26 Fics in 26 Minutes

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A story for a song by a band starting with every letter of the alphabet. Ranging from angst to fluff to humour to porn to general whimsy. Encompassing Boosh, RPS, Nathan Barley, Robots in Disguise, and Asylum, and probably a few other things too.

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Velvet Underground – Sunday Morning

Contents

Velvet Underground – Sunday Morning

“The worst thing about Sunday mornings,” Sue said in a voice that carried across the room to where Dee was huddled under the sheets, “is that they come right after Saturday nights.” She examined her hair in the mirror, pushing it first one way, then the other, then finally just shaking her head from side to side in an attempt to reset it, like an Etch-a-Sketch.

Now she regretted not having brushed it out before she went to bed. But, well. She looked fondly at the reflection of the bed behind her, of the lump in the duvet that gently rose and fell with deep breaths. After gigs they were both fairly… excitable. She couldn’t pass up post-gig sex.

“I said,” she said in a louder voice, turning around and leaning towards the bed, “that the worst thing about Sunday mornings is–”

“-is people not fucking shutting the fuck up.”

“Ah, tis my beloved that speaks!” Sue said, clasping her hands together and tipping her head to one side, making her hair fall in her face again. She blew it away irritably.

“I will kill you. And make it look like an accident.” The muffled speaker made no signs of coming out from under the covers.

“And do what at the club next week, exactly?” Sue said sweetly, getting up to head to their little ensuite bathroom.

“A trained monkey could sing better than you. I’ll make a wig from your hair, dress it up, and throw it into the crowd.”

Sue ran cold water over her face. “At least it won’t land on its head.“

“One time. One time that happened.”

“Twice.” Sue poked her head round the door to see if Dee had surfaced, but no luck. “You hit your head on the xylophone last night.”

“Fuck. I wondered why everything hurt.“

“No, that’s your hangover.” More water to stop her hair from sticking out at stupid angles, and a little mouthwash for morning breath. She was ready to go, so to speak.

She stepped out of the bathroom and out of her robe, sitting back on the bed and tucking her feet under the covers. Dee shifted over a little, but otherwise didn’t move.

“And the bite mark? On my thigh? Is that from the gig too?” Her tone was slightly more playful, and Sue wiggled her toes, pulling the sheets up around her waist.

“No, the monkey did that.”

She got a half-cut-off laugh for her trouble, and a warm hand on her ankle.

“It’s not Sunday morning,” Dee said. “It’s Sunday afternoon.”

“How would you know?” Sue frowned, turning to the bedside table. “Hey, where’s my watch?”

“Under here.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“Give it back.”

“No.” The lump snickered, and tugged hard on Sue’s ankle. “Come and get it if you think you’re hard enough.”

Sue kicked Dee in the ribs, or where she thought her ribs were, and ducked under the covers. The sounds of fighting and loving and loving and fighting went on well through Sunday lunch.