Hockey RPF on the Cutting Room Floor
Dec. 13th, 2018 12:23 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
enter_remigesI was talking with ![[tumblr.com profile]](https://www.tumblr.com/favicon.ico)
topcopbobrovsky about Losers the other day and how it was originally meant to be a quick kink meme fill where Claude is a gold digger after Sid's money. (Which, it is clearly not). BUT while I was going through my doc I realized I had actually written the first part of the gold digger version and forgotten about it? I would like to lodge a formal complaint about the fact that I, someone who hates writing beginnings with a burning passion, managed to painlessly whip together the beginning of a fic that I revised out of existence. >_>
Anyway, I'm probably never going to write this version or cannibalize it for another fic, so here it is! A little rough, but I don't feel like cleaning it up.
The first thing Claude notices is the gold Rolex with lines on the face where the numbers should be.
The second thing he notices is who it's attached to.
Sidney Crosby. Sidney fucking Crosby.
Claude looks away for a minute, counts to ten, then turns back to look at him from the corner of his eye. It's him, it's really him and not just some lookalike with dark hair. He's got some horrible mustache going, like that'll be enough to hide who he is, but maybe it is.
He's got to still have money, right? Even after all this time? They didn't take back his bonus or whatever when the accident happened, and he's still in the organization somehow, Claude thinks. Carson's at the phase where he likes everything Danny dislikes just to be ornery, and the Penguins are one of his kicks right now.
God, Claude decides, has finally heard his prayers. And if not his prayers, than at least his desire to get fucked by someone who might have been someone.
He gets out of his seat, winks at some guy in a trucker cap and mesh shirt, because it's good to have options, then slides into the seat next to Crosby.
"Hey," Claude says, and smiles. He's got a great smile when he uses it, he knows, missing tooth or not. "You come here often?"
Crosby doesn't look particularly impressed, fiddling with his glass like he's got somewhere to be, like he hasn't been nursing the thing for what must be twenty minutes.
"That line ever work for you?" he asks, unimpressed. Claude grits his teeth.
"Hey, I'm not looking to get laid," he says. The bartender snorts, and Claude glares at her. "Just, I haven't seen you around here before, thought I'd be friendly."
"I'm not buying you anything."
"What kind of asshole do you think I am," Claude asks, affronted. He leans forward and sticks his finger in the center of Crosby's chest. "You don't even know my name, and already you're impugning my honor?"
That startles a laugh out of him.
"Fine," Crosby says, eyes still crinkled. "I'm Sid, but I'm guessing you already knew that." Claude doesn't dignify that with a response.
"Claude," he tells him. "What brings you out here on this lovely summer night?"
[That's it, that's all she wrote. Thanks, past!me.]
Anyway, I'm probably never going to write this version or cannibalize it for another fic, so here it is! A little rough, but I don't feel like cleaning it up.
The first thing Claude notices is the gold Rolex with lines on the face where the numbers should be.
The second thing he notices is who it's attached to.
Sidney Crosby. Sidney fucking Crosby.
Claude looks away for a minute, counts to ten, then turns back to look at him from the corner of his eye. It's him, it's really him and not just some lookalike with dark hair. He's got some horrible mustache going, like that'll be enough to hide who he is, but maybe it is.
He's got to still have money, right? Even after all this time? They didn't take back his bonus or whatever when the accident happened, and he's still in the organization somehow, Claude thinks. Carson's at the phase where he likes everything Danny dislikes just to be ornery, and the Penguins are one of his kicks right now.
God, Claude decides, has finally heard his prayers. And if not his prayers, than at least his desire to get fucked by someone who might have been someone.
He gets out of his seat, winks at some guy in a trucker cap and mesh shirt, because it's good to have options, then slides into the seat next to Crosby.
"Hey," Claude says, and smiles. He's got a great smile when he uses it, he knows, missing tooth or not. "You come here often?"
Crosby doesn't look particularly impressed, fiddling with his glass like he's got somewhere to be, like he hasn't been nursing the thing for what must be twenty minutes.
"That line ever work for you?" he asks, unimpressed. Claude grits his teeth.
"Hey, I'm not looking to get laid," he says. The bartender snorts, and Claude glares at her. "Just, I haven't seen you around here before, thought I'd be friendly."
"I'm not buying you anything."
"What kind of asshole do you think I am," Claude asks, affronted. He leans forward and sticks his finger in the center of Crosby's chest. "You don't even know my name, and already you're impugning my honor?"
That startles a laugh out of him.
"Fine," Crosby says, eyes still crinkled. "I'm Sid, but I'm guessing you already knew that." Claude doesn't dignify that with a response.
"Claude," he tells him. "What brings you out here on this lovely summer night?"
[That's it, that's all she wrote. Thanks, past!me.]
