lets forgot that I'm a terrible human being and give me points for getting anything written at all.
Yorba Linda always makes me think of this poem that I had to memorize freshman year at purchase. (Yes, I just lj-usered my alma mater.) When I saw it was a trending topic on Twitter, I had to click on it.
I do not doubt that I am a horrible person, given that this is the first thing that popped into my head when I was reading the AP reports. I pretty much just sat down and wrote it in twenty minutes, so I'm not sure it makes sense.
***
"I hate California," Will says, just as Sam is squinting at the blinking red numbers on the clock. He's pretty sure it's not 88:88, and that coupled with the way Will is hovering in the doorway between the bedroom and bathroom, pale and twitching, is answer enough, but he asks anyway, just to be sure.
"Was that another earthquake?"
Will glares at him. "I can't believe you slept through that," he says. The shaking has stopped, but he's still tucked into the doorjamb and doesn't seem eager to come back to bed. "There were things falling off the shelves."
"I was tired," Sam says, and shrugs, swallowing a yawn. He's still tired. He'd like very much to roll over and get back to sleep, but Will still isn't moving and he knows he'll sleep better if he knows Will will be getting some sleep, too. "Come back to bed. Nothing's fallen on you. It wasn't even strong enough to knock the power out for more than a second."
"I once read that the majority of earthquake related injuries and fatalities happen after the earthquake is over," Will says. His fingers are wrapped around the edges of the doorframe, fingernails worrying at the seam of the wallpaper. His nerves would be endearing if it wasn't three o'clock in the morning.
"Do I even want to know why you were reading something like that?" Sam asks.
"In preparation for being forced to move to California," Will says. "As I normally try to avoid living on the edge of tectonic plates, I thought it best to do some research."
"Not your brightest idea," Sam mutters.
"What's that?"
Sam closes his eyes and counts to three. If he goes to sleep right now he can sleep for two and a half hours before his alarm goes off. Hell, he'll take a five minute shower and shave at the office. Then he can sleep for three more hours.
"I said, 'You didn't have to move to California,'" Sam says, opening his eyes and raising his eyebrows at Will. Will just rolls his eyes.
"I know, I know," he says. "It's my fault for winning the election, blah blah blah, I'm sorry for being exceedingly good at my job."
"No," Sam says. "I mean, no one forced you to move to California. You could have stayed in DC."
Will gives him A Look. "No," he says, "I couldn't have."
Sam allows himself a moment of feeling inexpressibly gleeful for that. Then he goes back to mild irritation.
"Come back to bed, Will," Sam says. "I doubt you're going to trip over something on the ten foot walk from the door to the bed. You can't spend the rest of the night standing in the doorway."
"Wanna bet?"
"Will," Sam says. "C'mon. If you stay in the doorway and the big one comes, you'll be trapped in a room with my dead body. At least if you're in bed we'll die together." Morbid, but sweet, right?
"Unless a big chunk of the ceiling falls, crushing you but only pinning me," Will says. "Then I'll be trapped in a bed with your dead body."
Leave it to Will to be even more morbid. "Will," Sam says again. "It's three am. I love you, but I'll kill you myself, I swear to god."
Will mutters under his breath, but manages to pry his fingers off of the doorjamb. He's still pale and drawn and Sam knows that complaining is a cover for the real fear that's probably still gripping him. Sam knows that Will isn't lying or exaggerating when he says he hates California, that he'd rather be almost anywhere else in the world.
He also knows that Will has no intentions of leaving California for the foreseeable future and that Sam owes him for that at least.
Will climbs into bed after picking across the floor, which was messy even before the things on the edges of the bookcases fell to the ground. He takes off his glasses and places them on the bedsides table, then finds Sam under the blankets and curls up perhaps a little closer than usual.
"Still hate California," Will mutters. "A lot."
"We'll be moving up north soon," Sam says, and he hopes he's not jinxing himself in saying that. The elections are still months away, and even though he's heavily favored to be the next Lieutenant Governor of California, anything can happen in a few months' time.
"Are there fewer earthquakes in northern California?" Will asks.
Sam hums under his breath. "Yes," he lies.
Will cracks open one eye and studies Sam speculatively. "Are you just saying that to make me shut up and go to sleep?"
