Original -- The One Where Vincent Works Too Hard
Title: The One Where Vincent Works Too Hard
Rating: G
Word Count: 699
Warnings: …caffeine abuse?
Prompt: Messy Room (the Shel Silverstein poem) at pulped_fictions
Summary: Every CEO needs a guardian angel who works overtime.
Author's Note: My life is too much of a shambles to be fixed even by über-fluffy slash. There is no hope for me. Please pardon any errors; I'm down to about a quarter of a brain cell, and it has a headache.
THE ONE WHERE VINCENT WORKS TOO HARD
Vincent has been up for sixty hours straight-he thinks that’s right; he doesn’t trust his math anymore; he barely trusts his eyes. His office is Ground Zero of the cataclysmic disaster known as the End of the Fiscal Year, which has manifested in a variety of topographical features: the sea of papers languishing in the vicinity of the recycling bin; the forest of exhausted ink pens on the carpet; the small but very telling mountain of fine French truffle wrappers; and the equally indicative field of coffee mugs, which have massed (and possibly multiplied) all over the floor as well as on the desktop. The nearer specimens bear a faintly acrid scent and traces of gritty powder in their depths-tragic hallmarks of a being on the brink, driven to instant “coffee” when the imminent deadline ruled out bean-grinding even as the need for caffeine increased.
But it’s over at last, at long last. Everything imaginable has been double-checked and approved; the kind of minutiae that would disgust a figurehead CEO bear not just his signature but the impression of his coffee-laced breath and his burning eyes, which have borne down on and scrutinized each fact and figure that his employees produced. He will stand by every iota of it as soon as he can once again muster the strength to stand.
For the moment, he puts his head down on the desk blotter next to his keyboard and passes out pretty much instantly.
“Come on,” someone very familiar is saying, tugging at his arm. “You’re going to drown in your own drool if you go to sleep like that.”
“I do not drool,” Vincent says before he’s even opened his eyes.
A very blurry Maion appears to be trying not to laugh. “I shall present the jury with evidence to the contrary at a later date. Come on, sleepyhead.”
“I can’t,” Vincent says. “My blood is ninety percent caffeine, and the cartilage in my knees has dissolved.” He presses the heel of his hand to his throbbing temple, which is the curative equivalent of spitting on a fire to put it out. “Has Thompson-”
“He says everything is positively pulchritudinous,” Maion says, pushing Vincent’s chair back and sliding an arm under his before he can writhe-flop-wriggle away. “So now you’re going to trust in your own obsessive thoroughness and get some sleep.”
Vincent watches the carpet changing beneath him for a full four seconds before realizing that he has actually been slung over the angel’s shoulder. He finds the energy for a little bit of flailing, mostly as a matter of principle.
“If Edward sees me subjected to this indignity, I’m going to… do… something nefarious. You watch.”
“I can’t believe you still have access to so much of your vocabulary,” Maion says, distressingly unimpressed. “Here we are,” he adds, substantiating Vincent’s suspicions about this particular bit of carpet belonging to the hall outside his room.
Maion has sat him down on the edge of his bed and is unbuttoning his shirt before he can process anything other than the thought that the orientation of the world has flipped again, and he doesn’t fancy vomiting up several gallons of coffee and a substantial quantity of stomach lining.
“Don’t touch me,” he says, willing his hands to peel themselves from the bedspread and push Maion away.
“Silly,” Maion says. Then he threads Vincent’s leaden arms through the sleeves of a soft T-shirt, pulls it down over his head, deprives him of his slacks, tucks him into the bed, and kisses his forehead as if none of this is incredibly bizarre.
“I feel violated,” Vincent says vaguely; and then, as Maion rolls his eyes and starts for the door, “Where are you going?”
“To clean up your mess, of course,” Maion says. “Do you realize you’ve dirtied every coffee mug in the entire house?”
“Have I?” Vincent says. “Smashing. Do you realize that you could not be acting more like my wife right now if you tried?”
Maion opens his mouth, shuts it, flushes hotly, and slams the door.
