fic: spygate 2: nannycam boogaloo
title: spygate 2: nannycam boogaloo
things: sports night, natalie/jeremy, post-series. spoilers for spygate. not mine, don't sue.
Natalie storms into Jeremy's office and slams the door shut behind her. It pops back open, of course; it always does. She shuts it again and sits down in the only chair in the room that isn't covered in folders and random sports memorabilia. "Bring me Bill Belichick technology," she says. Her chair wobbles.
Jeremy looks up, around, does his little "who, me?" routine before breaking into a yawn. It's not cute. "What, a video camera?"
"And the other stuff," Natalie says. She's hungry. She wouldn't be hungry if someone--Dan "Sticky Fingers" Rydell, she just knows it was him--hadn't cruelly and maliciously stolen her lunch. It had her name on it. In big black letters. In Sharpie. "The hidden microphones, the instantaneous transmission of the video to an underground lair, secret spy gear, Tom Brady-"
"I'm not getting you Tom Brady." Jeremy's squinting, and his glasses slip down on his nose a little.
"Not even for one night? Don't worry, I'd totally have your back against Gisele." She would. Sure, Gisele's about twenty feet taller than Natalie, even without the stilettos, but Natalie's tough. Gritty. Like David Eckstein, if he was actually scrappy and fierce and everything lazy sports writers say he is.
"Besides, there weren't any hidden microphones. Just a video camera." Jeremy taps his pencil against the arm of his chair. Tap-tap-tap.
"No," Natalie says, "There were microphones in their shoulder pads."
"Just a rumor," Jeremy says. He spins his pencil between his fingers. Drops it on the floor and watches it skitter and roll away. "It was just a video camera, and not even a highly advanced one at that. They probably never even got a chance to watch the tape."
"Well, that sucks." Natalie picks up a folder at random from another chair and begins to flip through the contents. Way too much information about fencing and not nearly enough about a sport people actually care about: it must be from one of Jeremy's personal files, then, full of the stuff only he appreciates. "Well, bring me what Bill Belichick wishes he had then. Oh, and a new chair."
"Mind if I ask why?" Jeremy doesn't really look all that curious, actually. He looks bored. Or sleepy.
"Did you sleep at all last night?" Natalie asks. "This one wobbles."
"Yes, of, no, not the- the camera," Jeremy says. He sounds frustrated. "Why do you need a camera?"
"I need to catch a thief and chop off his hand in cosmic retribution."
Jeremy blinks. "Dan stole your lunch again?"
"And once more he claims he thought it was left by yesterday's mystery temp!" Natalie takes a breath. Pushes back a strand of hair that keeps tickling her nose. "Just," she says, "Bring me my Bill Belichick technology and stop bitching about it already."
*
The thing she loves about Jeremy is that he's learned to pick his battles. "Here," he says, "Your Bill Belichick technology." He holds out a stuffed bear.
"That's a teddy bear," she says. "I think I would've remembered it if the Patriots were caught holding stuffed animals on the sidelines."
Jeremy grins. "Ah ah ah," he says, "This is no mere children's toy. It's a technological wonder on par with-"
"Ooh, a nanny cam," Dana says. She stops on her way to wherever she was headed--probably another meeting with the network, if the vein pulsing in her forehead is anything to go by--and plucks the bear from Jeremy's hands. "My brother swears by these things. Says he caught, well, wait, are you pregnant? Were you even going to tell me or just let me make yet another horribly misguided ab roller joke that will haunt me until my dying day? I thought we were sisters, Natalie. Sisters in-"
"Oh god," Natalie says, "I'm not pregnant!" A few passers-by stop to stare. She maybe shouted that just a little too loudly, and it's entirely possible she'll have to leave the country until everyone stops laughing at her. "Aren't the Giants playing in London in a few weeks? I hereby volunteer to cover that. In fact, I can leave today, do some man on the street stuff, make sure we have the most comprehensive coverage of what is sure to be an epic and historic event."
"Nope," Dana says, because she's a cruel and heartless woman. "Not gonna happen."
"You are a cruel and heartless woman, Dana Whitaker," Natalie says. Dana just hands Natalie a folder and the bear and wanders away.
