drink me or i'll drown in a sea of giants
Jan. 16th, 2011 07:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gyzymRight, okay, KNOW I HAVE NOT POSTED IN FOREVER, am working on setting up my blog/exciting RL developments/writing a fic that you're all going to murder me for because it's...er...a Veronica Mars fic but I JUST NEED TO WRITE IT, OKAY, I JUST CAN'T HELP MYSELF. That story, as well as the link to my blog, will be up as soon as they're both ready to go.
BUT IN THE MEANTIME, here is a music video for a song I just love so much it hurts, and also two domesticverse ficlets that I wrote for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
bookshop's fluff meme ages ago and never posted here. They don't have proper titles, because I am lazy.
In Which Arthur Totally Does Not Have the Swine Flu
Arthur has many things, and he's willing to admit to them all.
He has a bachelor's degree. He has a military record--admittedly, a slightly marred military record, but a military record nonetheless. He has a type A personality and a predilection towards unsettlingly rare steak and a firm grip on the care and handling of a variety of different guns. He has a number of bespoke suits and a sharp wit and an admitted mean streak.
What he does not have is the fucking swine flu.
"People aren't even getting that anymore," he snaps at Ariadne, when she raises her eyebrows at him and suggests it.
"A medical degree is no basis for a diagnosis," he growls at Yusuf, when he backs up Ariadne's point.
"You're not convincing me of shit," he rasps at Cobb, while he is, to his irritation, being driven home from the warehouse. "I am perfectly fine."
He puts on a pair of flannel pajama bottoms when Cobb leaves, because there's a loose thread on his pants and looking it bothers him. He puts on a sweatshirt, because it would look ridiculous to wear pajama bottoms with a shirt and tie. He sits on the couch and hugs his legs to his chest because it is comfortable, okay, and that's how he wants to sit, and he doesn't get a blanket because he does not fucking need one, thank you very much.
Then Eames comes home.
"You're supposed to be tailing the mark," Arthur points out. "And we already have groceries in, what the fuck are you doing with those bags?"
"I had a sudden craving for homemade chicken soup," Eames says, shrugging and abandoning them on the counter. "Very distracting. I had to give in. It couldn't be helped. On a completely unrelated note, I hear you don't have swine flu."
"You hear correctly," Arthur snaps, and if he coughs as he says it, it's obviously in horror at the color of Eames' shirt.
"I can see that," Eames murmurs. "You're a rather fetching shade of pale, darling, did you know?"
"Fuck off," Arthur says, and totally doesn't shudder.
"Ah," Eames says, "you know what, I rather think the soup can wait."
He goes into the bedroom and comes out with their comforter bundled in his arms. Arthur raises an eyebrow.
"I don't need that," he growls.
"I know you don't," Eames says easily. "But I do, love, it's bloody freezing in here, isn't it?"
"Well," Arthur says, aware that he's being played but maybe--maybe--a little too tired to care about it, "I mean, if you think so."
Eames smiles and sits down on the couch. He lets Arthur stretch out, pushes Arthurs' head down to rest on his lap, and throws the comforter over him. Arthur considers pointing out that, for someone who claimed the blanket was for his personal use, he doesn't actually seem to be using it at all, but he coughs again instead.
Eames makes a small, sympathetic noise, and Arthur's going to kill him as soon as he opens his eyes. Eames runs his fingers through Arthur's hair, and in just a minute Arthur is definitely going to make him stop.
"I don't have swine flu," Arthur mumbles.
"Of course not," Eames agrees, his voice soft.
"Just so long as we're clear on that," Arthur slurs, and falls asleep with his face mashed into Eames' thigh.
In Which Ice Cream Choices Are Debated
"No," Arthur says, "pistachio ice cream is disgusting."
"I'd like to remind you at this juncture of who does all the cooking, pet," Eames replies, raising his eyebrows. "I think, all things considered, I am the only one who should get veto power."
Arthur gives him an unimpressed look. "I'm sorry, were you planning on using pistachio ice cream as an ingredient in something?"
"You don't have to eat it!" Eames cries, waving his hands. "We can get two varieties of ice cream, I can't believe you won't even allow pistachio to share freezer space with--"
"You know what," Arthur says, because he recognizes that they're getting some strange looks, "let's just do the ice cream last."
--
"Because Peter Pan peanut butter is vile," Eames explains patiently, wrenching it out of Arthur's grip for the third time.
"You think all peanut butter is vile," Arthur points out.
