Don't Ask, Won't Tell
{ElliGrayElli+plus+that+twerp+that+loves+tomatoes}
The apocalypse is coming.
Gill is thoroughly convinced of it. Honestly, when one finds his co-worker crouched under a shelf in the library reading a book upside down, he knows something is up. Only said co-worker wasn't reading a book. She was perusing a magazine from behind the book with the letters G U N blazing from the three square inches that were visible. And obviously"gun"wasn't referring to the stick that went bang bang bang, but rather was talking about that naughty stick that people used. To bang. Each other. Gill knew that "gun" was yet another ridiculous euphemism for "penis", and it didn't take him long to do the mental math. One ranch hand for a husband (read: cowboy fetish) plus hidden hobby-ist magazines (read: dirty women's fag mags) equals-HO MAH GAWD DO NOT GO THERE!
In short, Gill stumbled on Elli reading porno and was disturbed above and beyond the call of nasty man-on-man smut. (It was almost as bad as the time when Hamilton suffered from the delusion that he looked absolutely smashing in a Speedo. He did not.)
Since Gill is thoroughly convinced that the apocalypse is coming, he won't leave his room. For the past week, he forced his dad to throw him box lunches through the open window, but Hamilton didn't really mind since he got Elli to make them. When Gill found that out, he stopped eating, making matters that much worse since he's now hungry and incredibly bitchy. (And where the hell did his diary go?! How else is he supposed to nag and whine? He's positive that he didn't lose it. What if that moronic farmer girl got a hold of it? He knows she stole it. That thieving twerp.)
"Gill, would you run over to Gray's place? Elli promised she'd make us dinner tonight and I need you to pick it up!" Ugh. Just what Gill needs.
"No Father, I will not be reduced to running your petty errands!" Gill sounds quite irate. Probably because the unsavory images of hawt yaoi action!!!!!one!eleven! have been reawakened in his mind. So sensual. Not that he swings that way. Oh no. Never.
"But Gi~ill! What about dinner?" Yeah, what about dinner? All Hamilton ever does is go down to the bar to get hopelessly plastered.
"You'll get by!" Yay. More yelling.
"Gill?! Gi~ill!" Long silence. "Gilllll! Giiiiiiiiiillllllll?!" Okay, this groveling is downright annoying. And pitiful. Kind of like hiding out in one's room for a week. "Son, as your father I order you to march yourself to Maple Lake District and collect our meal!" Gill gives up with a manly sigh (for men do not surrender with incredibly girly "Hmphs") and tromps down the stairs like masculine men do (in his dainty fashion). He reaches the landing as Hamilton proceeds to scream.
"Gilligan Smithsonian Hamilton! I command you with all the power that I hold as the prestigious Mayor of Waffle Town to receive our dinner from the ever gracious Mrs. Elli Smit this very instant!"
Gill glares at him from his position of 3 inches away.
"Oh goody, you're here!" Hamilton bustles with an unstoppable effervescence as he shoves "Gilligan Smithsonian Hamilton" out the door. "Cheerio good son! And if the potatoes get cold, it'll be your head." Gill only scowls. "Toodles." Before Gill protests, Hamilton slams the door in his face and that was that.
One hour (and several loading-I-can't-believe-it-takes-this-frickin'-long-my-cat-falls-alseep-faster-than-this-screens) later, Gill ends his trudge at Gray's house, where Elli so happens to live (because no bachelor man keeps a crib in his house only to not get married!). He squints at the address which is not an address because it has no numbers, only the names of "Mr. Gray and Elli Smit". (Ever notice how close "Smit" is to "smut"?)
Gill knocks quite rudely, eager to grab the grub and run. Lo and behold, the door opens sloooooowly to reveal Elli pulling a 180 five feet from the entrance.
"OH SWEET GODDESS ELLI! DON'T SHOOT ME!"
Oh yeah, and she is whipping out a gun. I guess that's important since Gill is proceeding to lapse into a seizure of unadulterated terror at the moment.
Oops.
Gray peeks out from behind the door and glowers at the trembling drama queen, but is gently shoved aside by his wife. She scurries over to Gill in a frenzy of frilly skirts and gun holsters as the prissy boy feels his soul drain out through his mouth.
"Ah! E-Elli-!" He tries to scramble away but is thwarted but the over-bearing Elli.
"Oh Gill! Gill? I'm so sorry Gill! I hadn't the faintest idea Gray was opening the door." She takes him by the shoulders and steers him inside. "Dear me! I didn't mean to shock you so. It was only a quick draw! For Goddess' sake, the pistol wasn't even loaded." Gill stammers and stutters as Elli forces him onto the couch. "Just relax here. Give it a minute and you should be fine."
