Fic: What a Way to Make a Living (11-13)
What a Way to Make a Living
a crack office romance au
One (1-5) | Two (6-10) | Three (11-13)
(11/?) Casual Friday
Novak Djokovic, Rafael Nadal (Rafa/Novak), ~550 words, PG
In which Novak is undone by casual wear. Inspired by this picture of Novak. Comes somewhere between Monday, Monday, can't trust that day and a stapler, a stapler *handwave* Timeline what timeline?
Casual Friday was something that Roger instituted around the office because he hated Novak and wanted him to suffer; at least, that was what Novak was going with, although in fairness to Roger, who'd picked up the idea from some kind of management handbook of the damned, he really figured it was a morale-boosting treat for his office staff, and not the addition of at least thirty extra minutes of anxiety to the Friday morning pre-work routine. Monday through Thursday Novak rolled out of bed, showered, threw on a clean shirt and suit and headed out the door before Maria even made it to the shoe section of her wardrobe. Friday morning meant standing in front of his wardrobe in helpless indecision until Maria came in and pulled an outfit for him and cast aspersions on his gay credentials for showing insufficient ability to dress himself fabulously.
But Casual Friday was a sartorial tightrope, requiring that an outfit be neither too smart (suit trousers looked stuffy, a shirt try-hard), nor too casual (scruffy, comfortable t-shirts equally no-no). Ana and the other office girls managed fine, and Roger came in wearing expensive jeans and a cashmere sweater rolled up to show lean forearms tanned from tennis and golf, looking as though he'd just strolled out of a GQ spread, and Novak, as the only other guy, felt awkwardly as though he were letting the side down.
The other problem with Casual Friday, Novak thought, sitting at his desk and flipping idly through his day's workload, was the way that it made time seem to stretch out slower than usual, as though there were something fundamentally wrong with being at his desk in casual clothes, and the universe's response was to cram at least fifteen minutes' worth of numbing boredom into every five.
The sole reward of Casual Friday, as far as Novak could see, came dashing in the door at twenty minutes past the hour: Rafa, wearing, for once, clothes that actually fit him, and holy shit, Novak thought, giving Rafa a quick and probably not at all subtle head-to-toe glance, did they ever fucking fit him. Jeans snug at his hips, and a t-shirt in bright summer orange that gave just the barest suggestion of sculpted muscle at stomach and chest, but showed off to full advantage the leanly muscled, tanned arms previously hidden under slightly-too-large shirtsleeves.
"Hey Novak," Rafa said, looking a little flustered and rushed, and crazy, crazy good. "How are you?"
Totally fucked, was Novak's first thought, and it took a full two or three seconds before his higher brain function kicked back in enough to allow him to say, "I, uh. Good. Yeah. You?"
"Good," Rafa said, pushing back his dishevelled, slightly damp hair with one hand, and adding, with a disarming smile, "I am a little late today - I could not decide what to wear. Is difficult, no?"
"Yeah, I know the feeling. But you look, uh. Good," Novak said. He tried not to stare at Rafa's arms, taught muscle under bronzed skin. Oh, God. "Really, uh, good."
"Thank you," Rafa said, adding, "You too. See you later, no?"
"Yeah, see you," Novak said, unable to make himself stop watching as Rafa headed off to his own desk (the back view, predictably, just as good as the front). God damn, he thought, and God bless Casual fucking Friday.
-
(12/?) Lunch Not-A-Date Date
Novak Djokovic, Rafael Nadal, Ana Ivanovic, (Rafa/Novak, Ana/Nando) ~630 words, PG
In which there are misunderstandings, and Ana offers to kick Rafa's ass. Comes right after Cocktail Hour in what might laughingly be termed the 'timeline' of this 'series'.
Cosmos and girltalk could only go so far in the healing of the heart, and Novak sat at his desk the next day dreading - for the first time - the clock’s slow inching towards lunch hour.
Ana dropped in a few minutes before twelve to squeeze Novak’s shoulder and say, “I can kick his ass, if you’d like,” and Novak laughed in spite of himself.
