Graphic (placeholder fic)
FESTIVE TITLE BITCHES YO: Graphic
RECIPIENT WHO HAD BETTER BE GRATEFUL BECAUSE I SPENT TIME THAT I COULD HAVE BEEN DRINKING WRITING THIS SHIT: paragraphs
SUMMARY: Placeholder fic for paragraphs brought on by too much spiked eggnog. Not your real fic, and no disrespect intended to your lovely Santa. Seriously, just a placeholder.
BETA: no one's seen this thing
RATING: RPF
WARNING: IMMA REALLY CRAP WRITER AND YOU'RE ALL MUCH BETTER THAN ME
SPOILERS: indulgent
DISCLAIMER: THEY'RE really, really NOT MINE. EXCEPT WHEN THEY ARE (but not really). IN MAH PANTS.
Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.
Tappity-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.
“Dammit!”
Krickle, krickle, krickle. Swoosh, rattle.
“Scott!”
Scott looked up from his novel and sighed. It was useless trying to read when John was Flexing His Creative Muscles. Otherwise known as attempting to write. Scott eyed the dog splayed out on the sofa next to him. “It’s really your turn, you know,” he told him in all seriousness. CJ the dog twitched in his sleep and rumbled low in his throat.
“Well, I don’t want to deal with it, either!” Scott grumbled back.
“Sco-ott!” John’s voice was approaching Desperation Level Two. Scott heaved another sigh, carefully marked his place in his book and stood up, stretching. CJ woke abruptly, hopped off the sofa, and stretched, too.
“Good,” Scott told him. “I’d like a little back-up.”
CJ wagged his tail and padded off to his water bowl. In the opposite direction of John’s office and his current breakdown. Scott shook his head and shuffled down the hall.
John was sitting at his desk, head in his hands and surrounded by several discarded and crumpled pieces of paper. Scott leaned against the doorframe, unwilling to fully commit to a rescue mission just yet.
“What’s the problem, Crumb?” he asked.
“Who?”
“He wrote … oh, never mind. Where are you stuck?”
John bent almost in half and banged his head on his desk. “The beginning.”
Scott was starting to wish he’d brought a bottle of wine with him. Or maybe a sharp object. “Okay, let me see what you had here,” he said, and fished out a couple crumpled pieces of paper from the bin. One had little &hearts ‘s all over it, some with “CJH + IJ = LUV” scrawled under them. Charming. The other had …
“John. Do you understand the concept of a graphic novel? You can’t have cocks in this thing. It’s not that kind of graphic.”
“Of course I know that,” John said, dignified, but Scott caught the flicker of his left eyelid. With supreme effort, he let it pass.
“Right then,” he said. “When is this supposed to be set?”
“After Death Knell and before Shitstorm,” John answered promptly. “I told Carole I’d come up with some ideas, but so far - I think I have writer’s block. How do you know when you have writer’s block?”
Scott raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think that’s your problem. I think you have too many ideas. Like this one,” he reached down and plucked up a paper from the floor. “This is supposed to be Tosh? Isn’t she dead?”
“Yeah, she bites it in Death Knell. But I liked Tosh! I wanted her in my story.”
“Well, you don’t get her,” Scott said, attempting to keep his tone calm and reasonable. “If you miss Naoko, ring her. But for this story, you get Jack, Ianto and Gwen. So use them.”
“Kinky,” John muttered.
“And remember what I said about the graphics.” Scott tossed the Tosh paper into the bin. “I’m taking the dogs out for a bit. Astound us with your brilliance when we get back.” He leaned over, kissed John’s forehead and left the room before John could protest.
***
It was windy outside, and spitting rain, as per usual. Scott walked slightly hunched. CJ and Lewis ran around his ankles, snorfling and smelling before running ahead, then back and nearly tripping him up. “Oi! Watch what you’re doing!” he admonished them. Lewis paused, managing a slightly contrite expression that never ceased to amaze Scott, but CJ bounded ahead again, running full tilt for the only other person on the pavement. Shit.
“Sorry about that!” he called, hurrying forward, Lewis at his side as CJ proceeded to bounce all around the stranger.
“He’s a cute dog,” the man said, attempting to pet CJ. CJ immediately rolled over and bared his belly.
“He’s a wimp,” Scott answered dryly. CJ gave him a big doggie grin as the man rubbed his belly. Of course, that’s one way of getting what you want.
A door banged from down the street, and Scott glanced back to see John come running out of their house in stocking feet and without a jacket.
“Scott! Scott! I have a brilliant idea!” he called. CJ sat back up, and both dogs began to wriggle with excitement. John stopped breathlessly before them, and Scott had to offer a steadying shoulder as he caught his breath.
“Okay! I’m thinking: murder mystery suspense thing - like a Hitchcock film! I want something really dark and broody. Make people shiver!” John looked at him expectantly, smile wide.