"Elli! What is wrong with you?! You feel like popping more crazies on me?! What with the pies and the guns and the por-" Gill now pauses quite stupidly to take a moment to look around the quaint house. On the coffee table before him lie three magazines: two on knitting and a catalogue of firearms from last season. Indeed, Gill glances over towards a basket and is shocked to see numerous glossy covers with guns shoved neatly alongside harmless issues of "Southern Living". Oh my Goddess-she even framed an issue! Right on the wall, next to a trio of doilies in shadowboxes.
"…Elli," Gill is at a loss. "You cram yourself into the most obscure of corners during your lunch break to read handgun catalogues!" (Not porno, Gill. Not Porno.)
Her back stiffens as her face blows up in embarrassment. Well, not literally, but that would be pretty gnarly in itself. Anyway. She squeaks slightly and immediately stares at her feet. Such lovely, dainty socks she has.
"Don't tell! Gill, please, people just won't understand." Yeah. Kind of like how Gill was having a mind boggling time accepting the fact that fragile, finicky Elli found pleasure in wielding weapons of mass destruction. He groans and collapses into the couch. "Gill-!"
"Fine. Elli, I'm fine. Mind telling me exactly what you were doing back there, though?"
She perks up in her seat, a tad tooenthusiastic about her, ahem, hobby.
"Why, practicing my fast draw! I felt I was getting a bit rusty on the Woodsman-"
"Woodsman?"
"Yes, a .22 automatic pistol, the Colt Woodsman. A gift from my late grandfather actually." She smiles nostalgically, fiddling with the holster on her hip. "It's quite a gun actually. It's even got some history attached to it! Let me show you!" Oh boy, she's really riled now. She flips the gun out in a winking flash. (Wink wink wink!) "Look here! Look here! This proves it was manufactured before World War II!" Poor doll, not everyone is quite into firearms like her.
"A-ah! Elli, just put it away! Put it away! Put the gun away!" Gill is scared stiff (of guns).
Her face blows up. Again, in an inferno of flaming facial flesh. Not. "Oh, sorry. I, uh, I guess I got carried away and-never mind." She blushes fiercely, but is smiling shyly. The very opposite of a gristly, grimy gunslinger that most likely reeks of tobacco and skunk. Gill supposes that Elli stinks, but in a good way, like she is made of sugar and spice and bam bam bam bullets.
Again, Gill is terrified for his life.
He stands up, extremely indignant. "Gray, how can you let her do this?" Gill waves his arms around crazier than a madman as Gray glances up. (He's still here? Why yes, he's been sitting at the kitchen table the entire time.)
Gray harrumphs and continues to watch Gill's mental breakdown.
"Are you crazy? Women should not be allowed to traipse about town, swinging pistols from their handy-dandy hips! Why-"
Gray tells him to can it moron, I happen to enjoy knowing my wife can defend herself. Gill shoots back that it didn't stop you from slugging me last month for walking Elli home. Gray only replies with his manly dignity.
Elli forces Gill back down onto the couch. "Obviously, you're still stressed. I think you need to stay seated." She doesn't sound angry, but is still all "rawr" in her Mother Goose way. "The dinner you came for won't be done for another few minutes. That is why you're here, no?"
Gill sneers in response. Elli seats herself across from him, letting the silence drag on. Gray keeps on glaring at the sexist pig, making a mental note to break the slime ball's face in when his wife isn't looking.
"My grandfather was the one who introduced me to guns."
"Excuse me?" Gill couldn't care less. It's like asking a Harvest Sprite about the weather. Sprites don't care about the weather. They belong in a nuthouse. Gill's apathy kills Harvest Sprites in Africa, and sometimes in parts of New Zealand.
"He took me to a gun show when I was eight. Then he gave me the Woodsman when I was twelve. We participated in all sorts of competitions, and even joined up with the carnies for a few days, but then he died when I was fifteen." The end. Ignoring the fact that he believed every preteen girl craves a gun over a Barbie, Elli's grandfather seemed like a decent guy.
But at the moment, Gill wants nothing more than to skedaddle faster than you can say "I am not a pedo for crushing on Luna!"
"Wow. Uh, that's very interesting Elli." What a loony bin. First he catches Elli leafing through pornogra-AHEM special interest group reading material. Then it only turns out to be a gun catalogue (so much less offensive). And then he's forced to visit Elli, only to have a pistol shoved in his face! What's next? Is Gray going to participate in this role reversal madness by smacking on an apron and acting all domestic?!
"Sweet Goddess Gray! What are you doing?!"
