AVALANCHE: Milk Run [1/?] -- PG
Starting a new WIP is probably a bad idea.
[title] AVALANCHE: Milk Run [1/?]
[author] kissontheneck [aka fieryrogue]
[pairing] Cookleta, Marly (Marly, people! MARLY.) (And bromance!Mavid, just to be thorough.)
[beta] *blinks*
[rating] PG
[word count] 2098
[summary] David is on a nice holiday ski trip with his family. Unfortunately, he doesn't know how to ski, but a couple private lessons should remedy that problem.
[disclaimer] Surely, I have nothing to do with either of these fine young men, no matter how much I wish I did.
[warnings] Everything I know about skiing I learned from Wikipedia. In other words, don't judge my lack of skiing knowledge, because I have none. I just have a movie watcher's image of the boys scooting around on skis with big goggles on.
[author's notes] The Olympics inspire some to go out for sport. For others to try to romanticize in ridiculous fan fiction. Damn them. (Btw, a milk run is the first run down the slopes for the day, and in other contexts refers to something being routine.)
PART ONE:
AVALANCHE: Milk Run
Some people have a summer job, usually temporary to help make ends meet. David Cook has a winter job, a permanent job, and one that he's exceedingly good at. He's one of the best ski instructors at Timberline Lodge and he knows it. Not only is he an outstanding skier and snowboarder both, but he has a way with people and knows how to bring the best out of them, and can extract the hidden courage in them to try a tougher slope or a new trick. He's popular and hard to get an appointment with and has been known to have people pay double to get onto his schedule. He loves his job and he loves how it makes him feel to be the best at what he does.
Of course, the free reign of the trails on his days off and the free lodging and meals also helps.
Unfortunately, two weeks ago he was involved in an "incident" in the main restaurant that strictly speaking was more his friend Mike's fault than his, he was technically just an innocent bystander. Nonetheless, both of them were put on probation and Cook had been demoted to the bunny slopes, which he absolutely hates. He's used to pushing Olympic-bound athletes to their limits and screaming down hills just to make his heart race, not scoot little kids along flat ground as their tears freeze to their cheeks and their mothers hover and bite their nails. But alas, this is where he finds himself at present and he knows that he's pretty lucky he didn't just get fired outright, so he's (somewhat) willing to serve his penance until he gets his regular assignment back.
Besides, Mike's punishment is way worse.
Cook is adjusting the strap on his ski goggles as he strolls through the equipment rental foyer, though this path is not only unnecessary, but out of his way. He slows at the front counter, which is currently unmanned, and leans against it, his snow pants ruffling noisily. He looks around a moment before he slams his stubby palm down over the desk bell repeatedly. Almost immediately a voice carries from somewhere unseen, and Cook chuckles at the panic in Mike's Australian-accented voice.
"I'll be right with you!"
There's a crash and a curse before Mike is stumbling out from the storage closet and he rushes halfway across the room before he realizes it's Cook grinning like an idiot back at him. Mike stops and rolls his eyes, crossing his arms as he stops just in front of his partner in crime.
"Oh, it's you."
"I love you too, Mikey," Cook says as he pulls his goggles over his large cranium, resting them across his forehead over a powder blue knit cap. "You got a full schedule today?"
"Don't be an ass," Mike says as he moves to take his place behind the counter and leans on his elbows. "You know I got assigned to be in here as my punishment. I think I'd rather bloody die."
"Hey, at least you're not wiping kids' noses all day long," Cook muses as he struggles to zip up his down jacket. "I swear I'm going to 'accidentally' send one of them down a black diamond slope any day now."
Mike snorts at the comment and looks up at his friend through his tousled locks. "At least you get to go outside."
Cook beams at Mike, who scowls in response and Cook claps his friend solidly on the shoulder. "I'll try to remember that the next time one of those brats complains to me that their rental skis are off-balance or their boots are too tight or any other menagerie of excuses I get from day to day because apparently the rental desk clerk doesn't know what the hell he's doing."
"Look," Mike says defensively, "sometimes you just have to let those stupid tourists get what they think they want even when it's against the clerk's advice. Professional ski instructor, I mean. Who would know, obviously."
"Obviously," Cook says, a smirk drawing across his lips. "Well, I better get going, I've got a milk run today. Who knew what eight in the morning looked like, seriously?"
"Shoot," Mike replies grumpily, "remember when only the newbies did the early runs?"
"Or manned the rental counter?" Cook has to bite his lip as he says it.
