Erin Ptah (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ptahrrific) wrote2006-07-16 11:31 pm
ptahrrific) wrote2006-07-16 11:31 pm
Good Omens/Sandman: "Motorcycle Riding, Part II"
Title: Motorcycle Riding, Part II
Fandom: Good Omens, Sandman
Genre: Comedy, mechanical romance
Words: ~760
Rating: G
Warnings: Nope, none.
Disclaimer: Good Omens is the creation of Terry Prachett and Neil Gaiman; Sandman is the creation of Neil Gaiman. Characters used without permission - but with love (and, more importantly from a legal standpoint, without profit).
Notes: Sequel to Motorcycle Riding. In which I give Anathema and Newt a married life that doesn't consist of them settling down and having kids right away, remember that post-Notpocalypse Dick Turpin speaks in haiku, and pair up Dick Turpin with Phaeton. Because I can.
Anathema and Newt Pulsifer led interesting lives. This was largely fueled by the fact that, up until about a year ago, they had both led extremely monotonous and boring lives. After meeting each other, in a whirlwind of events that was no longer quite clear in the memories of either (not that they were complaining), they'd agreed to do Something New every day.
On the honeymoon, Something New had generally involved "exploring attractive sights around the Caribbean" or "exploring attractive sights around the bedroom." Today, Something New had involved karaoke.
Anathema pulled Dick Turpin smoothly into the driveway. Leaning against the side of the house, Phaeton felt a stab of jealousy. Anathema could have ridden her trusty bicycle to the karaoke bar. What was so great about that car?
Aside from the high speed, flawless engineering, and perfect haiku, of course.
Then Newt climbed out of the Wasabi, still laughing about something Anathema had said; and they went up the front steps arm in arm, Newt imitating a particularly bad bit of karaoke to Anathema's amusement. Of course. The car had enough seats for the other new figure in Anathema's life.
Phaeton told itself not to be jealous. It would always hold a special place in Anathema's heart. Wouldn't it?
Newt mentioned children,
announced Dick Turpin suddenly.
They make this one feel nervous.
They'd spill on the seats.
The bicycle was a little startled. Children? As in, its rider's and Newt's? It envisioned sticky fingers on the handlebars, scratched paint, stains on its lovely tartan straps . . .
This one understands.
There would be crumbs between seats,
And stains of grape juice.
Phaeton started to panic. Anathema wouldn't doom it to that . . . would she? It had been healed by an angel once, but it doubted he would come back on a regular basis, no matter what state the bicycle was in.
Gently fall the leaves, haiku'd Dick Turpin.
The pow'r that first fixed this one
Is often busy.
To its surprise, Phaeton felt a sudden surge of sympathy for the Wasabi. It had only known Dick Turpin since the Wasabi's rehabilitation, but it had heard disturbing stories.
Frog leaps in the pond.
It shames this one to admit it:
Engrish was spoken.
Oh.
All grudges Phaeton had ever held against the car were forgotten.
The thought of children still nagged at it, though - until the Wasabi offered a reassuring haiku:
The driver worried,
but Newt did not mean right now.
He said, "Just, one day."
The bicycle relaxed. It was easier to stomach the prospect of children if they weren't in the near future.
Besides, it realized, it would get old and wear out on its own one day, kids or no kids.
This one imagines
That tires on rough terrain might
One day grow weary.
Dick Turpin had a point there.
In fact, Phaeton mused, at some point it might be nice . . . not now, of course, not when they were young and gleaming and the world was stretching out in front of them, but one day . . . it might not be so bad to help raise some little ones.
Cherry blossoms bloom.
Considering the future
This one is agreed.
---
The wind rustled in the branches.
"Did you hear something outside?" asked Newt, glancing at the window.
"No. Why?"
"I thought I might have left the radio on in Dick Turpin."
"We were singing all the way home, remember?"
"Oh yeah."
Anathema started humming - one of the tunes that Newt had particularly botched (before the speakers shorted out and the microphone went dead), and he tackled her with a mock growl, and their plans for One Day, or even Tomorrow, were overwhelmed with an amazingly absorbing Now.
---
Death pulled into the driveway in Phaeton's dream, her brother riding uncomfortably behind her on the pale cycle. Both were helmeted; Dream's helmet did indeed look ridiculous.
WHERE'S THE DREAMER? asked Death, looking around.
"That's it," said a puzzled Dream, pointing to the tartan-accented bicycle leaning against the house.
Death pulled off her helmet to stare incredulously at her brother. "That's been giving you so much trouble? Honestly, Morpheus--"
"It was a motorcycle last time," protested Dream. "It's always dreamed itself as a motorcycle. Something's changed."
Death sighed. "Fine. You're off the hook - for now. I'll get you back on a good bike yet, though."
