booshslashhaven | To Be Myself Completely

Title: To Be Myself Completely
Word count: 1, 704
Chapter: 2/? "Jones"
Summary: Feeling better, Pingu tries to explain himself to Jones, and gets an unexpected response.
Rating: 15
Warnings: Just some bad language, and questionable characterisation
Disclaimer: I don't own them, but in the absence of a series 2 I like to invent new stories for them. In these credit crunch times I'd love to be making money from this, but I'm not.
A/N: I really had nothing to work on for Pingu. So I'm "freakin' makin' this up as I go along. Kindly beta-d by colabottles who drags some sense out of my inane ramblings.

X-posted to

nakedskillsclub

community.livejournal.com/booshslashhaven/775978.html

Claire has slept, woken, eaten an indiscriminate meal, put some washing on, made food for later, worked and left. Dan has reappeared, taken Claire’s space on the sofa, eaten the food left out for him, hung out the washing and then gone out to the pub, and Jones still hasn’t moved. The world seems to be speeded up to him, like watching a film on fast forward so that the characters appear to twitch and spasm terrifyingly. Or should that be artistically, Jones wonders as he watches the hands of the clock. There is a screech in one ear and a heavy bass thud in the other and the mingling of sound is making his vision blur. Or is it just because the room is going dark? He can’t quite decide so he shuts his eyes and concentrates on the mix.

Pingu awakes slowly, feeling shaky and wretched. He doesn’t think he actually wants to be sick, just a kind of weird mounting terror. Swallowing his fear, he opens his eyes and looks around; for a moment he wonders where he is, and then he remembers. Blinking, he drags himself out of bed and stumbles downstairs in the suspicious quiet. From what he has heard, Jones should probably be making an “ungodly racket”; if Claire is to be believed, he is never silent when awake. Pingu pauses in the doorway to the main room; Jones is conspicuous only by his absence. Pingu shuffles a little further and sees Jones lying flat out on the sofa underneath a blanket. Apparently even drugged up, caffeine high DJs need to sleep, too.

For quite a long time Pingu stands and watches him. People look odd when they sleep because there is no posturing or acting, and it relaxes Pingu in a weird way. A sudden bout of increased shaking turns Pingu’s knee’s to jelly and he stumbles in search of the kitchen, thinking at least to find a glass of water if not the little packet of pills he left in his jeans pocket. But there they are, sat on the table with a note which reads:

“Jones, these are Pingu’s.

DO NOT TOUCH THEM!

Claire.”

On the bottom of it is a more untidy scrawl which reads:

“I’d follow her advice.

Dan”

It amuses Pingu slightly that both of Jones’ housemates have felt the need to warn him off trying strong psychiatric medication. But then he thinks what Jones is like, and concedes it is probably a sensible measure. Picking up a chipped and stained mug off the draining board, he swallows two with water and then replaces them on the table. He hasn’t got a pocket to put them in. With no grasp of what time of day or night it is, and a need to at least wait ‘til the shaking passes before he has even half a chance of doing up his buttons, he heads back to wear Jones is sleeping. It’s a little bit voyeuristic, he thinks as he settles himself down, but then who really cares? What’s the worst that could happen anymore? So he gathers his knees up underneath him and runs a hand across his neck - it feels swollen and sore. He feels more wretched still, so he tries to match his breathing to the slow rise and fall of Jones’ chest and settles down to wait.

When Jones wakes up there is to a sense of slight confusion, but then he sleeps so rarely that he is almost invariably quite surprised to find he has slept. He opens his eyes to find someone has laid a blanket over him, and that Pingu is perched on the carpet, directly opposite. Watching.

“Alright?” he asks, and Pingu nods. He is shaking and looks cold, but he also seems to have chosen to sit there. “

Claire’s gone to bed,” he offers, “and Dan went back out.”

Jones nods. He feels slightly groggy now that the world is back at a normal pace, so when he speaks he seems to be trying very hard to dredge the words up again. Every time, he seems able to forget how horrible a comedown is. “Cold?” He asks, unable to coherently form more than a word or so at a time.

Pingu shrugs and half nods, clearly not keen on talking either. Jones lifts a corner of the blanket up and out, an offer without words. Pingu watches for a moment; it seems like a stupid and idiotic idea. But then it’s probably warmer under there and his throat feels horrifically sore. He shrugs and rocks himself forward onto unsteady hands and knees, then crawls up onto the sofa to lie beside Jones.

