Crack Couples

[Maximillian Goof]

AND WHILE I'M ON THE TOPIC OF MAJAKE

=D

[Sydney Lynn Amzy]

aww cuteness

[Maximillian Goof]

Author's Notes: THAT'S RIGHT, I'M WRITING A FIC. well, a one-shot. and i hope it's okay to post that here, because it's a crackship fic, anyway. maxsil, first. i'll be writing mangel, majake, and maxanne, too.

this fic makes no sense, btw.

just so you know.

Disclaimer: Please, no.

---

Today is a shitty day.

I know it.

Everyone knows it.

Heck, I think even Mr. Holmes knows it, and he's more or less the shittiest person I know.

I think the reason it sucks so bad is because Mr. Holmes has been so down.

I mean, okay.

I don't really care. He's down and stuff, but I'm down a lot more often than that and most of the time he doesn't stop to think about it and instead settles on rambling about some kind of chemical compound that I really don't care about. I only care because his being down is affecting way more than just him.

I mean, I feel like shit, too.

And it's shitty that I feel like shit because of this guy.

I'm not supposed to care.

---

"Mallory Grace."

(Hi, my name's Max Goof. I'm twenty years old and work two jobs. I'm a lanky guy who isn't physically fit. I'm horrible at sexual endeavors and have been accused of being an unwitting whore. It's nice to meet you.)

I lift my head and stare.

It's funny to think that after almost half a year of working for the bloke, Mr. Holmes still doesn't get my name right. I look at him and try to look rebellious. I think I look constipated, so I stop it and just stare. He does not look amused.

"Do you see this?" he asks. I look at him again and make a full-body search. He's holding one of those plastic bags that hold take-out from fast food restaurants and he's wearing the same thing he wears everyday.

(Oh, and the guy's Basil Holmes. He's twenty-something years old and works more jobs than anyone on earth has ever worked. He's the same height as I am but has way more energy. I don't care about his sexual endeavors and I don't know if he's a whore. Don't tell him it's nice to meet him, because all he'll say is "whatever". Trust me.)

I don't see what's wrong with him and I tell him so.

Then he hits me upside the head and scolds me.

I pout.

He frowns.

This is the summary of our conversations, so don't be surprised.

"This," he starts, holding the take-out bag up. "is a bag I retrieved from McDonald's."

I raise a brow and part of me is convinced that this guy is crazy, but I don't say that out loud because that could get me fired, and I need the money. "Okay," I decide on saying, rubbing my chin to make it look like I care when I really wouldn't give a fuck if this was someone else that didn't have power over my employment. "It's a bag you got from McDonald's. What about it?"
Mr. Holmes hits his forehead and I blink because he makes a little noise of frustration. This is him when he thinks I'm nothing more than an unwitting fool who needs an IQ point boost, pronto.

"It's a clue!" he shouts, and my head shows signs of aching. Mr. Holmes emphasized every syllable in 'clue', and the word only has one syllable. This is insane. "This, my dear Marvin--"

"Max."

"--whatever, is the key to our penultimate capture of Rattigan!" he exclaims, and his eyes burn with a fire that could not be quenched by the waters of Poseidon. Wow, since when was I so poetic? I raise a brow and wait for him to continue his rambling. My head's going to hurt desperately at this rate, considering how loud he talks, but I suppose I should be used to it.

"Our peg-legged friend was spotted over at McDonald's, and this will contain his fingerprints, and possibly traces of the areas he's been lately. Naturally, after some examination, we'll be able to pinpoint where exactly..."

My brain turns Mr. Holmes to mute and I smile just a little.

"... this is no time for smiling, Miles! Come, now, we have to experiment!"
Then he's off to the chemical area of the classroom (which I was cleaning before he burst in, because I have a way with a broom), and I get to my feet and follow him like a drunkard walking the streets at three in the morning.

First, he burns part of the bag on a Bunsen burner (which is going to kill the earth, but I don't tell him that), and once it's reduced to some kind of melted piece of crap he puts that in a beaker with a solution that's meant to uncover proteins (Benedict's with some iodine, I think), and it turns a pretty purple color with a hint of blue. I don't know if that's positive but he lets out an 'a-ha!' and marks all sorts of places on the large map on the wall to the right. It's full of X's by the time he finishes all his testing, and then he encircles the last place left. I'm not even sure what the hell it is he's been doing, even though I've been watching the entire time against my will, and then Mr. Holmes puts on his detective outfit and smirks.

