You can wonder if you want to, but I never ask why
Two PG-13 ficlets written for stereomer's awesome UST meme . Check it out if you haven't already.
Focus, Cash/Singer
Cash sighs, letting his chin drop onto his fist. “This sucks. Actually, scratch that, this blows. And swallows.”
Singer doesn’t bother to look up, just pulls a face down at his own paper. “Shut up.”
“No, but like. This is horrible, dude. I can’t do this anymore.”
Now Singer is the one who sighs. “This was your idea, you remember that? So, shut the hell up and do your work.”
Cash frowns at him, but goes back to staring at his paper and open textbook. He taps his pencil against the tabletop, shifts around in his seat. His foot touches Singer’s under the table. “Sorry,” he says, but Singer only grunts at him, pencil scratching across the paper quickly.
Okay. Okay, so. Calculus. He can totally do this shit. It’s in the goddamn bag. He copies down the next problem, looks down at it, hoping that maybe if he just stares it down long enough, the problem will solve itself. Or, at the least, stop giving him a headache.
He shifts in his seat again, stretching his legs out, and brushing against Singer’s. “Sorry,” he mumbles. Singer ignores him.
Fuck, man, he hates verifying problems. He never has any idea where to start. He doodles in the corner of the page. Looks like it might be an elephant. That, or a vacuum cleaner. His leg jumps a little, restless, and touches Singer’s, not for the first time. Cash doesn’t bother to say anything this time, it’s not like Singer will actually acknowledge him anytime soon. And, whatever, it’s a tiny kitchen table and they’re sitting across from each other. They’re going to bump some knees whether they like it or not.
Cash sits up in his seat. He taps his foot to the top of Singer’s, lightly. When that causes nothing, he lets his foot stay there, moves his other one to hook his ankle under Singer’s. Singer’s head bends a little closer to the paper, pencil moving even faster. Cash smiles to himself.
He looks down at his textbook again, pretends to be engrossed with looking up identities. He moves his foot from atop Singer’s, slides it between his spread legs, sort of presses his calve into Singer’s. When Cash chances a tiny glance up, Singer is biting his lip, staring down at his textbook intently.
He presses his leg into Singer’s again, nudges him. He moves his leg a little, just a bit, rubbing against Singer like a cat would twine around someone’s ankles. Singer’s ears are just a little red at the tips, and Cash laughs.
Singer’s legs press close suddenly, trapping Cash’s own between them. Cash can feel him lock his ankles together, make Cash unable to take his limbs back. Singer finally looks at him, glares, really.
“Alex, you’re totally blushing right now,” Cash says, a little gleefully. Singer makes a frustrated sound in his throat.
“Can you please focus on your homework?” he asks, brow furrowed. “We can play footsies after you finish your goddamn work.”
“Really?” Cash brightens.
“No,” he almost yells.
Cash slumps in his seat again, maybe even pouts a little. Singer releases his legs, moving to stand up at the counter. He works there, leaning on his elbows, goes back to ignoring Cash.
Cash stares down at his paper and his doodles once more, props his chin on his fist. He sighs.
Punctual, Frank/Jamia, office AU
Shit, shit, shit, Frank mouths. He hurries up the stairs, a little out of breath, and fuck, when did he get so out of shape? But yeah, that totally isn’t the main problem right now, the problem is that Ray is going to kill him, kill him dead, because he is so, so late.
Frank yanks open the door to the third floor, tripping over the raised threshold--the one that gets him every. fucking. time--and goes flying, folders and a pen getting tossed into the air, files fluttering slowly down to the floor. And hits someone else.
“Fuck, fuck, holy fuck,” Frank says, because he landed very badly and his left knee is now killing him, and, also, because the person he hit is on their back, pushing themselves up onto their elbows, wincing.
The person he hit is Jamia.
Fuck.
“I am so, so sorry,” Frank says, absolutely horrified. He scrambles forward, still on his knees, starts fluttering around where Jamia is sitting up, wanting to help, but a little afraid to because, oh god, she probably hates him so much right now, probably doesn’t want him touching her. “Oh, god, I don’t even. We can go to Ray right now, he’ll probably suspend me if you tell him what happened, jesus, I’m so sorry.”