"Rack off," Mike replies, his brows forming a tight downward vee. Despite his friend's obvious irritation, Cook only laughs harder at Mike's out of place Australian slang. "Go have your juice and cookies with your charges or whatever it is you do out there now."
"Ouch, Johns," Cook says, clutching at his chest. "That hurts. See if I come back up here for lunch with you today."
"You always come in for lunch," Mike says, grinning for the first time. "You know you can't go half a day without me."
"Well, you're so damn alluring," Cook jokes as he pushes himself away from the counter and pulls his gloves from his coat pocket. "That accent is irresistible, unfortunately."
Mike laughs and pushes his fingers through his messy brown hair as he stands up straight. Cook leans closer to punch his friend playfully on the shoulder and it's when he's struggling to put his gloves on (Mike keeps tugging at the fingers of them, though Cook never moves further away to avoid it) that a tall, slender woman with long brown hair and a red ear warmer headband strides towards them almost silently. She's carrying skis and sporting her new pink alpine jacket.
"Aww, how sweet," she coos as she approaches the two boys, "why don't you guys just get a room already?"
"Shut it, Smithson," Cook replies, feigning seriousness even as Mike reaches to playfully stroke his fingers across Cook's cheek. "Mike, stop it! You come to rent some real equipment for once instead of those excuses for snow gear you currently use, Carly?"
"No," Carly answers, cocking her head at him and pursing her lips. She moves closer to the counter and takes her turn at leaning against it, to which Mike responds by suddenly sobering himself and taking a step backwards. Cook can't help but smile to himself because he knows for a fact that his best mate has a gigantic crush on their fellow instructor. "Just came to say thank you."
Cook's eyebrows threaten the ribbing of his knit cap and he scratches his scruffy chin thoughtfully. "Oh, really?"
"Yeah," Carly replies. It does not escape Cook's notice that she lets her fingers drift across the surface of the counter and Mike edges away from her ever so slightly. "Thanks to your shenanigans the other week, I got a promotion, at least temporarily."
Cook can feel his jaw harden and he practically spits his response at her. "Hang on," he says, his neck stiffening, "you're doing my slopes now, aren't you?"
"Yes, sir," she says, her Irish brogue heavy on her lips. "Man, it's nice working with serious adults for once." Carly grins and sighs and gives Cook a devilish look with her eyes. "I think that handsome Italian fella is coming back today, he had such a good time yesterday."
At this Mike puffs up like a ruffled chicken. "You know," he says stiffly, "It's almost eight, you're going to be late for your first lesson, aren't you?"
Carly smiles and flips her hair over her shoulder. Her eyes sparkle like sun on new snow, and Cook can almost feel Mike's heart rate increase. "No, my first lesson isn't until later today. But speaking of schedules, I see Cook's moving up in the ranks. Getting time off for good behavior there, David?"
Shocked, Cook and Mike speak out simultaneously, running over one another's words.
"What? You didn't tell me! How come I'm still behind this counter?"
"What are you talking about, Smithson?"
A wry smile occupies Carly's lips and she leans on her skis a little. "Don't you check the schedule before you work, Cook?"
Closing his eyes temporarily, Cook tries to remember the last time he actually had looked at the schedule. It wasn't that morning, that was for sure. It was practically unnecessary since his sentence had been laid out for him, at least until the director of instruction told him otherwise -- he had scheduled group lessons that were held at the same time every day, day after day, in the most boring fashion imaginable.
"No," he said finally, "I've got groups now, Carly, you know that."
"Oh," she replied, puckering her lips in thought. "Maybe it was a different David Cook I saw assigned to a private lesson this morning. I was at the scheduling desk when Marta took a big check from some guy paying for lessons for his kid."
Cook automatically scowled and Mike shot him a look that very clearly related, "Wow, it's looking pretty good behind this counter all of a sudden."
"Ugh, rich kids," Cook replied as if he'd just drunk milk that had gone sour. "They're the worst! Honestly, Carly, that is not moving up in the ranks by any means. Marta knew what she was doing, she knows those kids are demanding and self-centered and torturous. Gah! Why? Why??" He growled the last word, dragging it out as if pleading to the gods.
"Hey, you're the one who made that horrendous mess in the dining room, not me," Carly answered, now standing up straight and pulling her skis against herself. "You should have thought of that ahead of time."
"Jesus, you sound like my third grade teacher, Mrs. Monticello." Cook gritted his teeth and shoved his hands in his jacket pockets. "And that was all Mike's fault, by the way, I was just standing there!"
