(no subject)
Title: It Seems To Go A Little Something Like This…
Author:
keiko_kichi
Pairing: Michael/Sara
Rating: PG-13
Words: 2054
Summary: AU. Sara was having a regular crappy day, and then she met Michael Scofield.
Author’s Notes: This is kind of cracky. And the first time in 3 years that I’ve wrote het. So I hope the MiSa fandom doesn’t throw rocks at me. :|
The first thing you gotta learn about Chicago is that the commute is a bitch.
And I don't mean the type of commute that makes you go, "Oh, I'm fifteen minutes late for work and my boss is going to be kill me.” No way, I mean the type of commute that transforms normal people into snarling animals that swear furiously, make rude hand gestures at every given moment and beep the horn with more enthusiasm than strictly necessary. The type of commute that makes you go, "Screw it, I'll just run over this idiotic bastard, do time in jail, and never have to worry about travelling to or from work ever again."
The second thing you have to learn is that this sort of travel is inevitable, unless you live ten feet away from the workplace (and if this applies to you, congratulations, I officially hate you) or you dare to brave the wonders of public transport (in which case, you'll end up in the same situation as you would be in your own car, but with the added bonus of at least twenty people who are equally angry to add to your misery).
These two things actually used to bother me quite badly. To the point where I'd be tugging at my hair and seriously considering bursting into tears. But then I discovered the wonders of nicotine. Oh, sweet, sweet nicotine.
Don’t judge me. It was either that or crack.
So this would be my normal situation every morning: driving my boss’s car to work - because, apparently, CEOs are way too important to drive their own $200,000 vehicles and therefore get their secretaries (slaves, more like) to do it for them - and trying to juggle a cell phone and lighter in one hand, while keeping the other hand on the wheel, and attempting to talk into the cell phone with a cigarette in my mouth.
“Saw-ra,” Diane, my boss, says down the phone in a voice that is way too calm for my liking, “where on earth are you with my Porsche? And my breakfast for that matter.”
I try to mumble dejectedly around the cigarette, but Diane continues on without even noticing.
“I knew I should have sent Ah-man-daw for this assignment,” she says with great importance, like this was a Bond movie. I inhale the cigarette blissfully, tuning her out.
“Diane,” I say finally, when she stops to pause for breath. “Commute is kicking my ass at the moment. I am in your Porsche and moving at the rate of a turtle. If you wish to have your breakfast before noon I suggest you send Amanda.”
With that, I snap the phone closed and throw it in the direction of the passenger’s seat. It buzzes after a minute, an incoming call, but I ignore it. If Diane was going to fire me, she would have done it years ago when I told her she looked like a whale in the blue pantsuit her accountant had bought her for Christmas.
I pinch the bridge of my nose tiredly, trying to fight off a headache. The traffic starts to move ahead of me, and I slam my foot down on the accelerator, moving about three metres and breaking my high heel in the process.
Brilliant. Just brilliant.
-
By the time I found a parking space that would satisfy Diane (“I don’t want my car mixing with all that white-trash machinery, Saw-ra.”) it had started to rain. I limped dejectedly into the building, my hair soaking. Fernando, the security guard manning the desk, looked up from his portable television when he saw me.
“Oh, honey, you don’t look so good.”
He visibly shrinks when I snarl at him, flashing my I.D. and waiting impatiently for him to beep me through. He seems to regain his confidence, though, when he realises that I’m not likely to kill him with my bare hands.
“Magic words, Chiquita.”
I sigh.
“Beam me up, Scotty.”
I hear a small snort of amusement from behind me, but decide not to turn around. Sucre and I have a special bond that cannot be understood by other human beings.
“Have a good day, Fernando,” I call out as I head towards the elevators, my broken heel making me to bounce up and down with each step. He doesn’t reply, already enraptured with his next victim.
Serves the asshole right, laughing at us both like that.
-
Well, turns out he wasn’t just some random asshole.
“Did you hear?” Amanda gushed as soon as I stepped out of the elevator, tucking a strand of silky hair behind her ear with a perfectly manicured finger. I stare down at my soaked blouse and frizzy hair in dismay. Amanda seems to have the uncanny ability of making me feel like an insect without even trying.
