|A Decent Protest
Author: TeresaAmaliaJane PM
Henry marches into the manager of Foxtel's office and demands a Season 3. Rated T for swearing. Please R&R!Rated: Fiction T - English - Drama - Henry M. - Words: 1,374 - Reviews: 8 - Favs: 3 - Published: 10-15-11 - Status: Complete - id: 7467476
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Hi, this is my first (and overdue) Spirited fanfic. So I was extremely depressed after the announcement that there'd be no third season, and I got to thinking that Henry wouldn't take this lying down. He'd fight. So I wrote this. It'd probably help to keep in mind that it's not supposed to make sense, I know it's a bit mad. But I didn't write it because it would make sense, I wrote it to make myself feel better, and it helped.
I don't own Spirited. Although, since no-one really does anymore, can I claim it? I'm not attacking Foxtel, by the way, and I don't think whoever runs it is this incompetent. I'm just really annoyed with them at the moment.
Suzy wouldn't go. Of course she wouldn't, bless her, she thought a decent protest was a strongly-worded letter. Not to post, only to vent the odd emotion or two. The nonchalance looked strange on her, such a woman of courage built not on her own pedestal but around other people's, never living only for herself, never so inclined to simply issue a 'fuck you' and take the day for a spin.
Henry, on the other hand, felt so inclined most of the time.
'Are you fucking kidding me?' he began, the moment his feet had touched the carpet of the office. From the other side of a desk, a balding man kept his eyes to a computer, breaking gaze only to cough violently. His stomach expanded over his belt; his face was pale and drawn from too many late nights working. The man was hardly fit for fucking life, let alone managing Foxtel.
'Listen, Frank, or…Fred, or whatever the fuck you call yourself'-(he'd taken in a shiny F on the door, but nothing else)-'you can't do this to me. You can't just…end it. It's bullshit.' The man didn't respond, of course, which only made him more angry. Granted, he wouldn't be in a decent mood any of the time so far away from Suzy; the whole 'being out in the world alone and not at the Elysian' thing was quite new and strange and, if he was blunt with himself, bloody terrifying.
Fred or Frank (he'd begun to wonder if the F stood for Fuckhead) reached for the coffee mug in front of him and raised it to his mouth. Like it was just a normal day, in which he hadn't just destroyed the future Henry had so tentatively hoped for, hadn't given up on he and Suzy, dumped their lives in the past like they were fucking discardable, or something…Henry burnt from inside, a rage that tore through him and buzzed painfully in his fingers and sent a pile of documents flying across the desk.
The man jumped, his coffee sloshing onto his oversized shirt. 'Shit,' he murmured to himself, and after he'd dabbed at his shirt he wiped his eyes, like he thought he was imagining things. If Henry weren't so livid, he would have laughed; however, when the man's eyes slotted back onto his screen, and his fingers back to his keyboard, the anger came again. Who the fuck had given him permission to slip back into life…
This time a thin wad of paper, bound by a paperclip, slid solely over the desktop to gently butt the man's arm. He jumped again, more violently this time, but when he read the words staring at him from the script his movements slowed to a standstill and a calm realisation dawned in his eyes. Henry smirked in satisfaction. The bastard was smarter than he looked.
Frank (or Fred) looked up at a point somewhere past Henry's head, and smiled sadly.
'You can't just waltz into my office and expect to change my mind, Henry. You can't make me feel guilty.'
'Oh, yes I fucking can.' Henry leant forward and placed two hands squarely on the desk. 'It's not finished. You've got me tied to a house so much bloody smaller than the Elysian, it's a fucking prison…you've got Steve all happy with that Jennifer bitch he likes…and, fuck. Suzy.' Henry felt his heart quicken, but at the same time his voice calmed. 'You've got Suzy with this Aaron bloke she barely knows, bein' a father to the kids, sharing her bed…' that last thought made him sick to the stomach.
The man, Henry suspected, could sense rather than hear his words, and cleared his throat.
'It's not all my fault, Henry. Another season would've seen you unhappier than before, more frustrated than you've ever been. Better to end it here, on a high note…'
'What kind of a fucking high note is that? It's worse than before. You could have ended it while we were spiriting, then we could have been stranded there forever, but no, you fucking had to bring us back and then just leave us hanging…'
'You would never have got the happy ending. It wasn't that kind of love story.'
'Isn't that kind of love story, you prick.' Henry bent over the desk until he was only a few inches from the man's face. 'Anyway, it's not supposed to be logical. The show's about ghosts, for Christ's sake…you could have made a happy ending with a flick of your fucking wand, you're just too much of a nob to care.'
Before he could reply, the man's eyes drifted downward to the wad of paper and slowly, as if trying to be dicreet, his hands flicked the first page over to unearth line after line of typed manuscript. Upside down, Henry saw his name many times and as the man read the first few sentences, he felt his whole life (if it could be called that) stretched before him in two different futures. One was the stark world he was currently living in, the world devoid of touch or embrace or fucking existence…the other painted colours for him he'd never seen whilst dead, and didn't remember from his life. Forty thousand shades of hope, and any one of the storylines in those first few sentences would be enough to keep him going. He could be happy, it was all too clear on paper and it all spun so delicately on the resolve of this man, on whether he was in the mood for a resurrection.
Henry felt his breathing quicken, his stomach lurch, his hands shake.
The man sighed.
He reached for the phone, nestled beside the computer, and Henry traced his movements without daring to blink. The beep of ten numbered buttons were shy voices in the silence, and on the other end of the line an almost inaudible voice answered.
'Claudia,' the man said, 'it's Finn. Listen, do you want to come back to the office this afternoon? The Board has…rethought things, and it seems we have much to discuss, regarding which storyline you'll be using for the next season.'
'Who the fuck's Claudia?' Henry asked, but in response came only a laugh.
'Do you think I'd be calling you if I was joking? Three-o-clock, that's perfect. You'll call Jac, okay? Great. See you then.' The phone fell into the receiver, and Finn (Fuckhead suited him better) sighed again.
'Well, I'm officially insane. Are you happy, Henry? I just planned to commission Season 3 of a show, based on the argument of the hallucination of one of the show's main characters. You win, like always, you brilliant sod.'
Halfway across the city, Claudia did not put down the phone so quickly. She did not call Jac. Instead, she made a call to England, where a woman answered and in the background a two-year-old girl gurgled in her high chair, whilst an older boy yelled at a blaring television.
Claudia asked for Matt.
Thanks for reading!
Review if you agree with Henry..