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seriousficYes, the Cosmo article referenced in this fic is real. Yes, I had to transcribe it from a real Cosmo magazine at a real bookstore. But when I told everyone that it was just for a Tron fanfic I was writing, they understood.
No offense if you read Cosmo, I just think it's so insipid it could moderate Scans_Daily. Also, Quorra's texts came from some website. I won't give out the url, just like I won't give out instructions on how to build a fertilizer bomb.
Title: Dear Cosmo Magazine
Fandom: Tron
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 4,638
Characters/Pairings: Sam/Quorra, Alan Bradley, Ed Dillinger Jr.
Previous: Moving Day 2/2
Next: Happy Valentine's Day (now have sex with me)
Summary: Dear Cosmo, thanks for turning my sorta-girlfriend into a crazy person.
He's gotten his Ducati back from the impound lot. That was the first thing Sam thought when he woke up. Because he needed to go fast, to at least feel like he was getting away from whatever the hell it was that had woke him up feeling like his heart was in a blender, and the last time he'd felt this way (two years ago, his dad's birthday) he'd given a stranger his MasterCard just to ride off on the guy's Harley.
It made no sense. For the past week of getting settled into the new apartment, his subconscious had been dullsville, not even a nudge at the fact that he was sleeping literally six feet from about the most beautiful girl on record, then last night he'd gone to sleep, staring at that face of hers as usual, and as soon as he shut his eyes
Derezzings. CLU. His father.
Now it was five AM and he was putting fresh clothes on over his sweaty body, trying not to wake Quorra even as he knocked over everything in the apartment because he still hadn't memorized where everything was and he didn't want to turn on the light because of the principle of the thing.
Finally he got to the door and went out and took the stairs down because he couldn't stand still in an elevator, he'd be trapped in there, and when he reached the lobby there was an old hurt in his leg flaring up but he choked it down and went to the parking garage and got on his Ducati and drove.
***
His phone was ringing. That's what the buzz was in his pocket. He eased off the throttle and let the motorcycle glide to the side of the road. Behind a billboard and over a depressing carpet of drug paraphernalia, he answered his phone. "Yello?"
"Yellow what?" Quorra asked. "What's yellow?"
"Nothing. It's just hello with a Y. People do that. It's strangely addictive. So what's up?"
Quorra didn't know if he was asking about the state of gravity in the apartment (since that was tricky, in her experience) or if he was asking her about the situation, so she hedged her bet. "The sky, and I woke up while you weren't here. You didn't leave a note, so I was worried I'd be alone forever. I didn't know where you were, so I called you on the phone. And now we're talking."
Sam felt a stab, like guilt was a nail and he'd just stepped on it. How was it Quorra could figure out guilt, but not how to make a fresh pot of coffee?
Taking off his helmet, Sam rubbed at his eyeballs. "I'm not leaving, I just had to… drive."
"What? Where? Where are you… Sam?" Quorra added mollifyingly, no doubt clutching the phone.
"State or country?"
"Countries are bigger, right?"
"Yes, and America. I think. Some guys I cut off in traffic swore at me in Spanish, but maybe it just didn't translate well to the Queen's English." She was going to worry. He knew it. She was going to worry and by the time he got back, Jesus Christ 2.0 was going to be a nervous wreck. He needed to distract her. "Say, could you go to the store and pick up some eggs?"
Quorra did a conversational cold reboot. "But… we have eggs."
"Get more eggs. In case the ones we have… hatch. In fact, take the credit card, pick up anything that looks good. I'm sick of fast food."
"So am I. They keep giving me the same toy."
***
When Sam hung up, Quorra didn't even try to hide her plus-sized grin, even though Sam had said it made her look like the Joker. Sam had just trusted her with making sure they didn't starve to death. And she would live up to that responsibility.
She packed lightly for the trip, just a switchblade, a taser, and her back-up switchblade. Sam had explained how, despite the news, it was unlikely she would be kidnapped, mugged, and have her organs stolen. But she had to be ready for two out of three.
She used the elevator, walked outside, and followed the street signs until she got to the corner store. She didn't see what the big deal was. She'd been downtown in Tron City all the time. Sure, it'd been a couple centuries since then, but she wasn't all that rusty. She found the eggs in the Produce section, although she didn't know why they were called Produce when everything in the store was produced.
There she was, standing in the check-out aisle, when she saw it, shining out to her like a beacon. Want your dream guy RIGHT NOW?
Quorra nodded.
How to satisfy ANY man!
Sam was any man!
BAD GIRL SEX
Quorra had never had girlsex, but if she did, she would definitely want it to be good, not bad. Still, the other stuff sounded good. She picked the issue of Cosmopolitan up and looked inside. There were a lot of pictures. Maybe it was meant for children.
"Hey lady, this ain't a library," the check-out man said.
Quorra smiled. He'd called her a lady. "Could it be? People could pick up books while they got their groceries, and then when they had to return the books, they would buy things on impulse. You'd increase your profits and promote literacy!"
The check-out man stared at her. "We accept all major credit cards."
Quorra handed him Sam's, adding the magazine to her purchases. She kept it bent open so she could continue reading it as it waited on the counter. V-Necks were out… that sounded familiar.
She looked up at the check-out man. "Quick, what am I wearing?"
"A… V-neck thing?"
Quorra gasped. "I'm out!"
All the men in line groaned.
***
This month in Cosmo… Desperate Housewives hunk Brian Austin Green tells us how Transformers it-girl Megan Fox keeps him on a leash, with What Guys Find Romantic (don't tell Meg Ryan!).
Sending a mushy text - "I usually go to work before Megan and I love getting a text that says 'Good morning, I love you.'"
***
Sam was making good time. Then he felt his phone vibrate again. Well, you didn't learn how to jump a motorcycle over a car or two without figuring out how to check caller ID and not drop below 60 MPH. He wrestled the phone out of his pocket and saw it was Quorra. A text, at that. We go together like ice cream and my stomach.
