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greenstickered2012-06-11 01:35 am
camalyng) wrote in greenstickered2012-06-11 01:35 am
Entry tags:
Uncharted: One Thing
Title: One Thing
What: Uncharted fanfiction - oneshot
Rating: PG (one swear word)
Words: ~2100
Summary: Under Chloe's influence, Elena takes a shine to One Direction. Nate doesn't get it. Nor does he get teenyboppers. Some time between 2 and 3.
Alternate links: Archive of Our Own; Tumblr rebloggable link
Notes: So a couple of months ago on my way to and from my city's con, I happened to walk past the hotel where One Direction was staying, and thus past a horde of screaming One Directioners. Scream ELENAAAAAAAA at them, Dad suggested via text message; I still regret not doing it. Last weekend, a friend of mine who roleplays Nate Plurked that she was at a One Direction concert and baffled by the One Directioners screaming before the concert had even started. Scream "ELENAAAAAAAAAAA" at them, I suggested. Yeah, I don't even know. Also, I have this insane headcanon that Chloe's taste in music can be mostly summed up as "sad women with pianos or guitars", and she covers this up by pretending she likes teenybopper music. (She genuinely doesn't mind teenybopper music, and trolling the boys for mutual lulz is easier to deal with than people worrying over her because her music's really depressing.) Elena I see as more of a Michael Bublé, David Foster fan, when she's not fawning over 1D.
Sample: "I take back everything I said about boy bands being a safe hobby."
Of all things, it starts with Chloe's ringtone.
You've never been one to really pay attention to music, but if several of your friends have independently concluded that Chloe's taste in music is that of a twelve-year-old girl's, it's probably true. So while you half-expect Cutter's eyeroll when "baby, you light up my world like nobody else" erupts from Chloe's pocket, you definitely don't expect Elena to perk up with interest and ask what the song is. Her taste in music is usually more (she claims; you wouldn't know) easy listening.
You don't think too much of it. Anything that can get your fiancée and your ex bonding that isn't A) life-threatening or B) damaging to your pride (you still haven't forgiven either of them for the time you walked in on a conversation about the time Chloe kneed you in the balls) is probably a good thing, and you share a bemused look with Sully as Chloe sits Elena down at the laptop and shows her all their music videos.
"They look about fifteen."
Elena spins her chair right around and looks up at you embarrassed: Chloe's long gone, out of the country a few weeks ago with a trail of jobs lined up, and you've just come home to your fiancée watching the music videos again.
"Their songs are catchy and I think they're cute--"
"Elena," you interrupt her, raising your eyebrows as you slide your hands over her shoulders. "That's a little more illegal than I can handle."
"Cute the way puppies are cute," she explains quickly. "Besides, they're all at least eighteen."
"The fact that you know that," you groan.
"The fact is my research instinct kicked in," she excuses herself. "I got interested in them and I had to look them up. You do exactly the same thing."
"With historical artifacts, not British boy bands!"
"At least no one's going to try and kill me over the boy band," Elena says, her tone off-hand, but as soon as it's out of her mouth your grip on her shoulders tightens and she presses her lips together guiltily. She's quiet when she adds, "Sorry."
"No, you're right," you decide. "This is safe. I won't judge."
Not much. You still think they look about fifteen, and it makes it hard to believe some of the lyrics they sing. But the more Elena plays their songs, the more you start to learn them from sheer exposure, and finally one evening she laughs in delight to find you singing along.
Dinner turns into takeout that night because you get distracted dramatically singing 'More Than This' to her around the kitchen and end up burning the stirfry, but she's too amused to care.
Chloe sends Elena a low resolution cellphone photo of a crowd of teenage girls and, in the distance, a group of five guys. It takes Elena a moment of squinting before she squeals, "One Direction!" Literally, she squeals it; you've never heard that from her before, and you stare at her in mild horror as she texts Chloe back.
(u can text elena 1d photos but ur phone is broken when u need it 4 work?? you text Chloe yourself.)
That night on the news, there's a brief item on One Direction being in Australia and suddenly the scene from Chloe's bad photo is video, complete with commentary about how a few of the girls had to be pulled out of the crowd by emergency services for dehydration or in some cases, injuries.
"I take back everything I said about boy bands being a safe hobby," you tell Elena.
Against your better judgment, when One Direction announces tour dates in your area, you get Elena two tickets to one of their shows before she even mentions it. You figure that after all the crap you've put her through over your obsessions, she deserves you indulging one of hers (even if she'd never admit this is an obsession).
"You do realize I'm not coming with you," you tell her, breathless from her thank you kiss. "Take Chloe or your makeup lady or something; I just didn't want you going alone."
