drink me or i'll drown in a sea of giants
Right, okay, KNOW I HAVE NOT POSTED IN FOREVER, am working on setting up my blog/exciting RL developments/writing a fic that you're all going to murder me for because it's...er...a Veronica Mars fic but I JUST NEED TO WRITE IT, OKAY, I JUST CAN'T HELP MYSELF. That story, as well as the link to my blog, will be up as soon as they're both ready to go.
BUT IN THE MEANTIME, here is a music video for a song I just love so much it hurts, and also two domesticverse ficlets that I wrote for bookshop's fluff meme ages ago and never posted here. They don't have proper titles, because I am lazy.
In Which Arthur Totally Does Not Have the Swine Flu
Arthur has many things, and he's willing to admit to them all.
He has a bachelor's degree. He has a military record--admittedly, a slightly marred military record, but a military record nonetheless. He has a type A personality and a predilection towards unsettlingly rare steak and a firm grip on the care and handling of a variety of different guns. He has a number of bespoke suits and a sharp wit and an admitted mean streak.
What he does not have is the fucking swine flu.
"People aren't even getting that anymore," he snaps at Ariadne, when she raises her eyebrows at him and suggests it.
"A medical degree is no basis for a diagnosis," he growls at Yusuf, when he backs up Ariadne's point.
"You're not convincing me of shit," he rasps at Cobb, while he is, to his irritation, being driven home from the warehouse. "I am perfectly fine."
He puts on a pair of flannel pajama bottoms when Cobb leaves, because there's a loose thread on his pants and looking it bothers him. He puts on a sweatshirt, because it would look ridiculous to wear pajama bottoms with a shirt and tie. He sits on the couch and hugs his legs to his chest because it is comfortable, okay, and that's how he wants to sit, and he doesn't get a blanket because he does not fucking need one, thank you very much.
Then Eames comes home.
"You're supposed to be tailing the mark," Arthur points out. "And we already have groceries in, what the fuck are you doing with those bags?"
"I had a sudden craving for homemade chicken soup," Eames says, shrugging and abandoning them on the counter. "Very distracting. I had to give in. It couldn't be helped. On a completely unrelated note, I hear you don't have swine flu."
"You hear correctly," Arthur snaps, and if he coughs as he says it, it's obviously in horror at the color of Eames' shirt.
"I can see that," Eames murmurs. "You're a rather fetching shade of pale, darling, did you know?"
"Fuck off," Arthur says, and totally doesn't shudder.
"Ah," Eames says, "you know what, I rather think the soup can wait."
He goes into the bedroom and comes out with their comforter bundled in his arms. Arthur raises an eyebrow.
"I don't need that," he growls.
"I know you don't," Eames says easily. "But I do, love, it's bloody freezing in here, isn't it?"
"Well," Arthur says, aware that he's being played but maybe--maybe--a little too tired to care about it, "I mean, if you think so."
Eames smiles and sits down on the couch. He lets Arthur stretch out, pushes Arthurs' head down to rest on his lap, and throws the comforter over him. Arthur considers pointing out that, for someone who claimed the blanket was for his personal use, he doesn't actually seem to be using it at all, but he coughs again instead.
Eames makes a small, sympathetic noise, and Arthur's going to kill him as soon as he opens his eyes. Eames runs his fingers through Arthur's hair, and in just a minute Arthur is definitely going to make him stop.
"I don't have swine flu," Arthur mumbles.
"Of course not," Eames agrees, his voice soft.
"Just so long as we're clear on that," Arthur slurs, and falls asleep with his face mashed into Eames' thigh.
In Which Ice Cream Choices Are Debated
"No," Arthur says, "pistachio ice cream is disgusting."
"I'd like to remind you at this juncture of who does all the cooking, pet," Eames replies, raising his eyebrows. "I think, all things considered, I am the only one who should get veto power."
Arthur gives him an unimpressed look. "I'm sorry, were you planning on using pistachio ice cream as an ingredient in something?"
"You don't have to eat it!" Eames cries, waving his hands. "We can get two varieties of ice cream, I can't believe you won't even allow pistachio to share freezer space with--"
"You know what," Arthur says, because he recognizes that they're getting some strange looks, "let's just do the ice cream last."