“I’m not kidding,” said Ana. “Have you seen these heels?”
“I have, and I think they should be registered as deadly weapons,” said Novak. “But seriously, I’m fine. I just - I got the wrong end of the stick. So to speak.”
And of course Rafa picked that moment to come into the room. “Hi, Novak,” he said, grinning broadly. “You are ready for lunch?”
“As I’ll ever be,” said Novak, affecting breezy cheer as he powered down the computer and set the calls to divert to Roger’s desk. Ana brushed a kiss to his cheek as he stood up, reminiding him sotto voce, “The offer still stands, okay?”
“What was that about?” Rafa asked, sounding confused after Ana had brushed by him with only the most cursory of greetings.
“It’s just, uh,” Novak shrugged, and mentally begged forgiveness from Maria, who would have eviscerated him if she’d heard him say, “girl things, you know.”
“Ah,” said Rafa, nodding sagely. “Shall we go?”
Novak forced himself to smile in a way that at least approached normal. “Sure,” he said. “Lead the way.”
-
Rafa put the price of a stolen stapler at a sandwich and a Diet Coke, and refused all Novak’s offers to try and offer him money.
“I told you that I would buy you lunch,” he said, as they settled onto a table together. “Perhaps we can do this again, if you want to pay me back.”
“Sure,” said Novak, thinking, yeah, just kill me now. This was already so far from how he’d allowed himself to imagine lunch with Rafa (girlfriend girlfriend girlfriend). It made him uncomfortable and awkward - more awkward than usual, anyway, which was a stretch, and their light chatter was strangely stilted. Knowing that Rafa was straight ought to have made it easier to talk to him, thought Novak, while he only semi-listened to Rafa tell some story about his uncle; it should have taken away the pressure, and yet Novak couldn't seem to get past the heaviness of disappointment.
Rafa noticed, too. "Are you okay, Nole?" he said, brows furrowing slightly in concern. "You are very quiet."
"I'm fine," said Novak, too brightly, and then thought, well, it couldn't make things worse, and went on slowly, “So there was something that I, uh, wanted to ask you."
Rafa smiled. “Of course,” he said.
“Your, uh, your friend, Fernando.” Novak paused a moment. “Is he - is he gay?”
Rafa’s smile faltered, his brows knitting together. “Fernando?”
“Yeah,” said Novak. He could feel himself flushing hot across his cheekbones, and thought, fuck you, Ana.
Rafa, smile entirely gone now, leaned back in his seat and said, “But he is with your friend Ana, no?”
“Well, yeah,” said Novak, and figured that since he was already in up to his neck, he might as well keep on digging. “But you know sometimes you just get a - a vibe from someone?”
“Yes,” said Rafa, strangely, and then he glanced down at his watch and said, “Look, I am going to be late.”
“But - lunch,” Novak stammered as Rafa stood up, draining the dregs of his drink and setting the can down with a thud.
Rafa shrugged. “You stay. I see you back at work. I am not very hungry, anyway.”
Novak sat and watched him go, wondering what exactly the hell he’d just done.
-
(13/?) if a penny drops in the woods, does it make a sound?
Novak Djokovic, Rafael Nadal, Ana Ivanovic (ACTUAL RAFA/NOVAK AT LAST, Ana/Nando), ~900 words, PG-13
In which misunderstandings are cleared up, action is finally had, and I go off the deep end of my love for really obnoxious titles.
Novak was eating lunch at the same place that Rafa had stormed out of three days before, morosely picking through a limp Caesar salad whose garden days were long past, when Rafa slid into the seat next to him. Novak may or may not have dropped his fork.
“Hi,” he said, before he realised that he was still chewing lettuce. He swallowed.
“Hi,” Rafa said, without seeming to have noticed. “I cannot stay. I only want to give you this.”
He handed over a scrap of paper that Novak took automatically. When he opened it, there was only a phone number scrawled in Rafa’s handwriting.
“I, uh, thanks,” he said. “What is it?”
