Post by Griff on May 26, 2013 2:40:13 GMT 10
Title: A Sink Full
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 580
Pairing: George/Roger
Round/Fight: 2B
WARNING: After-effects of alcohol
Summary: (Vampire AU pt.6) George deals with the consequence of last night's events.
-
The next morning, George was far more lucid and at least twice as miserable. Rispah had left and his mother had come home, and in between them, he’d gone from drunk to sober and gained himself a hangover to rival King Jasson’s march over the continent. Also, his toilet lacked the proper suction to haul away all of his bile, so the bathroom was ripe beyond belief as he choked out another nauseating mouthful of last night’s perfectly appropriate reaction to having his vampire - his, why was this his life? - showing up on his porch and creeping him out in new and varied ways.
Because just being the guy to rip out your throat wasn’t memorable enough.
Staggering into the rest of the house, he grabbed his phone from where he’d abandoned it on the small, paper-filled counter and leaned on the chipped formica while he scrolled through his messages.
Rispah called him 4 times before she banged down his door and 2 times after she left; Alanna sent him a series of random photos and messages except for the last three sent from 8 this morning when, apparently, Rispah tattled all over him; and Jonathan had called once.
Nothing he wanted to deal with, then.
His mother was out, thankfully, which meant he could recover with just a plate of microwaved leftovers, a tall glass of water, and himself. When he opened the fridge, the photo of Roger and Jonathan stared back and him and he sighed, pulling it out.
“I hate you,” He said to Roger’s smile. “I seriously can not express how much I hate you because Common doesn’t have the words.” George stared at the picture quietly, taking in Jon’s sheer affection and his little hands wrapped tightly around Roger’s cradling arms. He rolled his eyes, “I should burn you.”
Instead, he grabbed a magnet and stuck it to the fridge. “Keep your eyes to yourself, creep.” He warned, pulling out a tupperware container of cheesy potatoes.
He tossed it in the microwave, giving the machine a good smack when the door wouldn’t lock correctly, and then punched in two minutes. George wandered off to find himself a glass, making a face at the pile of dishes in the sink. They were out of cups. He eyed the sink and decided it wasn’t worth it. Food, first. Then he’d scrub a glass.
The microwave beep and he toss the hot plastic on the table with a hiss, fishing a metal fork out of the drawer. After a moment of thought, he decided to take the seat facing the fridge instead of away. Thumping into his seat, he glared at the photo and jabbed his fork into the food, lifting a mouthful of stringy cheese potatoes.
The edges were almost burnt and the inside was close to frozen, but George didn’t really care. Roger’s voice still echoed in his head, each circle highlighting new and gloriously frightening aspects.
“I don’t get it,” George admitted to the photo. “Why me? What’s the appeal? It seems like a lot of work for a meal.” He sighed, realizing the photo wasn’t going to answer and the last thing he wanted was Roger Conte showing up at sundown, all ready to explain the demented ways his baby-eating brain worked.
“I hope you choke on me,” George spat snidely. “I hope you eat me and I give you the worst case of indigestion you’ve ever had in your un-life. Bastard.”
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 580
Pairing: George/Roger
Round/Fight: 2B
WARNING: After-effects of alcohol
Summary: (Vampire AU pt.6) George deals with the consequence of last night's events.
-
The next morning, George was far more lucid and at least twice as miserable. Rispah had left and his mother had come home, and in between them, he’d gone from drunk to sober and gained himself a hangover to rival King Jasson’s march over the continent. Also, his toilet lacked the proper suction to haul away all of his bile, so the bathroom was ripe beyond belief as he choked out another nauseating mouthful of last night’s perfectly appropriate reaction to having his vampire - his, why was this his life? - showing up on his porch and creeping him out in new and varied ways.
Because just being the guy to rip out your throat wasn’t memorable enough.
Staggering into the rest of the house, he grabbed his phone from where he’d abandoned it on the small, paper-filled counter and leaned on the chipped formica while he scrolled through his messages.
Rispah called him 4 times before she banged down his door and 2 times after she left; Alanna sent him a series of random photos and messages except for the last three sent from 8 this morning when, apparently, Rispah tattled all over him; and Jonathan had called once.
Nothing he wanted to deal with, then.
His mother was out, thankfully, which meant he could recover with just a plate of microwaved leftovers, a tall glass of water, and himself. When he opened the fridge, the photo of Roger and Jonathan stared back and him and he sighed, pulling it out.
“I hate you,” He said to Roger’s smile. “I seriously can not express how much I hate you because Common doesn’t have the words.” George stared at the picture quietly, taking in Jon’s sheer affection and his little hands wrapped tightly around Roger’s cradling arms. He rolled his eyes, “I should burn you.”
Instead, he grabbed a magnet and stuck it to the fridge. “Keep your eyes to yourself, creep.” He warned, pulling out a tupperware container of cheesy potatoes.
He tossed it in the microwave, giving the machine a good smack when the door wouldn’t lock correctly, and then punched in two minutes. George wandered off to find himself a glass, making a face at the pile of dishes in the sink. They were out of cups. He eyed the sink and decided it wasn’t worth it. Food, first. Then he’d scrub a glass.
The microwave beep and he toss the hot plastic on the table with a hiss, fishing a metal fork out of the drawer. After a moment of thought, he decided to take the seat facing the fridge instead of away. Thumping into his seat, he glared at the photo and jabbed his fork into the food, lifting a mouthful of stringy cheese potatoes.
The edges were almost burnt and the inside was close to frozen, but George didn’t really care. Roger’s voice still echoed in his head, each circle highlighting new and gloriously frightening aspects.
“I don’t get it,” George admitted to the photo. “Why me? What’s the appeal? It seems like a lot of work for a meal.” He sighed, realizing the photo wasn’t going to answer and the last thing he wanted was Roger Conte showing up at sundown, all ready to explain the demented ways his baby-eating brain worked.
“I hope you choke on me,” George spat snidely. “I hope you eat me and I give you the worst case of indigestion you’ve ever had in your un-life. Bastard.”