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asphaltcowgrrlTitle: Perils of Living with a Writer Peril 7: Geeky, Goofy, Gorgeous – 2014 A to Z challenge at 1_million_words
Pairing: Travis Murphy/Ethan McDowell, both original characters
Rating: H for holy moly there she goes again.
Word Count: 1,620
Author's Note: The boys' story starts here, if you are so inclined. Also, I geeked out a bit in this. I was awaiting the new Terry Brooks novel and well, it kind of shows. Sorry.
He moved the figures sitting at the base of his monitor until they were arranged by height. His muse was a chaotic bitch, but she worked best when things were compulsively, obsessively, orderly. This went against every fiber of Travis’ being, but he worked with her craziness in order to get her to speak to him. Under normal circumstances, it was a compromise that worked out for the best for all involved.
Something else LaWanda was demanding right now were facts. Solid, verifiable facts at that. Although the act of research bored him to tears, the finding of knowledge was something that made him incredibly happy. It was an odd sort of inconsistency that bothered him when he thought of it, so he tried his best to keep from doing just that.
The trouble was, once he started searching for the topic he needed for his novel – in this case, it was poisonous plants that might actually kill a human being if ingested – he had a hard time staying on task. Currently, his favorite fictional detective was investigating a corpse with an unusually high amount of something in his tox screen. This led him to look into various poisonous plants. That led to flowers which then led cactus. And cacti were a favorite subject of his.
When dangerous cacti led him to an article about a retired professional wrestler, he thought it was time to stop. He’d have better luck focusing if he were in the library. The internet was much too vast and full of distractions if his order for several t-shirts from Café Press was any indication. (Two of which sported images of cartoon cacti, the third was a present for Ethan.)
Shutting off his computer, Travis wandered out of his office and into the kitchen. He made a note for himself to visit the library – the words ‘herbal poisons’ scribbled on a pink Post-It went onto the refrigerator without a second thought to what havoc that note might cause when Ethan read it – especially after working all night. Rummaging through the fridge, he found some leftover spicy chicken fingers from the night before and pulled them out to snack on.
His phone rang and he smiled at the caller ID. “Hey baby, what’s shakin’ at the police station?”
“Not much,” Ethan responded. “Quiet night so far. How’s the writing going?”
“Uh, the writing’s not, but the research is going well. Did you know that there was a wrestler named Cactus Jack? He’s retired now but –”
“Trav? Honey? As interesting as all of this is, how does this relate to the book you’re working on? Is the corpse an ex-professional wrestler?”
“Nooooo,” he stalled. “He’s a florist. Or was.” He was almost a botanist, and then a horticulturist, but all of that would have taken more research than he was willing to do at the moment. Florist won out eventually because he’d known precisely enough about flowers in general to make that much believable.
There was silence on the line for a few heartbeats. “So how does this wrestler fit into the plot?”
“He doesn’t. But plants led to cactus and cactus to Cactus Jack.” And there you had it.
“The way your brain works gives me a headache, sweetheart.”
It was a familiar conversation between them and Travis didn’t take any offense. Ethan wasn’t the first person to point this out to him. The difference being, Ethan found it endearing and amusing instead of frustrating like almost everyone else. On occasion, he even liked to challenge Travis to make sense out of a handful of unrelated items.
“I don’t know why, it makes perfect sense when you think about it,” Travis teased.
“Only to you, Murph. Only to you.” He heard some papers shuffling on the other end of the line before Ethan spoke again. “But it’s what makes you uniquely you, and I’m okay with that. Learn anything else of interest today?”
And so the game began. They talked of cats and kites. How Travis preferred plain manila file folders over the fancy colored ones. He hated hanging files with a passion, too. Argued whether Landover was better than Shadowmarch and if having a half-wit sorcerer was better than none at all. Conversations like these were when it became clear just how much of a geeky nerd Travis could be. Not to mention how tenuous his grip on reality was.
“You know, Landover is just a stone’s throw from modern day Chicago,” he informed his partner. “And if you got tired of living in that magical land, you could pop on over and catch a game at Wrigley. Be back by dinnertime even.”
