Sometimes they have duels.

She suggests a movie. They watch. He counters with another, to one-up her. They watch. And vise versa. Certainly not the worst domestic war to be waged; at least they watch good movies in the process.

(At eat popcorn or bake cookies and pastries for the occasion, and snuggle up together like two birds of a feather on the couch. It's certainly not the worst domestic war to be waged at all.)

Recently, she suggested Gone With the Wind, a classic which Simon later described as an "overbloated, overlong, overdramatic piece of American cheese with no nutritional value whatsoever." She threw a cookie at his head and suggested he come up with something better.

So he came up with Doctor Zhivago*, after which she conceded that it was, indeed, a great film.

But she still liked Gone With the Wind better. So it goes.

A classic which the Typist describes as an "overbloated, overlong, overboring piece of British Epic Cinematic Dramuh that nonetheless has great cinematography and a beautiful score." The Typist also goes on to say she would tap Maurice Jarre's music any time.

Simon Skinner is inept in the art of combining ingredients. Ana has therefore entrusted him with the most important task of stirring batter, though it is clear, as she peers at him, askance, at short intervals, that she does not entirely trust him with this. Every time she looks, he smiles, smugly, as if to say he has it under control. In a wave of arrogance, he winks, once, when she looks again, but does not re-open his closed eye when she looks away. His smile evaporates. He turns his face towards the batter, bowing closer to the bowl. He's stopped stirring. His eye is still closed. He prods the batter with his spoon, begins to stir again, still searc--

"Looking for something?"

He quickly stands up straight. His other, open eye slams down. Squeezed precariously between the lids of this eye is a single contact lens thwarted in its bid for escape. The other contact lens is...

He raises his pinkie to the captured contact lens, opens his eye, and carefully places the lens back where it belongs. His other, contact lens-free eye is still squeezed shut. Not looking Ana in the eye, he admits, guiltily, "I fucked up the batter."

Lucille does not think she’s the best artist in class. She doesn’t think she’s awful, but she doesn’t think she’s brilliant. She’s okay with that. She’s not in the class to get praise. She’s in the class to draw. As this is a life drawing class, Lucille thinks her expectations are fairly reasonable.

She wishes she could spare more sympathy to her classmates, who drive themselves to the bone trying to draw great art. She can’t. She doesn’t see the point. She especially does not see the point of appeasing Mr. Skinner, the class’s host, who isn’t a bad artist but isn’t worth the respect piled on him. The respect has little to do with his art and everything to do with his supposed importance. What’s so important about managing a grocery store? What did it have to do with art?

Truth be told, she didn’t think much of Mr. Skinner as a person. He was sleazy, cheesy, and his motivations were not pure. Mr. Skinner was all image. He strode into class as if he owned it then strode out of it as if he owned the whole town. Co-owned it, anyway. With who, she couldn’t rightly say, but Mr. Simon Skinner fancied himself a founding father of a village that existed way before he was born.

Except, certain things have changed in Mr. Skinner’s demeanor.

Today, as has lately been the case, Mr. Skinner is reserved, thoughtful. He walks into the room as if on a cloud and floats back out of it as if returning to a fog. He smiles, of course, but not as intensely, more relaxed, sometimes, but often more distant, as if he doesn’t care about dazzling anyone. And when he stares at the model, he’s not leering, as he usually does, but staring beyond the body, beyond the room—beyond the universe, perhaps. Who knows? Mr. Skinner’s simply not on Earth anymore. Maybe he’s in love.

He’s so engrossing in this state that one day Lucille finds herself drawing him instead of the model. She has a clear view of him staring out the window. The sun’s setting. “Magic hour,” as the filmmakers call it. She just has a pencil, so she can’t capture the colors. Just the shades. It’s a quick sketch. She’s pleased. She closes her sketch pad before anyone has a chance to see what she’s done, packs up and heads out with the rest of the class, hearing, today, not Mr. Skinner’s loud, theatrical voice booming over the crowd, announcing what the next, “opulent” subject will be, but muttering that he’ll see them all next time, and exchanging a few short, quiet conversations with students. She smiles at him as she walks by, and he nods. Nothing more between them. Lucille walks out the door, her secret drawing tucked into her backpack, and wonders what’s gotten into Mr. Skinner lately.

She may never know.

Nor is she certain that she cares enough to find out.

Freedom feels strange.

