Was up all night coughing so I might as well have watched the lurid Downtown xmas special, just to ogle young Mr Stevens, but I decided to be proper and turn the telly off, so I'm annoyed, as it was another deprivation to no material gain. Would have watched True Blood again if I wasn't so disappointed with the waste of Chris Meloni. I mean, I'd been spoiled about it, but still, wtf? I have no idea what they're about this season and I fear the sharks are circling the drain.
This after a particularly crazed weekend of fever-tinged viewing. Either I've lost it more than I think I have, or there really were hints of the black arts in Silent Witness and the mummy's curse in Murdoch Mysteries. Such Spoonerific stories I now have a working theory that the ghost of Denis Spooner is taking over tv writers, much like in The Shakespeare Code, and they wake up with a lurid script they have no memory of writing but they have a deadline, so off it goes. Either that or my dull little tv procedurals have all suffered a dose of the vapours this week. Not that I mind, not a bit of it, just bemused.
I should also throw in a mock Loch Ness Monster as I forgot to mention that I finally got my mitts on a copy of Billy Wilder's The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes, which I have been after since I was a kid, to be honest, as it was, and remains a firm favourite. I mean, German spies dressed up as monks, monsters sighted on the Loch, midgets, Scottish castles, steam punkery...a veritable cornucopia of ticked boxes for me. It is like a mash up of Sherlock Holmes, The Avengers and Doctor Who, then, and now, and I adore it as much as anything. It was also perfect comfort tv viewing for the wheezy and feverish. Happiness and joy. And, also, if you've not seen it, you'll find a few things tumbled into Sherlock, though I've yet to see the scene with the dancers. I must see the scene with the dancers - grin.
Sticking with things Sherlocky, I put in disk one of my Sherlock collection, which is a miscellania of old b/w Sherlock reels that I picked up in Minotaur. The quality is atrocious, like copied off an old tape off an ond telly with bad reception onto a $2 tape that had already been used several times bad, and thus barely bloody watchable, even to this girl who once prized rare tapes of equally awful quality, but the films are still fun.
I ended up watching Dressed To Kill, which features a very familiar line where a guy in a pub retells how Sherlock got him off a murder charge by proving he was committing another crime across town, but the plot, oh the plot. Can you believe it, it's about someone stealing music boxes that play a slightly altered tune which is really a code that leads to the location of a great treasure. Can you believe it? Can you believe anyone using a plot like that in this day and age?
Anyway, not a Nazi sub, but five pound plates, so sing the music boxes, but Sherlock wraps it up, despite, rather than with, the help of Watson. No idea why Sherlock keeps Watson around in these film versions, not really sure I want to think of why.
Um, let's see. Oh yes, there was a minor Tony Curtis festival with The Defiant Ones, which is so good (and so above any pastiche, even Leverage), and Spartacus, too (with creepy predatory Crassus, played by a sinisterly swishy Sir Larry). I've never seen the Antoninus's other duties as required version before, so that was a different viewing experience. And I don't know why, but I'm always surprised to learn it's a Kubrick film, every time. It's just not like his other stuff. He blames studio notes, though, much like George Lucas, sometimes these might not be a bad thing, as I find this the most accessible and watchable of his films, but then, I'm such a plebian and I don't like my cinema to hurt too much (more a bitter sweet Billy Wilder fan).
Other dvds I watched? Um...moving on (more from the ogling a certain actor ouvre, and I'm not admitting anything more, except I'd stacked them up for last weekend but was too unwell to watch 'em so you may be reasonably assured that the term 'chick flick' could be applied).
TV? Not so much. Dvds were better as they could be paused (I must have paused Sparactus at least eight times), but I did catch the episode of Hustle where Mickey loses his mojo. That's always a cute one. I love Hustle. I love Robert Vaughn. He was so stylish as Napoleon Solo, somewhere in New York's east forties, then he went onto ITC fun (much like Tony Curtis in the Persuaders) and there's an episode of The Protectors that features a young Peter Firth, so in my feverish little brain I always like to imagine that Harry from Spooks was recruited by a certain Mr Solo. I'm also enjoying imagining the pained faces Harry might make at the moment re the 'lympics.