"I know where we're to go, Marcus!" he says. "Now, tally ho, get yourself properly dressed. We've got a lead, and we're pursuing it!"

I follow him against my better judgment.

---

At around eleven thirty in the evening, we return and he slumps on the bed in my dorm room because it's nearer than his. I stare down at him and decide to sit on the chair by the desk, sighing a little.

"It was a dead end."

I don't quite understand what it is that makes Mr. Holmes so sad, and he grabs my pillow and throws it at the wall.

I stand.

I pick up the pillow and when I look back at him I see he's curled into a ball, facing away from me.

I lift his head and slide the pillow underneath it.

I hear no 'thank you' or 'I appreciate it', and when I return to my chair, I watch Mr. Holmes' unmoving form for a few minutes. Sometimes he mumbles things like complex equations or the like, and some curses in that English accent of his, and when I realize it's past two in the morning and ask myself where the minutes went, I mumble a quiet 'good night' and lean my head on the desk.

He's still going at it.

---

I'm cleaning the classroom again when Mr. Holmes bursts in with something else.

A pencil, this time.

"Mufasa!" he shouts, and I wince. "Mr. Holmes," I start, standing from my scrubbing of the floor. "Mufasa is a lion."

He, obviously, doesn't give a crap and decides to rant. Now, think back to the day of McDonald's and you'll pretty much know what he's talking about. He rants and he gets my name wrong and he babbles and I wonder when he'll run out of spit or choke on it, whichever comes first. Then we go to the chemical set again and he crosses out areas on the big map (which I bought this morning to replace the abused one from yesterday), and then he yells 'a lead!' and drags me all over the place.

It's pretty much the same.

We fail, he slumps on my room, throws a pillow, curls up, lies down on pillow after I put it under his head, mumbles to himself while I watch, and I sleep while he's still babbling.

This is a routine. It happens for a week, then another week, then stretches to a month. Mr. Holmes has become restless. He has become stressed. When I talk to him he 'shush'es me, and part of me wonders whether this Rattigan means something to him.

I've never felt so mediocre.

---

"Mr. Holmes."

This time it's me who speaks, and I'm standing in front of his slumped form on my bed. He doesn't respond. The nerve of that bastard.

"Mr. Holmes."

One more time. He still doesn't give a crap. I clear my throat.

"Hey, Mr. Holmes?"

No use. My temper wavers and I feel like shaking him back to life just so I know he isn't doing something stupid like trying to stuff his pipe down his throat. Mr. Holmes does not care. I frown.

"Basil."

It's a taboo to say his name, a forbidden incantation never to be uttered. Screams wrap themselves around my bones at the mere speaking of it, and then some kind of sweet warmth fills me from head to toe when he stirs. The mumbling has stopped. I've momentarily succeeded, and I know he's listening. I'm kind of hoping that he won't just fall asleep on me, because the clock on my wall says it's late.

"You have to stop this," I say. He doesn't care. I wonder where the beautiful individual that finds ways to piss me off has gone. "Feeling sorry for yourself is stupid."

I don't know if it makes any difference, but then I retreat back to my chair and sit, and lean my head on the desk and sleep.

I don't feel the blanket around my shoulders.

---

Today is a shitty day.

I know it.

Everyone knows it.

Heck, I think even Mr. Holmes knows it, and he's more or less the shittiest person I know.

But there are little moments that happened today that makes me think, makes me wonder.

Mr. Holmes does not barge in with evidence, and instead walks in and begins yapping and telling me I should do better, and that I've missed a spot on the floor.

The bastard.

So I stand and I tell him I'm trying my best. He only frowns and shakes his head, says he doesn't care, because my best happens to not be good enough. I'm surprised that he has the nerve to say that - after his putting of a blanket on me (I mean, come on, he was the only one in the room at that time and I don't remember sleepwalking to put it on). I thought that somehow we'd resemble more of close friends than bastard teacher and retarded assistant, but obviously, that doesn't happen.

"You're naive to think this is clean, my dear Milla," he says, and I roll my eyes. I'm not even sure I know what naive means, but if my little knowledge of the dictionary is enough, then I definitely don't like what he's talking about.

I yell at him.

He yells at me.

We yell at each other and absorb the other's screams.

And we shout.

And my throat burns.

