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cinaedOkay, probably not, but I bet Freud could think up some awesomely cracked-up reason for why I need a title before I can write a fic.
*eyes the timestamp fic I'm writing for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
blue_raven, well, moreso glares at fic* I need a damn for this fic. Okay, okay, I'm 750 words in, but, um, I don't write fics without titles. It's a weird thing of mine. I need titles. Um, am addicted to them, whatever.
Right now its file name is "The Tale of Salieri" which...yeah. Craptastic name. *pouts and pokes it* And dude,firebubbles310, where are you? You're the only person who talks to me on AIM. *eyes, is bored* Did RMWC's internet go crazy on you?
“You want me to look after your cat,” Radek says, flatly, and pulls the phone far enough away from his ear to shoot it a deeply suspicious look. He’s fairly certain that he either misheard the other man or he’s dreaming-- or maybe a mixture of both, because when he checks his clock, he realizes that it’s three in the morning, and who in their right mind would call at that indecent hour? Especially on a Friday morning?
“Er, well, yes,” Rodney says, and at least he has the decency to sound embarrassed. “It’s just that, that my neighbor who takes care of Salieri just found out her mother’s in the hospital, you see, and she’s going to be gone for a couple days, and I don’t really know any of the other neighbors, and I know you and Elizabeth live about, um, an hour or two from my apartment. I wouldn’t ask, but a certain someone couldn’t be a decent human being and go and take care of my cat for the weekend!”
The last bit seems to be directed to someone near Rodney, and Radek can just barely make out the muffled response of, “For the last time, Rodney, I’m the manager of the band, not your bloody cat-sitter!”
“We pay you enough to be the manager and my damn cat-sitter,” Rodney snipes back.
Then there’s an indignant sound, and after a moment, Laura says into the phone, voice a jumbled mixture of exasperation and desperation, “For the love of God, Radek, I’ll pay for the gas if you and Liz will take care of Rodney’s damn cat. He won’t shut up about how the thing’s going to starve since we have a performance tomorrow that we can’t get out of. You’d think the cat could survive with no food until Monday, but no, no apparently it can’t.”
Radek sighs, stares up at his ceiling, thinks about the honest anxiety coloring Rodney’s words and the irritation sharpening Laura’s, as though she is seriously considering throwing Rodney out of the hotel room or bus or wherever they are.
“I would not be able to get to his apartment until tonight. I cannot take off work, and the cat will surely be able to survive less than twenty-four hours without supervision,” he says at last, and hears a sound suspiciously like a relieved sigh on the other end of the phone. He presses his palm against his itching eyes, adds, “Also, please tell Rodney that three o’clock in the morning does not make me particularly inclined to agree to whatever he wants.”
“I’ll let him know for next time,” Laura informs him, tone shifting to one of amusement, and she laughs at Radek’s half-indignant, half-resigned, “Next time? There will be no--”
“Thank you,” Rodney says, and the rest of the tirade dies on Radek’s lips at the sheer gratefulness in those two simple words. “He’ll be no trouble at all, I promise. Okay, okay, he’s a little shy, and will probably hide under the couch when you first show up, but once you feed him, he’ll adore you, I promise. Just let me, um, get the directions for you.”
After he has gotten the directions, detailed instructions on what Salieri is and isn’t allowed to eat (as though Radek would have tried to feed the cat onions even before he’d known that they destroyed feline red blood cells), and a handful of fervent thank-you’s and one or two more apologies along the lines of “I wouldn’t ask this if it wasn’t important,” Radek hangs up the phone and goes back to staring at the whitewashed ceiling of his own apartment.
Has it really been a week since the concert? In the short span of time, he’s already left a message on Marije’s cell phone, asking her for two autographed photographs for Rodney and his sister, and he and Rodney have already exchanged four emails, most of which have involved debating the positive and negative aspects of symphonies by Berlioz and Verdi, and then discussing the impact that an actual recording of Liszt’s piano playing would have upon the music world, not to mention Rodney’s numerous laments over the fact that the rest of the band apparently has horrific taste in music.
And now, apparently, Radek is the temporary caretaker of Rodney’s cat. Truth be told, this is not what he expected when he agreed to be dragged to a concert last Friday.
