A/N: This is a collaboration between two slightly obsessed fans, with a lot of bad jokes and too much time on their hands. Drug references abound, peppered with slash. If you are offended, click away in a dash. Also know we own nothing, and seriousness every word lacks. Brace yourselves for the sheer hilarity that is our unique brand of crack.
Italicized text by Mary
Regular by Ann
On a cloudy, thunderstorm-infested night, Godric was busying himself by hiding underneath a table while attempting to drown out the noise of said storm by playing his old Beatles records as loud as the record player would… well, play them. The legs of the table were shaking like objects sitting in the midst of a thunderstorm and blasting Beatles music combined.
Godric didn't notice. He was too preoccupied with the pattern of the floor beneath him. It reminded him of Eric because it was very symmetrical and predictable. Godric drew an invisible outline of a Viking head on the tile with his finger, humming the chorus of "Strawberry Fields Forever," when suddenly the window on the far end of the room shattered.
Godric's fangs snapped into place as he scooted backward, farther back underneath the table: whoever it was was going to have to come to him, because there was no way he was going anywhere near that storm.
Thunder rolled, drowning out the thump of footsteps as a pair of shoes bounced into Godric's line of sight ominously. They were black shoes. Shiny. Possibly they could be a different color –the power had just went out, and even his night vision could be faulty.
Godric lowered the video camera from where it hovered in front of his face to double check his observations through his vampire eyes. But then the camera slipped from his fingers, breaking into a billion pieces as it hit the floor. And he had no backups. Damn he hated being clumsy!
The mysteriously glimmery black shoes froze in the loud silence that followed the obliteration of the high tech recording device.
Godric held his breath –then realized he didn't need to breath anyway.
The mysterious wear-er of the mysteriously shimmery glimmery black shoes slowly bent down in front of Godric's Fortress of Solitude. Yes, his Fortress of Solitude. He would have to tell Stan and Isabel of the table's name once the storm ended… if he got out of whatever this encounter would be ali –er, dead.
The odds didn't look all that promising. In the 2,000 years Godric had unlived, he had yet to walk away from a single encounter alive. He didn't think he'd be able to handle the anxiety this time around. He was, after all, very old, and such tension wasn't good for an ancient un-beating heart. He'd better put the poor thing to rest before he got any deader because then the next time he happened upon a dying Viking he would have to tell them he was Death Squared. And they'd never want to be his companion.
At least he still had Eric… didn't he? Godric was forgetting so many things these days. It was no wonder Stan and Isabel had to fetch his coffee for him. He couldn't even remember sometimes if he actually drank coffee. He rolled up his sleeve to count the inky squiggles on his upper arm. Last time he counted, there were seven lines. But he was afraid the storm might have washed off a couple.
Goddammit! Was he going to actually lose his head next? Wait, he couldn't think that –at this rate, it might come true. And the black shoes –shiny black shoes –were still there.
Godric lifted his creaky head like a grandma sea turtle emerging from her shell. He imagined baby sea turtles tumbling toward the ocean on a sandy beach of wonder as he gazed up at the face of his newest opponent. He couldn't remember if he'd snorted anything to help distract him from the thunder still crashing above his house, but if his thoughts were any indication…
Maybe it was the Beatles music.
No. The Fab Four could never be at fault for his own mindless… mindings. It was probably the video camera. Technology had never agreed with him. He shuddered at the thought of his Progeny's first car… Godric still had nightmares about that, and how many years had it been?
He started to do the math in his head, but his brain was too full for the calculations to fit. Digits began to ooze out of his ears like The Bleeds, and Godric felt an immense sadness. Here he was, sitting in a pile of broken technology and useless digits. He could really use a drink… and he was certainly old enough to legally become an alcoholic. The idea was certainly appealing… but the thunderstorm and the shoes were intimidating obstacles.