That's pretty much it. Though of many things while feverish, including a few left of centre fic ideas that I might not have had if I wasn't a red-eyed, sleep deprived crazy woman, but, as always, lack the time, privacy and wherewithal to get even a note down on paper. Yes, paper. Given my complete lack of working tech right now it's pencil and paper only. Besides, it's the way I like to roll. You can loll all over the place, curl up anywhere, with a 2B pencil and a piece of paper.
Wednesday... The bus squealed and skidded, the headlights flashed upon a streetside poster. The last thing I nearly saw was Matt Bomer, on a poster for Magic Mike, and I figured that'd just be about it, you know. But we didn't crash, it was just the driver being wildly erratic and nearly crashing.
Took me out of my Austen novel, which I then put away. And I was just up to the bit where Captain Wentworth utters the very cutting remark about barely recognising poor Anne. Zap! Kapow! (Squeal, shudder, slam, shake, near bus crash).
This after my woe is me meditations at the bus stop, still unwell on a black, misty morning, the sun not being anywhere near up at 5am, cold and damp, with holes in my shoes and no way to buy more, and, oh yeah, my hair still smelling like vomit, and no way to wash it because the hot water heater just died again which means weeks of waiting for parts I can't afford and ice cold showers when I'm so unwell. I know I sound like Mary in Persuasion, but really, enough is enough.
I've always been paid below the poverty line but with scrimping and sacrifice I'd have enough for a trip, but now they're abolishing leave and the bills have all increased ten fold so I can't even afford to replace my tablet. And all my shoes are worn through. Yes, I felt like a Dickensian urchin, standing in the damp mist with my tattered scarf and ruined shoes. If I'd had mittens, they should have been ragged and fingerless.
And I had another day off sick, which I can't afford in any way, but I was so not good (hacked up enough goop to make a golum), not good at all until the late pm, when I rallied just enough to sit up and watch a particularly gothic episode of Big Valley (Heath was kidnapped by some weird beard fundy cultists and kept in a cage and whipped occasionally, oh, hello), another confusing episode of Once Upon a Time (can that really be my dear Hamish, chewing up the scenery there), and a much needed Bomer fix via a repeat of White Collar on W, only to be told as I settled back with a contented sigh that I was to be losing W and my White Collar repeats, as well. Is there to be no tiny spot of comfort in my life? None?
First world problems, I grant you, but still. It just seems the more I compromise, the more they take. Maybe it would have been better if the bus hadn't braked.
Thursday... Oh, the universe is determined to have fun with me this week. Never mind this morning's hijinks, I had another one of my 'well at least I've still got' moments, this time it was my phone, old faithful, my last remaining piece of working tech. Oh no, sorry, no longer supported by the phone company, so long, bye, kaput. Sigh.
My dad used to joke I must have done a number of unlucky things in a past life to warrant my inability to walk in a straight line without some disaster or three befalling me along the way. I'm begininning to think he was right. I can't cross a road wihout being shat on from a great height. And I haven't even mentioned how my fried rice turned to risotto last night, or how bucket and mop ill I was, not entirely unrelated (all over the only good rug, too, nice one). Sigh.
Not to wish my life away entirely, but I am deeply, deeply of the crawl into bed and never leave mindset right now. And that's before I get screeched at again.
Meanwhile, appraising myself of spoilers, it seems White Collar has indeed torn up and stomped all over the fic, which I thought it would, since they're now dealing with the question of Neal, and I've been having so much fun with that, blank canvas and international man of mystery that he was. Peter even makes a Rumpelstiltskin reference, way before I ever saw Once Upon a Time, just because Neal is so impossibly elusive, in the fic, re his real name. Damn you, so much for the big moment and the big reveal. And it was a big moment. Big, proper, fairytale moment, and deliberately so (and, again, way before Once, I was just playing with mythologies and tropes). Do I chuck the whole thing, or just stumble on, blindly ignoring canon? This is why I wanted to finish it so badly before now, but I had everything thrown in my path including a dead computer. And so now I'm stuck, and peeved, and all that sort of stuff.