"Yeah, of course," Elena replies, a wide smile still on her face. "I probably could have asked the network if I could report some fluff from the show, but going as a fan is more fun. This means a lot to me, Nate."
Mission accomplished.
Chloe's flight is delayed, and though Elena initially looks up from her phone with dismay, her expression shifts to something more inquisitive as she gazes at you.
"Oh, no, no, no, I am not going to a One Direction concert."
Elena's grinning as the two of you shuffle into the stadium. You're pretty sure you're the oldest person here by at least ten years, and men or even boys who don't work here are thin on the ground.
"It hasn't even started yet," you yell in bewilderment. "Why are they screaming already?"
"First rule of being a teenybopper: Scream for the celebrity of your choice when there's even the possibility of seeing them," she explains, and she smiles at your furrowed brow. "You haven't been a teenage girl, Nate. You wouldn't understand."
"You were never like this."
Right? Surely Elena's always been as level-headed as she is now; you can't see a teenaged Elena screaming for anyone. But no, her gaze is going far away and dreamy.
"I never got to see him in person, but my walls were covered in Rick Springfield posters."
"Who?"
"I wish that I had Jessie's girl," Elena sings, and you just look at her blankly. "Oh, Nate, you were a deprived child."
Of all the things your childhood was deprived of, you wouldn't really count knowledge of teen heartthrobs as a major loss.
"Uh-huh. Hey, Elena, I'm going to try and get a drink or something."
You have a feeling this concert will be more bearable if you're drunk.
"With this crowd, I doubt they'll be selling alcohol," she says, but she hands you some cash anyway. "I'll go have a look at the merchandise."
"Stay safe," you warn her, and she snorts.
She was right: No alcohol. You briefly consider finding the nearest liquor store, but you settle for a Coke, and decide to grab one for Elena too because you don't want her dehydrated here like those Australian girls.
In line, the mother of a girl who can't be more than eight looks at you and asks if you've left your daughter with your wife, and you choke on nothing.
"No," you blurt out. "No kids, not yet; I'm here with my fiancée."
The woman proceeds to express her polite surprise that someone your age likes One Direction and how impressed she is that you'd come to their concert with her, and you're still thinking about this encounter as you leave with your drinks. All the screaming girls already had you on edge, but now you're even more rattled: To be honest you're still not used to calling Elena your fiancée out loud to friends, let alone strangers, and never mind bringing them to concerts, you have yet to touch on the subject of kids. You certainly don't plan on bringing it up until some mythical day when your lives are more stable, and maybe not even then; sometimes you can't shake the feeling that your parenting will be just as successful as your own parents' was.
And seriously, if you can't keep track of a grown woman, how are you supposed to keep track of a kid? Elena's not at the merchandise stand when you get there, and the seller shrugs when you ask if he's seen her.
You're at least half a foot taller than most of the girls here so you have a pretty clear view of the crowd, but Elena's as short as the average teenage girl. Hours ago you would have claimed that you could pick out your fiancée anywhere. Now, you're not so sure.
"Elena?" you call.
It's lost in surprisingly rhythmic screams of "One Direction!" that make every syllable sound like a separate word. Not for the first time, you feel like buying her tickets to this concert in the first place was a bad idea.
Eventually, you try calling her, but you can barely hear yourself in here; she probably can't hear her phone. In fact, you're pretty sure you've lost hearing in one ear. The overall disorientation is not entirely unlike being near an exploding grenade, but the accompanying adrenaline rush is no use here; it just has you antsy and possibly shoving more than is polite.
"Elena!"
The opening act's on their last song, but you still haven't found her. As economical as you've tried to be with your voice, you're starting to suspect you'll lose it yelling for her long before the girls let up with their screaming.
The lights change and the screaming loses all coordination as the boys come out onstage and goddamnit, the concert is finally starting and she's still nowhere to be found?
This is probably lowering your chances of finding her: The crowd's come even more alive than they were during the opener, the throngs of people shoving you around where just one or even three of these tiny girls wouldn't have been able to move you, and it's a lot harder to push through them now. It's actually kind of intimidating, and the fact that you still can't hear out of your right ear doesn't help your state of mind. You've survived countless gunshot wounds and explosions, crashes of just about every form of vehicle, a volcanic eruption under the North Pole, and almost bleeding out and hypothermia in the Himalayas, and you're going to die in a stadium full of teenage girls. (Something about One Direction songs makes you melodramatic.)
It's not until near the end of 'Na Na Na' that you hear "Nate!" faint in your left ear, turn around, and see Elena.
