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Whoa. A casual glance at my journal revealed to me that I have not posted in almost a week. WTF? Let's see, what's happened?
Um. I discovered the other day looking at my paystub that I got a quarter raise.
I saw Goblet of Fire, first on Friday then again yesterday with Mom and my sister, Chelsea. It served mostly to remind me that Voldemort is by far the stupidest villain I've seen in a good long while, and he would be more at home in some sci-fi B movie than a quality book series like HP. Oh, well. Yeah, it also reminded me, like many on my friendslist, that I am a secret pervert and I need Emma Watson to turn eighteen soon please. Also, I hate Patrick Doyle a very lot because he has written some of the worst movie scores it has ever been my displeasure to be subjected to, because he is heavyhanded and loud and won't back off for two seconds to let the audience decide for themselves how they feel about something, but I didn't need to be reminded of that.
. . . yeah, that's about it. So, to pad things out a bit, have an unfinished quasi-A-Rod/Bronson fic that I started in like February, never finished, and never will finish. Takes place last offseason and was begun before I learned that Bronson lives in Florida, so oops.
Disclaimer: It's as fake as it is outdated! =D
Bronson Arroyo likes this particular bar. It's quiet and out of the way, and there's an unspoken agreement among the regulars that he gets left the hell alone unless he feels like socializing. This agreement is explained to any new folk who happen to spot him, and so far he's always had all the privacy he could want here.
So when he hears a ripple of conversation shortly after he comes in and sits at the bar, before he's even had time to order a drink, he knows it's not about him. Besides which, the bartender's staring past him, looking a little gobsmacked, so Bronson can't resist glancing back curiously over his shoulder.
Immediately he can feel an identical expression settle on his own face, and why not, because that's definitely Alex Rodriguez walking toward him.
The bar falls silent as Rodriguez chooses the stool next to Bronson, and takes his time about unwinding a scarf from his neck and removing his jacket and gloves.
"Fucking cold in this city," he tells Bronson, which is one of the more useless conversation openers Bronson's ever heard. He can feel the hostility thickening in the bar, and he's thinking that Rodriguez might have been better off staying in Florida.
He can also feel the regulars watching him, waiting for their cue, letting him know that whether or not Rodriguez leaves the bar in one piece is entirely up to Bronson.
"Hi," he says carefully.
Rodriguez gives him what is probably meant to be a dazzling smile. Which it kind of is. "Hey." His tone is slightly too bright, indicating that while he is stupid enough to confront Bronson on his own territory, he's not too stupid to realize how stupid he is.
Unless, of course, that's just the impression he's trying to give, but Bronson sticks with the original conclusion. Keep things simple as possible so everyone gets out alive.
The bartender, who has apparently decided to pretend (badly) that nothing is off-kilter, puts Bronson's usual Sam Adams in front of him and looks questioningly at Rodriguez.
"I'll have one of those," Rodriguez says, gesturing at Bronson's drink, "and go ahead and put him on my tab for the night."
Bronson blinks, bottle halfway to his mouth. Oh. "Uh, thanks, but that's okay."
"No." Rodriguez touches his wrist lightly. "I insist."
. . . right. The bar is still quiet and still hostile, but the quality of the silence shifts a little, and Bronson knows that this is the moment. He says yes, everyone relaxes and goes back to what they were doing. He says no, he might wanna follow it with a suggestion that Rodriguez head for the door.
The touch makes him want to say no, but if he wants to keep the peace, he's kind of stuck.
"All right. Okay. Thanks."
He can almost hear the air rush back into the room. Conversations pick back up, games of pool resume, the atmosphere thins out to almost normal.
Rodriguez, apparently oblivious to all this, smiles another one of those smiles. "Great."
They sit quietly for a while, drinking their beers. To the uneducated eye, they would look companionable. Just a couple of guys.
Bronson waits as the silence stretches out, and out, until it's clear that Rodriguez wants him to be the one to break it.
Shit. Whatever this game is, he doesn't want to play it. Maybe he'll just finish his drink and leave.
Except that he can't let Rodriguez chase him out of his bar. So, fine. Fuck it.
"So how'd you end up in here?"
Rodriguez shrugs. "Just picked a place. Came in, recognized your hair." He half-smirks, half-smiles at Bronson's cornrows. "Figured I might as well say hi."
"Yeah?"
Rodriguez shakes his head. "Actually, I followed you." Again with the too-bright tone, and none of the sarcasm Bronson would've liked to hear with a comment like that. He now has a vivid image of Rodriguez tracking him for who knows how long, and it gives him the creeps.
"I liked the first answer better."
Another shrug. "Suit yourself." Rodriguez drains his bottle, waves the bartender over for a second one. "You?"
Bronson's almost to the bottom of his, but he shakes his head no anyway. He has a feeling he's gonna want to keep his head tonight.
"Okay," Rodriguez says, making it sound like your loss.
Aw, I kind of miss writing the Princess. I should do something about that. And also about that drabble request thing I never finished. Which I am totally going to do, I swear.
Um. I discovered the other day looking at my paystub that I got a quarter raise.
