Disclaimer: I do not own anything nor do I reap any benefit.
I felt there was one thing the Boat That Rocked section was lacking, and it was goofy oneshots.
Hope you like them.
Title: A Damn Good Shag
Character(s): Everybody's in
Rating: T just in case
Dave looked up, a knowing, mischievous grin on his face as his eyes traveled over the faces of his peers. They'd been talking about previous Sensational Saturdays over their burnt meal when the question of the century crept into his mind. "If you, my dear gentlemen, had to forsake the sensational part of your Saturdays, and could not-I repeat not get someone from shore, who would you sleep with?"
Angus gave a wary, disappointed survey of the room before turning back to Dave. "From the group of us?" he asked uncertainly, hopeful that Dave meant some secret stash of girls on another ship.
Dave nodded slowly, his eyes closed, waiting for the chaos to ensue.
There was a long pause as the men looked over each other with an unwillingly skeptic gaze. None of them wanted to say a name or acknowledge that they'd pursue anyone on the ship romantically, yet they couldn't help but silently choose who out of the other DJ's would be the best for them.
"Oh come on," coaxed Dave impatiently. "It can't be that bad."
Angus gave a much noticed once over of Mark before looking down at the table in humiliation, changing his mind.
Dave sighed. "Fine, you bunch of babies. Everyone at the same time, all right? Have to ruin a perfectly good question 'cause you're all cowards-"
"On the count of three," the Count called out. "Everybody ready? Okay. One, two, three!"
The shouts of "Felicity" were dulled out by one squeaky, timid "Gavin" which tapered out halfway through.
Everyone turned their head in the direction of the sound, all mildly confused and-kind of worried or something. Simon had his eyes downcast, boring holes into the table as they all studied him, trying to comprehend the sincerity in his words.
Gavin was the first to speak. Clearing his throat, he nodded at Simon, calmly stating with that infamous crooked smile of his, "And I'm sure it would be a lovely time."
Title: Time of the Month
Character(s): Felicity, Angus, the Count and Carl
Rating: K+ because "she's talking about her period".
Angus sat down at the table that afternoon with his usual gusto and chipperness only to have it dissipate in a matter of seconds as he stared down at the plate of food in front of him. "Um, Felicity," he called out to her, picking up the piece of toast in front of him like it was a dead animal. He held the blackened, crumbling piece of bread almost at arms length, his face twisting in disgust. "The toast…not really edible."
Felicity stormed over in a huff, snatching the bread out of his hand and throwing it back on the plate with it's brethren. "Then make it yourself!" she snapped loudly, whirling away with the plate and leaving a very scared Angus in her wake.
"What was that all about, Missy Felicity?" he called out indignantly, watching her violently toss the crusts into the garbage can a few yards away.
Her head snapped up, and he felt like he'd just been discovered by an enraged puma.
"Excuse me for having an attitude," she said softly, though her eyes were squinted and implied there was a hidden danger behind her words. She straightened up, walking back over to Angus with the plate skillfully resting on one hand. Taking a fistful of crust, she chucked the crispy lunch at him, listening to the food as it fell like sand to the floor. "EXCUSE ME FOR BURNING YOUR PRECIOUS TOAST, ANGUS! EXCUSE ME FOR MAYBE BEING TIRED!" she grabbed another fistful of bread, chucking it at Angus, who was now running around the kitchen. "EXCUSE ME FOR NOT WANTING TO MAKE YOUR TOAST EVERY SODDING DAY OF THE WEEK!" she barked, chasing him around with the plate of bread.
"Whoa," the Count shouted as he made his way into the kitchen with Carl for what was left of lunch. Both Angus and Felicity stopped in their tracks, a handful of bread being squished into her palm. The Count, now having silence the room merely with his regal presence, looked between Felicity and Angus before asking,
"Now what the fuck is going on?"
"He's an arse!" Felicity shouted angrily before her frown cracked and she dropped the plate completely and burst into tears. "You're all arses! I hate cooking and cleaning after you pigs and I just-hate it!"
