Title: While the Cat's Away
Spoilers: Through the promo for the 6-24-02 episode, Consectatio.
Author: The Mad Fangirl
Archive: Wherever, but let me know.
Disclaimer: The characters herein are owned by other people and I make no money from their shameless exploitation.
Author's Note: Warning: SILLY
While the Cat's Away
By The Mad Fangirl
His master AWOL, Ian Nottingham, the full-bearded, brooding Season 1 original, sat reading by the fireplace. At the sound of an opening door, he put down the book ("You and Your Psychotic Clone," by M. Vorkosigan,) and stared. With three Nottinghams in the mansion whenever continuity took a holiday, there was a whole lot of staring going on.
The new arrival mirrored his features, but little else. His beard was trimmed to a soul patch beneath his lip. His hair was tightly clubbed in a tail that curved like a scorpion's sting. He had a permanent shark's grin that made Ian the First grind his teeth…Ian clamped down hard on the animal metaphors that had ultimately made the rest of the Black Dragons raving lunatics. Though, to be fair, the drugs had helped.
"I'm bored," Ian 2.0 announced, folding his hands behind his head and leaning back.
"What did you expect?" Ian responded. "Due to the vagaries of time and the Witchblade, neither of us is working."
"Ah, but you expected to, didn't you?" his replicant replied. "You thought you'd step back in, just exactly where you left off, and return to the fair…and tasty…Lady Sara. Instead, we are become the sum of both our experiences, become a different creature entirely, become…him." A third Ian entered, hair down, beard trim, impeccable in a pinstriped suit and power tie. In one hand, he held a broadsword, and in the other, a wooden tray of small sandwiches. He spun the tray on the oaken table, and brought the broadsword down as he did so, neatly trimming each sandwich of its crust. Then he levered the weapon beneath two sandwiches and flipped them towards his look-alikes, each Ian catching his in turn. "Lunch!"
"I worry about him," Ian 1 murmured. "You?"
"I don't worry about anything," Ian 2.0 responded. He gazed at Ian 3.0's sunny, happy smile, so different from his own predator's leer. "But if I did, he'd be at the top of the list."
Louder, Ian 1 said, "Thanks."
"You're welcome," 3.0 replied, suddenly shading to melancholy. "You never were free to do this sort of thing, were you, brother?"
"Play samurai delicatessen with the medieval weaponry? Well, it never occurred to me, but I doubt it would have been permitted."
Ian 3 shook his head sadly. "Therein lies the tragedy of your life." He brightened. "But I, I am free."
"Since you're so free," Ian 2.0 said, "How about we go to the park and kill some mimes? I'm bored."
"I doubt Lady Sara would approve."
2.0 snorted. "He's free, but he's still whipped."
"At any rate, I have a full day planned."
"Let me guess. Follow Sara Pezzini, obliquely threaten Sara Pezzini…"
"Threaten her? Why ever would I do that? I like her, and I don't want to tip her off to the fact that I must kill…must kill…KILL…GET OUT OF MY HEAD!!"
Ian 1 stared wide-eyed. Ian 2's expression didn't change, but then it never did. He was a bit like the Joker that way. He did, however, lean in to Ian 1.0 and hiss, "All right! All right! He is strange and off-putting, I don't like him, he dresses like Father, and I say we kill him *now!*" Ian 1 just shook his head slowly.
Ian 3 mirrored the gesture and blinked. "Um, where was I?"
"Freedom?"
"Ah, yes. It's a lovely thing, isn't it?" He bowed, grinned, and left whistling, nodding to a pair of new arrivals on the way in.
"Hey mates!" hailed a sandy-blonde Irishman, who entered with a bottle in hand and a pack over his shoulder. A tall black man, who held a bag clinking with the promise of more alcohol, followed him in.
"Moby?" asked the second Ian.
"Conchobar?" said the first. Then, "We're mates?"
"You tried to save my life, even though I was snoggin' your girl. I'd say that makes us mates."
"Good point."
"Hello, sir, and sir," Moby greeted them.
