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Fic: Don't Get the References You Refer To
Title: Don't Get the References You Refer To
Fandom: Bones
Rating: PG
Pairing: Lance Sweets/Daisy Wick
Spoilers: Obliquely, for Bones 4x02 "The Man in the Outhouse," and hinting toward elements of 4x07 "The Skull in the Sculpture."
Summary: Daisy has never seen a certain set of classic films. Sweets immediately takes steps to fix this.
Notes: Follows She's Wordy and Verbose. Title also from MC Chris's otherwise irrelevant "Nrrrd Grrrl," because I couldn't resist. This is what I do while stressed out by my thesis. *facepalm*
The second date is dinner and the new Apatow-Rogen movie, except they never make it to the theater.
“This guy seriously thought his life was one big heroic cycle or something, you know? I thought he was going to, like, pull out a sword and challenge me to a duel,” Sweets says, the candle guttering on the table between them; he’s grinning.
“…No,” Daisy answers, shooting him the serious, bewildered, thinky frown that Sweets has already decided is kind of adorable. “I don’t know.”
“What, the heroic cycle? It’s a literary trope. The first three Star Wars,” he taps the table, “they’re perfect examples.”
“I’ve never seen Star Wars,” says Daisy, matter-of-fact now. “My dad said that the movies were perfect examples of the decadence and sin that plague modern society.” She shrugs, bubbly as ever; her wine glass is nearly empty, but tips precariously in her hand as she pays no attention to it. “I never got around to seeing them after I moved out.”
Off his expression, her eyes go wide; she adds, hurriedly, “I always meant to, though.”
Sweets is staring at her, horrified. “Oh, dude. You’ve never seen—”
His hand shoots up. “Check, please.”
At 1:30 in the morning on a Tuesday, Darth Vader and Luke Skywalker are locked in epic battle deep within the innards of Cloud City. The captions are on, to ensure understanding despite the constant stream of running commentary from Daisy, who is watching, rapt, tucked under Sweets’s arm (which he only dared to put around her after the Death Star exploded in A New Hope), on Sweets’s couch.
“The lightsaber is a really phallic weapon,” Daisy says, as the two beams of light crackle and buzz on-screen. Her feet are up on the coffee table beside his.
“Oh, totally,” Sweets agrees. “There’s this parody movie by Mel Brooks where,” and he’s laughing a little, “they call the lightsaber equivalents 'schwartzes,' and they make all kinds of—”
Luke howls as Darth Vader cuts off his hand, and Daisy nearly upends the bowl of popcorn with her jump. Sweets grabs it to save the last couple of kernels. “Wow,” Daisy says, staring at the TV with huge eyes. “I really wasn’t expecting that.”
Sweets grins. “Just wait til you see what’s next.”
Daisy shoots him a curious look then watches single-mindedly, blindly reaching into the bowl on Sweets’s lap for the last couple bites of popcorn. Sweets is grateful for her excellent sense of spatial awareness.
Luke crawls along the narrow beam, getting as far away as possible from Darth Vader, clinging to a stabilizer. Vader stands at the edge of the platform; he says, “Obi-Wan never told you what happened to your father.”
“He told me enough,” Luke snarls, and Daisy is rapt. “He told me you killed him.”
“No,” Sweets and James Earl Jones intone together. “I am your father.” One of them is grinning significantly more than the other.
Daisy’s eyes narrow, disbelieving. “No,” she says, several seconds before an anguished Luke grits the same word. Daisy looks up at Sweets. “He must be lying!”
Sweets shrugs, grinning, in a clear ‘well, you’ll just have to wait and see, won’t you?’ sort of motion, and points at the television. Daisy pulls a small face at him – still looking perturbed by the news – and bumps his shoulder with hers, but she’s watching.
“If it’s true, it makes the whole phallic lightsaber thing way creepier,” she says.
“Wicked Oedipal,” Sweets agrees. “Except gayer.”
