sixwordstories | (no subject)

What's that?

I slept with someone I shouldn't have. I was embracing my immigrant status.

Ok, except for the immigrant status that sounds like something anybody could say.

Oh. Did I... say it wasn't?

No, it's just....

It's never a smart move, and I think we all know it, but it just keeps happening.

Oh?

Oh.

Need a shoulder...? *offers a beer*

*takes the beer* Yeah, thanks.

Hey, does your Hunt have any kids?

Nope. His wife left him for another woman, though, poor bastard. *faint smile; clinks her glass with his*

What's the matter, Sam?

You're kidding. *laughs*

I slept with the boss' daughter.

Ooooh. *sympathetic wince*

If it makes you feel any better... I've almost slept with the boss once or twice.

Now you're really kidding. *shakes his head* Don't tell me if you're not, I don't think my currently-fragile psyche can handle it.

*rubs his back companionably*

Poor Sam. Have the beer.

*takes a long sip*

I don't know what's worse, the fact that everyone knew and didn't tell me or that I listened to a suspect with a spaceship coming out of his eye.

... What? A space--

I'm going to need a little bit more to go on here, I'm afraid.

When I was a kid, I had this toy. Mars Rover. I keep seeing it, it leads me to stuff.

Ray calls me Spaceman. I don't know if it's all a coincidence, or my subconscious trying to tell me something.

*she's quiet for a long, long moment*

I'm being stalked by a sad Harlequin clown from a 1980's music video.

Wow. Suddenly I feel a lot better. *flashes her a half-smile* At least I'm not seeing clowns.

*pokes out her tongue*

You have to admit, clowns are a lot creepier than space ships. *mutters* Ground control to Major Tom, right?

*shakes his head* Thanks for the beer, Alex.

They are. ... and it's funny you should say that, because it was a Bowie video that the clown's from.

Anytime, Sam. Any time. Sometimes, a beer is the best way to cope with any given situation.

It was a Bowie song I was listening to when I was hit by that car. I only remember because I saw the eight track when I woke up, and... it was an eight track.

Great. So David Bowie's somehow managed to mess with both of our heads.

*quotes, deeply ruefully* Take a look at the lawman, beating up the wrong guy. *snort*

The man who shot me quoted a Bowie song to me, too. The song that was playing when my parents died.

"Life on Mars". That's the one. *finishes his beer* When did your parents die?

1981.

*pulls another one from her six-pack; offers*

My dad left in 1973. *subconciously rubs his chest* Now I know why.

*takes a beer* Thanks. You're a lifesaver.

And I finally have answers to my parents' deaths.

*drains her own beer and takes another, too*

You want to talk about it?

You know, I thought if I figured out why... if I got him to stay, that I could go back. Instead he shot me.

*looks down at his hands* My dad wasn't the man I thought he was.

Shit.

*puts an arm around him*

I thought if I stopped mine from being murdered, I'd get to go home. *presses her lips into a line* My dad wasn't the man I thought, either. He killed them both -- almost me, too. Child-me.

So we're both people from the twenty-first century who ended up in our own childhoods as adults, betrayed by our fathers. With some kind of link to David Bowie.

*smiles a watery smile* I may need something stronger than beer. And... I'm sorry about your parents.

Thanks. *tucks her head onto his shoulder for a moment or two* My flat's just upstairs: I have whiskey.

*thinks about it for a second before nodding.* Okay. What the hell. Some whiskey would be nice.

Mmm.

It's good to have someone to talk to, Sam. Someone who is going through something very similar -- who doesn't roll their eyes and tell me I'm mad.

*Rises; offers her hand* Shall we?

If I say you're crazy, I'm crazy too. *takes her hand* Which I'm willing to accept, but only as my last resort.

*laughs, slight squeeze of his hand* It would be terribly embarrassing, as a psychologist, to have completely lost my mind.

*smiles a little as he lets her lead him* So what's going on then? Am I a figment of your imagination? Are you one of mine? If your place is upstairs, does that mean I've somehow ended up in England?

I'm honesty not --

Yes. Let's just say 'yes': we're imagining each other. That could be comforting..? *faint frown* Or not, actually.

I don't know, Sam. Any port in a storm?

I think I'm just starting to get over the idea that everyone else is a figment of my imagination. Let's say we're real for now.

"Don't be forlorn, it's just the payoff... it's the rain before the storm." *laughs* I'm burning everything I own by Bowie when I get back.

*laughs again; faintly lost*

"Though we're strangers till now, We're choosing the path between the stars..."

I always loved Bowie.

*leads him up the back stairs, ignoring the catcalls from various faceless police officers who could be her colleagues, or could be his. Maybe they're both: who cares?*

I was fine with him until recently. *smiles at her before shooting a look at the shadowy catcallers.*

Good to know some things are universal.

Mmm-hmm. People are people, regardless of the decade.

*leads him upstairs into her very circa-1981 flat, red couch, the whole nine yards... and finds the promised bottle in her kitchen.*

How do you take your whiskey, Sam? Ice, water, straight up?