“Well, good! Which Hitchcock film are you thinking of?” Scott held his breath. Please don’t say Vertigo. I hate that one.
“Vertigo!” John exclaimed, slapping his hands together. “That’ll work, yeah?”
Scott fished for something to say, and noticed the stranger was eyeing them, well, strangely. “He’s writing a graphic novel,” he said to the man, by way of explanation.
“Oh! For Hitchcock? What about The Birds, yeah?” he asked.
Scott seized upon the suggestion. “Yes! That’d be perfect for a graphic novel, don’t you think, John?”
John nodded slowly. “I can see that. Black birds and red blood; that would look good. Where are you from?” Jack asked, switching topics as quickly as he usually did. It made Scott’s head spin if he concentrated on following the thread. He’d learned long ago to just roll with it.
The stranger didn’t look taken aback, either. “Germany,” he replied.
“Germany! Long way. Listen, I know some German - ”
“John…” Scott warned him, but John ignored him, like a dog with a bone.
“Ich mag Kirschen!” Jack announced. Scott held his breath.
“That’s decent pronunciation,” the stranger said, smiling, and Scott let the breath out. Thank God John didn’t know any foul language in German.
“Ha!” John exclaimed. “Did you hear that, Scott?” He turned back to the man without waiting for a response. “Have a lovely trip in Wales. I need to go be brilliant.” He stuck his hand out, gave the man an energetic handshake, and went running back to the house, thin shirt filling with wind and puffing out around him. The dogs raced him down the street.
Scott shook the stranger’s hand, too. “Have a good holiday. And thanks for the suggestion!”
***
Three hours later, Scott was bellowed for from the office yet again. He rolled his eyes at Lewis this time, but hauled himself to his feet and went shuffling down the hall.
“All right,” he said, leaning against the doorframe again. “Sparkle for me.”
John proudly relinquished a fist full of story-panel-ed papers. Scott flipped through them, smiling. “Why are you smiling?” John asked. “You’re supposed to be quaking in fright.”
“Oh, it is very frightening indeed,” Scott assured him. “That’s not why I’m smiling.”
John looked at him. “You’re seriously going to make me ask?” he said finally.
Scott chuckled. “I like cherries.”
John blinked. “It’s December. Cherries are a bit in short supply. But for the love of my life, I think I cold get my hands on some.”
Scott frowned. “Did you even know that’s what you told that guy?”
“Um … I thought I said ‘I like your hair.’”
RECIPIENT WHO HAD BETTER BE GRATEFUL BECAUSE I SPENT TIME THAT I COULD HAVE BEEN DRINKING WRITING THIS SHIT: paragraphs
SUMMARY: Placeholder fic for paragraphs brought on by too much spiked eggnog. Not your real fic, and no disrespect intended to your lovely Santa. Seriously, just a placeholder.
BETA: no one's seen this thing
RATING: RPF
WARNING: IMMA REALLY CRAP WRITER AND YOU'RE ALL MUCH BETTER THAN ME
SPOILERS: indulgent
DISCLAIMER: THEY'RE really, really NOT MINE. EXCEPT WHEN THEY ARE (but not really). IN MAH PANTS.
Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.
Tappity-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.
“Dammit!”
Krickle, krickle, krickle. Swoosh, rattle.
“Scott!”
Scott looked up from his novel and sighed. It was useless trying to read when John was Flexing His Creative Muscles. Otherwise known as attempting to write. Scott eyed the dog splayed out on the sofa next to him. “It’s really your turn, you know,” he told him in all seriousness. CJ the dog twitched in his sleep and rumbled low in his throat.
“Well, I don’t want to deal with it, either!” Scott grumbled back.
“Sco-ott!” John’s voice was approaching Desperation Level Two. Scott heaved another sigh, carefully marked his place in his book and stood up, stretching. CJ woke abruptly, hopped off the sofa, and stretched, too.
“Good,” Scott told him. “I’d like a little back-up.”
CJ wagged his tail and padded off to his water bowl. In the opposite direction of John’s office and his current breakdown. Scott shook his head and shuffled down the hall.
John was sitting at his desk, head in his hands and surrounded by several discarded and crumpled pieces of paper. Scott leaned against the doorframe, unwilling to fully commit to a rescue mission just yet.
“What’s the problem, Crumb?” he asked.
“Who?”
“He wrote … oh, never mind. Where are you stuck?”
John bent almost in half and banged his head on his desk. “The beginning.”
Scott was starting to wish he’d brought a bottle of wine with him. Or maybe a sharp object. “Okay, let me see what you had here,” he said, and fished out a couple crumpled pieces of paper from the bin. One had little &hearts ‘s all over it, some with “CJH + IJ = LUV” scrawled under them. Charming. The other had …
“John. Do you understand the concept of a graphic novel? You can’t have cocks in this thing. It’s not that kind of graphic.”