In Chicago, Simon wakes to an empty day. He has no supermarket to manage, no life drawing class to host, no town events to attend, no marathons to run, no meetings to go to and nobody to kill. He can fill moments between daily rise and nightly sleep with whatever he pleases: runs, walks, drawings, readings, and viewings all dictated by himself. He likes this about his "life" in Chicago. He dislikes, however, this newfound freedom's lack of financial reciprocation. His money is neither in this city nor in this world. It is in Sandford, in England, in his world, which he has, curiously, been shunning. And to think he had long believed he hated cities!

Reluctantly, he leaves, and finds Sandford as always beautiful, sleepy, quiet, but...lacking? Silly, but he can't evade that feeling. Everything he loves about Sandford, everything he's fought to keep the same and better feels, upon re-entry, like a disappointment, in particular his own shop. "His own shop"? He sold it to Somerfield. He is merely their puppet dictator. He never felt regret like this before, but as he smiles into the faces of his beloved customers he feels it all the same, buried but ascending, nagging at his conscience, whispering that his father had been right, that it had been vital that Sandford have a store owned and operated by locals. This gaudy franchised shop couldn't compare; customers could buy the exact same produce at prices not much different from his own in stores across the country. What made his Somerfield so unique?

But he is being foolish. Why the sudden doubt? Why the sudden displeasure? Why the sudden need to lock himself in his office, alone and thinking? This is Sandford, the home he helped craft into a great village.

For what? To win Best Village of the Year award? Did all the great cities in the world need an award for people to like them?

He's being foolish. He knows he is.

But it all feels so very pointless, and so very exhausting.

Simon Skinner stands at an intersection staring up at the sky—scraper. He had already seen the eye-level part of this street while walking to the art museum. The skyscraper hadn’t caught his attention then, perhaps because the sun didn’t hit it as beautifully as it did now. He never thought skyscrapers beautiful before. He grins. A time for everything, right?

He crosses the street, filing away the memory of the reflective squares blazing white, yellow and blue. He’s cold. Of course he’s cold. He’s in Chicago. It’s winter. He’s going to be cold. To abate this, he will step into the café nearest Ana’s bakery, buy a cup of coffee, and finish it in Ana’s bakery. With a pastry, most like. If Ana has a hand to spare and Simon’s within arm’s length he usually winds up with a pastry shoved in his mouth. He can’t complain. The pastries are always great.

A few blocks away from the bakery Simon spots a pet shop. There’s a hole in his pocket and maybe, just maybe, it’s burning for something that shop might sell. He steps inside, takes a look round, and a few minutes later he’s walking out with a fishbowl tucked underneath his arm. Inside of that fishbowl is a plastic bag full of water, containing one goldfish. Named—? That’s for Ana to decide.

It’s been a good morning, all in all. Saw great art, saw a beautiful skyscraper, bought a nice goldfish, and now he has surprisingly delicious tea in a medium-sized paper cup.

He’s starting to like Chicago.

It’s all Ana’s fault.

Sheer decadence it was: nothing but chocolate and milk and vanilla, butter and cornstarch, sugar and a pinch of salt, with a pie crust made from scratch. But it was sumptuous decadence, so sumptuous he wanted her to keep feeding that tasty, tasty, unhealthy pie until he was diabetic and fat. Would she still want him then? Probably not, but then he often feared she wouldn’t want him if he lost one more hair, or if he gained one more wrinkle, or if his receding mane turned a brighter shade of grey or blended in with the snow… Weight gain and disease could just join the club. At least the path to both was far more a delightful process than aging, if this chocolate cream pie was any indication.

And to think she had baked it just for him! He expected the usual when she brought him to her shop: a cookie, a pastry, something small, but not a pie! She said she was experimenting. He was all too happy to be her guinea pig. He found more delight in it now than he did prowling the aisles of his shop. He loved his costumers, yes, but not like—

—they didn’t feed him pie. Yes. They didn’t feed him pie. Not like Ana did. He didn’t think they could bake a pie like Ana did, not if they bought their ingredients in his shop. He couldn’t imagine Ana shopping there, no. What a disappointment it would be if she bought her ingredients from a supermarket! No, she has to buy them from specialty places, places that are…morally sound, and kick it to the man, and have good products besides. Yes, that’s where she shops, not some chain supermarket that probably ran some mom and pop shop out of business. Isn’t that what she’d think? Maybe he should ask. But then she’d ask, too: did it run some mom and pop shop out of business? And he would say yes, actually: my pop’s shop. I sold it after he died. And how did he die? Meat processor. Would she believe him, or would she see through the lie? And what if she did see through it? Would he admit he killed his own father with an axe, chopped him up in cold blood, all for the greater good? Seemed like a good idea at the time. Now it set his stomach churning. Apparently made him pale or sickly looking, too, because she asked if he was okay.

