Muses; Why I Need A Vacation
Oct. 4th, 2010 08:09 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sariagrayRatings/Warnings: No idea what to rate this. I guess it could be considered an S/I, but it's more the other way around.
Disclaimer: I don't even own the voices in my head, apparently.
Summary: What happens to a poor fanfic writer when she is a bit bleary in the head.
A/N: This goes beyond crack!fic. This is headache!fic combined with painkiller!fic. You see...I was trying to go to bed, but I kept thinking of scenarios, for stories. Apparently, I was letting bits slip out from the internal dialog. I was overheard. In my daze, I thought it was funny. I doubt it will ever be cross posted, and I bet you all gobs of money that I will regret even doing this much in the morning. Though I am thinking that no one will see it, anyway.
“I have a headache,” the woman growled.
“We noticed,” one of the men responded, grinning.
“Then why are you still talking?”
The other man shrugged. “Not our fault. You’re the author.”
They were sitting on her bed, patiently waiting (which she found rather unusual the more she thought about it - when had they ever patiently waited on a bed?). She tried to ignore them, tried so desperately. Angrily shoveling spoonfuls of cold ice cream into her mouth wasn’t working; not only did it aggravate her throbbing brain, but she could swear the one was whispering to the other about how he would like some ice cream, and why didn’t he get any?
“I can still hear you,” she mumbled.
“I should hope so. He isn’t being particularly quiet.”
“Well, I wasn’t being that loud, either. I’ll show you lo-“
He was interrupted by a knock on the door. The two men faded into the background and she had never, ever been quite so happy to see her little brother in all her life.
“Going to the store,” he muttered. “Want anything?”
A very, very long, quiet vacation? “Er, pack of cigs?” She handed over her credit card when he nodded. This headache was definitely getting the best of her if she was freely handing over the means to her non-existent fortune.
“Anything good on TV?” An eager voice reemerged, grating against her ears.
“Do you even SEE a TV in my room?”
“Er…no. Where do you keep it?”
“I don’t.”
“Hush,” the much nicer, quieter man admonished. Although, he was casting a wary glance about her room that made her nervous. And he was definitely eyeing the cleaning wipes that she had purchased a month ago and never used with something akin to longing.
“If my standards of living,” she choked out between gritted teeth, “aren’t to your liking, you are more than welcome to leave me in peace.”
“We tried,” the overly excited one said, practically bouncing on her bed. “We’re stuck.”
“For…ever?” she whispered fretfully.
“For now.” The tone wasn’t very reassuring.
“What I don’t get,” the younger one murmured, “is how you can live like this. Your office and car are pristine.”
“I know. Keeping up appearances, I guess.”
“Oh,” he raised an eyebrow. “Holding an actual conversation now, are we?”
If she didn’t like her desk so much, she would’ve banged her head against it. Repeatedly. Instead, she got up to light a candle. And was watched every step of the way; they wore matching looks of confusion that almost made her laugh.
“Trying to relax,” she explained, although she really didn’t know why she bothered.
For a moment, as the warm scent of cider drifted towards her, she felt at peace. For a moment. And then the two biddies on her bed had to go and ruin it.
“I don’t know why you pretend not to like us.”
“Oh? I like you well enough. When you’re off doing your own thing, saving the world, being all romantic and cute with each other, and not bothering me. And I would also like to point out that you are most certainly not real–”
“Um. Who are you talking to?” Her brother stood in the doorway, cigarettes in hand (two packs, the dear, smart thing), and a bewildered expression on his face.
“Oh, er, the computer was acting up again.” She cast a sidelong glance at her bed and breathed a sigh of relief at the lack of men she saw there.
“Right. Okay. Here.” He left the packs on her desk and backed out of the room as if she were a caged animal ready to pounce.
“Thanks,” she called out weakly.
Her ire was brought back by the incessant sound of repressed giggles that she instinctively knew was threatening to boil over into something akin to howling if left unchecked.
“I’m going mad. I am absolutely, positively going mad.”
“No,” Ianto pointed out and looked toward Jack for confirmation, which he received in the form of a nod. “But the painkillers aren’t helping.”
Oh God, she thought to herself. I’m referring to them by name. Now they’re never going to go away. As if the plot bunnies crowding my desk weren’t bad enough.
The End.