"Uh," Jeremy says. He opens and closes his mouth a few times. Like a cliched fish. A guppy, even.
Natalie thwaps him upside the head with the folder. "Focus, Goodwin," she says. "Tell me about your technological breakthrough. Knock me off my feet with your genius and cunning. Woo me with-"
"It's a bear with a camera in its stomach." Jeremy shrugs. "However, with a little ingenuity and this," he adds, pulling one of those Orioles ice cream sundae cap things from his pocket and placing it over one of the bear's ears, "voila, it's a Danny cam."
"Genius," Natalie says, and she gives him a quick peck on the cheek. "I'm gonna go put this in his office while he's still harassing Casey about passive verbs."
*
The feed's set up so Natalie can watch on her on her computer, but one emergency bleeds into another and it's all she can do it check in for a couple of seconds while Dana runs to the bathroom. Danny's throwing a rubber ball against the wall. Casey is extolling the majesty of women's basketball.
"Dull, dull, dull," Natalie says. She bangs her head against her keyboard, lightly enough to avoid a concussion but hard enough to accidentally turn the volume up. Casey's going on about fundamentals and the "inherent beauty of the game."
"What?" Dana asks. There's a giant water stain on her shirt. Natalie doesn't mention it.
Dan says something about someone being hot, and Dana asks, "Hey, what's-"
Natalie hates everyone. Life. She hates Dan and his sandwich theivery and Casey and his weird thing for Sue Bird. She says, "Um. Remember that nannycam," only it comes out more, "Remember that-holy fuck, is, are, nanny?" because, well, Dan's hand is on Casey's ass and there are definitely tongues involved in that kiss.
Dana coughs. Spits water onto Natalie's face and drops her bottle of Aquafina. She makes sounds--"grfble, splornket, shazzam"--but can't quite manage words.
"I think I'm just going to shut this off," Natalie says. After five tries, she settles for pulling the plug out of the surge protector.
***
[and that's as far as i got. i've tinkered with this a bit, tried to write more, but. nada. mostly it doesn't go anywhere from here, except: there are wacky hijinks and confrontations, and natalie and jeremy are OTP-tastic, the end.]
things: sports night, natalie/jeremy, post-series. spoilers for spygate. not mine, don't sue.
Natalie storms into Jeremy's office and slams the door shut behind her. It pops back open, of course; it always does. She shuts it again and sits down in the only chair in the room that isn't covered in folders and random sports memorabilia. "Bring me Bill Belichick technology," she says. Her chair wobbles.
Jeremy looks up, around, does his little "who, me?" routine before breaking into a yawn. It's not cute. "What, a video camera?"
"And the other stuff," Natalie says. She's hungry. She wouldn't be hungry if someone--Dan "Sticky Fingers" Rydell, she just knows it was him--hadn't cruelly and maliciously stolen her lunch. It had her name on it. In big black letters. In Sharpie. "The hidden microphones, the instantaneous transmission of the video to an underground lair, secret spy gear, Tom Brady-"
"I'm not getting you Tom Brady." Jeremy's squinting, and his glasses slip down on his nose a little.
"Not even for one night? Don't worry, I'd totally have your back against Gisele." She would. Sure, Gisele's about twenty feet taller than Natalie, even without the stilettos, but Natalie's tough. Gritty. Like David Eckstein, if he was actually scrappy and fierce and everything lazy sports writers say he is.
"Besides, there weren't any hidden microphones. Just a video camera." Jeremy taps his pencil against the arm of his chair. Tap-tap-tap.
"No," Natalie says, "There were microphones in their shoulder pads."
"Just a rumor," Jeremy says. He spins his pencil between his fingers. Drops it on the floor and watches it skitter and roll away. "It was just a video camera, and not even a highly advanced one at that. They probably never even got a chance to watch the tape."
"Well, that sucks." Natalie picks up a folder at random from another chair and begins to flip through the contents. Way too much information about fencing and not nearly enough about a sport people actually care about: it must be from one of Jeremy's personal files, then, full of the stuff only he appreciates. "Well, bring me what Bill Belichick wishes he had then. Oh, and a new chair."
"Mind if I ask why?" Jeremy doesn't really look all that curious, actually. He looks bored. Or sleepy.
