This a Forever Knight Story,
but some characters from Highlander, Star Trek TNG and The Sentinel
decided to pop 'round, too. Because we lampoon what we love.
'Support Group for Fan Fiction Characters
Nick Knight tried not to squirm in his chair. This support group had sounded like a good idea on paper--a place to vent and discuss issues with other characters, but now he was starting to wonder whether he should just go home. Yes, the invitation did say 'informal,' but he'd hoped there'd be some sort of rhyme and reason to the gathering. So far, people only milled about or sat in clusters around the room.
And predictably, Lucien LaCroix sat directly across from him, arms crossed in front of his chest, an amused half-smile on his face. He stared at Nicholas.
Finally Nick could take the scrutiny no more. "LaCroix, why do you keep looking at me like that?"
"Since you ask. . . I was endeavoring to imagine you bald."
Nick blinked. He blinked again. "Why, exactly?"
"Because I was wondering how they'd describe your head. 'The moonlight glinted off his glorious reflective dome. LaCroix stroked the shimmering curvature, moaning in lust.'"
Nick exhaled. "Please, LaCroix."
LaCroix grunted. "Or perhaps Doctor Lambert would realize how the 'roundness of your follicle-free head accentuates your well-formed. . . horseman's ass.'"
"Leave Natalie out of this. I see you're not waiting for the meeting to explore your issues."
"Au contraire. A gentleman named Blair Sandburg was supposed to lead the group this evening, but I'm told he's being kidnapped, beaten, humiliated, raped, tortured and brainwashed as we speak." LaCroix leaned forward and spoke with intensity: "I think we're on our own."
Nick stood. "Why do you say it like that? Can't you just speak normally now and then? As if we're not all tired of hearing about your 'magnificent' voice. Yes, he's the Nightcrawler. Smoky timbre, blah blah blah."
LaCroix stood, dropping his arms to his sides. "How exactly do you expect me to speak, Nicholas?"
Nick shook his head, a little embarrassed by his outburst. "I don't know, LaCroix. It just gets irritating. You could read a McDonald's menu and still sound like you were announcing a list of doomed souls." Nick dropped his voice to a low rasp and spoke slowly: "A cheeseburger Happy. . . Meal. A McChicken, and my children, let us not forget," his voice dropped to an even deeper whisper, "hot, apple, piesssssss."
LaCroix leaned in toward Nicholas, his eyes narrowed, his voice quiet but stern. "At least. I. Enunciate."
Nicholas and LaCroix stared at each other for several seconds. Finally, Nicholas stepped back, shaking his head.
"Nicholas shook his head, his flaxen locks…"
"Stop it, LaCroix! Do you really want to open that door?" Nick looked pointedly at LaCroix' hair.
LaCroix paused, then tilted his head. "Touché, Nicholas."
"Good one, Knight." Don Schanke approached and clapped his partner on the back. He smiled, pleased with himself. "Nothing wrong with losing a little hair, though." He ran his hand over the top of his head. Then he gestured at Jean Luc Picard, who was animatedly arguing with Q, across the room. "Wouldn't want to go quite that far."
The three men watched Picard tried to placate Q, who hovered a few feet above the ground in his squarish throne. "Q," Picard pleaded, "honestly, bondage is well and fine, but I would think an omnipotent being would truly have little use for an anal plug. I'm just saying."
LaCroix seemed to remember that Schanke was standing there. He stared at the smirking man for a few moments and then addressed Nicholas. "Why is he here?"
"He has every right to be here. Don't act like you don't remember, LaCroix. Off the top of my, " he paused, sighed, "head, I remember an airplane ride, and a--"
"Yes, alright. If you say so, Nicholas, but I really can't recall. . . "
"Yoo hoo, in the room." Schanke waved his hands in front of their faces. "No need to talk about me when I'm right here." Schanke looked around. "Anything to eat at this shindig?"
Both vampires regarded him with longsuffering expressions.
"So-rry. Man, you two are touchy tonight. Just be glad we're not from The Sentinel. I heard--"
"We know," Nick said.
Blair Sandburg and Jim Ellison burst through the doors, their argument drawing the attention of everyone in the room.
"I didn't say I was sick of being your partner, I said I was sick of being the 'abused' partner, Jim. Jim, listen to me!" Blair's hair stuck out wildly around his swollen, bruised face. His hands flew like birds as he talked.
Jim looked around, then smiled and held his hand up. "Everyone just carry on as you were, everything's fine. Just keep doing whatever it was that you were doing." He took Blair by the arm. "Come on, Chief, let's talk about this calmly. Simon'll be here soon, and you're already on thin ice with him." They headed for an empty corner, Blair still gesturing wildly.