I perk up at her excited tone, though. “The coffee machine finally got fixed?”
Amanda wrinkles her nose in disgust. “Caffeine causes wrinkles.”
Well, that pretty much answered my question. I sigh in disappointment. When Amanda continues to look at me expectantly, I decide to bite. “Okay, hear what?”
“Michael Scofield is here!” She squealed, earning a few dirty looks from the desks we were walking past. Well, limping, in my case.
“Who?” I ask distractedly, stopping to sign a form that an intern shoves at me without reading it.
Amanda gasps. “Michael Scofield?” she repeats, like saying it two times will magically insert all information about him into my head. When I continue to stare at her blankly, she makes a pained noise. “Oh, Sara, have you been living in a hole these past few years?”
“Obviously, you have not seen my apartment.”
Amanda continues on as if she hasn’t heard me. She must have been spending too much time with Diane. “Michael Scofield is only just the hottest businessman to ever grace the pathways of Chicago,” she rushes out in one breath. “He took over his family’s company when his mother died. He’s the guy that invented radio forks!”
Oh, good. A reason to despise the man. Radio forks had been a huge fad last month. Everyone seemed to have one, including my parents. I had to sit through Thanksgiving listening to ‘Love Is A Battlefield’.
I sit down at my desk and power up my laptop. “Amanda, you’ve been spending too much time reading Cosmo.”
Amanda flaps her hand dismissively. “No such thing.”
I glance down into my handbag longingly, and a carton of cigarettes stares back at me. It was forbidden to smoke in the building.
Amanda looks in that direction too. “Smoking gives you lung cancer,” she pipes up, as if it wasn’t common knowledge.
She smiles when I give her the fish eye. Damn you, Amanda. Damn you.
“I’m going to go fix my mascara,” she chimes, as if her eye make-up wasn‘t perfect already. “You know, just in case I bump into him.”
I bite down on a pen and turn my chair in her direction. “He’s just a normal guy, Amanda.”
She laughs, already heading down the corridor. “Yeah, right!”
I narrow my eyes. My talents are unappreciated in my line of duty.
I settle back down, preparing to do some actual work. I can see a few notes pinned down on top of an already high stack of announcements, all of them just waiting to be typed out and sent to every computer in the building. I pick up the first one and start typing.
A polite cough disturbs me after a couple of sentences and I pause, trying to quench the urge to throw a stapler at the mans face. I look up, and the urge seems to triple.
It’s the guy who was laughing at me earlier.
“You!” I say accusingly, pointing up at him dramatically.
He shifts his shoulders casually, his hand clutching a briefcase. “I have an appointment with Ms. Montgomery.”
I narrow my eyes. No one calls Diane by her last name. “Whatever you’re selling, bud, she ain’t buying.”
He smirks. I want to slap his smug face. “Actually, it’s her who wants something from me. I have an appointment,” he repeats, “under the name ‘Scofield’.”
Well, shit.
-
“He talked to you?” Amanda shrieks. She had followed me into the alleyway behind the building - also known as No Man’s Land to non-smokers - to get all the gory details. I lit up a Marlboro in agitation. I came out here to relax.
“Yes,” I say, puffing on the cigarette like a freight train. “Well, no. Not really. I insulted him, and he insulted me back, in a much swifter and subtler manner.”
Amanda’s eyes go half-lidded. “That is so hot.”
I put out my used cigarette, and light up another.
“I am so fired.”
“Nah, if Diane was going to fire you, it would have been over--”
“--the pantsuit incident, I know,” I finish for her. “Still, he has influence. He‘s probably hired a hitman for me already.”
We both glance around, and then stare at each other.
“Naaaaah,” we chorus, dissolving into laughter.
We lean against the brick wall in companionable silence for a while. “Is he as smokin’ as they say he is?” Amanda asks, finally.
My casual leaning turns into a slump. “That and more,” I say mournfully.
Amanda licks her lips. “I could spread him on a cracker.”
