➲ NANOWRIMO: NOVEMBER 6
My first casualty of time constraints!
Originally, for today, I was going to write a five things fic, but in the interest of getting some sleep this weekend (Saturday was NebrasKon, and everybody knows how cons get, and I don't care that practically nobody recognized me, I was rocking it as Katniss Everdeen, okay, my bow shot marshmallows. for roasting. on fire. because I am clever,) I basically snatched up my fic notebook and went trolling for all the loose Mark/Marilyn change I had.
I'm so sorry, rosepetalfall, you deserve better than this.
Everyone, if you haven't seen her if you'll be my bodyguard, GO READ IT NOW. The hearts in my eyes are astronomical.
And Mark/Marilyn is rapidly becoming one of my favorite things. OF ALL TIME.
➲ NANOWRIMO: NOVEMBER 6
For rosepetalfall, Mark/Marilyn, i would grow old with you.
Read this in the light format! (edit: now edited to include actual light format. oi vey.)
red light, green light
The Social Network, Eduardo, implied Mark/Marilyn, G for Gratuitous Angst, 1133 words
[read @ AO3]
About half-way to his car, Eduardo suddenly remembers his jacket, slung over the back of his chair in the deposition room.
The horror of that thought stops him dead in his tracks, like some bizarre pantomime of a child's game of Red Light, Green Light. He stands on the sidewalk in a frozen rictus, trying to decide if it's worth turning back, when all he wants right now is to go back to his hotel room and collapse face-first into bed. It feels too much like tempting fate to return now, like if he does, he's going to run into Mark in the elevator or in the hall, and there won't be the option of a lawyer to hide behind.
Besides, it's not like he's not going to be here tomorrow, when they sign enough papers to probably pass as the constitution for a small, newfound country, and even if he can't get his jacket back, it's not the only one he has.
But still. Eduardo doesn't like leaving things behind; it's messy, and he's already learned that lesson the hard way.
So he snaps his shoulders back, draws himself up to his full height, and marches back towards the law offices. The deliberately mild California weather makes it impossible to feel like he's about to face down a firing squad, but he tries anyway.
He makes it as far as the hallway before he comes to a halt, surrounded by glass walls and panoramic view of the latticework of Palo Alto lights. He's not alone.
There's a janitor with a hose vacuum, one earbud in his ear and the other dangling down the front of his uniform, and Mark, still at the table, talking up at one of his lawyers, his head rocked back on his neck and his throat bobbing as he speaks. Beyond him, Eduardo's jacket is still there, his chair half-turned from when he pushed out of it so fast at the end of the day he probably gave himself whiplash.
He licks his lips.
The problem, you see, is that confronting Mark unexpectedly has never worked in Eduardo's favor.
Point in case: the ambush, or the millionth-member party, depending on which perspective you're using. He'd been formulating arguments with Mark in his head all semester long; concerning various things, ranging from the important (like Sean and the money,) to the things that weren't (like the chicken,) and covering most topics in between, like how if it was so embarrassing that the CFO of Facebook didn't know how to use Facebook, then why wouldn't the fucking CEO of Facebook take time from his incredibly busy schedule of sleeping, shitting, and pissing people off to show him?
None of those ever came to intelligent fruition; he wound up kind of haphazardly flinging them at Mark's face, a messed-up jumble of terrible fears that now suddenly seemed so horrifically possible ("I knew it was you! You planted that story about the chicken!")
So, no, you can't say that Eduardo has a good track record with Mark when other people aren't there to referee.
(Or, technically, even when they are.)
He stands there, swaying indecisively back and forth long enough that the janitor takes notice, looking from him to the deposition room and back again, plainly piecing something together.
It's just a jacket, Eduardo reminds himself, and takes a deep breath. He steps forward.
And then the janitor is right in front of him, a hand outstretched to stop him. "No, sir," he says, brown eyes watching him from underneath eyebrows so bushy they look like they were transplanted from a Muppet. "I'm sorry, sir, I'm afraid we're closed."
"I know that," Eduardo allows, civil. "And I'm sorry for the inconvenience, I'm on my way out, I just forgot to grab my jacket."
He takes another step, trying to get around him, but his path just gets blocked again, the man and the hose vacuum taking up the whole hallway. Eduardo purses his lips in a bid for patience and looks at him.
The janitor lifts his shoulders helplessly. "I can't let you in there."