That was sweet, even if it did end with one of them covered in acid. He returned the phone to his pocket.
An instant later, it buzzed again. With one last look at the road, he again yanked the phone out.
When it rains, you don't see the sun, but it’s there. Hope we can be like that. We don't always see each other, but we will always be there for one another!
That was… sweeter. Like raw sugar was sweeter than chocolate. Before he could even return his phone to his pocket, it buzzed again.
Once upon a time, something happened to me. It was the sweetest thing that ever could be; it was a fantasy, a dream comes true. It was the day I met you!
Maybe it was a code. She was in trouble. She'd been kidnapped and her captor would… only let her send mushy text messages.
What is love? Those who don't like it call it responsibility. Those who play with it call it a game. Those who don't have it call it a dream. Those who understand it call it destiny. And me, I call it you!
Mushy text messages would seem to discourage a rescue attempt.
I love your eyes, I love your smile, I cherish your ways, I adore your style. What can I say; you’re one of a kind and 24/7 you’re on my mind!
That didn't even rhyme.
I love you, you love me, in my heart you'll always be, here or there, near or far my love will be wherever you are!
That did rhyme, but it still hurt to read.
If I could be anything I would be your tear! So that I could be born in your eyes, live down your cheeks and die on your lips!
He'd seen Criminal Minds. This was how serial killers talked.
If love can be avoided by simply closing our eyes, then I wouldn't blink at all for I don't want to let a second pass having fallen out of love with you.
Who said anything about love and eyes?
I wrote your name in the sand but it got washed away, I wrote your name in the sky but it got blown away, so I wrote your name in my heart where it will stay!
Sam dropped the phone. In front of the motorcycle, where it was sure to be run over.
***
Sam had the strangest sense of foreboding as he came out of the elevator on the floor of his apartment. He'd never felt anything so ominous before. Even when he'd been picked up by that UFO on the Grid, it'd been kinda cool. This just felt like seeing Shia LeBeouf's name in a movie's opening credits.
He unlocked the apartment door and went in to find Quorra on the couch, raptly reading a magazine. When she saw him come in, she perked up like a beagle hearing a dog whistle. "Did you get my text?"
"Yes, I thought you were a serial killer. But then I remembered that there are virtually no female serial killers. It's pretty much just an ugly Charlize Theron."
Quorra blinked at him a few times, face frozen, and Sam regretted being so harsh. It wasn't her fault she was Hallmark's target audience.
"Do you like serial killers?" she asked numbly.
"Well, I like Freddy Krueger. He seems cool."
"You didn't like the texts." Quorra sounded shellshocked, like Sam had just told her Santa wasn't real (not a conversation he was anticipating).
"It's not that… they were sweet. It's just that some people aren't comfortable with that level of sentimentality." And they were called humans.
"Oh." Quorra brightened instantly, which combined with Sam's feeling of apprehension to come off as downright Lovecraftian. "Don't worry, I'm sure I'll get you somehow."
That wasn't really something a non-serial killer would say.
***
Celebrating Fluffy - "If she celebrated something stupid, like the day we got our cat, I'd love it. It shows a sense of humor."
***
Sam woke up in the middle of the night to a siren. "Oh God, World War 3!" Then he saw Quorra. And the noisemaker in her lips. "Quorra? What are you doing, I told you I needed to get to bed early for the presentation tomorrow. It's twelve AM, that's right in the middle of my sleep cycle!"
"It's a special occasion," Quorra said jubilantly. "Three weeks ago today, you cut your finger and I learned about mortality. But I also learned something more important. I learned you'll be there for me, whether it's a cut finger or a—Sam, are you awake?"
Sam jerked his head up. "Yeah, yeah, you were saying?"
"You cut your finger. Never forget. And to mark the occasion, I safety-proofed all the knives in the apartment and got us a cake." She pointed to the nightstand, where a cake sat.
Sam swiped his finger through the frosting and licked it clean. About as good as a cake in the middle of the night could be. "Quorra, I love to party, it says so right on my Facebook page, but time and a place, eh?"
Quorra's brow furrowed. It was a bit cute, even for twelve at night. "You're saying we should have the cake in the morning?"
Sam nodded, then rolled over to get back to sleep. "Cake for breakfast. You definitely spent a couple of hundred years with my old man."
***
Making his skin soft - "Guys don't know anything about hair or skincare products, so buy him some. I feel pretty when I use the facewash Megan gets me."
***
But wasn't it always the way that after you got woke up, you couldn't get back to sleep, so you just spent hours lying in bed, wondering if you should get up or not. So even though he'd gone to bed at eight like a geriatric. Sam 'woke up' exhausted. A good hot shower, that's what he needed, that would wake him right up.
"Wait!" Quorra screamed, as he went into the bathroom, also waking him up.
Sam sighed. "Why am I waiting, Quorra?"
"I bought you some face wash." Quorra tossed it to him smugly. "It's to keep your face from being gross."
Maybe it was the sleep deprivation talking. "Why would I need my face to not be gross?"
"Your face isn't gross. This just makes it less gross. Than it already isn't."
Sam took the face wash. "I get what you're trying to say and I'll give it a shot. But don't ever try this on a girl."
***
Going Tim Gunn on him - "When she picks out my outfit, I love knowing she wants to see me in it."
***
"Where are my clothes?"
Quorra looked up from her breakfast (cake) to find a wet, towel-clad, very clear-faced Sam looking at her. "I got you new clothes," she said, pleased with herself. "Cake?"
"No. No cake. I need my clothes. I need my five thousand dollar suit from Savile Row because the attire for a meeting to determine the future of a multibillion dollar corporation is not 'business casual'."
"I have just the thing." Ruefully abandoning her cake, Quorra led Sam to his closet, where she paged through the jumpsuits she placed there until she found one in all-black. With the press of a hidden switch, purple lines flared to life. "I made it myself. Purple is the color of royalty and nobility, since in olden days, Tyrian Purple could only be afforded by the elite. It came from sea snails."
