JASMINE ALLEY: THE BILL SLASH FICTION

Jasmine Alley : The Lockup : Viv Martella's Ghost : Normal 101

From: Viv Martella's Ghost [martellas_ghost@yahoo.com.au]
Sent: Monday, 2 February 2004 2:33 PM
To: fabulae list; sunhill list
Subject: [fabulae] FIC: Normal 101 (The Bill, Gold/Nixon, PG, fluff)

BillFluff for your enjoyment!

Not sure if I got the definition of fluff right at
all, but here ’tis anyway, for Fabulae Fluffy February
challenge...

This story and The nth time in the next email are
for Gina lovers Charlie and kel, bearing in mind the
cringing they may cause - fluffy, squicky or
otherwise.

Enjoy!

VMG

*******************************************

Title: Normal 101
Author: Viv Martella’s Ghost
Email: martellas_ghost@yahoo.com.au
Fandom: The Bill
Pairing: Gold/Nixon
Rating: PG
Length: 1274 words
Category: fluff
Status: complete new story
Feedback: always welcome - good, bad, whatever
Archivals: Fabulae and Jasmine Alley
Summary: Nixon takes an interest in Gold’s hobby
Disclaimer: not mine - Thames TV’s
Note: written for Fabulae Fluffy February challenge
2nd February 2004

*****************************************

Gold is at least eighty yards away when she spots
Nixon, hanging about outside the community centre in
the yellow street light, black gloves and Mao collar
lending gentility to her nervous, waiting shuffle.

Even at that distance Gold can make out the half-frown
that furrows her face.  The same half-frown that
frequently elicits advice of the ‘cheer up, love, it
can’t be that bad’ sort from men on the street
fancying their chances.  The half-frown that, even
after all this time, still masks the mystery of
whatever-the-hell-it-is-Samantha-is-thinking when Gold
tries to read her.

At fifty yards, Gold knots her woollen scarf as a
chill blast of wind tries to blow it off her shoulder.
 Her shiny boots clack rhythmically on the damp
concrete path.  Nixon still hasn’t seen her; she’s
stamping her feet and rubbing her arms against the
wind now, pensively watching the comings and goings of
people through the community centre front door.
People variously attired in heeled boots and leather
vests and checked shirts.  Maybe she’s checking out
the competition, thinks Gold.  Or else she’s feeling
invisible amongst all those crew-cuts and Levis, with
her long hair and long coat and poor knowledge of the
Indigo Girls.  Wouldn’t be the first time.

It’s at twenty yards that Nixon finally glances the
right way and catches Gold’s eye.  A small smile turns
the corners of her mouth, and her frown relaxes.  She
walks up to meet her, seemingly aiming to corner her,
away from the busy doorway.  Gold takes it all in
stride.  The class won’t start for another ten minutes
- she’s got time.

“’Allo,” she calls out.

“Hey,” says Nixon, the hint of an edge to her voice
despite the smile.

“What you doing here?” asks Gold, putting her bare
hands in her pockets as they reach each other.

Nixon shrugs vaguely and frowns out at the road before
taking a breath to speak.

“I just thought I’d...”

But the words peter out.  She takes another breath,
licks her lips, frowns at Gold and starts again.

“Well, it’s supposed to be romantic, dancing, innit?
I thought it’d be nice if we took the class together.”

Gold takes pause, leaning a shoulder blade against the
dirty yellow brick wall to escape the brunt of the
wind.

“Romantic?”

“Well,” says Nixon, gazing out at the road again with
a flippant flick of her fringe.  “We don’t have many
common interests outside work.  It might bring us
closer together.”

Ah.  Obviously Samantha’s randomly decided to enrol in
Normal Relationships 101 - something Gold gave up on
years ago - and is working on her first assignment:
“develop an interest in her hobbies”.

“Romantic?” Gold repeats.

“Isn’t it?” queries Nixon with a confused frown.
“Cheek to cheek, and all that?  Other people seem to
think so.”