They've even got Peter being slung into the basement as punishment for his misdeeds, dammit (the Fox Mulder memorial desk of infamy, where all fallen FBI agents wash up, which is unfair and oddly recursive, as some of Mulder's basement humiliations remind me of my basement dwelling misadventures at the time). So annoyed my favourite bits of the fic are now just pale imitations instead of original thinking, which they were, when I wrote them. Damn those with their shirts that needed ironing, their gardens that needed weeding, and every other duty I was made to endure when I could have finishing up what would have been an original and surprisingly on the money fic. Damn you all. And damn me most of all for not just saying no and getting on with it, for putting what I really wanted and needed to do last, as always. Because I'm not important. Because it wasn't important. Isn't important. why bother now. eh? why bother with anything?
Well, at least I can be fairly sure they're not going to ever have a scene quite like this (and yes, it's supposed to be back and forth like that, I was trying for effect, and I don't really have to explain it since the show has caught up with my plotz, but, yes, Peter has fallen from grace, Neal played no small part in this fall, and Peter is now supposed to really, really keep his hands of the merchandise and, clearly, Peter is still no match for a heat seeking Neal...):
"Get off my desk."
Peter didn't even bother looking up. He'd seen Neal exit the lifts and pick his way towards Peter's desk like a dandy in fancy shoes picking his way through a field strewn with cow pats.
There was no love lost between Neal and Peter's new charges down in the computer crime section. Some, but not all, of the hackers were radicalised and had acted for what they considered a higher purpose, where Neal, with his magpie eye, had merely stolen anything shiny that caught his eye. The rest just thought he was a dick.
Neal, for his part, considered them ill bred, ill mannered and badly dressed freaks, mere labourers, while he was an artisan, finely skilled in his crafts. In short, and in terms Peter had come to understand all too well since he'd been stuck down here in the basement, Neal was Legolas, elfin and elegant, and the hackers were orcs, lumpen and craven dwellers of darkness.
And in darkness they did dwell. The lift doors had slung open and Neal had been confronted with the grim reality of Peter's world, the world he'd thrown him down into. There were no windows here, just the dim and claustrophobic haze of fluorescent lights, and at least three of those were out. Four, Neal counted again, with a fifth and sixth on their way out. This floor wasn't a priority, not by anyone's standards.
The carpet was old, the chairs worn and the walls hadn't been painted since the Bush administration. The first one. Then there was the smell.
The cloying, awful smell of sweat, dust and stale pizza. Peter would go out and get pizzas and whatever else was needed when they pulled an allnighter, which was often, and the ambience suffered for it.
"You're still on my desk," Peter remarked as Neal hadn't shifted, not even when Peter had to move a well toned thigh to get at a file.
Peter looked up at last, exasperated. Neal leant in to kiss him.
"No," Peter told him firmly, drawing back.
"Since you almost got me sacked. That's since when."
Neal huffed, but kept sitting there, heel kicking the desk, bored.
Still bored, Neal picked up the V mask that was sitting in Peter's in-tray and pressed it against his face.
Peter gazed up, aggravated, to see a plastic Guy Fawkes grinning down at him.
"Put that down. It's evidence."
Neal put it back.
"Did you want something or is this just a social call?"
"You're not being very social."
"You never used to be so busy."
"Yeah, well, I have to work harder now just to stay in the same place. I'm still hanging by a thread, you know."
"I know." Neal spoke quietly, shifting like a cat from the desk to the seat in front. "I engineered it."
"You damn nearly had me drummed out of the Bureau."
"That was the idea."
Well, at least he was owning it, not that it made Peter feel any better.