Sam shut his eyes. "You know that, but not where my clothes are? My good jeans? My Beastie Boys Ill Communication concert T-shirt?"
Quorra bit her lip. "I gave them to the poor?"
"Which poor, in particular?"
***
One hand still cinching the towel around his waist, Sam rampaged out of the hotel room and into the hallway to find a hotel porter delivering room service. "Take my shirt off!"
Quorra was close behind him. "Cosmo says men don't like aggressive propositions!"
***
Leaving a sweet surprise - "It would be cute to open up my laptop and see that she set my background to a picture of the two of us."
***
As it turned out, the porters had surmised that a miscommunication was responsible for them suddenly being gifted with an entire wardrobe (except for the Ill Communication shirt, which they had assumed was meant to be thrown out. It had holes in it). Sam got his clothes back in time to change into his work outfit, complicated as that was by Quorra poking her head into his dressing room and asking if he needed any help.
("I've watched movies, guys never know how to tie ties. I've practiced!")
(Sam doubted any of those guys had grown up with Alan Bradley as a godfather.)
The shareholders' meeting wasn't so much about the plan Sam was outlining as Sam himself. Encom needed to know he was as much a leader as his father. Funny, how he could spend so much of his life running from Kevin Flynn's legacy, and now he had to live up to it. Hilarious.
The shareholders were an impressive lot, arranged in shades of gray (their business suits) along the conference table. Sam, in his own charcoal suit, stood at the head, laptop at the ready.
"Thank you for coming," Sam said, resisting the urge to fiddle with his tie one last time. "And since I'm sure your financial advisors are telling you to dump this stock, thank you for not doing that too."
A few laughs went up, but too few to fool Sam into thinking he'd said something funny. Even Alan didn't dignify it with a chuckle.
A hand shot up. It was Ed Dillinger Jr., looking the consummate teacher's pet. Dillinger was the one part of the old regime Sam couldn't change. He had stock options and for some reason he wouldn't just screw off and work for a company still dedicated to evil, like whoever made Farmville. "I hate to interrupt amateur night at the Apollo, boss, but I'm sure I speak for everyone here when I ask: Given how stock prices have plummeted since you started throwing your weight around, why should the board take your 'new direction' for Encom as anything more than another craven stunt to show off your youthful idealism?"
Youthful? We're the same age, jackass. "I'm glad you asked." Although not so much about the sarcasm. "The truth is, our stocks were high for one reason. We were the only game in town. My father's ideas put us so far ahead of the pack that we've been coasting ever since. And that's fine in the short-term, but long-term… it just takes one good idea to change the game. Shouldn't we be the ones to come up with the idea?"
"So the sky is falling, is that it?" Dillinger asked. Did he have a mode other than sarcastic? Did he ever stop smirking, even?
Alan stood up. "No. We're not talking about damage control, we're talking about avoiding it. The market may change in twenty years, it may change tomorrow. The point is being ready for it. Right now, we're respected, but not loved. We've spoiled the marketplace with tyrannical DRM, sports game franchises that we pump out every year with nothing more than updated states, smaller studios that we buy up just so we can strip-mine their IPs."
Sam summed it up. "If you've ever watched a comedy where some plucky slacker clashes with a bunch of jerky stuffed-shirts… we're the stuffed-shirts. Just by taking the hit now and changing our business practices, we can build up goodwill among our customers for years to come. And when the market wanes, like it always does, that goodwill will bear us through." He tapped his fingers on his laptop. "I asked the boys in marketing to do up some projections of public perception of Encom at the time of my father's disappearance, versus its perception at presence." He opened the laptop, his desktop mirrored on the boardroom's state-of-the-art LCD wall. "The thing is, we've been gaining ground in the more casual marketplace… grandmas buying things for Christmas… but the hardcore customer base has been abandoning us in droves. Our core constituency is down sixty percent, those are the guys who are supposed to be buying our products rain or shine and we're driving them away—"
Alan tugged on Sam's arm. "Sam, is that Quorra?"
Sam looked at the desktop background behind the window he had open. Was that Quorra's—
Sam maximized the window and looked at a beyond-amused Dillinger. "Ed, that's the last time I lend you my laptop."
So, he did stop smirking occasionally.
***
Recording his shows - "I'll turn on the TV to find that Megan has TIVOed five things she knows I would enjoy. It's really sweet."
***
Sam got home probably more angry than he should've been. Not that he listened to the still, small voice in his head saying that. It all seemed to mix together, Quorra's incompetent attempts at building a relationship, his corporate woes, his father. Despite how he'd recovered after the faux pas at the board meeting, despite Alan clapping him on the back and telling him about the time Kevin had run off to get everyone oranges during crunch time because "I'm in a really orange place right now," Sam's head was swimming with prickly anxiety.
He just wanted to plop down on the couch and watch a million hours of Who's Line Is It Anyway reruns, like his grandparents were still alive to be amused and pretend-scandalized by improv antics. Coming into the apartment, he completely avoided Quorra, wherever she was—not just because he was angry at her and that felt like being angry at a kitten, but because he just didn't have the stomach at the moment to explain to her how, even though he knew she was probably just innocently taking a picture of herself in what she was wearing at the time (probably her continuing her addiction to splashing around in the hotel pool), there were connotations and implications and subtext and he just wasn't in the mood to be her mentor just then. He wanted to take a day off Quorra duty and let the world get along for twenty-four hours without an incoming messiah, just like it had for the past few million years.
And so, with a very satisfying mental rant on alone time prepared in case Quorra did try to strike up a conversation with him, Sam sat back, turned on the TV, and hit the Tivo button.
There was no Whose Line Is It Anyway. There was no Conan. There wasn't even Jersey Shore, which he'd set to record just this once because he'd heard Snooki was getting punched again. There was just High School Musical. All three High School Musicals. In HD. Filling up his hard drive.
"Quorra?" Sam called gently. "You wouldn't have set the Tivo to record anything with Zac Efron in it, right?"
