(no subject)
Title: Persistence
Author: queen_kiwi
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 970
Summary: The aforementioned Steve!log, slightly edited for content.
Steve has a routine. He works well with his routine. It's part of the way he lives and he does not function without it and when somebody gets in the way of his routine, it's bad. Very, very bad.
He suspects that's why Alex relies on him so much. Not that they get along all the time-well, not that they get along ever-but Alex works best on schedule, following a list, with his office immaculate and his inbox neatly arranged. And Alex needs someone to understand that, to be the next gear in the machine, to get the orders he passes off and follow directions as smoothly and quickly as possible. Which is why Steve doesn't get Annika.
He likes Annika. He can't help liking Annika. Annika is an eminently likeable person, one with whom the world can't help smiling at. But as a co-worker she drives him up the bloody wall and onto the swinging light fixture. How are you supposed to plan anything around her? How can you expect her to stay still and do one thing? (Never mind that she's usually done in half the time, which pisses him off if he wants to be honest, and makes him a little envious if he wants to be completely honest...) And why, exactly, does she piss him off so much?
He doesn't get honest with himself. Not a whole lot. The last time he got really honest he admitted that he was as much to blame as his ex-wife, and that hurt, and he doesn't like the experience. It interferes with his way of dealing with the world, which is to itemize things, quietly in his head, and deal with them one at a time. So he were being honest, which he's not, all the time, he would wonder why he spends so much time being irritated by (but unable to stop thinking about) Annika, and wondering about the cogs in Alex's machine.
Routine. Back to routine. He's closing up for the night and he does it the same way he always does it. Shut off his computer, watch it power down and the screen flick off. Empty out his garbage tin. Tidy up his papers and lock the drawers and fills up his briefcase. The mental checklist gets ticked off, line by line, with a little flick of a pen mark. He gets his coat and scarf. Puts on his boots. Checks his watch, turns on his Blackberry, pats down his wallet in his pocket. Turns the lights off, and watches his room plunge into darkness. Outside, the city lights are twinkling in a sea of black, bobbing along in waves, slowly sliding across amber-gold roads as windows glisten in the sky.
Steve locks the door behind him, stuffs his key back into his briefcase and turns the number dials. Everyone has left for the most part--he can see a few desks have their lamps turned on and hears some papers rustling, in the gloom--and he threads his way through the maze of cubicles in silence.
A question occurs to him, to ask Alex, and he backtracks, past a few taped-up signs and the vacuum cleaner of the janitor, ducks along a sideways route. Alex's door is shut and the curtains are drawn; well, he's probably gone home, too. Steve idly makes sure, reaching the door and punching in the code, numbers blinking as he taps his fingers against his leg; the door snags open with a metallic click, and he nudges it with his shoulder as he knocks with one free hand.
There's no reply and Steve is about to turn heel and go when something sneaks its way into his ear and tickles at his brain. There's a muffled fumbling sound beyond the door, something he can't hear, can't quite place, almost like--clothes rustling? Is Alex dressing? He freezes outside the door, absolutely still.
Alex's voice cuts in through the furtive fumblings in his brain. "Yes?"
How Steve manages to clear his throat is something he'll never figure out. "Uh." Shaking his head, louder. "Uh. It's me. Steve. Are you... um, I mean, if I'm--"
"Yes, Steve?" Now Alex's voice sharpens on the 's', clear-cuts it with irritation.
"Can I ask you a question?" Steve asks. Lamely. Hovering by the door, rocking on his heels, uncertain.
"Can it wait until tomorrow?" The annoyance in Alex's voice is trying to be softened, he can tell, but he clearly heard the accent then, which is not a good sign. A wild thought dashes across his head like a streaker fan on a pitch, grabbing his breath as it goes by: is Annika still in there?
"Um. Of--of course. Sure. I'll... uh, just..." He backs away, mentally cringing and slapping himself upside the head, when fate--which plays tricks with all of humankind, from head to heart to further down--does this quirky little thing for the sheer hell of it and swings his briefcase forward by accident as he shifts it in his grasp. The door bangs open before he can grab the handle.
Steve figures the same thing that let him clear his throat earlier on got him the hell out of there, because he certainly wasn't doing anything at the time. His feet moved outside and he made for the car in the downstairs garage under an entirely different power than his own, because his mind is stuck on the mental video loop, tracking back over and over, on the image of Annika perched up on Alex's desk--skirt hitched up, silk blouse undone and half-off her shoulders, shoe slipping off one foot as one foot rubbed up against Alex's calf, lips parted against his neck. Annika.
Soundlessly, without fanfare, something in the back of his mind snaps.
