College newspaper shenanigans, SGA-style
So a few days ago (a week ago? I have no idea), I begged secrethappiness for SGA story ideas. Because she is fabulous like that, she promptly sent me five or six fantastic AU prompts and I started poking at them. At this point, I think only three are going to get written (although I really hope SOMEONE writes about NASCAR-driver John and brilliant-but-cranky pit-crew chief Rodney), and this is one of them. I kind of left it at a critical moment, sorry about that. It's not that I don't have more in my head (because I do and I kind of love it, if it works out), it's that so far it's coming out badly whenever I try writing it, and I thought this was fun enough to post on its own. Also I'm slightly evil and I like leaving it at a critical moment.
This is rated R for language, obviously a lie, obviously I do not own the characters.
P.S. It's been a looooong time since my newspaper days, so please forgive (and point out) any obvious technical lapses. I stand by my assertion that college newspapers still use antiquated equipment and light tables, though. Right? Right?
Not Exactly Rocket Science
"No."
Rodney's eyes go big and then he squints, trying to look mean, but the round blue hurt is already burned into John's brain and he just doesn't believe Rodney's sharp tone when he says "What do you mean, no, it's a perfectly good article that's completely topical! Last time I turned something in you said it was too dated, so I made sure this time -"
"Rodney," John begins, taking a deep breath. "Rodney."
"What?" His eyes aren't squinty anymore, but he's still glaring, hands clenched around the wrinkled printout that's his story.
"Rodney, when I said that an article on the Riemann hypothesis was too dated, I didn't mean to replace it with a story about Yang-Mills existence and the mass gap." John knuckles his eyes for a moment. He's been holding half a page in the features section for Rodney, and he hasn't slept since Tuesday, and he's pretty sure he failed Merritt's half-term quiz on ethics in journalism. "I know this stuff is interesting to you, and hey," John produces a smile from somewhere, though he's pretty sure it's a lame one, "it's interesting to me, too, but this isn't Scientific American. This is a university newspaper and the average reader is a liberal arts major who takes a look at the comics and the editorial page and then doesn't bother to recycle."
"You said I could write about something that interests me," Rodney insists. He waves the paper at John. "This interests me!"
John folds his arms and lays his head down on the table. "Rodney," he says into the crook of his own elbow. "Does anything interest you as much as physics?" He closes his eyes, the bitter scent of ink drifting up from the sheets under his nose. "Anything?"
"Well."
John can hear Rodney shift from foot to foot.
"What?" John wonders if he could get high from the ink smell.
"Sex interests me, but."
John lifts his head and points at Rodney. "Yes. There you go. Sex interests everyone. Write me something about sex. Just don't use the word fuck, okay, and I'll print anything." He puts his head back down. "Now go away. I have to study."
"That's not studying," Rodney says. When John opens his eyes, he can see Rodney's thighs, and his hands, still clutching the battered papers. "Um."
"What?" John demands, raising his head again and glaring at Rodney. "What? What? What? You need a liberal arts credit, I need half a page for the features section, what? I know you understand math, Rodney, so please add this up and produce a story."
"All my knowledge about sex is theoretical," Rodney blurts out.
John sighs. Heavily. And sits up and kicks out the stool across from himself and waits for Rodney to perch nervously on the edge of it. "Are you a virgin?" John asks, and Rodney jerks like he's been shot. John would feel sorry for him, but he's too tired.
"I'm a nineteen-year-old college student working on three simultaneous doctorates," Rodney snaps. "What do you think?"
"I'm just surprised, is all. You're good looking, you're smart, you're entertaining when you're not making people want to kill themselves by droning on for seven hundred words about rational number theory." John shrugs. "Anyway, being a virgin doesn't mean you can't write about sex. Write about being a virgin. Write a column about it. For god's sake, just write something, right now, because I have to start running this through the press at 2 a.m., and that's in two hours, and if you don't write me something I'll have to write something or dig something out of the throwaway files and that's just a bad, bad idea."
"Yes, that's exactly what I want," Rodney says. "To write an article in which I publicly admit that I'm a virgin. Thank you. That will be fabulous."
John rolls his eyes. "Just write," he says. "Anything." He thinks about that and amends it. "Not about physics. About sex." He drops his head to the wood surface with a thud and goes to sleep listening to the hesitant sound of Rodney's pen on paper, across the table from him.
Rodney wakes him up at 1:45 a.m. "Here," he says, shoving more paper under John's nose.
"Did you format it?" John glances over the newly typeset page. "Good. Fine. Okay." He slouches over to the light tables and pastes the article in place and bless young Rodney's anal-retentive love of detail, it's already been cut to measure. John ignores the headline (Not exactly rocket science) and places the pasted-up page into its cradle on the press, pushing the "Start" button with a flourish and internally cursing crappy college budgets and machinery that's about as current as the fucking Riemann theory controversy.
"You're not going to proofread it?" Rodney squeaks as the press starts rumbling along. "You're not even going to read it read it?"
John shrugs. "Nah. You don't do the whole typo thing, I know that already." He yawns and rubs a hand through his hair, dragging ass back to the one comfy chair, which he plans to reclaim for sleeping purposes until five, when Elizabeth will come in and take over with her legion of delivery minions.
"I could've given you the Yang-Mills story!" Rodney shrieks. "You never would've known!"
John smirks at him. "But you didn't. Or you wouldn't be so pissed now."
Rodney opens and closes his mouth for a moment, then his shoulders slump. "Oh well," he says. "Just make sure Professor Heightmeyer gives me an A. I did what I was told, and I didn't use the word fuck, and I wrote about sex instead of physics."
