Consonant Craving
Characters: Peter/Claude
Rating/Warnings: PG-13. Contains bad language and traces of board-games. And a certain amount of crack.
Spoilers: If you know who they are, you're good.
Word count: 560
Summary: Peter's getting his ass handed to him. Again.
A/N: varcinie gave me this bunny and asked me to look after it, so this is for her. Apologies to k.d. lang for the title.
S-P-E-C-I-A-L.
"Oh, c'mon." Peter is getting fed up. "That's totally unfair - you've had, like, all the vowels so far."
Claude grins, shrugs. "Sore loser, are we?"
"Hey! I haven't lost." Peter runs an exasperated hand through his hair. "Yet, anyway."
It's pissing rain outside and Claude has decided that they will not train this morning, citing old bones and joints that feel the weather - an excuse which Peter privately puts down to the regiment of empty beer-bottles by the kitchen trash can.
Claude seems content to doze on the sofa, but Peter, sensing a rare opportunity to gain the upper hand, scours the shelves in the lounge for things to do.
"Monopoly, Scrabble, Operation- What?" As Claude snorts "-It was a gag gift from Nathan, okay?"
The invisible man sighs.
"-Pictionary-"
"Can't draw."
"That's sort of the point, isn't it? -Clue, Risk..."
Eventually, he settles on Scrabble, and sets it up on the table while Claude grunts his way off the sofa.
Peter sighs, looking at QDRXJPE.
Minutes pass.
"Well, c'mon then."
But the board has nothing to offer him.
"Peter?"
Peter exhales, throwing his hands up in despair. "Fuck it. I can't do anything without 'u'."
Claude smirks.
Peter scowls. "What?"
"That's your problem, isn't it, mate? In a nutshell."
Blank incomprehension on Peter's face for long moments before-
"Not you - U. The letter. Jeez."
Several turns later, matters have not improved.
"I'm gonna replace all of 'em." Seven tiles go into the bag and he shakes it, wondering whether he can attract more vowels just by thinking about it.
He draws seven letters out, arranges them on the rack and sighs.
"You must have something, mate."
"AAIIEOU," says Peter, bitterly.
"Don't think that's a word," says Claude, mildly. "C'mon, show us what you've got."
Peter twists the rack around. "Fine. You do something with it, then."
Claude frowns. "Well, you could have AI, here, look, on top of MOUNTAIN. Gives you AN an' IT, as well."
"AI? That's not even a word."
"Yes it is."
"Oh, come on. You're making this up."
Claude raises an eyebrow. "It's a kind of sloth."
"How do you even know this shit?"
Claude shugs. "Just do."
"Like you knew JUN and ERG and ASAFOETIDA?"
Claude gives him a pitying look. "Your idea to play Scrabble, mate."
Peter mutters something inaudible.
Claude stares at him, belligerence tempered sapphire. "What's that?"
"I said, what the hell use is a 720 Verbal against someone like you?"
"720?" Claude blinks. "What's it out of?"
"800."
Claude's response punctures any incipient expectations of praise. "You dropped 80 points?"
"I'm in, like, the 98th percentile!"
"But you didn't get 800."
"Great." Peter stands. "Listen, if I want this kind of crap, I can get it at home."
"You are home, mate."
"Fuck you." He steps around the table, looks at Claude's array of letters. "Hey! How did you get both blanks?"
The invisible man shrugs. Glances outside." 'S stopped rainin'."
Peter scrunches up the paper on which Claude has kept a meticulous record of their scores; drops it into the wastebasket. "Well, that sucked."
"You know what's wrong with you, mate?"
Peter scowls. "You mean apart from being inadequate in almost every way?"
Claude snorts amusement. "Nah, mate. Irritable vowel syndrome."
And somehow, the idea of being hit with a stick seems infinitely preferable to any further lexical torture.
x-posted to peterandclaude
Rating/Warnings: PG-13. Contains bad language and traces of board-games. And a certain amount of crack.
Spoilers: If you know who they are, you're good.
Word count: 560
Summary: Peter's getting his ass handed to him. Again.
A/N: varcinie gave me this bunny and asked me to look after it, so this is for her. Apologies to k.d. lang for the title.
S-P-E-C-I-A-L.
"Oh, c'mon." Peter is getting fed up. "That's totally unfair - you've had, like, all the vowels so far."
Claude grins, shrugs. "Sore loser, are we?"
"Hey! I haven't lost." Peter runs an exasperated hand through his hair. "Yet, anyway."
It's pissing rain outside and Claude has decided that they will not train this morning, citing old bones and joints that feel the weather - an excuse which Peter privately puts down to the regiment of empty beer-bottles by the kitchen trash can.
Claude seems content to doze on the sofa, but Peter, sensing a rare opportunity to gain the upper hand, scours the shelves in the lounge for things to do.
"Monopoly, Scrabble, Operation- What?" As Claude snorts "-It was a gag gift from Nathan, okay?"
The invisible man sighs.
"-Pictionary-"
"Can't draw."
"That's sort of the point, isn't it? -Clue, Risk..."
Eventually, he settles on Scrabble, and sets it up on the table while Claude grunts his way off the sofa.
Peter sighs, looking at QDRXJPE.
Minutes pass.
"Well, c'mon then."
But the board has nothing to offer him.
"Peter?"
Peter exhales, throwing his hands up in despair. "Fuck it. I can't do anything without 'u'."
Claude smirks.
Peter scowls. "What?"
"That's your problem, isn't it, mate? In a nutshell."
Blank incomprehension on Peter's face for long moments before-
"Not you - U. The letter. Jeez."
Several turns later, matters have not improved.
"I'm gonna replace all of 'em." Seven tiles go into the bag and he shakes it, wondering whether he can attract more vowels just by thinking about it.
He draws seven letters out, arranges them on the rack and sighs.
"You must have something, mate."
"AAIIEOU," says Peter, bitterly.
"Don't think that's a word," says Claude, mildly. "C'mon, show us what you've got."
Peter twists the rack around. "Fine. You do something with it, then."
Claude frowns. "Well, you could have AI, here, look, on top of MOUNTAIN. Gives you AN an' IT, as well."
"AI? That's not even a word."
"Yes it is."
"Oh, come on. You're making this up."
Claude raises an eyebrow. "It's a kind of sloth."
"How do you even know this shit?"
Claude shugs. "Just do."
"Like you knew JUN and ERG and ASAFOETIDA?"
Claude gives him a pitying look. "Your idea to play Scrabble, mate."
Peter mutters something inaudible.
Claude stares at him, belligerence tempered sapphire. "What's that?"
"I said, what the hell use is a 720 Verbal against someone like you?"
"720?" Claude blinks. "What's it out of?"
"800."
Claude's response punctures any incipient expectations of praise. "You dropped 80 points?"
"I'm in, like, the 98th percentile!"
"But you didn't get 800."
"Great." Peter stands. "Listen, if I want this kind of crap, I can get it at home."
"You are home, mate."
"Fuck you." He steps around the table, looks at Claude's array of letters. "Hey! How did you get both blanks?"
The invisible man shrugs. Glances outside." 'S stopped rainin'."
Peter scrunches up the paper on which Claude has kept a meticulous record of their scores; drops it into the wastebasket. "Well, that sucked."
"You know what's wrong with you, mate?"
Peter scowls. "You mean apart from being inadequate in almost every way?"
Claude snorts amusement. "Nah, mate. Irritable vowel syndrome."
And somehow, the idea of being hit with a stick seems infinitely preferable to any further lexical torture.
x-posted to peterandclaude