I saw Goblet of Fire, first on Friday then again yesterday with Mom and my sister, Chelsea. It served mostly to remind me that Voldemort is by far the stupidest villain I've seen in a good long while, and he would be more at home in some sci-fi B movie than a quality book series like HP. Oh, well. Yeah, it also reminded me, like many on my friendslist, that I am a secret pervert and I need Emma Watson to turn eighteen soon please. Also, I hate Patrick Doyle a very lot because he has written some of the worst movie scores it has ever been my displeasure to be subjected to, because he is heavyhanded and loud and won't back off for two seconds to let the audience decide for themselves how they feel about something, but I didn't need to be reminded of that.
. . . yeah, that's about it. So, to pad things out a bit, have an unfinished quasi-A-Rod/Bronson fic that I started in like February, never finished, and never will finish. Takes place last offseason and was begun before I learned that Bronson lives in Florida, so oops.
Disclaimer: It's as fake as it is outdated! =D
Bronson Arroyo likes this particular bar. It's quiet and out of the way, and there's an unspoken agreement among the regulars that he gets left the hell alone unless he feels like socializing. This agreement is explained to any new folk who happen to spot him, and so far he's always had all the privacy he could want here.
So when he hears a ripple of conversation shortly after he comes in and sits at the bar, before he's even had time to order a drink, he knows it's not about him. Besides which, the bartender's staring past him, looking a little gobsmacked, so Bronson can't resist glancing back curiously over his shoulder.
Immediately he can feel an identical expression settle on his own face, and why not, because that's definitely Alex Rodriguez walking toward him.
The bar falls silent as Rodriguez chooses the stool next to Bronson, and takes his time about unwinding a scarf from his neck and removing his jacket and gloves.
"Fucking cold in this city," he tells Bronson, which is one of the more useless conversation openers Bronson's ever heard. He can feel the hostility thickening in the bar, and he's thinking that Rodriguez might have been better off staying in Florida.
He can also feel the regulars watching him, waiting for their cue, letting him know that whether or not Rodriguez leaves the bar in one piece is entirely up to Bronson.
"Hi," he says carefully.
Rodriguez gives him what is probably meant to be a dazzling smile. Which it kind of is. "Hey." His tone is slightly too bright, indicating that while he is stupid enough to confront Bronson on his own territory, he's not too stupid to realize how stupid he is.
Unless, of course, that's just the impression he's trying to give, but Bronson sticks with the original conclusion. Keep things simple as possible so everyone gets out alive.
The bartender, who has apparently decided to pretend (badly) that nothing is off-kilter, puts Bronson's usual Sam Adams in front of him and looks questioningly at Rodriguez.
"I'll have one of those," Rodriguez says, gesturing at Bronson's drink, "and go ahead and put him on my tab for the night."
Bronson blinks, bottle halfway to his mouth. Oh. "Uh, thanks, but that's okay."
"No." Rodriguez touches his wrist lightly. "I insist."
. . . right. The bar is still quiet and still hostile, but the quality of the silence shifts a little, and Bronson knows that this is the moment. He says yes, everyone relaxes and goes back to what they were doing. He says no, he might wanna follow it with a suggestion that Rodriguez head for the door.
The touch makes him want to say no, but if he wants to keep the peace, he's kind of stuck.
"All right. Okay. Thanks."
He can almost hear the air rush back into the room. Conversations pick back up, games of pool resume, the atmosphere thins out to almost normal.
Rodriguez, apparently oblivious to all this, smiles another one of those smiles. "Great."
They sit quietly for a while, drinking their beers. To the uneducated eye, they would look companionable. Just a couple of guys.
Bronson waits as the silence stretches out, and out, until it's clear that Rodriguez wants him to be the one to break it.
Shit. Whatever this game is, he doesn't want to play it. Maybe he'll just finish his drink and leave.
Except that he can't let Rodriguez chase him out of his bar. So, fine. Fuck it.
"So how'd you end up in here?"
Rodriguez shrugs. "Just picked a place. Came in, recognized your hair." He half-smirks, half-smiles at Bronson's cornrows. "Figured I might as well say hi."
"Yeah?"
Rodriguez shakes his head. "Actually, I followed you." Again with the too-bright tone, and none of the sarcasm Bronson would've liked to hear with a comment like that. He now has a vivid image of Rodriguez tracking him for who knows how long, and it gives him the creeps.
"I liked the first answer better."
Another shrug. "Suit yourself." Rodriguez drains his bottle, waves the bartender over for a second one. "You?"
Bronson's almost to the bottom of his, but he shakes his head no anyway. He has a feeling he's gonna want to keep his head tonight.
"Okay," Rodriguez says, making it sound like your loss.
Aw, I kind of miss writing the Princess. I should do something about that. And also about that drabble request thing I never finished. Which I am totally going to do, I swear.
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From:
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Addendum: *secret* pervert?!
From:
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o.O
Wow, so a million years later, can I feedback this to bitch about the part where you say you're never gonna finish it? **cries emo tears**
I second what the above commenter said, btw. **laughs** The way you write A-Rod really has kinda colored the way I think of him. So what are the chances of us ever getting an A-Rod/Farns out of you? :-P