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fan_flashworks2019-07-30 10:37 am
china_shop) wrote in fan_flashworks2019-07-30 10:37 am
Entry tags:
Guardian: fanfiction: we sing to set the world to rights
Title: we sing to set the world to rights
Fandom: Guardian
Rating: G
Length: 1800 words
Notes: team, background established relationship Shen Wei/Zhao Yunlan. Becausetrobadora questioned whether it could be done, and I said, “Challenge accepted!” and then... didn’t quite manage it. But close! (Disclaimer: I’ve only done karaoke once, but I have watched a ton of Kdramas.) Thanks to trobadora for read-through and mergatrude for beta. <3 No warnings.
Prompt note: I do a lot of cryptic crosswords. Sometimes in the clues “flower” means flow-er, something that flows, ie, a river, and “butter” is something that butts, ie, a goat or ram. So for this, think of “shower” as someone who shows or puts on a show or... does karaoke?
Summary: They need to celebrate, to shake off the last week of close calls, and going by Zhu Hong’s choice of entertainment, tonight they want to feel like regular office workers blowing off steam.
The small room is overheated when they arrive, and everyone’s flushed and boisterous from the one or two beers they had before leaving the SID. Pre-loading, Lin Jing had called it. Zhao Yunlan waves Da Qing off the bench seating on one side of the room so he can lie down and stretch out — chief’s privilege — and resists the urge to beckon Shen Wei to be his pillow. Shen Wei would almost certainly refuse, would find the mere invitation inappropriate, given they’re in company. So Zhao Yunlan clumsily wads up his jacket to lean on, folds his good arm behind his head for added comfort and settles in for the evening’s entertainment, glad enough to know Shen Wei is here.
Honestly, Zhao Yunlan’s surprised he agreed to come at all; he’s more comfortable with the team than he used to be, but he still prefers the quiet life to noisy crowded spaces. But tonight Zhu Hong had insisted on karaoke, and when Zhao Yunlan swept Shen Wei along with the others, he acquiesced without complaint.
Maybe because their latest case had proven more challenging than usual. Xiao Guo and Zhu Hong were both knocked unconscious in the last week, and Zhao Yunlan himself is sporting a few scrapes and bruises and a banged-up shoulder from being dangled over a four-storey drop. But this afternoon they arrested the Dixingren woman, after the Envoy slayed her pack of trained youchu in a perilous confrontation. Everyone from the SID is still standing, the foul-smelling youchu blood has been scrubbed and showered away, and Zhao Yunlan’s sling is mostly for show. So they need to celebrate, to shake off the last week of close calls, and going by Zhu Hong’s choice of entertainment, tonight they want to feel like regular office workers blowing off steam.
Maybe Shen Wei, ever protective, isn’t ready to let them out of his sight yet. He sits by Zhao Yunlan’s head, within easy reach, though he doesn’t take advantage of the proximity and the flashing party lights to make contact.
Zhu Hong and Lin Jing are already scrolling through the song catalogue, calling out suggestions to people.
Everyone’s here. Even Wang Zheng and Sang Zan who rarely leave the SID came along. Even Lao Chu. Only Lao Li stayed behind to keep an eye on things and answer the phone.
Zhu Hong kicks off the singing with a pop song Zhao Yunlan doesn’t recognise. She can’t reach the low notes, but it’s a spirited performance and provides enough of a distraction that Zhao Yunlan can casually scooch up the bench an inch or two until his elbow brushes Shen Wei’s hip. Shen Wei doesn’t move away; if anything, he subtly presses back. Okay, then. Maybe they’re all still a little rattled.
Da Qing hands Zhao Yunlan a beer, and Zhao Yunlan rests it on his sternum and taps his thumb against the bottle in time to the music. He doesn't feel like getting drunk, and that’s only partly because he’s not supposed to mix alcohol with these painkillers, but the bottle is pleasantly cool in his hand, and it makes it look like he’s part of the party.
Of course, Shen Wei makes no such concession, but he’s as dressed down as he gets — no tie, no sleeve garters. And he’s smiling as he listens to Da Qing butcher a song that must be older than Zhao Yunlan because Zhao Yunlan remembers it from his mother’s record collection.
