Crossposting: Fic Snippets

[oceangrey]

I'm back!

I kind of forgot I made a Dreamwidth account to be honest (luckily I didn't forget about it for too long)! I probably won't be posting on here as much as I initially thought, and I expect a lot of posts on here are things I want to preserve/crosspost from Tumblr.

Which is kind of what this post is the start of. I posted a couple of snippets of a Withnail and I fic that I don't plan on putting onto AO3 (due to its perpetually unfinished state). I put it on there in case anyone wanted to take the idea and expand on it in their own way (because collaborating and building on ideas is my favourite part of fandom tbh). Nobody's done it yet, but I thought I'd keep what I did post on here as well.

I'll link my Tumblr post about it here, but do be warned this link might break as I have an unfortunate habit of changing my url regularly (which makes updating links an awfully time-consuming task).

Context for the fic: I had it brewing in my WIPs for a few months but thought I'd finally publish it as it is when reminded of my thoughts on the history of the Mother Black Cap pub (which Wikipedia claims was once a gay bar and held a drag cabaret near the end of the 60s) and how I really want to explore how Marwood relates to presentations of gender and queerness. Transfem Marwood is a regular headcanon for me—not a regular occurrence as far as I can see in the general fandom but one I hold pretty close to my heart.

Which kind of explains whatever's going on in this fic (a tiny bit, at least). I wrote three scenes total, so I'll provide some context for each one.

Scene 1: Withnail and Marwood have just returned from the Mother Black Cap, having just seen a performance take place there. Withnail has an idea, and consequently Marwood has a bout of anxiety.

“Maybe we could do that.”

Marwood looked up from the half-drunk contents of his bowl (all the glasses were either in Withnail’s room, or buried in the debris in the kitchen sink, and he didn’t want to disturb either), and turned to Withnail, brows drawn over his eyes. “Do what?”

“Y'know, to get some money.”

“Do what, though?”

“I’ve not heard back from that cigar commercial, and your audition isn’t until next week–”

“–next month–”

“–it’s definitely next week! Check the calendar occasionally, would you?”

“…You’re lying. It’s next month and you know it. You’re trying to get me panicky again, end up backing out at the last moment.”

“What would be the point of that?” Withnail crowed, irritation etched into his features. “Anyway, what do you think about doing it in the meantime?”

“Again, do what?”

“Perform at that pub. Put on a show, get a few tips, enough to pay a bit of rent for a few weeks, maybe put some aside for a rainy day, or a particularly large drinking session –”

“Absolutely not.” Marwood’s gaze had returned to his bowl. When had he started gripping the porcelain so tightly? It felt like it would shatter beneath his fingers, tearing into the unprotected flesh of his hands, leaving him bleeding out for the whole world to see.

“No? It would be good performance practice, considering you seemingly haven’t been preparing for your audition – which is, in fact, in only nine days.”

“Then I should be practicing for that, shouldn’t I? Besides, what would we perform? I doubt they’d have a script of Waiting for Godot lying around somewhere behind the bar.”

“Well, we’ll just do whatever that person was doing then. Dress up, do a bit of improvisation, bounce some ideas off the audience, have a bit of laugh, that sort of thing. Only drawback is we don’t have costumes –”

“–no. Not a chance. I’m not going anywhere dressed like that, especially not to be made a laughing stock in front of a room of… of drunken homosexuals! It’s a ridiculous idea, Withnail! Just drop it.”

“Preposterous!” Withnail half-launched himself out of his chair and towards Marwood, an almost desperate expression on his face. Gravity fought hard against him, though, and he fell back into his seat. “It makes perfect sense!”

“In what way?” Marwood felt like throwing his bowl on the floor, but instead placed it firmly on the table to avoid having to clean up broken porcelain at half two in the morning.

“In the way in which we are actors! It’s our job, our role, to entertain. And if you’d rather not do that – well then. You might as well have picked a different career, luvvie. Of course the circumstances are less than satisfactory, particularly because of your baseless anxieties–”

“–they’re not baseless–”

“–okay then. I implore you explain to me why you don’t want to take this, when you’d be greatly appreciative of any other small-scale acting job?” Withnail had finally won the battle against gravity, and was looming over Marwood – not menacingly, but instead rather pleadingly, bending down slightly to make eye contact with his flatmate.