Jones, who promptly tucks the blanket back in then rests his chin on Pingu’s shoulder, clearly doesn’t find this even remotely weird. “What time is it?” he asks, and his breath ghosts across the back of Pingu’s neck.

“Don’t know.” Pingu retorts. He remembers looking at his watch hours ago and not taking in what the hands and numbers said. “Late,” he continues, “Or maybe early.”

Jones laughs at this and Pingu feels safe to allow himself a little laugh as well, quickly cut off when it irritates a bruise in the vicinity of his ribs. Sucking in air he bites his lip, hoping Jones hasn’t noticed. But for all his faults, Jones is far more astute then he lets on and a hand suddenly drifts across the ribs until he gasps again. Jones’ hand settles then and Pingu lies very still. He doesn’t entirely know what to do now, so he waits for Jones to speak.

Jones, it appears, is taking his time again. From what Pingu has noticed, it seems to be a rare occasion on which Jones stops and thinks hard about anything. He is a more spontaneous person. But there again the hand hasn’t moved, perhaps it is he, Pingu, who should be breaking the silence. If so it is already too late for a comfortable pause. At this point Jones speaks and so the problem is removed.

“Bruise?”

Pingu thinks he knows what this is leading up to, and perhaps he can’t escape it, so he agrees. “Yes, bruise.”

They are both talking in a somewhat stilted manner, but that doesn’t matter.

“Barley,” Jones begins, but Pingu cuts him off, exhausted or perhaps exasperated he is unsure.

“Is a prick, I know.” He pauses again, thinking. “Some people just aren’t meant to be happy.” He stops again, unsure of how to go on, but it is Jones’ turn to speak now, it seems.

“That’s only your opinion,” he opines, “I was only fifteen... but I still remember most of it. It kinda plays in my head like a film, but it’s always like, weird stuff that you remember. Stuff that seemed really fucking important at the time, like I remember I had the radio on, and some really crappy old tee-shirt and jeans, ‘cause all I was doing that day was going through some old underwear and stuff. And this advert came on the radio, for a film I said I’d take Ben, my little brother too. So I shouted something to mum, but she didn’t say nothing. I mean, she was in the next room so she probably just didn’t here or summat. So I went through an she was all collapsed on the bed. So I panicked and tried to get her inhaler and give that to her, but it didn’t work. And then I kinda realised it wasn’t an asthma attack and I probably ought to call an ambulance.

Anyway the operator came on and I think it was a woman, I didn’t really know what I was doing and tried to tell her I needed an ambulance for my mum, but she just connected me to another woman who could help. I think they ask your address first, funny how I can’t remember that like, and could someone go out to meet the ambulance. I shouted at Ben to go and wait for it, I think I was trying to be calm, but my voice still went all funny, but he was only seven, so I had to try an be brave like. I don’t remember him questioning, he just did it, maybe he just sort of realised. Then we moved onto sorting things out, trying to get her flat, checking she was breathing, I think the lady spent more time just trying to keep me calm while we waited. But then the ambulance were there, shoving me out the way and talking all medical stuff.

I remember thinking all practical, like making Ben take a book and locking the doors and stuff. And then we’re off in an ambulance that feels like it’s driving through treacle and Ben thinks it’s all a massive adventure. All I can think of is how dodgy I look and what am I going to tell Dad? Stupid. We arrived and got stuck in a special room with people saying it’s fine, and all I could think of now that it was out of my hands, that I really needed the loo and something to eat. Silly the way a mind works. A man came with squash and biscuits and sandwiches, and a woman took me outside to phone dad. Funny but once I’d spoken to him and we’d been continually told that it would all be fine and eaten sandwiches and such like I actually felt okay. It was like I’d swallowed the panic when I picked up the phone and now it was gone. Then he turned up and it all went downhill, it was all she might not survive, come and say bye, pack you off to a friends and no credit to talk to Conor - my boyfriend at the time - who I most wanted to speak to. Other stuff comes after that, like taking a walk with my mate Georgie, almost cheering up, and then my world coming to an end. Wishing I hadn’t run out the room feeling sick cause that was the last time I saw her.

But that was it. My mum died two days later when they switched off the life support. And everything went downhill from there on in...” He stops for breath, and Pingu finds himself wanting to turn himself around and hug Jones’ in a motherly fashion. Eventually he goes against his better judgement and twists himself around to face Jones, a hideously uncomfortably position to say the least, but Jones has a wry smile on his face.

“Happiness is what you make it.” He says firmly, and then kisses Pingu firmly on the mouth.