Hello! Happy Monday! Sunny, blue skies, 81 for a high today, and my body is getting tan and toned and life is fine, all things considered. I have a new music upload I'm working on to share, but probably not until tomorrow. Oh, have I gotten my hands on some good new tunes. Hooray for mskakaako and my sparkly subscription to Paste Magazine from her. JOY.
Fic! Coupling fic! WAIT! Don't run off, it's fun fic! It's fic that even the BOYS on my flist will read and enjoy! I hope... Jeff POV. In between "The End of the Line" and "Split" where Steve and Susan are broken up. Again. PGish. Dirty thoughts, like on the show. (And if you were interested in reading my other Coupling fic, they're here - slashy, fair warning!) And if you aren't familiar with Coupling - shame on you! - imagine a Welsh Xander. But cuter. :)
Jeff always stopped by Steve's house after a drink. Or after a difficult phone call. Or a tremendous footie match. Or if he had a new theory on why women made him so nervous. Or who - should a bomb blow up a convention of the world's top actresses, which obviously would include Helen Mirren - who would the reassembled bits look the most like? Probably Helen Mirren, but since New Bits Woman would also contain parts of Sharon Stone and Uma Thurman and Kate Winslet, maybe the final product would be more like early Vanessa Redgrave, who was rather under appreciated for her looks when she was younger and why wasn't Steve's front door locked?
Steve's neighbor, Number Nine they called him, nodded and continued smoking on his stoop. Jeff raised a hand with an overeager grin, and went inside to Steve's flat. Most likely Steve had anticipated Jeff's need to discuss the process of putting body parts back together and had left it open. Or knew that Jeff would have theories on the need for New Bits Woman to have two different sized breasts, because who doesn't like a little variety? Oh, sure sometimes a handful was perfect. Less to fuss with or get knocked about by. But oftentimes a large one felt really great, and a man might get tired and need a proper pillow to lay on, and there would be a pillow breast, and then one breast for the other hand, and that's possibly the greatest idea he's ever had. But that just begged the question as to why they don't make pillows out of breasts? Obviously not real breasts. Most likely there are laws against harvesting breasts, but technology has advanced to the state where fake breasts are practically like real ones, so why on earth wouldn't they manufacture breast pillows? It was perfectly natural, if you thought about it and... the telly was on.
Why was Steve's telly on and him not there watching it? And a movie was beginning to play, and good God, it's The Wicker Man. Jeff was beginning to become nervous. Both because the thought of a nude Brit Ekland writhing and dancing in a hotel room made his insides squirmy, and that Steve was obviously planning on watching one of their favorite non-porn porn movies but wasn't here.
Jeff poked his head into Steve's bedroom - the light was off and there were no lumpy shapes or any moaning, writhing bits under the duvet, but there were some noises coming from the front room. Jeff ran back to the telly. Oh, god full backal nudity. AND FULL FRONTAL - RESULT! Jeff hopped over the back of the slick leather couch and grinned like a loon at the screen.
The thing about bottoms was that they were possibly the greatest hinge in the existence of... anything. Jeff liked hinges. Mostly because they reminded him of bottoms. Sometimes as a young boy he'd open and shut his wardrobe in his bedroom over and over again, watching how it folded in half and imagined Jenny Agutter bending over to pick up his dirty socks. Over and over again until his mother cuffed him on the ear and told him that they couldn't afford to buy a new wardrobe, especially since he'd already sexually assaulted the previous one, and if he didn't stop molesting the furniture he'd lose another penis-segment while he slept.
Jeff shuddered on the sofa and focused on the screen. Bugger. Just the cop sweating and thinking about a naked Brit just on the other side of the wall, but if you thought about it, it was better there was a wall. Being that naked and moving like that was surely against the law and OH GOD THEY'RE NAKED ON THE LAWN! Not the copper and Brit, obviously, but lots of other naked people! Sometimes Jeff thought he'd like to live on a naked island. All the bottoms and breasts you could ever want to see roaming about - free. But then he thought about all the men bottoms. And frontals. If it was an island of only women, that would be great. Except he'd most likely be nervous, and not able to pull a single nudie, and then he'd feel ashamed again. The only man on an island of completely naked women and unable to chat one up. He'd feel more ashamed than the time when his mother and the vicar walked in on him assaulting the first wardrobe. But it's not like he could help it, could he? He had forgotten that he left an advert for ladies underclothing pinned up inside and it had been a frustrating day and he only thought it would take a moment.
