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Algy and The Maharani's Jewel


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Coming (reasonably) soon. An addition to Dabeagle's Sanitaria Springs.

“He’s like an excited puppy,” Alan said as they arrived at Gatwick Airport's international departure terminal. Algy was ahead of them pushing a trolley with all their luggage, and kept running and lifting his feet, letting the trolley have its head. Tricky winced as Algy nearly ran into a family that was standing to one side looking lost.
“He’ll get into trouble if he’s not careful,” Tricky said.
“Mmm, do you want to reign him in, then?” Alan asked.
“Me? Are you kidding! I want to join in.” Tricky said and laughed. “Algy!” He called out. Algy and several sets of other people turned to look at him. “Heel!”
“Aww,” Algy grinned as he pushed the trolley over to them. “I was enjoying that. I used to do it at the supermarket, much to Mum and Dad’s annoyance.
“I don’t want to come across as mister maturity,” Alan said, “but Gatwick security aren’t known for their casual attitude. That policeman over there, see? the one with the sub machine gun. Well he’s not looking happy.”
“Should I wave at him?” Algy said, his eyes twinkling mischievously.
“Probably best not,” Alan said, “though you can never tell. It might make his day.”
“Or his year,” Tricky muttered under his breath.

Passport control went without a hitch and they spent a pleasant hour wandering around the duty free. Tricky thought Alan, who traipsed around behind Algy and kept putting things back that he’d put in their basket, was playing the father figure rather too well. Then it occurred to him that in that scenario the only part left was mother. In a mild huff he went to the bar and ordered a beer.
Alan and Algy joined him a little while later and he had to stop himself laughing when the barman demanded to see Algy’s passport.
“I look eighteen, don’t I?” Algy said plaintively, sipping his scotch on the rocks and wrinkling his nose up at the taste. “Blimey, this is beastly.”
“Why order it, then?” Tricky said, taking the proffered glass and adding the contents to his own.
“Well, after that ‘prove your age’ shit I had to order something serious, didn’t I?”
“I suppose.” Tricky said. “Though Alan’s drinking beer. Why not order one of those? You like beer.”
“I do. But Alan wasn’t asked his age, was he?”
Tricky squinted at Algy. “One day, if you don’t mind, you’ll have to explain that logic.”
“Okay, Tricky sahib. Will do.”

They got a last minute upgrade from the Delta agent at the gate and flew business class to New York’s JFK. Alan had had words with Algy on the plane regarding customs procedure and how errant witty remarks could end up with sleeping in a cell. Consequently, Algy was, Tricky was grateful to see, a perfect example of a polite young Englishman abroad. Rather it was Tricky who was subjected to a stern series of questions over his facial piercings and hair colour. Alan, of course, sailed through.
Feeling a little jet lagged they waited an hour for the connecting flight to Binghampton municipal airport. It was a much smaller jet and was cramped compared to the one they’d just flown on. Tricky bagged the window seat, then gave it up as Alan pointed to Algy’s trembling lower lip.
“Anything for the children,” Tricky muttered as he took the seat across the aisle from Alan. He thought he’d lucked out by having an empty seat beside him until an enormous sweating man in a florid shirt sporting a straw cowboy hat puffed up just as the stewardess closed the door. Without a word he squeezed by into the window seat and, just to make Tricky’s day, farted. Tricky was about to speak his mind when he caught Alan grinning at him. “What?” Tricky mouthed.
“Just don’t, alright love. We’re nearly there.” Alan reached across and Tricky grabbed his hand and drank in his lovers face for a moments comfort. He heard the intake of breath from the man beside him.
“Huh, didn’t know they allowed queers on Delta,” the big man said.
“Really?” Tricky turned and gave him the evil eye. “I thought it was bigots they’d banned.”
The stewardess laughed. She’d been walking the aisle checking the overhead compartments were closed and had heard the exchange. “Sadly sir, bigots still have the first amendment to fall back on.”
“Yes, well, we’re not without them in England.” Tricky said.
“Oh, you’re English! I just love your accent. Where are you from? London? I’ve got a friend there. Maybe you know her? Marcy Redman, she lives in Camden Town.”
“Umm, no, sorry. But my friend over there might.” Tricky pointed to Alan who glared back at him as the beaming stewardess turned and began her question again. Tricky closed his eyes and tried his best to doze off.

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Due to unforeseen circumstances--namely someone (who shall be nameless) growing horns (don't ask)--this offering is temporarily on hiatus as something else that was on hiatus is dusted off and finished. This makes complete sense. No really it does. :alien[1]:

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Hmm, rather reminiscent of the line in, of all things, an early Dr Who script where the doctor says the best thing about being a grown up is you can be a child whenever you want.

I was looking forward to reading the rest as like all good stories, a good mental picture of the characters was rapidly emerging without the ultimate turn off, beginning a story with a textual description of the protagonists.

Eric was 5 foot 11, ten and half stone (147 pounds if you are American), brown haired and left handed. He yawned and got out bed...

I mean, who cares?

But if the above means Camy has captured his muse and is currently tickling words for something else out of it, so much the better.

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