--
"Because Peter Pan peanut butter is vile," Eames explains patiently, wrenching it out of Arthur's grip for the third time.
"You think all peanut butter is vile," Arthur points out.
"That's not true," Eames protests. "I will occasionally indulge in Jif."
"No," Arthur corrects, "you will occasionally indulge in eating my sandwich when I use Jif, and then you complain about the taste on the roof of your mouth for hours and I have to listen to you, so give me back the Peter Pan or suffer the fucking consequences."
"Christ, fine," Eames snaps. Arthur looks him over, sees that he is actually prepared to fucking sulk about this, and sighs.
"Will you stop whining if we get Nutella too?"
--
"You can't get that," Arthur says, "because--"
"If you say a bloody word," Eames warns, "about my sodding blood pressure, Arthur, I swear to god--"
"Oh, like it's any less embarrassing when you harass the people at the bakery about allergies I don't even fucking have--"
"Do you have any idea how impossible you are?" Eames demands. "Do you? Because honestly, darling, I think you've set a new standard."
"I'm going back to the fucking ice cream aisle," Arthur snaps. "You are too ridiculous to even talk to."
"If you don't get pistachio I'm moving out!" Eames yells after him. Arthur flips him his middle finger and ignores the scandalized look a passing grandmother throws his way.
--
Arthur's standing in front of the freezer case when he feels a warm weight against his back. Hands slide into his front pockets, and Arthur sighs.
"I could flip you over my shoulder into the glass," he points out. "It would be easy."
"But you'd regret it," Eames says against his ear.
"Only because you'd hold it against me for the rest of our fucking lives," Arthur murmurs.
"Yes, well," Eames says. He's quiet for a minute, and Arthur lets himself relax backwards into his grip, just a little. "Sorry."
"No you're not," Arthur snorts, amused. Eames laughs.
"Well, you're not either," he says. "Although I do appreciate your not flipping me into the freezer case, love, thanks."
"It's cold," says Arthur, which is not really an explanation. Eames just makes a quiet humming noise and doesn't move an inch, and really, at the end of the day, Arthur might be willing to admit he's not so bad.
"I guess we can get the pistachio," Arthur sighs, long-suffering. "But only if you promise to stay the hell out of my Phish Food."
"Done," Eames agrees, and they smile at each other on the way to the checkout.
BUT IN THE MEANTIME, here is a music video for a song I just love so much it hurts, and also two domesticverse ficlets that I wrote for bookshop's fluff meme ages ago and never posted here. They don't have proper titles, because I am lazy.
Click to viewIn Which Arthur Totally Does Not Have the Swine Flu
Arthur has many things, and he's willing to admit to them all.
He has a bachelor's degree. He has a military record--admittedly, a slightly marred military record, but a military record nonetheless. He has a type A personality and a predilection towards unsettlingly rare steak and a firm grip on the care and handling of a variety of different guns. He has a number of bespoke suits and a sharp wit and an admitted mean streak.
What he does not have is the fucking swine flu.
"People aren't even getting that anymore," he snaps at Ariadne, when she raises her eyebrows at him and suggests it.
"A medical degree is no basis for a diagnosis," he growls at Yusuf, when he backs up Ariadne's point.
"You're not convincing me of shit," he rasps at Cobb, while he is, to his irritation, being driven home from the warehouse. "I am perfectly fine."
He puts on a pair of flannel pajama bottoms when Cobb leaves, because there's a loose thread on his pants and looking it bothers him. He puts on a sweatshirt, because it would look ridiculous to wear pajama bottoms with a shirt and tie. He sits on the couch and hugs his legs to his chest because it is comfortable, okay, and that's how he wants to sit, and he doesn't get a blanket because he does not fucking need one, thank you very much.
Then Eames comes home.
"You're supposed to be tailing the mark," Arthur points out. "And we already have groceries in, what the fuck are you doing with those bags?"
"I had a sudden craving for homemade chicken soup," Eames says, shrugging and abandoning them on the counter. "Very distracting. I had to give in. It couldn't be helped. On a completely unrelated note, I hear you don't have swine flu."
"You hear correctly," Arthur snaps, and if he coughs as he says it, it's obviously in horror at the color of Eames' shirt.