The sequel needs to be better behaved. Like the sequel to 'Scorecards' that has a name and 800 words. *pats 'In the Black'*
Rodney was certain he could convince the police that it had been a justifiable homicide. Well, reasonably certain, anyway. He glowered. “For the last time, Sheppard, that is my desk. Get out of my chair!”
Sheppard just smiled and spun slowly in the pilfered seat, slouching even more until it was a wonder that he didn’t slide to the floor. “Oh, this is your desk, McKay? I had no idea,” he drawled, and Rodney snorted.
“That has been my desk for three years now. You know damn well -- can you believe this?” he snapped, turning to appeal to his lone ally even as Simpson (the traitor) snickered.
Radek looked up, blinking owlishly, and then rolled his eyes and gestured pointedly towards the cell phone at his ear before he went back to muttering rapid-fire, irritated Czech.
“So much for being my ally,” Rodney muttered under his breath, and then refocused his glare upon Sheppard. “Look, shouldn’t you be, oh, harassing Elizabeth or something? I don’t know, maybe even doing your job? I know that’s a difficult concept for you to grasp, but--”
Sheppard lazily waved a thick folder at him. “I have all the numbers for the end of the year. I just couldn’t resist saying hello to you before I went to see Liz.”
“Liz?” Simpson muttered in abject disbelief.
Rodney rolled his eyes. “Next time, Sheppard? Resist. Resist with all your might.”
Sheppard just grinned at him for another moment, before he rose to his feet and sauntered towards Elizabeth’s office, apparently unconcerned by Rodney glaring after him.
At the sound of Radek’s cell phone snapping shut, Rodney turned and folded his arms against his chest. “You could have distracted him for me, you know, introduced yourself or something,” he informed the other man, to which Radek rolled his eyes.
“I am so sorry that I failed in my duties, Rodney.” Blatant insincerity flavored every word. “I’m afraid I was a bit distracted by my sister accusing me of being a terrible uncle for not wanting to fly back to Prague for New Year’s to see the demon spawn.” He added something in Czech, darkly, before he tucked the cell into a pocket. “So, who was that?”
“John Sheppard, from Accounting,” Simpson informed him. She made a face. “Did he really say Liz? Please tell me he was joking, McKay.”
“How should I know?” Rodney rolled his eyes. “More importantly than that, why should I care? Though I thought Elizabeth had better taste in men.”
“Oh, I don’t know, Sheppard is supposed to be quite a catch,” Simpson said breezily. “Half of the accountants are in love with him, you know. Teer once told me--”
Rodney raised an eyebrow. “Teer? Wasn’t she the one who joined the cult?”
“Yes,” Simpson said, frowning. “And she was such a nice girl too.”
“Nice and crazy,” Rodney muttered under his breath, and ignored Simpson’s glare. Refocusing on Radek, who was watching them with a look of mixed amusement and bemusement, he added, “Sheppard’s been the head of accounting for about five years now, and has been flirting with Elizabeth even longer.”
“Nobody knows if he actually means it,” Simpson added. “Or if Elizabeth’s even noticed the flirting.” She smiled suddenly, and Rodney recognized the look as one of pure, unadulterated evil. “There’s a betting pool, if you want in--”
“Oh, please, like Radek’s going to get ensnared by your crazy gambling ways,” Rodney said, though apparently the other man was, judging by the way Radek’s eyes had gleamed with interest at the mention of a betting pool.
The sound of a door opening had all three heads turning towards Elizabeth’s office, and Elizabeth and Sheppard walked out. There was a flush on Elizabeth’s face and a pleased look on Sheppard’s, and either they’d finally resolved that whole sexual tension issue or the company had made a profit for the year. Rodney hoped for the latter, both because of, oh, his salary, and the fact that Elizabeth and Sheppard actually getting their act together and dating would doom him to a lot more days of Sheppard stealing his desk.
“We’re in the black,” Sheppard announced, still looking pleased with himself. “And to celebrate, I’m treating you all to dinner.”
There was a moment of silence, and then Rodney said with a roll of his eyes, “What restaurant is the coupon for?”
Sheppard didn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed, just smiled even wider and said, “Outback Steakhouse. Did you know that their coupons don’t even have an expiration date?”
“Outback Steakhouse?” Simpson repeated, and when Rodney glanced over at her, she wore a slightly maniacal smile. “I haven’t been there in ages. First dibs on the bread.”
