Hello! I have a short fanfiction. I hope ya'll dig it. :)
Word Count: 900
Rating: R (language)
Disclaimer: Property of not-me. This is a bit slashy, and has been x-posted to eightmeninaboat. But the slashy is very...obscure....
Summary: Something is up with The Count's attitude about Gavin....
The Count was less than thrilled upon the return of fucking Gavin Cavanaugh. Why? He had his reasons. Motherfucker acted like he wrote the music. No respect. No respect at all. There were other things too, of course. Had a whole list of 'em even before he'd met the guy. Perhaps Gavin had the odds stacked against him from the start, but fuck that shit, man. The Count was determined to dislike him.
Foregoing the effort to stand up is something that comes naturally to the perpetually lazy, but The Count's total lack of excitement upon hearing the news of Gavin's return was calculated, and his irritation completely transparent. He wasn't sure if it was Quentin's less-than-flattering lead-up to the Gavin news, or the fucking cheering from the peanut gallery that pissed him off more; all he knew was that this Gavin sonofabitch would have to pry his royal status on Radio Rock from his cold, dead, somewhat stubby fingers. Among other things....
Maybe it was their massive Gavin-erections that kept the rest of them from noticing The Count's gruff reaction, but the only one of those morons who caught on was Quentin; and as captain of Radio Rock, Quentin did not hesitate in addressing the matter. He called The Count to his quarters later that night.
"Listen, Quen, can we make this quick-" The Count started speaking before his smokey frame even entered the open doorway. He gestured over his shoulder, "The good doctor's challenged Nutsford to a Marmite Munchdown...whatever the fuck that is..."
The Count's loud chuckle was infectious and caused an ever so slight twitch at the corners of Quentin's mouth, but he was resolute in his attempts to be businesslike. Gesturing wordlessly to a chair across from his desk, Quentin rose from his own and began to pace.
"Uh, is there a problem, boss?" The Count asked, frowning as he dropped into the chair.
"Not as of yet, but I'm looking to avoid all problems and continue this big happy family dynamic as it's working so very well."
The Count blinked, adopting a look that told Quentin he knew exactly where the conversation was headed. Shifting in his chair, he narrowed his eyes and attempted a little too late and a little too forcefully to look innocent. In fact, it was rather terrifying.
Quentin came around to the front of his desk, leaning back against it and fixing his all-knowing gaze on the man in front of him. "Look, let's not beat around the bush, shall we? Your dislike of Gavin is completely obvious and, I might add, oddly unfounded."
Rather than say something foolish, The Count took a long drag on his cigarette and gazed around the quarters, avoiding the older man's eyes. Quentin crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. Waiting.
The tense silence stretched, until The Count blew out an irritated cloud of smoke. "The fuck you want me to say, Quentin?" He shifted in his seat, "Just don't like the guy-"
"I'm sorry- have you met Gav-"
"I don't have to..." The Count's loud voice overpowered Quentin, who was really rather amused at this point, watching The Count shake his head and glare, "Don't have to, man. I've got a feeling."
Smirking, Quentin shrugged his shoulders, turning and returning back behind his desk, "Well, all I can say then, is that you're being very childish indeed. I understand the potential for rivalry. Whatever territorial squabbles you may have are completely natural given the situation but I don't understand...." He paused, looking The Count up and down with a puzzled look, "...whatever this is."
The Count's jaw tensed and he began to get up out of the chair, frown deepening as Quentin continued. "All I'm asking is, is there something I should know about? Some history, or-"
"Fuck! Can I not just be unimpressed with the guy? He's a tool, a fuckin' jackass. I've heard the man DJ and he's not my style. End of discussion."
By this point The Count was on his feet, waving his hands and starting for the door. Quentin sat at his desk and leaned forward, covering his mouth (his smirk) with one hand. He knew arguing was, at this point, futile, and instead waited for The Count to unknowingly spill his secrets on his own, as he was known to do when left uninterrupted in rant-mode.
"And another thing-" The Count whirled around before reaching the door, gesturing with his barely-lit cigarette, "What the fuck...what's his name- Gavin? Yeah, he's got the charisma of a fuckin...fuckin....look, zipping and unzipping your fly on the air is not good radio!"
Nope, that wasn't quite it. Quentin fixed his expression into something that he hoped was a just a little more conducive to heartfelt confessions. He wasn't concerned when The Count blustered out the door....
...and rightly so, because he returned mere moments later with his final, final comment.
"Also? Could you tell Simon to lay off the drooling? If I've got to hear about every single wet dream he has about this new fucker over the next three weeks someone's going overboard."
And he was gone. Loud footfalls in the stairwell made it clear this was the last word The Count meant to say on the topic. And what a remarkably telling last word it was.
"Huhm. Simon." Quentin shook his head, smirking down at his desk, "...of all people..."