I hope.
Disclaimer: I don't even own the voices in my head, apparently.
Summary: What happens to a poor fanfic writer when she is a bit bleary in the head.
A/N: This goes beyond crack!fic. This is headache!fic combined with painkiller!fic. You see...I was trying to go to bed, but I kept thinking of scenarios, for stories. Apparently, I was letting bits slip out from the internal dialog. I was overheard. In my daze, I thought it was funny. I doubt it will ever be cross posted, and I bet you all gobs of money that I will regret even doing this much in the morning. Though I am thinking that no one will see it, anyway.
Muses
or
Why I Need a Vacation
or
Why I Need a Vacation
“I have a headache,” the woman growled.
“We noticed,” one of the men responded, grinning.
“Then why are you still talking?”
The other man shrugged. “Not our fault. You’re the author.”
They were sitting on her bed, patiently waiting (which she found rather unusual the more she thought about it - when had they ever patiently waited on a bed?). She tried to ignore them, tried so desperately. Angrily shoveling spoonfuls of cold ice cream into her mouth wasn’t working; not only did it aggravate her throbbing brain, but she could swear the one was whispering to the other about how he would like some ice cream, and why didn’t he get any?
“I can still hear you,” she mumbled.
“I should hope so. He isn’t being particularly quiet.”
“Well, I wasn’t being that loud, either. I’ll show you lo-“
He was interrupted by a knock on the door. The two men faded into the background and she had never, ever been quite so happy to see her little brother in all her life.
“Going to the store,” he muttered. “Want anything?”
A very, very long, quiet vacation? “Er, pack of cigs?” She handed over her credit card when he nodded. This headache was definitely getting the best of her if she was freely handing over the means to her non-existent fortune.
“Anything good on TV?” An eager voice reemerged, grating against her ears.
“Do you even SEE a TV in my room?”
“Er…no. Where do you keep it?”
“I don’t.”
“Hush,” the much nicer, quieter man admonished. Although, he was casting a wary glance about her room that made her nervous. And he was definitely eyeing the cleaning wipes that she had purchased a month ago and never used with something akin to longing.
“If my standards of living,” she choked out between gritted teeth, “aren’t to your liking, you are more than welcome to leave me in peace.”
“We tried,” the overly excited one said, practically bouncing on her bed. “We’re stuck.”
“For…ever?” she whispered fretfully.
“For now.” The tone wasn’t very reassuring.
“What I don’t get,” the younger one murmured, “is how you can live like this. Your office and car are pristine.”
“I know. Keeping up appearances, I guess.”
“Oh,” he raised an eyebrow. “Holding an actual conversation now, are we?”
If she didn’t like her desk so much, she would’ve banged her head against it. Repeatedly. Instead, she got up to light a candle. And was watched every step of the way; they wore matching looks of confusion that almost made her laugh.
“Trying to relax,” she explained, although she really didn’t know why she bothered.
For a moment, as the warm scent of cider drifted towards her, she felt at peace. For a moment. And then the two biddies on her bed had to go and ruin it.
“I don’t know why you pretend not to like us.”
“Oh? I like you well enough. When you’re off doing your own thing, saving the world, being all romantic and cute with each other, and not bothering me. And I would also like to point out that you are most certainly not real–”
“Um. Who are you talking to?” Her brother stood in the doorway, cigarettes in hand (two packs, the dear, smart thing), and a bewildered expression on his face.
“Oh, er, the computer was acting up again.” She cast a sidelong glance at her bed and breathed a sigh of relief at the lack of men she saw there.
“Right. Okay. Here.” He left the packs on her desk and backed out of the room as if she were a caged animal ready to pounce.
“Thanks,” she called out weakly.
Her ire was brought back by the incessant sound of repressed giggles that she instinctively knew was threatening to boil over into something akin to howling if left unchecked.
“I’m going mad. I am absolutely, positively going mad.”
“No,” Ianto pointed out and looked toward Jack for confirmation, which he received in the form of a nod. “But the painkillers aren’t helping.”
Oh God, she thought to herself. I’m referring to them by name. Now they’re never going to go away. As if the plot bunnies crowding my desk weren’t bad enough.
The End.
I hope.
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no subject
Date: 2010-10-05 12:38 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-10-05 12:43 am (UTC)