-" Paul realized where's David's eyes had fixed. He quickly rolled over and rearranged. "I guess I should get dressed."
"What for?"
"You want to go smoke."
"I can smoke by myself. Been smoking by myself for years now."
Paul got up and headed back into the bathroom. "I know, but I want to smoke, too. Plus, how can I pass up the opportunity to have tourists yell, "Starsky and Hutch" at us in the lobby?" He disappeared in the bathroom.
David pushed himself off the door and walked over to the window, tipping the open bottle of Scotch into a clean glass. "You're going to miss all the attention when you get back to L.A. you know. You can play serious career actor slash director all you want, but I know you , Paulie - you're even more of a whore than I am."
Paul peeked his head out the bathroom door. "Whores get paid - you give it away every night at that pub of yours . . ."
"Fuck off - those people love me."
"I love you, Davey - those people stalk you. Someday you'll learn the difference."
"Just get dressed or I'm leaving you in here when Fry delivers his "items". My guess is a monkey and a couple of twin contortionists he smuggled in from Malaysia."
"Oh, really? I've changed my mind about smoking." Paul finally came out of the bathroom and David had to grip the edge of the table.
Paul had pulled a thin white sweatshirt over his damp hair, and was wearing what Ian McKellan had once called his "Don't just fuck me, fuck me now" jeans.
"Well, it's official - you are trying to kill me." David stuck the cigarette in his mouth and dug for his lighter. "Fucking hell, Paulie."
"What?" Paul smiled and reached for his shoes. "And do not smoke in here."
David pulled open the door. "Why not - it's my after sex smoke."
"After sex smoke? You used the self-serve while I was getting ready? Jesus Davey, you've been hanging around Fry too long . . ."
"No, asshole - you. My eyes are being fucked right out of their sockets by your ass in those damn jeans . . ."
Paul smiled again and walked slowly toward the door. "Oh you mean these pants?" He ran a hand down his left leg. "I just like how they feel." He stopped in front of David, who was backed against the door, the knob digging into his ass.
"I'm sure you do." David breathed. "What are you doing, Paulie?"
"Wanna feel my jeans, Davey? They're kind of famous, you know . . ."
"Oh really?" David felt sweat beading on his upper lip, the cigarette forgotten.
"Yeah, I heard they once belonged to Starsky . . ."
The knock on the door interrupted.
David closed his eyes and swore. "Go the fuck away."
"Uh, delivery for a Mr. David Starsky and a Mr. Kenny Hutchy."
Paul reached around David and pulled the door open a crack.
"Uh, hi. We don't want that. Here." Paul pulled out a note from his jeans, which David found both disturbing and fucking sexy.
The perplexed room service waiter shook his head. "But the basket sir?"
"You keep the basket - compliments of Stephen Fry. Share it with the staff, okay?"
David closed the door with his back, Paul just pulling his head back in time. Then the door opened again and the DO NOT DISTURB hanger appeared and the door slammed shut.
The waiter walked slowly down the hall, where he met another staff member. He shook is head and told him what had just happened.
"Tell Bennie and Larry to meet us in the kitchen, there's enough stuff here for a feast."
"But Toby . . . what about the pony? What the hell are we supposed to do with the pony?"
fin