Mike looks at his friend, scandal written across his face. "You're the one who wanted lunch in there that day!"
"What's that even have to do with--"
"BOYS!" Carly has moved halfway across the room now, edging towards the plate glass door that leads straight out to the ski lift waiting area. "Seriously, save your bickering for your honeymoon. Cook, I think your student is here."
Cook glances at Mike only a second before he moves swiftly to the other side of the room, the latter hot on his heels. There are very few people milling about outside, and indeed there is so far only one person even remotely near the building and standing almost precisely underneath the sign that indicates guests should "Wait here for your instructor." Cook presses past his female companion and leans against the glass, ignoring Mike's protest that he just cleaned that window. It's hard to tell through the obviously recently purchased name brand ski pants, parka, gloves, boots, hat, goggles and everything else how old the kid is, but Cook's figuring his dark-haired liege can't be much more than twelve at the most. Just the right age to be fantastically bratty, he thinks to himself.
The three remain watching for another minute as the kid looks around like he's lost and looks up at the sign about eight times in the span of five seconds. He checks his watch and then looks worriedly behind him, then back to the sign once again. Cook knows he's late, but he really sort of wishes he'd get struck by lightning or something so he doesn't have to endure the inevitable torture. He watches as the boy -- who is already strapped into his skis -- tries to turn around to face away from the building, supposedly to have a better look at his surroundings, Cook figures. He can almost feel the mirth creep through Carly's heart as the kid's skis tangle together and, unsuccessful at catching his balance, he falls flat on his face in the snow.
The sharp bark of Mike's laugh pierces Cook's ear and he tries his hardest to give his best friend the evilest eyes he can manage. Carly is covering her mouth attempting to hide the fact that she's laughing and Mike has folded his arms over his chest, which is also rocking in gentle laughter. Carly swallows back her chuckles and claps Cook stiffly on the shoulder.
"Well," she says, her Cheshire smile radiating, "I think my Italian is probably going to be here any moment now, I'd better get going. Have a good day!"
Cook grabs at his goggles, fiercely pulling them down over his darkening hazel eyes. He takes a deep breath and bites his lower lip, reminding himself that at least he gets to go outside.
♥
PART TWO: Fresh Powder --->
[title] AVALANCHE: Milk Run [1/?]
[author] kissontheneck [aka fieryrogue]
[pairing] Cookleta, Marly (Marly, people! MARLY.) (And bromance!Mavid, just to be thorough.)
[beta] *blinks*
[rating] PG
[word count] 2098
[summary] David is on a nice holiday ski trip with his family. Unfortunately, he doesn't know how to ski, but a couple private lessons should remedy that problem.
[disclaimer] Surely, I have nothing to do with either of these fine young men, no matter how much I wish I did.
[warnings] Everything I know about skiing I learned from Wikipedia. In other words, don't judge my lack of skiing knowledge, because I have none. I just have a movie watcher's image of the boys scooting around on skis with big goggles on.
[author's notes] The Olympics inspire some to go out for sport. For others to try to romanticize in ridiculous fan fiction. Damn them. (Btw, a milk run is the first run down the slopes for the day, and in other contexts refers to something being routine.)
PART ONE:
AVALANCHE: Milk Run
Some people have a summer job, usually temporary to help make ends meet. David Cook has a winter job, a permanent job, and one that he's exceedingly good at. He's one of the best ski instructors at Timberline Lodge and he knows it. Not only is he an outstanding skier and snowboarder both, but he has a way with people and knows how to bring the best out of them, and can extract the hidden courage in them to try a tougher slope or a new trick. He's popular and hard to get an appointment with and has been known to have people pay double to get onto his schedule. He loves his job and he loves how it makes him feel to be the best at what he does.
Of course, the free reign of the trails on his days off and the free lodging and meals also helps.
Unfortunately, two weeks ago he was involved in an "incident" in the main restaurant that strictly speaking was more his friend Mike's fault than his, he was technically just an innocent bystander. Nonetheless, both of them were put on probation and Cook had been demoted to the bunny slopes, which he absolutely hates. He's used to pushing Olympic-bound athletes to their limits and screaming down hills just to make his heart race, not scoot little kids along flat ground as their tears freeze to their cheeks and their mothers hover and bite their nails. But alas, this is where he finds himself at present and he knows that he's pretty lucky he didn't just get fired outright, so he's (somewhat) willing to serve his penance until he gets his regular assignment back.