How long had the shoes –shiny shoes –been waiting there anyway? 300 years? 500? Godric stared at his wrist because that's what the humans all did nowadays when they wanted to know time. He counted 57 pores and 6 hairs. He figured that was long enough, and looked up.
"Are you going to just stand there all night? You might as well bring me a bottle of the whiskey stocked beneath the bar in the parlor, to give yourself something to do."
Eric, who had been the proud owner of the shiny black shoes for exactly two hours, eight minutes, and 17 seconds, peered underneath the table in wonderment. He had thought he felt Godric's presence, but the Beatles music (which required some sort of technology to be played) made him believe it might have been his other Maker instead.
Godric brightened immensely. "Oh, it's you!" At least he could relax somewhat –with Eric there, everything would be 76.258% okay. Godric licked his lips nervously –it was the other…percentage that he couldn't figure out that was worrying him. "Could you kindly bring me that whiskey? I need it." He swallowed, looking at his child most imploringly. "I need you."
The stock of whiskey was raided in the next instant. Eric grabbed a bottle in slow motion, thrilled to realize that he'd tripped some sort of burglary alarm in the process. He tore the husky, squawking red light into halves with his shoes, the picked up a random couch someone left lying around and pulverized the pieces. It looked like an atomic bomb went off. Probably no one would notice.
Godric heard the alarm, but was too preoccupied –the everlasting thunder, coupled with Eric's lengthy absence (at least it seemed lengthy) was almost making him sweat. He needed that whiskey. And "Yellow Submarine" wasn't helping any. In fact, the Beatles were just making it worse.
Eric returned to the table. It hadn't moved. He folded himself up, and tried to enter Godric's Fortress origami style. It was cramped. His shoulders hit the roof. He felt like a gorilla. He held out the bottle of whiskey, "Here."
"Thank you!" Godric wheezed, blood pooling in his eyes as he snatched the bottle and tore the plastic wrap off the neck. He tipped his head back and took two long, hard swallows, then scooted himself around until he was snuggling against his Progeny. "Much better." Thunder boomed overhead, and Godric flinched. "Maybe not."
The sight of Godric consuming anything besides the hot, steamy blood of innocent Quaker grandmothers was just disturbing. Eric balked, "Are you high?"
"No!" Godric squeaked. "How dare you accuse me of such a thing!" He closed his eyes and took another swig from the bottle, shuddering. "You know I can't stand thunderstorms," he muttered.
Eric shook his wet hair, "I almost got struck by lightning four times on the way here. Next time I'm taking a metal pole with me."
"Don't do it," Godric advised. "Stan did that once, and it looked painful. I can't have that happened to you. I won't allow you to go anywhere where there's the faintest hint of lightning. I can't allow it." But then Godric realized he was babbling, and too another sip to quiet himself.
Eric raised his brow in challenge. "Would you command me not to?"
Godric lifted his chin in retaliation; the gesture always seemed to intimidate Eric, though Godric had never been able to figure out why. Yet. "If the situation called for it." He hiccupped and felt himself almost blush.
Thunder clapped the night sky on the back again, and Eric chuckled as he ensnared Godric in his long arms. The embrace had as much to do with comforting Godric as it did making sure he was steady. Eric bowed his head, resting his chin on his Maker's shoulder. "Well, I stand corrected. I used to think you could do anything, but it looks like you can't hold your liquor."
"You thought I could do anything?" Blood welled in Godric's eyes again. "That's so sweet!"
Eric smiled, "Yeah. You know me. Mr. Tender-Hearted."
Godric nuzzled Eric's cheek with his nose. "That's why I made you."
Eric hoped he remembered to shave. "Then you must have been pretty disappointed when I rose from the dead."
Godric smiled fondly. "You learned quickly enough for me."
Eric turned, pressing his lips against the side of Godric's face. It'd been at least a month since he'd last seen him, and, though he would never admit it out loud, he missed him. Then he remembered. "You know, I didn't come here for a social visit."