"That's not true," Eames protests. "I will occasionally indulge in Jif."
"No," Arthur corrects, "you will occasionally indulge in eating my sandwich when I use Jif, and then you complain about the taste on the roof of your mouth for hours and I have to listen to you, so give me back the Peter Pan or suffer the fucking consequences."
"Christ, fine," Eames snaps. Arthur looks him over, sees that he is actually prepared to fucking sulk about this, and sighs.
"Will you stop whining if we get Nutella too?"
--
"You can't get that," Arthur says, "because--"
"If you say a bloody word," Eames warns, "about my sodding blood pressure, Arthur, I swear to god--"
"Oh, like it's any less embarrassing when you harass the people at the bakery about allergies I don't even fucking have--"
"Do you have any idea how impossible you are?" Eames demands. "Do you? Because honestly, darling, I think you've set a new standard."
"I'm going back to the fucking ice cream aisle," Arthur snaps. "You are too ridiculous to even talk to."
"If you don't get pistachio I'm moving out!" Eames yells after him. Arthur flips him his middle finger and ignores the scandalized look a passing grandmother throws his way.
--
Arthur's standing in front of the freezer case when he feels a warm weight against his back. Hands slide into his front pockets, and Arthur sighs.
"I could flip you over my shoulder into the glass," he points out. "It would be easy."
"But you'd regret it," Eames says against his ear.
"Only because you'd hold it against me for the rest of our fucking lives," Arthur murmurs.
"Yes, well," Eames says. He's quiet for a minute, and Arthur lets himself relax backwards into his grip, just a little. "Sorry."
"No you're not," Arthur snorts, amused. Eames laughs.
"Well, you're not either," he says. "Although I do appreciate your not flipping me into the freezer case, love, thanks."
"It's cold," says Arthur, which is not really an explanation. Eames just makes a quiet humming noise and doesn't move an inch, and really, at the end of the day, Arthur might be willing to admit he's not so bad.
"I guess we can get the pistachio," Arthur sighs, long-suffering. "But only if you promise to stay the hell out of my Phish Food."
"Done," Eames agrees, and they smile at each other on the way to the checkout.
BUT IN THE MEANTIME, here is a music video for a song I just love so much it hurts, and also two domesticverse ficlets that I wrote for
bookshop's fluff meme ages ago and never posted here. They don't have proper titles, because I am lazy. In Which Arthur Totally Does Not Have the Swine Flu
Arthur has many things, and he's willing to admit to them all.
He has a bachelor's degree. He has a military record--admittedly, a slightly marred military record, but a military record nonetheless. He has a type A personality and a predilection towards unsettlingly rare steak and a firm grip on the care and handling of a variety of different guns. He has a number of bespoke suits and a sharp wit and an admitted mean streak.
What he does not have is the fucking swine flu.
"People aren't even getting that anymore," he snaps at Ariadne, when she raises her eyebrows at him and suggests it.
"A medical degree is no basis for a diagnosis," he growls at Yusuf, when he backs up Ariadne's point.
"You're not convincing me of shit," he rasps at Cobb, while he is, to his irritation, being driven home from the warehouse. "I am perfectly fine."
He puts on a pair of flannel pajama bottoms when Cobb leaves, because there's a loose thread on his pants and looking it bothers him. He puts on a sweatshirt, because it would look ridiculous to wear pajama bottoms with a shirt and tie. He sits on the couch and hugs his legs to his chest because it is comfortable, okay, and that's how he wants to sit, and he doesn't get a blanket because he does not fucking need one, thank you very much.
Then Eames comes home.
"You're supposed to be tailing the mark," Arthur points out. "And we already have groceries in, what the fuck are you doing with those bags?"
"I had a sudden craving for homemade chicken soup," Eames says, shrugging and abandoning them on the counter. "Very distracting. I had to give in. It couldn't be helped. On a completely unrelated note, I hear you don't have swine flu."
"You hear correctly," Arthur snaps, and if he coughs as he says it, it's obviously in horror at the color of Eames' shirt.
"I can see that," Eames murmurs. "You're a rather fetching shade of pale, darling, did you know?"
"Fuck off," Arthur says, and totally doesn't shudder.
"Ah," Eames says, "you know what, I rather think the soup can wait."
He goes into the bedroom and comes out with their comforter bundled in his arms. Arthur raises an eyebrow.
"I don't need that," he growls.
