Okay, so here's the deal. I have stopped watching The Bill and haven't seen it since December. But the other day I found this unfinished story that had been intended as a Not So Secret Santa Perkins/Webb story for kel last Christmas, but ended up a Perkins monologue with Drummond bits somehow. The story is *not finished*, but I figure it never will be, at least by me. Perhaps it is worth posting anyhow cos there's no apparent reason why Perkins hasn't been thoroughly slashed (also the potential of anagrams should be explored in greater depth). No idea how the story sits with TB canon anymore - is Terry still in it? I've seen no sign of Ramani on the ads (she and Terry were the only reasons I hung out as long as I did). Oh how depressing, etc. Someone let me know when it's worth watching again. Feel free to laugh at the Pythonesque opening sentence to the second bit. If anyone would like to finish this story, please be my guest. From the amount of TB slash on this list lately, I doubt it somehow. On wiv fic... Thanks for the memories VMG *************************************************** Title: Nausea Author: Viv Martella's Ghost Email: martellas_ghost@... Website: Three Dollar Bill Fandom: The Bill Pairings: Perkins/Drummond Rating: MA15+ Length: 1172 words Category: angst? Status: unfinished Feedback: sure, why not Archivals: Jasmine Alley, Fabulae, Three Dollar Bill Summary: Perkins feels sick Disclaimer: not mine - Thames TV's. **************************************************************** "It's not exactly the Ritz," he said, turning the key in the door. "But I like to call it home." Ritz it ain't, agreed Terry once inside. Never mind that the walls could do with a lick of paint, that the stove was cracked, or that he stumbled on a curling piece of carpet spotted with cigarette burns as he entered. It was the way the bloke lived that made Terry shudder. Take-away containers mouldering on the coffee table. The smells of mouse shit and mildew. Sad furniture. No pictures on the walls. And every surface cluttered with junk mail, sweet wrappers and half completed crosswords, save the one-seater couch facing the telly. Would it be rude to run now? Ken whistled as he filled his hazardously old electric kettle and threw a couple of tea bags in two chipped mugs. One mug sported a cartoon of Garfield the cat; the other was personalised with a faded photo of Ken and one of his families. The latter was about ten years old by Terry's estimation. "Not for me thanks, mate," he said, injecting as much chipper into his voice as was humanly possible. He chewed the flavourless bit of gum in his mouth and leaned back against the one-seater. "Straight to business, eh?" said Ken. Terry forced a monosyllabic snort-laugh, shrugged vaguely, brushed his hands against each other as if they were dusty, and chewed compulsively. Fuck. "And why not?" Ken chirruped, eating a biscuit from the open packet on the bench. "Chastity - the most unnatural of all perversions." Gory memories of horrendous sexual assaults from years past flashed through Terry's head at that. But it was hardly the moment to argue with Ken about it, so he said nothing. Ken noticed his discomfort and smiled gently. "A quote," he explained. "Aldous Huxley." "Didn't have you pegged as a literary man, Ken." "When it comes to evading guilt for putting it about," said Ken cheerfully, "I'll take anyone's advice." After pouring out his tea, he came back into the lounge room and put his mug on the corner of the coffee table. His family beamed out at the room with their strange faded smiles in shades of blue and green. He offered a biscuit to Terry, then ate it himself when Terry declined. He took off his jacket and laid it over the back of his stained two-seater couch. He put his hands over Terry's heart, smoothed out his shirt, and kissed him. Sweat. Aftershave. Sweet biscuit crumbs. Lager, way too many pints. Ken's mouth was soft and wet. Terry needed to breathe, removed Ken's hands, and pulled back. "Bit shy are we?" smiled Ken. "Sure you don't want a cuppa? Or something a touch stronger?" "Nah. Thanks all the same." Terry ran a hand through Ken's curls to show it was all okay. Ken smiled, eyes gentle and warm. He clamboured down to his knees and unzipped Terry's fly. *** It had happened in the overcast dimness of an afternoon that was taking its time coming to a close. Bodies were moving in and out of the office. In and out. In. Out. In. Out. Back in for a forgotten file, then out. Reeking, to Terry - choking with the day's bodily fluids, and the windows were closed. Hands clutched brown stained coffee cups, scratched dandruff, scraped earwax, retouched greasy lipstick reflected in dusty compact mirrors. Tongues licked dirty fingers. And the phone kept ringing-ringing-ringing too long because no one wanted to answer it. It was about a quarter to three, and sticking to it. Terry's computer monitor flicked over to the flying `SUN HILL POLICE STATION' screensaver, and it took all his restraint not to punch it. It beat the Windows 98 pipes they'd had it set on at Barton Street but still, it irritated him. He made himself watch it and counted to ten. He rearranged the letters in his head, as he had done many times during the last few dreary hours, and was momentarily amused to find he could make the words `NIHILIST' and `NULL' and `SCAT' and `POO' without using any letters twice. But - typically - he had a lone `E' left over, and that pissed him off. He scratched the grey stubble on his chin. He scratched the grey t-shirt clinging to his belly. The tedious demands life made guaranteed that he'd be shaving again tomorrow, and the next day, and the hundreds - even thousands - of days following in an endless procession. Shaving, cutting himself, and watching the stubble grow back. Likewise, he was certain that he'd spend this evening the same as he spent every other, slumped in front of the telly, willing himself to put on his trainers and do something about his paunch, then berating himself that there was nothing wrong with a bit of flesh. Despite his best attempts to disrupt the monotony of his life, he knew exactly how the next ten years would pass. It made him want to vomit on the keyboard. It was interminable. Boredom. No, not boredom - it was more chronic than that. Nausea, Satre had called it. Nausea, thought Terry as he watched Hunter lean in towards Drummond with one evil eye on a young female DC. Nausea as Drummond laughed oblingingly into his hamburger. Intense nausea as Hunter smoothed back the maniacally neat hair at the sides of his head. Nausea at Nixon's incessant toadying phone manner and the outrageously bad shirt that scrinched at her throat. Nausea at the clumsy incompetence with which Thatcher painstakingly entered information in a PNC listing. Nausea at McAllister's self conscious searching about the room, posing in her leather pants on top of her desk. Nausea at Meadows' purposeful gait, the visible puffing out of his proverbial mane, as he entered the DI's office, pretending to be in control. Nausea at Manson's sour smug face, at the manicured hand stroking his tie. Tell me why I don't like Mondays, thought Terry. He turned back to his computer. His nausea abated slightly when the best anagram yet floated into his mind: `I'LL PISS ON IT, A'HOLE CUNT', although the Americanised abbreviation of `arsehole' soon irritated him beyond words. Writing it down in his notepad, he tried putting the `A' on the front of `PISS' and changing the final insult to `CUNT-HOLE', but that just made it worse, and he even furtively glanced over his shoulder to make sure de Costa wasn't standing there reading it and wondering when it was that he became so hostile towards women. He tore out the piece of paper and scrunched it into a ball and binned it. He looked at his coffee. It was cold and the milk had formed strange cloudy lines around the edge of the cup. Terry could not drink it; nor could he raise the energy to take it to the sink and tip it out; nor did he think he would ever want to drink any liquids again. Fuck. He rubbed his forehead in despair at his pathetic drama queening. The End for me at least