Besides, Mike's punishment is way worse.
Cook is adjusting the strap on his ski goggles as he strolls through the equipment rental foyer, though this path is not only unnecessary, but out of his way. He slows at the front counter, which is currently unmanned, and leans against it, his snow pants ruffling noisily. He looks around a moment before he slams his stubby palm down over the desk bell repeatedly. Almost immediately a voice carries from somewhere unseen, and Cook chuckles at the panic in Mike's Australian-accented voice.
"I'll be right with you!"
There's a crash and a curse before Mike is stumbling out from the storage closet and he rushes halfway across the room before he realizes it's Cook grinning like an idiot back at him. Mike stops and rolls his eyes, crossing his arms as he stops just in front of his partner in crime.
"Oh, it's you."
"I love you too, Mikey," Cook says as he pulls his goggles over his large cranium, resting them across his forehead over a powder blue knit cap. "You got a full schedule today?"
"Don't be an ass," Mike says as he moves to take his place behind the counter and leans on his elbows. "You know I got assigned to be in here as my punishment. I think I'd rather bloody die."
"Hey, at least you're not wiping kids' noses all day long," Cook muses as he struggles to zip up his down jacket. "I swear I'm going to 'accidentally' send one of them down a black diamond slope any day now."
Mike snorts at the comment and looks up at his friend through his tousled locks. "At least you get to go outside."
Cook beams at Mike, who scowls in response and Cook claps his friend solidly on the shoulder. "I'll try to remember that the next time one of those brats complains to me that their rental skis are off-balance or their boots are too tight or any other menagerie of excuses I get from day to day because apparently the rental desk clerk doesn't know what the hell he's doing."
"Look," Mike says defensively, "sometimes you just have to let those stupid tourists get what they think they want even when it's against the clerk's advice. Professional ski instructor, I mean. Who would know, obviously."
"Obviously," Cook says, a smirk drawing across his lips. "Well, I better get going, I've got a milk run today. Who knew what eight in the morning looked like, seriously?"
"Shoot," Mike replies grumpily, "remember when only the newbies did the early runs?"
"Or manned the rental counter?" Cook has to bite his lip as he says it.
"Rack off," Mike replies, his brows forming a tight downward vee. Despite his friend's obvious irritation, Cook only laughs harder at Mike's out of place Australian slang. "Go have your juice and cookies with your charges or whatever it is you do out there now."
"Ouch, Johns," Cook says, clutching at his chest. "That hurts. See if I come back up here for lunch with you today."
"You always come in for lunch," Mike says, grinning for the first time. "You know you can't go half a day without me."
"Well, you're so damn alluring," Cook jokes as he pushes himself away from the counter and pulls his gloves from his coat pocket. "That accent is irresistible, unfortunately."
Mike laughs and pushes his fingers through his messy brown hair as he stands up straight. Cook leans closer to punch his friend playfully on the shoulder and it's when he's struggling to put his gloves on (Mike keeps tugging at the fingers of them, though Cook never moves further away to avoid it) that a tall, slender woman with long brown hair and a red ear warmer headband strides towards them almost silently. She's carrying skis and sporting her new pink alpine jacket.
"Aww, how sweet," she coos as she approaches the two boys, "why don't you guys just get a room already?"
"Shut it, Smithson," Cook replies, feigning seriousness even as Mike reaches to playfully stroke his fingers across Cook's cheek. "Mike, stop it! You come to rent some real equipment for once instead of those excuses for snow gear you currently use, Carly?"
"No," Carly answers, cocking her head at him and pursing her lips. She moves closer to the counter and takes her turn at leaning against it, to which Mike responds by suddenly sobering himself and taking a step backwards. Cook can't help but smile to himself because he knows for a fact that his best mate has a gigantic crush on their fellow instructor. "Just came to say thank you."
Cook's eyebrows threaten the ribbing of his knit cap and he scratches his scruffy chin thoughtfully. "Oh, really?"
"Yeah," Carly replies. It does not escape Cook's notice that she lets her fingers drift across the surface of the counter and Mike edges away from her ever so slightly. "Thanks to your shenanigans the other week, I got a promotion, at least temporarily."
Cook can feel his jaw harden and he practically spits his response at her. "Hang on," he says, his neck stiffening, "you're doing my slopes now, aren't you?"