"I know you don't," Eames says easily. "But I do, love, it's bloody freezing in here, isn't it?"
"Well," Arthur says, aware that he's being played but maybe--maybe--a little too tired to care about it, "I mean, if you think so."
Eames smiles and sits down on the couch. He lets Arthur stretch out, pushes Arthurs' head down to rest on his lap, and throws the comforter over him. Arthur considers pointing out that, for someone who claimed the blanket was for his personal use, he doesn't actually seem to be using it at all, but he coughs again instead.
Eames makes a small, sympathetic noise, and Arthur's going to kill him as soon as he opens his eyes. Eames runs his fingers through Arthur's hair, and in just a minute Arthur is definitely going to make him stop.
"I don't have swine flu," Arthur mumbles.
"Of course not," Eames agrees, his voice soft.
"Just so long as we're clear on that," Arthur slurs, and falls asleep with his face mashed into Eames' thigh.
In Which Ice Cream Choices Are Debated
"No," Arthur says, "pistachio ice cream is disgusting."
"I'd like to remind you at this juncture of who does all the cooking, pet," Eames replies, raising his eyebrows. "I think, all things considered, I am the only one who should get veto power."
Arthur gives him an unimpressed look. "I'm sorry, were you planning on using pistachio ice cream as an ingredient in something?"
"You don't have to eat it!" Eames cries, waving his hands. "We can get two varieties of ice cream, I can't believe you won't even allow pistachio to share freezer space with--"
"You know what," Arthur says, because he recognizes that they're getting some strange looks, "let's just do the ice cream last."
--
"Because Peter Pan peanut butter is vile," Eames explains patiently, wrenching it out of Arthur's grip for the third time.
"You think all peanut butter is vile," Arthur points out.
"That's not true," Eames protests. "I will occasionally indulge in Jif."
"No," Arthur corrects, "you will occasionally indulge in eating my sandwich when I use Jif, and then you complain about the taste on the roof of your mouth for hours and I have to listen to you, so give me back the Peter Pan or suffer the fucking consequences."
"Christ, fine," Eames snaps. Arthur looks him over, sees that he is actually prepared to fucking sulk about this, and sighs.
"Will you stop whining if we get Nutella too?"
--
"You can't get that," Arthur says, "because--"
"If you say a bloody word," Eames warns, "about my sodding blood pressure, Arthur, I swear to god--"
"Oh, like it's any less embarrassing when you harass the people at the bakery about allergies I don't even fucking have--"
"Do you have any idea how impossible you are?" Eames demands. "Do you? Because honestly, darling, I think you've set a new standard."
"I'm going back to the fucking ice cream aisle," Arthur snaps. "You are too ridiculous to even talk to."
"If you don't get pistachio I'm moving out!" Eames yells after him. Arthur flips him his middle finger and ignores the scandalized look a passing grandmother throws his way.
--
Arthur's standing in front of the freezer case when he feels a warm weight against his back. Hands slide into his front pockets, and Arthur sighs.
"I could flip you over my shoulder into the glass," he points out. "It would be easy."
"But you'd regret it," Eames says against his ear.
"Only because you'd hold it against me for the rest of our fucking lives," Arthur murmurs.
"Yes, well," Eames says. He's quiet for a minute, and Arthur lets himself relax backwards into his grip, just a little. "Sorry."
"No you're not," Arthur snorts, amused. Eames laughs.
"Well, you're not either," he says. "Although I do appreciate your not flipping me into the freezer case, love, thanks."
"It's cold," says Arthur, which is not really an explanation. Eames just makes a quiet humming noise and doesn't move an inch, and really, at the end of the day, Arthur might be willing to admit he's not so bad.
"I guess we can get the pistachio," Arthur sighs, long-suffering. "But only if you promise to stay the hell out of my Phish Food."
"Done," Eames agrees, and they smile at each other on the way to the checkout.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-01-17 12:18 am (UTC)OH JIZZ HOW I LOVE YOU LIKE A CRAZY MAD CRAZY THING. ♥ ♥ ♥
I wanted to get a macro to show my excitement for Veronica Mars fic, but got this instead:
Oh, well.
