(A/N: Inspired by an LJ meme by Chronographia, in which Hook and a broken watch were OTP. And I thought: what a feat to be able to pull that off. And then I had to try. Here's the result. It's not very serious, but I tried to make it look so, anyway. I'm rather happy with it. Thanks to David Bowie for the title. So apt, so apt. Anyway, LJ-users must note that I've opened an LJ for writing this site won't allow- script format parodies, etc. The username is pipm, so drag your eager body over there and have a captain.)
Time Falls Wanking To The Floor
Captain James Hook lay slumped on a sofa, the dangerous light of the dusk making a loving pool of warm red in the palm of his only hand as it lay open and relaxed by his side. It was an unusual posture to find him in, but it had been a long day. A pleasurable day. His birthday. He thought it was his birthday, in any case. Time went in such strange loops here that, every now and again, when he felt he or the men could do with an evening's carousing, he'd declare that day his birthday. It was good for morale. And, the way he felt, he might have become a year older every time, anyway.
So it came to be that he was lying there, as peaceful and quiet as a child asleep. Only, of course, that it was drink, and a certain amount of, ah, physical exercise that drugged him, and not dreams. His lips quivered with the memory of young skin the colour of brown rum, and one of his legs made a small, convulsive movement. Then he opened his eyes, suddenly awake. They glowed red, and not just because of the twilight.
He slipped his hand into a pocket of his coat, and took out a small watch. It was silver, and though it was very unpretending and unadorned, the precision and tiny scale of its mechanism made it a thing of beautiful delicacy. It used to dangle from his waistcoat on a bunch of ribbons, he thought. A long time ago, when he wore coloured stockings and shoes with bows on them instead of boots, and their red heels clicked on marble floors. Or did he make that up? Maybe he just tore it from some other man's clothes once. A dead man's.
He raised the watch closer to his eyes, and ran his thumb over the smooth silver back, turned it over, following the curve of its edge, skirting the thin glass. He could hear the faint ticking inside that flimsy shell. And he could feel it, too.
A soft throb against the skin of his hand: soft, but insistent. Tick, tick, tick…throb, throb, throb. It felt like the beating of a heart against his body, under his body, a steady, unstoppable pulse, beating the arms across the face, urging time on. He licked his lips slowly, realising how hard his own heart was beating, and how heavily his blood pulsated in his body.
Suddenly, a thought crossed his mind; the beast that hunted him had the same beat in him. Perhaps it was that which drove it on, which fuelled its yearning and its hunger. He turned his head towards the window. The many small diamond shaped panes of glass in the window threw a shadow of chequered red and black over his face, which was now sinister to look at, sharpened by desire.
Without noticing, he ran his hand, the watch held loosely in the palm, down through the ruffles of his shirt, the embroidered waistcoat, to his hips, where it lingered on the inside of a velvet-clad thigh. His fingers slid down the now warm silver, onto the heat of his flesh.
For a moment, he considered. Then he raised his hand, and, with great violence, threw the watch against the wall, where it smashed.