I start to feel insanely jealous. But why? Scofield is a pompous, aristocratic ass who would rather insult me than woo me. Actually, he probably had an equally hot supermodel girlfriend. Still, I seemed to rise to his defence pretty quickly. “Don’t objectify him!”
Amanda gives me a funny look. “Sara, this is the 21st Century. We objectify everyone.”
I make a small, pained noise.
It’s depressing ‘cos it’s true.
-
I return to my desk to find Michael Scofield perched on it. It’s strangely arousing. “What do you want now?” I ask, feigning boredom.
He glances up, his glasses sliding down his nose. He pushes them up distractedly. “Will you have lunch with me?”
I freeze. If anything, I didn’t expect that.
I pick up a sheet of paper from behind him, turning as if I have to deliver it somewhere. “I just, um, gotta--”
Get out of there. Get out of there.
I walk briskly down the hallway - Amanda gave me some new shoes to borrow - but Scofield has longer legs. He catches up with me easily.
“If you don’t say agree now, I’ll just follow you around until you do,” he informs me. “I’m very persistent.”
“I noticed,” I mutter under my breath, shoving the blank page at a startled intern. I turn to face him head on. His eyes are very, very blue. “Why me, bright eyes?”
Scofield’s eyebrow twitches at the nickname. When I continue to stare at him expectantly, he actually grins. “You had me at ‘Beam me up, Scotty,’” he says poetically.
I groan. “You did not just say that.”
“Is that a yes?”
I pause. “Shouldn’t you be dating girls named Bambi or Truffle or something?” I ask desperately.
Scofield actually laughs. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
-
He walks me back to my desk so that I can grab my coat and handbag.
“Any particular place in mind?” I ask. “Remember, I pay half.”
Scofield - Michael? - opens his mouth to object, but I glare at him. “Dude, this so ain’t the 1950s anymore. I pay half. No ifs. No buts.”
He holds up my coat for me to put on. It’s quite charming. Bastard.
“I guess Rome’s out, then.”
I look up at him in shock, unsure of whether he‘s joking. “You were going to take me to Italy for lunch?”
He smiles at me. “Their pasta is worth the commute.”
Oh, God. The irony.
END.
Author:
keiko_kichi
Pairing: Michael/Sara
Rating: PG-13
Words: 2054
Summary: AU. Sara was having a regular crappy day, and then she met Michael Scofield.
Author’s Notes: This is kind of cracky. And the first time in 3 years that I’ve wrote het. So I hope the MiSa fandom doesn’t throw rocks at me. :|
The first thing you gotta learn about Chicago is that the commute is a bitch.
And I don't mean the type of commute that makes you go, "Oh, I'm fifteen minutes late for work and my boss is going to be kill me.” No way, I mean the type of commute that transforms normal people into snarling animals that swear furiously, make rude hand gestures at every given moment and beep the horn with more enthusiasm than strictly necessary. The type of commute that makes you go, "Screw it, I'll just run over this idiotic bastard, do time in jail, and never have to worry about travelling to or from work ever again."
The second thing you have to learn is that this sort of travel is inevitable, unless you live ten feet away from the workplace (and if this applies to you, congratulations, I officially hate you) or you dare to brave the wonders of public transport (in which case, you'll end up in the same situation as you would be in your own car, but with the added bonus of at least twenty people who are equally angry to add to your misery).
These two things actually used to bother me quite badly. To the point where I'd be tugging at my hair and seriously considering bursting into tears. But then I discovered the wonders of nicotine. Oh, sweet, sweet nicotine.
Don’t judge me. It was either that or crack.
So this would be my normal situation every morning: driving my boss’s car to work - because, apparently, CEOs are way too important to drive their own $200,000 vehicles and therefore get their secretaries (slaves, more like) to do it for them - and trying to juggle a cell phone and lighter in one hand, while keeping the other hand on the wheel, and attempting to talk into the cell phone with a cigarette in my mouth.
“Saw-ra,” Diane, my boss, says down the phone in a voice that is way too calm for my liking, “where on earth are you with my Porsche? And my breakfast for that matter.”
I try to mumble dejectedly around the cigarette, but Diane continues on without even noticing.