She put her helmet back on. NOW HANG ON TIGHT.
And they turned and sped away across the dream-lawn, carefully avoiding the little black-and-tartan tricycles.
Fandom: Good Omens, Sandman
Genre: Comedy, mechanical romance
Words: ~760
Rating: G
Warnings: Nope, none.
Disclaimer: Good Omens is the creation of Terry Prachett and Neil Gaiman; Sandman is the creation of Neil Gaiman. Characters used without permission - but with love (and, more importantly from a legal standpoint, without profit).
Notes: Sequel to Motorcycle Riding. In which I give Anathema and Newt a married life that doesn't consist of them settling down and having kids right away, remember that post-Notpocalypse Dick Turpin speaks in haiku, and pair up Dick Turpin with Phaeton. Because I can.
Anathema and Newt Pulsifer led interesting lives. This was largely fueled by the fact that, up until about a year ago, they had both led extremely monotonous and boring lives. After meeting each other, in a whirlwind of events that was no longer quite clear in the memories of either (not that they were complaining), they'd agreed to do Something New every day.
On the honeymoon, Something New had generally involved "exploring attractive sights around the Caribbean" or "exploring attractive sights around the bedroom." Today, Something New had involved karaoke.
Anathema pulled Dick Turpin smoothly into the driveway. Leaning against the side of the house, Phaeton felt a stab of jealousy. Anathema could have ridden her trusty bicycle to the karaoke bar. What was so great about that car?
Aside from the high speed, flawless engineering, and perfect haiku, of course.
Then Newt climbed out of the Wasabi, still laughing about something Anathema had said; and they went up the front steps arm in arm, Newt imitating a particularly bad bit of karaoke to Anathema's amusement. Of course. The car had enough seats for the other new figure in Anathema's life.
Phaeton told itself not to be jealous. It would always hold a special place in Anathema's heart. Wouldn't it?
Newt mentioned children,
announced Dick Turpin suddenly.
They make this one feel nervous.
They'd spill on the seats.
The bicycle was a little startled. Children? As in, its rider's and Newt's? It envisioned sticky fingers on the handlebars, scratched paint, stains on its lovely tartan straps . . .
This one understands.
There would be crumbs between seats,
And stains of grape juice.
Phaeton started to panic. Anathema wouldn't doom it to that . . . would she? It had been healed by an angel once, but it doubted he would come back on a regular basis, no matter what state the bicycle was in.
Gently fall the leaves, haiku'd Dick Turpin.
The pow'r that first fixed this one
Is often busy.
To its surprise, Phaeton felt a sudden surge of sympathy for the Wasabi. It had only known Dick Turpin since the Wasabi's rehabilitation, but it had heard disturbing stories.
Frog leaps in the pond.
It shames this one to admit it:
Engrish was spoken.
Oh.
All grudges Phaeton had ever held against the car were forgotten.
The thought of children still nagged at it, though - until the Wasabi offered a reassuring haiku:
The driver worried,
but Newt did not mean right now.
He said, "Just, one day."
The bicycle relaxed. It was easier to stomach the prospect of children if they weren't in the near future.
Besides, it realized, it would get old and wear out on its own one day, kids or no kids.
This one imagines
That tires on rough terrain might
One day grow weary.
Dick Turpin had a point there.
In fact, Phaeton mused, at some point it might be nice . . . not now, of course, not when they were young and gleaming and the world was stretching out in front of them, but one day . . . it might not be so bad to help raise some little ones.
Cherry blossoms bloom.
Considering the future
This one is agreed.
---
The wind rustled in the branches.
"Did you hear something outside?" asked Newt, glancing at the window.
"No. Why?"
"I thought I might have left the radio on in Dick Turpin."
"We were singing all the way home, remember?"
"Oh yeah."
Anathema started humming - one of the tunes that Newt had particularly botched (before the speakers shorted out and the microphone went dead), and he tackled her with a mock growl, and their plans for One Day, or even Tomorrow, were overwhelmed with an amazingly absorbing Now.
---
Death pulled into the driveway in Phaeton's dream, her brother riding uncomfortably behind her on the pale cycle. Both were helmeted; Dream's helmet did indeed look ridiculous.
WHERE'S THE DREAMER? asked Death, looking around.
"That's it," said a puzzled Dream, pointing to the tartan-accented bicycle leaning against the house.
Death pulled off her helmet to stare incredulously at her brother. "That's been giving you so much trouble? Honestly, Morpheus--"
"It was a motorcycle last time," protested Dream. "It's always dreamed itself as a motorcycle. Something's changed."
Death sighed. "Fine. You're off the hook - for now. I'll get you back on a good bike yet, though."
She put her helmet back on. NOW HANG ON TIGHT.
And they turned and sped away across the dream-lawn, carefully avoiding the little black-and-tartan tricycles.