"Really?" Godric couldn't keep the disappointment out of his voice. It was just too hard. He held his Progeny tighter and buried his face in his shoulder.
"Really." Eric reached into his pocket. He pulled out a wad of cash and dropped it in Godric's lap. "This is for you."
Godric stared at the monetary papers in his lap, then looked back up at Eric. "Why? You're my child. You couldn't possibly owe me anything."
"I assaulted the Sheriff of Area Six in Arkansas last week," Eric admitted. "That's my fine."
Godric blinked. "Oh." He pocketed the money, then wrapped his arms around Eric in a hug. "Please tell me you'll stay the night." Thunder roared, and Godric flinched, cowering against Eric's chest.
Eric ran his hands down Godric's back. "Of course I'll stay. What kind of Progeny would I be if I left you alone in your condition?"
Godric attempted to smile… and failed. Miserably. "Thank you," he whispered, hoping he had spoken loud enough for Eric to hear him.
Eric frowned at the sudden drop of Godric's voice. He couldn't be happy if Godric wasn't. "That didn't sound very thankful."
"Oh, it was," Godric murmured, taking another swig from the bottle and hiccupping. He licked the tip of Eric's nose playfully.
Eric laughed (it was safe to laugh with Godric) and mussed his Maker's hair with his fingers. "I'll alert The Authority."
Godric closed his eyes and sighed at the feeling of Eric's fingers running through his hair. "That would take too long. I would rather you stayed here with me."
"I'll stay," Eric said again. He twisted his neck, and it cracked. "Just not underneath this table."
"It seems perfectly sound to me," Godric countered. His eyes traveled the confines of the table, and suddenly he began to giggle. "Don't tell me it's not big enough for you. Please don't," he added, shaking with laughter now –and accidentally hit his head on the table leg. "Ow!"
Eric made a hushed humming sound in half-hearted amusement. He was conflicted. Harm to his Maker was dire. "It just so happens it's nowhere near big enough for me. And now it's hurt you. It must die."
"Oh, take pity on the poor thing, for I have also hurt it, it seems," Godric said, squinting at a scratch in the leg's paint as he rubbed the side of his head. He hiccupped again and burrowed his face in Eric's shoulder before he could harm the table again. "Take me somewhere safe, if you must," he muttered as thunder snarled again.
Eric shifted –and then the sound of a heated argument reached his ears. He watched from underneath the table as a pair of pumps he thought he recognized from somewhere in Pam's closet strode into the room, closely followed by cowboy boots.
" –and what would I have to gain by stealing your whiskey, Stan?" Isabel demanded. "Please, do tell me –" And then her feet raced toward the shattered window. "Por Dios!"
"Shit," Godric whispered in Eric's ear. "What are we going to do? I can't let them think I've been Sheriff-napped, but if they find out you're under here with me…" Godric shuddered, muffling a hiccup between his teeth. "As far as they know, my sex life is utterly nonexistent." He grinned and kissed Eric quickly on the lips. "You're tarnishing my reputation."
"Then we won't let them find out," Eric whispered back, trailing a finger down Godric's arm. He used his badass flying vampire powers to hover above the ground, getting up close and personal with the underside of the tabletop. "Did you know someone stuck gum under here?" he hissed.
Godric grimaced. "It's not mine. Stan switched off from chewing tobacco about five years ago, though," he whispered back. He clutched the bottle and Eric tighter. "I have my own addictions to worry about."
"I hope you're not planning to give me up anytime soon," Eric murmured with a smile. He liked the implication of himself as one of Godric's addictions because he believed he had a spiritual connection with hallucinogenic mushrooms. Then he realized how quiet it was, and looked up to find that Isabel and Stan's shoes had vanished.
He noticed the pant leg in his peripheral vision a second too late. Godric's deputies overturned the table and attacked.
*The Beatles, Superman, coffee, and any other publicly recognizable pop culture phenomenons are referenced all in good fun, and completely their own.
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