"When are you going back upstairs?" Neal pressed, wanting this to be over now.
"No idea. Possibly never. The case might have collapsed, but things stick. I'm damaged goods."
"But I set you up." It wasn't a boast, but a plea as to how anyone could take his evidence as gospel against Peter.
"I was compromised. You got to me. I let you get to me. I let too much get by. I deserve this."
"No, you don't."
Neal was quiet for a while.
"At least they've restored my pay grade, with back pay," Peter spoke up. "Was that you?"
Of course it was. Neal wasn't even denying it. He wanted to make things right. He was trying so hard, it was sweet, really.
Peter glanced up. Neal was sitting, if that was the word, more sprawled on the chair, lazily angled to best advantage, so open, so inviting, so damn sure of himself.
Peter knew why he was here, but he could never understand why Neal was. Even now, Neal wasn't taking no for an answer. He never did. And maybe that was the answer. Unlike most, Peter had not been an easy conquest. It had taken Neal years, from their first meeting, and every trick Neal had, and then some. Even now Peter was like a puzzle he hadn't entirely figured out.
Neal leant forward on the table with his elbows.
"Neal," Peter complained.
"It's so boring upstairs. They've got me doing insurance fraud."
"You're good at that."
Peter looked up.
"You'll have to get used to it, Neal. We might never work together, we probably won't."
Neal wasn't ready to accept that. Neal did not like this brave new world he'd created. A curse of his own making, he'd wanted Peter out of his hair and his wish had been granted. It hadn't made him happy. He wanted to fix it, and quickly. He moved restlessly in the chair.
Several pairs of eyes looked up over the top of screens and glared at him. He glared back. He was going to win Peter back, by hook or by crook.
Only it wasn't going to be as easy as he thought it would be. Peter, despite his fall from grace, was doing solid work here, and he had earned the grudging respect of some of his misanthropic team, and had bought the affections of the remainder by keeping a well stocked kitchen. At least bribing them with treats kept the better adjusted of them out of Peter's accounts, not that there was anything left untouched after Neal, the FBI and IRS had been through everything. Still, a couple of them had been through Peter's digital records, not to make mischief but to try and put right what Neal had broken, because Peter inspired that sort of loyalty, even in sociopaths. Well, all except one, his greatest failure, his grand folly. Brought down by a brittle, insecure little con artist. His career would never recover, even if Neal could swing it to get Peter back upstairs.
Peter should have seen the signs. He hadn't seen the signs. Or hadn't wanted to. Even now he was playing with fire and he knew it, but like any old dumb moth, he was helpess to his fate.
"Aren't you at least pleased to see me?" Neal sulked, leaning in a little closer.
"My heart sings," Peter dead panned, still writing in his file, not looking up. "Now get off my desk."
Neal slumped back into the chair opposite like sullen child. He picked up the old glass paperweight from Peter's desk and played with it for a bit, and when told to put it down he did so, and reached for the bowl of paperclips and started making a daisy chain of clips. Pete pulled the bowl back out of reach without even glancing up. The number of times he walked in to find all the clips on his desk joined up and strung up like bunting, or worse, shaped into little creatures or abstract figures that besported themselves over his desk, it didn't bear thinking about.
"Neal," he warned.
He glanced up. Fatal mistake. Neal had slung one leg over the arm of the chair, quite casually, in a perfect display.
Neal saw Peter look. His eyes flashed in triumph. He had him. He sat up again properly, then leant forward again, elbows pushing forward onto Peter's desk.
"We could go to the far cubicle together in the men's room, for old time's sake. You could come in my mouth."
Peter slapped his pen down and took a moment to compose himself.
"No," he managed at last.
"No. Not here. Not now, Not ever. You're not even supposed to be down here. You're supposed to be behaving yourself and I'm not supposed to be leading you astray. You've no idea, have you? Can you please just..." he spluttered to a stop, then tried to angle it in a way Neal would understand.
