KAY
He called me Legs. I hate him, honestly, though after what happened it feels creepy to say so. Like tempting fate. Like I got this second chance, so I need to only think and do good things. I already know it won’t last, not forever. We humans aren’t really built like that, huh? If we were, I wouldn’t be so busy all the time. One person whose pain won’t be disturbing my sleep is my perp, Gordon Pratt. In fact, when they told me he was dead, my first thought was disappointment that I was pulling lime-jello duty at the hospital, and was denied that particular satisfaction for myself. Which scared me, more than a little.
Cause that’s one thing they always said to keep women out. That we’re more emotional, and likely to blow people away cause we’re on the rag, stuff like that. All I ever wanted was to be a pro. Personally, I used to worry more about Bayliss and Lewis.Their lids’ve always been on a little tight. But I’m not immune, and they weren’t the ones with the vigilante streak,huh? A few days later, I’m a little bit stronger and fineagle the report out of Timmy.
He didn’t want to do it. He was like caught between being a model cop and comforting an injured person. I was proud to see the human win out...I was afraid he was looking like administrative material for a while there. I’ve gotten kind of off track here, but I have to tell this last part, it’s vintage Timmy.
Ok, so Bayliss comes to visit me in the hospital. He stands by my bed making lame chit-chat then he says he brought me the book I’d asked for. I look inside and find that Tuesday book that they made the Jack Lemmon movie out of.
“Timmy, man,” I say. “I must’ve been higher than Munchkin at Woodstock when I asked for that. You shouldn’t have paid attention to...”
“I think you’ll find page 35 applies to your situation.”
So I open the book, and the investigation report spills out. 35 like my next birthday. And in a book to soothe Tim’s overactive conscience.(Don’t tell Frank or Munchkin, cause they’re so proud of their brains, but I think Bayliss has us all beat. He’s just much quieter about it.)
"lime jello duty" Heh.
Hepzibah and Mehitable
Always wanted sister cats named this, but it's Mehitabel. More with the Baynar and Xander. I can take whatever tortures you have in store for the Xan-man, connie, but please don't hurt little Baynar.
Plei, nice moment. Yeah, sweet, but nice.
Well, if you can be dead and be 10-7(out of service, if I never explained it before)
Be in prison and be a "Guest of the state"
Then I'm guessing you could call a long hospital stay "lime-jello duty"
I'm sure you could call it that. I just thought you--and Kay--were clever for calling it that. I love getting a glimpse of how her head works. You have her rhythms, that part feels almost instinctive, and it's an extrapolation of how Leo played the character as written by whomever. But using what we were shown of the character to illuminate new situations and making Kay more three dimensional than even Leo played her is an art and a gift.
Aw, thank you. Guess we're all getting a little mushy in Buffista Fic today, huh? Damn allergies.
She's a great character. Asks a lot of me though...maybe it's some kind of woman-to-woman thing. Don't wanna be a secretary with a gun, though if, say, Allyson, were the secretary, bet she'd have to come up with a different phrase.
Plei always kills me. Then erika resurrects me.
It's my whole "Chuckles" philosophy of fandom, yeah?
"A little song, a little dance, a little seltzer down your pants."
And apparently, sex in public or only semi-private places.
Like I said, your stories were the reason the Munchkin's on his long strange trip now
I guess it's time to start making room for all those toasters I've earned. Yay, me.
This rooftop scene's taking a long time...
I flip through the report, and, unbelievably, my first thought was disgust that Gordo the Rat-faced Boy almost punched my ticket. Isn’t that stupid? Like it would console my family if the guy who made me 10-7 looked like Pierce Brosnan, huh? I might’ve died with a smile on my face...but that’s a thought for another day. I read about the Glock, all that, but instead of picturing the scene, like at work, I picture one of our late nights at the Wharf Rat. Munchkin was having some grief with some babe...one of many,huh? I tried, as best I could without a lobotomy, to explain what could be her gripe.
Munch said “You’re a credit to your gender, Kay. I’m proud to know you.”
I said “Thank you, Munchkin. “ kind of humoring, hoping to avoid a speech.(If I had known we’d ever have been different species, I might’ve been more patient.)
“I’d do anything for you,” he continued. “I’d take a bullet for you.”
“That’s not gonna happen, Munchkin. You know what you can do for me? Switch to coffee now.”
Damn, I thought, he really did anything for me. Well, me and Stanley.(We do make up about 80% of what the talk shows call his support system, huh?)Other than us, there’s the babe of the week, and a few wannabe artists and writers that also gripe about, well, The Man.
They like black almost as much as he does, and some don’t clean up as nice.I would’ve thought he learned a lesson from Brigitte, but no.
Knowing Pratt was dead lit a fire under me at the hospital. I improved so fast even the doctors, second most skeptical breed since cops and ER nurses, allowed themselves to hope for me. And every day, I was glad Bayliss caught the case and not Pembleton. Pembleton would have hung the Munchkin by his family jewels, just as part of his ongoing plan to put God in the Box, huh? There’s not much room for grey in Frank’s life.