Marwood felt quite put off, if he was completely honest. Didn’t Withnail get it? Sure, Marwood remembered, homosexuality was legal now (Marwood couldn’t identify the feeling he had when that fact briefly surfaced in his mind) but surely Withnail knew even casually fraternising with them could lead to disastrous consequences? What consequences exactly, Marwood wasn’t so sure, but the feeling of certainty was buried so deep within him that he was nervous to touch it, dreading something important would fall apart in him if he did.

However, as he stared back at Withnail, he could feel his resolve cracking, peeling away like an eggshell. He was struck suddenly with the feeling that he’d somehow unknowingly reached a tipping point, and mentally scrambled to see how it’d happened. Was it Withnail’s insistence on the job that had brought him to it? Why was his flatmate so insistent on them performing at the bar?

A sudden, shocking realisation shot through his thoughts. Withnail was trying to test the waters, floating an idea towards him (albeit possibly in a more confrontational way than he intended) to gauge Marwood’s tolerance for homosexual activities. Why, though? Was Withnail homosexual himself? Was he trying to find kinship and familiarity in the clientele at the pub, and using this performance as a way of carrying that out? Did he have a partner there already, or at least an interested party, and was trying to tell if the flat was a safe place to bring him to? Was Marwood disrupting some secretive, sordid, double-life that his flatmate was leading? Marwood doubted the thought of Withnail having some sort of clandestine affair, as the fucker barely left his sights most days, but ruminating on it, he wouldn’t consider it impossible for Withnail to be interested in men. Oh god, was this what this was about? Did he disgust Withnail with his refusal to join in his plan? Did his flatmate see him as some awful bigot? Thoughts tumbled continuously through his head like Catherine wheels, escalating in magnitude until one finally distinguished itself from the rabble.

What would Withnail do if Marwood just kept refusing?

Of course, a not-unlikely outcome would be Withnail doing nothing at all.

A second outcome, far more likely, would be that Withnail kept pestering him until he gave in, much like with everything else. It would drive Marwood up the wall in the process, but him giving in to Withnail’s plans was pretty much the status quo.

A third outcome, incredibly unlikely but given a new perspective by the previous thoughts in his head, is that Withnail would find his tolerance wanting and kick him out onto the streets. Much to Marwood’s chagrin, it was Withnail’s name on the lease (even though he did pretty much none of the paperwork), and as far as he knew he wouldn’t have a leg to stand on if such a situation did occur. He knew this had almost no chance of happening at all – if anything, one of them would end up dying before either of them left, and would be carried out in the cheapest wooden crate the other could find – but he baulked at the thought.

I need a joint, his consciousness reasoned, or at least some more whiskey. These thoughts are putting a bit too much strain my sanity. Best to deal with this in a state even further away from sobriety.

He realised then, that somehow he’d maintaining eye contact with Withnail, who’d been looming over him the entire time he’d been rummaging through his thoughts on the matter, which surely must have been greater than ten minutes?

Finally breaking the staring, he turned back to his bowl on the side. “Okay,” he reasoned, “let’s say we try out this performance idea. Let’s also say we manage to get a slot actually performing there, and also that other actor’s fine with us doing so. Where, pray tell, will you get all the props and costuming for the show?”

The pleading had melted from Withnail’s eyes when Marwood had begun speaking, instead replaced with an unnerving, cunning twinkle, too bright for any average person in this level of drunkenness. “Leave that up to me. I’ll have it all sorted out by tomorrow.”

Scene 2: In the toilet stall of the Mother Black Cap pub, rummaging through the makeup bag of the performer they saw that first night.

“Why did you tell her I’ll be the one to perform first? You were the one to come up with the idea, Withnail!”

“Well, for one,” Withnail replied, dumping the makeup bag onto the box behind the toilet, “you saw how Rita only had high-heeled shoes in her costume box. You already wear those heeled boots—”

“—they’re not high heels, they’re not that tall—”

“—nevertheless, my point still stands. If I try them on I’ll topple over. Probably snap an ankle! You, on the other hand, would manage a bit better. Besides,” he whipped out a tube of lipstick, opened the lid and inspected the contents with a screwed-up expression, “none of this is my colour.”

He passed the tube to Marwood, whose expression soured immediately. Running his finger over the stick revealed a dark brownish-purple colour, not too far off dried blood. The texture itself was almost chalky – maybe more like clay, actually – and stuck on his fingers like a stain no matter how hard he rubbed it with his sleeve.

He turned his gaze back up to Withnail, who was rummaging further through the bag, producing several other tubes of various sizes and shades. Marwood’s shoulders trembled as he looked at the temporary shrine to debauchery being constructed on the closed toilet seat. He was sure – no, certain – that he couldn’t go through with this.