"Where have you been?"
"Yeah, sorry, it's been crazy," she says, and she carefully makes her way to you, clinging to a plastic bag she didn't have before.
You can't resist throwing your arms around her and kissing her out of sheer relief when she's finally with you, and even when you break the kiss, you still hold on to her so you can't lose sight of her.
"I thought I'd never see you again," you say, completely honest, then, slightly less so: "This place is a seven."
"One Directioners over my death?" she asks, eyebrows raised.
"You don't know what they're capable of!"
Elena rolls her eyes fondly, ruffling your hair.
"You're ridiculous."
"I--"
"You're ridiculous," she repeats, starting to dance as much as she can crammed up against you in the crowds, "and 'Stand Up' is my favorite 1D song."
"I would walk down the aisle," you sing along, eyes locked on hers, and Elena flashes you a gorgeous smile.
"It wasn't actually that bad," you admit to Chloe. "I may be partially deaf now, but treasure hunting doesn't need hearing."
"He could hear enough to sing along," Elena adds smugly.
Chloe snorts, playing with the One Direction travel mug Elena bought her.
"Did they do anything from The X Factor?" she asks with interest. "I used to watch it with Harry--"
She stops herself abruptly, her face falling a little. Knowing she doesn't like when people call attention to her little slips, especially not in public, you scramble to gloss over it.
"They did this medley of songs that aren't on the album; maybe those were from the show."
"Just 'Torn'," Elena corrects you, though she does look worried.
"I'll have to look it up on Youtube," Chloe says faintly, starting to recover as she goes on: "You couldn't have brought one of your fancy cameras, Elena?"
"If I'd wanted it confiscated, sure. My manager would have been so pleased."
You're all distracted by your meals arriving, and the conversation flows to other topics as you eat. It's not until you're all about to leave and Elena's taking a little longer in the restroom than Chloe did that you get the chance to really talk to her.
"Hey, Chloe?"
She tilts her head in reply. You rethink asking if she's okay, if that stupid boy band doesn't just remind her of Flynn and make her miserable.
No, there's something else you should tell her.
"I never thought I'd say this, but thanks for getting Elena into One Direction. Your bad influence and delayed flight turned into a terrifying experience, but a good one in the end."
"One Directioners are a bit scary," she concurs, looking contemplative.
"I mean it, Chloe."
She smiles, though her eyes don't meet yours.
"Don't mention it, cowboy."
What: Uncharted fanfiction - oneshot
Rating: PG (one swear word)
Words: ~2100
Summary: Under Chloe's influence, Elena takes a shine to One Direction. Nate doesn't get it. Nor does he get teenyboppers. Some time between 2 and 3.
Alternate links: Archive of Our Own; Tumblr rebloggable link
Notes: So a couple of months ago on my way to and from my city's con, I happened to walk past the hotel where One Direction was staying, and thus past a horde of screaming One Directioners. Scream ELENAAAAAAAA at them, Dad suggested via text message; I still regret not doing it. Last weekend, a friend of mine who roleplays Nate Plurked that she was at a One Direction concert and baffled by the One Directioners screaming before the concert had even started. Scream "ELENAAAAAAAAAAA" at them, I suggested. Yeah, I don't even know. Also, I have this insane headcanon that Chloe's taste in music can be mostly summed up as "sad women with pianos or guitars", and she covers this up by pretending she likes teenybopper music. (She genuinely doesn't mind teenybopper music, and trolling the boys for mutual lulz is easier to deal with than people worrying over her because her music's really depressing.) Elena I see as more of a Michael Bublé, David Foster fan, when she's not fawning over 1D.
Sample: "I take back everything I said about boy bands being a safe hobby."
Of all things, it starts with Chloe's ringtone.
You've never been one to really pay attention to music, but if several of your friends have independently concluded that Chloe's taste in music is that of a twelve-year-old girl's, it's probably true. So while you half-expect Cutter's eyeroll when "baby, you light up my world like nobody else" erupts from Chloe's pocket, you definitely don't expect Elena to perk up with interest and ask what the song is. Her taste in music is usually more (she claims; you wouldn't know) easy listening.
You don't think too much of it. Anything that can get your fiancée and your ex bonding that isn't A) life-threatening or B) damaging to your pride (you still haven't forgiven either of them for the time you walked in on a conversation about the time Chloe kneed you in the balls) is probably a good thing, and you share a bemused look with Sully as Chloe sits Elena down at the laptop and shows her all their music videos.
"They look about fifteen."
Elena spins her chair right around and looks up at you embarrassed: Chloe's long gone, out of the country a few weeks ago with a trail of jobs lined up, and you've just come home to your fiancée watching the music videos again.