Then Mr. Holmes reaches into a bag I didn't notice him taking, knocks me down so I'm on the floor, and slides the object he took from said bag. There is a pillow under my head, but it means nothing compared to the pain that radiates from my head to my toe due to the impact with the floor. He's glaring at me and I'm glaring back at him, and then he takes out a piece of paper and writes something in his little annoying mousy scrawl.

'Idiot,' it reads.

I stick my tongue out.

"I'm only trying to help you improve," Mr. Holmes says. I snort. "After last night."

For a minute I wonder if we had sex or something but then remember that he was moping around.

"And you, you foolish boy, decided to yell at me. Why is that?"

And I roll my eyes. "Because you can't do anything social properly," I answer. Mr. Holmes raises a brow. "For one thing," I continue, "You don't just drag poor kids like me around if you want to solve a case. For another thing, you don't mope around in said kid's room without asking. For yet another thing, you sounded annoyed when you told me I missed a spot. And lastly - oh, God - lastly, you just knocked me down on the floor and put a pillow under my head! Mr. Holmes, pardon my French, but what the flying fuck are you doing!?"

He blinks.

I stare.

He laughs.

I stare some more, but I think this time, I'm a little afraid.

A laughing Holmes is a bad Holmes.

"That's not French, Max."

The fact he used my first name correctly is not lost on me. In fact, I think my eyes grew three million times after that. There's just something that hits my heart like an arrow when he says it right, and I open my mouth to speak but cannot find the words. This is crazy, and I'm dreaming. The bastard must have slipped some cocaine into my coffee.

Then he takes out a book and begins rambling about evidence.

The strangeness of all of this is washed down my throat.

---

This time, Mr. Holmes does not slump when he fails. Rather, he frowns and rethinks, and forces me to think with him.

For some reason, after reading countless books and studying the compounds of this element that had a name I can't quite bring to my lips, I ended up against the library shelf with a man kissing me.

Now, I don't know what that's supposed to mean. I mean, I could have pushed him away. He could have been high. I could have tried to get him off of me. He's not normally aggressive, no.

But I didn't.

Instead, when it's over, I roll my eyes and heave myself off the bookshelves, and point at Basil Holmes with a look of defiance. "You," I start. "Kiss horribly."

He raises a brow, and I can feel the determination bubbling underneath his skin.

"You kiss worse," Mr. Holmes says.

Then we're back to normal, and we're babbling and squawking and fighting, and we're kicked out of the library.

I get mad at him, he gets mad at me.

Normal.

---

I tell my dad about that shitty day and he tells me that Mr. Holmes and I act like a married couple.

But you know what? My life's just full of shit.

So I get over it.

And Mr. Holmes tells me to examine a pair of scissors like nothing happened between us.

Fucking hell.

---

I cut his hair while he's sleeping.

[Basil Holmes]

Can I just say.. that I'm in love with you? This story made me giggle, squee, and gasp. It's adorable with bits of it being serious, and holy shit, you made Basil so in character. Sometimes I have trouble with that doctor who owns me, i'm sorry, but you're characterization was just flawless.

<3 You're such a talented gal, Purr~ <3<3<3<3

[Maximillian Goof]

... you're not lying for my sake, are you?
BUT THANK YOU. that's very nice to hear.
i suppose that means i'll be writing more, lol.
=D

[Sydney Lynn Amzy]

[Vanessa Ursula Black]

*le gasp!*

Sydney! I thought we were friends!!!!!

lol

Love it!!!

[Jake Berdemeyer]

Maxie...

I freaking love you so damn much xDD

You and your awesome images rock my world. But mostly you *huggles!*

[Maximillian Goof]

OH MY GOD ISA WTF IS THAT HOLY SHI--
/gets a heart attack and dies a little

but omg that's so amazing. wish i had your talents. D:

AND CONNER GAHHHH I MISS YOUUUUUU
I'M SO GLAD I ROCK YOUR WORLD =DDDD
BECAUSE YOU ROCK MINE ESPECIALLY DURING OUR HONEYMOON UNF UNF
I MEAN WHAT
WHO SAID THAT
EVERYBODY STARE AT MAX TO MAKE HIM FEEL GUILTY

Max: ... D:

[Ariel Marie Triton]

I just eddited this Image but I will be making one with real People soon

Ursula and Flotsam:

Which eel is which? You guess

Freddie's just a tad bit obssessed

[Ariel Marie Triton]

*coughs* Adorable *Coughs*

Now who said that?

Now when stuff like this happens, I fall in lvoe with the IC box X3