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wl_fanfiction2012-12-22 09:47 pm
deaconite.livejournal.com) wrote in wl_fanfiction2012-12-22 09:47 pm
Entry tags:
Scrooge - Chapter Two
Title: Scrooge
Author: Deaconite
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Past Greg/Clive, Chip/Jeff, Richard/Tony
Summary:
It's Christmas, normally a time of joy. But Greg Proops is not in the
Christmas spirit. All that will change when he is visited by three
ghosts.
Disclaimer: All fictional. Based on Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol.
Chapter Two - The Things That Have Been
Greg awoke several hours later in darkness. Sitting up, he groped for his glasses and put them on, squinting at the clock on his bedside table. It was five minutes to one. He watched as the clock hands made their way around the face until it eventually chimed one.
Nothing happened.
“Humbug,” Greg muttered. “The only spirits around here are the ones in the liquor cabinet.”
At that moment, the door burst open. Greg held his arms up to shield his eyes from the sudden influx of light. Silhouetted against the light was a figure, who stepped forward into the room, stopping beside the bed. The figure was childlike; small and thin, with smooth skin and a cascade of blonde hair, holding a sprig of holly. It was wearing a plain white robe, and its feet were bare.
“Are you the spirit whose coming was foretold?” Greg asked, trying to keep his voice steady.
“I am!”
“And... what kind of spirit are you?”
“I am the ghost of the things that have been.” The spirit’s voice was soft and gentle. “And of Christmases past.”
“Long past?”
“No, yours.”
“And why are you here?”
“For your welfare.”
Greg muttered something about a broken night not doing anything for his health.
“Well, for your salvation then.” The spirit then grasped Greg’s arm and, with surprising strength for such a small figure, pulled him out of the bed. "Come."
The grip was firm, so Greg didn’t resist until the spirit opened the window and led him towards it.
“Hey!” he cried, trying to pull free. “You might be dead but I’m still alive! I don’t want to fall.”
“You won’t fall,” the spirit answered. “Not while I’m with you.” And before Greg could protest further, the spirit had pulled him through the window, and they were flying through the air at breakneck speed. The city blurred and faded below them, and Greg soon found himself standing in an entirely different place.
“It’s my old college!” Greg said, recognising the buildings opposite. “Christ, I haven’t been here in years.”
“It is Christmas Eve,” said the spirit. “Most of the students have gone home for the holidays.” The world around them shifted, and they were standing in a bare classroom. The desks had been pushed to one side, and in the corner sat a scowling teenager with frizzy hair and glasses, reading a book.
“Is that really me?” Greg asked. “Man, I’d forgotten how bad my hair used to be.” He watched his younger self for a few moments. “Grumpy little bastard, wasn’t I?”
“There was a time when you used to enjoy Christmas.”
“Yeah back when I was a kid, but my dad never really made an effort after I moved out.” Greg felt in his pockets, hoping to find a spare cigarette. “Don’t suppose you have a lighter on you?”
The spirit glared at him for a moment, then turned its attention to the figure in the corner. “Your sister used to visit you.”
Greg didn’t answer; his mind was turning over old memories.
“Even after you finished here, she visited.”
Greg nodded. “Yeah, every year without fail, until....”
“You miss her?”
“Of course I fucking miss her!”
“And yet you rarely visit her son? Even though he's your only family?"
Greg shrugged, shoving his cigarette back into his pocket. "I don't need family. And anyway, he's probably better off without me visiting."
The spirit took Greg's hand again. "Let us see another Christmas."
Yet again, the scene faded and changed, and Greg found himself back in San Francisco. Christmas lights adorned every building, cars blared on the roads, and Greg was looking up at the first theatre he had ever worked in. Seeing the grin on Greg’s face, the spirit led him inside, where a massive party was being held.
“Do you remember this place?”
