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Fandom: Don Juan DeMarco

Title: The Prodigal and Another Fine Mess
Fandom: Don Juan DeMarco. The official tagline is "A very-nearly-porn starring Johnny Depp and Marlon Brando!" but of course that is somewhat misleading. (Okay, not really.) It's a sweet, funny movie that is very nearly porn in which Depp touts himself as the World's Greatest Lover, and Brando is determined to get his title back. (Seriously, "World's Greatest Lover"? Coffee-cup material. Also, t-shirts.)
Characters/Pairings: Don Juan and Jack/Marilyn; Don Juan and OC
Rating: PG for both
Disclaimer: Not mine. Also, Another Fine Mess is from years ago, so I cannot be held accountable. The statute of limitations, blah blah blah.
Summary(s):(The Prodigal) He traded in the cape for some jeans, the accent for freedom. Don Juan returns to an island he remembers keenly, where the love of his life waits for him forever. The couple on their second honeymoon are just along for the ride. (Another Fine Mess) Madness isn’t always as sudden as we might think. Before his sessions with Dr. Mickler, there were some telling moments with a different psychiatrist, who treated him— differently.
Interesting Fact: First movie I ever saw Brando in, about five or so years ago. Mostly my reaction was, "Huh." Then, about halfway through, there's a picture of him when young, looking vaguely like Vince Vaughn. Rapidly, my reaction turned to, "Hmmm..." LITTLE DID I KNOW.

The Prodigal

They’re waiting in line, patiently. Mrs. Mickler has her arm slung around Dr. Mickler’s broad back, her other hand tucked in her jeans pocket. Her hat sits on her luggage, ready for action, ready to be snatched up and deposited on her head, should the sun make its way through the clouds outside.

Dr. Mickler shakes his heavy head, muttering something under his breath, and Mrs. Mickler— who is understandably excited about the whole thing— tucks in closer to him, whispers something against his chest and giggles like a teenager. At which Dr. Mickler smiles himself, bends stiffly to grab his luggage, slaps his wife on the rump, and moves forward in line.

Don Juan touches a finger to his upper lip, picks up Mrs. Mickler’s bag for her, holding the wide-brimmed hat. “You two, uh, you remind me of the Walrus and the Carpenter. That old poem? In, um— in a good way.”

Mrs. Mickler beams at him. She looks like a woman who has been given a present. Probably her husband, who tosses a glance over his shoulder now and gestures them forward.

“Where’s this, uh, accent I’ve heard so much about, Johnny?”

He swallows, thinks of the pills sliding down his throat, of the ebbing desire to take on the world in mano a mano sword combat. One on one. One by one. “Gone, I guess.”

“Missing,” she corrects him, and he wonders who has been taking lessons from whom— Mrs. Mickler from Dr. Mickler, or the other way around. There’s authority in her voice. “Not gone. Just— missing.”

She pats him affectionately on the shoulder, much the same way she does to her husband. He smiles.


They advance together to Dr. Mickler’s side. He’s tapping the edges of his credit card on the counter, turning it over and over. He’s already told the lady behind the counter the name of the island— she’s computing prices, likelihoods, exigencies, exit plans.

“We can set you down at Port George— from there you hire a boat. Half hour trip by water. Or jet ski. Fifteen minutes.” She grins at Dr. Mickler, who grins back till his wife gives him a look. Then he coughs.

“We’ll, ah, we’ll catch a boat. Tell me, how’s the weather down there?”

“Beautiful,” she assures him.

One eyebrow raises above deep-set eyes, and he looks a bit skeptical. “You can tell me without even checking?”

She nods, brightly. “It’s always beautiful, sir.”

“Hear that?” he murmurs to his wife, who again is slung around him. She used to hang on him like this when they were young, too, before the marriage. When he took her to drive-ins and threw popcorn at her and laughed and laughed at W. C. Fields. “Always beautiful.”

“Mm-hmm,” says Mrs. Mickler, holding back a laugh. Don Juan coughs into his hand, sniffs, puts his hand in his pocket. What baggage he has is nearly negligible, but he has plenty of coins, to pay for postage, to send post cards to the doubters back home. The only believers he knows are right in front of him.

“Three of you?” The girl behind the counter is back to business.

Dr. Mickler swings a finger at himself, at Mrs. Mickler, at Don Juan, behind them. “Three of us.”

“Right.” She accepts his credit card, plays with the mouse a moment. “It’s a small plane. Two seats on either side. A and B, C and D. Shall we put your son across the aisle from you, say, C?”

Dr. Mickler smiles. Lifts one of his great shoulders in a shrug. Doesn’t glance at Don Juan, who is smiling a little himself.

“Close enough,” says the doctor.

“Gracias, senorita,” says the patient.

Outside, the sun has broken through the clouds. Dr. Mickler appropriates his wife’s hat, and she chases him across the tarmac towards the waiting plane, both of them whooping like children. Don Juan observes the skies closely, and agrees that the weather will most likely be beautiful. There are clouds all about now, of course; but there’s a promising glow on the horizon.