"We were going to have a celebratory drink, seeing as Moby's coming back -"
"-And probably dying-"
"-Yeah, and probably dying next week. Little bit of a so-long-limbo party. We thought you two might be interested 'n joining us."
"*You* two are friends?" Ian 1 asked. "How…"
"Oh, we met at the renewal party last fall. I found out that Moby, here, is a damn fine drummer."
"We've even been sampled by Moby," the black man added, then clarified, "The white one." He laced his hands behind his head and stretched. "And I'm feeling much less insane these days. I think drumming is a great outlet."
"*And,* Conchobar added, "We've got some girls coming over later." To Ian 1's frown, he said, "Look, I know we're all in love with Sara except for him," he jerked his thumb at Moby, who broke in,
"She's the Maiden! Of course I love her…in a very pure and holy way of course, sir," the last to one Ian or other.
"Anyway, like I was sayin', if y' can't be with the one y' love, may's well love the one you're with." Conchobar finished. "Don't worry, I made sure most of them like tall, dark, and brooding types. Or the smiling, psychotic types - Harley's gonna be all over you," he told Nottingham the Second. "And, I brought some stuff to liven up the party atmosphere. Some good music with a beat you can dance to, which I'll admit leaves out most of mine…and oh! Here we go." He pulled out a small black box with a button on one side and a glass face on the other.
"Is that…"
"Don't push that…"
"Noo!"
Too late. Conchobar pushed the button to demonstrate the strobe light. Both Ians and Moby screamed then fell to the ground.
Frowning, Conchobar turned the strobe light off. The Ians and Moby were flat out on the floor, eyes open and staring. Their limbs twitched occasionally with no discernible pattern.
"Why doesn't anyone tell me these things," Conchobar muttered. "Well, I hope they're better in a few hours. I'd hate to have all the girls and booze…to myself…." His finger hovered over the strobe button. He thought about it. Moved away, brought his hand back, wavered in the face of temptation. Then, "Naaaah." He ambled over to the oak table, where rested a plate of sandwiches with crusts removed, just the way he liked them. "Mmm. Chicken salad."
* * *
END
TMF
Spoilers: Through the promo for the 6-24-02 episode, Consectatio.
Author: The Mad Fangirl
Archive: Wherever, but let me know.
Disclaimer: The characters herein are owned by other people and I make no money from their shameless exploitation.
Author's Note: Warning: SILLY
While the Cat's Away
By The Mad Fangirl
His master AWOL, Ian Nottingham, the full-bearded, brooding Season 1 original, sat reading by the fireplace. At the sound of an opening door, he put down the book ("You and Your Psychotic Clone," by M. Vorkosigan,) and stared. With three Nottinghams in the mansion whenever continuity took a holiday, there was a whole lot of staring going on.
The new arrival mirrored his features, but little else. His beard was trimmed to a soul patch beneath his lip. His hair was tightly clubbed in a tail that curved like a scorpion's sting. He had a permanent shark's grin that made Ian the First grind his teeth…Ian clamped down hard on the animal metaphors that had ultimately made the rest of the Black Dragons raving lunatics. Though, to be fair, the drugs had helped.
"I'm bored," Ian 2.0 announced, folding his hands behind his head and leaning back.
"What did you expect?" Ian responded. "Due to the vagaries of time and the Witchblade, neither of us is working."
"Ah, but you expected to, didn't you?" his replicant replied. "You thought you'd step back in, just exactly where you left off, and return to the fair…and tasty…Lady Sara. Instead, we are become the sum of both our experiences, become a different creature entirely, become…him." A third Ian entered, hair down, beard trim, impeccable in a pinstriped suit and power tie. In one hand, he held a broadsword, and in the other, a wooden tray of small sandwiches. He spun the tray on the oaken table, and brought the broadsword down as he did so, neatly trimming each sandwich of its crust. Then he levered the weapon beneath two sandwiches and flipped them towards his look-alikes, each Ian catching his in turn. "Lunch!"
"I worry about him," Ian 1 murmured. "You?"
"I don't worry about anything," Ian 2.0 responded. He gazed at Ian 3.0's sunny, happy smile, so different from his own predator's leer. "But if I did, he'd be at the top of the list."