“Maybe,” Ethan half-agreed. “But Questor Thews is in Landover and let’s just face it, he’s a menace to society. Ask Abernathy.”
“I still hold that Abernathy pissed him off. Why else would a respected wizard like that turn someone into a dog?”
“Because he’s incompetent?” Ethan’s laughter could be heard through the phone lines.
“Oh, and Barrick was any better, was he,” Travis asked. “Let his sister, Briony, go running off and saving all of Shadowmarch? That whole family was fucked in the head. Doomed from day one.”
It got worse when their talks turned to mystery novels. Travis, being the creative soul he was, couldn’t be bothered with things like civil rights, the legal process and what Ethan liked to refer to as the way things are done. Instead, he was all about what made a good story, no matter how implausible. However, it made for some interesting – if aggravating – conversation during those long afternoons when neither had anything better to do with their time than debate the finer points of police work.
“Travis, you can’t do that to a suspect. It’s harassment,” Ethan would say. “Bordering on brutality.”
“But they’re guilty, E. So guilty you can smell it on them,” Travis would respond. “It’s justice at work.”
Here, Ethan would usually sigh. “Guilty or not, you, as the agent of the law, are burdened with providing proof of that guilt. Or at least, reasonable suspicion thereof. As a writer, you know he’s guilty because you made him be guilty. It doesn’t work like that in the real world. You need evidence.”
“Evidence my ass. This is fiction.” This apparently was Travis’ sticking point: fiction didn’t need to make sense.
They’d had this discussion several times during the creation of Travis’ last novel. He had a great premise, a good villain but no actual proof that the guy was guilty of what he was being accused of doing. After several go-rounds, Ethan had suggested a few things that clicked with LaWanda, Travis’ muse, and sent her running towards something resembling valid evidence. It had worked out in the end, but it had taken quite a journey to get there.
“You still there, baby?”
“Yeah,” Ethan said, pulling himself back into the present conversation and out of the past. “My attention sort of drifted when you started babbling about spaceships.”
“You have no imagination,” Travis joked, not meaning anything by the jab. “You know that they have an explanation for how everything works on Star Trek? Even though the technology doesn’t yet exist?”
Ethan couldn’t say that he cared. But he listened all the same while Travis explained how he’d read a book that detailed exactly how the transporter functioned within that futuristic world. After approximately thirty minutes of this, and having listened to not just how the transporter worked, but the phasers and the warp engine, he had had enough. Before Murphy could start detailing the difference between the Federation ships and those of the Klingon Empire, he interrupted. “It’s a good thing you’re so goddamn attractive,” he’d said.
“What? I know you approve of all that is me, but what on earth does that have to do with anything?”
“Because it makes listening to these rambling one-sided conversations so much easier.” Ethan chuckled and added, “It’s a shame I can’t stare at your lovely abs right now to distract myself and keep my brain from going numb.”
“I’m not sure how to respond to that,” Travis said after a long silence.
“Tell me you love me, Muprhy.” He smiled into the phone, wishing he was closer to home than he actually was.
“I love you, Murphy,” Travis deadpanned.
“You are an ass, but I adore you,” Ethan scolded.
“Even when I ramble?” He could almost envision the chiding look on his lover’s face at the words.
“Especially when you ramble.” He switched the phone to his other ear. “You’re cute when you can’t stop the babbling brook that is your mouth.”
“Well then, by the time you get home, I ought to be downright adorable.” After eight hours alone with himself and LaWanda, anyone would be a little bit crazed.
“I’ll be looking forward to it,” Ethan replied, knowing that listening to the prattle Travis was sure to issue the moment he walked through the door would only lead to gratuitous lovemaking. Followed in quick order by some food. And then, if they were lucky, more sex.
It was a win-win situation for everyone involved. You wouldn’t see Ethan complaining anytime soon. Or Travis, for that matter. They had an understanding that while Murphy was a bit goofy and thoroughly geeky, he was also utterly gorgeous. This agreement worked because they both also accepted that McDowell, while being a bit uptight and cranky, was just as good-looking and always ready for a roll in the hay. Oh, and he adored Travis’ parents, making him a keeper in the long run.
