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Summary: Humour

Categories: Slash
Characters: Chris Keel, Sam Curtis
Genres: Humour
Warnings: None
Chapters: 1 [Table of Contents]
Series: None

Word count: 1001; Completed: Yes
Updated: 24 Sep 2004; Published: 24 Sep 2004

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Author's Notes: Well, this is entirely thanks (?) to something Chya mentioned to me earlier today... Such an innocuous (okay, *obsessive* *g*) comment gave birth to this... Chya, this is for you!



~*~



Think happy thoughts.



No. Think *calming* thoughts. Deep blue oceans. Cloud filled skies. Sleeping infants. Sunsets. Rolling green fields.



...Rolling green fields filled with stampeding elephants... During an earthquake... And a thunderstorm.



Okay. Scratch that. I can't think calming thoughts. Fine. Maybe, if I'm really lucky, I'll wake up in a moment and find myself in a dank cell somewhere. Four walls, no windows and, heck, even a bucket for a toilet. It would be *wonderful*.



It would be quiet.



It would be *blissfully* silent.



There wouldn't be bloody "I Will Survive" blaring at a volume loud enough to wake the dead.



My decidedly deranged partner wouldn't be in the middle of some... peculiar... strip tease.



My living room wouldn't be under attack from said partner's new, quaint way of removing his clothing.



My head hurts.



I'm gonna kill him.



Well, at the very least *hurt* him in some way. I currently favour the idea of doing something... ah... *interesting* with the CD.



It would serve him right.



Smug git.



If he comes looking to me for sympathy the next time (I'd say early next week would be a safe bet... And that's without him falling foul of me first) he gets injured then he's going to be *sadly* let down. If he's mobile enough then perhaps he'd like a nice night at the opera. Followed by a wine tasting. I then think a visit to a good French restaurant would be in order.



Needless to say, it's exceptionally lucky for Chris that I'm confined to this lounge chair. If I could move without causing myself excruciating agony, then he'd be in for it. *Guaranteed*. Maybe I'm getting old. I'm sure cracked ribs never hurt as much as this before.



Then again, that probably has a lot to do with the fact that they are *vibrating* thanks to the, and I use the word lightly here, music.



Not the...!



That shoe flew *far* too close to those Mikasa candle holders for my liking.



"I Will Survive" my arse.



Yeah, smirk all you like, Keel.



You'd think by now that he'd know that I have a long memory.



A *very* long memory. I could give memory lessons to an elephant. I can remember every single person who I've ever perceived as doing me a wrongdoing. Right back to that brat who trod on my jam sandwich in the first year of primary school. He learnt his lesson.



I wonder if he still has nightmares about homicidal plush Snoopy toys...



Oh. My. God.



Now I've honestly seen everything.



A sock hanging off a picture frame.



Now, why didn't I think of that?



It could be a whole new trend.



It could just as reasonably be a coded wish for death.



Right now, Chris appears to me as walking, talking target.



No. Let me amend that. A *dancing*, *singing* -- arguably -- target.



I think he's insane. It's all finally got too much for him and he's snapped. Or maybe it's the American way of letting off steam? Surely getting pissed and passing out in a gutter would be far simpler. Not to mention quieter and better for my health and temper.



Life's a bitch.



I don't even have anything I can chuck at him. The only thing in my reach is a packet of Nurofen. And I'm less than convinced that having little white pills flicked at him would result in him ceasing and desisting. Besides, I can't afford to waste them.



The bastard even hid the remote control to the stereo.



Devious git.



I refuse to accept the -- not the crystal! -- blame for this *performance*. Contrary to Chris' views on the subject, it was *not* unreasonable of me to not want to dress up in costume and attend the midnight session of 'Priscilla Queen of the Desert' at the Capri.



So sue me for being mundane.



Mea culpa.



Can I help it if I think make-up looks better on women? And women's clothes *definitely* look better on women?



I think not.



Nor can I help it if my partner is mentally unstable.



Hmm... A shirt over the television set.



Novel.



Nothing ventured, nothing gained, he then tried his luck at getting me to a screening of 'The Rocky Horror Picture Show'. To my distinct shock, he honestly looked surprised when I admitted that I had never, *ever*, had any inclination to dress up as Frank 'N' Furter.



He worries me.



Honestly.



He does.



Pity I need him so much.



Shame he's so damn good looking and that he evokes in me feelings that I have never felt before.



If only he was sane, then he'd be perfect.



Nah.



I wouldn't change a thing.



What would I have to whinge about if Chris wasn't so uniquely, well, *Chris*?



I'd rather die than be without him. He livens up my life.



He...



He's wearing *my* boxers.



The silk ones.



The *expensive* silk ones that cost so much I tell myself that they have to handmade by blind Tibetan monks in order to command such a price.



Do they feel any better than cheaper brands?



Probably not.



In my own way, I'm probably just as deranged as Chris.



Oh. Halt right there. Scary thought.



How'd he get his grotty paws on a pair of...



Hang on.



It doesn't matter any more as he's no longer wearing them.



And he's heading in my direction...



And I'm grinning like an idiot.



Do I even have to mention that I've forgiven him everything already?



I thought not.



The End


 


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