“Is Fernando’s phone number,” said Rafa. “Fernando is bi. He likes guys. So if you wanna call him, do that, but I have to say I think it is very bad that you go behind your friend’s back. Also, Fernando has been in love with his roommate since forever. So, good luck with all that.”
And then he was gone.
Novak stared at the phone number. “Oh, fuck,” he said. “Oh - fuck,” while he grabbed his carton of salad and his jacket and nearly fell all over everywhere in his hurry to follow Rafa.
Rafa moved fucking fast, and they were nearly back at the office before Novak got close to catching up with him, close enough to shout, “Rafa!” and have Rafa actually hear him, actually stop and turn to meet him.
“What is it?” Rafa demanded, looking more serious and annoyed and - fuck, he had it bad - ridiculously sexy than Novak had ever seen him, and it took a moment for him to get himself together enough to answer.
“Look,” he said, shuffling his salad and jacket around so that he could hand Rafa back the scrap of paper with Fernando’s phone number. “Thanks for, you know, but that wasn’t what I meant. When I asked you, I didn’t mean - I meant, Ana asked me to find out if he liked guys because she thought he was in love with the hot roommate - which, I guess, is true, so that sucks for her and actually I might keep this so I can call him and tell him what a fucking asshole he is - “
“Novak,” said Rafa, a little plaintively. “Slower, please?”
“Right,” said Novak. He took a breath. “Right. Anyway, what I’m saying is, I’m gay, yes, but I don’t like Fernando. I mean, I’m sure he’s fine and all when he’s not breaking my friend’s heart, but I don’t - I don’t want to date Fernando, is what I’m saying. I just - it’s important that you know that,” he finished.
Rafa watched Novak for a beat and then said, “Why?”
Novak blinked. “What?”
Rafa said again, slow as though he were talking to a child or an idiot, “Why is it important that I know this?”
Novak swallowed and scoped his escape routes out of the conversation and then abandoned them all in favour of a suicidal leap and said, “Because - because I like you,” and wow, that wasn’t going to make working together even more awkward. Four for you, Nole.
Except that Rafa was smiling now - really grinning, the way that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made Novak’s heart stutter.
“You are ridiculous,” he said, and was it just Novak or was Rafa actually closer than he had been? He was. He was close enough to touch. Close enough to - and then Rafa leaned in and brushed his lips over Novak’s, once, very gently. Novak couldn’t respond because his brain was melting out of his ears.
“But - your girlfriend,” he managed, when Rafa had pulled back. At this distance Rafa’s dusting of freckles was immensely distracting, as were the expressive movements of his eyebrows when he said, “Girlfriend?”
“Your girlfriend,” said Novak. “Your - the girl on facebook, in all the pictures.”
Rafa frowned. “Xisca?”
“I don’t know,” said Novak. “The pretty brunette.”
“Novak,” said Rafa, again very slowly, “Xisca was my girlfriend for maybe twenty minutes. When I was fourteen. Now she is my best friend. Like you and Maria.”
“Oh,” said Novak. “Oh.”
“Oh,” Rafa echoed, teasing.
“So you don’t have a girlfriend.”
“I don’t have a girlfriend. I like guys,” Rafa said, and leaned in closer and said, very low, “I like you.”
“Oh,” said Novak again, as Rafa leaned in and kissed him, with his hands settling warm and possessive at Novak’s waist, and when Novak regained some higher brain function he would have put his arms around Rafa if he hadn’t still, absurdly, been holding his jacket and his salad.
“There is one more thing I have to tell you,” Rafa said, when he drew back at last, after pressing a final kiss to the corner of Novak’s mouth.
“Yeah?” said Novak, dazed.
“Your friend Ana is taking pictures of us,” said Rafa, nodding sideways, and Novak turned to find Ana maybe three feet away, snapping pictures with her Blackberry like the world’s most intrusive paparazzo.
“What?” she protested, putting one hand on her hip as though she were daring Novak to try and stop her. “Like Maria wouldn’t flay me if I didn’t capture this beautiful moment.”
