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RPF: Katee/Trucco, This Ain't a Scene....
*watches half--or more--of the flist stare in horror*
Disclaimer: Not only do these people not belong to me, they are, in fact, real people. For those of you who have paid attention over the years, I'm generally not fond of this kind of fic. I have, however, written it before.
Length: 1,200+
People: Michael Trucco, Katee Sackhoff. Pairing: same.
Rating: PG13/R, mostly for the language and sexual references in it.
Notes: There are two radio interviews that caused this. The first was the GoFy one with Trucco and Aaron Douglas, the second was one I haven't actually listened to, but have had people describe to me. It had Katee in it. You can allblame thank ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
pirateygoodness for causing this fic.
Further note: please feel free to disown me.
This Ain't a Scene...
by ALC Punk!
Michael's not really awake when he grabs the phone.
"You idiot!" The words tumble down the line, irritated and fast, and followed by a stream of invective he can't even follow.
He can identify the voice, though, "Katee?"
"'Within the last 48 hours'?" Her voice stops, and then comes back. Cell-phone interference, "Are you insane?"
Oh. Blearily, he stares at the clock while realizing why she's calling. "Hey, Ms. Blow-job technique, you are so not one to talk."
"Fuck that, I didn't say I'd given--"
"Do you know what the hell time it is?" God. Way too early, and he's still on west coast time. And on the west coast, in fact, but she wouldn't give a shit about that. He recalls getting a call from fuckin' Russia, at one point.
"Of course I know what time it is, dumbass." She's calmer, now.
Michael rubs a hand over his eyes, "Where the fuck are you?"
"Where do you think I am?"
"Coffee." Which he really really needs if he's going to be dealing with her.
"Duh."
She hangs up before he can, and he's pretty sure she's still pissed enough to want to slam the phone down. But she's on a cell, so Michael does it for her, and then glares at the receiver when it makes too loud a noise. Shit. Why the fuck does he keep doing this?
But the empty bed is part of the answer, and he stands, trips over the jeans he wore the night before and grumbles before pulling them on.
Twenty minutes later, he practically crawls through the door of the local Starbucks--thank god for twenty-four hour coffee joints. It's not hard to find her, she's practically the only one in the place and he drops into the seat across from her. "Why do we keep doing this?"
"You like coffee."
That is so not an answer.
But, fine, whatever. They stop bickering and start rambling at each other. Catching up on the latest gossip--Katee waxes amused about Jamie's kids and then about how frakkin' cold Vancouver is all the damn time. Michael doesn't mention that her use of 'frak' amuses the hell out of him. At a cast party with half the working actors in Vancouver, he remembers Claudia Black laughingly telling him that 'frell' had entered her own vocabulary after four years of saying it at work.
Michael talks about the cons he's thinking of doing, and Katee gives him a long list of warnings, then tells him that none of them apply to him because boys don't get stalkers.
After he points out he's not a boy, she giggles madly at him. When he gives her a mock-wounded look, she gets up for another mug of coffee--and then puts far too much fake sugar into it. Protectively patting his own mug, Michael mumbles about coffee abuse.
This is comfortable, he realizes.
About the time when he would normally have gotten up, they're both still talking, but it's quieter. Katee's stopped giggling (mostly), even her massive caffeine intake finally no use against the amount of time she's been up. They're less giggly, but they're completely silly. And ridiculous. The place is starting to fill up around them, as the early-morning crowd shows up for their first caffeine of the day.
Michael realizes it's time to put them both to bed, when Katee starts illustrating her last three auditions by breaking out into songs from the Muppet Movie. Since she can't sing worth a damn, they're starting to get looks.
"C'mon," he catches her hand and stands, tugging her up after him.
She trips over the chair between them, and he catches her, holding her easily off the floor. "My hero," she says, patting his arm and then ruining the effect by letting out a huge yawn.
"Something like that."
Once out in the sunlight, Katee curses and blames him for not warning her the sun was up. When he laughs and points out that she should have known, she shoves him into a mailbox. So he shoves her back, and they spend an entire block having a shoving and elbowing match that ends in her groping his ass and him pressing her up against a wall, pinning her hands so she can't annoy him.
"You're too fucking tall," she whines.
"I thought you liked me tall?"
"'S a lie," she informs him.
Rolling his eyes, he steps back, and starts on his way down the street, tugging her with him. "You obviously need sleep."
"'Course I do."
They're nearly at his place, when he suddenly stops, realization hitting him, "You don't have a hotel room."
"Didn't say I did," an elaborate yawn swallows whatever else she was going to say, and he groans.
"I'm not a fucking motel," he points out as he continues on.