"Their songs are catchy and I think they're cute--"
"Elena," you interrupt her, raising your eyebrows as you slide your hands over her shoulders. "That's a little more illegal than I can handle."
"Cute the way puppies are cute," she explains quickly. "Besides, they're all at least eighteen."
"The fact that you know that," you groan.
"The fact is my research instinct kicked in," she excuses herself. "I got interested in them and I had to look them up. You do exactly the same thing."
"With historical artifacts, not British boy bands!"
"At least no one's going to try and kill me over the boy band," Elena says, her tone off-hand, but as soon as it's out of her mouth your grip on her shoulders tightens and she presses her lips together guiltily. She's quiet when she adds, "Sorry."
"No, you're right," you decide. "This is safe. I won't judge."
Not much. You still think they look about fifteen, and it makes it hard to believe some of the lyrics they sing. But the more Elena plays their songs, the more you start to learn them from sheer exposure, and finally one evening she laughs in delight to find you singing along.
Dinner turns into takeout that night because you get distracted dramatically singing 'More Than This' to her around the kitchen and end up burning the stirfry, but she's too amused to care.
Chloe sends Elena a low resolution cellphone photo of a crowd of teenage girls and, in the distance, a group of five guys. It takes Elena a moment of squinting before she squeals, "One Direction!" Literally, she squeals it; you've never heard that from her before, and you stare at her in mild horror as she texts Chloe back.
(u can text elena 1d photos but ur phone is broken when u need it 4 work?? you text Chloe yourself.)
That night on the news, there's a brief item on One Direction being in Australia and suddenly the scene from Chloe's bad photo is video, complete with commentary about how a few of the girls had to be pulled out of the crowd by emergency services for dehydration or in some cases, injuries.
"I take back everything I said about boy bands being a safe hobby," you tell Elena.
Against your better judgment, when One Direction announces tour dates in your area, you get Elena two tickets to one of their shows before she even mentions it. You figure that after all the crap you've put her through over your obsessions, she deserves you indulging one of hers (even if she'd never admit this is an obsession).
"You do realize I'm not coming with you," you tell her, breathless from her thank you kiss. "Take Chloe or your makeup lady or something; I just didn't want you going alone."
"Yeah, of course," Elena replies, a wide smile still on her face. "I probably could have asked the network if I could report some fluff from the show, but going as a fan is more fun. This means a lot to me, Nate."
Mission accomplished.
Chloe's flight is delayed, and though Elena initially looks up from her phone with dismay, her expression shifts to something more inquisitive as she gazes at you.
"Oh, no, no, no, I am not going to a One Direction concert."
Elena's grinning as the two of you shuffle into the stadium. You're pretty sure you're the oldest person here by at least ten years, and men or even boys who don't work here are thin on the ground.
"It hasn't even started yet," you yell in bewilderment. "Why are they screaming already?"
"First rule of being a teenybopper: Scream for the celebrity of your choice when there's even the possibility of seeing them," she explains, and she smiles at your furrowed brow. "You haven't been a teenage girl, Nate. You wouldn't understand."
"You were never like this."
Right? Surely Elena's always been as level-headed as she is now; you can't see a teenaged Elena screaming for anyone. But no, her gaze is going far away and dreamy.
"I never got to see him in person, but my walls were covered in Rick Springfield posters."
"Who?"
"I wish that I had Jessie's girl," Elena sings, and you just look at her blankly. "Oh, Nate, you were a deprived child."
Of all the things your childhood was deprived of, you wouldn't really count knowledge of teen heartthrobs as a major loss.
"Uh-huh. Hey, Elena, I'm going to try and get a drink or something."
You have a feeling this concert will be more bearable if you're drunk.
"With this crowd, I doubt they'll be selling alcohol," she says, but she hands you some cash anyway. "I'll go have a look at the merchandise."
"Stay safe," you warn her, and she snorts.
She was right: No alcohol. You briefly consider finding the nearest liquor store, but you settle for a Coke, and decide to grab one for Elena too because you don't want her dehydrated here like those Australian girls.
In line, the mother of a girl who can't be more than eight looks at you and asks if you've left your daughter with your wife, and you choke on nothing.
"No," you blurt out. "No kids, not yet; I'm here with my fiancée."
The woman proceeds to express her polite surprise that someone your age likes One Direction and how impressed she is that you'd come to their concert with her, and you're still thinking about this encounter as you leave with your drinks. All the screaming girls already had you on edge, but now you're even more rattled: To be honest you're still not used to calling Elena your fiancée out loud to friends, let alone strangers, and never mind bringing them to concerts, you have yet to touch on the subject of kids. You certainly don't plan on bringing it up until some mythical day when your lives are more stable, and maybe not even then; sometimes you can't shake the feeling that your parenting will be just as successful as your own parents' was.