Not for the first time, Gold wonders how Nixon can
have such deep understanding of so many complex
technical and philosophical matters while remaining
completely ignorant of the everyday realities of life.
 The ordinary, simple things that most people are
interested in and even take for granted.

“You don’t know what line dancing is, do you?” she
asks Nixon with some amusement.

Nixon brushes some windblown hair off her face with
gloved fingers.  “What do you mean?”

“Well, you don’t do it in couples.  It’s not that sort
of dancing.”

“Oh,” says Nixon.  Shame flushes her face, like she’s
failed her assignment through shoddy research.  Poor
mite, thinks Gold, but doesn’t say anything because
her earnestness is so much fun to watch.

“I’m sorry,” says Nixon at last, forcing a smile.  “I
should let you get on then or you’ll be late.”

Gold doesn’t move from her post though, merely meets
Nixon’s gaze and smiles back briefly.  “D’you know why
the best single malt’s always aged in sherry casks?”
she asks, turning the collar of her jacket up against
the weather.  Nixon shakes her head.  “Cos it works.
It may not solve all the problems of the universe but
it still makes a bloody good whisky.  Why cock it up
thinking you have to improve on it?”

Two women from the dance class pass them and shriek
loud hellos to Gold; she nods to them, barely lifting
her gaze from the thoughtful Nixon, who’s saying, “But
why not serve it in the good glassware once in a
while, instead of jam jars all the time?”

Now Gold’s lost track of her own metaphor as Samantha
picks it up and runs with it somewhere beyond the
horizon.  Always so serious.  And so doggedly
intellectual.

“Look - ” Gold starts to reply.  Lighten up will you,
she wants to say.  If you want to do line dancing, do
bloody line dancing.  Or don’t.  What’s it matter?

She notes Samantha shivering against the cold,
stamping her feet again, her mouth down at corner from
being miserable and worried most of her life.  It
dawns on Gold that, in spite of her many obvious
talents, the woman is terribly insecure.

“Tell you what,” she says gently, rising from her
leaning post.  With a hand on each of Nixon’s
shoulders, Gold spins her 180 degrees so she’s facing
the chemist across the road.  Then stands beside her
and takes the nearest gloved hand.

“What’s going on?” exclaims Nixon delightedly.

“Put the heel of your right foot out like this.  No,
like this,” Gold says, showing Nixon how with a firm
hand to the shin.  “Now step forward.  Then cross with
your left - ”

Holding Nixon’s hand up between them, she teaches her
the steps, saying “that’s called a sailor step” in a
lispy accent that makes Nixon laugh, helping her
hitch-and-slap and her cross behind, catching her when
her half pivot goes awry.  Nixon cackles like a drunk
teenager in her arms.  “Do it four times running and
you’ll have yourself a Shania Shuffle,” explains Gold,
drawing Nixon up to her feet with strong hands to her
armpits.  “Or something like it at any rate.”

She lets her arms slip further around Nixon’s torso
and pulls her closer.  Nixon’s body is warm against
hers in the chill wind.  They are almost the same
height, and when Nixon drapes her arms around her
neck, their noses breathe the same cold air and come
to rest beside each other.  Even when she was
straight, Gold was never one for public displays of
affection.  But now, despite her classmates gawping
and giggling from the community centre doorway, she
makes an exception.

“Regardless of what you might think,” she whispers,
lips brushing Nixon’s as she speaks, “you don’t have
to do a lot to impress me.  I’m not going anywhere,
you know.”

“I know that,” Nixon whispers back.  “I’m making an
effort, is all.”  Her lips graze Gold’s till they meet
in a tender kiss.  Gold’s hands shift to the small of
her back, then lower, forgetting for a moment where
they are.

“I don’t mean to rain on your parade,” murmurs Gold
eventually, kissing Nixon’s cheek several times, “but
I’ve got a dance class to attend.  And if I don’t
practice my heel switches with claps I’ll be the
laughing stock of the entire Bootscoot’n Beginners.”

“Well we can’t have that.”  Nixon releases her hold,
letting her hands grasp Gold’s lapels for a moment
before stepping back.  “Will I see you later tonight
then?”

