fic: PUNCTUALITY
PUNCTUALITY
the newsroom, sloan sabbith/don keefer, light r (language).
she supposes that this is what people call intuition.
“You’re avoiding me.”
She wheels around, her heel slipping on the vinyl. “Yes.” It’s short, clipped, the kind of statement of fact she’s grown comfortable with. It’s not that she finds men confusing, per se - their methods are usually embarrassingly transparent - or even easily confused. It’s just, well, she kind of said she was avoiding him and muddying the waters isn’t her style.
She says that like she has one.
His voice raises as she walks away, “It’s unprofessional.”
“Dating your intern is unprofessional.” It’s a bad throw-back, but she just can’t stop herself, sometimes.
“She’s not my intern.”
“Anymore.”
Ten to five, and he’s hiding in the shadows of her office. It’s that time of year, near enough, and if she tilts her head just right she can see the sun slide down between the skyscrapers. She’s nearly got it right when he speaks, “Sloan- ”
“I-fuck-you frightened me!”
He laughs, moves towards the door, “Elliot’s kid’s getting his appendix out. Need you to cover at ten.”
It is her turn to laugh, incredulity rather than amusement. “After what happened last time?” Her head ducks, and she finds herself looking at him for the first time in a month.
Fuck.
The show goes out without incident, Charlie keeping a level eye in the control room and Reese on the floor for her to glare at when they run the ads. Will arrives around the half-way mark.
“I don’t think I want any of your advice.” She says, draws herself taunt. Her glasses slip down her nose and rather ruin the effect.
“You’re doing a good job, kid.” He murmurs, hand heavy on her shoulder.
She fixes a scowl towards Reese.
For the love of god smile, Don whispers in her ear and please no, she should not be imagining that with five seconds to air.
She almost asks herself what Will McAvoy would do, realises he would be doing the very same.
“Welcome back, on tonight’s show so far-”
Charlie sits. Charlie smiles. Charlies slides a scotch in her direction.
She hates whiskey, but it’s rude to refuse, so she takes it and smiles right back.
“Good show tonight, girl.”
Her lips curl, “Don’t call me girl, Sir.”
There’s a pause before he chuckles, and she settles her stomach with the smoky liquid. It rasps down her throat. Charlie stands, still smiling. “Go and get drunk. Don’t end up in The Post.”
“Words to live by.”
He texts her. Hang Chews? And despite her better judgement she replies: Sounds good. She careful not to leave any kisses. One for Will. Two for Mackenzie. Three for her brother and her mother too.
They’re already a round in when she arrives, a martini waiting for her behind the bar. It itches at her. “How did you know what I drink?”
It’s more a statement than a question, and Don just smiles. She supposes that this is what people call intuition.
They’re on drink number four, perhaps five, with a sickly shot thrust at them by an intern punctuating that somewhere and he’s an even worse drinker than she is, it seems.
He is staring at her, glassy-eyed. “You’re really pretty.”
“I think it’s time you called it a night, Don.”
“We could if you like.”
She frowns, “I’m going to call Maggie now.”
She’s in his cell-phone as Margaret and, really, Sloan cannot say anything to that.
“Hey, Maggie. It’s Sloan. Yeah, yeah, he’s fine, more than fine. If anything he’s finer than usual. He’s just feeling very- zen.”
How’s the head? Her fingers slip on the keys of her Blackberry. Three kisses. Fuck.
It takes thirty seconds for her phone to buzz, the fucking resonate frequency of this hangover. Sore. Another minute. What did I say to you last night?
Oh the usual drunken shit. Smiley emoticon. No kisses. Let’s not get carried away.
Don breaks up with Maggie. Or maybe Maggie breaks up with Don. She’s not entirely clear on the details. ACN’s running short on Kleenex and it really speaks volumes that, of all people, it’s Will who winds up pontificating on the dangers of workplace relationships.
Amusingly, Jim seems the most heartbroken.
There’s a silver lining here: he now has to cross hostile territory to reach her office.
Flipside: he annoys her on the studio floor instead.
“You know, she comes down here to give Will notes occasionally,” she says wryly, and Barry the Boom Guy hisses at her like a particularly pissy librarian and anyway, all it’s achieving is reinforcing her belief that this place is some kind of high school reincarnate.
