Notes: This is... nothing of note. You might call it a TVCP, a tale of very common people ;-). Or perhaps a very common tale of common people...? Or, more accurately, the result of boredom and depression and a desire to just write something, anything at all... argh...
It really feels to me like it should be part of a larger story, and I suppose you never know. Don't archive, not worth it. But feedback is always nice, and might encourage me to write something with, y'know, a plot and such... One can but hope... ;->
Short Interlude Between Naps.
by Poi Lass
Michael Banner is sleeping in. No classes, no assignments, no plans, except to sleep, sleep, sleep, all day, and possibly tomorrow too.
He planned this sleeping extravaganza in great detail last night, just before he finally fell into his beloved bed after three, long days away from it. He changed the sheets. He pulled the plug on the phone. He put a "Do Not Bloody Well Disturb" sign on the door. He got in food and set up the coffee machine so it would be ready for him just as soon as he tired of sleeping.
He's an organised man, is Michael Banner.
And a bloody tired one as well.
So he's understandably a little pissed when the door to his bedroom slams open at 8 and a voice cries:
"Mikey!", and he quite understandably buries his head under the pillow. Alas, to no avail.
"I need to use your printer! How does this thing work again?" Knowing, as he does, that failing to answer will not save him, he raises his head only to see his visitor has decided she can manage it on her own after all.
How independent of her, he thinks. He's impressed.
She switches the computer on and stuffs paper into the printer, with a noisy disregard for his desperate need to nap. Not to mention that fact that he's naked under the sheet, but if she doesn't care, he doesn't see why he should.
He might as well get some enjoyment out of this.
"Yeah, sure." He says, watching her. "Go right ahead. Be my guest. Don't mind me."
"Thanks." She says cheerfully, apparently not noticing the sarcasm. "Mine broke."
"Humph." She raises early-riser eyebrows at him, forcing him to translate. "I thought I fixed it."
"You did. Then I ... fell on it."
She fell on it. Of-course. He seems to recall that her printer lives on a fairly high table, but he has great faith in her ability to break things in new and exciting ways.
"How did you manage that?"
"I was just messing around with Simon. You know." Yes. He knows.
"That dickhead. I don't know what you see in him." Ah. Nothing will wake you up like jealousy and a chance to diss the competition.
"He has a great personality."
"He doesn't have a personality."
"Oh. Then I guess it must be the sex."
He is far too tired to work out whether this is a joke or simple honesty. Probably both. After all, she's never claimed to have good taste in men; if she did, she'd be with him. She pulls the last sheet from the printer with a cry of delight, and fusses, noisily of-course, with staples, and folders, and other such things until,
"Oh shit. I'm going to be late."
"Not if you run."
"Hm. But why risk it?" She bends to peck him on the cheek and whirls to grab up her bag.
"Bye Mikey!"
"No, Kay, wait -" But there is a sound like a bubble bursting, a rush of displaced air, and she vanishes. He flops back to the bed.
"I hate it when she does that." He mumbles aloud to the suddenly empty and suddenly silent room. He sighs, just to be doing something, and then stares at the ceiling for a while, wondering what his chances are of getting back to sleep.
Slim, he thinks. But if he can manage it, the dreams will probably be interesting.
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