*eyes the timestamp fic I'm writing for
blue_raven, well, moreso glares at fic* I need a damn for this fic. Okay, okay, I'm 750 words in, but, um, I don't write fics without titles. It's a weird thing of mine. I need titles. Um, am addicted to them, whatever. Right now its file name is "The Tale of Salieri" which...yeah. Craptastic name. *pouts and pokes it* And dude,
firebubbles310, where are you? You're the only person who talks to me on AIM. *eyes, is bored* Did RMWC's internet go crazy on you?“You want me to look after your cat,” Radek says, flatly, and pulls the phone far enough away from his ear to shoot it a deeply suspicious look. He’s fairly certain that he either misheard the other man or he’s dreaming-- or maybe a mixture of both, because when he checks his clock, he realizes that it’s three in the morning, and who in their right mind would call at that indecent hour? Especially on a Friday morning?
“Er, well, yes,” Rodney says, and at least he has the decency to sound embarrassed. “It’s just that, that my neighbor who takes care of Salieri just found out her mother’s in the hospital, you see, and she’s going to be gone for a couple days, and I don’t really know any of the other neighbors, and I know you and Elizabeth live about, um, an hour or two from my apartment. I wouldn’t ask, but a certain someone couldn’t be a decent human being and go and take care of my cat for the weekend!”
The last bit seems to be directed to someone near Rodney, and Radek can just barely make out the muffled response of, “For the last time, Rodney, I’m the manager of the band, not your bloody cat-sitter!”
“We pay you enough to be the manager and my damn cat-sitter,” Rodney snipes back.
Then there’s an indignant sound, and after a moment, Laura says into the phone, voice a jumbled mixture of exasperation and desperation, “For the love of God, Radek, I’ll pay for the gas if you and Liz will take care of Rodney’s damn cat. He won’t shut up about how the thing’s going to starve since we have a performance tomorrow that we can’t get out of. You’d think the cat could survive with no food until Monday, but no, no apparently it can’t.”
Radek sighs, stares up at his ceiling, thinks about the honest anxiety coloring Rodney’s words and the irritation sharpening Laura’s, as though she is seriously considering throwing Rodney out of the hotel room or bus or wherever they are.
“I would not be able to get to his apartment until tonight. I cannot take off work, and the cat will surely be able to survive less than twenty-four hours without supervision,” he says at last, and hears a sound suspiciously like a relieved sigh on the other end of the phone. He presses his palm against his itching eyes, adds, “Also, please tell Rodney that three o’clock in the morning does not make me particularly inclined to agree to whatever he wants.”
“I’ll let him know for next time,” Laura informs him, tone shifting to one of amusement, and she laughs at Radek’s half-indignant, half-resigned, “Next time? There will be no--”
“Thank you,” Rodney says, and the rest of the tirade dies on Radek’s lips at the sheer gratefulness in those two simple words. “He’ll be no trouble at all, I promise. Okay, okay, he’s a little shy, and will probably hide under the couch when you first show up, but once you feed him, he’ll adore you, I promise. Just let me, um, get the directions for you.”
After he has gotten the directions, detailed instructions on what Salieri is and isn’t allowed to eat (as though Radek would have tried to feed the cat onions even before he’d known that they destroyed feline red blood cells), and a handful of fervent thank-you’s and one or two more apologies along the lines of “I wouldn’t ask this if it wasn’t important,” Radek hangs up the phone and goes back to staring at the whitewashed ceiling of his own apartment.
Has it really been a week since the concert? In the short span of time, he’s already left a message on Marije’s cell phone, asking her for two autographed photographs for Rodney and his sister, and he and Rodney have already exchanged four emails, most of which have involved debating the positive and negative aspects of symphonies by Berlioz and Verdi, and then discussing the impact that an actual recording of Liszt’s piano playing would have upon the music world, not to mention Rodney’s numerous laments over the fact that the rest of the band apparently has horrific taste in music.
And now, apparently, Radek is the temporary caretaker of Rodney’s cat. Truth be told, this is not what he expected when he agreed to be dragged to a concert last Friday.