Novak thought about asking her to make sure and send him a copy, but decided that could probably wait until later. He had better things to be doing.
a crack office romance au
One (1-5) | Two (6-10) | Three (11-13)
(11/?) Casual Friday
Novak Djokovic, Rafael Nadal (Rafa/Novak), ~550 words, PG
In which Novak is undone by casual wear. Inspired by this picture of Novak. Comes somewhere between Monday, Monday, can't trust that day and a stapler, a stapler *handwave* Timeline what timeline?
Casual Friday was something that Roger instituted around the office because he hated Novak and wanted him to suffer; at least, that was what Novak was going with, although in fairness to Roger, who'd picked up the idea from some kind of management handbook of the damned, he really figured it was a morale-boosting treat for his office staff, and not the addition of at least thirty extra minutes of anxiety to the Friday morning pre-work routine. Monday through Thursday Novak rolled out of bed, showered, threw on a clean shirt and suit and headed out the door before Maria even made it to the shoe section of her wardrobe. Friday morning meant standing in front of his wardrobe in helpless indecision until Maria came in and pulled an outfit for him and cast aspersions on his gay credentials for showing insufficient ability to dress himself fabulously.
But Casual Friday was a sartorial tightrope, requiring that an outfit be neither too smart (suit trousers looked stuffy, a shirt try-hard), nor too casual (scruffy, comfortable t-shirts equally no-no). Ana and the other office girls managed fine, and Roger came in wearing expensive jeans and a cashmere sweater rolled up to show lean forearms tanned from tennis and golf, looking as though he'd just strolled out of a GQ spread, and Novak, as the only other guy, felt awkwardly as though he were letting the side down.
The other problem with Casual Friday, Novak thought, sitting at his desk and flipping idly through his day's workload, was the way that it made time seem to stretch out slower than usual, as though there were something fundamentally wrong with being at his desk in casual clothes, and the universe's response was to cram at least fifteen minutes' worth of numbing boredom into every five.
The sole reward of Casual Friday, as far as Novak could see, came dashing in the door at twenty minutes past the hour: Rafa, wearing, for once, clothes that actually fit him, and holy shit, Novak thought, giving Rafa a quick and probably not at all subtle head-to-toe glance, did they ever fucking fit him. Jeans snug at his hips, and a t-shirt in bright summer orange that gave just the barest suggestion of sculpted muscle at stomach and chest, but showed off to full advantage the leanly muscled, tanned arms previously hidden under slightly-too-large shirtsleeves.
"Hey Novak," Rafa said, looking a little flustered and rushed, and crazy, crazy good. "How are you?"
Totally fucked, was Novak's first thought, and it took a full two or three seconds before his higher brain function kicked back in enough to allow him to say, "I, uh. Good. Yeah. You?"
"Good," Rafa said, pushing back his dishevelled, slightly damp hair with one hand, and adding, with a disarming smile, "I am a little late today - I could not decide what to wear. Is difficult, no?"
"Yeah, I know the feeling. But you look, uh. Good," Novak said. He tried not to stare at Rafa's arms, taught muscle under bronzed skin. Oh, God. "Really, uh, good."
"Thank you," Rafa said, adding, "You too. See you later, no?"
"Yeah, see you," Novak said, unable to make himself stop watching as Rafa headed off to his own desk (the back view, predictably, just as good as the front). God damn, he thought, and God bless Casual fucking Friday.
-
(12/?) Lunch Not-A-Date Date
Novak Djokovic, Rafael Nadal, Ana Ivanovic, (Rafa/Novak, Ana/Nando) ~630 words, PG
In which there are misunderstandings, and Ana offers to kick Rafa's ass. Comes right after Cocktail Hour in what might laughingly be termed the 'timeline' of this 'series'.
Cosmos and girltalk could only go so far in the healing of the heart, and Novak sat at his desk the next day dreading - for the first time - the clock’s slow inching towards lunch hour.
Ana dropped in a few minutes before twelve to squeeze Novak’s shoulder and say, “I can kick his ass, if you’d like,” and Novak laughed in spite of himself.