With a final little whine, she pushed past the Count and slid seamlessly through the door.
Carl looked after her astonished. "Does she always act like that?"
"Nah," the Count said with a shake of the head, looking at the table for something else to eat. "Just for a couple of days a month."
"Let's just say she's got a certain visit from an Aunt Flo," Angus said slyly, nodding his head forward as if it added subtlety to what he said.
"Think he's got it," the Count said, looking exasperatedly from Angus to Carl
Title: Busy Implications
Rating: T for Mark's "implications".
John situated himself behind the tiny desk at his news station, piling up his reports for the day and straightening and re-straightening the little snippets of news he had picked up during the day. It was his last report of the day before he was free to go. No one needed their news past midnight anyway.
Mark was lingering next to John, waiting for the Count to finish up his show so Midnight Mark could swing into action and make the women of England swoon with the sultry sounds of silence.
He shot John a look, cigarette hanging carelessly between his lips. "Got anything lined up for Saturday, John?" he asked in his perpetually soft and relaxed voice.
John chuckled lightly, shrugging his shoulders and adjusting his glasses as he turned his gaze to Mark. "No, no," he laughed, though the laugh had a slight bitter taste. "I'm completely free this Saturday, just like most Saturdays I spend on the boat. Yes, like the Saturdays I spend just-just reading in the kitchen."
Mark nodded surprisingly empathetically for someone who slept with over a hundred women in his short twenty-something years on this planet. Putting a hand on John's shoulder, he smirked slightly as he quietly stated, "Shame I'm not free then."
Before John could process what that even meant, the Count was out of the studio and Mark was inside, beginning the monologue to his broadcast.
John sat there, still feeling where Mark's hand had been on his shoulder just seconds before. His offer buzzed around in his head before sinking like cement into his brain and falling into his throat and making him choke on his own breath. His head snapped upward away from his news articles and he shot a perplexed glance at Mark, now silent as a song began to play.
Eventually Mark turned his head and answered John's confusion with a simple wink.
Title: Friends Are For
Character(s): Felicity/Gavin friendship cuteness
Rating: T because of Gavin and…him. It's him.
Felicity's sniffling was hard to miss, especially since she'd left her door ajar when she'd decided to skip making breakfast and just stow away in her room. But no one dared ask what was wrong in case one of Felicity's mood swings sent something glass and pointy flying towards their face. Yet the crying and sniffling began to pick away at Gavin, likely because he had to pass the damn room every time he went back to his own little sanctuary upstairs.
Additionally, Felicity was a woman and Gavin considered himself a true cherisher of women in all their moods. They were something special, something beautiful that he felt should be revered, not left sniffling and whimpering in their room.
Halfway up the stairs towards his room, he stopped and looked at the open door. Gavin, despite his reputation, was a gentleman and more importantly, a gentle man. He considered himself emotional-not in a sappy, feminine way like Simon-but in a compassionate, understanding way. Especially towards women. They opened up to him all the time-literally and figuratively, he thought to himself with a smug smirk. Why should Felicity be any different? Mustering all his courage, for he had heard stories of Felicity's moods, he tapped lightly on the door. "Felicity?" he inquired softly, his deep and raspy voice sounding more soothing than even on his broadcasts.
She sniffled in reply.
He knocked a little louder, clearing his throat and raising his voice slightly. "Felic-"
"I heard you," she mumbled defeatedly, opening the door a it more and sticking herself in the open space. She looked him up and down, almost like she was disappointed to see him, and sighed. "What do you want?"
"Heard you crying all day," he said gently, resting his arm against the door frame and looking down at her with this sort of concern he rarely wore on his face. "Couldn't help but wonder if everything was all right?"
"Yeah," she said, her tone immediately softening as she wiped at her red puffy eyes. She blinked and sniffled, looking at him. "Just been a-a bad day is all."
"Want to talk about it?"
"No," she said simply, shaking her head and looking down at her feet, snuggled in her fluffy pink slippers. "No, I'm not really up for that."