Louder, Ian 1 said, "Thanks."
"You're welcome," 3.0 replied, suddenly shading to melancholy. "You never were free to do this sort of thing, were you, brother?"
"Play samurai delicatessen with the medieval weaponry? Well, it never occurred to me, but I doubt it would have been permitted."
Ian 3 shook his head sadly. "Therein lies the tragedy of your life." He brightened. "But I, I am free."
"Since you're so free," Ian 2.0 said, "How about we go to the park and kill some mimes? I'm bored."
"I doubt Lady Sara would approve."
2.0 snorted. "He's free, but he's still whipped."
"At any rate, I have a full day planned."
"Let me guess. Follow Sara Pezzini, obliquely threaten Sara Pezzini…"
"Threaten her? Why ever would I do that? I like her, and I don't want to tip her off to the fact that I must kill…must kill…KILL…GET OUT OF MY HEAD!!"
Ian 1 stared wide-eyed. Ian 2's expression didn't change, but then it never did. He was a bit like the Joker that way. He did, however, lean in to Ian 1.0 and hiss, "All right! All right! He is strange and off-putting, I don't like him, he dresses like Father, and I say we kill him *now!*" Ian 1 just shook his head slowly.
Ian 3 mirrored the gesture and blinked. "Um, where was I?"
"Freedom?"
"Ah, yes. It's a lovely thing, isn't it?" He bowed, grinned, and left whistling, nodding to a pair of new arrivals on the way in.
"Hey mates!" hailed a sandy-blonde Irishman, who entered with a bottle in hand and a pack over his shoulder. A tall black man, who held a bag clinking with the promise of more alcohol, followed him in.
"Moby?" asked the second Ian.
"Conchobar?" said the first. Then, "We're mates?"
"You tried to save my life, even though I was snoggin' your girl. I'd say that makes us mates."
"Good point."
"Hello, sir, and sir," Moby greeted them.
"We were going to have a celebratory drink, seeing as Moby's coming back -"
"-And probably dying-"
"-Yeah, and probably dying next week. Little bit of a so-long-limbo party. We thought you two might be interested 'n joining us."
"*You* two are friends?" Ian 1 asked. "How…"
"Oh, we met at the renewal party last fall. I found out that Moby, here, is a damn fine drummer."
"We've even been sampled by Moby," the black man added, then clarified, "The white one." He laced his hands behind his head and stretched. "And I'm feeling much less insane these days. I think drumming is a great outlet."
"*And,* Conchobar added, "We've got some girls coming over later." To Ian 1's frown, he said, "Look, I know we're all in love with Sara except for him," he jerked his thumb at Moby, who broke in,
"She's the Maiden! Of course I love her…in a very pure and holy way of course, sir," the last to one Ian or other.
"Anyway, like I was sayin', if y' can't be with the one y' love, may's well love the one you're with." Conchobar finished. "Don't worry, I made sure most of them like tall, dark, and brooding types. Or the smiling, psychotic types - Harley's gonna be all over you," he told Nottingham the Second. "And, I brought some stuff to liven up the party atmosphere. Some good music with a beat you can dance to, which I'll admit leaves out most of mine…and oh! Here we go." He pulled out a small black box with a button on one side and a glass face on the other.
"Is that…"
"Don't push that…"
"Noo!"
Too late. Conchobar pushed the button to demonstrate the strobe light. Both Ians and Moby screamed then fell to the ground.
Frowning, Conchobar turned the strobe light off. The Ians and Moby were flat out on the floor, eyes open and staring. Their limbs twitched occasionally with no discernible pattern.
"Why doesn't anyone tell me these things," Conchobar muttered. "Well, I hope they're better in a few hours. I'd hate to have all the girls and booze…to myself…." His finger hovered over the strobe button. He thought about it. Moved away, brought his hand back, wavered in the face of temptation. Then, "Naaaah." He ambled over to the oak table, where rested a plate of sandwiches with crusts removed, just the way he liked them. "Mmm. Chicken salad."
* * *
END
TMF