Of course, our favorite (or not so favorite, your pick) macho man is fetching dinner from the oven with no quibbles about his masculinity. How sweet of him. (Why aren't all men like that?)
"What the hell does it look like I'm doing?" He sets the steaming dish on the counter with a clunky ka-rump, removing the paisley oven mitts (but tragically, no apron).
"But-but, that's women's work!" Gill is horrified at the sheer amount of wrongness in the household.
"Hey! You better pipe down, you little piss, or-" Elli rushes over and takes up his fist in her hands, the leather holster bouncing wildly atop her skirts.
"Now Gray, let's not resort to violence." Ha ha. Says the girl with the gun.
Gray thumps back down at the table, glaring at Gill, who glares back, which forces Elli to glare at both of them like they're stupid children, but then she gives up to sit down because intense glaring is quite tiring.
"Elli, how come you're a baker and not some psycho shooter that makes a living by picking people off?" Perhaps it could've been phrased a bit more elegantly, but GOOD QUESTION GILL!
She smoothes out her skirts, drawing out the time between question and answer. "Well, my grandfather died," That's already been established, Elli dear. "And when he died, my brothers' share of the inheritance was his entire gun collection. Me, on the other hand, I got grandmother's pots (she was also dead at the time, y'see). Pots, pans, skillets, and a sewing machine with which I had no idea how to use. At the time, I was absolutely furious-" Elli interrupts herself with a giggle, recalling her silly reaction. Gill stares at her exceedingly nonplussed. (Elli? Furious? Oh my Goddess, Armageddon must be starting next week. Don't forget to mark the calendar!) "-but as soon as my fingers touched the skillet, I knew my true calling!" The end. Again.
Guns + inheritance = chef extraordinaire? What?
"Elli-" Does he really want to be asking this? "Is there anything else you need to tell me, since you just spilled your whole life's story and all?"
"Well, back in the day, Calvin used to be a sharpshooter-"
"WHAT?!"
"-but he doesn't remember it anymore. The cave gasses seemed to have given him brain damage."
Screw the dinner. Gill was surrounded by freaks! He needed to get out of there!
Before you could say "I am not a pedo-" Oh wait, he already took off through the door, leaving Elli quite flabbergasted that he would depart without food and Gray rather indifferent about the little punk, for he knew he'd see the half-pint too soon for his tastes.
The end. Again. Again.
Or not~!
"AAAH!"
Gill wakes with a start. Well, not a start. Unless said start consisted of screaming, falling out of bed in a tangle of covers, and landing head first on the floor. Then he did wake with a start.
"Thank Goddess. It was only a nightmare!"
If you believed that last statement, then you are an idiot. Authors that write such uselessly long stories only to cop out in the end deserve to be beaten with martinis and marzipan. Gill just so happens to ignore the fact that he woke up a twelve o' clock noon fully dressed with a monster headache. Gill also just so happens to be an idiot.
He hears someone coming up (thwump thwump schwip! Thwackka-thwakka-thwakka-thomp! "Shh!" "I didn't do anything!" "Quiet!") or more accurately, someone falling down a flight a stairs and then re-proceeding to ascend them.
"Hey, whoever you are, get me a Tylenol because I just woke up from the worst nightmare and this headache is threatening to kill-Elli?"
Indeed, Elli pops her head into the room, bearing a beaten box that is worse for the wear.
"Oh Gill! You're awake. Thank goodness. I couldn't believe you ran into Ben's Tree on the way out!"
"Ben's Tree?" Elli scurries over to Gill's bedside.
"Why yes! You collided so hard that you've been asleep for two days. But never mind, I came to apologize. I can't help but feel that this is my fault." She offers him the gift box that is crumpled in one corner and torn in another. "I'm sorry about the frosting. Gray got to it before me, but it seemed so ridiculous to let a whole cake got to waste over a silly joke. And, um, it's probably a little, er, smooshed because I kind of tripped and fell on it, as you just heard." As Elli's face explodes for the third time in this story, Gill opens the box.
The cake is bright pink and says "Bang bang bang."
Somewhere, one ass of a cowboy is sniggering to himself as a perfectly good cake is chucked out a window.
The end. Again again again. For real.
A.N. My entry for the opposites contest. I have found my new love, Sharpshooter!Elli. Ahh~… I probably abused most of the English language in this fic. If I found out about the contest earlier I would've edited more…not. Ah well, perhaps next time there will be less hate between me and my native language. This was immensely fun to write, I must say. I don't hate Gill if you're wondering; he's just too much fun to mess with.
Argh. Please tell me what to improve. : ) ~ATC