And seriously, if you can't keep track of a grown woman, how are you supposed to keep track of a kid? Elena's not at the merchandise stand when you get there, and the seller shrugs when you ask if he's seen her.
You're at least half a foot taller than most of the girls here so you have a pretty clear view of the crowd, but Elena's as short as the average teenage girl. Hours ago you would have claimed that you could pick out your fiancée anywhere. Now, you're not so sure.
"Elena?" you call.
It's lost in surprisingly rhythmic screams of "One Direction!" that make every syllable sound like a separate word. Not for the first time, you feel like buying her tickets to this concert in the first place was a bad idea.
Eventually, you try calling her, but you can barely hear yourself in here; she probably can't hear her phone. In fact, you're pretty sure you've lost hearing in one ear. The overall disorientation is not entirely unlike being near an exploding grenade, but the accompanying adrenaline rush is no use here; it just has you antsy and possibly shoving more than is polite.
"Elena!"
The opening act's on their last song, but you still haven't found her. As economical as you've tried to be with your voice, you're starting to suspect you'll lose it yelling for her long before the girls let up with their screaming.
The lights change and the screaming loses all coordination as the boys come out onstage and goddamnit, the concert is finally starting and she's still nowhere to be found?
This is probably lowering your chances of finding her: The crowd's come even more alive than they were during the opener, the throngs of people shoving you around where just one or even three of these tiny girls wouldn't have been able to move you, and it's a lot harder to push through them now. It's actually kind of intimidating, and the fact that you still can't hear out of your right ear doesn't help your state of mind. You've survived countless gunshot wounds and explosions, crashes of just about every form of vehicle, a volcanic eruption under the North Pole, and almost bleeding out and hypothermia in the Himalayas, and you're going to die in a stadium full of teenage girls. (Something about One Direction songs makes you melodramatic.)
It's not until near the end of 'Na Na Na' that you hear "Nate!" faint in your left ear, turn around, and see Elena.
"Where have you been?"
"Yeah, sorry, it's been crazy," she says, and she carefully makes her way to you, clinging to a plastic bag she didn't have before.
You can't resist throwing your arms around her and kissing her out of sheer relief when she's finally with you, and even when you break the kiss, you still hold on to her so you can't lose sight of her.
"I thought I'd never see you again," you say, completely honest, then, slightly less so: "This place is a seven."
"One Directioners over my death?" she asks, eyebrows raised.
"You don't know what they're capable of!"
Elena rolls her eyes fondly, ruffling your hair.
"You're ridiculous."
"I--"
"You're ridiculous," she repeats, starting to dance as much as she can crammed up against you in the crowds, "and 'Stand Up' is my favorite 1D song."
"I would walk down the aisle," you sing along, eyes locked on hers, and Elena flashes you a gorgeous smile.
"It wasn't actually that bad," you admit to Chloe. "I may be partially deaf now, but treasure hunting doesn't need hearing."
"He could hear enough to sing along," Elena adds smugly.
Chloe snorts, playing with the One Direction travel mug Elena bought her.
"Did they do anything from The X Factor?" she asks with interest. "I used to watch it with Harry--"
She stops herself abruptly, her face falling a little. Knowing she doesn't like when people call attention to her little slips, especially not in public, you scramble to gloss over it.
"They did this medley of songs that aren't on the album; maybe those were from the show."
"Just 'Torn'," Elena corrects you, though she does look worried.
"I'll have to look it up on Youtube," Chloe says faintly, starting to recover as she goes on: "You couldn't have brought one of your fancy cameras, Elena?"
"If I'd wanted it confiscated, sure. My manager would have been so pleased."
You're all distracted by your meals arriving, and the conversation flows to other topics as you eat. It's not until you're all about to leave and Elena's taking a little longer in the restroom than Chloe did that you get the chance to really talk to her.
"Hey, Chloe?"
She tilts her head in reply. You rethink asking if she's okay, if that stupid boy band doesn't just remind her of Flynn and make her miserable.
No, there's something else you should tell her.
"I never thought I'd say this, but thanks for getting Elena into One Direction. Your bad influence and delayed flight turned into a terrifying experience, but a good one in the end."
"One Directioners are a bit scary," she concurs, looking contemplative.
"I mean it, Chloe."
She smiles, though her eyes don't meet yours.
"Don't mention it, cowboy."
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