Another Fine Mess

She was, of course, beautiful— all women were, in his eyes. He would often expound on the subject, usually without having been asked to do so. He couldn’t help it— the sound of his own voice was just as seductive to himself as it was to everyone else. Indeed, it was a danger while driving; he could not sing along with the radio for fear he would pass out from sheer desire. After the third car was totaled, he decided he had to do something about it.

Which was how he ended up here, talking to a female psychiatrist with keen eyes and slightly-greying dark hair. She settled forward on her chair and scrutinized him, waggling her pencil in his direction.

“Nice costume.”

He swept her a bow. “Thank you, very much.”

“Nice accent.”

“I know.” A small smile accompanied this, and he turned around to look for a place to sit.

“Nice butt.”

“I work out.”

“I hope you don’t think this violates the patient-doctor relationship—”

He found a seat on the edge of the couch and swirled his cloak around him, sinking gracefully onto the faux-leather surface. “My dear, violation is not an issue.”

“But you are quite possibly the prettiest man I have ever seen. Certainly the prettiest I’ve ever had as a client. My name is Dr. Boomer, I’ll be asking you impertinent questions for the next forty-five minutes. Now, suppose you start by telling me what’s going on in your life? Lets start with—” She flicked her gaze to the notepad she held in her hand. “Your childhood in Meh-hico? Where, precisely, is this ‘Meh-hico’? Somewhere near Brazil?”

“It is a large country directly beneath the United States of America,” he said, and she frowned at him thoughtfully for a moment.

The pencil was tilted at him again.

“You have an accent.”


“That explains it, thank you.” She scribbled on the paper, a definite action of crossing out a certain word and writing “Mexico, of course!” over it. “A bit hard to understand there, um— so, childhood in Mehi— Mexico, and living—” She squinted at her notes. “This can’t be right. ‘Living la vida loca’?”

“Si,” said Don Juan in dulcet tones. Her eyes flicked up to him and then back down again.

“I see,” she said carefully. “Care to— add to that?”

“I could give you names and addresses,” said Don Juan, “if that would help.”

She gulped. “No, probably not.”

“My dear doctor, the real reason I am here is because I am having issues.”


Don Juan took a deep breath before launching into his story. “Dr. Boomer, if that is your real name— and it is not quite on par with your beauty, I must tell you— I have a serious problem. There are women following me around, all the time. They get under my feet, like a very affectionate cat who happens to be shapely and seductive. They faint at my door. They steal my undergarments. I have no problem with a woman wishing to get close to me, Senora Boomer— in fact, I relish the thought. I relish it a great deal, you understand. But— so many at once! After all, I only have so many hands.”

“Hands,” repeated Dr. Boomer faintly.

Don Juan de Marco glanced up at her briefly and gave a wicked smile.

“What I need to know, Doctor, is what I do about this plague of femininity. I realize that I am irresistible, of course, and I have no wish to change that, honestly—”

“Oh, good,” said Dr. Boomer.

“I just wonder if there is some sort of— something you can do for me, to cope with it all. Its interrupting my sleeping habits.”

“I can imagine.”

“I am at a loss for perhaps the first time in my life.” Don Juan spread his arms to either side and looked sadly dramatic. “I need your help, Doctor— Doctor—?”

With a concentrated effort, she managed to make her eyes focus on something other than the pale white lines that delineated his mouth. Instead she focused on his cherrydark eyes, sinking gradually further and further into them. This as well was not a good idea, and so she dragged her eyes downwards, just barely managing to escape the lure of his lips and tilting her head to examine the strong line of his jaw. Such skin! Such delicacy of shape! Such sudden suspicion.

“You weren’t born a woman, were you?” she demanded abruptly. Don Juan blinked at her for a moment.

“I understand where you are coming from,” he said at last. “And I cannot but admit that I have, on occasion, gotten that reaction before. It is true, I am pretty.”

“Very pretty. Are you sure there’s not a Dona Juanita in your past?”

“There are many Donas in my past,” he assured her, “but I have not actually been any of them. I am not and have never been a woman. Indeed, the closest I have come is the occasional slipping-on of a friend’s underwear.”

It took a minute for her to reorganize her thoughts. Nevermind the underwear comment— it was important to realign her thinking in order to encompass the fact that, for Don Juan, “friend” meant “occasional lover.” Something in her girl-power mind made her try to be irritated about this, but she didn’t quite manage. It didn’t make things better that Don Juan leaned in close and whispered to her.

“I understand how you feel,” he said, voice smooth and silky. “I understand that were it not for the patient-doctor relationship, you would find it difficult to restrain yourself. Fear not— I am quite used to this reaction. It happens all the time, and I tell you now that if you are willing to overlook the possibility of being sued for making love to a patient, then I am willing to overlook the possibility of your being sued for letting me make love to you. Have we an accord?”

With a slightly dizzy sigh, her eyes slid up into her skull and she collapsed on the carpet.

Don Juan sighed testily and regarded her prone form, tapping his fingers together thoughtfully. Finally he shook his head.

“Need more practice,” he muttered. “It shall make perfect, after all— perhaps I may be tended to by a man, next time— that should be less hazardous— ”

Stepping over the body of his sixth straight psychiatrist, he headed for the door.



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