Author: queen_kiwi
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 970
Summary: The aforementioned Steve!log, slightly edited for content.
Steve has a routine. He works well with his routine. It's part of the way he lives and he does not function without it and when somebody gets in the way of his routine, it's bad. Very, very bad.
He suspects that's why Alex relies on him so much. Not that they get along all the time-well, not that they get along ever-but Alex works best on schedule, following a list, with his office immaculate and his inbox neatly arranged. And Alex needs someone to understand that, to be the next gear in the machine, to get the orders he passes off and follow directions as smoothly and quickly as possible. Which is why Steve doesn't get Annika.
He likes Annika. He can't help liking Annika. Annika is an eminently likeable person, one with whom the world can't help smiling at. But as a co-worker she drives him up the bloody wall and onto the swinging light fixture. How are you supposed to plan anything around her? How can you expect her to stay still and do one thing? (Never mind that she's usually done in half the time, which pisses him off if he wants to be honest, and makes him a little envious if he wants to be completely honest...) And why, exactly, does she piss him off so much?
He doesn't get honest with himself. Not a whole lot. The last time he got really honest he admitted that he was as much to blame as his ex-wife, and that hurt, and he doesn't like the experience. It interferes with his way of dealing with the world, which is to itemize things, quietly in his head, and deal with them one at a time. So he were being honest, which he's not, all the time, he would wonder why he spends so much time being irritated by (but unable to stop thinking about) Annika, and wondering about the cogs in Alex's machine.
Routine. Back to routine. He's closing up for the night and he does it the same way he always does it. Shut off his computer, watch it power down and the screen flick off. Empty out his garbage tin. Tidy up his papers and lock the drawers and fills up his briefcase. The mental checklist gets ticked off, line by line, with a little flick of a pen mark. He gets his coat and scarf. Puts on his boots. Checks his watch, turns on his Blackberry, pats down his wallet in his pocket. Turns the lights off, and watches his room plunge into darkness. Outside, the city lights are twinkling in a sea of black, bobbing along in waves, slowly sliding across amber-gold roads as windows glisten in the sky.
Steve locks the door behind him, stuffs his key back into his briefcase and turns the number dials. Everyone has left for the most part--he can see a few desks have their lamps turned on and hears some papers rustling, in the gloom--and he threads his way through the maze of cubicles in silence.
A question occurs to him, to ask Alex, and he backtracks, past a few taped-up signs and the vacuum cleaner of the janitor, ducks along a sideways route. Alex's door is shut and the curtains are drawn; well, he's probably gone home, too. Steve idly makes sure, reaching the door and punching in the code, numbers blinking as he taps his fingers against his leg; the door snags open with a metallic click, and he nudges it with his shoulder as he knocks with one free hand.
There's no reply and Steve is about to turn heel and go when something sneaks its way into his ear and tickles at his brain. There's a muffled fumbling sound beyond the door, something he can't hear, can't quite place, almost like--clothes rustling? Is Alex dressing? He freezes outside the door, absolutely still.
Alex's voice cuts in through the furtive fumblings in his brain. "Yes?"
How Steve manages to clear his throat is something he'll never figure out. "Uh." Shaking his head, louder. "Uh. It's me. Steve. Are you... um, I mean, if I'm--"
"Yes, Steve?" Now Alex's voice sharpens on the 's', clear-cuts it with irritation.
"Can I ask you a question?" Steve asks. Lamely. Hovering by the door, rocking on his heels, uncertain.
"Can it wait until tomorrow?" The annoyance in Alex's voice is trying to be softened, he can tell, but he clearly heard the accent then, which is not a good sign. A wild thought dashes across his head like a streaker fan on a pitch, grabbing his breath as it goes by: is Annika still in there?
"Um. Of--of course. Sure. I'll... uh, just..." He backs away, mentally cringing and slapping himself upside the head, when fate--which plays tricks with all of humankind, from head to heart to further down--does this quirky little thing for the sheer hell of it and swings his briefcase forward by accident as he shifts it in his grasp. The door bangs open before he can grab the handle.
Steve figures the same thing that let him clear his throat earlier on got him the hell out of there, because he certainly wasn't doing anything at the time. His feet moved outside and he made for the car in the downstairs garage under an entirely different power than his own, because his mind is stuck on the mental video loop, tracking back over and over, on the image of Annika perched up on Alex's desk--skirt hitched up, silk blouse undone and half-off her shoulders, shoe slipping off one foot as one foot rubbed up against Alex's calf, lips parted against his neck. Annika.
Soundlessly, without fanfare, something in the back of his mind snaps.