“If he was a girl, there could be some really literal penis envy going on.” Daisy pauses to reconsider. “Well, maybe not literally. A lightsaber isn’t actually a penis.” Frowning with thought: “I don’t know how you’d make penis envy literal.”
“...Oh, that’s just wrong,” says Sweets, thinking about the fact that Darth Vader does have a daughter (and this line of conversation makes the scene with the interrogator ‘droid really weird), but he’s grinning, because:
Daisy knows her Freudian psychoanalysis.
That is so hot.
Onboard the Millennium Falcon, Leia hears Luke calling for her. Daisy frowns once again. “She can use the Force? How many people can use the Force in this movie?” She looks at Sweets. “I thought all the Jedi were dead.”
“They are,” Sweets assures her. “It’s just Luke and his connection to Leia.”
“And Darth Vader, and the Emperor, and Yoda,” she reminds him, sure of herself and chomping at the bit to correct him.
“Taught you well, I have,” Sweets says, grinning, and Daisy – who loves Yoda and is totally going to tear up when he dies – beams at him.
“Listened closely, I did.” Her Yoda voice is awful. Like, really, really awful, lacking in any kind of self-awareness (and doesn’t that describe Daisy to a T), but the way she smiles when she does it more than makes up for that, because her smile is seriously pretty; the kind that makes a person’s entire face light up. Sweets’s own smile tempers; he leans in – and an oblivious Daisy turns back to the television with such a sharp motion that he almost gets whacked in the face by her ponytail. “Did they rescue him?”
Sweets stares at the side of her head for a second, and then he, too, looks at where Lando Calrissian is hauling Luke into the Falcon. “Yep,” he says. “Told you Lando wasn’t a bad guy.”
She nods, firmly. “He betrayed his friend for the sake of the greater good.”
Sweets can’t help it; it’s reflex. He drones, “The greater good.”
Contrary to the questioning stare he immediately expects, Daisy looks up at him and says, “Shut it!”
Despite his best efforts, Sweets momentarily looks like something of a kicked puppy.
“But I wasn’t—” Realization dawns, aided by the fact that she is grinning like she has just said something very clever. He starts to smile. “You’ve seen Hot Fuzz.”
“Only about 14 times,” she says, with a tiny scoff that’s kind of obnoxious and pretty adorable. “My ex-boyfriend thought it wasn’t funny.”
“So did my ex-girlfriend,” says Sweets, a little awed. Beat. Seriously: “Also, your ex-boyfriend was stupid.”
“So was your ex-girlfriend,” she says, and they’re grinning right at each other - up until Daisy lunges away to peer more closely at the television. “—Is that a mechanical arm? Cool.”
“…Yep.” Sweets leans back, resigned to obliviousness. “Luke’s officially a cyborg.”
Thoughtful: “I wonder if he gets phantom pain.”
“He does. He must. I mean, amputees get it even while wearing prosthetics. That thing’s just a super advanced futuristic prosthetic.”
“Have you ever—” The shot zooms out on Luke and Leia standing with the two droids. Daisy stops. She watches the television closely for several seconds; Sweets thinks he can almost see her thinking. Finally, she says, “I feel like they really want me to want Han and Leia to get together, but come on, Luke is way better.”
“Really?” asks Sweets, a little cautious. “ ‘Cause most women, they prefer Han.”
Daisy shakes her head, her ponytail bouncing. “Too swaggery, too full of himself, and way, way too alpha male. No, Luke would definitely be the better boyfriend.” She says it with the same authoritative nod that she seems to pair with all of her declarative statements.
Sweets grins, boyish and pleased. “I totally agree.” Lowering his voice conspiratorially: “You want to know who my favorite is?”
She leans in. “Who?”
“R2-D2.”
Daisy flashes one of those sunshine smiles. “I love him!”
The familiar theme song starts blasting over the credits; Sweets glances at the TV, then back at Daisy, very pointedly not looking at the clock in between. “Do you, uh. Want to watch the next one?”
Daisy’s eyes hold steady on his. “Not … right now,” she says, and there’s enough flirtation in the tilt of her head and the set of her lips that Sweets is starting to grin like an idiot even before she leans in and kisses him.
