like paper airplanes.
title; like paper airplanes.
pairings; patrick/pete, patrick/greta, connor oberst/pete, connor/greta
rating; PG for now; R and NC-17 later.
summary; a newly fired Patrick Stumph moves across the country and starts community college, and learns more outside the classroom than in.
a/n; all you who I'm deadicating this to, you know who you are, I said so in my journal. I love you guys.
warnings; office space, for now.
LIKE PAPER AIRPLANES.
I let her go like paper airplanes
How can I explain that I'm lost without you around?
Well, if I never lost you, I wouldn't have to find you all over and over.
Patrick Stumph's standard cardboard box only filled one-fourth of the way with his own personal items when he started stealing office suplies and standard community candy out of the breakroom. He had two cubes of sticky notes, one stapler, three boxes of staples, and five boxes of jolly ranchers before anyone started looking at him suspiciously.
Patrick's job was made 5% more interesting and glammerous by the fact that the occupation was shot to hell in the cult-classic Office Space--he went through and added 19-'s and 20-'s to the beginning of the year digit in millions of lines of codes. But no, the fax machine did not decide that it hated him--that was more of his printer, but whatever the cause of days upon days of discomfort, Patrick Stumph had no idea why getting fired from a moderately-okay paying job was making him feel so conflictingly joyful and depressed at the same time.
"Stumph." The hiss came from over the dark gray barrier that was behind his computer, and Patrick peaked his chin over the plastic-covered top. Emmerson Fliss looked very depressed that Patrick had been fired; he wiped his nose a good few times before re-adjusting his wireless-framed glasses and handing the twenty-three year old a little card. "It's my number, my email, and my sister's number...this may sound shady, but she can help if you need a job or anything." Emmerson's brisk tone gave way to a very gentle voice that Patrick had not heard enough of before. "I think I should hate you for leaving me here, but I'm pretty sure I'll still keep on buying your coffee in the morning for a few weeks."
Patrick's heart lurched a bit, and he reached his arms over to hug the other, older man, but a squeeky tap of black leather shoes made him lean back down and hold down the power button on his computer's tower, turning it off for the last time. His ex-boss, Charles Monaghan, crossed his arms primly and followed Patrick as he weaved through the maze of cubicles, trying to ignore the eyes that followed him behind contact lenses and glasses. It was a walk of shame that you seriously had dreamed you'd left behind in high school--when the teacher walked you out of the classroom and you had to scoot between the desks and you knew everyone was watching you, asking each other, 'what did he do?'
The windows that lined the left wall--tall and long, one foot off the ground and extending right into the ceiling, tinted and one-way--cast shadows of the droplets of rain on the thick, short carpet (the kind that caused carpet burn on your knees) and it looked like something that would be a perfect abstract photograph. It looked like an album cover of an indie band, and Patrick's brain cap-sized the picture (with half his body in the frame) and put the band's title on the bottom corner. He would draw that later tonight...
He didn't want any more rain or anymore offices. No more cities, no more lights at night. No more cars and horns and or early mornings or early nights. Patrick wanted somewhere far away...Emmerson's sister lived in Arizona.
Arizona, Patrick mused as he was all but pushed into the pelting rain (so hard and cold that his skin turned that icy pink color that looked better on flushed cheeks), sounds lovely.
END PROLOGUE.
how's it sound? that's the prologue.
pairings; patrick/pete, patrick/greta, connor oberst/pete, connor/greta
rating; PG for now; R and NC-17 later.
summary; a newly fired Patrick Stumph moves across the country and starts community college, and learns more outside the classroom than in.
a/n; all you who I'm deadicating this to, you know who you are, I said so in my journal. I love you guys.
warnings; office space, for now.
I let her go like paper airplanes
How can I explain that I'm lost without you around?
Well, if I never lost you, I wouldn't have to find you all over and over.
Patrick Stumph's standard cardboard box only filled one-fourth of the way with his own personal items when he started stealing office suplies and standard community candy out of the breakroom. He had two cubes of sticky notes, one stapler, three boxes of staples, and five boxes of jolly ranchers before anyone started looking at him suspiciously.
Patrick's job was made 5% more interesting and glammerous by the fact that the occupation was shot to hell in the cult-classic Office Space--he went through and added 19-'s and 20-'s to the beginning of the year digit in millions of lines of codes. But no, the fax machine did not decide that it hated him--that was more of his printer, but whatever the cause of days upon days of discomfort, Patrick Stumph had no idea why getting fired from a moderately-okay paying job was making him feel so conflictingly joyful and depressed at the same time.
"Stumph." The hiss came from over the dark gray barrier that was behind his computer, and Patrick peaked his chin over the plastic-covered top. Emmerson Fliss looked very depressed that Patrick had been fired; he wiped his nose a good few times before re-adjusting his wireless-framed glasses and handing the twenty-three year old a little card. "It's my number, my email, and my sister's number...this may sound shady, but she can help if you need a job or anything." Emmerson's brisk tone gave way to a very gentle voice that Patrick had not heard enough of before. "I think I should hate you for leaving me here, but I'm pretty sure I'll still keep on buying your coffee in the morning for a few weeks."
Patrick's heart lurched a bit, and he reached his arms over to hug the other, older man, but a squeeky tap of black leather shoes made him lean back down and hold down the power button on his computer's tower, turning it off for the last time. His ex-boss, Charles Monaghan, crossed his arms primly and followed Patrick as he weaved through the maze of cubicles, trying to ignore the eyes that followed him behind contact lenses and glasses. It was a walk of shame that you seriously had dreamed you'd left behind in high school--when the teacher walked you out of the classroom and you had to scoot between the desks and you knew everyone was watching you, asking each other, 'what did he do?'
The windows that lined the left wall--tall and long, one foot off the ground and extending right into the ceiling, tinted and one-way--cast shadows of the droplets of rain on the thick, short carpet (the kind that caused carpet burn on your knees) and it looked like something that would be a perfect abstract photograph. It looked like an album cover of an indie band, and Patrick's brain cap-sized the picture (with half his body in the frame) and put the band's title on the bottom corner. He would draw that later tonight...
He didn't want any more rain or anymore offices. No more cities, no more lights at night. No more cars and horns and or early mornings or early nights. Patrick wanted somewhere far away...Emmerson's sister lived in Arizona.
Arizona, Patrick mused as he was all but pushed into the pelting rain (so hard and cold that his skin turned that icy pink color that looked better on flushed cheeks), sounds lovely.
how's it sound? that's the prologue.