"Yes, sir," she says, her Irish brogue heavy on her lips. "Man, it's nice working with serious adults for once." Carly grins and sighs and gives Cook a devilish look with her eyes. "I think that handsome Italian fella is coming back today, he had such a good time yesterday."
At this Mike puffs up like a ruffled chicken. "You know," he says stiffly, "It's almost eight, you're going to be late for your first lesson, aren't you?"
Carly smiles and flips her hair over her shoulder. Her eyes sparkle like sun on new snow, and Cook can almost feel Mike's heart rate increase. "No, my first lesson isn't until later today. But speaking of schedules, I see Cook's moving up in the ranks. Getting time off for good behavior there, David?"
Shocked, Cook and Mike speak out simultaneously, running over one another's words.
"What? You didn't tell me! How come I'm still behind this counter?"
"What are you talking about, Smithson?"
A wry smile occupies Carly's lips and she leans on her skis a little. "Don't you check the schedule before you work, Cook?"
Closing his eyes temporarily, Cook tries to remember the last time he actually had looked at the schedule. It wasn't that morning, that was for sure. It was practically unnecessary since his sentence had been laid out for him, at least until the director of instruction told him otherwise -- he had scheduled group lessons that were held at the same time every day, day after day, in the most boring fashion imaginable.
"No," he said finally, "I've got groups now, Carly, you know that."
"Oh," she replied, puckering her lips in thought. "Maybe it was a different David Cook I saw assigned to a private lesson this morning. I was at the scheduling desk when Marta took a big check from some guy paying for lessons for his kid."
Cook automatically scowled and Mike shot him a look that very clearly related, "Wow, it's looking pretty good behind this counter all of a sudden."
"Ugh, rich kids," Cook replied as if he'd just drunk milk that had gone sour. "They're the worst! Honestly, Carly, that is not moving up in the ranks by any means. Marta knew what she was doing, she knows those kids are demanding and self-centered and torturous. Gah! Why? Why??" He growled the last word, dragging it out as if pleading to the gods.
"Hey, you're the one who made that horrendous mess in the dining room, not me," Carly answered, now standing up straight and pulling her skis against herself. "You should have thought of that ahead of time."
"Jesus, you sound like my third grade teacher, Mrs. Monticello." Cook gritted his teeth and shoved his hands in his jacket pockets. "And that was all Mike's fault, by the way, I was just standing there!"
Mike looks at his friend, scandal written across his face. "You're the one who wanted lunch in there that day!"
"What's that even have to do with--"
"BOYS!" Carly has moved halfway across the room now, edging towards the plate glass door that leads straight out to the ski lift waiting area. "Seriously, save your bickering for your honeymoon. Cook, I think your student is here."
Cook glances at Mike only a second before he moves swiftly to the other side of the room, the latter hot on his heels. There are very few people milling about outside, and indeed there is so far only one person even remotely near the building and standing almost precisely underneath the sign that indicates guests should "Wait here for your instructor." Cook presses past his female companion and leans against the glass, ignoring Mike's protest that he just cleaned that window. It's hard to tell through the obviously recently purchased name brand ski pants, parka, gloves, boots, hat, goggles and everything else how old the kid is, but Cook's figuring his dark-haired liege can't be much more than twelve at the most. Just the right age to be fantastically bratty, he thinks to himself.
The three remain watching for another minute as the kid looks around like he's lost and looks up at the sign about eight times in the span of five seconds. He checks his watch and then looks worriedly behind him, then back to the sign once again. Cook knows he's late, but he really sort of wishes he'd get struck by lightning or something so he doesn't have to endure the inevitable torture. He watches as the boy -- who is already strapped into his skis -- tries to turn around to face away from the building, supposedly to have a better look at his surroundings, Cook figures. He can almost feel the mirth creep through Carly's heart as the kid's skis tangle together and, unsuccessful at catching his balance, he falls flat on his face in the snow.
The sharp bark of Mike's laugh pierces Cook's ear and he tries his hardest to give his best friend the evilest eyes he can manage. Carly is covering her mouth attempting to hide the fact that she's laughing and Mike has folded his arms over his chest, which is also rocking in gentle laughter. Carly swallows back her chuckles and claps Cook stiffly on the shoulder.
"Well," she says, her Cheshire smile radiating, "I think my Italian is probably going to be here any moment now, I'd better get going. Have a good day!"
Cook grabs at his goggles, fiercely pulling them down over his darkening hazel eyes. He takes a deep breath and bites his lower lip, reminding himself that at least he gets to go outside.
♥
PART TWO: Fresh Powder --->