sorrydontsuitme | (no subject)

After all this time -- all these damn scientific advances -- it figures a guy in 2073 spends his time alone in his room doing the exact same things he did alone in his room in 2004: reading magazines. The magazines of choice at this place are tabloids. Matter of fact, he can't imagine no better headlines than they got here.

SPACE ALIEN FATHERS CHILD!

Wait, here's another;

BATTLE OVER BABY CHIHUAHUA CAUSES SPARKS ON VENUS

That's a new one for him. But then there's this:

FOURTH DUI SPELLS JAIL TIME FOR HOTEL HEIRESS

Yeah, it's 2004 all over again. Figures there ain't nothing new under the sun. Setting the magazines aside, he flicks on the remote. Light from the TV flickers from across the room.

In today's news, famous hotel heiress...

"Son of a bitch." The TV goes off again. "Ain't there nothing to do in this damn place?" There ought to at least be something besides shopping and gambling. Hell, it don't work to run a con on a population of robots.

The lighter in his hand flicks on, flicks off. Bored is bored no matter what damn year it is.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He doesn't even hesitate.

"Watership Down." There's a light dancing in his eyes: she knows damn well that's one of the few precious books on the island. "No, I'm teasing; I don't give a hoot about what happens to a bunch of bunnies. Give me a good hot bunch of hobbits, though, and I'd be real happy."

It's only a little bit of a joke: that damn Tolkien could keep him occupied for days and days. "You know, show the maps to the French chick, drive her crazy. Crazier."

He's still not answering the question, mostly because it's a hard one to answer. Go to prison and when you ain't fighting for privacy or food, you're reading and he's read a lot.

"If I really got to pick, I'm going with some Flannery O'Connor." It's the whole business about the south: she knows it real good and she writes some fine unwitting con-men to boot. "Maybe one of her short story collections. Maybe A Good Man is Hard to Find. You surprised?"

Yeah, reading her's like bundling up the absolute worst of home with the absolute second-worst of home, wrapping it up, and getting it as a present. It ain't what you want, but it sure is familiar.

She laughs right out loud at the idea of him being real happy to read about a bunch of hobbits, but she doesn't doubt he'd read Tolkien if he had the free time and there was some available to him.

Between whatever he salvaged from the plane itself and whatever he's taken from the hatch, he bound to find something he likes.

His answer both surprises her and doesn't, though. On one hand, it's not an unexpected answer, but once she starts thinking about it she can see it pretty well.

"Flannery O'Connor, huh? I guess you didn't find anything by her in the hatch."

She hasn't seen him with any, and they've spent a fair amount of time together.

"No, ma'am." He shakes his head in mock sadness. "And I sure am sick of reading Lord of the Flies and car magazines." He nods to the tabloid she brought in. "Least here, I get something fresh, even if it's the same old crap with new names. I ain't lookin' at the same pages over and over again."

When they do go back, he might even get to finish this thing he found on the plane called Bad Twin, a manuscript, one of a kind. Got about twenty pages into it so far but he's gonna have to reread it now, being away from it for so long. "Course, I got those comic books you gave me. If I didn't know better, Freckles, I'd say you were trying to favor your way into my shorts."

Laughing, he gives her a little half-wink. "Some people are sweet-talkers. You: you're a sweet-reader." Unable to resist, he slides that tabloid over to her. "Come on, cupcake. My old eyes are getting tired. Read to me."

There's just a moment's pause.

"In voices."

Her eyes seek out the far corner of the ceiling, coming dangerously close to rolling.

"I'm not trying to get into your shorts."

If anything like that is going on, the one trying to get into the other's shorts has to be the one who bargained for a kiss even after being tortured.

But taking the magazine, she pushes herself over on the bed until her back's against the headboard. "I'm not reading in voices, either."

She has no doubt he said that just to get a rise out of her.

With that out of the way, though, she opens the magazine, flips through the first few pages, and then launches into the article about Callista Christie, pop singer-turned-actress, who caused quite a scene at the Mars-L.A. premiere of her latest movie.

There's not much sex, but it's got to be juicier than Are You There, God, It's Me, Margaret.

Half an hour later she's leaving the room with a grin on her face, having read a few more articles -- in her own voice -- and dodged most of his flirtation the way only a woman so familiar with evasion could.

She's got a torch to put together, and even though she's been told she's going to be coming right back after whatever amount of time she chooses passes, she thinks she's going to go ahead and take a nice long bath tonight.

Just in case.

Damn: no voices. But at least he got her to read to him and he has to admit he likes the sound of her voice, the way it rolls over the words all sweet and sassy.

If it turns out they do get stuck back on Craphole Island, at least he knows he's got some daydreams to occupy his time. Maybe he'll smuggle back just a couple extra magazines anyhow. Tear the dates off the front covers, 'cause at this point, ain't no one gonna scrutinize some old tabloid in the middle of his stash.

That decided, he takes a look in his closet at the grimy shirt, the ripped-up jeans, the don't-fit-me-nohow sneakers he was wearing when he got here. Seems almost a damn shame to put them back on, but he will.

Tomorrow.

And he'll bring the pills and tuck his gun away nice and neat in his waistband.

And tonight, he's going to feast his eyes on the best damn food he can order, and watch as much damn TV as his eyes can stand. Might be a long time till he gets to spend time on those two simple pleasures again.