See? Total win-win situation. Even if there were huge amounts of blathering, arguing, and spritely banter. But who was counting?
H is here.
Pairing: Travis Murphy/Ethan McDowell, both original characters
Rating: H for holy moly there she goes again.
Word Count: 1,620
Author's Note: The boys' story starts here, if you are so inclined. Also, I geeked out a bit in this. I was awaiting the new Terry Brooks novel and well, it kind of shows. Sorry.
He moved the figures sitting at the base of his monitor until they were arranged by height. His muse was a chaotic bitch, but she worked best when things were compulsively, obsessively, orderly. This went against every fiber of Travis’ being, but he worked with her craziness in order to get her to speak to him. Under normal circumstances, it was a compromise that worked out for the best for all involved.
Something else LaWanda was demanding right now were facts. Solid, verifiable facts at that. Although the act of research bored him to tears, the finding of knowledge was something that made him incredibly happy. It was an odd sort of inconsistency that bothered him when he thought of it, so he tried his best to keep from doing just that.
The trouble was, once he started searching for the topic he needed for his novel – in this case, it was poisonous plants that might actually kill a human being if ingested – he had a hard time staying on task. Currently, his favorite fictional detective was investigating a corpse with an unusually high amount of something in his tox screen. This led him to look into various poisonous plants. That led to flowers which then led cactus. And cacti were a favorite subject of his.
When dangerous cacti led him to an article about a retired professional wrestler, he thought it was time to stop. He’d have better luck focusing if he were in the library. The internet was much too vast and full of distractions if his order for several t-shirts from Café Press was any indication. (Two of which sported images of cartoon cacti, the third was a present for Ethan.)
Shutting off his computer, Travis wandered out of his office and into the kitchen. He made a note for himself to visit the library – the words ‘herbal poisons’ scribbled on a pink Post-It went onto the refrigerator without a second thought to what havoc that note might cause when Ethan read it – especially after working all night. Rummaging through the fridge, he found some leftover spicy chicken fingers from the night before and pulled them out to snack on.
His phone rang and he smiled at the caller ID. “Hey baby, what’s shakin’ at the police station?”
“Not much,” Ethan responded. “Quiet night so far. How’s the writing going?”
“Uh, the writing’s not, but the research is going well. Did you know that there was a wrestler named Cactus Jack? He’s retired now but –”
“Trav? Honey? As interesting as all of this is, how does this relate to the book you’re working on? Is the corpse an ex-professional wrestler?”
“Nooooo,” he stalled. “He’s a florist. Or was.” He was almost a botanist, and then a horticulturist, but all of that would have taken more research than he was willing to do at the moment. Florist won out eventually because he’d known precisely enough about flowers in general to make that much believable.
There was silence on the line for a few heartbeats. “So how does this wrestler fit into the plot?”
“He doesn’t. But plants led to cactus and cactus to Cactus Jack.” And there you had it.
“The way your brain works gives me a headache, sweetheart.”
It was a familiar conversation between them and Travis didn’t take any offense. Ethan wasn’t the first person to point this out to him. The difference being, Ethan found it endearing and amusing instead of frustrating like almost everyone else. On occasion, he even liked to challenge Travis to make sense out of a handful of unrelated items.
“I don’t know why, it makes perfect sense when you think about it,” Travis teased.
“Only to you, Murph. Only to you.” He heard some papers shuffling on the other end of the line before Ethan spoke again. “But it’s what makes you uniquely you, and I’m okay with that. Learn anything else of interest today?”
And so the game began. They talked of cats and kites. How Travis preferred plain manila file folders over the fancy colored ones. He hated hanging files with a passion, too. Argued whether Landover was better than Shadowmarch and if having a half-wit sorcerer was better than none at all. Conversations like these were when it became clear just how much of a geeky nerd Travis could be. Not to mention how tenuous his grip on reality was.
“You know, Landover is just a stone’s throw from modern day Chicago,” he informed his partner. “And if you got tired of living in that magical land, you could pop on over and catch a game at Wrigley. Be back by dinnertime even.”
“Maybe,” Ethan half-agreed. “But Questor Thews is in Landover and let’s just face it, he’s a menace to society. Ask Abernathy.”