"No, of course not."
But she's still giggling when they get inside his apartment. "You get the couch," is all he says as he goes through to the bedroom and rummages in the drawer for a shirt she can wear.
Coming back out, she's already got her own shirt off and is working on her pants. And he kind of can't help but look. He's not really supposed to, but it's not anything he hasn't seen before. 'Course, he's not Sam right now, so he's also feeling vaguely guilty. But it's not his fault-- "You are such an exhibitionist."
"Oh, like you're NOT."
He throws the shirt at her, "Hey, do you see me stripping?"
"Sadly, no." She tosses her bra at the pile and grabs his shirt. It swallows her from neck to thigh, and her pants join the pile once she's kicked her boots off. "Do I get a blanket?"
He has blankets for just such an occasion. His mother gave them to him, saying he should have more than what was on his bed. Though he doubts his mother would have expected him to be using them for Katee. They're a little dusty, so he shakes one out before draping it over the couch. "You can use the other as a pillow," he suggests.
"Oh, lovely. Really."
Ignoring her sleepy sarcasm, he heads back into the bedroom. He's damned lucky there's nothing he has to do today. He can just crawl back in bed, sleep a few hours, then kick her out.
With a yawn of his own, he kicks off his shoes, drops his jeans, and falls onto his bed. The spot he was occupying is cold, and he grumbles epithets.
"I can hear you!" She shouts from the living room.
"Good!"
With his eyes closed, he starts to drift. Sunlight and images from their conversation drift across his mind. They shift to other things, and he's nearly asleep when she pokes him.
"I'm cold."
She doesn't wait for him to reply, just moves around and climbs into the bed behind him, curling up against his back with a tired sigh.
Reaching back, he pats some portion of her through the blanket she's wrapped in. He's too sleepy to object. And besides, the bed is big enough for the both of them. He's also under the covers and she's on top of them. Perfectly fine. Really.
He doesn't tell her he was cold, too.
-f-
Disclaimer: Not only do these people not belong to me, they are, in fact, real people. For those of you who have paid attention over the years, I'm generally not fond of this kind of fic. I have, however, written it before.
Length: 1,200+
People: Michael Trucco, Katee Sackhoff. Pairing: same.
Rating: PG13/R, mostly for the language and sexual references in it.
Notes: There are two radio interviews that caused this. The first was the GoFy one with Trucco and Aaron Douglas, the second was one I haven't actually listened to, but have had people describe to me. It had Katee in it. You can all
pirateygoodness for causing this fic. Further note: please feel free to disown me.
This Ain't a Scene...
by ALC Punk!
Michael's not really awake when he grabs the phone.
"You idiot!" The words tumble down the line, irritated and fast, and followed by a stream of invective he can't even follow.
He can identify the voice, though, "Katee?"
"'Within the last 48 hours'?" Her voice stops, and then comes back. Cell-phone interference, "Are you insane?"
Oh. Blearily, he stares at the clock while realizing why she's calling. "Hey, Ms. Blow-job technique, you are so not one to talk."
"Fuck that, I didn't say I'd given--"
"Do you know what the hell time it is?" God. Way too early, and he's still on west coast time. And on the west coast, in fact, but she wouldn't give a shit about that. He recalls getting a call from fuckin' Russia, at one point.
"Of course I know what time it is, dumbass." She's calmer, now.
Michael rubs a hand over his eyes, "Where the fuck are you?"
"Where do you think I am?"
"Coffee." Which he really really needs if he's going to be dealing with her.
"Duh."
She hangs up before he can, and he's pretty sure she's still pissed enough to want to slam the phone down. But she's on a cell, so Michael does it for her, and then glares at the receiver when it makes too loud a noise. Shit. Why the fuck does he keep doing this?
But the empty bed is part of the answer, and he stands, trips over the jeans he wore the night before and grumbles before pulling them on.
Twenty minutes later, he practically crawls through the door of the local Starbucks--thank god for twenty-four hour coffee joints. It's not hard to find her, she's practically the only one in the place and he drops into the seat across from her. "Why do we keep doing this?"
"You like coffee."
That is so not an answer.
But, fine, whatever. They stop bickering and start rambling at each other. Catching up on the latest gossip--Katee waxes amused about Jamie's kids and then about how frakkin' cold Vancouver is all the damn time. Michael doesn't mention that her use of 'frak' amuses the hell out of him. At a cast party with half the working actors in Vancouver, he remembers Claudia Black laughingly telling him that 'frell' had entered her own vocabulary after four years of saying it at work.
Michael talks about the cons he's thinking of doing, and Katee gives him a long list of warnings, then tells him that none of them apply to him because boys don't get stalkers.