“I’m not kidding,” said Ana. “Have you seen these heels?”
“I have, and I think they should be registered as deadly weapons,” said Novak. “But seriously, I’m fine. I just - I got the wrong end of the stick. So to speak.”
And of course Rafa picked that moment to come into the room. “Hi, Novak,” he said, grinning broadly. “You are ready for lunch?”
“As I’ll ever be,” said Novak, affecting breezy cheer as he powered down the computer and set the calls to divert to Roger’s desk. Ana brushed a kiss to his cheek as he stood up, reminiding him sotto voce, “The offer still stands, okay?”
“What was that about?” Rafa asked, sounding confused after Ana had brushed by him with only the most cursory of greetings.
“It’s just, uh,” Novak shrugged, and mentally begged forgiveness from Maria, who would have eviscerated him if she’d heard him say, “girl things, you know.”
“Ah,” said Rafa, nodding sagely. “Shall we go?”
Novak forced himself to smile in a way that at least approached normal. “Sure,” he said. “Lead the way.”
-
Rafa put the price of a stolen stapler at a sandwich and a Diet Coke, and refused all Novak’s offers to try and offer him money.
“I told you that I would buy you lunch,” he said, as they settled onto a table together. “Perhaps we can do this again, if you want to pay me back.”
“Sure,” said Novak, thinking, yeah, just kill me now. This was already so far from how he’d allowed himself to imagine lunch with Rafa (girlfriend girlfriend girlfriend). It made him uncomfortable and awkward - more awkward than usual, anyway, which was a stretch, and their light chatter was strangely stilted. Knowing that Rafa was straight ought to have made it easier to talk to him, thought Novak, while he only semi-listened to Rafa tell some story about his uncle; it should have taken away the pressure, and yet Novak couldn't seem to get past the heaviness of disappointment.
Rafa noticed, too. "Are you okay, Nole?" he said, brows furrowing slightly in concern. "You are very quiet."
"I'm fine," said Novak, too brightly, and then thought, well, it couldn't make things worse, and went on slowly, “So there was something that I, uh, wanted to ask you."
Rafa smiled. “Of course,” he said.
“Your, uh, your friend, Fernando.” Novak paused a moment. “Is he - is he gay?”
Rafa’s smile faltered, his brows knitting together. “Fernando?”
“Yeah,” said Novak. He could feel himself flushing hot across his cheekbones, and thought, fuck you, Ana.
Rafa, smile entirely gone now, leaned back in his seat and said, “But he is with your friend Ana, no?”
“Well, yeah,” said Novak, and figured that since he was already in up to his neck, he might as well keep on digging. “But you know sometimes you just get a - a vibe from someone?”
“Yes,” said Rafa, strangely, and then he glanced down at his watch and said, “Look, I am going to be late.”
“But - lunch,” Novak stammered as Rafa stood up, draining the dregs of his drink and setting the can down with a thud.
Rafa shrugged. “You stay. I see you back at work. I am not very hungry, anyway.”
Novak sat and watched him go, wondering what exactly the hell he’d just done.
-
(13/?) if a penny drops in the woods, does it make a sound?
Novak Djokovic, Rafael Nadal, Ana Ivanovic (ACTUAL RAFA/NOVAK AT LAST, Ana/Nando), ~900 words, PG-13
In which misunderstandings are cleared up, action is finally had, and I go off the deep end of my love for really obnoxious titles.
Novak was eating lunch at the same place that Rafa had stormed out of three days before, morosely picking through a limp Caesar salad whose garden days were long past, when Rafa slid into the seat next to him. Novak may or may not have dropped his fork.
“Hi,” he said, before he realised that he was still chewing lettuce. He swallowed.
“Hi,” Rafa said, without seeming to have noticed. “I cannot stay. I only want to give you this.”
He handed over a scrap of paper that Novak took automatically. When he opened it, there was only a phone number scrawled in Rafa’s handwriting.
“I, uh, thanks,” he said. “What is it?”