"If you want me to buy you pretty things I need to keep my job, and I can only keep my job if you behave, so can you at least try to be a good little boy? Just this once?"
Neal ignored all the rest and focused in on the sparkly bit.
"You want to buy me pretty things?"
"I always want to buy you pretty things. I can't afford anything fancy, anything you'd really like, but I like to buy you things. I like to see your eyes light up, if just for a moment."
"Peter," Neal began but Peter hushed him. Now wasn't the time or the place.
"Here." Peter pushed some old printouts he was using as notepaper towards Neal.
"Draw on them, make those little paper animals, I don't care, just do it quietly."
"I thought you liked my origami," Neal pouted.
"I do, but this is quiet time. We work quietly down here."
Neal listened to the clacking keyboards and the buzz of just audible earbuds, and huffed a sigh. He drew a piece of paper towards him and folded it once, twice, and then turned it over.
Something caught his eye. It was an account statement, with large amounts, large but regular just under the radar amounts going in and out.
"Peter, whose account is this?' he had to ask.
Peter shrugged. He wasn't about to tell him. It was a case he was working on and he wasn't supposed to talk about his cases with Neal.
Neal's quick little eyes had already seen and memorised all the little numerical codes across the top. He turned it back over and kept folding.
"Can I see you tonight at least, after work? It's been over forty eight hours since I've had your cock inside me," Neal spoke conversationally as he folded.
Peter's pen went down again but he wouldn't look at Neal, turning instead to fetch a ring binder folder from the shelf behind him, whether he really needed it or not.
Neal took the opportunity to slide the piece of paper into his pocket.
When Peter turned back Neal was studiously folding away at his paper, quiet as a lamb. He'd missed something. Peter knew he'd missed something. He was about to ask when Jones interupted, appearing at his desk.
"I might have known," he complained to both of them. "Neal, you're not supposed to be down here. You don't even have clearance, I don't want to know how you bypassed security. Back upstairs. Now."
"But it's boring."
"I don't care. You wanted back in, you're in. Now you've got to work with it."
"I want to work with Peter."
"Never gonna happen." Jones broke it to him brutally, enjoying it far too much.
Peter grimaced but stayed out of it. It was officially none of his business any more.
Neal set his determined face. He was going to make it happen.
Jones didn't care. He slapped a file under Neal's arm and hustled him back towards the lifts, making it look like Neal had only been down to records. He even had Jones covering for him now.
Peter put his pen back down. None of his business. None of his business. He heard the lift doors ping and rattle closed and felt a pang of loss. None of his business, he kept repeating to himself.
None of his business except that one last stolen glance from Neal, before he'd vanished into the lift.
Unlike the show there is no quick fix, well, there is, but it's a Faustian deal, yet another step on Peter's journey to the dark side, and it does get pretty dark, but Peter's doing the whole mad, bad, revenge type thing. Yes, I think I probably wrote this after seeing MacBeth. It's that kind of deal, the old when good men go bad, well, there's a lot for Peter to unleash (and Jones has been asking for it since the first part of the fic, but you'll never see it cause I'll never finish it, and who wants to hear Jones parrot on as the voice of reason, anyway). Peter is also quite frantically trying to protect someone, so there is some method in his madness. He certainly has been pushed to this point. He also tells several significant lies/fabrications/misdirections to the doomed Jones, especially about Neal. Still covering for Neal, poor Peter. As for the whole Vertigo thing, it was inspired by pics like this. Heh.
And I know this is not good, and it's certainly not polished or considered, just a rough and careless sketch of a draft, but it's all that stands between me and my ever burning anger at the world, so why people just can't let me be to scribble away to my heart's content I do not know.
Jones flexed and struggled in the chair, but it was no use, the ropes had been tied by an expert. As he tried to rock and move the chair back and forth he could hear the thick plastic sheeting twist underneath, and he knew he was in real trouble.
Voices were muttering in Russian nearby, discussing what to do with him.