After he points out he's not a boy, she giggles madly at him. When he gives her a mock-wounded look, she gets up for another mug of coffee--and then puts far too much fake sugar into it. Protectively patting his own mug, Michael mumbles about coffee abuse.
This is comfortable, he realizes.
About the time when he would normally have gotten up, they're both still talking, but it's quieter. Katee's stopped giggling (mostly), even her massive caffeine intake finally no use against the amount of time she's been up. They're less giggly, but they're completely silly. And ridiculous. The place is starting to fill up around them, as the early-morning crowd shows up for their first caffeine of the day.
Michael realizes it's time to put them both to bed, when Katee starts illustrating her last three auditions by breaking out into songs from the Muppet Movie. Since she can't sing worth a damn, they're starting to get looks.
"C'mon," he catches her hand and stands, tugging her up after him.
She trips over the chair between them, and he catches her, holding her easily off the floor. "My hero," she says, patting his arm and then ruining the effect by letting out a huge yawn.
"Something like that."
Once out in the sunlight, Katee curses and blames him for not warning her the sun was up. When he laughs and points out that she should have known, she shoves him into a mailbox. So he shoves her back, and they spend an entire block having a shoving and elbowing match that ends in her groping his ass and him pressing her up against a wall, pinning her hands so she can't annoy him.
"You're too fucking tall," she whines.
"I thought you liked me tall?"
"'S a lie," she informs him.
Rolling his eyes, he steps back, and starts on his way down the street, tugging her with him. "You obviously need sleep."
"'Course I do."
They're nearly at his place, when he suddenly stops, realization hitting him, "You don't have a hotel room."
"Didn't say I did," an elaborate yawn swallows whatever else she was going to say, and he groans.
"I'm not a fucking motel," he points out as he continues on.
"No, of course not."
But she's still giggling when they get inside his apartment. "You get the couch," is all he says as he goes through to the bedroom and rummages in the drawer for a shirt she can wear.
Coming back out, she's already got her own shirt off and is working on her pants. And he kind of can't help but look. He's not really supposed to, but it's not anything he hasn't seen before. 'Course, he's not Sam right now, so he's also feeling vaguely guilty. But it's not his fault-- "You are such an exhibitionist."
"Oh, like you're NOT."
He throws the shirt at her, "Hey, do you see me stripping?"
"Sadly, no." She tosses her bra at the pile and grabs his shirt. It swallows her from neck to thigh, and her pants join the pile once she's kicked her boots off. "Do I get a blanket?"
He has blankets for just such an occasion. His mother gave them to him, saying he should have more than what was on his bed. Though he doubts his mother would have expected him to be using them for Katee. They're a little dusty, so he shakes one out before draping it over the couch. "You can use the other as a pillow," he suggests.
"Oh, lovely. Really."
Ignoring her sleepy sarcasm, he heads back into the bedroom. He's damned lucky there's nothing he has to do today. He can just crawl back in bed, sleep a few hours, then kick her out.
With a yawn of his own, he kicks off his shoes, drops his jeans, and falls onto his bed. The spot he was occupying is cold, and he grumbles epithets.
"I can hear you!" She shouts from the living room.
"Good!"
With his eyes closed, he starts to drift. Sunlight and images from their conversation drift across his mind. They shift to other things, and he's nearly asleep when she pokes him.
"I'm cold."
She doesn't wait for him to reply, just moves around and climbs into the bed behind him, curling up against his back with a tired sigh.
Reaching back, he pats some portion of her through the blanket she's wrapped in. He's too sleepy to object. And besides, the bed is big enough for the both of them. He's also under the covers and she's on top of them. Perfectly fine. Really.
He doesn't tell her he was cold, too.
-f-
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Who are you and where is the real lyssie?
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Besides, I once wrote Connie Booth and John Cleese dancing in Subreality.
I really can't cast any stones.
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HAH. I don't write blowjobs all that often, or well.
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Whee! You have been sucked in.
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Reaching back, he pats some portion of her through the blanket she's wrapped in. He's too sleepy to object.
That is like the greatest thing that I've ever read.
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I love the idea of the two of them just hanging out in a Starbucks goofing around.
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Thanks. =)
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Thank you =)
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I have no probs with RPF...and you just made my day, so I claim you from everyone who disowns you!
SHE GOT INTO BED WITH HIM!!!
*squish*
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SHE DID. Which, honestly, shouldn't be a surprise, given my writing proclivities.
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*g*
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RPF is made of fine lines, man, and you did really well with the giggly and dorky and sweet.
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Yes, well. I still have issues with bits. But the laughing/flirty stuff is fine.
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