If he was going to move to Naked Island, he'd definitely want Steve there, too. Not Patrick. Nothing against Patrick, mind, just... he didn't need that sort of competition. Anyone with a nickname of "Donkey" was definitely not going to be your WingMan on Naked Island. Not that Steve was inadequate, either. On the contrary, Steve was quite manly. But not so large that he could lean forward and give his legs a rest. Steve wasn't a show off, either. Not that Jeff watched Steve have a bit of a tug often, it just happened that Jeff was almost always there. And there was the whole "porn buddies" thing. It's not like he was going to tell Susan the full details of what that meant. Sure, they both knew the first thing upon the other's death was to clear out the deceased's flat of all pornographic materials before their parents came, but it also meant trying out new videos together.
Jeff had managed to convince Steve that you couldn't just watch a new video alone. You needed to gauge another mate's reactions to it, first and foremost. What if it was one of those weird fetishist films and it was the sort of thing that you shouldn't be watching at all? The sort of films your mother had found in the second wardrobe? The sort of films that made her drag you down to the schoolyard and admit to the other kids that you liked watching videos of large women washing motorbikes with their breasts?
After Jeff had explained his idea for replacing chamois with large breasted women, and how soap was key in to the entire operation because if the women got chapped, then the whole thing would be off, Steve had reminded Jeff to get to the bloody point.
Which clearly was a bloke needed a hand - not that sort of hand, he made clear to Steve - in deciding if this particular pornography was worth the investment. After they both had a long laugh, because face it, there is no such thing as "bad" pornography, Jeff was sure of that fact, he explained that watching naughty videos alone was pathetic. Sure, Jeff watched them alone all the time, so Steve should see the point he was trying to make.
What was needed - now that Brit had managed to finish her dance and there was a lot of pointless talking and plot onscreen - was a bag of crisps and some beer. Jeff pushed off the black sofa and headed to the kitchen. Steve always kept extra beer - the Belgian summer beer Jeff liked the most - in the cupboard by the back... door. And the back door was open. Jeff looked about quickly, grabbed the toaster, yanked the cord from the wall and held it menacingly over his head, kicked the door open and stepped out on the back stoop.
"Steve! What are you doing out here?" Jeff lowered the toaster, held it under his arm against his side and clapped his friend on the shoulder with the other. "Sometimes I like how the night air feels on my c-"
"Jeff! I'm not... For God's sake, is that all you ever think about? Wait. Of course it is. I'm just... I'm just having a bit of quiet reflection."
Jeff shifted, set the toaster on the railing and stood shoulder to shoulder with Steve looking out at the small patch of garden behind the row of flats. "A bit of what?"
Steve sighed. "Quiet. Reflection. Something I'm sure you've never... Listen. I'm just not wanting to talk to anyone, alright?"
Jeff slung his arm over his friends shoulder and gently bumped his head against Steve's. "She affects me, too."
"Oh! No, I was talking about Brit Eckland and her hinge, er, her bottom! Weren't we talking about nudity?"
Steve tensed under Jeff's arm and spoke evenly and coldly, "Jeff. I appreciate that you are in a constant state of arousal and nudity obsession. But I've just let the woman I want to marry - maybe, at least I don't want her to marry anyone else. Look, I've just let Susan leave and it's quite possibly over between us and she's beautiful and a great person and..."
"She's got a great hinge. And it's free. For you, anyway."
"Jeff. I want you to turn around, walk out of my flat, and not come back tonight nor tomorrow night, do you understand?"
Jeff took a few steps back and blinked. His stomach dropped to his shoes and his chest felt a bit clenchy. "But Brit and..."
"Not another word. Get the hell out of my home, Jeff."
Jeff stood on the front walk for several minutes looking down both sides of the street, trying to remember which way his flat was. He twisted the silver ring on his index finger round and round wondering if Steve was having a bit of a joke at his expense, half-expecting him to open the door, laugh, and shout "Gotcha." But he never did. Only Number Nine came out to light up while Jeff stood counting the street lamps with the smell of tobacco curling into his nose.
Number Nine crushed his fag under his bootheel and asked, "You lost?"
Jeff turned, gave a small smile and a nod. "Yeah. A bit."