“Remember it?” Greg looked around at the familiar rooms, all filled with people; actors, musicians, comedians, theatre clerks. “Of course I remember. This is Drew Carey’s old theatre. Look, he’s over there, on the stage.” His smile widened as he heard some of the jokes. “He always threw the best parties.”
Drew finished his set, took a bow to wild applause, and stepped down as the music started. The spirit watched as couples walked together onto the dance floor, before turning to Greg and saying, “The parties were always expensive.”
“The price didn’t matter.”
“Because you made the money back in profits?”
“No, because... because they were fun. They brought people together.” Not realising how unlike himself he sounded, Greg started moving around the party. “Look, there I am! Talking to Drew.” He started walking towards his past self, before turning back towards the spirit. “Hey, can these people see me?”
The spirit shook its head. “These are echoes, nothing more.”
“Oh good. For a moment I thought I would cause a panic.” He moved back to where the younger Greg was talking to Drew.
“...and what do you think of a musical in a couple of months?”
Younger Greg shrugged. “I don’t know, people generally go to Broadway for musicals. I still think we should start doing improv shows here.”
“I don't know, people like musicals, and Broadway is a long way," Drew replied. "Oh, but speaking of improv, there’s someone I want you to meet!” Drew hurried away for several moments, returning with a balding man in a tuxedo. “Greg, this is Clive, a friend of mine from England. Clive, this is Greg; he’s one of my best actors here.”
“It’s very good to meet you,” Clive said, offering his hand. Unseen, the older Greg’s smile slipped off his face.
“Likewise,” said the younger Greg, shaking hands with the Englishman. “You into comedy as well?”
“Well, I’m newly in the business.”
“Yeah? What did you do before?”
“Clive here was a lawyer.”
“Oh really? Quite a big career move.”
“Well, I’ve generally found that comedians are better company than most barristers.”
Greg watched as the two men talked, feeling his chest constrict. He’d thought he had bottled away these feelings, but seeing the scene again brought them all back.
“There was, of course,” the spirit said, “another Christmas Eve with this man.”
“Oh please,” Greg whispered, “please don’t show me that Christmas.”
The party dissolved around them, re-forming into a park blanketed in white. The spirit directed him to two figures near a bridge; a different Greg, a different Clive. With a sinking heart, Greg approached them.
“Yet again, you postpone our wedding,” Clive said, staring out over the water.
“It can’t be helped,” the younger Greg replied, leaning against the stone wall. “How can we get married now? Business at the theatre is poor; we’re barely making enough money between us to live well.”
“There was a time when you cared more about the performances than whether there was a profit.”
“I can’t afford to think like that now, we have to be practical.” Greg watched as his past self bushed snow from his shoulder. “Clive, I’m doing this for you. I love you.”
Clive smiled sadly. “That might have been true once,” he said, slipping the engagement ring from his finger. “I don’t it’s true anymore.”
“Clive-”
“Gregory, I can’t live in this purgatory any longer. Each year, you put off our marriage, finding some poor excuse. You seem to care more about money than you ever did about me, and I think you stay only out of a sense of loyalty, not out of love.” Clive dropped the ring into Greg’s unwilling hand. “So I will release you, and wish you all the best.”
Both Gregs watched as the Englishman walked away, and the only person who called after him was the one who couldn’t be heard.
“I should have gone after him,” Greg said angrily. “Why didn’t I go after him?” He slumped against the bridge’s wall. “God, I was an idiot.”
“He wrote to you several times,” the spirit said as the younger Greg slipped away.
Greg nodded. “But I never replied to him. First I told myself I was too busy, then that I didn’t care. By the time I managed to convince myself, the letters had long since stopped.” Greg buried his head in his hands. “Spirit, why do you delight in torturing me?”
“These are the shadows of the things that have been. They are what they are, do not blame me.”
“Please, just take me home.”
The spirit didn’t answer. When Greg looked up, he found himself sitting in his bedroom, alone.