"Why not?"
This earns him another look, longer this time. "Can't you see?" the janitor says, keeping his voice low. "Sir, can't you see you have no right at all?"
And Eduardo looks.
For the first time since he stepped out of the elevator, he really looks. The woman's sitting now, handbag at her feet, her whole body turned towards Mark and his whole body turned towards her, their knees almost touching somewhere in the middle. Her earthy-colored jacket settles easily around her shoulders, tailored to fit, and her car keys sit in a puddle on the table in front of her, like she had also been about to leave and then came right back.
Mark's hand rests on the top of his laptop screen, fingers playing with the latch like he's about to close the lid, but his attention is on her, eyes caught and tracking when she brushes a lock of her hair behind her ear.
A beat passes, and in it, Eduardo can hear Mark clearly. "-- get the feeling we would basically have to draw up a marriage contract?"
If it's a joke, it falls flat, like he's trying too hard, but he's trying, and sure enough, the woman (Marge? May?) laughs, soft but maybe genuine, and responds, "It would practically have to be a marriage contract, yes. If you're seducing me away from a perfectly good job offer, then I want to be sure you're not going to leave me, stranded and jobless, for the next young associate with big brown eyes."
"I don't go for associates because of their eye color," Mark replies automatically.
Suddenly, bizarrely, they both flush and look down at their feet, and Eduardo's heart constricts in his chest at that synchronized movement, and he doesn't have a name for the vague, dull jab of pain centered directly underneath his sternum. There's a roar in his ears, so he misses patches of what comes next, tuning back in to hear, "-- for me. Marriage contract implies equal and autonomous participation. I wouldn't be your boss, I would be your partner."
"We would both sink or swim," she nods, looking thoughtful. "That's a lot of faith to place in me, Mark."
He just blinks at her, owlish. "I have yet to see any evidence as to why you don't deserve it."
Eduardo's had enough. He turns away.
"Your jacket will be available for you to pick up from the Lost and Found tomorrow morning," the janitor says, in a tone that brooks no argument, catching his eye. "And whatever else it is you lost in there, sir ..." he shrugs. "I don't think you'll get it back."
Red Light, Green Light, Eduardo.
You turn away for a moment too long and everything changes.
-
fin
Originally, for today, I was going to write a five things fic, but in the interest of getting some sleep this weekend (Saturday was NebrasKon, and everybody knows how cons get, and I don't care that practically nobody recognized me, I was rocking it as Katniss Everdeen, okay, my bow shot marshmallows. for roasting. on fire. because I am clever,) I basically snatched up my fic notebook and went trolling for all the loose Mark/Marilyn change I had.
I'm so sorry, rosepetalfall, you deserve better than this.
Everyone, if you haven't seen her if you'll be my bodyguard, GO READ IT NOW. The hearts in my eyes are astronomical.
And Mark/Marilyn is rapidly becoming one of my favorite things. OF ALL TIME.
➲ NANOWRIMO: NOVEMBER 6
For rosepetalfall, Mark/Marilyn, i would grow old with you.
Read this in the light format! (edit: now edited to include actual light format. oi vey.)
red light, green light
The Social Network, Eduardo, implied Mark/Marilyn, G for Gratuitous Angst, 1133 words
[read @ AO3]
About half-way to his car, Eduardo suddenly remembers his jacket, slung over the back of his chair in the deposition room.
The horror of that thought stops him dead in his tracks, like some bizarre pantomime of a child's game of Red Light, Green Light. He stands on the sidewalk in a frozen rictus, trying to decide if it's worth turning back, when all he wants right now is to go back to his hotel room and collapse face-first into bed. It feels too much like tempting fate to return now, like if he does, he's going to run into Mark in the elevator or in the hall, and there won't be the option of a lawyer to hide behind.
Besides, it's not like he's not going to be here tomorrow, when they sign enough papers to probably pass as the constitution for a small, newfound country, and even if he can't get his jacket back, it's not the only one he has.
But still. Eduardo doesn't like leaving things behind; it's messy, and he's already learned that lesson the hard way.
So he snaps his shoulders back, draws himself up to his full height, and marches back towards the law offices. The deliberately mild California weather makes it impossible to feel like he's about to face down a firing squad, but he tries anyway.
He makes it as far as the hallway before he comes to a halt, surrounded by glass walls and panoramic view of the latticework of Palo Alto lights. He's not alone.
