Tuesday Afternoon.
Author: tambear13
Title:Tuesday Afternoon.
Rating: R
Pairing/s: Arthur/Gwaine
Character/s: Gwaine.
Summary: Gwaine doesn't have feelings, and what's with the damn clock.
Warnings: Language.
Word Count: 1000.
Prompt: Time.
Author's Notes: Ok, so I apologize in advance - read at your own peril. I've got a bit of writers block at the minute, and this is just me vomiting onto the screen in the hopes of alleviating it. It doesn't make sense, at all. Blame vampiric_zombie cause she just rang and told me I had to post it, and it is her Birthday so I had to. So there! Anyway, I normally say Enjoy, but in this case I don't think I will - so eh, just feel free to skip :)
Gwaine did not get nervous, no Sir-y! His left leg jumping up and down like billy-oh was just a tremor left over from a sports accident in school, so there!
Except, he was fucking terrified - well he would be if he did feelings. Which he didn’t. So no nervousness, and no chance of him shitting his pants.
He was enjoying sitting in the lobby? Waiting area? Reception? Hall? Whatever the fuck this place was called, with the seats, and the table, and the desk, and the woman with the tight smile and tighter pony-tail. It wasn’t somewhere Gwaine ever imagined finding himself, but he was happy enough to be here, he was content, he was...
Oh for the loving and the fuck! Would that bloody clock ever shut up!! Who even had a tick-tock clock, announcing his doom, in a bloody office? They were usually confined to houses, and nice houses at that - houses that Gwaine would never ever find himself in.
But here it was, in an office, sitting there, snidely counting down his time left on this Earth. And what a lovely Earth it was, Gwaine really didn’t want to be leaving. Maybe he should start writing letters to his loved ones, except he didn’t have any because he didn’t have feelings, and most certainly not feelings of the loving kind.
It was all Arthur’s fault. Everything was Arthur fucking Pendragon’s fault.
War, famine, genocide, earthquakes, volcanoes, tsunami’s, mudslides, car accidents, terrorist attacks, Justin Beeber... It was all Arthur. Arrogant, gorgeous dick-wad that he is.
Gwaine hated him, or he would if you know “feelings” were involved, which they weren’t. He would claim when pushed a slight fondness for the other man’s face, mainly his hair. It fucking glowed in the sunshine, or under a light-bulb, it was magic and felt like silk. And that was as far as Gwaine’s feelings for Arthur went.
Except, of course, he was arse over tits for the blond job-shite with the poker up his arse. And that poker was really wedged in, Gwaine had explored that arse to the fullest of his capabilities and had found no sign of it.
But now, sitting here with the time slowly ticking away, which Gwaine was fully aware of because of the damn clock - he could think about the situation, and damn, fuckidy fuck fuck. If it didn’t start to look like his presence here, might just a tiny little bit be his own fault.
Gwaine blamed the Jameson. Everything, bar the above listed ones, was caused by Jameson.
Gwaine may have gotten drunk, what it was Friday night? What else are you supposed to do on a Friday night? And he may, though he only has vague recollections of this, turned to the blond twit and said, God only knows why, that he was sick of pretending to Uther that he was just a friend of Arthur’s.
Gwaine groaned, and tight-faced secretary woman glared at him, now thinking back on it it may have sounded like he wanted a damn relationship, which he didn’t. Gwaine was a free spirit, a dandelion seed blowing aimlessly in the wind. He didn’t want to be tied down, he didn’t want Friday (drinking nights) spent with a Chinese in front of the TV watching Have I got News for you, or some other nonsense.
Maybe he could just slip into the office and tell Uther that Arthur was off his meds, and didn’t know what he was talking about. But then again, Uther was fucking terrifying, so maybe he’d just sit here, listening to the clock and planning his funeral.
Why on Earth Arthur choose to come out of the closet on a Tuesday afternoon was anybody’s guess. Gwaine couldn’t figure it out. Nothing ever happened on a Tuesday. Arthur was disturbing the peace of the day. Tuesday was Eastenders, followed by Holby City and then a good long fuck on the sofa - because damn, if Jack Nailer didn’t get them both hot and bothered. She was a sexy woman, she could cut into Gwaine’s chest and play with his heart any day!
Gwaine scratched his jaw, still pondering the Tuesday conundrum, ah fuck! He never shaved, not that he ever shaved, but now would have been as good a time as any to give it a go. Well fuck it, it was fine. Arthur shaved enough for the two of them. Every single morning, how did the man do it? Sometimes Gwaine would sit on the edge of the bath and watch him, fascinated, and no it’s not creepy. How was his face not always in agony? Gwaine once pondered the idea of waxing his face, how handy would that be? - he’d only have to it once every four weeks, or so the box of Veet waxing strips, berry flavour, said. But he’d thrown that silly idea away pretty quick when he remember getting his chest waxed for charity in college that one time, and it hurt like a motherfucker! How woman did it to their lady bits, Gwaine had no idea!
The clock struck two thirty, and honest to Jaysus chimed! Chimed, seriously, how did anyone in this office get any work done with that bloody racket maker hanging on the wall. If Gwaine had a mallet on hand, he would take it to it, though he didn’t have a mallet with him - cause that would have been really odd. He didn’t even think he owned one, he had a hammer though. In his tool box, under his bed, or was it in the cooker? Maybe if both he and Arthur survived, they could take a trip to B&Q and buy a mallet. He’d suggest it. A DIY date, how romantic!
The door to the office opened, and Arthur stepped out, head down, and closed the door quietly behind him.
He looked at Gwaine, a small, trembling smile on his face and Gwaine went to him.