“I thought you wanted to come to class too,” replies
Gold casually, offering her a hand.

With a smile that suffuses her whole face, Nixon
removes her glove and takes Gold’s offered hand.
Their fingers interlace and their thumbs caress.
Nixon’s soft skin thaws Gold’s freezing knuckles in a
flash.

The End.

=====


	Jasmine Alley : The Lockup : Viv Martella's Ghost : Normal 101
		From: Viv Martella's Ghost [martellas_ghost@yahoo.com.au] Sent: Monday, 2 February 2004 2:33 PM To: fabulae list; sunhill list Subject: [fabulae] FIC: Normal 101 (The Bill, Gold/Nixon, PG, fluff) BillFluff for your enjoyment! Not sure if I got the definition of fluff right at all, but here ’tis anyway, for Fabulae Fluffy February challenge... This story and The nth time in the next email are for Gina lovers Charlie and kel, bearing in mind the cringing they may cause - fluffy, squicky or otherwise. Enjoy! VMG ***************************************** Title: Normal 101 Author: Viv Martella’s Ghost Email: martellas_ghost@yahoo.com.au Fandom: The Bill Pairing: Gold/Nixon Rating: PG Length: 1274 words Category: fluff Status: complete new story Feedback: always welcome - good, bad, whatever Archivals: Fabulae and Jasmine Alley Summary: Nixon takes an interest in Gold’s hobby Disclaimer: not mine - Thames TV’s Note: written for Fabulae Fluffy February challenge 2nd February 2004 *************************************** Gold is at least eighty yards away when she spots Nixon, hanging about outside the community centre in the yellow street light, black gloves and Mao collar lending gentility to her nervous, waiting shuffle. Even at that distance Gold can make out the half-frown that furrows her face. The same half-frown that frequently elicits advice of the ‘cheer up, love, it can’t be that bad’ sort from men on the street fancying their chances. The half-frown that, even after all this time, still masks the mystery of whatever-the-hell-it-is-Samantha-is-thinking when Gold tries to read her. At fifty yards, Gold knots her woollen scarf as a chill blast of wind tries to blow it off her shoulder. Her shiny boots clack rhythmically on the damp concrete path. Nixon still hasn’t seen her; she’s stamping her feet and rubbing her arms against the wind now, pensively watching the comings and goings of people through the community centre front door. People variously attired in heeled boots and leather vests and checked shirts. Maybe she’s checking out the competition, thinks Gold. Or else she’s feeling invisible amongst all those crew-cuts and Levis, with her long hair and long coat and poor knowledge of the Indigo Girls. Wouldn’t be the first time. It’s at twenty yards that Nixon finally glances the right way and catches Gold’s eye. A small smile turns the corners of her mouth, and her frown relaxes. She walks up to meet her, seemingly aiming to corner her, away from the busy doorway. Gold takes it all in stride. The class won’t start for another ten minutes - she’s got time. “’Allo,” she calls out. “Hey,” says Nixon, the hint of an edge to her voice despite the smile. “What you doing here?” asks Gold, putting her bare hands in her pockets as they reach each other. Nixon shrugs vaguely and frowns out at the road before taking a breath to speak. “I just thought I’d...” But the words peter out. She takes another breath, licks her lips, frowns at Gold and starts again. “Well, it’s supposed to be romantic, dancing, innit? I thought it’d be nice if we took the class together.” Gold takes pause, leaning a shoulder blade against the dirty yellow brick wall to escape the brunt of the wind. “Romantic?” “Well,” says Nixon, gazing out at the road again with a flippant flick of her fringe. “We don’t have many common interests outside work. It might bring us closer together.” Ah. Obviously Samantha’s randomly decided to enrol in Normal Relationships 101 - something Gold gave up on years ago - and is working on her first assignment: “develop an interest in her hobbies”. “Romantic?” Gold repeats. “Isn’t it?” queries Nixon with a confused frown. “Cheek to cheek, and all that? Other people seem to think so.” Not for the first time, Gold wonders how Nixon can have such deep understanding of so many complex technical and philosophical matters while remaining completely ignorant of the everyday realities of life. The ordinary, simple things that