Author: Deaconite
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Past Greg/Clive, Chip/Jeff, Richard/Tony
Summary:
It's Christmas, normally a time of joy. But Greg Proops is not in the
Christmas spirit. All that will change when he is visited by three
ghosts.
Disclaimer: All fictional. Based on Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol.
Chapter Two - The Things That Have Been
Greg awoke several hours later in darkness. Sitting up, he groped for his glasses and put them on, squinting at the clock on his bedside table. It was five minutes to one. He watched as the clock hands made their way around the face until it eventually chimed one.
Nothing happened.
“Humbug,” Greg muttered. “The only spirits around here are the ones in the liquor cabinet.”
At that moment, the door burst open. Greg held his arms up to shield his eyes from the sudden influx of light. Silhouetted against the light was a figure, who stepped forward into the room, stopping beside the bed. The figure was childlike; small and thin, with smooth skin and a cascade of blonde hair, holding a sprig of holly. It was wearing a plain white robe, and its feet were bare.
“Are you the spirit whose coming was foretold?” Greg asked, trying to keep his voice steady.
“I am!”
“And... what kind of spirit are you?”
“I am the ghost of the things that have been.” The spirit’s voice was soft and gentle. “And of Christmases past.”
“Long past?”
“No, yours.”
“And why are you here?”
“For your welfare.”
Greg muttered something about a broken night not doing anything for his health.
“Well, for your salvation then.” The spirit then grasped Greg’s arm and, with surprising strength for such a small figure, pulled him out of the bed. "Come."
The grip was firm, so Greg didn’t resist until the spirit opened the window and led him towards it.
“Hey!” he cried, trying to pull free. “You might be dead but I’m still alive! I don’t want to fall.”
“You won’t fall,” the spirit answered. “Not while I’m with you.” And before Greg could protest further, the spirit had pulled him through the window, and they were flying through the air at breakneck speed. The city blurred and faded below them, and Greg soon found himself standing in an entirely different place.
“It’s my old college!” Greg said, recognising the buildings opposite. “Christ, I haven’t been here in years.”
“It is Christmas Eve,” said the spirit. “Most of the students have gone home for the holidays.” The world around them shifted, and they were standing in a bare classroom. The desks had been pushed to one side, and in the corner sat a scowling teenager with frizzy hair and glasses, reading a book.
“Is that really me?” Greg asked. “Man, I’d forgotten how bad my hair used to be.” He watched his younger self for a few moments. “Grumpy little bastard, wasn’t I?”
“There was a time when you used to enjoy Christmas.”
“Yeah back when I was a kid, but my dad never really made an effort after I moved out.” Greg felt in his pockets, hoping to find a spare cigarette. “Don’t suppose you have a lighter on you?”
The spirit glared at him for a moment, then turned its attention to the figure in the corner. “Your sister used to visit you.”
Greg didn’t answer; his mind was turning over old memories.
“Even after you finished here, she visited.”
Greg nodded. “Yeah, every year without fail, until....”
“You miss her?”
“Of course I fucking miss her!”
“And yet you rarely visit her son? Even though he's your only family?"
Greg shrugged, shoving his cigarette back into his pocket. "I don't need family. And anyway, he's probably better off without me visiting."
The spirit took Greg's hand again. "Let us see another Christmas."
Yet again, the scene faded and changed, and Greg found himself back in San Francisco. Christmas lights adorned every building, cars blared on the roads, and Greg was looking up at the first theatre he had ever worked in. Seeing the grin on Greg’s face, the spirit led him inside, where a massive party was being held.
“Do you remember this place?”
“Remember it?” Greg looked around at the familiar rooms, all filled with people; actors, musicians, comedians, theatre clerks. “Of course I remember. This is Drew Carey’s old theatre. Look, he’s over there, on the stage.” His smile widened as he heard some of the jokes. “He always threw the best parties.”