Yeah, he loved the shit out of this man.
Title:Tuesday Afternoon.
Rating: R
Pairing/s: Arthur/Gwaine
Character/s: Gwaine.
Summary: Gwaine doesn't have feelings, and what's with the damn clock.
Warnings: Language.
Word Count: 1000.
Prompt: Time.
Author's Notes: Ok, so I apologize in advance - read at your own peril. I've got a bit of writers block at the minute, and this is just me vomiting onto the screen in the hopes of alleviating it. It doesn't make sense, at all. Blame vampiric_zombie cause she just rang and told me I had to post it, and it is her Birthday so I had to. So there! Anyway, I normally say Enjoy, but in this case I don't think I will - so eh, just feel free to skip :)
Gwaine did not get nervous, no Sir-y! His left leg jumping up and down like billy-oh was just a tremor left over from a sports accident in school, so there!
Except, he was fucking terrified - well he would be if he did feelings. Which he didn’t. So no nervousness, and no chance of him shitting his pants.
He was enjoying sitting in the lobby? Waiting area? Reception? Hall? Whatever the fuck this place was called, with the seats, and the table, and the desk, and the woman with the tight smile and tighter pony-tail. It wasn’t somewhere Gwaine ever imagined finding himself, but he was happy enough to be here, he was content, he was...
Oh for the loving and the fuck! Would that bloody clock ever shut up!! Who even had a tick-tock clock, announcing his doom, in a bloody office? They were usually confined to houses, and nice houses at that - houses that Gwaine would never ever find himself in.
But here it was, in an office, sitting there, snidely counting down his time left on this Earth. And what a lovely Earth it was, Gwaine really didn’t want to be leaving. Maybe he should start writing letters to his loved ones, except he didn’t have any because he didn’t have feelings, and most certainly not feelings of the loving kind.
It was all Arthur’s fault. Everything was Arthur fucking Pendragon’s fault.
War, famine, genocide, earthquakes, volcanoes, tsunami’s, mudslides, car accidents, terrorist attacks, Justin Beeber... It was all Arthur. Arrogant, gorgeous dick-wad that he is.
Gwaine hated him, or he would if you know “feelings” were involved, which they weren’t. He would claim when pushed a slight fondness for the other man’s face, mainly his hair. It fucking glowed in the sunshine, or under a light-bulb, it was magic and felt like silk. And that was as far as Gwaine’s feelings for Arthur went.
Except, of course, he was arse over tits for the blond job-shite with the poker up his arse. And that poker was really wedged in, Gwaine had explored that arse to the fullest of his capabilities and had found no sign of it.
But now, sitting here with the time slowly ticking away, which Gwaine was fully aware of because of the damn clock - he could think about the situation, and damn, fuckidy fuck fuck. If it didn’t start to look like his presence here, might just a tiny little bit be his own fault.
Gwaine blamed the Jameson. Everything, bar the above listed ones, was caused by Jameson.
Gwaine may have gotten drunk, what it was Friday night? What else are you supposed to do on a Friday night? And he may, though he only has vague recollections of this, turned to the blond twit and said, God only knows why, that he was sick of pretending to Uther that he was just a friend of Arthur’s.
Gwaine groaned, and tight-faced secretary woman glared at him, now thinking back on it it may have sounded like he wanted a damn relationship, which he didn’t. Gwaine was a free spirit, a dandelion seed blowing aimlessly in the wind. He didn’t want to be tied down, he didn’t want Friday (drinking nights) spent with a Chinese in front of the TV watching Have I got News for you, or some other nonsense.
Maybe he could just slip into the office and tell Uther that Arthur was off his meds, and didn’t know what he was talking about. But then again, Uther was fucking terrifying, so maybe he’d just sit here, listening to the clock and planning his funeral.
Why on Earth Arthur choose to come out of the closet on a Tuesday afternoon was anybody’s guess. Gwaine couldn’t figure it out. Nothing ever happened on a Tuesday. Arthur was disturbing the peace of the day. Tuesday was Eastenders, followed by Holby City and then a good long fuck on the sofa - because damn, if Jack Nailer didn’t get them both hot and bothered. She was a sexy woman, she could cut into Gwaine’s chest and play with his heart any day!
Gwaine scratched his jaw, still pondering the Tuesday conundrum, ah fuck! He never shaved, not that he ever shaved, but now would have been as good a time as any to give it a go. Well fuck it, it was fine. Arthur shaved enough for the two of them. Every single morning, how did the man do it? Sometimes Gwaine would sit on the edge of the bath and watch him, fascinated, and no it’s not creepy. How was his face not always in agony? Gwaine once pondered the idea of waxing his face, how handy would that be? - he’d only have to it once every four weeks, or so the box of Veet waxing strips, berry flavour, said. But he’d thrown that silly idea away pretty quick when he remember getting his chest waxed for charity in college that one time, and it hurt like a motherfucker! How woman did it to their lady bits, Gwaine had no idea!
The clock struck two thirty, and honest to Jaysus chimed! Chimed, seriously, how did anyone in this office get any work done with that bloody racket maker hanging on the wall. If Gwaine had a mallet on hand, he would take it to it, though he didn’t have a mallet with him - cause that would have been really odd. He didn’t even think he owned one, he had a hammer though. In his tool box, under his bed, or was it in the cooker? Maybe if both he and Arthur survived, they could take a trip to B&Q and buy a mallet. He’d suggest it. A DIY date, how romantic!
The door to the office opened, and Arthur stepped out, head down, and closed the door quietly behind him.
He looked at Gwaine, a small, trembling smile on his face and Gwaine went to him.
Yeah, he loved the shit out of this man.