most people are interested in and even take for granted. “You don’t know what line dancing is, do you?” she asks Nixon with some amusement. Nixon brushes some windblown hair off her face with gloved fingers. “What do you mean?” “Well, you don’t do it in couples. It’s not that sort of dancing.” “Oh,” says Nixon. Shame flushes her face, like she’s failed her assignment through shoddy research. Poor mite, thinks Gold, but doesn’t say anything because her earnestness is so much fun to watch. “I’m sorry,” says Nixon at last, forcing a smile. “I should let you get on then or you’ll be late.” Gold doesn’t move from her post though, merely meets Nixon’s gaze and smiles back briefly. “D’you know why the best single malt’s always aged in sherry casks?” she asks, turning the collar of her jacket up against the weather. Nixon shakes her head. “Cos it works. It may not solve all the problems of the universe but it still makes a bloody good whisky. Why cock it up thinking you have to improve on it?” Two women from the dance class pass them and shriek loud hellos to Gold; she nods to them, barely lifting her gaze from the thoughtful Nixon, who’s saying, “But why not serve it in the good glassware once in a while, instead of jam jars all the time?” Now Gold’s lost track of her own metaphor as Samantha picks it up and runs with it somewhere beyond the horizon. Always so serious. And so doggedly intellectual. “Look - ” Gold starts to reply. Lighten up will you, she wants to say. If you want to do line dancing, do bloody line dancing. Or don’t. What’s it matter? She notes Samantha shivering against the cold, stamping her feet again, her mouth down at corner from being miserable and worried most of her life. It dawns on Gold that, in spite of her many obvious talents, the woman is terribly insecure. “Tell you what,” she says gently, rising from her leaning post. With a hand on each of Nixon’s shoulders, Gold spins her 180 degrees so she’s facing the chemist across the road. Then stands beside her and takes the nearest gloved hand. “What’s going on?” exclaims Nixon delightedly. “Put the heel of your right foot out like this. No, like this,” Gold says, showing Nixon how with a firm hand to the shin. “Now step forward. Then cross with your left - ” Holding Nixon’s hand up between them, she teaches her the steps, saying “that’s called a sailor step” in a lispy accent that makes Nixon laugh, helping her hitch-and-slap and her cross behind, catching her when her half pivot goes awry. Nixon cackles like a drunk teenager in her arms. “Do it four times running and you’ll have yourself a Shania Shuffle,” explains Gold, drawing Nixon up to her feet with strong hands to her armpits. “Or something like it at any rate.” She lets her arms slip further around Nixon’s torso and pulls her closer. Nixon’s body is warm against hers in the chill wind. They are almost the same height, and when Nixon drapes her arms around her neck, their noses breathe the same cold air and come to rest beside each other. Even when she was straight, Gold was never one for public displays of affection. But now, despite her classmates gawping and giggling from the community centre doorway, she makes an exception. “Regardless of what you might think,” she whispers, lips brushing Nixon’s as she speaks, “you don’t have to do a lot to impress me. I’m not going anywhere, you know.” “I know that,” Nixon whispers back. “I’m making an effort, is all.” Her lips graze Gold’s till they meet in a tender kiss. Gold’s hands shift to the small of her back, then lower, forgetting for a moment where they are. “I don’t mean to rain on your parade,” murmurs Gold eventually, kissing Nixon’s cheek several times, “but I’ve got a dance class to attend. And if I don’t practice my heel switches with claps I’ll be the laughing stock of the entire Bootscoot’n Beginners.” “Well we can’t have that.” Nixon releases her hold, letting her hands grasp Gold’s lapels for a moment before stepping back. “Will I see you later tonight then?” “I thought you wanted to come to class too,” replies Gold casually, offering her a hand. With a smile that suffuses her whole face, Nixon removes her glove and takes Gold’s offered hand. Their fingers interlace and their thumbs caress. Nixon’s soft skin thaws Gold’s freezing knuckles in a flash. The End. =====

(c) Watching Since Woodentop 1996-2007