Regrettably, Vincent only manages half of a good cackle before he passes out again.
Rating: G
Word Count: 699
Warnings: …caffeine abuse?
Prompt: Messy Room (the Shel Silverstein poem) at pulped_fictions
Summary: Every CEO needs a guardian angel who works overtime.
Author's Note: My life is too much of a shambles to be fixed even by über-fluffy slash. There is no hope for me. Please pardon any errors; I'm down to about a quarter of a brain cell, and it has a headache.
THE ONE WHERE VINCENT WORKS TOO HARD
Vincent has been up for sixty hours straight-he thinks that’s right; he doesn’t trust his math anymore; he barely trusts his eyes. His office is Ground Zero of the cataclysmic disaster known as the End of the Fiscal Year, which has manifested in a variety of topographical features: the sea of papers languishing in the vicinity of the recycling bin; the forest of exhausted ink pens on the carpet; the small but very telling mountain of fine French truffle wrappers; and the equally indicative field of coffee mugs, which have massed (and possibly multiplied) all over the floor as well as on the desktop. The nearer specimens bear a faintly acrid scent and traces of gritty powder in their depths-tragic hallmarks of a being on the brink, driven to instant “coffee” when the imminent deadline ruled out bean-grinding even as the need for caffeine increased.
But it’s over at last, at long last. Everything imaginable has been double-checked and approved; the kind of minutiae that would disgust a figurehead CEO bear not just his signature but the impression of his coffee-laced breath and his burning eyes, which have borne down on and scrutinized each fact and figure that his employees produced. He will stand by every iota of it as soon as he can once again muster the strength to stand.
For the moment, he puts his head down on the desk blotter next to his keyboard and passes out pretty much instantly.
“Come on,” someone very familiar is saying, tugging at his arm. “You’re going to drown in your own drool if you go to sleep like that.”
“I do not drool,” Vincent says before he’s even opened his eyes.
A very blurry Maion appears to be trying not to laugh. “I shall present the jury with evidence to the contrary at a later date. Come on, sleepyhead.”
“I can’t,” Vincent says. “My blood is ninety percent caffeine, and the cartilage in my knees has dissolved.” He presses the heel of his hand to his throbbing temple, which is the curative equivalent of spitting on a fire to put it out. “Has Thompson-”
“He says everything is positively pulchritudinous,” Maion says, pushing Vincent’s chair back and sliding an arm under his before he can writhe-flop-wriggle away. “So now you’re going to trust in your own obsessive thoroughness and get some sleep.”
Vincent watches the carpet changing beneath him for a full four seconds before realizing that he has actually been slung over the angel’s shoulder. He finds the energy for a little bit of flailing, mostly as a matter of principle.
“If Edward sees me subjected to this indignity, I’m going to… do… something nefarious. You watch.”
“I can’t believe you still have access to so much of your vocabulary,” Maion says, distressingly unimpressed. “Here we are,” he adds, substantiating Vincent’s suspicions about this particular bit of carpet belonging to the hall outside his room.
Maion has sat him down on the edge of his bed and is unbuttoning his shirt before he can process anything other than the thought that the orientation of the world has flipped again, and he doesn’t fancy vomiting up several gallons of coffee and a substantial quantity of stomach lining.
“Don’t touch me,” he says, willing his hands to peel themselves from the bedspread and push Maion away.
“Silly,” Maion says. Then he threads Vincent’s leaden arms through the sleeves of a soft T-shirt, pulls it down over his head, deprives him of his slacks, tucks him into the bed, and kisses his forehead as if none of this is incredibly bizarre.
“I feel violated,” Vincent says vaguely; and then, as Maion rolls his eyes and starts for the door, “Where are you going?”
“To clean up your mess, of course,” Maion says. “Do you realize you’ve dirtied every coffee mug in the entire house?”
“Have I?” Vincent says. “Smashing. Do you realize that you could not be acting more like my wife right now if you tried?”
Maion opens his mouth, shuts it, flushes hotly, and slams the door.
Regrettably, Vincent only manages half of a good cackle before he passes out again.