“Frank,” Jamia says, raising a hand, probably to slap him.
“I was really in a hurry, I had to get this shi--stuff to Ray, and that’s no excuse, but--”
“Frank,” Jamia says, hand falling to his shoulder, and he shuts up. “It’s okay,” she says, slowly, and ducking her head down to make sure they’re eye to eye. “I’m okay.”
“Really? Because I’d understand if you didn’t.” Her hand squeezes his shoulder a little. He swallows.
“It’s nothing, really. Nothing I won’t be able to shake off. Okay?” Her eyes are bright, laughing. He’s such a fucking spaz.
“Okay,” he exhales. He turns, starts gathering up the assorted papers and files scattered around them, scraping them into messy piles. Jamia does the same.
“So,” Frank says, once they’re standing across from each other, papers in their respective owners' hands once again. “I really have to get these in,” he says, starts walking backwards in the direction of Ray’s office. He ignores the crunchy pain in his knee.
She nods, says, “Right. I’ll see you.” She waves a hand at him. “And, oh, yeah, try not to run over anyone else,” she calls after him.
He laughs a little, waving back at her, awkward.
He takes Ray’s lecture on timeliness and professionalism as he should, with his head bowed, nodding along in all the right places. He can only pay attention for so long, though, and his mind wanders after some time, touches on Jamia’s smile, her laugh.
Bob catches his eye as he walks back to his cubicle. He smirks at Frank, knowingly. Frank, very sneakily and surreptitiously, flips him off. Or, maybe not as sneakily as thought because he can hear soft snickering coming from Mikey’s direction. Christ, doesn’t anyone in this office actually work?
He has a new email when he sits in front of his computer. It’s from Bob.
You’re pathetic, it says.
Frank opens a new window, cracks his knuckles and starts typing quickly, typing about how Bob has no right to make fun of Frank, absolutely none at all, when he still can’t quite keep himself from stammering and blushing at Brian whenever he has to speak with him about a deadline, and maybe also how Frank still has those pictures of Bob from that one night at the karaoke bar that Bob had thought he’d thrown out, when someone clears their throat. He looks up.
“Hey,” Jamia says, shifting from side to side. She tugs a hand through her hair, says, “I think we might’ve gotten mixed up. Our pens.”
Frank stares at her, a little blankly. “Um, what?” She points at the pen on top of his desk, the one he‘d carried back. Upon closer scrutiny, it is sleek and black and not actually his pen. The one that was sparkly, with a bright pink feather coming out of the tip. The one Gerard had given to him as a joke, and he‘d started using for real. She drops said pen onto his desk, where it rolls until it hits the keyboard.
“Oh, uh. Sorry about that.” She stares at him, the corners of her mouth quirking up a little. “Oh! Right, yeah, you probably want that back.” He picks up her pen, holds it out to her.
Their fingers brush when she takes it from him, skin soft and so smooth. Jamia bites her lip, looking down at the folder in her hands. Frank’s face feels hot, really hot, and, embarrassingly, he’s probably redder than that time he bet Mikey that he could totally do a handstand and keep upright while he was tickled mercilessly.
“So, yeah. I’ll see you around,” Jamia says, nodding.
“Yeah, totally,” Frank says, also nods. Jesus, he doesn’t even know why he gets out of bed sometimes.
She smiles at him one last time, before walking out of his cubicle. Frank waits a second before scrambling across the floor, still in his desk chair, and peeking his head around the partition. He catches her just as she rounds the corner, hips twitching and skirt flaring out.
If he had a pillow, if he was at home, this would probably be the time when he pressed his face into it, screamed furiously and until his voice was hoarse, or maybe just until the butterflies in his stomach stopped having a fucking ball.
He is in a semi-public place, though, and he is at work, so he only rolls back to sit in front of his computer. He maximizes the window in which he’d been about to reply to Bob. He deletes everything.
