"You said you were meant to die..."
Another day spent working, another day avoiding durians and almost getting maimed by bloody cucumbers (don't look at me like that, they're fucking dangerous, 'kay?) and now for another drabble.
For echoelf, John/Jesse. "Underslept". PG-13. 553 words:
"You know, I never thought that 'the graveyard shift' could be such a literal a phrase," John says, falling back gingerly into the cheap hit-too-hard-and-I'll-shatter-into-a-million-pieces-that-will-splinter-into-your-ass kitchen chair and runs a hand down his face. He was fucking tired as hell and he wondered whether or not the money was really worth it.
Accident on the Freeway.
6 car pile up.
14 injured, 5 dead.
Jesse raises a brow and looks John over rather disdainfully. "Yeah, really--" He starts before promptly stopping and squints in John's direction, hand shooting out and waving at his face madly.
"What?"
"I really hope that's a dirt smear on your face."
"Huh? Oh, yeah, Mrs. Murphy," John replies, tone wistful, as if saying their old Sunday School teacher's name explained everything, which, actually, did.
"Oh, fuck, that's disgusting John."
Jesse's expression is priceless and John manages to wrench his eyelids open just to see the look, reasoning that his eyelashes can't be tired.
"You think so? 'Cause I definitely sneezed and inhaled, I think I might be allergic to dead people, or at least when their ashed. You think I could just take a Zyrtec for it?"
Cringing was approximately what Jesse did, but John isn't too sure because gagging featured pretty heavily as well and oh God, John thinks. He's making Mortician jokes already, which is too much because he wasn't that high up the ladder yet. He was still mucking up cheap paying funeral remains and making iced coffee (the people liked everything cold there) for the grave diggers who've worked their longer.
"You're not touching me ever again. You hear me? You so much as breathe in my direction and you'll be picking up your own, your own, argh!"
"What? You know, the boss offered to suck me off tonight, this morning… so long as I sat in the cool room with the iced bodies for an hour."
"He. You. Ice-- what!?"
"Bodies. You know, so they keep stiff. It's a lot easier to do their make-up when they're hard. Boss said that too."
There were too many innuendos and Jesse blinked, hard, wondering if his best friend/would be boyfriend (if John ever grew the balls to actually ask him. His kissing skills were ace, but clearly John didn't appreciate them enough. Unless Adam was… No. No. He was not going to think about that right now. Not when John was telling him about mortician sex habits. God, morticians had sex! John was going to become a mortician, Jesse was who he sexed. He firmly reminded himself there was a reason he broke their fridge last week) had finally lost it or if he was honestly that thick. Watching John's brow crease deeply, Jesse figures it was most likely the latter and oh God.
He chalked it up to the bad ventilation in their apartment.
"You. Go. Shower. Now!"
John wonders if Jesse will start talking in full sentences sometime soon, his brain was really too tired to comprehend much. Maybe it was thoughtfulness, short words were much easier to understand after all. Glancing back at Jesse, who's face had started to turn an alarming purple shade and puffed out, John's suddenly hit with how much Jesse resembles his pillow right now. Wow.
He really needed some sleep.
Graveyard shifts, sucked. Quite literally even.
I should probably warn you it's on the stranger and a little more... odd (morbid?) side of things. Probably shouldn't read it if you're offended by Mortician jokes involving necrophiliac innuendos. What?
For echoelf, John/Jesse. "Underslept". PG-13. 553 words:
"You know, I never thought that 'the graveyard shift' could be such a literal a phrase," John says, falling back gingerly into the cheap hit-too-hard-and-I'll-shatter-into-a-million-pieces-that-will-splinter-into-your-ass kitchen chair and runs a hand down his face. He was fucking tired as hell and he wondered whether or not the money was really worth it.
Accident on the Freeway.
6 car pile up.
14 injured, 5 dead.
Jesse raises a brow and looks John over rather disdainfully. "Yeah, really--" He starts before promptly stopping and squints in John's direction, hand shooting out and waving at his face madly.
"What?"
"I really hope that's a dirt smear on your face."
"Huh? Oh, yeah, Mrs. Murphy," John replies, tone wistful, as if saying their old Sunday School teacher's name explained everything, which, actually, did.
"Oh, fuck, that's disgusting John."
Jesse's expression is priceless and John manages to wrench his eyelids open just to see the look, reasoning that his eyelashes can't be tired.
"You think so? 'Cause I definitely sneezed and inhaled, I think I might be allergic to dead people, or at least when their ashed. You think I could just take a Zyrtec for it?"
Cringing was approximately what Jesse did, but John isn't too sure because gagging featured pretty heavily as well and oh God, John thinks. He's making Mortician jokes already, which is too much because he wasn't that high up the ladder yet. He was still mucking up cheap paying funeral remains and making iced coffee (the people liked everything cold there) for the grave diggers who've worked their longer.
"You're not touching me ever again. You hear me? You so much as breathe in my direction and you'll be picking up your own, your own, argh!"
"What? You know, the boss offered to suck me off tonight, this morning… so long as I sat in the cool room with the iced bodies for an hour."
"He. You. Ice-- what!?"
"Bodies. You know, so they keep stiff. It's a lot easier to do their make-up when they're hard. Boss said that too."
There were too many innuendos and Jesse blinked, hard, wondering if his best friend/would be boyfriend (if John ever grew the balls to actually ask him. His kissing skills were ace, but clearly John didn't appreciate them enough. Unless Adam was… No. No. He was not going to think about that right now. Not when John was telling him about mortician sex habits. God, morticians had sex! John was going to become a mortician, Jesse was who he sexed. He firmly reminded himself there was a reason he broke their fridge last week) had finally lost it or if he was honestly that thick. Watching John's brow crease deeply, Jesse figures it was most likely the latter and oh God.
He chalked it up to the bad ventilation in their apartment.
"You. Go. Shower. Now!"
John wonders if Jesse will start talking in full sentences sometime soon, his brain was really too tired to comprehend much. Maybe it was thoughtfulness, short words were much easier to understand after all. Glancing back at Jesse, who's face had started to turn an alarming purple shade and puffed out, John's suddenly hit with how much Jesse resembles his pillow right now. Wow.
He really needed some sleep.
Graveyard shifts, sucked. Quite literally even.
I should probably warn you it's on the stranger and a little more... odd (morbid?) side of things. Probably shouldn't read it if you're offended by Mortician jokes involving necrophiliac innuendos. What?