Quorra bounded into the room with a long-anticipated sense of smug satisfaction. She was dressed more fashionably than her usual ensemble of jeans and one of Sam's old shirts, not that Sam noticed. "I thought you might like a show to watch while you unwind after a hard day of work. You graduated high school and you like music… I don't know that much more about you. But I checked online and Bieberfan131 was very enthusiastic about the trilogy's quality!"
Sam closed his eyes. It was much easier to stay mad, and yet not be irritated, when he wasn't looking into Quorra's curious gaze. "Quorra… may I ask why you've been trying to give my life diabetes for the last twenty-four hours?"
"I was just trying to be romantic…" Her brow furrowed. "Dia-beet-us?"
"Who taught you to be romantic? Swimfan?"
"Cosmo magazine."
Sam opened his eyes. "What?"
"Cosmo magazine. Short for Cosmopolitan. It's a periodical for women, focusing on topics such as sex, relationships, beauty, fashion and health."
Sam was rubbing his brows. "Do they just have a sensor that goes off every time there's a woman who doesn't have an issue of Cosmo in her bathroom?" He shook his head. "Mind if I see it?"
"Sam… wouldn't that be like peeking at the other team's playbook?"
"Quorra, let me see it."
She pulled the rolled-up magazine out of her backpocket and handed it to him. He flipped through it. "Recording shows, sweet surprise, soft skin…" He held the magazine up to her. "You are taking relationship advice from Megan Fox. She was in Transformers! Revenge of the Fallen!"
"I think she's kind of cute."
Sam sighed. At least they'd gotten to the root of the problem. "Okay. Is there anything… anything else you've done following the advice in this magazine?"
Quorra tapped on part of the article. Sam took a look at it.
***
Loading the Fridge - "It's fantastic when I open the refrigerator to see that Megan has picked up my favorite food or drink."
***
A lifetime supply of Twinkies dropped out of the refrigerator when Sam opened the door. He stared at Quorra. Just stared.
"You like Twinkies, right?"
Sam pulled up his shirt. "This six-pack isn't brewed with Twinkies."
"Could you do that again?" Quorra asked, eyes straining at his midsection.
"Quorra…" Sam slapped his hand against his eyes. "What were you thinking? All I wanna know. What part of this seemed like a good idea?"
Quorra grew serious. "Well… it said this would get a guy to like you. And I wanted you to like me. I guess I wanted it too much, huh?"
"Quorra, over here, babe." Sam put his arm around her shoulders and seated her beside him on the couch. "Listen up. You're like a Disney princess. Good-hearted, pure, kind… most people are nice, at least a little, because they want people to be nice to them. You don't even care. You're just nice because you're nice. And smart and funny—intentionally, even, sometimes. If you want people to like you, if you want me to like you," Sam saw Quorra start to wince. "You don't have to pull any stunts. You just have to keep doing what you're doing."
Quorra gave him that breathtaking smile and hugged him. "And I don't have weird cheekbones? Because the magazine said they were supposed to be at an angle with my nose…"
"You have great cheekbones."
Quorra squeezed him tighter. "You should talk about how awesome I am more often. It feels really good."
"As long as you give me that magazine."
Quorra pulled back. "But it has a pictorial on Leighton Meester!"
"Quorra, because of that magazine you safety-proofed every knife in the house. I haven't been able to make a sandwich since then. I miss it."
Quorra handed over the Cosmo. "Wanna watch a show? Something without high schools or musical numbers?"
"Yes, anything-but-Glee would be fine, Quorra."
As she dashed off to find a TV Guide, Sam looked at the magazine and thought of cleansing flame. Then he saw the cover blurb promising Secrets Of Bad Girl Sex! He had to know what a Cosmo editor's idea of kinky sex was. He flipped to the proper page and… Huh. Huh.
"Quorra, you can have your magazine back!"
***
Sam woke up to the smell of… well, it was kind of indescribable. He rolled out of bed and cautiously approached the kitchen to find Quorra cooking "Twinkie hash browns," she said, pointing to the skillet.
"Let me guess: you got that recipe from a college student."
"It was online," Quorra negotiated.
"Okay, first on the agenda today: why the Internet is not always your friend." Sam grabbed a banana to sate his hunger for yellow things. "I'll be in the shower," he told her to forestall any romcom incidents where they saw each other naked. Three times a week was enough.
"Oh, here!" Quorra produced a bathrobe from behind the island and gave it to Sam, beaming as he unwrapped it. Judging from the embossed Lightcycles and the multicolored lines embroidered to follow them, it was a Light Cycles robe. "Badass," Sam exclaimed. "Where'd you get it?"
"Ebay. I think someone owes the internet an apology."
Sam tried it on. It was a nice fit. "I think the internet still owes me an apology for goatse. This is really sweet, Quorra, thanks. But what's the occasion?"
"Oh, you know…" Quorra hid her blush by scraping the Twinkies off the stove. "Not having to hold a towel around you leaves more arms for hugging."
"God, you're precious." Sam kissed her temple.
"And anything else you might want to use your fingers for, fresh out of the shower, just finished scrubbing the manly musk from your body…"
"God, you're a pervert," Sam accused playfully, draping the bathrobe over his arm as he went to wash up.
***
Treating him like Hugh - "Guys love bathrobes. If you get up before him, bring his back from the bathroom for him."
No offense if you read Cosmo, I just think it's so insipid it could moderate Scans_Daily. Also, Quorra's texts came from some website. I won't give out the url, just like I won't give out instructions on how to build a fertilizer bomb.
Title: Dear Cosmo Magazine
Fandom: Tron
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 4,638
Characters/Pairings: Sam/Quorra, Alan Bradley, Ed Dillinger Jr.
Previous: Moving Day 2/2
Next: Happy Valentine's Day (now have sex with me)
Summary: Dear Cosmo, thanks for turning my sorta-girlfriend into a crazy person.