“I won’t stand for this Withnail. You know that, you definitely know that! I can’t just go around like that, just… just compromising my own masculinity!”

Withnail halted his rummaging and snorted, “Compromise your masculinity? Twaddle,” before picking up another tube and opening it, revealing some kind of pipe cleaner coated in a cream-coloured substance. “This goes on your skin, I think.”

The non sequitur brought Marwood abruptly out of his spiralling thoughts, and he countered, puzzled, “Doesn’t it all go on your skin?”

“No, I meant to cover up blemishes, or maybe those dreadful heavy eye bags you’ve got. Concealer, I’m pretty sure it’s called. Anyway, here you go,” he muttered as he picked up several of the containers and dumped them in Marwood’s arms. “These should work on you.”

Marwood froze, looking down at the plethora of labelled boxes and tubes spilling out of his arms, stock still except for the shudder of apprehension worming its way down his spine.

Withnail zipped up the rest of the containers back into the bag, then turned to face Marwood. Leaning down, he picked up the tubes that had fallen out of Marwood’s arms before standing up again, now only inches away from Marwood’s face.

“Now,” he murmured, “I wouldn’t worry too hard about it if I were you. It’s only makeup, the same stuff you’d put a bit of on if you were performing a play, only this time the way you apply it is slightly different. Just think of this as any other role – a panto, for example! Yes, a panto – and you’ll calm down.”

Marwood shook his head frantically whilst still keeping eye contact with his flatmate. “I’ve never done panto before.”

“Neither have I! You’re missing the point. The point is that your job is as an actor, right?”

Marwood nodded.

“So? Your entire career is built around playing people you’re not! You’re not "compromising”“, here he made quotation marks with his fingers in the air on either side of his head, "anything here, any more than playing a murderer would mean you’ve compromised your morality.” He grinned, his watery eyes bulging slightly in their sockets as he strained to concentrate through his lightly-sozzled state. “That made sense, surely.”

“Kind of, yeah.” Marwood felt a wave of relief wash over him at Withnail’s words. “Thanks.”

Withnail leaned back slightly, out of Marwood’s personal space. For a second Marwood panicked that he was leaving him here alone, going once again to drink at the bar, but then Withnail returned to be close once again, now clutching the bag he’d left on the toilet box.

“Well then,” he muttered, a smirk tickling his face, “only one thing to do now. Do you want me to stay away and let you do the honours?”

Marwood sidled away from him, to the exit of the bathroom. “No,” he said. “Help me take all these home and then assist me in deciphering what,” he gestured down to the bottles in his arms, “any of these things are supposed to do. Then I expect you to help me get mightily drunk so I can forget this all until the morning.”

Withnail bowed his head in mock reverence. “That I can do, Peter. That I can do.”

Scene 3: Immediately after the last one, but they're back at the flat now.

Back in the flat, after the rest of the bag was returned to Rita (she was thrilled that Marwood seemed up for the plan), the table by the sofa became adorned with the stash of makeup and whatever booze could be scrounged up from around the house. Marwood wasn’t doing this without a hefty amount of alcohol in his system, and he told Withnail just that.

Both of them were three or so wineglasses in before Withnail reached over and held the concealer up to Marwood.

“Let’s try this on first.”

The shudder of apprehension regrew on Marwood’s spine, but he found himself nodding in agreement, mostly just to get this over with so he could go to sleep. He pulled the concealer out of Withnail’s grip and unscrewing the lid, once again revealing the pipe-cleaner brush.

Dipping it back in the tube to coat the brush in the beige substance, he made his way over to the mirror on the mantle. A haggard, boozy face peered back at him, its features half-anxious, half… something else, something hard to define. Soon enough, another drunken face appeared next to it, staggering over with an almost tawdry grin.

Withnail plucked the makeup back out of Marwood’s hand and nudged his shoulder, muttering, “Turn to me.”

Derision coated Marwood’s reply. “Do you even know what you’re doing?”

“Probably better than you do, luvvie. Here, stand still.”

Marwood hiccoughed. “Pretty hard when your off your head on cheap wine, eh?” He cracked a smirk.

“And stop moving your face! Christ, you’re doing this on purpose. Scared of a little makeup, are we?”

The brush ran underneath Marwood’s left eye, then his right, then Withnail ran his finger through it to rub around his eye sockets.

“Of course not,” Marwood scoffed. “That’s ridiculous.” His legs felt like jelly and he was sure he was going to collapse at any moment.

