Work Text:
All in all, David considered, he would rather be watching cricket than this - the newest American spinoff of yet another series that Martin Freeman had found to be sickeningly appealing in. But Victoria had said she wanted to see it (with that tone in her voice that said she’d rather saw her own leg off without anesthesia, but was obligated to watch as a Commentator on Popular Culture) and so there they were, watching (what a modern couple they were) the show on the Internet. Possibly this had something to do with the sad state of David's television compared to Victoria's computer.
"Why are we watching this?" he asked, yet again, hoping against hope that she would realize there wasn’t a terribly good reason to. He did have to appreciate Victoria's fingers as they elegantly pulled up the vid. Yes, she could pull up videos elegantly, which really seemed to be something against nature. Everything about her was elegant. Not to mention stunningly beautiful. In some ways, it was brilliant; in other ways, it was a bit annoying, as so many stunningly beautiful people were not as wickedly clever and worthwhile as she was, which made her stunning beauty a bit cheap. He wanted to grab her and shake her in front of all of those stunningly beautiful people and say, “Look, just because you are stunningly beautiful doesn’t mean you are as worthwhile as her..."
“It’s supposed to be feminist. That puts it right in my bailiwick.”
“Ah. Really.” Things that were feminist were often interesting. Things that were supposed to be feminist could go either way.
“Yes, they’ve made Watson a woman.” She rolled her eyes. She even managed to do that elegantly. “Yes, Instant Feminism. Take beloved fictional character, add tits. Then add a teaser line implying that they may or may not fuck.” She was probably angry, David reasoned. It was sometimes hard to tell; she always looked stunningly intimidating, her moods simply variants thereof, reflecting underlying emotion. Oh god, he was turning into a love-struck twat, wasn’t he? What was worse, he was enjoying it.
“Well, it could still be interesting?” David said, trying to project some optimism into Victoria’s stern visage. At least he was fairly certain it was stern. David had never had quite her devotion to Conan Doyle - gullible fairy-believer and all. “A woman as a soldier, doctor, chronicler...”
“Yes, that would be nice, but she's not a soldier." Victoria plopped on the bed next to David.
"Why not?”
"I've been trying to find a reason that isn't 'Women aren’t courageous’ or ‘Women are gentle flowers’ or ‘Women can't be trusted with guns.'” She grumbled, “Fuck with Conan Doyle some more, and I’ll show you gentle flowers.” She looked about ready to break a flower pot with her bare hands.
"Well," David said, thoughtfully, “can you be trusted with guns?" Odd, though, didn't Americans love guns? And have a certain phallic appreciation for women bearing guns, like a more socially acceptable strap-on? Were strap-ons still socially unacceptable? David sighed, struck with the helplessness he often felt around Victoria, who had probably even – no, that was not where his mind should go right now.
"Not any less than men," she opined.
"That's a bit of a low bar," David pointed out. "But she's a doctor?”
"A disgraced surgeon.”
"Ah, a - maverick, shaking up the Dull And Correct Way Of Doing Things?" That was a bit annoyingly American. Still…
"No, she made a mistake and killed a person. But she’s generally competent. So they say. I don’t know if our good friend Shirtless Tattooed Sherlock wouldn’t invite her to take a very close examination indeed if he decided to do Dying Detective.”
“Is she a chronicler? A blogger? A writer?”
“We don’t see her actually blogging or writing or chronicling. But she’s an Asian-American! That’s so much more fitting than the original Watson.”
"What's wrong with being Asian-American?" David fidgeted, uncomfortably. They were going to get those shouty e-mails with lots of capital letters if she wrote about this, weren’t they?
"The bit behind the hyphen, of course."
"Ah." David watched for some minutes, as she scribbled notes like Fake Orgasm, New York Deli? and Vat Of Custard and Watson’s Poor Bollocks. What on Earth was she going to write? She hadn’t mentioned doing another porn project. "Do you have a fetish for beards?”
"You wear it better." She rubbed his affectionately.
"So - if she's not a soldier, and not a chronicler, how is she Watson?" David frowned.
Victoria gestured at the screen. "It's in the credits! Didn't you read the credits?”
"Ah." David nodded sagely. “I am lost without my Boswell...” He knew that bit.
“God forbid the alpha character would be a woman,” she replied, tartly.
"So," David said, thoughtfully, as the credits rolled, "is it a bigger change for Watson to have breasts, or for Watson not to be a war hero and competent medically?”
"I've seen Watson as a Scottish terrier, for god's sake, and he was still a proper doctor.”
“Well, what more do you want out of Americans?”
“It’s... it’s more like House, really.” She tapped her teeth. “I think I would like it better if they sold it as reboot of House.”
“So we’re going to blame it all on Hugh?”
“I’m fine to do that.” She stood, stretching. “Argh, good god, this is going to be a keyboard-bashing evening.”
“You could keyboard-bash tomorrow?” David looked up at her with the best sad and wanting look he could merit.
Victoria grinned, leaned down, and kissed him firmly on the lips. “I have to bash something tonight, it might as well be the keyboard.” She straightened, putting away her laptop. “I’ll come by tomorrow. But since you’ve been so kind as to watch this execrable pile of crap with me, I’ll do you a deal. Let’s go see Skyfall when it comes out. I know you like Bond; you’ll enjoy that.” She hooked her fingers into the edges of the door, pulling it open.
“Yes - let’s,” David replied. A Bond movie and Victoria; what could possibly go wrong?