He's gotten his Ducati back from the impound lot. That was the first thing Sam thought when he woke up. Because he needed to go fast, to at least feel like he was getting away from whatever the hell it was that had woke him up feeling like his heart was in a blender, and the last time he'd felt this way (two years ago, his dad's birthday) he'd given a stranger his MasterCard just to ride off on the guy's Harley.
It made no sense. For the past week of getting settled into the new apartment, his subconscious had been dullsville, not even a nudge at the fact that he was sleeping literally six feet from about the most beautiful girl on record, then last night he'd gone to sleep, staring at that face of hers as usual, and as soon as he shut his eyes
Derezzings. CLU. His father.
Now it was five AM and he was putting fresh clothes on over his sweaty body, trying not to wake Quorra even as he knocked over everything in the apartment because he still hadn't memorized where everything was and he didn't want to turn on the light because of the principle of the thing.
Finally he got to the door and went out and took the stairs down because he couldn't stand still in an elevator, he'd be trapped in there, and when he reached the lobby there was an old hurt in his leg flaring up but he choked it down and went to the parking garage and got on his Ducati and drove.
***
His phone was ringing. That's what the buzz was in his pocket. He eased off the throttle and let the motorcycle glide to the side of the road. Behind a billboard and over a depressing carpet of drug paraphernalia, he answered his phone. "Yello?"
"Yellow what?" Quorra asked. "What's yellow?"
"Nothing. It's just hello with a Y. People do that. It's strangely addictive. So what's up?"
Quorra didn't know if he was asking about the state of gravity in the apartment (since that was tricky, in her experience) or if he was asking her about the situation, so she hedged her bet. "The sky, and I woke up while you weren't here. You didn't leave a note, so I was worried I'd be alone forever. I didn't know where you were, so I called you on the phone. And now we're talking."
Sam felt a stab, like guilt was a nail and he'd just stepped on it. How was it Quorra could figure out guilt, but not how to make a fresh pot of coffee?
Taking off his helmet, Sam rubbed at his eyeballs. "I'm not leaving, I just had to… drive."
"What? Where? Where are you… Sam?" Quorra added mollifyingly, no doubt clutching the phone.
"State or country?"
"Countries are bigger, right?"
"Yes, and America. I think. Some guys I cut off in traffic swore at me in Spanish, but maybe it just didn't translate well to the Queen's English." She was going to worry. He knew it. She was going to worry and by the time he got back, Jesus Christ 2.0 was going to be a nervous wreck. He needed to distract her. "Say, could you go to the store and pick up some eggs?"
Quorra did a conversational cold reboot. "But… we have eggs."
"Get more eggs. In case the ones we have… hatch. In fact, take the credit card, pick up anything that looks good. I'm sick of fast food."
"So am I. They keep giving me the same toy."
***
When Sam hung up, Quorra didn't even try to hide her plus-sized grin, even though Sam had said it made her look like the Joker. Sam had just trusted her with making sure they didn't starve to death. And she would live up to that responsibility.
She packed lightly for the trip, just a switchblade, a taser, and her back-up switchblade. Sam had explained how, despite the news, it was unlikely she would be kidnapped, mugged, and have her organs stolen. But she had to be ready for two out of three.
She used the elevator, walked outside, and followed the street signs until she got to the corner store. She didn't see what the big deal was. She'd been downtown in Tron City all the time. Sure, it'd been a couple centuries since then, but she wasn't all that rusty. She found the eggs in the Produce section, although she didn't know why they were called Produce when everything in the store was produced.
There she was, standing in the check-out aisle, when she saw it, shining out to her like a beacon. Want your dream guy RIGHT NOW?
Quorra nodded.
How to satisfy ANY man!
Sam was any man!
BAD GIRL SEX
Quorra had never had girlsex, but if she did, she would definitely want it to be good, not bad. Still, the other stuff sounded good. She picked the issue of Cosmopolitan up and looked inside. There were a lot of pictures. Maybe it was meant for children.
"Hey lady, this ain't a library," the check-out man said.
Quorra smiled. He'd called her a lady. "Could it be? People could pick up books while they got their groceries, and then when they had to return the books, they would buy things on impulse. You'd increase your profits and promote literacy!"
The check-out man stared at her. "We accept all major credit cards."
Quorra handed him Sam's, adding the magazine to her purchases. She kept it bent open so she could continue reading it as it waited on the counter. V-Necks were out… that sounded familiar.
She looked up at the check-out man. "Quick, what am I wearing?"
"A… V-neck thing?"
Quorra gasped. "I'm out!"
All the men in line groaned.
***
This month in Cosmo… Desperate Housewives hunk Brian Austin Green tells us how Transformers it-girl Megan Fox keeps him on a leash, with What Guys Find Romantic (don't tell Meg Ryan!).
Sending a mushy text - "I usually go to work before Megan and I love getting a text that says 'Good morning, I love you.'"
***
Sam was making good time. Then he felt his phone vibrate again. Well, you didn't learn how to jump a motorcycle over a car or two without figuring out how to check caller ID and not drop below 60 MPH. He wrestled the phone out of his pocket and saw it was Quorra. A text, at that. We go together like ice cream and my stomach.
That was sweet, even if it did end with one of them covered in acid. He returned the phone to his pocket.
An instant later, it buzzed again. With one last look at the road, he again yanked the phone out.
When it rains, you don't see the sun, but it’s there. Hope we can be like that. We don't always see each other, but we will always be there for one another!
That was… sweeter. Like raw sugar was sweeter than chocolate. Before he could even return his phone to his pocket, it buzzed again.
Once upon a time, something happened to me. It was the sweetest thing that ever could be; it was a fantasy, a dream comes true. It was the day I met you!
Maybe it was a code. She was in trouble. She'd been kidnapped and her captor would… only let her send mushy text messages.
What is love? Those who don't like it call it responsibility. Those who play with it call it a game. Those who don't have it call it a dream. Those who understand it call it destiny. And me, I call it you!