I know, he types instead, hits send. He lets his head fall forward, flop against the wooden top.
Focus, Cash/Singer
Cash sighs, letting his chin drop onto his fist. “This sucks. Actually, scratch that, this blows. And swallows.”
Singer doesn’t bother to look up, just pulls a face down at his own paper. “Shut up.”
“No, but like. This is horrible, dude. I can’t do this anymore.”
Now Singer is the one who sighs. “This was your idea, you remember that? So, shut the hell up and do your work.”
Cash frowns at him, but goes back to staring at his paper and open textbook. He taps his pencil against the tabletop, shifts around in his seat. His foot touches Singer’s under the table. “Sorry,” he says, but Singer only grunts at him, pencil scratching across the paper quickly.
Okay. Okay, so. Calculus. He can totally do this shit. It’s in the goddamn bag. He copies down the next problem, looks down at it, hoping that maybe if he just stares it down long enough, the problem will solve itself. Or, at the least, stop giving him a headache.
He shifts in his seat again, stretching his legs out, and brushing against Singer’s. “Sorry,” he mumbles. Singer ignores him.
Fuck, man, he hates verifying problems. He never has any idea where to start. He doodles in the corner of the page. Looks like it might be an elephant. That, or a vacuum cleaner. His leg jumps a little, restless, and touches Singer’s, not for the first time. Cash doesn’t bother to say anything this time, it’s not like Singer will actually acknowledge him anytime soon. And, whatever, it’s a tiny kitchen table and they’re sitting across from each other. They’re going to bump some knees whether they like it or not.
Cash sits up in his seat. He taps his foot to the top of Singer’s, lightly. When that causes nothing, he lets his foot stay there, moves his other one to hook his ankle under Singer’s. Singer’s head bends a little closer to the paper, pencil moving even faster. Cash smiles to himself.
He looks down at his textbook again, pretends to be engrossed with looking up identities. He moves his foot from atop Singer’s, slides it between his spread legs, sort of presses his calve into Singer’s. When Cash chances a tiny glance up, Singer is biting his lip, staring down at his textbook intently.
He presses his leg into Singer’s again, nudges him. He moves his leg a little, just a bit, rubbing against Singer like a cat would twine around someone’s ankles. Singer’s ears are just a little red at the tips, and Cash laughs.
Singer’s legs press close suddenly, trapping Cash’s own between them. Cash can feel him lock his ankles together, make Cash unable to take his limbs back. Singer finally looks at him, glares, really.
“Alex, you’re totally blushing right now,” Cash says, a little gleefully. Singer makes a frustrated sound in his throat.
“Can you please focus on your homework?” he asks, brow furrowed. “We can play footsies after you finish your goddamn work.”
“Really?” Cash brightens.
“No,” he almost yells.
Cash slumps in his seat again, maybe even pouts a little. Singer releases his legs, moving to stand up at the counter. He works there, leaning on his elbows, goes back to ignoring Cash.
Cash stares down at his paper and his doodles once more, props his chin on his fist. He sighs.
Punctual, Frank/Jamia, office AU
Shit, shit, shit, Frank mouths. He hurries up the stairs, a little out of breath, and fuck, when did he get so out of shape? But yeah, that totally isn’t the main problem right now, the problem is that Ray is going to kill him, kill him dead, because he is so, so late.
Frank yanks open the door to the third floor, tripping over the raised threshold--the one that gets him every. fucking. time--and goes flying, folders and a pen getting tossed into the air, files fluttering slowly down to the floor. And hits someone else.
“Fuck, fuck, holy fuck,” Frank says, because he landed very badly and his left knee is now killing him, and, also, because the person he hit is on their back, pushing themselves up onto their elbows, wincing.
The person he hit is Jamia.
Fuck.
“I am so, so sorry,” Frank says, absolutely horrified. He scrambles forward, still on his knees, starts fluttering around where Jamia is sitting up, wanting to help, but a little afraid to because, oh god, she probably hates him so much right now, probably doesn’t want him touching her. “Oh, god, I don’t even. We can go to Ray right now, he’ll probably suspend me if you tell him what happened, jesus, I’m so sorry.”