“Then stay still, damn you!” Withnail dabbed some concealer on the bridge of Marwood’s nose, and the subject of his intense concentration felt himself going cross-eyed with the strain of keeping the brush in his sights.

“Next time I’ll have to knock you out before I put it all on, to make you stop squirming.”

Marwood turned his gaze back to his roommate, once again knocked out of his haze and back into the conversation as Withnail smeared concealer on his right cheek.

“Next time?”

“Yes, when you actually go on stage! This plan actually has a goal, you know, we’re not making you wear makeup for the hell of it.” Another dab to his other cheek, and a frantic rubbing in with the pad of Withnail’s index finger.

“No yeah, I get that. I thought I’d be doing it though.”

Withnail tucked the concealer into his coat pocket and produced a large-headed brush, accompanied by a round compact container. Opening it revealed a powder in a dusky pastel shade of pink. He frowned down at Marwood.

“You doing it? What, going on stage? I should hope so, it’s the entire plan – were you too sozzled in the pub to comprehend anything?”

“Nah, not that – the makeup. Won’t you teach me how to do the makeup look?”

Withnail’s eyebrows furrowed further as he dusted Marwood’s cheekbones with the rose powder. “Not until we’ve actually found out what look suits you best.”

“I thought you’d already decided on that!”

Withnail chuckled. “I’m making this up as I go along.”

“Oh god,” Marwood groaned. “Please tell me you won’t make me look like a clown at least. I don’t want to scare the clientele, otherwise we mightn’t get enough for rent next month.”

The brush on his cheek paused, hesitant. “Our money’s that dire?”

Marwood nodded.

Withnail returned the compact and brush to his pocket and pulled out a square container, along with a smaller brush. “Never you mind, I’ve got the good sense not to make you a clown—not that you need makeup for that, anyway–”

Marwood slapped his arm. Withnail slapped Marwood’s own arm back, smile tugging at his cheeks.

“–and also I’ve elected on a more sophisticated makeup style. Think 1920s-inspired, something almost American-flapper girl, big soulful eyes, the lot. A bit of vaudeville, maybe a dash of burlesque, all very theatrical and all very visually interesting.”

He proceeded to stab the pencil directly onto his flatmate’s pulled-down waterline, and Marwood briefly feared he would need to get the prescription upped on his glasses.

There lasted a brief struggle where Withnail repeatedly took dangerous swipes at Marwood’s eyes, and the assaulted waved away his assailant’s attacks with flailing arms and a muffled cry of “Gi’ o'er!”.

Eventually the onslaught stopped, and Marwood closed his eyes in relief.

“Okay, last part: the lipstick. Red or purple?”

Marwood blinked and looked down at the tubes in Withnail’s hand, the colours of which looked indistinguishable to him in the low light of the room. “Er, purple. I think.”

“I agree. Well, open up – not that wide! – good. Now relax your lips. Rub them together. Now close them on this,” he said, producing a handkerchief from his previously-untouched pocket.

Marwood closed his lips around the handkerchief, and stayed still as Withnail pulled it out and tucked it back into his pocket, keeping eye contact the entire time.

Withnail walked back slightly, a breathless expression on his face. “Look at you,” he murmured, his grin slowly stretching from ear to ear. “The belle of the ball.”

“There’s only us here, Withnail.”

“And you haven’t seen yourself! Go on, gaze upon your beauty!”

Marwood turned to the mirror, hesitantly, face almost cautiously blank. “I should’ve shaved,” he grimaced, rubbing at his faint stubble.

“Well you did, just this morning. You can only see it because you’re standing so close. Also, I forgot to grab you some of that foundation thing.” Withnail wet the pad of his thumb with spit and quickly wiped away some excess lipstick in the corner of Marwood’s mouth. “Missed a spot there. Apart from that… well, you’re wonderful.”

“Wonderful?” Marwood’s mouth curled in a grimace. “I look like some ponce’s wet dream.”

Withnail scoffed. “Then that ponce has a damn good taste! Really though, have you actually looked at yourself?”

Marwood glanced back in the mirror, truly looked for a minute, and was deeply terrified by what he saw.

“Yeah… this’ll work a treat,” he muttered. “You’ve done great, Withnail.”

His flatmate only beamed in response, his eyes glinting at Marwood in the mirror’s reflection.

Marwood simply bowed his head and hooked his fingers into his own hair, refusing to look at the mirror again. The alcohol must be catching up with me, he briefly thought, because I’m too tired to even have a nervous breakdown.

He looked up again. “Now help me get this all off me before I collapse with exhaustion.”