(no subject)
Characters: Sidney Crosby/Jordan Staal (Pittsburgh Penguins)
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Real people, all lies, non-profit, don't sue.
A/N: this is how i deal with the pens completely destroying the wings (whyyyy?! DDD;). i don't know whether or not i should continue or whatnot, so let me know. i might do some sort of small series of loosely connected stories or something.
"I think I want ice cream tonight."
Sidney felt himself slowly turn his head towards Jordan, blink twice, and stare. Jordan simply continued looking through his phone, absent-mindedly adjusting his seatbelt. Sidney stared as Jordan wrestled out of his coat, licked his lips, continued checking his messages, and finally looked back at him. His hands with the keys were resting near the ignition. Jordan stared back.
"What."
It was a statement more than a question. Sidney ran his free hand through the hair at the back of his head, cracked his knuckles against his neck, and set it on the wheel at the bottom, trying desperately to look nonchalant. He found himself muttering, "nothing, just that--"
"It's Thursday. So?"
The audacity. Sidney found himself clenching his fingers around the wheel instead of just drumming them against as before, mentally rebuking, "because it's Thursday. Because Thursday means milkshakes, and Friday is ice cream. It's tradition."
"It's tradition," he muttered once more. Tradition, custom, ritual--
"I want ice cream," Jordan restated, going back to his phone, furiously mashing into the buttons at lightening speeds. Sidney felt the keys in his hands turn warm and his hands sweat a cold sweat. He recounted the post-home-game schedule: Monday was chili fries, Tuesday was root beer floats, Wednesday was burritos, Thursday was milkshakes, Friday was ice cream.
"Okay," he mumbled, unclenching his fingers and switching the keys to that hand. He wiped his other hand on his knee before returning the keys back to the previous hand, taking a moment to pick the key out again. They rattled in his hand as he continued his mantra, "yeah. Okay." He jammed the key into the ignition, the quiet murmur of the radio filling the car along with more button mashing. Sidney punched the radio volume with his thumb, muting the sound. And suddenly it was quiet, as Jordan flipped his phone closed, throwing it in the passenger side pocket. Sidney let his hand rest on the keys.
"Sid?"
"Yeah."
Jordan's hand warm against his arm, connection feeling good, eyes right on his, questioning, piercing his soul--
"You're way in your head. What's got you scared?"
Sidney felt his face grow warm as he shook his arm off, laughed, and turned the car on.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Real people, all lies, non-profit, don't sue.
A/N: this is how i deal with the pens completely destroying the wings (whyyyy?! DDD;). i don't know whether or not i should continue or whatnot, so let me know. i might do some sort of small series of loosely connected stories or something.
"I think I want ice cream tonight."
Sidney felt himself slowly turn his head towards Jordan, blink twice, and stare. Jordan simply continued looking through his phone, absent-mindedly adjusting his seatbelt. Sidney stared as Jordan wrestled out of his coat, licked his lips, continued checking his messages, and finally looked back at him. His hands with the keys were resting near the ignition. Jordan stared back.
"What."
It was a statement more than a question. Sidney ran his free hand through the hair at the back of his head, cracked his knuckles against his neck, and set it on the wheel at the bottom, trying desperately to look nonchalant. He found himself muttering, "nothing, just that--"
"It's Thursday. So?"
The audacity. Sidney found himself clenching his fingers around the wheel instead of just drumming them against as before, mentally rebuking, "because it's Thursday. Because Thursday means milkshakes, and Friday is ice cream. It's tradition."
"It's tradition," he muttered once more. Tradition, custom, ritual--
"I want ice cream," Jordan restated, going back to his phone, furiously mashing into the buttons at lightening speeds. Sidney felt the keys in his hands turn warm and his hands sweat a cold sweat. He recounted the post-home-game schedule: Monday was chili fries, Tuesday was root beer floats, Wednesday was burritos, Thursday was milkshakes, Friday was ice cream.
"Okay," he mumbled, unclenching his fingers and switching the keys to that hand. He wiped his other hand on his knee before returning the keys back to the previous hand, taking a moment to pick the key out again. They rattled in his hand as he continued his mantra, "yeah. Okay." He jammed the key into the ignition, the quiet murmur of the radio filling the car along with more button mashing. Sidney punched the radio volume with his thumb, muting the sound. And suddenly it was quiet, as Jordan flipped his phone closed, throwing it in the passenger side pocket. Sidney let his hand rest on the keys.
"Sid?"
"Yeah."
Jordan's hand warm against his arm, connection feeling good, eyes right on his, questioning, piercing his soul--
"You're way in your head. What's got you scared?"
Sidney felt his face grow warm as he shook his arm off, laughed, and turned the car on.