Fandom: Bones
Rating: PG
Pairing: Lance Sweets/Daisy Wick
Spoilers: Obliquely, for Bones 4x02 "The Man in the Outhouse," and hinting toward elements of 4x07 "The Skull in the Sculpture."
Summary: Daisy has never seen a certain set of classic films. Sweets immediately takes steps to fix this.
Notes: Follows She's Wordy and Verbose. Title also from MC Chris's otherwise irrelevant "Nrrrd Grrrl," because I couldn't resist. This is what I do while stressed out by my thesis. *facepalm*
The second date is dinner and the new Apatow-Rogen movie, except they never make it to the theater.
“This guy seriously thought his life was one big heroic cycle or something, you know? I thought he was going to, like, pull out a sword and challenge me to a duel,” Sweets says, the candle guttering on the table between them; he’s grinning.
“…No,” Daisy answers, shooting him the serious, bewildered, thinky frown that Sweets has already decided is kind of adorable. “I don’t know.”
“What, the heroic cycle? It’s a literary trope. The first three Star Wars,” he taps the table, “they’re perfect examples.”
“I’ve never seen Star Wars,” says Daisy, matter-of-fact now. “My dad said that the movies were perfect examples of the decadence and sin that plague modern society.” She shrugs, bubbly as ever; her wine glass is nearly empty, but tips precariously in her hand as she pays no attention to it. “I never got around to seeing them after I moved out.”
Off his expression, her eyes go wide; she adds, hurriedly, “I always meant to, though.”
Sweets is staring at her, horrified. “Oh, dude. You’ve never seen—”
His hand shoots up. “Check, please.”
At 1:30 in the morning on a Tuesday, Darth Vader and Luke Skywalker are locked in epic battle deep within the innards of Cloud City. The captions are on, to ensure understanding despite the constant stream of running commentary from Daisy, who is watching, rapt, tucked under Sweets’s arm (which he only dared to put around her after the Death Star exploded in A New Hope), on Sweets’s couch.
“The lightsaber is a really phallic weapon,” Daisy says, as the two beams of light crackle and buzz on-screen. Her feet are up on the coffee table beside his.
“Oh, totally,” Sweets agrees. “There’s this parody movie by Mel Brooks where,” and he’s laughing a little, “they call the lightsaber equivalents 'schwartzes,' and they make all kinds of—”
Luke howls as Darth Vader cuts off his hand, and Daisy nearly upends the bowl of popcorn with her jump. Sweets grabs it to save the last couple of kernels. “Wow,” Daisy says, staring at the TV with huge eyes. “I really wasn’t expecting that.”
Sweets grins. “Just wait til you see what’s next.”
Daisy shoots him a curious look then watches single-mindedly, blindly reaching into the bowl on Sweets’s lap for the last couple bites of popcorn. Sweets is grateful for her excellent sense of spatial awareness.
Luke crawls along the narrow beam, getting as far away as possible from Darth Vader, clinging to a stabilizer. Vader stands at the edge of the platform; he says, “Obi-Wan never told you what happened to your father.”
“He told me enough,” Luke snarls, and Daisy is rapt. “He told me you killed him.”
“No,” Sweets and James Earl Jones intone together. “I am your father.” One of them is grinning significantly more than the other.
Daisy’s eyes narrow, disbelieving. “No,” she says, several seconds before an anguished Luke grits the same word. Daisy looks up at Sweets. “He must be lying!”
Sweets shrugs, grinning, in a clear ‘well, you’ll just have to wait and see, won’t you?’ sort of motion, and points at the television. Daisy pulls a small face at him – still looking perturbed by the news – and bumps his shoulder with hers, but she’s watching.
“If it’s true, it makes the whole phallic lightsaber thing way creepier,” she says.
“Wicked Oedipal,” Sweets agrees. “Except gayer.”
“If he was a girl, there could be some really literal penis envy going on.” Daisy pauses to reconsider. “Well, maybe not literally. A lightsaber isn’t actually a penis.” Frowning with thought: “I don’t know how you’d make penis envy literal.”