Shen Wei’s not the only one not drinking — Sang Zan recently discovered soda and is getting hopped up on sugar instead of alcohol — but even without that, it really does feel like Shen Wei belongs. It’s obvious he doesn’t particularly enjoy the general wash of singing and shouting and the loud music — it doesn’t hype him up like it’s designed to — but by Zhao Yunlan’s reckoning he’s not sitting there wishing he could leave. He’s happy to be with them, with everyone safe. Happy to be with Zhao Yunlan.
That thought, the likely truth of it, makes it difficult to keep his hands to himself — he wants to twine their fingers together, to anchor Shen Wei in Zhao Yunlan’s life — and he’s so busy thinking about that, he’s caught off-guard when Wang Zheng waves the microphone in his face.
“It’s your turn, Chief Zhao,” she says, looking as determined as the Black-Cloaked Envoy himself.
“Fine, fine. Just don’t expect me to get up for it.” Zhao Yunlan tucks his beer on the seat, between him and the seatback, and takes the mic, all without losing his probably-not-as-discreet-as-he-thinks contact with Shen Wei.
Da Qing chooses him a song with too much range, no doubt to torment him, and Zhao Yunlan cheerfully half-arses his way through from the comfort of his horizontal position. His team, with the predictable Dixingren exception, are kind enough to cheer his efforts, and then Wang Zheng retrieves the mic and hands it to Sang Zan, who turns it this way and that, curious to see how it works.
Wang Zheng saves them all from a drunken explanation of electronics and soundwaves from Lin Jing. She mutes the music on the karaoke machine, and she and Sang Zan sing a sweet, lilting song, no doubt dating back to their former lives with the Hanga tribe. Even Shen Wei enjoys that; Zhao Yunlan can sense his attention, grins when Shen Wei joins in the general applause at the end.
Next up is Xiao Guo with a goofy ballad. He does surprisingly all right. Either the beers he’s consumed have calmed his nerves, or he’s done enough karaoke in his young life that he’s learnt to relax and just have fun. When he finishes, he holds the microphone out in front of him, and his eyes dart to Shen Wei. Zhao Yunlan can practically feel Shen Wei preparing to politely refuse, so gives a tiny shake of his head, and wonder of wonders, Xiao Guo takes the hint. He bounces over to Lao Chu instead.
Zhao Yunlan expects Lao Chu to be as reluctant to participate as Shen Wei, if only out of deference to the Envoy’s presence, but after the customary Chu Shuzhi glower and some pleading and puppy eyes from Xiao Guo, with the others lending their support (“Everyone takes a turn. No exceptions,” says Wang Zheng), Lao Chu surprises them all with a heartfelt, professional-quality rendition of a song from the soundtrack of a recent action movie.
They all fall silent to listen, stunned to see Lao Chu actually emoting. Xiao Guo’s eyes are so wide, there’s a chance they’ll fall out of their sockets.
The applause at the end is uproarious and prolonged, so nearly everyone’s still paying attention when Lao Chu comes over and respectfully offers the microphone to Shen Wei.
The gang hold their collective breath, but Zhao Yunlan can predict how it will go even before Shen Wei calmly accepts the metaphorical baton. After all, this is one Dixing warrior to another, and Lao Chu is a lot of things — among them, one hell of a grumpy bastard — but there’s no question he knows and respects the Envoy; he wouldn’t put Shen Wei on the spot if Shen Wei wasn’t more than halfway likely to go along with it.
Zhao Yunlan can only assume that Dixing, like most other societies from before the days of microphones and karaoke bars, has a tradition of social singing, everyone taking their turn to entertain. Shen Wei probably hasn’t participated in many of those occasions, given his status and his reserve, but it can’t be a foreign concept to him.
The karaoke machine has started playing a random song by default, and a nonsensical combination of images display on the screen. Zhao Yunlan decides to stick his oar in. “You want Da Qing to cue something up?”
In his estimation, there’s zero chance Shen Wei will sing a modern pop song, or even any of the old-fashioned Haixing tunes they keep in the catalogue for grandpas and grandmas, but Shen Wei, Professor Shen, the Envoy, has surprised him before.
This time he smiles. “No, thank you.”
Da Qing takes the hint and mutes the machine, and Lin Jing already has his phone out, clearly recording, when Shen Wei raises the mic and starts to sing.