“I knew I should have sent Ah-man-daw for this assignment,” she says with great importance, like this was a Bond movie. I inhale the cigarette blissfully, tuning her out.
“Diane,” I say finally, when she stops to pause for breath. “Commute is kicking my ass at the moment. I am in your Porsche and moving at the rate of a turtle. If you wish to have your breakfast before noon I suggest you send Amanda.”
With that, I snap the phone closed and throw it in the direction of the passenger’s seat. It buzzes after a minute, an incoming call, but I ignore it. If Diane was going to fire me, she would have done it years ago when I told her she looked like a whale in the blue pantsuit her accountant had bought her for Christmas.
I pinch the bridge of my nose tiredly, trying to fight off a headache. The traffic starts to move ahead of me, and I slam my foot down on the accelerator, moving about three metres and breaking my high heel in the process.
Brilliant. Just brilliant.
-
By the time I found a parking space that would satisfy Diane (“I don’t want my car mixing with all that white-trash machinery, Saw-ra.”) it had started to rain. I limped dejectedly into the building, my hair soaking. Fernando, the security guard manning the desk, looked up from his portable television when he saw me.
“Oh, honey, you don’t look so good.”
He visibly shrinks when I snarl at him, flashing my I.D. and waiting impatiently for him to beep me through. He seems to regain his confidence, though, when he realises that I’m not likely to kill him with my bare hands.
“Magic words, Chiquita.”
I sigh.
“Beam me up, Scotty.”
I hear a small snort of amusement from behind me, but decide not to turn around. Sucre and I have a special bond that cannot be understood by other human beings.
“Have a good day, Fernando,” I call out as I head towards the elevators, my broken heel making me to bounce up and down with each step. He doesn’t reply, already enraptured with his next victim.
Serves the asshole right, laughing at us both like that.
-
Well, turns out he wasn’t just some random asshole.
“Did you hear?” Amanda gushed as soon as I stepped out of the elevator, tucking a strand of silky hair behind her ear with a perfectly manicured finger. I stare down at my soaked blouse and frizzy hair in dismay. Amanda seems to have the uncanny ability of making me feel like an insect without even trying.
I perk up at her excited tone, though. “The coffee machine finally got fixed?”
Amanda wrinkles her nose in disgust. “Caffeine causes wrinkles.”
Well, that pretty much answered my question. I sigh in disappointment. When Amanda continues to look at me expectantly, I decide to bite. “Okay, hear what?”
“Michael Scofield is here!” She squealed, earning a few dirty looks from the desks we were walking past. Well, limping, in my case.
“Who?” I ask distractedly, stopping to sign a form that an intern shoves at me without reading it.
Amanda gasps. “Michael Scofield?” she repeats, like saying it two times will magically insert all information about him into my head. When I continue to stare at her blankly, she makes a pained noise. “Oh, Sara, have you been living in a hole these past few years?”
“Obviously, you have not seen my apartment.”
Amanda continues on as if she hasn’t heard me. She must have been spending too much time with Diane. “Michael Scofield is only just the hottest businessman to ever grace the pathways of Chicago,” she rushes out in one breath. “He took over his family’s company when his mother died. He’s the guy that invented radio forks!”
Oh, good. A reason to despise the man. Radio forks had been a huge fad last month. Everyone seemed to have one, including my parents. I had to sit through Thanksgiving listening to ‘Love Is A Battlefield’.
I sit down at my desk and power up my laptop. “Amanda, you’ve been spending too much time reading Cosmo.”
Amanda flaps her hand dismissively. “No such thing.”
I glance down into my handbag longingly, and a carton of cigarettes stares back at me. It was forbidden to smoke in the building.
Amanda looks in that direction too. “Smoking gives you lung cancer,” she pipes up, as if it wasn’t common knowledge.
She smiles when I give her the fish eye. Damn you, Amanda. Damn you.
“I’m going to go fix my mascara,” she chimes, as if her eye make-up wasn‘t perfect already. “You know, just in case I bump into him.”
I bite down on a pen and turn my chair in her direction. “He’s just a normal guy, Amanda.”
She laughs, already heading down the corridor. “Yeah, right!”