Gavin, not one to give up, pushed himself off the door frame and opened his arms. Smiling at her, he tilted his head at the tempting offer. "Hug then?"
Felicity smiled sadly at him, looking at his open arms for a long moment. "I don't want to hug. I just want to sniffle and cuddle under my blankets and just let today go by."
"You know," he said, scratching the back of his neck and shrugging smugly. "I've been known to be quite the cuddler before."
"Really?" Felicity asked with either a mocked or sincere curiosity, Gavin couldn't tell.
"Oh, yeah," he said with another careless shrug. "Course, it was usually after sex-"
"Stop, stop," Felicity said, waving her hand in front of her face. She loved Gavin, she did, but she certainly didn't need to know about his sex life. She took his hand and pushed her door open. Maybe some company was what she needed to pick her up from this funk. And if Gavin could keep his mouth shut and just hold her, he might be that ideal company. "We can cuddle, just keep your hands family friendly."
He smirked, walking into her room. "I'll try my best."
"Oh, you'll succeed," she warned sardonically before shutting the door to her room behind her.
Title: Ghosts, Words, and Beaded Doors
Character(s): Quentin, Carl, and Simon
Rating: K, Simon is lovely and keeps it calm.
"You know what I hate?" Simon said suddenly, putting down the book he was reading on that quiet Sunday afternoon. Only he, Quentin and Carl were on deck, all passively spending their time either reading or writing letters to those on land.
"And what is that?" Quentin asked, blinking back surprise at Simon's outburst.
"I hate…" Simon said with a long sigh through his nose, putting his hand out to emphasize his point. "When you read a sentence once but accidentally skip three words, thereby changing the meaning of the whole sentence?" He sighed bitterly, looking back at his book and indicating to both Carl and Quentin this had just happened to him. "And-and then you go back and re-read the sentence correctly, and the whole meaning of the page has changed?"
Carl smirked slightly, looking over at his friend. "Did that just happen to you?"
"Lemme tell you, Carl," Simon replied sadly, his eyes once again scanning over the pages of his novel. "This story about this man would have made more sense had I known he was a ghost the whole time."
Quentin irked a brow. "They only mention it once?"
"Well, later, they imply it," Simon said, lifting his eyes from the book. "They talk about him being invisible and such, I just thought they meant that's how he felt."
"Makes sense," Carl said in agreement, defending the idea.
"Yeah. I mean, when he started walking through doors I was a little confused, but I just assumed everyone had those bead doors. The ones that just…hang there…"
Quentin shook his head in disappointment, sighing.
"You still, I mean," Carl countered, looking at Simon. "You still push those, you know? You can't just walk through them."
"You still you know, go through them. I mean you open a door before you go through it," he began flipping through the book, scanning for the exact sentence that would prove his point. "Hah, here we are; 'And with that he walked through the door'."
"That doesn't mean he's dead," Quentin countered coolly. "That could simply mean he walked through the doorway."
"Is he even dead in that part of the book?" Carl asked curiously.
"I think so," Simon said, flipping around again in the novel, looking for more concrete evidence to support his argument.
"Here's a thought," Quentin said matter-of-factly, folding his hands on top of his letters. "Simon, couldn't you have just misread the sentence…again?"
Simon looked up at him, complete defeat spreading over his face as the words sunk into his ears. Carl patted her shoulder empathetically.
"You're right," Quentin continued when his suggestion was met with silence. "That whole misreading thing sounds dreadful."
Title: Slow Dance
Character(s): Everyone for the most part.
Rating: T just in case.
"So…you're telling me," Simon said, looking across the table at Carl skeptically. "That you've never been slow dancing with a girl?"
"I've never been slow dancing in general," Carl said with a sheepish laugh, looking at the table to avoid the awkward staring of the other DJ's. "You know, I just never found the time for it. I mean, I slow danced with my mum once or twice. Does that count?"
"No, it doesn't," Simon said, shaking his head with a small smile.
"Not…at all," Dave agreed.