“Frank,” Jamia says, raising a hand, probably to slap him.
“I was really in a hurry, I had to get this shi--stuff to Ray, and that’s no excuse, but--”
“Frank,” Jamia says, hand falling to his shoulder, and he shuts up. “It’s okay,” she says, slowly, and ducking her head down to make sure they’re eye to eye. “I’m okay.”
“Really? Because I’d understand if you didn’t.” Her hand squeezes his shoulder a little. He swallows.
“It’s nothing, really. Nothing I won’t be able to shake off. Okay?” Her eyes are bright, laughing. He’s such a fucking spaz.
“Okay,” he exhales. He turns, starts gathering up the assorted papers and files scattered around them, scraping them into messy piles. Jamia does the same.
“So,” Frank says, once they’re standing across from each other, papers in their respective owners' hands once again. “I really have to get these in,” he says, starts walking backwards in the direction of Ray’s office. He ignores the crunchy pain in his knee.
She nods, says, “Right. I’ll see you.” She waves a hand at him. “And, oh, yeah, try not to run over anyone else,” she calls after him.
He laughs a little, waving back at her, awkward.
He takes Ray’s lecture on timeliness and professionalism as he should, with his head bowed, nodding along in all the right places. He can only pay attention for so long, though, and his mind wanders after some time, touches on Jamia’s smile, her laugh.
Bob catches his eye as he walks back to his cubicle. He smirks at Frank, knowingly. Frank, very sneakily and surreptitiously, flips him off. Or, maybe not as sneakily as thought because he can hear soft snickering coming from Mikey’s direction. Christ, doesn’t anyone in this office actually work?
He has a new email when he sits in front of his computer. It’s from Bob.
You’re pathetic, it says.
Frank opens a new window, cracks his knuckles and starts typing quickly, typing about how Bob has no right to make fun of Frank, absolutely none at all, when he still can’t quite keep himself from stammering and blushing at Brian whenever he has to speak with him about a deadline, and maybe also how Frank still has those pictures of Bob from that one night at the karaoke bar that Bob had thought he’d thrown out, when someone clears their throat. He looks up.
“Hey,” Jamia says, shifting from side to side. She tugs a hand through her hair, says, “I think we might’ve gotten mixed up. Our pens.”
Frank stares at her, a little blankly. “Um, what?” She points at the pen on top of his desk, the one he‘d carried back. Upon closer scrutiny, it is sleek and black and not actually his pen. The one that was sparkly, with a bright pink feather coming out of the tip. The one Gerard had given to him as a joke, and he‘d started using for real. She drops said pen onto his desk, where it rolls until it hits the keyboard.
“Oh, uh. Sorry about that.” She stares at him, the corners of her mouth quirking up a little. “Oh! Right, yeah, you probably want that back.” He picks up her pen, holds it out to her.
Their fingers brush when she takes it from him, skin soft and so smooth. Jamia bites her lip, looking down at the folder in her hands. Frank’s face feels hot, really hot, and, embarrassingly, he’s probably redder than that time he bet Mikey that he could totally do a handstand and keep upright while he was tickled mercilessly.
“So, yeah. I’ll see you around,” Jamia says, nodding.
“Yeah, totally,” Frank says, also nods. Jesus, he doesn’t even know why he gets out of bed sometimes.
She smiles at him one last time, before walking out of his cubicle. Frank waits a second before scrambling across the floor, still in his desk chair, and peeking his head around the partition. He catches her just as she rounds the corner, hips twitching and skirt flaring out.
If he had a pillow, if he was at home, this would probably be the time when he pressed his face into it, screamed furiously and until his voice was hoarse, or maybe just until the butterflies in his stomach stopped having a fucking ball.
He is in a semi-public place, though, and he is at work, so he only rolls back to sit in front of his computer. He maximizes the window in which he’d been about to reply to Bob. He deletes everything.
I know, he types instead, hits send. He lets his head fall forward, flop against the wooden top.