“Is Fernando’s phone number,” said Rafa. “Fernando is bi. He likes guys. So if you wanna call him, do that, but I have to say I think it is very bad that you go behind your friend’s back. Also, Fernando has been in love with his roommate since forever. So, good luck with all that.”
And then he was gone.
Novak stared at the phone number. “Oh, fuck,” he said. “Oh - fuck,” while he grabbed his carton of salad and his jacket and nearly fell all over everywhere in his hurry to follow Rafa.
Rafa moved fucking fast, and they were nearly back at the office before Novak got close to catching up with him, close enough to shout, “Rafa!” and have Rafa actually hear him, actually stop and turn to meet him.
“What is it?” Rafa demanded, looking more serious and annoyed and - fuck, he had it bad - ridiculously sexy than Novak had ever seen him, and it took a moment for him to get himself together enough to answer.
“Look,” he said, shuffling his salad and jacket around so that he could hand Rafa back the scrap of paper with Fernando’s phone number. “Thanks for, you know, but that wasn’t what I meant. When I asked you, I didn’t mean - I meant, Ana asked me to find out if he liked guys because she thought he was in love with the hot roommate - which, I guess, is true, so that sucks for her and actually I might keep this so I can call him and tell him what a fucking asshole he is - “
“Novak,” said Rafa, a little plaintively. “Slower, please?”
“Right,” said Novak. He took a breath. “Right. Anyway, what I’m saying is, I’m gay, yes, but I don’t like Fernando. I mean, I’m sure he’s fine and all when he’s not breaking my friend’s heart, but I don’t - I don’t want to date Fernando, is what I’m saying. I just - it’s important that you know that,” he finished.
Rafa watched Novak for a beat and then said, “Why?”
Novak blinked. “What?”
Rafa said again, slow as though he were talking to a child or an idiot, “Why is it important that I know this?”
Novak swallowed and scoped his escape routes out of the conversation and then abandoned them all in favour of a suicidal leap and said, “Because - because I like you,” and wow, that wasn’t going to make working together even more awkward. Four for you, Nole.
Except that Rafa was smiling now - really grinning, the way that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made Novak’s heart stutter.
“You are ridiculous,” he said, and was it just Novak or was Rafa actually closer than he had been? He was. He was close enough to touch. Close enough to - and then Rafa leaned in and brushed his lips over Novak’s, once, very gently. Novak couldn’t respond because his brain was melting out of his ears.
“But - your girlfriend,” he managed, when Rafa had pulled back. At this distance Rafa’s dusting of freckles was immensely distracting, as were the expressive movements of his eyebrows when he said, “Girlfriend?”
“Your girlfriend,” said Novak. “Your - the girl on facebook, in all the pictures.”
Rafa frowned. “Xisca?”
“I don’t know,” said Novak. “The pretty brunette.”
“Novak,” said Rafa, again very slowly, “Xisca was my girlfriend for maybe twenty minutes. When I was fourteen. Now she is my best friend. Like you and Maria.”
“Oh,” said Novak. “Oh.”
“Oh,” Rafa echoed, teasing.
“So you don’t have a girlfriend.”
“I don’t have a girlfriend. I like guys,” Rafa said, and leaned in closer and said, very low, “I like you.”
“Oh,” said Novak again, as Rafa leaned in and kissed him, with his hands settling warm and possessive at Novak’s waist, and when Novak regained some higher brain function he would have put his arms around Rafa if he hadn’t still, absurdly, been holding his jacket and his salad.
“There is one more thing I have to tell you,” Rafa said, when he drew back at last, after pressing a final kiss to the corner of Novak’s mouth.
“Yeah?” said Novak, dazed.
“Your friend Ana is taking pictures of us,” said Rafa, nodding sideways, and Novak turned to find Ana maybe three feet away, snapping pictures with her Blackberry like the world’s most intrusive paparazzo.
“What?” she protested, putting one hand on her hip as though she were daring Novak to try and stop her. “Like Maria wouldn’t flay me if I didn’t capture this beautiful moment.”
Novak thought about asking her to make sure and send him a copy, but decided that could probably wait until later. He had better things to be doing.