Federal agents had been spotted, too easily spotted, watching and listening. These mobsters had always been one step ahead, like they had an informant, an inside man. They'd mounted counter offensive and counter intelligence attacks until they'd snared the agent in charge. Jones.
Peter had been brought in to see the prize Arkady had caught. They'd followed the trail back, followed him, snatched him off the street. The cold war was about to get hot. Peter knew who it was, even with the pillow case over the bound man's head. He told Arkady so, wanting to be honest.
"He'll know you," Arkady countered. "What are you going to do?"
"What I have to," Peter told him, grim, upset, but in control.
He slipped out his gun and stood there, holding it on Jones as the mask was whipped off.
"Peter." Jones was relieved for a second, before he realised he was not safe, he was not rescued. There was no safe place, no rescue.
"Peter, it's you." Jones visibly slumped. Peter was the traitor, the turncoat who'd seen every move, blocked it and countered it. Caffrey had taught him well. He glanced to the man who stood beside Peter, in the fine suit and fedora. For a moment, he thought they'd all been fooled. Then he saw it wasn't Caffrey. It was someone far more dangerous and elusive. He whispered to Peter, his hand pressing on his arm, then stood back, to watch and wait. This was between Peter and his old comrade.
"Why?" Jones pleaded.
"Good question. Let's keep it simple. I was kicked out of the FBI for investigating my husband's death. So I reached out to some of his friends. Friends who would also like to know those responsible for his death."
"So he was mixed up with the russian mob." Jones felt vindicated. He had been close.
"Only socially, and for the occassional procurement of hard to get items for his business. Neal was just a businessman, trying to turn his life around. He never got the chance."
"And what about you, Peter, you work for him now?" Jones flicked a look at Arkady, who was leaning casually, arms lightly folded, against the table upon which various items rested, waited.
"Yes. In this economy, you take whatever job you get offered, right?"
"It's not right, Peter. What the hell happened to you?"
"My husband was murdered." His eyes glittered.
Jones straightened again.
"So what are you going to do?" He didn't believe it. He couldn't.
Peter crouched down beside him.
"I'm going to do what I have to, what I couldn't do before. I'm going to protect the man I love."
Jones's eyes shot from Peter to Arkady, still slouching by the table, hat down low. It was all a bit Vertigo, and very disturbing.
"What? Him? What about Neal?"
"Neal's dead. Keep up. You never used to be so slow. Together, we're going to take down everyone who had a part in it. Together," Peter repeated.
"This is insane, Peter. You're insane."
It wasn't the answer Jones was looking for.
"I've been crazy since I met Neal, chasing him all those years, thinking he was leaving all those little messages for me, encouraging me to chase after him. Maybe he was and maybe he wasn't. He said he did, but who knew with Neal. He'd say anything if it suited his purposes. Down was up and up was down but I loved him more than anything and they took him away from me."
"They? Who are they?"
"Don't know yet, but I'm going to find out."
"Yes, with him. I know, but you've given me the same choice that you gave Neal, which was no choice at all, to turn informant for the FBI. The FBI were supposed to protect him, but they got him killed. And then they hung me out to dry. So guess what? I'm not going to choose the FBI. I have no loyalty, no obligation to an organisation that doesn't protect its own. Arkady, he protects his own, and I'm going to protect him. You see, he's still not entirely sure, this could be some sort of act, I could be deep undercover, the disgraced lawman, a double agent. But I'm not. And I'm going to prove it. So I'm sorry, Jones, but you made your choice. You could have left Neal alone. You could have left me alone, you could have left Arkady alone, but you wouldn't. You kept coming after us. And so, here we are."
"And you're going to do it? Really? After everything?"
"Yes, because you put the bullseye on Neal's back, and I can never forgive you for that. You have no idea how much I hate you, because I loved him so much."
"I begged you, and you didn't listen. Try and die like a man, so I can kill you like one."
Peter stood up, went across to the old metal table, laid down his gun and selected a knife.