"Yes," Sam admits.
"Okay," Will says. "I'll yell at you in the morning."
"Thanks."
I do not doubt that I am a horrible person, given that this is the first thing that popped into my head when I was reading the AP reports. I pretty much just sat down and wrote it in twenty minutes, so I'm not sure it makes sense.
***
"I hate California," Will says, just as Sam is squinting at the blinking red numbers on the clock. He's pretty sure it's not 88:88, and that coupled with the way Will is hovering in the doorway between the bedroom and bathroom, pale and twitching, is answer enough, but he asks anyway, just to be sure.
"Was that another earthquake?"
Will glares at him. "I can't believe you slept through that," he says. The shaking has stopped, but he's still tucked into the doorjamb and doesn't seem eager to come back to bed. "There were things falling off the shelves."
"I was tired," Sam says, and shrugs, swallowing a yawn. He's still tired. He'd like very much to roll over and get back to sleep, but Will still isn't moving and he knows he'll sleep better if he knows Will will be getting some sleep, too. "Come back to bed. Nothing's fallen on you. It wasn't even strong enough to knock the power out for more than a second."
"I once read that the majority of earthquake related injuries and fatalities happen after the earthquake is over," Will says. His fingers are wrapped around the edges of the doorframe, fingernails worrying at the seam of the wallpaper. His nerves would be endearing if it wasn't three o'clock in the morning.
"Do I even want to know why you were reading something like that?" Sam asks.
"In preparation for being forced to move to California," Will says. "As I normally try to avoid living on the edge of tectonic plates, I thought it best to do some research."
"Not your brightest idea," Sam mutters.
"What's that?"
Sam closes his eyes and counts to three. If he goes to sleep right now he can sleep for two and a half hours before his alarm goes off. Hell, he'll take a five minute shower and shave at the office. Then he can sleep for three more hours.
"I said, 'You didn't have to move to California,'" Sam says, opening his eyes and raising his eyebrows at Will. Will just rolls his eyes.
"I know, I know," he says. "It's my fault for winning the election, blah blah blah, I'm sorry for being exceedingly good at my job."
"No," Sam says. "I mean, no one forced you to move to California. You could have stayed in DC."
Will gives him A Look. "No," he says, "I couldn't have."
Sam allows himself a moment of feeling inexpressibly gleeful for that. Then he goes back to mild irritation.
"Come back to bed, Will," Sam says. "I doubt you're going to trip over something on the ten foot walk from the door to the bed. You can't spend the rest of the night standing in the doorway."
"Wanna bet?"
"Will," Sam says. "C'mon. If you stay in the doorway and the big one comes, you'll be trapped in a room with my dead body. At least if you're in bed we'll die together." Morbid, but sweet, right?
"Unless a big chunk of the ceiling falls, crushing you but only pinning me," Will says. "Then I'll be trapped in a bed with your dead body."
Leave it to Will to be even more morbid. "Will," Sam says again. "It's three am. I love you, but I'll kill you myself, I swear to god."
Will mutters under his breath, but manages to pry his fingers off of the doorjamb. He's still pale and drawn and Sam knows that complaining is a cover for the real fear that's probably still gripping him. Sam knows that Will isn't lying or exaggerating when he says he hates California, that he'd rather be almost anywhere else in the world.
He also knows that Will has no intentions of leaving California for the foreseeable future and that Sam owes him for that at least.
Will climbs into bed after picking across the floor, which was messy even before the things on the edges of the bookcases fell to the ground. He takes off his glasses and places them on the bedsides table, then finds Sam under the blankets and curls up perhaps a little closer than usual.
"Still hate California," Will mutters. "A lot."
"We'll be moving up north soon," Sam says, and he hopes he's not jinxing himself in saying that. The elections are still months away, and even though he's heavily favored to be the next Lieutenant Governor of California, anything can happen in a few months' time.
"Are there fewer earthquakes in northern California?" Will asks.
Sam hums under his breath. "Yes," he lies.
Will cracks open one eye and studies Sam speculatively. "Are you just saying that to make me shut up and go to sleep?"
"Yes," Sam admits.
"Okay," Will says. "I'll yell at you in the morning."
"Thanks."