Nursing a wound part 1
Hi friends, I think it's high time we have a story up again in these here parts:
title: Nursing a wound
author: Elastic_spam
rating: R(for Elfman being all sweary like and some risque flirty in the third flashback chapter)
Fandom: RPS
Pairing: Tim/Danny
about: How Danny and Tim survive and cope with their brief feud.
A/n: this is not, by any means meant to be an accurate account of what occurred between Danny and Tim back in 93-94- it’s just my idea of what may’ve occurred through the account of a slightly inebriated and depressed film composer. Thanks and please enjoy.
“Danny? You’re still awake?”
Not again.
I cough and clear my throat. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Okay. Do you need any coffee or anything?”
A pang of guilt pinches at my nerves. Christ, Caroline can’t see me with a beer. She’ll start searching the trash or something. I glance at it, giving it a little shake. Good, it’s almost empty.
“Danny?”
“No, it’s okay. I can make it myself.”
“All right, good night.”
“’Night.”
That was close. Maybe I’ll turn on Ren and Stimpy and try to sleep on the couch. Fuck, staring at that computer screen did a number on my eyes. I can’t even open ‘em without them burning I mean that literally it’s not the beer talking. At least, I don’t think so. Heh. Fucking technology, I did just fine with switchboards, music sheets, and an orchestra.
Oh hell, it’s one of those new Ren and Stimpys. Y’know, the ones they’ve been making since John whathisname got fired. I’m sure you’ve read about it somewhere. God, I hate these new ones: they’re trying so hard to be grotesque that it’s not entertaining. Put some back into it! Where’s Ren’s psychopathic rage? They made him look like Peter Lorre for a reason, you know!
Fuck, listen to me. I’m what? 43 years old? And I’m obsessing over a kid’s show that has a farting cat and his collection of dried mucus. Where did you go wrong, Danny?
Well, that question has a pretty easy answer: it all started last Monday. I was healthy and confident; the songs for Nightmare were done and I was pretty damn sure Tim would like them. But no, even after listening to the demos five times already, he thought they could “use more work”.
“Tim, I’ve worked for three months on this, I stayed up till 6 AM, for fuck’s sake and now you tell me they’re shitty?”
Tim paused, scratching the back of his head. “They’re not shitty, it just needs a bit more tweaking, that’s all. The rhythm has to match up with the vocals, y’know?”
I rubbed my temples. “No offense, Tim, but you know nothing about compos_”
“Hey, y’know what? You don’t need to be such an asshole. I at least know about poetry rhyming schemes, all right? It was just a request.”
“A request? Is that all? Cos you made it sound like I’, gonna get fired or something.”
Tim stood up. “Danny, if you’re going to be like this all day, you can leave.”
“Fine by me. And I’ll be taking the demos with me.”
“Just leave ‘em here.”
I grabbed the door handle. “Oh, now you want them, smart move.”
“Just go.”
So that’s basically what happened. Well, it’s at least of what I can remember. I’m sure there was a lot more shouting and maybe even some tears, but the beer’s clogged my memory. God, my head hurts. Maybe if I beat it against the wall enough, I’ll go into a coma and then in a few years time, we’ll forget the whole thing and start anew.
Oh fuck it, who am I kidding?
title: Nursing a wound
author: Elastic_spam
rating: R(for Elfman being all sweary like and some risque flirty in the third flashback chapter)
Fandom: RPS
Pairing: Tim/Danny
about: How Danny and Tim survive and cope with their brief feud.
A/n: this is not, by any means meant to be an accurate account of what occurred between Danny and Tim back in 93-94- it’s just my idea of what may’ve occurred through the account of a slightly inebriated and depressed film composer. Thanks and please enjoy.
“Danny? You’re still awake?”
Not again.
I cough and clear my throat. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Okay. Do you need any coffee or anything?”
A pang of guilt pinches at my nerves. Christ, Caroline can’t see me with a beer. She’ll start searching the trash or something. I glance at it, giving it a little shake. Good, it’s almost empty.
“Danny?”
“No, it’s okay. I can make it myself.”
“All right, good night.”
“’Night.”
That was close. Maybe I’ll turn on Ren and Stimpy and try to sleep on the couch. Fuck, staring at that computer screen did a number on my eyes. I can’t even open ‘em without them burning I mean that literally it’s not the beer talking. At least, I don’t think so. Heh. Fucking technology, I did just fine with switchboards, music sheets, and an orchestra.
Oh hell, it’s one of those new Ren and Stimpys. Y’know, the ones they’ve been making since John whathisname got fired. I’m sure you’ve read about it somewhere. God, I hate these new ones: they’re trying so hard to be grotesque that it’s not entertaining. Put some back into it! Where’s Ren’s psychopathic rage? They made him look like Peter Lorre for a reason, you know!
Fuck, listen to me. I’m what? 43 years old? And I’m obsessing over a kid’s show that has a farting cat and his collection of dried mucus. Where did you go wrong, Danny?
Well, that question has a pretty easy answer: it all started last Monday. I was healthy and confident; the songs for Nightmare were done and I was pretty damn sure Tim would like them. But no, even after listening to the demos five times already, he thought they could “use more work”.
“Tim, I’ve worked for three months on this, I stayed up till 6 AM, for fuck’s sake and now you tell me they’re shitty?”
Tim paused, scratching the back of his head. “They’re not shitty, it just needs a bit more tweaking, that’s all. The rhythm has to match up with the vocals, y’know?”
I rubbed my temples. “No offense, Tim, but you know nothing about compos_”
“Hey, y’know what? You don’t need to be such an asshole. I at least know about poetry rhyming schemes, all right? It was just a request.”
“A request? Is that all? Cos you made it sound like I’, gonna get fired or something.”
Tim stood up. “Danny, if you’re going to be like this all day, you can leave.”
“Fine by me. And I’ll be taking the demos with me.”
“Just leave ‘em here.”
I grabbed the door handle. “Oh, now you want them, smart move.”
“Just go.”
So that’s basically what happened. Well, it’s at least of what I can remember. I’m sure there was a lot more shouting and maybe even some tears, but the beer’s clogged my memory. God, my head hurts. Maybe if I beat it against the wall enough, I’ll go into a coma and then in a few years time, we’ll forget the whole thing and start anew.
Oh fuck it, who am I kidding?