“...Oh, that’s just wrong,” says Sweets, thinking about the fact that Darth Vader does have a daughter (and this line of conversation makes the scene with the interrogator ‘droid really weird), but he’s grinning, because:
Daisy knows her Freudian psychoanalysis.
That is so hot.
Onboard the Millennium Falcon, Leia hears Luke calling for her. Daisy frowns once again. “She can use the Force? How many people can use the Force in this movie?” She looks at Sweets. “I thought all the Jedi were dead.”
“They are,” Sweets assures her. “It’s just Luke and his connection to Leia.”
“And Darth Vader, and the Emperor, and Yoda,” she reminds him, sure of herself and chomping at the bit to correct him.
“Taught you well, I have,” Sweets says, grinning, and Daisy – who loves Yoda and is totally going to tear up when he dies – beams at him.
“Listened closely, I did.” Her Yoda voice is awful. Like, really, really awful, lacking in any kind of self-awareness (and doesn’t that describe Daisy to a T), but the way she smiles when she does it more than makes up for that, because her smile is seriously pretty; the kind that makes a person’s entire face light up. Sweets’s own smile tempers; he leans in – and an oblivious Daisy turns back to the television with such a sharp motion that he almost gets whacked in the face by her ponytail. “Did they rescue him?”
Sweets stares at the side of her head for a second, and then he, too, looks at where Lando Calrissian is hauling Luke into the Falcon. “Yep,” he says. “Told you Lando wasn’t a bad guy.”
She nods, firmly. “He betrayed his friend for the sake of the greater good.”
Sweets can’t help it; it’s reflex. He drones, “The greater good.”
Contrary to the questioning stare he immediately expects, Daisy looks up at him and says, “Shut it!”
Despite his best efforts, Sweets momentarily looks like something of a kicked puppy.
“But I wasn’t—” Realization dawns, aided by the fact that she is grinning like she has just said something very clever. He starts to smile. “You’ve seen Hot Fuzz.”
“Only about 14 times,” she says, with a tiny scoff that’s kind of obnoxious and pretty adorable. “My ex-boyfriend thought it wasn’t funny.”
“So did my ex-girlfriend,” says Sweets, a little awed. Beat. Seriously: “Also, your ex-boyfriend was stupid.”
“So was your ex-girlfriend,” she says, and they’re grinning right at each other - up until Daisy lunges away to peer more closely at the television. “—Is that a mechanical arm? Cool.”
“…Yep.” Sweets leans back, resigned to obliviousness. “Luke’s officially a cyborg.”
Thoughtful: “I wonder if he gets phantom pain.”
“He does. He must. I mean, amputees get it even while wearing prosthetics. That thing’s just a super advanced futuristic prosthetic.”
“Have you ever—” The shot zooms out on Luke and Leia standing with the two droids. Daisy stops. She watches the television closely for several seconds; Sweets thinks he can almost see her thinking. Finally, she says, “I feel like they really want me to want Han and Leia to get together, but come on, Luke is way better.”
“Really?” asks Sweets, a little cautious. “ ‘Cause most women, they prefer Han.”
Daisy shakes her head, her ponytail bouncing. “Too swaggery, too full of himself, and way, way too alpha male. No, Luke would definitely be the better boyfriend.” She says it with the same authoritative nod that she seems to pair with all of her declarative statements.
Sweets grins, boyish and pleased. “I totally agree.” Lowering his voice conspiratorially: “You want to know who my favorite is?”
She leans in. “Who?”
“R2-D2.”
Daisy flashes one of those sunshine smiles. “I love him!”
The familiar theme song starts blasting over the credits; Sweets glances at the TV, then back at Daisy, very pointedly not looking at the clock in between. “Do you, uh. Want to watch the next one?”
Daisy’s eyes hold steady on his. “Not … right now,” she says, and there’s enough flirtation in the tilt of her head and the set of her lips that Sweets is starting to grin like an idiot even before she leans in and kisses him.
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