Mushy text messages would seem to discourage a rescue attempt.
I love your eyes, I love your smile, I cherish your ways, I adore your style. What can I say; you’re one of a kind and 24/7 you’re on my mind!
That didn't even rhyme.
I love you, you love me, in my heart you'll always be, here or there, near or far my love will be wherever you are!
That did rhyme, but it still hurt to read.
If I could be anything I would be your tear! So that I could be born in your eyes, live down your cheeks and die on your lips!
He'd seen Criminal Minds. This was how serial killers talked.
If love can be avoided by simply closing our eyes, then I wouldn't blink at all for I don't want to let a second pass having fallen out of love with you.
Who said anything about love and eyes?
I wrote your name in the sand but it got washed away, I wrote your name in the sky but it got blown away, so I wrote your name in my heart where it will stay!
Sam dropped the phone. In front of the motorcycle, where it was sure to be run over.
***
Sam had the strangest sense of foreboding as he came out of the elevator on the floor of his apartment. He'd never felt anything so ominous before. Even when he'd been picked up by that UFO on the Grid, it'd been kinda cool. This just felt like seeing Shia LeBeouf's name in a movie's opening credits.
He unlocked the apartment door and went in to find Quorra on the couch, raptly reading a magazine. When she saw him come in, she perked up like a beagle hearing a dog whistle. "Did you get my text?"
"Yes, I thought you were a serial killer. But then I remembered that there are virtually no female serial killers. It's pretty much just an ugly Charlize Theron."
Quorra blinked at him a few times, face frozen, and Sam regretted being so harsh. It wasn't her fault she was Hallmark's target audience.
"Do you like serial killers?" she asked numbly.
"Well, I like Freddy Krueger. He seems cool."
"You didn't like the texts." Quorra sounded shellshocked, like Sam had just told her Santa wasn't real (not a conversation he was anticipating).
"It's not that… they were sweet. It's just that some people aren't comfortable with that level of sentimentality." And they were called humans.
"Oh." Quorra brightened instantly, which combined with Sam's feeling of apprehension to come off as downright Lovecraftian. "Don't worry, I'm sure I'll get you somehow."
That wasn't really something a non-serial killer would say.
***
Celebrating Fluffy - "If she celebrated something stupid, like the day we got our cat, I'd love it. It shows a sense of humor."
***
Sam woke up in the middle of the night to a siren. "Oh God, World War 3!" Then he saw Quorra. And the noisemaker in her lips. "Quorra? What are you doing, I told you I needed to get to bed early for the presentation tomorrow. It's twelve AM, that's right in the middle of my sleep cycle!"
"It's a special occasion," Quorra said jubilantly. "Three weeks ago today, you cut your finger and I learned about mortality. But I also learned something more important. I learned you'll be there for me, whether it's a cut finger or a—Sam, are you awake?"
Sam jerked his head up. "Yeah, yeah, you were saying?"
"You cut your finger. Never forget. And to mark the occasion, I safety-proofed all the knives in the apartment and got us a cake." She pointed to the nightstand, where a cake sat.
Sam swiped his finger through the frosting and licked it clean. About as good as a cake in the middle of the night could be. "Quorra, I love to party, it says so right on my Facebook page, but time and a place, eh?"
Quorra's brow furrowed. It was a bit cute, even for twelve at night. "You're saying we should have the cake in the morning?"
Sam nodded, then rolled over to get back to sleep. "Cake for breakfast. You definitely spent a couple of hundred years with my old man."
***
Making his skin soft - "Guys don't know anything about hair or skincare products, so buy him some. I feel pretty when I use the facewash Megan gets me."
***
But wasn't it always the way that after you got woke up, you couldn't get back to sleep, so you just spent hours lying in bed, wondering if you should get up or not. So even though he'd gone to bed at eight like a geriatric. Sam 'woke up' exhausted. A good hot shower, that's what he needed, that would wake him right up.
"Wait!" Quorra screamed, as he went into the bathroom, also waking him up.
Sam sighed. "Why am I waiting, Quorra?"
"I bought you some face wash." Quorra tossed it to him smugly. "It's to keep your face from being gross."
Maybe it was the sleep deprivation talking. "Why would I need my face to not be gross?"
"Your face isn't gross. This just makes it less gross. Than it already isn't."
Sam took the face wash. "I get what you're trying to say and I'll give it a shot. But don't ever try this on a girl."
***
Going Tim Gunn on him - "When she picks out my outfit, I love knowing she wants to see me in it."
***
"Where are my clothes?"
Quorra looked up from her breakfast (cake) to find a wet, towel-clad, very clear-faced Sam looking at her. "I got you new clothes," she said, pleased with herself. "Cake?"
"No. No cake. I need my clothes. I need my five thousand dollar suit from Savile Row because the attire for a meeting to determine the future of a multibillion dollar corporation is not 'business casual'."
"I have just the thing." Ruefully abandoning her cake, Quorra led Sam to his closet, where she paged through the jumpsuits she placed there until she found one in all-black. With the press of a hidden switch, purple lines flared to life. "I made it myself. Purple is the color of royalty and nobility, since in olden days, Tyrian Purple could only be afforded by the elite. It came from sea snails."
Sam shut his eyes. "You know that, but not where my clothes are? My good jeans? My Beastie Boys Ill Communication concert T-shirt?"
Quorra bit her lip. "I gave them to the poor?"
"Which poor, in particular?"
***
One hand still cinching the towel around his waist, Sam rampaged out of the hotel room and into the hallway to find a hotel porter delivering room service. "Take my shirt off!"
Quorra was close behind him. "Cosmo says men don't like aggressive propositions!"
***
Leaving a sweet surprise - "It would be cute to open up my laptop and see that she set my background to a picture of the two of us."
***
As it turned out, the porters had surmised that a miscommunication was responsible for them suddenly being gifted with an entire wardrobe (except for the Ill Communication shirt, which they had assumed was meant to be thrown out. It had holes in it). Sam got his clothes back in time to change into his work outfit, complicated as that was by Quorra poking her head into his dressing room and asking if he needed any help.