Thirty seconds to air, comes Mackenzie’s voice, and she cocks a triumphant eyebrow in Barry the Boom Guy’s direction.
“I’m nearly forty, not fourteen.”
She raises the other eyebrow. See her point?
Hang Chew’s is off limits for him these days, Mackenzie explains when he invites her for a drink at a new place downtown.
“He can’t go to a bar because his girlfriend goes there?”
“Ex-girlfriend.” Mac says, as though this explains everything.
“Hi,” she greets him, sheepish.
“Hey,” his voice is soft. The bar’s quiet, and she’d go so far as to describe it ‘hip’. She orders a beer, and the change she gets from a twenty confirms her suspicions.
They sit in silence, for a bit. He’s necking his beer straight from the bottle, she’s sipped from a thrift-store glass eerily similar to the kind her grandmother used to serve her cola in. It’s a cute nostalgic quirk - or at least it is until she realises that she’s easily a decade long of this bar’s target demographic.
“I don’t want to be your rebound girl.” She says, when he orders another round. She knows that there’s where this is going and, well, she’d rather not miss The Daily Show.
His head snaps round. “OK.” He says.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
It sort of slips out, and her eyes widen to watch his reaction.
Relax: it’s laughter. “It means I understand.” He says, slowly.
“I know what OK means.”
His grin turns sly, “So why did you ask?”
“Nobody likes a smartass. Trust me on this one.”
His hands slides warm around her wrist, and she’s pretty sure she’s supposed to find this seductive or sexy or something, “I trust you.”
You have got to be kidding.
They end up back at hers. “Nice digs,” he says, and she detects a hint of sarcasm in his voice, muffled by her neck.
“You wait ‘til you see the bedroom.”
See? She can flirt too.
He seems more surprised than seduced, mind. “I get to see the bedroom?”
“No,” she deapans. “I brought you back here for a Game of Thrones marathon.”
“For the record,” he says, afterwards, “I’m totally down with a Game of Thrones marathon sometime.”
end.
the newsroom, sloan sabbith/don keefer, light r (language).
she supposes that this is what people call intuition.
“You’re avoiding me.”
She wheels around, her heel slipping on the vinyl. “Yes.” It’s short, clipped, the kind of statement of fact she’s grown comfortable with. It’s not that she finds men confusing, per se - their methods are usually embarrassingly transparent - or even easily confused. It’s just, well, she kind of said she was avoiding him and muddying the waters isn’t her style.
She says that like she has one.
His voice raises as she walks away, “It’s unprofessional.”
“Dating your intern is unprofessional.” It’s a bad throw-back, but she just can’t stop herself, sometimes.
“She’s not my intern.”
“Anymore.”
Ten to five, and he’s hiding in the shadows of her office. It’s that time of year, near enough, and if she tilts her head just right she can see the sun slide down between the skyscrapers. She’s nearly got it right when he speaks, “Sloan- ”
“I-fuck-you frightened me!”
He laughs, moves towards the door, “Elliot’s kid’s getting his appendix out. Need you to cover at ten.”
It is her turn to laugh, incredulity rather than amusement. “After what happened last time?” Her head ducks, and she finds herself looking at him for the first time in a month.
Fuck.
The show goes out without incident, Charlie keeping a level eye in the control room and Reese on the floor for her to glare at when they run the ads. Will arrives around the half-way mark.
“I don’t think I want any of your advice.” She says, draws herself taunt. Her glasses slip down her nose and rather ruin the effect.
“You’re doing a good job, kid.” He murmurs, hand heavy on her shoulder.
She fixes a scowl towards Reese.
For the love of god smile, Don whispers in her ear and please no, she should not be imagining that with five seconds to air.
She almost asks herself what Will McAvoy would do, realises he would be doing the very same.
“Welcome back, on tonight’s show so far-”
Charlie sits. Charlie smiles. Charlies slides a scotch in her direction.
She hates whiskey, but it’s rude to refuse, so she takes it and smiles right back.
“Good show tonight, girl.”
Her lips curl, “Don’t call me girl, Sir.”
