By The Versatile Scarf
A/N: Yeah. I decided to stick my hand into the Young Ones fandom. Hooray for me. This is an extremely short little story that came to me as I was waking up from a dream.
Yeah. Reviews or whatever are very much appreciated!
Uhhh.. Yes. I'm aware that this conversation would technically be taking place after they've gone and gotten themselves blown up.
Woooo fanfiction magic!
Warnings: Slash if you squint. :D
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The clock read eleven thirty.
The clock had read eleven thirty since approximately eleven thirty this afternoon.
It was apparent that they were in need of a new clock. It had done its last whizzing ahead perhaps four days ago, since which time it had read eleven thirty, and then it had stopped.
If it was either of the eleven thirties that occurred during the day it was the P.M., for it was rather dark outside. In fact, it was extremely dark outside.
Spindly fingers pressed against the glass of one of the uncracked windows of the lower level of the house, interrupting the already interrupted street-lighted darkness. It was unclear what their owner was searching for, or if he was searching at all. His wide-eyed gaze seemed to have not moved from their position for quite a while. Stuck? No, that wasn't a plausible excuse. His eyes weren't pressed up against the glass, and thus wouldn't have been victims of the super glue... if it was there.
No, Rick would have to think up another excuse, something he liked to consider himself quite adept at.
Another four minutes passed, though nobody was counting. Mike's room was occupied by screaming women and enormous snores. Neil?
Of what consequence was his existence?
The third member of the household was the one staring so intently out the window, unblinking.
The fourth student(if one could be considered a student when they never attended lecture) was likely the subject of the third's intensity, or would be if he were anywhere in sight. Or perhaps it was his absence that had Rick acting like a caged animal, pressed up against the glass of its enclosure, sneering at its captors and looking for freedom.
That sounded good. Like the premise for a new poem.
Down with Thatcher the zookeeper.
He'd stepped back from the window, taking no notice of the fingerprints left in his wake, as a certain orange-haired punk came around the corner. Vyvyan's uncouth swagger was enough to make the Sociology student's upper lip nearly curl, but instead he simply strode to the dining room table and took a seat.
After picking himself up off of the floor, Rick snarled at the piece of furniture that had snapped neatly in two beneath him. Thanks to the resident amateur chainsaw-wielder, no doubt. Checking the second chair before he sat down, he managed to assume a position that absolutely exuded an unaffected air just as the front door nearly came off of its hinges in response to a swift kick from the punk, who was obviously..
Erm...
Influenced.
"Vyvyan, do you realize what time it is?"
The look he received was absolutely withering. Rick responded by folding his right leg neatly over his left, leaning back in the chair, chin up as his eyebrows raised.
"No."
A half-finished bottle of Babycham followed the medical student as he flopped onto the couch.
"You've been to the pub, have you? And then come walking in here like you own the place at some ungodly hour!?" Rick was standing now, affecting anger, hands on his hips, thumbs in front, as he stalked to the couch, peering down at the punk.
The bottle to the face almost destroyed the haughty look on his face. Now it was merely a haughty look surrounding a bloody nose.
"I hope you know that I'll be suing you for damages to my face, Vyvyan! It's ruined!" Rick's voice had raised a few octaves. Apparently, thoughts of the time had gone out of one of the holes in one of the windows. Holding a hand to his face, Rick hurried for the kitchen, found that to be a pointless endeavor, and moved to the shelves in the 'living area', where they shoved countless remnants of... everything. Finding a scrap of cloth, which was in all reality one of Neil's shirts, he placed it to his nose, ignoring the cackling coming from the couch.
"I think it's an improvement!"
Rick's lips pursed violently, creating a small patch of pink amidst the rest of his spotty, sallow skin. His displeased look was ruined by the fact there was a grey mass obscuring half of his face. Not exactly realizing this, he took a seat on the rickety chair, a strange choice, considering he'd just been pummeled in the face with a now empty bottle of babycham, which Vyvyan seemed to be lamenting even through his laughter, and that there were three open chairs at the dining table.
"Why were you out so long?" A change of subject seemed to be the best idea as Rick tossed the bloodied shirt away from himself. Neil would get it when he came downstairs.
"Why? Waiting for me, you big poof?"
Rick was standing up sharply, which really wasn't such a good idea.
"Why would I be waiting for a bastard like you!?" About halfway through the question he'd wavered and found himself sitting once again. Sitting was good. Sitting didn't make his head spin.
Vyvyan only sneered in response to that, adjusting so that the hell of his left boot was resting on the toe of his right, creating a vertical line of boot.
"Eh.." It was obvious that he was extremely drunk, and this Rick noted with some interest. The eyes beneath the star-studded forehead were fluttering shut, even as the rest of the face remained active. "Bunch of poofs at the pub... poofs with lesbians." The eyes were completely closed now, and his brow creased strangely. "You might've been right, you complete bastard. Nobody wanted me." It wasn't clear if he meant the lesbians he'd spoken so disdainfully of, those poofs he'd been socializing with, or of his own mother, but any of the three had created a hurt tone.
Rick watched the left boot slide from the top of the right so that they were beside one another. Wide blue eyes then moved to the ceiling as the anarchist, for once in his life, refrained from telling Vyvyan that he was wrong."