("I've watched movies, guys never know how to tie ties. I've practiced!")
(Sam doubted any of those guys had grown up with Alan Bradley as a godfather.)
The shareholders' meeting wasn't so much about the plan Sam was outlining as Sam himself. Encom needed to know he was as much a leader as his father. Funny, how he could spend so much of his life running from Kevin Flynn's legacy, and now he had to live up to it. Hilarious.
The shareholders were an impressive lot, arranged in shades of gray (their business suits) along the conference table. Sam, in his own charcoal suit, stood at the head, laptop at the ready.
"Thank you for coming," Sam said, resisting the urge to fiddle with his tie one last time. "And since I'm sure your financial advisors are telling you to dump this stock, thank you for not doing that too."
A few laughs went up, but too few to fool Sam into thinking he'd said something funny. Even Alan didn't dignify it with a chuckle.
A hand shot up. It was Ed Dillinger Jr., looking the consummate teacher's pet. Dillinger was the one part of the old regime Sam couldn't change. He had stock options and for some reason he wouldn't just screw off and work for a company still dedicated to evil, like whoever made Farmville. "I hate to interrupt amateur night at the Apollo, boss, but I'm sure I speak for everyone here when I ask: Given how stock prices have plummeted since you started throwing your weight around, why should the board take your 'new direction' for Encom as anything more than another craven stunt to show off your youthful idealism?"
Youthful? We're the same age, jackass. "I'm glad you asked." Although not so much about the sarcasm. "The truth is, our stocks were high for one reason. We were the only game in town. My father's ideas put us so far ahead of the pack that we've been coasting ever since. And that's fine in the short-term, but long-term… it just takes one good idea to change the game. Shouldn't we be the ones to come up with the idea?"
"So the sky is falling, is that it?" Dillinger asked. Did he have a mode other than sarcastic? Did he ever stop smirking, even?
Alan stood up. "No. We're not talking about damage control, we're talking about avoiding it. The market may change in twenty years, it may change tomorrow. The point is being ready for it. Right now, we're respected, but not loved. We've spoiled the marketplace with tyrannical DRM, sports game franchises that we pump out every year with nothing more than updated states, smaller studios that we buy up just so we can strip-mine their IPs."
Sam summed it up. "If you've ever watched a comedy where some plucky slacker clashes with a bunch of jerky stuffed-shirts… we're the stuffed-shirts. Just by taking the hit now and changing our business practices, we can build up goodwill among our customers for years to come. And when the market wanes, like it always does, that goodwill will bear us through." He tapped his fingers on his laptop. "I asked the boys in marketing to do up some projections of public perception of Encom at the time of my father's disappearance, versus its perception at presence." He opened the laptop, his desktop mirrored on the boardroom's state-of-the-art LCD wall. "The thing is, we've been gaining ground in the more casual marketplace… grandmas buying things for Christmas… but the hardcore customer base has been abandoning us in droves. Our core constituency is down sixty percent, those are the guys who are supposed to be buying our products rain or shine and we're driving them away—"
Alan tugged on Sam's arm. "Sam, is that Quorra?"
Sam looked at the desktop background behind the window he had open. Was that Quorra's—
Sam maximized the window and looked at a beyond-amused Dillinger. "Ed, that's the last time I lend you my laptop."
So, he did stop smirking occasionally.
***
Recording his shows - "I'll turn on the TV to find that Megan has TIVOed five things she knows I would enjoy. It's really sweet."
***
Sam got home probably more angry than he should've been. Not that he listened to the still, small voice in his head saying that. It all seemed to mix together, Quorra's incompetent attempts at building a relationship, his corporate woes, his father. Despite how he'd recovered after the faux pas at the board meeting, despite Alan clapping him on the back and telling him about the time Kevin had run off to get everyone oranges during crunch time because "I'm in a really orange place right now," Sam's head was swimming with prickly anxiety.
He just wanted to plop down on the couch and watch a million hours of Who's Line Is It Anyway reruns, like his grandparents were still alive to be amused and pretend-scandalized by improv antics. Coming into the apartment, he completely avoided Quorra, wherever she was—not just because he was angry at her and that felt like being angry at a kitten, but because he just didn't have the stomach at the moment to explain to her how, even though he knew she was probably just innocently taking a picture of herself in what she was wearing at the time (probably her continuing her addiction to splashing around in the hotel pool), there were connotations and implications and subtext and he just wasn't in the mood to be her mentor just then. He wanted to take a day off Quorra duty and let the world get along for twenty-four hours without an incoming messiah, just like it had for the past few million years.
And so, with a very satisfying mental rant on alone time prepared in case Quorra did try to strike up a conversation with him, Sam sat back, turned on the TV, and hit the Tivo button.
There was no Whose Line Is It Anyway. There was no Conan. There wasn't even Jersey Shore, which he'd set to record just this once because he'd heard Snooki was getting punched again. There was just High School Musical. All three High School Musicals. In HD. Filling up his hard drive.
"Quorra?" Sam called gently. "You wouldn't have set the Tivo to record anything with Zac Efron in it, right?"
Quorra bounded into the room with a long-anticipated sense of smug satisfaction. She was dressed more fashionably than her usual ensemble of jeans and one of Sam's old shirts, not that Sam noticed. "I thought you might like a show to watch while you unwind after a hard day of work. You graduated high school and you like music… I don't know that much more about you. But I checked online and Bieberfan131 was very enthusiastic about the trilogy's quality!"
Sam closed his eyes. It was much easier to stay mad, and yet not be irritated, when he wasn't looking into Quorra's curious gaze. "Quorra… may I ask why you've been trying to give my life diabetes for the last twenty-four hours?"
"I was just trying to be romantic…" Her brow furrowed. "Dia-beet-us?"
"Who taught you to be romantic? Swimfan?"
"Cosmo magazine."
