by DevilChild
Fandom: My Bodyguard
Rating: Teen
Character: Ricky Linderman (Ricky/Clifford implied)
Author's Note: I recently re-watched this movie. My Beautiful Laundrette may have woken the ho-yay in me, but I think this movie (which I saw when I was about 10) may have planted the seeds. As the years passed, the one thing I always remembered about this movie was that there was an emotionally intense relationship between two teen boys and that a motorcycle was a very important part of it.
The movie's got some clunky moments in it, but on the whole it's good, there's some great acting, and it's got two other things really going for it: It's slashy, and it's also got a 17 year old Adam Baldwin in it. (Baby!Jayne — Squee!)
Copyright and Disclaimer: My Bodyguard is copyright its respective owners. I make no claims to ownership or creation. This bit of not for profit modern folklore (thank you Prof. Jenkins) is mine..
And they do protest loudly when he flops back and groans. He's supposed to meet Clifford in about an hour for dinner. At the Ambassador Hotel. And yeah, he knows that Clifford lives there because his dad's the manager, but still, it's the Ambassador. A five star joint. And the Lindermans are not five star people. Never have been, never will be.
A part of him is shit scared of going and fucking up, of letting everybody down. (Again.) Ricky thinks about not going but ... he promised Clifford. So if he didn't go, well, that's a guaranteed fuckup and let down.
(Clifford's never looked at him like a fuckup, or treated him like one. And Ricky needs that. Needs it like oxygen.)
Ricky opens the closet and takes a look. He's got three ironed shirts waiting on their hangers and ... he's not going to wear the white one.
(He's never wearing it again. It hangs before him like a ghost, the shirt he wore to the funeral. He should throw it out or turn it into a shop rag or something. But he can't. Every time he thinks about it, something won't let him throw it away or put it into the rag bag, even though he knows he's never wearing it again.)
He doesn't think, just takes the hanger with the white shirt and moves it to the other side of the closet with all the broken toys, heavy winter coats, and clothes he's outgrown. Out of sight, out of mind.
(Until the next time he happens to go digging in that side of the closet. That's when it will come back to haunt him.)
That leaves the two other shirts. The light blue one with the super wide collar and pearl snaps, and the white shirt with the thin blue and brown plaid stripe pattern, which he likes better because something about that collar on the blue one has always bothered him.
(It's so wide, it looks like you'd take flight on a windy day.)
He's not wearing the suit coat and pants. They were bought for one reason. Ricky hastily crams them in the other side of the closet where they can keep the white shirt he wore with them with company.
Which means that the only other thing he can wear to a place like the Ambassador is that brown sweater he got last Christmas, and he's got a pair of dress slacks that match, so ... that means the shirt with the brown and blue plaid pattern on it.
He's got to wear the shoes. There's no way he can wear his usual combat boots with nice clothes. He just hopes there's no puddles on the way.
There's also nothing Ricky can do about needing to wear his old green jacket. It's chilly once the sun goes down.
~oo(0)oo~
He wants to look nice.
(He wants to look nice for Clifford. Clifford always looks nice and clean somehow, even when he's all grimy from helping Ricky work on the bike.)
Ricky combs his hair once last time and smooths down the front of the sweater. He looks nice, he thinks — he looks the way people who belong at the Ambassador do.
~oo(0)oo~
Butterflies in his stomach, Ricky jogs down the stairs, hoping to just slip out the door.
No such luck.
"Where you going, Ricky? You look niiiice!" His mother says from her chair in the front room. His dad turns his head and grunts before going back to the game on TV.
"Out," Ricky replies and starts for the door, but his mother gets up and comes over to him, cupping his face, stoking his cheeks with her thumbs. She smiles up at him, big and bright, the way she used to, and Ricky realizes how much he's missed that smile.
(She already smells like gin. But only a little.)
"You look so handsome." Not slurred. She just mostly sounds tired. "Is she a nice girl?"
His face flames. "It's — it's not what you think, Ma. Look, I'm late, I've got to go." He darts for the door before she can ask more questions that he doesn't want to answer.
Questions that would just lead to more questions.
Questions he doesn't have easy answers to.
Questions that skirt the edge of things he doesn't want to admit.
(Even to himself.)
Last Updated: 1/02/09