There’s a pause before he chuckles, and she settles her stomach with the smoky liquid. It rasps down her throat. Charlie stands, still smiling. “Go and get drunk. Don’t end up in The Post.”
“Words to live by.”
He texts her. Hang Chews? And despite her better judgement she replies: Sounds good. She careful not to leave any kisses. One for Will. Two for Mackenzie. Three for her brother and her mother too.
They’re already a round in when she arrives, a martini waiting for her behind the bar. It itches at her. “How did you know what I drink?”
It’s more a statement than a question, and Don just smiles. She supposes that this is what people call intuition.
They’re on drink number four, perhaps five, with a sickly shot thrust at them by an intern punctuating that somewhere and he’s an even worse drinker than she is, it seems.
He is staring at her, glassy-eyed. “You’re really pretty.”
“I think it’s time you called it a night, Don.”
“We could if you like.”
She frowns, “I’m going to call Maggie now.”
She’s in his cell-phone as Margaret and, really, Sloan cannot say anything to that.
“Hey, Maggie. It’s Sloan. Yeah, yeah, he’s fine, more than fine. If anything he’s finer than usual. He’s just feeling very- zen.”
How’s the head? Her fingers slip on the keys of her Blackberry. Three kisses. Fuck.
It takes thirty seconds for her phone to buzz, the fucking resonate frequency of this hangover. Sore. Another minute. What did I say to you last night?
Oh the usual drunken shit. Smiley emoticon. No kisses. Let’s not get carried away.
Don breaks up with Maggie. Or maybe Maggie breaks up with Don. She’s not entirely clear on the details. ACN’s running short on Kleenex and it really speaks volumes that, of all people, it’s Will who winds up pontificating on the dangers of workplace relationships.
Amusingly, Jim seems the most heartbroken.
There’s a silver lining here: he now has to cross hostile territory to reach her office.
Flipside: he annoys her on the studio floor instead.
“You know, she comes down here to give Will notes occasionally,” she says wryly, and Barry the Boom Guy hisses at her like a particularly pissy librarian and anyway, all it’s achieving is reinforcing her belief that this place is some kind of high school reincarnate.
Thirty seconds to air, comes Mackenzie’s voice, and she cocks a triumphant eyebrow in Barry the Boom Guy’s direction.
“I’m nearly forty, not fourteen.”
She raises the other eyebrow. See her point?
Hang Chew’s is off limits for him these days, Mackenzie explains when he invites her for a drink at a new place downtown.
“He can’t go to a bar because his girlfriend goes there?”
“Ex-girlfriend.” Mac says, as though this explains everything.
“Hi,” she greets him, sheepish.
“Hey,” his voice is soft. The bar’s quiet, and she’d go so far as to describe it ‘hip’. She orders a beer, and the change she gets from a twenty confirms her suspicions.
They sit in silence, for a bit. He’s necking his beer straight from the bottle, she’s sipped from a thrift-store glass eerily similar to the kind her grandmother used to serve her cola in. It’s a cute nostalgic quirk - or at least it is until she realises that she’s easily a decade long of this bar’s target demographic.
“I don’t want to be your rebound girl.” She says, when he orders another round. She knows that there’s where this is going and, well, she’d rather not miss The Daily Show.
His head snaps round. “OK.” He says.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
It sort of slips out, and her eyes widen to watch his reaction.
Relax: it’s laughter. “It means I understand.” He says, slowly.
“I know what OK means.”
His grin turns sly, “So why did you ask?”
“Nobody likes a smartass. Trust me on this one.”
His hands slides warm around her wrist, and she’s pretty sure she’s supposed to find this seductive or sexy or something, “I trust you.”
You have got to be kidding.
They end up back at hers. “Nice digs,” he says, and she detects a hint of sarcasm in his voice, muffled by her neck.
“You wait ‘til you see the bedroom.”
See? She can flirt too.
He seems more surprised than seduced, mind. “I get to see the bedroom?”
“No,” she deapans. “I brought you back here for a Game of Thrones marathon.”
“For the record,” he says, afterwards, “I’m totally down with a Game of Thrones marathon sometime.”
end.