“I’m fine,” he replied, and tried to cover with that fake smile she didn’t believe in. Of course she saw right through it. But the truth—she didn’t want to know the truth. She didn’t want to know he was a…that he killed people. For the greater good. Because he cared, they cared, the NWA cared about Sandford. But you really can’t explain that to a person who’s not from Sandford, who’s not from your country, who has strong opinions about what’s right and what’s wrong (murder—no, mercy killings? Better term—probably didn’t fall under her “right” umbrella). You really can’t tell that to a person who you—

—who feeds you pie. You don’t want to lose the person who feeds you pie. So you can’t tell her, or you’d lose her. And then you’d be miserable, and morose, and melancholy, and moping, and they’d notice and ask and could you tell them the truth? That you were seeing an American girl less than half your age and you—she fed you pie? That wouldn’t be for the greater good, no. A 60 year old Englishman and a 27 year old American woman? No, no, no: that’s not on. That’s not right. That doesn’t look good. They’d say that, yes. Then maybe they’d kill you—

—she was calling out his name. He lied, said he didn’t feel good. And it wasn’t the pie.

No. It was his conscience. And the fact that he was in l—

—that she fed him pie, and that he didn’t want to lose her.

(And that he was in love.)

Based on roleplay at milliways_bar.

On the plus side, when Jeremy told the curious public that Simon had spent the night at his house passed out and drunk, he’d be telling the truth. On the negative, Jeremy didn’t want that to be the truth. But there was Simon, collapsed on the couch, snoring, drooling, one edge of his lip pressed up by the pillow he fell on; his long, thin legs dangling over the armrest; his arm hanging towards the floor, clutching a bottle of Merlot.

It really had been too much to ask that Simon be happy this Christmas season. Not that Jeremy could blame him. Simon loathed his family. Recently, to the point of seasonal alcoholism. It didn’t help that the only person he did like in his family—his mother—had died two years ago, a fact that also fanned the flames of Simon’s seasonal alcoholism, and guaranteed that Simon would be spending his Christmas nights with someone who loved him and treated him nicely: namely, Jeremy. Unfortunately, the rest of Sandford did not comprehend hating one’s family, and thus Jeremy and Simon were faced with the need to create excuses as to why Simon spent his Christmas nights with his “best friend” rather than his family. Last year’s excuse (they had been up, drinking and talking) seemed to work. This year’s excuse… Jeremy sighed, while Simon let out a loud snore.

The most he had gotten out of Simon this Christmas were a few sloppy kisses and a lot of slurred words. And now, a lot of snoring. “Merry Christmas to us both,” Jeremy muttered, then flopped into the nearest chair to contemplate his drunken sleeping beauty.

She asked him who he really was. Upon reflection, he realized he didn’t know. Beneath the artifice was a void reflecting the concepts and preconceptions projected upon it. The void had no identity, no personality of its own. It was not the “real” Simon Skinner she believed in, the one she implored him to be. He so desperately wanted to be that man for her, to justify her company with him, but the man she wanted now was as much a pretense as the Simon Skinner she disdained. He behaved according to her desires or to what he thought were her desires, adjusting himself until she responded with satisfactory enthusiasm, just as the other Simon Skinner behaved to the general enthusiasm of his fellow townspeople.

Perhaps that was the real Simon Skinner: not a person with definite interests and thoughts and behaviors, but a person who behaved according to others’ standards (or what he thought were their standards). But that wasn’t what she wanted to hear, or so he thought. She wanted to know his favorite song, his thoughts on art, literature and politics, what he liked to eat, and what he did to motivate himself in the morning, to see what sort of human that all added up to. Maybe she could form a person out of all those things. Would he be enough to make her stay? Or would she realize that list of likes and dislikes were the little things that kept a chameleon in motion?

Vaguely based on role play at milliways_bar.

“I hate this movie.”

“Oh, it’s not that bad.”

“I hate it,” Simon reiterated, glaring at a spot just beyond the television set. “It’s an insipid train wreck of a film that spits in the face of all that is good about this franchise.” Simon turned to look at Sarah in time to see her roll her eyes.