There's a janitor with a hose vacuum, one earbud in his ear and the other dangling down the front of his uniform, and Mark, still at the table, talking up at one of his lawyers, his head rocked back on his neck and his throat bobbing as he speaks. Beyond him, Eduardo's jacket is still there, his chair half-turned from when he pushed out of it so fast at the end of the day he probably gave himself whiplash.
He licks his lips.
The problem, you see, is that confronting Mark unexpectedly has never worked in Eduardo's favor.
Point in case: the ambush, or the millionth-member party, depending on which perspective you're using. He'd been formulating arguments with Mark in his head all semester long; concerning various things, ranging from the important (like Sean and the money,) to the things that weren't (like the chicken,) and covering most topics in between, like how if it was so embarrassing that the CFO of Facebook didn't know how to use Facebook, then why wouldn't the fucking CEO of Facebook take time from his incredibly busy schedule of sleeping, shitting, and pissing people off to show him?
None of those ever came to intelligent fruition; he wound up kind of haphazardly flinging them at Mark's face, a messed-up jumble of terrible fears that now suddenly seemed so horrifically possible ("I knew it was you! You planted that story about the chicken!")
So, no, you can't say that Eduardo has a good track record with Mark when other people aren't there to referee.
(Or, technically, even when they are.)
He stands there, swaying indecisively back and forth long enough that the janitor takes notice, looking from him to the deposition room and back again, plainly piecing something together.
It's just a jacket, Eduardo reminds himself, and takes a deep breath. He steps forward.
And then the janitor is right in front of him, a hand outstretched to stop him. "No, sir," he says, brown eyes watching him from underneath eyebrows so bushy they look like they were transplanted from a Muppet. "I'm sorry, sir, I'm afraid we're closed."
"I know that," Eduardo allows, civil. "And I'm sorry for the inconvenience, I'm on my way out, I just forgot to grab my jacket."
He takes another step, trying to get around him, but his path just gets blocked again, the man and the hose vacuum taking up the whole hallway. Eduardo purses his lips in a bid for patience and looks at him.
The janitor lifts his shoulders helplessly. "I can't let you in there."
"Why not?"
This earns him another look, longer this time. "Can't you see?" the janitor says, keeping his voice low. "Sir, can't you see you have no right at all?"
And Eduardo looks.
For the first time since he stepped out of the elevator, he really looks. The woman's sitting now, handbag at her feet, her whole body turned towards Mark and his whole body turned towards her, their knees almost touching somewhere in the middle. Her earthy-colored jacket settles easily around her shoulders, tailored to fit, and her car keys sit in a puddle on the table in front of her, like she had also been about to leave and then came right back.
Mark's hand rests on the top of his laptop screen, fingers playing with the latch like he's about to close the lid, but his attention is on her, eyes caught and tracking when she brushes a lock of her hair behind her ear.
A beat passes, and in it, Eduardo can hear Mark clearly. "-- get the feeling we would basically have to draw up a marriage contract?"
If it's a joke, it falls flat, like he's trying too hard, but he's trying, and sure enough, the woman (Marge? May?) laughs, soft but maybe genuine, and responds, "It would practically have to be a marriage contract, yes. If you're seducing me away from a perfectly good job offer, then I want to be sure you're not going to leave me, stranded and jobless, for the next young associate with big brown eyes."
"I don't go for associates because of their eye color," Mark replies automatically.
Suddenly, bizarrely, they both flush and look down at their feet, and Eduardo's heart constricts in his chest at that synchronized movement, and he doesn't have a name for the vague, dull jab of pain centered directly underneath his sternum. There's a roar in his ears, so he misses patches of what comes next, tuning back in to hear, "-- for me. Marriage contract implies equal and autonomous participation. I wouldn't be your boss, I would be your partner."
"We would both sink or swim," she nods, looking thoughtful. "That's a lot of faith to place in me, Mark."
He just blinks at her, owlish. "I have yet to see any evidence as to why you don't deserve it."
Eduardo's had enough. He turns away.
"Your jacket will be available for you to pick up from the Lost and Found tomorrow morning," the janitor says, in a tone that brooks no argument, catching his eye. "And whatever else it is you lost in there, sir ..." he shrugs. "I don't think you'll get it back."
Red Light, Green Light, Eduardo.
You turn away for a moment too long and everything changes.
-
fin