"Tell you what," the Count said, glancing at Carl. "Since Carl has now found himself a young love in Marianne and might want to actually get her off this crappy ship every once and again, I say, we teach Young Carl over there how to slow dance."
Carl, no matter how he protested, had no choice in the matter. He was learning to slow dance.
"Now," said Dave, resting his hands on both the shoulders of Carl and his dance partner, Felicity. He smiled at them proudly, looking between the two. "The art of the slow dance is the intimacy or the sensuality of the dance if you prefer-"
"No, no," Simon countered, walking over to the pair of them. "It's about the romance of the moment. The wonderful, surreal romance of it-"
"When's the last time you slow danced with anyone?" Dave interrupted, shoving Simon away. "Honestly, honestly…some people."
"Just let them dance for fuck's sake!" the Count shouted, watching from the bar.
"Fine, fine," Dave said, putting his hands back on their shoulders. "Remember; intimacy, closeness," he said, nodding at both of them. "Elements of the perfect slow dance." He turned to Harold, hovering over the record player and nodded. "Hit it, good sir."
Smokey Robinson's soothing voice filled the now otherwise silenced room, and Carl stood there awkwardly, just holding onto one of Felicity's hands and the other one resting on her waist.
After only a few seconds, Dave interrupted with a slightly agitated laugh. "Um, Carl, there's also moving involved in dancing. You know, dancing."
"Look how painful that looks," Simon argued. "He looks so…awkward up there…just standing there."
"I don't think Felicity is the right partner," Angus jumped in with his two cents, acting like he knew simply everything about the slow dance. "She's a little too…what's the word? Maybe it's the lesbian factorino popping in again, eh fellas?"
"Felicity-shut up, Angus," the Count said, looking over at the pair of them. "Felicity, get him started. Just the first few steps until he gets the hang of it."
"The girl can't lead," Dave said with a sigh. "Otherwise Carl will never get the hang of it."
"He can't just stand there," Gavin said, gesturing towards the pair of them with his hand. "Maybe someone should teach him how to do it. Show him how."
Dave snorted indignantly. "What do you think I was doing up there?"
Caught up in watching the others argue, Carl was surprised when he felt himself being gently pushed away from Felicity. Turning his head to see who it was, he caught sight of Mark assuming his place as Felicity's dance partner.
"There you go," Gavin shouted over whatever the Count and Dave were bickering about. "There, Mark. Show 'em all how it's done."
Mark didn't even take two steps before they corrected him. "No, no," Simon said, coming in and taking Mark's place as partner. "No, see…you're too close to her. Give her a little space."
"See, now you're both wrong," Dave argued, coming up to join the frenzy.
"I'd like to dance the way Simon wants," Felicity finally piped in, rolling her eyes at Dave.
"Thank you," Simon said graciously, maintaining his position. "Now…we should start by taking a step to the left-"
Little did they know, now that Carl had lost the limelight, he'd happily retreated back to his room, safe from the insanity.
"All right, who took it?" Simon said, turning away from the cookie jar and staring at the rest of his comrades.
They shared a few confused glances before the Count spoke up. "What the fuck are you talking about?"
"The last cookie in the cookie jar," Simon said matter of factly, looking over all the possible suspects. It was rare to see Simon even slightly perturbed, especially over something as silly as a cookie. Simon seemed to read their minds, and nodded understandingly. "I know, I know…it seems….silly, but I've been craving the cookie all darn day."
Simon looked at the silenced room and continued. "I said it was mine at breakfast, remember?"
"Oh," the Count said, turning his gaze towards the other DJ's, unable to hide his slight smile. "Yeah, I do remember you mentioning something about it."
"Well, somebody ate it!"
"Who cares?" Dave whined with an eye roll, tossing his head back dramatically. "It's a damn cookie."
"Now, hold on," Quentin intervened, standing idly off to the side and watching the spectacle. "If Simon claimed the cookie, he has a right to know who took it. I mean, Felicity makes a damn good cookie."
Everyone agreed, nodding and looking around at each other…she did make a good cookie. Felicity smiled proudly. "Well, thank you, Quentin."