It’s a simple, haunting tune, like nothing Zhao Yunlan’s heard before. Probably as ancient as the hills, maybe older than Shen Wei himself.
Remember the fallen
Those who yesterday shared our campfire
Those who yesterday fought at our sides.
They lived well
They died with honour
Remember the fallen
And fight on for the living.
By halfway through, Lao Chu is singing along, as if that’s how it’s done, so when Shen Wei finishes, Zhao Yunlan nudges him and says, “One more time?” and this go around, one by one, they all join in, stumbling over the words a little, but following Shen Wei’s lead.
It’s not exactly a performance, and more sobering and ominous than celebratory, but Zhao Yunlan is delighted nonetheless. His people, his family singing together. Shen Wei willing to bend and compromise, and the rest of the SID meeting him halfway. Zhao Yunlan has to laugh to disguise the bloom of warm, honest pleasure in his heart.
The song dies away, and after a few moments’ silence — because it doesn’t seem right to applaud — Wang Zheng retrieves the microphone, and Lin Jing takes the stage for something indie and upbeat that makes several of the others dance in their seats. Zhao Yunlan doesn’t bother paying attention.
“Why did you laugh?” asks Shen Wei, quietly, just for Zhao Yunlan’s ears.
“Because I’m glad you’re here,” Zhao Yunlan tells him.
Shen Wei doesn’t answer, but he reaches across and adjusts Zhao Yunlan’s sling, re-positioning his arm and smoothing the fabric, an unnecessary gesture that Zhao Yunlan takes as a caress.
And when Lin Jing wraps up his number, Xiao Guo says, “Hong-jie, are there traditional Snake Tribe songs? Would you sing one of those?” and Da Qing starts talking about old Cat songs he learned as a kitten, but Wang Zheng beats him to the microphone and announces another Hanga tune, tells everyone they have to sing along for the refrain.
Zhao Yunlan laughs again. They’re terrible at pretending to be ordinary office workers, his people; there’s nothing ordinary about them. But the tension from their misadventures has subsided, and their laughter and chatter sounds less strained now they’re not battling the karaoke machine to be heard. He closes his eyes and lets Wang Zheng’s folk song wash over him, enjoying the company, aware of Shen Wei beside him. Making the best of this breathing space before the next case rears its head.
END
Fandom: Guardian
Rating: G
Length: 1800 words
Notes: team, background established relationship Shen Wei/Zhao Yunlan. Because
trobadora questioned whether it could be done, and I said, “Challenge accepted!” and then... didn’t quite manage it. But close! (Disclaimer: I’ve only done karaoke once, but I have watched a ton of Kdramas.) Thanks to trobadora for read-through and mergatrude for beta. <3 No warnings.Prompt note: I do a lot of cryptic crosswords. Sometimes in the clues “flower” means flow-er, something that flows, ie, a river, and “butter” is something that butts, ie, a goat or ram. So for this, think of “shower” as someone who shows or puts on a show or... does karaoke?
Summary: They need to celebrate, to shake off the last week of close calls, and going by Zhu Hong’s choice of entertainment, tonight they want to feel like regular office workers blowing off steam.
The small room is overheated when they arrive, and everyone’s flushed and boisterous from the one or two beers they had before leaving the SID. Pre-loading, Lin Jing had called it. Zhao Yunlan waves Da Qing off the bench seating on one side of the room so he can lie down and stretch out — chief’s privilege — and resists the urge to beckon Shen Wei to be his pillow. Shen Wei would almost certainly refuse, would find the mere invitation inappropriate, given they’re in company. So Zhao Yunlan clumsily wads up his jacket to lean on, folds his good arm behind his head for added comfort and settles in for the evening’s entertainment, glad enough to know Shen Wei is here.
Honestly, Zhao Yunlan’s surprised he agreed to come at all; he’s more comfortable with the team than he used to be, but he still prefers the quiet life to noisy crowded spaces. But tonight Zhu Hong had insisted on karaoke, and when Zhao Yunlan swept Shen Wei along with the others, he acquiesced without complaint.