He went back to Jones and leant over him, holding the knife. It was a long, sharp pointed kitchen knife. Nothing fancy, nothing out of the ordinary, nothing hundreds, if not thousands, of peolple didn't own in their shabby little kitchens.
"I'm sorry, Jones."
"I'm sorry too, Peter. Make it quick."
Peter did. One short, sharp stab under the ribs the way he'd been trained. He pulled it free and kissed Jones's forehead as he died, the Judas kiss, then laid the knife and his latex gloves down on Jones's lap.
"Get rid of him. Absolutely no trace. Go to his place. Clean it out. Burn it to the ground."
"Are there any others?"
"Yes, but do enough of a vanishing act, plant incriminating evidence, mess up his finances, keep his cards and phones active for a few days, and they'll never know, not for sure. Now give me your hotel key. I need to shower before I go home to my wife."
"Peter, I know this was hard."
He met Arkady's eyes coldly.
"I trained him. He trusted me with his life. Now you trust me."
"Good. Stay quiet. Stay off the radar. If you have to, make it look like Donovan has something to hide. Let the FBI bark up that tree for a change."
"Arkasha, don't. I need - I need a shower. And you need to clean up this mess."
He walked out without a backward glance.
Arkady found him still sittiing in the dark in his hotel room, drinking his scotch, trying to get drunk. They had a dirty, violent fuck on the couch, which rolled out onto the floor as they grapped with each other, then he bathed Peter and drove him home and had him tucked up in bed long before anyone noticed Jones was missing.
Peter would answer the door again, tired and covered in baby food, looking so sad and pathetic and unslept they wrote him off entirely. They would never find Jones, they would never be sure he hadn't taken the money and run, the way the evidence said he had. Peter had run that lump of cash three times around the world so fast they'd never find its starting or stopping point. Everything had burnt, nothing had been saved, not even the photo of the old team, with Neal.
Friday... Magic Mike finally opened here last night, and where was I? Tucked up in bed, that's where. I might as well get one of those knitted cardigans nannas wear in bed and a mob cap and be done with it.
At least I wasn't entirely Bomer deprived, as there was an old episode of White Collar on W, and soon I will have neither White Collar or W, so I'm making the most of it. It was the one where we're first inflicted with that skinny bint Neal was supposed to be so into. It never worked, and she has more chemistry with Peter in this episode (and, oddly, with Caffrey once they've broken up and are no longer being forced upon each other by network executives). A story that is so pedestrian even Law and Order would blush to film it, but hey, you get to see Bomer dress in black and that lovely flash when he whips the gun out from where he's tucked it into the band of his jeans (with the safety on, I do hope). Hey, I'll take what I can get.
Damn, I really want to get to the flicks, and not just for Bomer. Damn this flu. I'll miss them all and will have to haunt JB instead in a year's time or whenever the bastard dvds get released. I want to see Mr Dancy, as I am still grumping about having to miss him (in NEW YORK) for a job interview that went nowhere, harumph. Now I can't even get to the flicks. It shouldn't be this hard, you know?
Oh well, at least I got to see Bomer on telly last night. Usually I don't but after being made to wait and wait and wait the other night and then accidentally destroying the good rug because I wasn't kidding about being unwell, well, last night I was being made to wait and wait and wait until I got to wash the dishes but then someone must have thought twice, probably because we're running out of rugs, and I was allowed to be all done in time to watch my telly in my room for once (Mr Fiddle Faddle Faffabout has made me miss entire seasons of Merlin and the like). Not much I can do about the rug, and what could I do at 10pm on a cold, wet night? To borrow from Spike Milligan, I told you I wasn't feeling well. Harumph.
And what will I be doing tomorrow? Going to the flicks? Writing and typing? No, washing and ironing effin' shirts, all seven hundred of them, never mind the three thousand pairs of socks. Sorry, but the gap between what I do and what I want to do is really biting hard this month, because I wanted to have those fics done, and I didn't, because I was having to spent all my rare spare time ironing other people's shirts. It's enough to make anyone shirty, surely.