“I still hold that Abernathy pissed him off. Why else would a respected wizard like that turn someone into a dog?”
“Because he’s incompetent?” Ethan’s laughter could be heard through the phone lines.
“Oh, and Barrick was any better, was he,” Travis asked. “Let his sister, Briony, go running off and saving all of Shadowmarch? That whole family was fucked in the head. Doomed from day one.”
It got worse when their talks turned to mystery novels. Travis, being the creative soul he was, couldn’t be bothered with things like civil rights, the legal process and what Ethan liked to refer to as the way things are done. Instead, he was all about what made a good story, no matter how implausible. However, it made for some interesting – if aggravating – conversation during those long afternoons when neither had anything better to do with their time than debate the finer points of police work.
“Travis, you can’t do that to a suspect. It’s harassment,” Ethan would say. “Bordering on brutality.”
“But they’re guilty, E. So guilty you can smell it on them,” Travis would respond. “It’s justice at work.”
Here, Ethan would usually sigh. “Guilty or not, you, as the agent of the law, are burdened with providing proof of that guilt. Or at least, reasonable suspicion thereof. As a writer, you know he’s guilty because you made him be guilty. It doesn’t work like that in the real world. You need evidence.”
“Evidence my ass. This is fiction.” This apparently was Travis’ sticking point: fiction didn’t need to make sense.
They’d had this discussion several times during the creation of Travis’ last novel. He had a great premise, a good villain but no actual proof that the guy was guilty of what he was being accused of doing. After several go-rounds, Ethan had suggested a few things that clicked with LaWanda, Travis’ muse, and sent her running towards something resembling valid evidence. It had worked out in the end, but it had taken quite a journey to get there.
“You still there, baby?”
“Yeah,” Ethan said, pulling himself back into the present conversation and out of the past. “My attention sort of drifted when you started babbling about spaceships.”
“You have no imagination,” Travis joked, not meaning anything by the jab. “You know that they have an explanation for how everything works on Star Trek? Even though the technology doesn’t yet exist?”
Ethan couldn’t say that he cared. But he listened all the same while Travis explained how he’d read a book that detailed exactly how the transporter functioned within that futuristic world. After approximately thirty minutes of this, and having listened to not just how the transporter worked, but the phasers and the warp engine, he had had enough. Before Murphy could start detailing the difference between the Federation ships and those of the Klingon Empire, he interrupted. “It’s a good thing you’re so goddamn attractive,” he’d said.
“What? I know you approve of all that is me, but what on earth does that have to do with anything?”
“Because it makes listening to these rambling one-sided conversations so much easier.” Ethan chuckled and added, “It’s a shame I can’t stare at your lovely abs right now to distract myself and keep my brain from going numb.”
“I’m not sure how to respond to that,” Travis said after a long silence.
“Tell me you love me, Muprhy.” He smiled into the phone, wishing he was closer to home than he actually was.
“I love you, Murphy,” Travis deadpanned.
“You are an ass, but I adore you,” Ethan scolded.
“Even when I ramble?” He could almost envision the chiding look on his lover’s face at the words.
“Especially when you ramble.” He switched the phone to his other ear. “You’re cute when you can’t stop the babbling brook that is your mouth.”
“Well then, by the time you get home, I ought to be downright adorable.” After eight hours alone with himself and LaWanda, anyone would be a little bit crazed.
“I’ll be looking forward to it,” Ethan replied, knowing that listening to the prattle Travis was sure to issue the moment he walked through the door would only lead to gratuitous lovemaking. Followed in quick order by some food. And then, if they were lucky, more sex.
It was a win-win situation for everyone involved. You wouldn’t see Ethan complaining anytime soon. Or Travis, for that matter. They had an understanding that while Murphy was a bit goofy and thoroughly geeky, he was also utterly gorgeous. This agreement worked because they both also accepted that McDowell, while being a bit uptight and cranky, was just as good-looking and always ready for a roll in the hay. Oh, and he adored Travis’ parents, making him a keeper in the long run.
See? Total win-win situation. Even if there were huge amounts of blathering, arguing, and spritely banter. But who was counting?
H is here.