“Simon, please, ‘this franchise’ is nothing more than a bunch of formulaic spy films.”

“—that happen to be very good formulaic spy films when done correctly. Not when you let an old clown run loose around the world chasing after an actor who keeps spitting in the face of his own good legacy! With a bad hair job, might I add.”

Sarah shrugged, looking back at the screen. “Roger’s hair’s not so bad…”

“I meant Christopher Walken. The Deer Hunter! He’ll never make another.”

“You’re just a snob, Simon.”

“And proud of it. Honestly, tell me one good thing about this movie. Or, for that matter, one good thing Roger Moore has ever done as James Bond.”

“Look dashing,” Sarah said idly. She took a peek at the indignant, envious look on Simon’s face and laughed. “Oh, he was funny. Didn’t take the role too seriously—of course, how can you, when you’re playing nothing more or less than the ultimate 1960’s male fantasy and know the world doesn’t nearly resemble the one in the Bond films?”

“Sarah, James Bond is the single most…greatest fictional character ever to come out of our country!”

“Simon! You go on about Bill Shakespeare than sing the praises of a wish fulfilling spy? You have got to rearrange your priorities.”

“All right, he’s not on the level of anything Bill Shakespeare has ever written, but James Bond…is immense, and must be treated with dignity and respect.”

Sarah spit out a laugh. And couldn’t stop laughing after that. “You must be in love with Sean Connery, then!”

Simon leaned back in the couch, his shoulders tense. “I liked Sean Connery,” he said quietly.

“You fancy Sean Connery.”

“Yes,” he said through slightly gritted teeth, “I fancy Sean Connery.”

“Can’t blame you. His legs’re a bit hairy, but the rest of him’s not bad.” Sarah looked at Simon askance, a playful, girlish smile spreading across her lips. “But you know which Bond I fancy the most?”

“Who?” asked Simon.

Sarah leant forward and gave Simon a kiss. She said, when she pulled away, “I fancy Timothy Dalton the most. Because he looks like you.”


Based on roleplay at mixed_muses.

Write a letter to your muse. Tell them all of the reasons that you are thankful that they are yours. Give them some advice/suggestions for things that you want them to do. Be firm, but show love. Remind them who is in charge.

Dear Simon,

Let's get the obviously shallow out of the way: thank you for being a stone cold fox. If it weren't for your dashing looks, I would not have the unhealthy obsession with Timothy Dalton that I do now. I know this flies in the face of conventional James Bond fan wisdom, but I have never been one to, opinion wise, follow the crowd. For better and for worse, I can be quite contrary, and in this regard I am quite happy to be contrary. Because of you and your PB's sexy ass (and he still does have a sexy ass, even over 50--I have photographic proof!), I have yet another fannish thing that can keep me sane even when I'm not. I also think I have finally found an actor who is ample justification for watching bad movies. I have been burned in the past by retrospectively viewing the films of a current celebrity crush. Ewan McGregor's in particular. But thanks to Timothy Dalton's mad skills (and, of course, drop dead gorgeous looks), I survived the terror that was Cleopatra! Up until they killed Caesar, then I stopped watching. Still, there was also Possessed, and boy that was a horrible movie, and maybe Mr. Dalton's not very good with American accents, and maybe he should stop taking roles that make him say "you want a piece of me?", but at least he was hot enough to make the experience tolerable. (Also, the movie was just a hilariously bad attempt at being The Exorcist, so the movie's inherent fail also made it entertaining.)

Anyway, that's out of the way.

I'm thankful that you make people laugh. I love making people laugh, so knowing I have a reliable outlet in you, especially when you come from a comedy, makes me very pleased. It tells me I'm doing something right. But you are so, so much more than just a clown. I've made you into a character people fear, a character people are creeped out by, a character people emphasize with. You are a character that makes people feel, and I am very, very thankful for that. I'm thankful that you've been a creative outlet for various aspects of myself that need to be expressed creatively, so that I may understand them better (though I don't have any homicidal urges that need to be creatively outletted, thank you very much). You've unexpectedly become a very personal character to me. And a personal character, moreso than 'ships and celebrity crushes, is something I really need to be sane. As I said before, it's something that lets me express things that need to be expressed.

I don't have a lot of advice for you, besides this: if you want the girl, go get her.

But I know that's exactly what you're going to do.

(Even if it's at the expense of all the you/Le Chiffre shippers who want some frickin RST.)

Love,
Midge

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