by cimorene
a birthday dribblet for mcee born of a spectacular in-joke with my clairelet, first written in my livejournal.

"what are you doing?" geoff demanded, "sod off," and tried to shake off the slender fingers wrapped around his wrist.

the only answer he got was a smirk, and the magic marker in mikey's hand was tickling the palm of his hand. he looked awfully like a small (and possibly evil, but certainly not particularly threatening) elf for an assassin.

"how many people did you say you'd killed again?" he said suspiciously.

mikey looked outraged at that. "lots," he informed geoff haughtily, and jabbed viciously at the center of his palm with the magic marker.

"how many is lots?" said geoff.

"you're a p.i., aren't you?" the american accent took an extra second for processing, but he finally figured out what a "pi" was.


mikey finished whatever he was doing with a flourish and folded geoff's fingers into his palm and held them there. "how many cases have you solved, then?"

bristling, geoff opened his mouth to snap "lots," and then stopped and said "oh" rather weakly instead. now mikey was whirling away and sticking the marker in his back pocket, pushing back a black leather jacket rather as he might have done with a gun. apparently he wasn't planning to kill anyone, because there wasn't a lot of room in any of his clothes left over for a gun.


geoff scrambled after him out the door, which banged behind him loudly enough to make him glance nervously to see if it was falling off its hinges (it wasn't, yet). "where?" he asked, jumping down the dirty cement steps into the dirtier alley.

mikey batted a hand behind his back, as if he couldn't be bothered to turn around and open his pretty little elf mouth to say "quiet." he was peering round the corner of the building.

"and what's that you did to my hand," geoff complained, quieter, and only then remembering to look. he unfolded his fingers around a black dot and some concentric circles, at which he stared blankly. "a bull's eye?"

mikey gave up looking round the corner, folded his arms and gave his best attempt at a cross look, but it kept melting into a smirk.

when geoff said blankly, "for what?," it became an actual giggle. "you giggled!"

another giggle. "did not."

"what's it for, then?"

"well, i don't have my gun..." said mikey, still grinning, and raised an eyebrow.

geoff was through with suspicion and astonishment. or something. now he was just staring at mikey grinning and giggling, leaning in his leather jacket on the brick wall. if you blinked, and took away the giggle, he almost could look dangerous. he held up his hand to display the bull's-eye, as though it might jog his companion's memory. "this," he insisted. "what is this for?"

mikey tapped one finger against his mouth and squinted at his handiwork--in thought? but that was ridiculous. then he sighted along the length of his finger, and blew a kiss.

geoff gaped.

"what's it for? aim!" and he was gone.

geoff flexed his hand, as though he might have caught the airborne kiss. black smudges had rubbed off on his fingers where mikey'd folded them around the bull's-eye. damned crazy americans. geoff nearly ran around the corner. "wait!"