Maybe because their latest case had proven more challenging than usual. Xiao Guo and Zhu Hong were both knocked unconscious in the last week, and Zhao Yunlan himself is sporting a few scrapes and bruises and a banged-up shoulder from being dangled over a four-storey drop. But this afternoon they arrested the Dixingren woman, after the Envoy slayed her pack of trained youchu in a perilous confrontation. Everyone from the SID is still standing, the foul-smelling youchu blood has been scrubbed and showered away, and Zhao Yunlan’s sling is mostly for show. So they need to celebrate, to shake off the last week of close calls, and going by Zhu Hong’s choice of entertainment, tonight they want to feel like regular office workers blowing off steam.
Maybe Shen Wei, ever protective, isn’t ready to let them out of his sight yet. He sits by Zhao Yunlan’s head, within easy reach, though he doesn’t take advantage of the proximity and the flashing party lights to make contact.
Zhu Hong and Lin Jing are already scrolling through the song catalogue, calling out suggestions to people.
Everyone’s here. Even Wang Zheng and Sang Zan who rarely leave the SID came along. Even Lao Chu. Only Lao Li stayed behind to keep an eye on things and answer the phone.
Zhu Hong kicks off the singing with a pop song Zhao Yunlan doesn’t recognise. She can’t reach the low notes, but it’s a spirited performance and provides enough of a distraction that Zhao Yunlan can casually scooch up the bench an inch or two until his elbow brushes Shen Wei’s hip. Shen Wei doesn’t move away; if anything, he subtly presses back. Okay, then. Maybe they’re all still a little rattled.
Da Qing hands Zhao Yunlan a beer, and Zhao Yunlan rests it on his sternum and taps his thumb against the bottle in time to the music. He doesn't feel like getting drunk, and that’s only partly because he’s not supposed to mix alcohol with these painkillers, but the bottle is pleasantly cool in his hand, and it makes it look like he’s part of the party.
Of course, Shen Wei makes no such concession, but he’s as dressed down as he gets — no tie, no sleeve garters. And he’s smiling as he listens to Da Qing butcher a song that must be older than Zhao Yunlan because Zhao Yunlan remembers it from his mother’s record collection.
Shen Wei’s not the only one not drinking — Sang Zan recently discovered soda and is getting hopped up on sugar instead of alcohol — but even without that, it really does feel like Shen Wei belongs. It’s obvious he doesn’t particularly enjoy the general wash of singing and shouting and the loud music — it doesn’t hype him up like it’s designed to — but by Zhao Yunlan’s reckoning he’s not sitting there wishing he could leave. He’s happy to be with them, with everyone safe. Happy to be with Zhao Yunlan.
That thought, the likely truth of it, makes it difficult to keep his hands to himself — he wants to twine their fingers together, to anchor Shen Wei in Zhao Yunlan’s life — and he’s so busy thinking about that, he’s caught off-guard when Wang Zheng waves the microphone in his face.
“It’s your turn, Chief Zhao,” she says, looking as determined as the Black-Cloaked Envoy himself.
“Fine, fine. Just don’t expect me to get up for it.” Zhao Yunlan tucks his beer on the seat, between him and the seatback, and takes the mic, all without losing his probably-not-as-discreet-as-he-thinks contact with Shen Wei.
Da Qing chooses him a song with too much range, no doubt to torment him, and Zhao Yunlan cheerfully half-arses his way through from the comfort of his horizontal position. His team, with the predictable Dixingren exception, are kind enough to cheer his efforts, and then Wang Zheng retrieves the mic and hands it to Sang Zan, who turns it this way and that, curious to see how it works.
Wang Zheng saves them all from a drunken explanation of electronics and soundwaves from Lin Jing. She mutes the music on the karaoke machine, and she and Sang Zan sing a sweet, lilting song, no doubt dating back to their former lives with the Hanga tribe. Even Shen Wei enjoys that; Zhao Yunlan can sense his attention, grins when Shen Wei joins in the general applause at the end.
Next up is Xiao Guo with a goofy ballad. He does surprisingly all right. Either the beers he’s consumed have calmed his nerves, or he’s done enough karaoke in his young life that he’s learnt to relax and just have fun. When he finishes, he holds the microphone out in front of him, and his eyes dart to Shen Wei. Zhao Yunlan can practically feel Shen Wei preparing to politely refuse, so gives a tiny shake of his head, and wonder of wonders, Xiao Guo takes the hint. He bounces over to Lao Chu instead.