I narrow my eyes. My talents are unappreciated in my line of duty.
I settle back down, preparing to do some actual work. I can see a few notes pinned down on top of an already high stack of announcements, all of them just waiting to be typed out and sent to every computer in the building. I pick up the first one and start typing.
A polite cough disturbs me after a couple of sentences and I pause, trying to quench the urge to throw a stapler at the mans face. I look up, and the urge seems to triple.
It’s the guy who was laughing at me earlier.
“You!” I say accusingly, pointing up at him dramatically.
He shifts his shoulders casually, his hand clutching a briefcase. “I have an appointment with Ms. Montgomery.”
I narrow my eyes. No one calls Diane by her last name. “Whatever you’re selling, bud, she ain’t buying.”
He smirks. I want to slap his smug face. “Actually, it’s her who wants something from me. I have an appointment,” he repeats, “under the name ‘Scofield’.”
Well, shit.
-
“He talked to you?” Amanda shrieks. She had followed me into the alleyway behind the building - also known as No Man’s Land to non-smokers - to get all the gory details. I lit up a Marlboro in agitation. I came out here to relax.
“Yes,” I say, puffing on the cigarette like a freight train. “Well, no. Not really. I insulted him, and he insulted me back, in a much swifter and subtler manner.”
Amanda’s eyes go half-lidded. “That is so hot.”
I put out my used cigarette, and light up another.
“I am so fired.”
“Nah, if Diane was going to fire you, it would have been over--”
“--the pantsuit incident, I know,” I finish for her. “Still, he has influence. He‘s probably hired a hitman for me already.”
We both glance around, and then stare at each other.
“Naaaaah,” we chorus, dissolving into laughter.
We lean against the brick wall in companionable silence for a while. “Is he as smokin’ as they say he is?” Amanda asks, finally.
My casual leaning turns into a slump. “That and more,” I say mournfully.
Amanda licks her lips. “I could spread him on a cracker.”
I start to feel insanely jealous. But why? Scofield is a pompous, aristocratic ass who would rather insult me than woo me. Actually, he probably had an equally hot supermodel girlfriend. Still, I seemed to rise to his defence pretty quickly. “Don’t objectify him!”
Amanda gives me a funny look. “Sara, this is the 21st Century. We objectify everyone.”
I make a small, pained noise.
It’s depressing ‘cos it’s true.
-
I return to my desk to find Michael Scofield perched on it. It’s strangely arousing. “What do you want now?” I ask, feigning boredom.
He glances up, his glasses sliding down his nose. He pushes them up distractedly. “Will you have lunch with me?”
I freeze. If anything, I didn’t expect that.
I pick up a sheet of paper from behind him, turning as if I have to deliver it somewhere. “I just, um, gotta--”
Get out of there. Get out of there.
I walk briskly down the hallway - Amanda gave me some new shoes to borrow - but Scofield has longer legs. He catches up with me easily.
“If you don’t say agree now, I’ll just follow you around until you do,” he informs me. “I’m very persistent.”
“I noticed,” I mutter under my breath, shoving the blank page at a startled intern. I turn to face him head on. His eyes are very, very blue. “Why me, bright eyes?”
Scofield’s eyebrow twitches at the nickname. When I continue to stare at him expectantly, he actually grins. “You had me at ‘Beam me up, Scotty,’” he says poetically.
I groan. “You did not just say that.”
“Is that a yes?”
I pause. “Shouldn’t you be dating girls named Bambi or Truffle or something?” I ask desperately.
Scofield actually laughs. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
-
He walks me back to my desk so that I can grab my coat and handbag.
“Any particular place in mind?” I ask. “Remember, I pay half.”
Scofield - Michael? - opens his mouth to object, but I glare at him. “Dude, this so ain’t the 1950s anymore. I pay half. No ifs. No buts.”
He holds up my coat for me to put on. It’s quite charming. Bastard.
“I guess Rome’s out, then.”
I look up at him in shock, unsure of whether he‘s joking. “You were going to take me to Italy for lunch?”
He smiles at me. “Their pasta is worth the commute.”
Oh, God. The irony.
END.