Fandom: Corybantic Dance 2
Characters: Mike Sorrentino, Donna
Warnings: None, this time
Notes: Donna belongs to my former co-author Haya, but one really can’t write middle-aged Mike without her.
Mike had never imagined himself retreating into suburbia, as his parents had done, before him, but there was something nice about the stability and the white picket fence. His wife was too old for children, but that was fine — Adam’s little princesses were over, often enough to remind them why they didn’t have their own.
Outside, everything had changed. Quentin wasn’t whoring himself out for food and booze, Mike enjoyed his wonderful wife as often as she’d let him, Adam had three little girls. It looked so different from the way things had been, when they were young, but on the inside, everything stayed the same. Quentin was a smart-mouthed kitchen-bitch, Mike was still working a couple nights a week as a bouncer, and Adam was a top 40 shock jock. Some things never changed, they just wore new clothes.
In some ways, Mike missed the days when he used to annoy the piss out of the RomantiGoths, just for fun. No one expected the brick shithouse of a bouncer to be a historian, and yet, he could talk them in knots on the vagaries of time and fashion. Now, there were no more RomantiGoths. The prevalence of seventeenth century ballgowns and Victorian tea gowns had dropped dramatically, to make way for more waves of girls who took more pride in showing off their size zero underwear than in whether that new guy could quote Oscar Wilde. It saddened him, deeply, and sometimes, he considered giving up his side job, bouncing for the Divine. In the end, though, he really just liked heaving ill-mannered assholes out of the bar. He liked it even more when they were his students.
It was like being Batman, he mused. Nineteenth century literature professor, by day, hardassed drunk-mallet, by night. Except he was far less rich or famous than Bruce Wayne, and most of the crime he dealt with was idiots with fake IDs. There were rumours around the school about him, and the English department had less than pleasantly requested that he stop being a bouncer, but Adam’s wife had read them chapter and verse on why it was none of their business, and things went back to the normal level of mutual seething malice. He loved his job, but hated the people he worked for, most of the time. It was unfortunate that there were no true Classics professors, as the department merely borrowed the profs and the classes from its component disciplines. He’d written a letter to the school paper, complaining about that, when he was a graduate student — they hadn’t printed it, it was in Biblical Greek — but as a professor, he understood that it was an excellent method of managing a university’s budget, while still offering enough options to the interested.
He shrugged and sat down on the couch, calling to his wife. "Donna, I’m ready to go when you are!"
Few students were fortunate enough to have professors they liked. Fewer were so fortunate as to marry their favourite professor, and Mike counted himself lucky, in that regard, on a daily basis. Donna, of course, had thought him a moron, when he first asked her out, which, looking back, was a valid assumption, given his failure to finish a sentence without sticking his foot in his mouth, that day. But, she’d grown to accept that he wasn’t just some weird stalker, and in time, had actually fallen for him. And here they were, years later, married and childless in suburbia, and looking forward to a night at the club.
Jasper had really gone all out, for Mike, promising to freak out his whole crowd for one night, and play nothing but old-school Goth, if only Mike and Donna would come out, dressed as the RomantiGoths that Mike so sorely missed. Jasper had threatened to have Spark spotlight them on the dance floor, and introduce them to all the little baby bats, but Mike had looked threatening enough to back him down from that. Of course, knowing Spark… He rolled his eyes and smiled, faintly.
As his mind threatened another tangent, Donna stepped into the living room, dressed in a deep green society skirt and a corseted jacket that Mike assumed Adam had a hand in, somewhere. Below halfway down her neck, Donna hadn’t an unclothed inch of skin, and above the neck, her face was painted like an evil queen’s. Mike’s eyes crossed as he stared, slackjawed.
"Shut your mouth, Mike. You’ll drool on your cravat." Donna smoothed the skirt over her hips. "Is this the sort of thing Jasper was hoping for? Your friends are so odd, sometimes."
"So am I," Mike managed, standing up and taking Donna’s hand. "And I’ll show you just how good you look, later, when it doesn’t matter if your lipstick stays on. Or mine."
"I think this is the first time I’ve seen you in lipstick," Donna commented, fighting back a smile.
Mike rolled his eyes. "Quentin and Spark inflict it on me, occasionally. Usually in the name of some foolishness like tonight."
"What is the point of this evening, anyway?"
"I think Jasper wants us to bring back the long-dead art of fashion sense — which I definitely support. It just confuses me why he didn’t ask Quentin." Mike thought about it for a few moments. "Or, maybe he did, and I’m the fool for not asking."
Donna looked almost disapproving. "Oh, dear. Is Quentin going to be in drag, do you think?"
Mike laughed as he took out his keys and led his wife to the door. "Ten years ago, I would have been sure of it. These days, though? Who knows. I wonder if Colin will come, too. He never was much for going out, especially if Quentin was going to be crazy."
"I do hope Colin’s there. The boy really doesn’t go out enough." Donna took the keys and started toward the car. "What, you didn’t think you were driving, did you?"
"No, I suppose not." Mike shook his head and swept one hand grandly toward the car. "Come, lady, your chariot awaits."