"Did you sleep at all last night?" Natalie asks. "This one wobbles."
"Yes, of, no, not the- the camera," Jeremy says. He sounds frustrated. "Why do you need a camera?"
"I need to catch a thief and chop off his hand in cosmic retribution."
Jeremy blinks. "Dan stole your lunch again?"
"And once more he claims he thought it was left by yesterday's mystery temp!" Natalie takes a breath. Pushes back a strand of hair that keeps tickling her nose. "Just," she says, "Bring me my Bill Belichick technology and stop bitching about it already."
*
The thing she loves about Jeremy is that he's learned to pick his battles. "Here," he says, "Your Bill Belichick technology." He holds out a stuffed bear.
"That's a teddy bear," she says. "I think I would've remembered it if the Patriots were caught holding stuffed animals on the sidelines."
Jeremy grins. "Ah ah ah," he says, "This is no mere children's toy. It's a technological wonder on par with-"
"Ooh, a nanny cam," Dana says. She stops on her way to wherever she was headed--probably another meeting with the network, if the vein pulsing in her forehead is anything to go by--and plucks the bear from Jeremy's hands. "My brother swears by these things. Says he caught, well, wait, are you pregnant? Were you even going to tell me or just let me make yet another horribly misguided ab roller joke that will haunt me until my dying day? I thought we were sisters, Natalie. Sisters in-"
"Oh god," Natalie says, "I'm not pregnant!" A few passers-by stop to stare. She maybe shouted that just a little too loudly, and it's entirely possible she'll have to leave the country until everyone stops laughing at her. "Aren't the Giants playing in London in a few weeks? I hereby volunteer to cover that. In fact, I can leave today, do some man on the street stuff, make sure we have the most comprehensive coverage of what is sure to be an epic and historic event."
"Nope," Dana says, because she's a cruel and heartless woman. "Not gonna happen."
"You are a cruel and heartless woman, Dana Whitaker," Natalie says. Dana just hands Natalie a folder and the bear and wanders away.
"Uh," Jeremy says. He opens and closes his mouth a few times. Like a cliched fish. A guppy, even.
Natalie thwaps him upside the head with the folder. "Focus, Goodwin," she says. "Tell me about your technological breakthrough. Knock me off my feet with your genius and cunning. Woo me with-"
"It's a bear with a camera in its stomach." Jeremy shrugs. "However, with a little ingenuity and this," he adds, pulling one of those Orioles ice cream sundae cap things from his pocket and placing it over one of the bear's ears, "voila, it's a Danny cam."
"Genius," Natalie says, and she gives him a quick peck on the cheek. "I'm gonna go put this in his office while he's still harassing Casey about passive verbs."
*
The feed's set up so Natalie can watch on her on her computer, but one emergency bleeds into another and it's all she can do it check in for a couple of seconds while Dana runs to the bathroom. Danny's throwing a rubber ball against the wall. Casey is extolling the majesty of women's basketball.
"Dull, dull, dull," Natalie says. She bangs her head against her keyboard, lightly enough to avoid a concussion but hard enough to accidentally turn the volume up. Casey's going on about fundamentals and the "inherent beauty of the game."
"What?" Dana asks. There's a giant water stain on her shirt. Natalie doesn't mention it.
Dan says something about someone being hot, and Dana asks, "Hey, what's-"
Natalie hates everyone. Life. She hates Dan and his sandwich theivery and Casey and his weird thing for Sue Bird. She says, "Um. Remember that nannycam," only it comes out more, "Remember that-holy fuck, is, are, nanny?" because, well, Dan's hand is on Casey's ass and there are definitely tongues involved in that kiss.
Dana coughs. Spits water onto Natalie's face and drops her bottle of Aquafina. She makes sounds--"grfble, splornket, shazzam"--but can't quite manage words.
"I think I'm just going to shut this off," Natalie says. After five tries, she settles for pulling the plug out of the surge protector.
***
[and that's as far as i got. i've tinkered with this a bit, tried to write more, but. nada. mostly it doesn't go anywhere from here, except: there are wacky hijinks and confrontations, and natalie and jeremy are OTP-tastic, the end.]