Drew finished his set, took a bow to wild applause, and stepped down as the music started. The spirit watched as couples walked together onto the dance floor, before turning to Greg and saying, “The parties were always expensive.”
“The price didn’t matter.”
“Because you made the money back in profits?”
“No, because... because they were fun. They brought people together.” Not realising how unlike himself he sounded, Greg started moving around the party. “Look, there I am! Talking to Drew.” He started walking towards his past self, before turning back towards the spirit. “Hey, can these people see me?”
The spirit shook its head. “These are echoes, nothing more.”
“Oh good. For a moment I thought I would cause a panic.” He moved back to where the younger Greg was talking to Drew.
“...and what do you think of a musical in a couple of months?”
Younger Greg shrugged. “I don’t know, people generally go to Broadway for musicals. I still think we should start doing improv shows here.”
“I don't know, people like musicals, and Broadway is a long way," Drew replied. "Oh, but speaking of improv, there’s someone I want you to meet!” Drew hurried away for several moments, returning with a balding man in a tuxedo. “Greg, this is Clive, a friend of mine from England. Clive, this is Greg; he’s one of my best actors here.”
“It’s very good to meet you,” Clive said, offering his hand. Unseen, the older Greg’s smile slipped off his face.
“Likewise,” said the younger Greg, shaking hands with the Englishman. “You into comedy as well?”
“Well, I’m newly in the business.”
“Yeah? What did you do before?”
“Clive here was a lawyer.”
“Oh really? Quite a big career move.”
“Well, I’ve generally found that comedians are better company than most barristers.”
Greg watched as the two men talked, feeling his chest constrict. He’d thought he had bottled away these feelings, but seeing the scene again brought them all back.
“There was, of course,” the spirit said, “another Christmas Eve with this man.”
“Oh please,” Greg whispered, “please don’t show me that Christmas.”
The party dissolved around them, re-forming into a park blanketed in white. The spirit directed him to two figures near a bridge; a different Greg, a different Clive. With a sinking heart, Greg approached them.
“Yet again, you postpone our wedding,” Clive said, staring out over the water.
“It can’t be helped,” the younger Greg replied, leaning against the stone wall. “How can we get married now? Business at the theatre is poor; we’re barely making enough money between us to live well.”
“There was a time when you cared more about the performances than whether there was a profit.”
“I can’t afford to think like that now, we have to be practical.” Greg watched as his past self bushed snow from his shoulder. “Clive, I’m doing this for you. I love you.”
Clive smiled sadly. “That might have been true once,” he said, slipping the engagement ring from his finger. “I don’t it’s true anymore.”
“Clive-”
“Gregory, I can’t live in this purgatory any longer. Each year, you put off our marriage, finding some poor excuse. You seem to care more about money than you ever did about me, and I think you stay only out of a sense of loyalty, not out of love.” Clive dropped the ring into Greg’s unwilling hand. “So I will release you, and wish you all the best.”
Both Gregs watched as the Englishman walked away, and the only person who called after him was the one who couldn’t be heard.
“I should have gone after him,” Greg said angrily. “Why didn’t I go after him?” He slumped against the bridge’s wall. “God, I was an idiot.”
“He wrote to you several times,” the spirit said as the younger Greg slipped away.
Greg nodded. “But I never replied to him. First I told myself I was too busy, then that I didn’t care. By the time I managed to convince myself, the letters had long since stopped.” Greg buried his head in his hands. “Spirit, why do you delight in torturing me?”
“These are the shadows of the things that have been. They are what they are, do not blame me.”
“Please, just take me home.”
The spirit didn’t answer. When Greg looked up, he found himself sitting in his bedroom, alone.
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Just a heads up, you've listed both chapters so far as chapter two. It confused me for a minute! And I've given you a story tag to use from now on. ^_^
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I figured that it would be Clive in his past. Yeah, I do love some Greg/Clive. And Drew seemed to fit with Fezziwig's character.
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no subject