Simon nodded enthusiastically. "Yes! See! See! Now, who took it? Tell me!"
No one spoke up.
"Be honest," he insisted, only to be answered by silence and glances.
"I think," Dave said, turning his head and looking at Simon. "Whoever took the cookie must not have been around at breakfast. Which leads me," he said cockily, turning in his chair again. "To suspect that it was none other than Nutsford." He said, looking accusingly at a flabbergasted Angus.
"Now hold on just one second," Angus called out, putting his hands up in defense. "I didn't even know we had cookies up until this very moment! Why wasn't I informed we had cookies?"
"No, no no no," Dave said, shaking his finger in Angus's face. "Nope. I refuse to believe that you didn't know we had food on here. You're like a little…hungry piglet or something."
"Awfully quick to point fingers, David!" Angus called out indignantly. "Suspicious behavior from someone as big as you!"
"Now let's everyone calm down," Gavin called out, rubbing the bridge of his nose as silence entered the room once again. "Now, I think everyone believes deep down that this is…stupid." He sighed, looking at Simon. "It's just a cookie, mate. I really can't believe we're even fighting about this."
"It's the principle of the thing!" Simon said enthusiastically as Dave stood up beside him.
"Odd that Gavin wants to blow the whole thing off," Dave whispered to Simon, but loud enough for everyone to hear. "I think…he stole your cookie."
Gavin laughed, sitting back in his chair and rolling his eyes. "Oh, Christ…here we go."
"Pointing fingers again, David!" Angus yelled and stood up, pointing an accusing finger at Dave. "I'd be pretty nervous if I were you."
"Oh, what are you going to do?" Dave called out defiantly, taking a step towards Nutsford. "Throw me to the sea for stealing a cookie?"
"THERE IT IS!" the Count called out triumphantly.
"Hah!" Gavin yelled. "So he admits it!"
Dave turned around quickly, looking at them both. "Now-now I never admitted to anything-"
"You bastard!" Simon called out in shock. "I trusted you! And all this time you've been the one who stole the cookie!"
Dave put up a hand as if to shield himself from the insults. "Now, that's a bit out of order, don't you think?"
"You're out of order!" Angus bellowed, taking a step towards Dave only to be held back by Carl and Simon. "CALL ME A LIAR, WILL YA!"
"Jeez, little guy," Simon said, worriedly patting his back. "It's okay, man, it's okay!"
"Lady and gentlemen of the jury," the Count shouted, slapping his palm on the table and getting the attention of everyone in the room. "I think we have found a certain Dr. Dave VERY guilty of cookie theft. I thereby conclude that a Mr. Simple Simon should punish him as he sees fit." Gesturing from Simon to Dave, he nodded. "Proceed, good sir."
"I…think," Simon said, not a malicious bone in his body. "That perhaps…Dave should make us a batch of cookies."
The disappointment in Dave's face was revenge in itself. Simon smiled proudly.
Character(s): Gavin/Felicity friendship
Rating: K; it's definitely my sweetest friendship bit between the two of them.
The ship was empty on that breezy, March afternoon-save for the crew, Felicity, and a very sick Mr. Gavin Kavanagh. Keeping her company in the kitchen while she made some soup for him, he leaned against the counter, looking completely washed out. His eyes were half-opened, vacant and just staring off into the distance while his skin seemed to have lost the color it had once possessed. He had a think coating of sweat on his skin from his broken fever and instead of his usual rather stunning personal wardrobe he wore a loose, think black button down shirt and gray sweats.
"Don't worry," she said soothingly as he lowered his head to the counter. She reached out and patted his matted hair. "After you eat some of this you'll get to party with the boys again."
He grumbled a laugh, lifting his head slightly to look at her. "Don't like my company, do you?" he rasped out, blinking sleepily.
"I quite enjoy the company," she said with a small smile, turning back to the broth and stirring it slowly. "You know, it's not often you boys join me on Monday afternoons. And, I mean, it's not my ideal romantic company, but…it's nice." She said, turning her head and giving him another smile.