“Of course I know that,” John said, dignified, but Scott caught the flicker of his left eyelid. With supreme effort, he let it pass.
“Right then,” he said. “When is this supposed to be set?”
“After Death Knell and before Shitstorm,” John answered promptly. “I told Carole I’d come up with some ideas, but so far - I think I have writer’s block. How do you know when you have writer’s block?”
Scott raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think that’s your problem. I think you have too many ideas. Like this one,” he reached down and plucked up a paper from the floor. “This is supposed to be Tosh? Isn’t she dead?”
“Yeah, she bites it in Death Knell. But I liked Tosh! I wanted her in my story.”
“Well, you don’t get her,” Scott said, attempting to keep his tone calm and reasonable. “If you miss Naoko, ring her. But for this story, you get Jack, Ianto and Gwen. So use them.”
“Kinky,” John muttered.
“And remember what I said about the graphics.” Scott tossed the Tosh paper into the bin. “I’m taking the dogs out for a bit. Astound us with your brilliance when we get back.” He leaned over, kissed John’s forehead and left the room before John could protest.
***
It was windy outside, and spitting rain, as per usual. Scott walked slightly hunched. CJ and Lewis ran around his ankles, snorfling and smelling before running ahead, then back and nearly tripping him up. “Oi! Watch what you’re doing!” he admonished them. Lewis paused, managing a slightly contrite expression that never ceased to amaze Scott, but CJ bounded ahead again, running full tilt for the only other person on the pavement. Shit.
“Sorry about that!” he called, hurrying forward, Lewis at his side as CJ proceeded to bounce all around the stranger.
“He’s a cute dog,” the man said, attempting to pet CJ. CJ immediately rolled over and bared his belly.
“He’s a wimp,” Scott answered dryly. CJ gave him a big doggie grin as the man rubbed his belly. Of course, that’s one way of getting what you want.
A door banged from down the street, and Scott glanced back to see John come running out of their house in stocking feet and without a jacket.
“Scott! Scott! I have a brilliant idea!” he called. CJ sat back up, and both dogs began to wriggle with excitement. John stopped breathlessly before them, and Scott had to offer a steadying shoulder as he caught his breath.
“Okay! I’m thinking: murder mystery suspense thing - like a Hitchcock film! I want something really dark and broody. Make people shiver!” John looked at him expectantly, smile wide.
“Well, good! Which Hitchcock film are you thinking of?” Scott held his breath. Please don’t say Vertigo. I hate that one.
“Vertigo!” John exclaimed, slapping his hands together. “That’ll work, yeah?”
Scott fished for something to say, and noticed the stranger was eyeing them, well, strangely. “He’s writing a graphic novel,” he said to the man, by way of explanation.
“Oh! For Hitchcock? What about The Birds, yeah?” he asked.
Scott seized upon the suggestion. “Yes! That’d be perfect for a graphic novel, don’t you think, John?”
John nodded slowly. “I can see that. Black birds and red blood; that would look good. Where are you from?” Jack asked, switching topics as quickly as he usually did. It made Scott’s head spin if he concentrated on following the thread. He’d learned long ago to just roll with it.
The stranger didn’t look taken aback, either. “Germany,” he replied.
“Germany! Long way. Listen, I know some German - ”
“John…” Scott warned him, but John ignored him, like a dog with a bone.
“Ich mag Kirschen!” Jack announced. Scott held his breath.
“That’s decent pronunciation,” the stranger said, smiling, and Scott let the breath out. Thank God John didn’t know any foul language in German.
“Ha!” John exclaimed. “Did you hear that, Scott?” He turned back to the man without waiting for a response. “Have a lovely trip in Wales. I need to go be brilliant.” He stuck his hand out, gave the man an energetic handshake, and went running back to the house, thin shirt filling with wind and puffing out around him. The dogs raced him down the street.
Scott shook the stranger’s hand, too. “Have a good holiday. And thanks for the suggestion!”
***
Three hours later, Scott was bellowed for from the office yet again. He rolled his eyes at Lewis this time, but hauled himself to his feet and went shuffling down the hall.
“All right,” he said, leaning against the doorframe again. “Sparkle for me.”
John proudly relinquished a fist full of story-panel-ed papers. Scott flipped through them, smiling. “Why are you smiling?” John asked. “You’re supposed to be quaking in fright.”
“Oh, it is very frightening indeed,” Scott assured him. “That’s not why I’m smiling.”
John looked at him. “You’re seriously going to make me ask?” he said finally.
Scott chuckled. “I like cherries.”
John blinked. “It’s December. Cherries are a bit in short supply. But for the love of my life, I think I cold get my hands on some.”
Scott frowned. “Did you even know that’s what you told that guy?”
“Um … I thought I said ‘I like your hair.’”