Nick, Schanke and LaCroix stood quietly for a while, each looking around at the other members of the group. LaCroix made a small sound in the back of his throat. "Actually, the skin on the good Captain's head doesn't shine much at all. At least not in this light. I may have to rethink--"
"LaCroix! That subject's already worn out." Nicholas spoke to LaCroix but looked at Schanke who was laughing to himself, shaking his head.
Schanke realized Nick was watching him. He snorted. "Speaking of the skin on somebody's head and other people getting tired of hearing about it. . . man, oh man." He gestured at an appalled Nicholas, and then he and LaCroix laughed conspiratorially.
Nicholas' pale face grew paler.
LaCroix leaned forward. "Oh yes, Nicholas. I will be the first to admit that as foreskins go, yours is quite delightful. But good god."
Nicholas mouth moved as he searched for something to say, but before he could speak, Schanke took a deep breath and turned to LaCroix.
"You know, since we're doing this. . . I hate your wardrobe. You own that meat-market club, do a weird ball radio show, seem to have plenty of dough, and yet the only things you ever wear are black silk briefs, or god help us all, thongs, and black suits. Black, black, black. Where in the hell do you shop?" Schanke was on a righteous roll. "Oh, and the occasional toga. Toga! Like it's freakin' Animal House or something."
LaCroix tried not to slap the annoying human. "A toga is actually a very efficient piece of clothing commonly worn when I was. . . young. I cannot help what's done with it in the name of popular culture. Besides, it's a far cry better than your ill-fitting, off-the-rack condiment-stained and," LaCroix rolled his eyes, "souvlaki-scented 'garments.'
Nicholas laughed. He laughed harder at the look LaCroix gave him.
"Funny, Nicholas? I'm quite convinced that a toga is also superior to that transparent shift you're often enough seen bobbling about in, confused."
Schanke chimed in again. "Yeah, Knight. I am so tired of hearing about how close we all came to seeing your nuts and bolts. Ooooh, so over it." He squinted and cocked his head. "Hey, where's the john?"
Nick motioned toward the back of the room. Before he could turn on LaCroix, another commotion broke out behind them. When all the shouting finally stopped, one man spun in a circle, seemingly holding everyone at bay for some inapparent reason.
"I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, and there can be only one. Anything else's just nae natural." Duncan's katana reflected the candle flame on the table next to him.
"Oh, MacLeod, there can be only one, my tight immortal ass. I've been having threesomes ever since the Mesopotamians who invented writing were in short pants." Methos sprawled in a chair near the tense highlander and offered him a bottle of beer. "You need to lighten up."
LaCroix and Nick looked at each other. Schanke, fresh from the bathroom, grabbed Nick's arm. "Do you think this thing's still on, because Cohen's expecting us in. . . well we should have been there already."
Blair Sandburg, visibly calmer, with a supporting hand from his partner on his arm, stood and addressed the crowd. "I'm sorry to announce that this meeting will have to be postponed." A collective groan went up from those gathered. "I know, I'm sorry. But so many key people are unable to be here." He put on a small pair of glasses and read from a paper he held in his still slightly shaking hand. "Captain James T. Kirk and Commander Spock of the U.S.S. Enterprise can't make it due to, uh, ponn far. Apparently Dr. McCoy *could* be here, but he prefers to stay because things could get hairy during plak'tow, whatever the heck that is." Blair laughed gently and looked around.
He cleared his throat. "The men of Due South are busy. . . " Blair squinted and gasped, "I'm not going to read that out loud. They're busy. Voyager hasn't found its way back yet, so none of those folks can be here. A Dr. Bashir has sent word that he and some of his friends would have come but someone called Quark wagered several bars of latinum on whether or not the Cardassian tailor could. . . I don't. . . I don't even know what language that is. And the list goes on and on." Blair folded the paper. "Not to mention the incident Jim and I found ourselves in earlier."
Jim rubbed Blair's back.
Blair took a deep breath and continued. "So I'll try to reschedule and send all of you the details. We'll have to plan this for sometime in the near future. Thank you all for coming. Hang in there." Blair leaned his head on Jim's shoulder and sobbed. Bitterly.
"Well, Nicholas." LaCroix looked at Nicholas as if he were somehow responsible.
Nick took a deep breath and shrugged. "I guess we'll just have to deal with things the way we have been, LaCroix."
"Yes." LaCroix' voice softened. He licked his lips. "Indeed."
Schanke looked at them and scratched his head. They just kept staring at each other. Nick was trying not to smile, and failing, and LaCroix was beaming openly. Schanke finally took Nick by the arm and guided him toward the doors. "Knight! Remember Cohen? Boss lady? Waiting and angry? Man, oh man, to think I missed poker night for this. Hey, can I drive?"