John watches him go, a lanky kid who needs a haircut and, apparently, to get laid. He wonders if he should've read the article, but shrugs it off. He'll read it tomorrow, with everyone else. What's life without a few surprises?
~*~
PART TWO
~*~
This is rated R for language, obviously a lie, obviously I do not own the characters.
P.S. It's been a looooong time since my newspaper days, so please forgive (and point out) any obvious technical lapses. I stand by my assertion that college newspapers still use antiquated equipment and light tables, though. Right? Right?
Not Exactly Rocket Science
"No."
Rodney's eyes go big and then he squints, trying to look mean, but the round blue hurt is already burned into John's brain and he just doesn't believe Rodney's sharp tone when he says "What do you mean, no, it's a perfectly good article that's completely topical! Last time I turned something in you said it was too dated, so I made sure this time -"
"Rodney," John begins, taking a deep breath. "Rodney."
"What?" His eyes aren't squinty anymore, but he's still glaring, hands clenched around the wrinkled printout that's his story.
"Rodney, when I said that an article on the Riemann hypothesis was too dated, I didn't mean to replace it with a story about Yang-Mills existence and the mass gap." John knuckles his eyes for a moment. He's been holding half a page in the features section for Rodney, and he hasn't slept since Tuesday, and he's pretty sure he failed Merritt's half-term quiz on ethics in journalism. "I know this stuff is interesting to you, and hey," John produces a smile from somewhere, though he's pretty sure it's a lame one, "it's interesting to me, too, but this isn't Scientific American. This is a university newspaper and the average reader is a liberal arts major who takes a look at the comics and the editorial page and then doesn't bother to recycle."
"You said I could write about something that interests me," Rodney insists. He waves the paper at John. "This interests me!"
John folds his arms and lays his head down on the table. "Rodney," he says into the crook of his own elbow. "Does anything interest you as much as physics?" He closes his eyes, the bitter scent of ink drifting up from the sheets under his nose. "Anything?"
"Well."
John can hear Rodney shift from foot to foot.
"What?" John wonders if he could get high from the ink smell.
"Sex interests me, but."
John lifts his head and points at Rodney. "Yes. There you go. Sex interests everyone. Write me something about sex. Just don't use the word fuck, okay, and I'll print anything." He puts his head back down. "Now go away. I have to study."
"That's not studying," Rodney says. When John opens his eyes, he can see Rodney's thighs, and his hands, still clutching the battered papers. "Um."
"What?" John demands, raising his head again and glaring at Rodney. "What? What? What? You need a liberal arts credit, I need half a page for the features section, what? I know you understand math, Rodney, so please add this up and produce a story."
"All my knowledge about sex is theoretical," Rodney blurts out.
John sighs. Heavily. And sits up and kicks out the stool across from himself and waits for Rodney to perch nervously on the edge of it. "Are you a virgin?" John asks, and Rodney jerks like he's been shot. John would feel sorry for him, but he's too tired.
"I'm a nineteen-year-old college student working on three simultaneous doctorates," Rodney snaps. "What do you think?"
"I'm just surprised, is all. You're good looking, you're smart, you're entertaining when you're not making people want to kill themselves by droning on for seven hundred words about rational number theory." John shrugs. "Anyway, being a virgin doesn't mean you can't write about sex. Write about being a virgin. Write a column about it. For god's sake, just write something, right now, because I have to start running this through the press at 2 a.m., and that's in two hours, and if you don't write me something I'll have to write something or dig something out of the throwaway files and that's just a bad, bad idea."
"Yes, that's exactly what I want," Rodney says. "To write an article in which I publicly admit that I'm a virgin. Thank you. That will be fabulous."
John rolls his eyes. "Just write," he says. "Anything." He thinks about that and amends it. "Not about physics. About sex." He drops his head to the wood surface with a thud and goes to sleep listening to the hesitant sound of Rodney's pen on paper, across the table from him.
Rodney wakes him up at 1:45 a.m. "Here," he says, shoving more paper under John's nose.
"Did you format it?" John glances over the newly typeset page. "Good. Fine. Okay." He slouches over to the light tables and pastes the article in place and bless young Rodney's anal-retentive love of detail, it's already been cut to measure. John ignores the headline (Not exactly rocket science) and places the pasted-up page into its cradle on the press, pushing the "Start" button with a flourish and internally cursing crappy college budgets and machinery that's about as current as the fucking Riemann theory controversy.
"You're not going to proofread it?" Rodney squeaks as the press starts rumbling along. "You're not even going to read it read it?"
John shrugs. "Nah. You don't do the whole typo thing, I know that already." He yawns and rubs a hand through his hair, dragging ass back to the one comfy chair, which he plans to reclaim for sleeping purposes until five, when Elizabeth will come in and take over with her legion of delivery minions.
"I could've given you the Yang-Mills story!" Rodney shrieks. "You never would've known!"
John smirks at him. "But you didn't. Or you wouldn't be so pissed now."
Rodney opens and closes his mouth for a moment, then his shoulders slump. "Oh well," he says. "Just make sure Professor Heightmeyer gives me an A. I did what I was told, and I didn't use the word fuck, and I wrote about sex instead of physics."
John watches him go, a lanky kid who needs a haircut and, apparently, to get laid. He wonders if he should've read the article, but shrugs it off. He'll read it tomorrow, with everyone else. What's life without a few surprises?
~*~
PART TWO
~*~