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Date: 2011-01-17 12:21 am (UTC)AND B) THIS FUCKING FIC, POSTCARD. I didn't intend to write it, it was an accident, but I just needed an ending where Logan and Veronica aren't such dsfhdjskfs BITCHES, BECAUSE I ACCIDENTALLY OTP'D THEM AND DIDN'T WANT TO, and the only way I can make that okay is by writing a fic where they're adults and I can actually not feel guilty about being so enthralled by their stupid love dsjfdnfsdf. IT'S ALREADY 6,000 WORDS LONG KILL ME
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Date: 2011-01-17 12:26 am (UTC)B) NO NO NO THIS IS EXACTLY WHAT I WANTED, TOO, FOR THEM TO JUST THEIR SHIT TOGETHER AND JUST ON WITH THINGS INSTEAD OF THEIR ENDLESS MÖBIUS STRIP OF ANGST. BECAUSE MY GOD, HOW MUCH FAIL CAN ONE RELATIONSHIP HAVE? ARE YOU KIDDING THAT SOUNDS LIKE THE BEST THING EVER. EVAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAR.
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Date: 2011-01-17 12:30 am (UTC)ALSO: MOBIUS STRIP OF ANGST, BEST DESCRIPTION OF THEM EVER, *DIES*
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Date: 2011-01-17 12:33 am (UTC)THEY JUST NEED TO GET THEIR FUCKING SHIT TOGETHER, OKAY! I JUST WANT TO SHAKE THEM!!!!!
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Date: 2011-01-17 12:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-17 12:29 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-17 12:31 am (UTC)(Also, dammit woman, i can't believe you've got me looking forward to a VM fic. *tries to glare and fails*)
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Date: 2011-01-17 12:33 am (UTC)(DON'T GET EXCITED THIS STUPID FIC IS SO STUPID)
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Date: 2011-01-17 12:39 am (UTC)(Still excited! Damn you.)
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Date: 2011-01-17 12:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-17 12:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-17 12:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-17 12:41 am (UTC)♥ the grocery fic still. :)
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Date: 2011-01-17 12:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-17 01:09 am (UTC)I don't remember if I commented on the ficlets on the meme, but yay! They are awesome, and I want to cuddle them.
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Date: 2011-01-17 06:05 am (UTC)top chef rpf space adventures?
ARE THERE SCALLOPS?????
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Date: 2011-01-17 06:20 pm (UTC)...WITH LASER GUNS.
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Date: 2011-01-17 08:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-17 10:17 pm (UTC)AND EVERYBODY COMPLAINING ABOUT WHY THERE HAS TO BE A FRONT OF HOUSE STILL WHEN THERE ARE ROBOTS DO TO THE JOB, BUT THE TOM SAYS, "REMEMBER HOSPITALITY, GUYS AND THEY ALL SHUT UP.
EXCEPT ANDROID!ANGELO, WHO KEEPS ON TALKING ABOUT ASIAN FLAVOURS AND THAT TIME IN NU BANGKOK WITH A BLISSED OUT EXPRESSION ON HIS FACE.
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Date: 2011-01-17 10:25 pm (UTC)RICHARD: FOAMS ARE SO LAST CENTURY. IT'S ALL ABOUT GASSES NOW.
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Date: 2011-01-17 01:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-17 01:21 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-17 01:41 am (UTC)Also, you continue to be one of my very favorite Inception writers. How do you come up with this stuff?
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Date: 2011-01-17 01:43 am (UTC)It is apparently my most played song on iTunes, too. Well, there you go.
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Date: 2011-01-17 02:21 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-17 03:12 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-18 02:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-17 02:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-17 03:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-17 05:12 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-17 05:21 am (UTC)Because I love arguing in grocery stores. You pretty much just wrote my dream life right now.
P.S. there are people that aren't into Veronica and Logan? Them and all of their issues are the best thing ever.
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Date: 2011-01-17 05:29 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-17 06:00 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-17 07:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-17 09:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-17 01:42 pm (UTC)Also I too will be super excite to see your VM fic. YAY FOR FIXITS.
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Date: 2011-01-17 02:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-18 08:52 am (UTC)I loved your fics, but honestly when I read the swine flu one the only thing I thought was OH GOD THE MEMORIES.
Because I got it, yep, last year. D: ( . . . . and it was hell . . . )
I like how you mentioned Arthur coughing, cuz that was a HUGE part. and the onset was like *smallcough* hmmm i wonder if i might be sick . . . *6 hours later* DEATHHHHH and then I spent three days lying in a bed utterly delirious and unable to move AT ALL or even be lucid. Way worse than normal flu.
Your fic made me wish I had my own Eames there to take care of me! ;D
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Date: 2011-01-19 06:28 am (UTC)*goes back to read fic*