The sequel needs to be better behaved. Like the sequel to 'Scorecards' that has a name and 800 words. *pats 'In the Black'*
Rodney was certain he could convince the police that it had been a justifiable homicide. Well, reasonably certain, anyway. He glowered. “For the last time, Sheppard, that is my desk. Get out of my chair!”
Sheppard just smiled and spun slowly in the pilfered seat, slouching even more until it was a wonder that he didn’t slide to the floor. “Oh, this is your desk, McKay? I had no idea,” he drawled, and Rodney snorted.
“That has been my desk for three years now. You know damn well -- can you believe this?” he snapped, turning to appeal to his lone ally even as Simpson (the traitor) snickered.
Radek looked up, blinking owlishly, and then rolled his eyes and gestured pointedly towards the cell phone at his ear before he went back to muttering rapid-fire, irritated Czech.
“So much for being my ally,” Rodney muttered under his breath, and then refocused his glare upon Sheppard. “Look, shouldn’t you be, oh, harassing Elizabeth or something? I don’t know, maybe even doing your job? I know that’s a difficult concept for you to grasp, but--”
Sheppard lazily waved a thick folder at him. “I have all the numbers for the end of the year. I just couldn’t resist saying hello to you before I went to see Liz.”
“Liz?” Simpson muttered in abject disbelief.
Rodney rolled his eyes. “Next time, Sheppard? Resist. Resist with all your might.”
Sheppard just grinned at him for another moment, before he rose to his feet and sauntered towards Elizabeth’s office, apparently unconcerned by Rodney glaring after him.
At the sound of Radek’s cell phone snapping shut, Rodney turned and folded his arms against his chest. “You could have distracted him for me, you know, introduced yourself or something,” he informed the other man, to which Radek rolled his eyes.
“I am so sorry that I failed in my duties, Rodney.” Blatant insincerity flavored every word. “I’m afraid I was a bit distracted by my sister accusing me of being a terrible uncle for not wanting to fly back to Prague for New Year’s to see the demon spawn.” He added something in Czech, darkly, before he tucked the cell into a pocket. “So, who was that?”
“John Sheppard, from Accounting,” Simpson informed him. She made a face. “Did he really say Liz? Please tell me he was joking, McKay.”
“How should I know?” Rodney rolled his eyes. “More importantly than that, why should I care? Though I thought Elizabeth had better taste in men.”
“Oh, I don’t know, Sheppard is supposed to be quite a catch,” Simpson said breezily. “Half of the accountants are in love with him, you know. Teer once told me--”
Rodney raised an eyebrow. “Teer? Wasn’t she the one who joined the cult?”
“Yes,” Simpson said, frowning. “And she was such a nice girl too.”
“Nice and crazy,” Rodney muttered under his breath, and ignored Simpson’s glare. Refocusing on Radek, who was watching them with a look of mixed amusement and bemusement, he added, “Sheppard’s been the head of accounting for about five years now, and has been flirting with Elizabeth even longer.”
“Nobody knows if he actually means it,” Simpson added. “Or if Elizabeth’s even noticed the flirting.” She smiled suddenly, and Rodney recognized the look as one of pure, unadulterated evil. “There’s a betting pool, if you want in--”
“Oh, please, like Radek’s going to get ensnared by your crazy gambling ways,” Rodney said, though apparently the other man was, judging by the way Radek’s eyes had gleamed with interest at the mention of a betting pool.
The sound of a door opening had all three heads turning towards Elizabeth’s office, and Elizabeth and Sheppard walked out. There was a flush on Elizabeth’s face and a pleased look on Sheppard’s, and either they’d finally resolved that whole sexual tension issue or the company had made a profit for the year. Rodney hoped for the latter, both because of, oh, his salary, and the fact that Elizabeth and Sheppard actually getting their act together and dating would doom him to a lot more days of Sheppard stealing his desk.
“We’re in the black,” Sheppard announced, still looking pleased with himself. “And to celebrate, I’m treating you all to dinner.”
There was a moment of silence, and then Rodney said with a roll of his eyes, “What restaurant is the coupon for?”
Sheppard didn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed, just smiled even wider and said, “Outback Steakhouse. Did you know that their coupons don’t even have an expiration date?”
“Outback Steakhouse?” Simpson repeated, and when Rodney glanced over at her, she wore a slightly maniacal smile. “I haven’t been there in ages. First dibs on the bread.”