"You're a good girl, Felicity," he said, resting his head on the counter again for only a moment before lifting it abruptly. He let out a shaky breath and stared at her, almost confused at his own thoughts. "I hope you can forgive me for this, but…suddenly I'm not…in the mood-"
"-for food?" she continued with an arched brow, not surprised at all. If he was sick, he was sick and his hunger was likely to be inconsistent. And the newly green tint to his face and the tightening of his lips definitely implied he'd be expelling food sooner then taking it in. Though she wished he'd gotten sick a little earlier, she thought for a brief bitter second. Turning off the stove and dropping her wooden spoon, she walked around the counter. "Course I'm not mad at you. What's a little wasted broth and vegetables and chick-never mind," she sighed, grabbing onto his arm and helping him to his feet. "Want to lie down for awhile?"
He nodded slowly, trying to hold something in-and Felicity didn't want to push him. "Right," she said with forced happiness, taking his arm and helping him from the kitchen to the stairs and all the way across the ship to his room. When they reached his door, she looked back at him and he looked worse for wear-his green tint had faded and had been replaced with a new coating of sweat and shivering limbs. "Oh," Felicity said aloud, catching his attention. Her face turned slightly disgusted as she studied him longer. "Oh, you look positively dreadful."
"I'm freezing," he mumbled, stumbling around her and slamming his body into the door and knocking it open. He flopped onto his bed, his face buried into his pillow.
Felicity twisted her face in worry. "Hey there," she whispered softly, coming over and rubbing his shoulder. "Want a sweater or something?"
"I don't own any," he said, his face still buried in the pillow, Felicity thought perhaps a measure to prevent his teeth from chattering.
Felicity paused, an unorthodox idea popping into her head. "Well…I own sweaters."
He turned his head slightly. "You must be joking."
"No! No, I'll be right back!" she said, going out the door. It was an odd idea, yes, but it would definitely work. There was a height difference between them certainly, with her being barely five-five and him being six-three, but who would care? It's not like he was parading the sweater around the ship. None of the other guys were there to make fun of him.
"Don't!" she heard him bellow weakly, but she was already in her room, digging through her piles of discarded sweaters before she settled on a rather large white wool sweater, with big fake flowers stitched along the front. He'd probably be…unhappy with the choice, but it would help.
She popped her head back in his door moments later. He'd managed to roll onto his back and looked at the sweater sleepily with a hint of disappointment. "No," he said quietly, looking from the sweater to her. "No way am I wearing that."
"Oh come on," Felicity coaxed impatiently, opening up the sweater and walking over to him. "The boys aren't here to laugh at you. Besides, you need to get better. Your sick broadcasts are just not the same."
"I have jackets-"
"Who sleeps in a jacket?" she said, shaking the sweater slightly. "Now come on. It's cozy."
Gavin sighed, looking from her to the sweater once again before pushing himself up. "Fine," he mumbled. "But no one must know about this."
"Of course not," Felicity agreed unconvincingly, helping him slide the still too small sweater over his arms. "Oh…look at you," she said encouragingly, though she couldn't help but grin. "You look…dashing."
He looked up at her smile and found himself smiling half-heartedly in return. "I am Gavin Kavanagh," he said coolly, lying back down on his back and adding dramatically. "The one man in the world who can pull off flower sweaters."
"You're feeling better already," Felicity said with a smile.
Character(s): Carl, Mark and John with implied
Rating: T because of them.
"Have you ever said that you love a girl?" Carl asked Mark, leaning in the doorway of the studio during a rather long record.
Mark looked up at Carl, slowly spinning in his chair to face him. "Loads of times," he said simply.
John chimed in knowingly, coming to stand in the doorway as well after clearly eavesdropping on their conversation. "How many times have you meant it?"
Mark irked a brow, looking John right in the eye. "Never."
John nodded, smiling smugly and returning to his little studio.
"What was that about?" Carl asked, but Mark was back to work before the question could fully be asked.