Zhao Yunlan expects Lao Chu to be as reluctant to participate as Shen Wei, if only out of deference to the Envoy’s presence, but after the customary Chu Shuzhi glower and some pleading and puppy eyes from Xiao Guo, with the others lending their support (“Everyone takes a turn. No exceptions,” says Wang Zheng), Lao Chu surprises them all with a heartfelt, professional-quality rendition of a song from the soundtrack of a recent action movie.
They all fall silent to listen, stunned to see Lao Chu actually emoting. Xiao Guo’s eyes are so wide, there’s a chance they’ll fall out of their sockets.
The applause at the end is uproarious and prolonged, so nearly everyone’s still paying attention when Lao Chu comes over and respectfully offers the microphone to Shen Wei.
The gang hold their collective breath, but Zhao Yunlan can predict how it will go even before Shen Wei calmly accepts the metaphorical baton. After all, this is one Dixing warrior to another, and Lao Chu is a lot of things — among them, one hell of a grumpy bastard — but there’s no question he knows and respects the Envoy; he wouldn’t put Shen Wei on the spot if Shen Wei wasn’t more than halfway likely to go along with it.
Zhao Yunlan can only assume that Dixing, like most other societies from before the days of microphones and karaoke bars, has a tradition of social singing, everyone taking their turn to entertain. Shen Wei probably hasn’t participated in many of those occasions, given his status and his reserve, but it can’t be a foreign concept to him.
The karaoke machine has started playing a random song by default, and a nonsensical combination of images display on the screen. Zhao Yunlan decides to stick his oar in. “You want Da Qing to cue something up?”
In his estimation, there’s zero chance Shen Wei will sing a modern pop song, or even any of the old-fashioned Haixing tunes they keep in the catalogue for grandpas and grandmas, but Shen Wei, Professor Shen, the Envoy, has surprised him before.
This time he smiles. “No, thank you.”
Da Qing takes the hint and mutes the machine, and Lin Jing already has his phone out, clearly recording, when Shen Wei raises the mic and starts to sing.
It’s a simple, haunting tune, like nothing Zhao Yunlan’s heard before. Probably as ancient as the hills, maybe older than Shen Wei himself.
Remember the fallen
Those who yesterday shared our campfire
Those who yesterday fought at our sides.
They lived well
They died with honour
Remember the fallen
And fight on for the living.
By halfway through, Lao Chu is singing along, as if that’s how it’s done, so when Shen Wei finishes, Zhao Yunlan nudges him and says, “One more time?” and this go around, one by one, they all join in, stumbling over the words a little, but following Shen Wei’s lead.
It’s not exactly a performance, and more sobering and ominous than celebratory, but Zhao Yunlan is delighted nonetheless. His people, his family singing together. Shen Wei willing to bend and compromise, and the rest of the SID meeting him halfway. Zhao Yunlan has to laugh to disguise the bloom of warm, honest pleasure in his heart.
The song dies away, and after a few moments’ silence — because it doesn’t seem right to applaud — Wang Zheng retrieves the microphone, and Lin Jing takes the stage for something indie and upbeat that makes several of the others dance in their seats. Zhao Yunlan doesn’t bother paying attention.
“Why did you laugh?” asks Shen Wei, quietly, just for Zhao Yunlan’s ears.
“Because I’m glad you’re here,” Zhao Yunlan tells him.
Shen Wei doesn’t answer, but he reaches across and adjusts Zhao Yunlan’s sling, re-positioning his arm and smoothing the fabric, an unnecessary gesture that Zhao Yunlan takes as a caress.
And when Lin Jing wraps up his number, Xiao Guo says, “Hong-jie, are there traditional Snake Tribe songs? Would you sing one of those?” and Da Qing starts talking about old Cat songs he learned as a kitten, but Wang Zheng beats him to the microphone and announces another Hanga tune, tells everyone they have to sing along for the refrain.
Zhao Yunlan laughs again. They’re terrible at pretending to be ordinary office workers, his people; there’s nothing ordinary about them. But the tension from their misadventures has subsided, and their laughter and chatter sounds less strained now they’re not battling the karaoke machine to be heard. He closes his eyes and lets Wang Zheng’s folk song wash over him, enjoying the company, aware of Shen Wei beside him. Making the best of this breathing space before the next case rears its head.
END
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