"I can see that," Eames murmurs. "You're a rather fetching shade of pale, darling, did you know?"
"Fuck off," Arthur says, and totally doesn't shudder.
"Ah," Eames says, "you know what, I rather think the soup can wait."
He goes into the bedroom and comes out with their comforter bundled in his arms. Arthur raises an eyebrow.
"I don't need that," he growls.
"I know you don't," Eames says easily. "But I do, love, it's bloody freezing in here, isn't it?"
"Well," Arthur says, aware that he's being played but maybe--maybe--a little too tired to care about it, "I mean, if you think so."
Eames smiles and sits down on the couch. He lets Arthur stretch out, pushes Arthurs' head down to rest on his lap, and throws the comforter over him. Arthur considers pointing out that, for someone who claimed the blanket was for his personal use, he doesn't actually seem to be using it at all, but he coughs again instead.
Eames makes a small, sympathetic noise, and Arthur's going to kill him as soon as he opens his eyes. Eames runs his fingers through Arthur's hair, and in just a minute Arthur is definitely going to make him stop.
"I don't have swine flu," Arthur mumbles.
"Of course not," Eames agrees, his voice soft.
"Just so long as we're clear on that," Arthur slurs, and falls asleep with his face mashed into Eames' thigh.
In Which Ice Cream Choices Are Debated
"No," Arthur says, "pistachio ice cream is disgusting."
"I'd like to remind you at this juncture of who does all the cooking, pet," Eames replies, raising his eyebrows. "I think, all things considered, I am the only one who should get veto power."
Arthur gives him an unimpressed look. "I'm sorry, were you planning on using pistachio ice cream as an ingredient in something?"
"You don't have to eat it!" Eames cries, waving his hands. "We can get two varieties of ice cream, I can't believe you won't even allow pistachio to share freezer space with--"
"You know what," Arthur says, because he recognizes that they're getting some strange looks, "let's just do the ice cream last."
--
"Because Peter Pan peanut butter is vile," Eames explains patiently, wrenching it out of Arthur's grip for the third time.
"You think all peanut butter is vile," Arthur points out.
"That's not true," Eames protests. "I will occasionally indulge in Jif."
"No," Arthur corrects, "you will occasionally indulge in eating my sandwich when I use Jif, and then you complain about the taste on the roof of your mouth for hours and I have to listen to you, so give me back the Peter Pan or suffer the fucking consequences."
"Christ, fine," Eames snaps. Arthur looks him over, sees that he is actually prepared to fucking sulk about this, and sighs.
"Will you stop whining if we get Nutella too?"
--
"You can't get that," Arthur says, "because--"
"If you say a bloody word," Eames warns, "about my sodding blood pressure, Arthur, I swear to god--"
"Oh, like it's any less embarrassing when you harass the people at the bakery about allergies I don't even fucking have--"
"Do you have any idea how impossible you are?" Eames demands. "Do you? Because honestly, darling, I think you've set a new standard."
"I'm going back to the fucking ice cream aisle," Arthur snaps. "You are too ridiculous to even talk to."
"If you don't get pistachio I'm moving out!" Eames yells after him. Arthur flips him his middle finger and ignores the scandalized look a passing grandmother throws his way.
--
Arthur's standing in front of the freezer case when he feels a warm weight against his back. Hands slide into his front pockets, and Arthur sighs.
"I could flip you over my shoulder into the glass," he points out. "It would be easy."
"But you'd regret it," Eames says against his ear.
"Only because you'd hold it against me for the rest of our fucking lives," Arthur murmurs.
"Yes, well," Eames says. He's quiet for a minute, and Arthur lets himself relax backwards into his grip, just a little. "Sorry."
"No you're not," Arthur snorts, amused. Eames laughs.
"Well, you're not either," he says. "Although I do appreciate your not flipping me into the freezer case, love, thanks."
"It's cold," says Arthur, which is not really an explanation. Eames just makes a quiet humming noise and doesn't move an inch, and really, at the end of the day, Arthur might be willing to admit he's not so bad.
"I guess we can get the pistachio," Arthur sighs, long-suffering. "But only if you promise to stay the hell out of my Phish Food."
"Done," Eames agrees, and they smile at each other on the way to the checkout.