Sam opened his eyes. "What?"
"Cosmo magazine. Short for Cosmopolitan. It's a periodical for women, focusing on topics such as sex, relationships, beauty, fashion and health."
Sam was rubbing his brows. "Do they just have a sensor that goes off every time there's a woman who doesn't have an issue of Cosmo in her bathroom?" He shook his head. "Mind if I see it?"
"Sam… wouldn't that be like peeking at the other team's playbook?"
"Quorra, let me see it."
She pulled the rolled-up magazine out of her backpocket and handed it to him. He flipped through it. "Recording shows, sweet surprise, soft skin…" He held the magazine up to her. "You are taking relationship advice from Megan Fox. She was in Transformers! Revenge of the Fallen!"
"I think she's kind of cute."
Sam sighed. At least they'd gotten to the root of the problem. "Okay. Is there anything… anything else you've done following the advice in this magazine?"
Quorra tapped on part of the article. Sam took a look at it.
***
Loading the Fridge - "It's fantastic when I open the refrigerator to see that Megan has picked up my favorite food or drink."
***
A lifetime supply of Twinkies dropped out of the refrigerator when Sam opened the door. He stared at Quorra. Just stared.
"You like Twinkies, right?"
Sam pulled up his shirt. "This six-pack isn't brewed with Twinkies."
"Could you do that again?" Quorra asked, eyes straining at his midsection.
"Quorra…" Sam slapped his hand against his eyes. "What were you thinking? All I wanna know. What part of this seemed like a good idea?"
Quorra grew serious. "Well… it said this would get a guy to like you. And I wanted you to like me. I guess I wanted it too much, huh?"
"Quorra, over here, babe." Sam put his arm around her shoulders and seated her beside him on the couch. "Listen up. You're like a Disney princess. Good-hearted, pure, kind… most people are nice, at least a little, because they want people to be nice to them. You don't even care. You're just nice because you're nice. And smart and funny—intentionally, even, sometimes. If you want people to like you, if you want me to like you," Sam saw Quorra start to wince. "You don't have to pull any stunts. You just have to keep doing what you're doing."
Quorra gave him that breathtaking smile and hugged him. "And I don't have weird cheekbones? Because the magazine said they were supposed to be at an angle with my nose…"
"You have great cheekbones."
Quorra squeezed him tighter. "You should talk about how awesome I am more often. It feels really good."
"As long as you give me that magazine."
Quorra pulled back. "But it has a pictorial on Leighton Meester!"
"Quorra, because of that magazine you safety-proofed every knife in the house. I haven't been able to make a sandwich since then. I miss it."
Quorra handed over the Cosmo. "Wanna watch a show? Something without high schools or musical numbers?"
"Yes, anything-but-Glee would be fine, Quorra."
As she dashed off to find a TV Guide, Sam looked at the magazine and thought of cleansing flame. Then he saw the cover blurb promising Secrets Of Bad Girl Sex! He had to know what a Cosmo editor's idea of kinky sex was. He flipped to the proper page and… Huh. Huh.
"Quorra, you can have your magazine back!"
***
Sam woke up to the smell of… well, it was kind of indescribable. He rolled out of bed and cautiously approached the kitchen to find Quorra cooking "Twinkie hash browns," she said, pointing to the skillet.
"Let me guess: you got that recipe from a college student."
"It was online," Quorra negotiated.
"Okay, first on the agenda today: why the Internet is not always your friend." Sam grabbed a banana to sate his hunger for yellow things. "I'll be in the shower," he told her to forestall any romcom incidents where they saw each other naked. Three times a week was enough.
"Oh, here!" Quorra produced a bathrobe from behind the island and gave it to Sam, beaming as he unwrapped it. Judging from the embossed Lightcycles and the multicolored lines embroidered to follow them, it was a Light Cycles robe. "Badass," Sam exclaimed. "Where'd you get it?"
"Ebay. I think someone owes the internet an apology."
Sam tried it on. It was a nice fit. "I think the internet still owes me an apology for goatse. This is really sweet, Quorra, thanks. But what's the occasion?"
"Oh, you know…" Quorra hid her blush by scraping the Twinkies off the stove. "Not having to hold a towel around you leaves more arms for hugging."
"God, you're precious." Sam kissed her temple.
"And anything else you might want to use your fingers for, fresh out of the shower, just finished scrubbing the manly musk from your body…"
"God, you're a pervert," Sam accused playfully, draping the bathrobe over his arm as he went to wash up.
***
Treating him like Hugh - "Guys love bathrobes. If you get up before him, bring his back from the bathroom for him."
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-01-31 07:16 pm (UTC)Great job I loved it! xD
no subject
Date: 2011-01-31 07:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-31 08:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-31 10:24 pm (UTC)>Cosmo
And me out of popcorn.
>All the men in line groaned.
Popcorn for stuff exactly like this.
no subject
Date: 2011-01-31 11:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-31 11:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-31 11:11 pm (UTC)When I first read the title I was thinking 'Oh no, Quorra's got her hands on a girl magazine.'
Date: 2011-02-01 12:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-01 02:41 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-01 02:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-02 01:31 am (UTC)Sam had just trusted her with making sure they didn't starve to death. And she would live up to that responsibility.
She packed lightly for the trip, just a switchblade, a taser, and her back-up switchblade. Sam had explained how, despite the news, it was unlikely she would be kidnapped, mugged, and have her organs stolen. But she had to be ready for two out of three.
That whole part there just killed me! It nails her mix of toughness, practicality and innocence perfectly! \o/
"You are taking relationship advice from Megan Fox. She was in Transformers! Revenge of the Fallen!"
That cracked me the heck up, I don't even know why, lol! I think it was the Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen qualifier or something... *giggles some more*
They are both SO adorable and funny here, I just want to squish 'em! Fantastic work, I loved it bunches! ♥♥♥!!!
no subject
Date: 2011-02-04 01:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-29 08:52 am (UTC)What is love? < that text had me grinning like a loon.