TITLE: Rabbits in Heat
AUTHOR: Copycat
E-MAIL: [email protected]
RATING: I'm not sure. Implied sex, but no graphics. PG-15?
CLASSIFICATION: V Other-POV R of sorts (Mic/Mac Harm/Mac)
fleeting attempts at H
SPOILERS: Just my appetite.
SUMMARY: Mac's downstairs neighbor gets an earful-- or two.
DISCLAIMER: If they were mine I'd be off somewhere sunny,
sipping Pina Coladas.
I would like to thank my upstairs neighbors for unwittingly
providing the inspiration for this. And no, I *don't* keep
track. For everyone's peace of mind.
Thank you to Sagadog (A million minus something-I'm-sure)
for the use of her floor when they go at it upstairs *just*
when I'm trying to fall asleep. Next time I *will* bring my
sleeping bag.
~^~^~^~
Any random night
0115 ZULU
Jenna McCarthy's Apartment
Georgetown
Oh boy, there they go again.
It scares me, really, sometimes. The first time I heard it
I damn near called the police, thinking he was beating her
or something.
Then realization dawned on me and I thought it was funny.
That *once*.
I'd lived here for three months already by then, and I'd
never heard anything like it. And in the kitchen, no less.
I thought it was just a one time only show, and it was a
fun story to tell the others at work the next day.
Stories that start, "Yeah, I'm real tired today, I couldn't
sleep 'cos my upstairs neighbors were too loud when they
had sex..." are always amusing.
At least they are the first time. And preferably you're not
the one telling them the next time around.
I learned my lesson, though, when two nights later they
were at it again. In the living room, this time.
Right above where I was supposed to be reading up on the
results of that weeks tests. It's a bit difficult keeping
your mind on "male versus female cats' response to changing
diets" when they have their own little biology session
going on upstairs.
While I was in college I did a project on the mating habits
of rabbits.
For six months all my spare time was spent staring into a
cage of rabbits making out like, well... rabbits.
Some strange sense of gloom--or maybe I really DID inherit
my grandmother's psychic abilities--made me worry I might
get a change to make a comparison with the human race
sometime in the near future.
Well, it's been six months by now and I have an impressive
amount of data. Too impressive, almost. Just think how much
I'll miss when I have to go home for my sister's wedding
next month. Again.
They knock something over upstairs, a chair I think, and I
shake my head at them. They're disgustingly eager and, by
now, amusingly predictable.
She's out of town quite a lot, because of work, I guess,
though I'm not sure what she actually *does* for a living
other than wear a uniform. But when she's at home they go
like clockwork.
I look down at my charts in front of me and make little
marks based on the sounds they're making, and they all fit
perfectly into the pattern I established several months
ago.
I look at my watch, pause dramatically, jot down a few more
marks, and wait with, in my opinion, admirable patience for
her release.
She comes with the shriek of a banshee and I once again
consider myself lucky I'm the afterthought kid in my family
and wasn't born till dad had gotten his promotion and we
moved to a bigger house.
I pick up my as-old-as-I-am copy of Jane Eyre and decide to
read a bit before the rematch in, oh, thirty-six minutes.
Give or take a few seconds.
~^~^~^~
One month later
0130 ZULU
Jenna McCarthy's Apartment
Georgetown
I look at my charts, and then at my living room ceiling in
confusion. They're not supposed to be there. And it's not
supposed to *sound* like that.
I leaf trough my charts and notes in a vain attempt to find
something to pattern this with. Maybe the guy purchased a
copy of the Kama Sutra? Or maybe she read Cosmo this month?
No, then it'd be *slower*, not faster. Maybe he's late for
a meeting and they're in a hurry? Nah, he's never late for
a meeting when they start. But he very often is when they
finish.
I've met him in the elevator a few times, monkey in a suit
and all, telling me in his too heavy Australian accent that
he's been to see his fiancee and now he's running late.
As if *I* care?!
Well, okay so I do, but what are the odds?
I've never had the guts to tell him I heard that, alright,
and is all that Viagra tax deductible?
Oh. My. God. What does it take to get a woman to make that
sound? If I didn't find that guy utterly unattractive I'd
be jealous.
I yank out a new diagram and start making notes according
to the sounds of their activities. This is really quite
fascinating. Maybe *this* is what separates us from
animals? The ability to infinitely renew ourselves,
sexually.
And here I was thinking it had to do with opposable
thumbs, language skills, and intelligence.
It doesn't take a lot of linguistic skills to make *those*
noises, though, and I don't think you need to be too
clever, either. Thumbs, I don't know.
Hearing her start up again I find a new chart, continuing
my little dots and lines. Two-in-one? That's new, isn't it?
So, I go away for a week and they re-invent sex? What's
that all about? I miss the greatest ever leap in the
history of sexual evolution to go see two people get
hatched, whom I just *know* will hate each other in a month
or two. My sister has that effect on the men she marries.
Not that it wasn't a lovely ceremony and the food was good,
too.
And there, that's him. Well, either that or now they're
*really* scaring me. I've never been able to hear him
before.
Also, I know that monosyllabic shouts like that are pretty
non-accent, but it honestly didn't *sound* like him. But,
hell. How am I supposed to know what he sounds like when
he's having sex? Maybe he closes his eyes and pretends he's
John Wayne.
Thinking they must be done by now, I go to the cabinet to
retrieve my old college paper about the rabbits. Maybe I
can see something there about change in pattern in later
stages.
Whoa, hey! *That* was fast. Either he upped his Viagra dose
or it really isn't him.
Well, let's see how they compare this time around.
The sounds are coming from the bedroom, which is usually
preserved for disturbingly early mornings and very late
nights. Probably when she's already there, and it's easier
to just stay put. But, ever the eager biologist, I follow
my specimens, bringing my notes and the old paper. Just in
case I need it.
No, there we go. Way off the charts. Nearly seven months of
non-development and then all of a sudden. This. No, I
*just* don't buy it.
Not even an illustrated handbook of female anatomy or a
very thorough lesson indeed can explain this. I'm not
saying it sounded like he was *bad* before, but how did he
suddenly turn into Mr. SexGod?
I've always been glad they don't use the bedroom too much,
and now I'm reminded why. As the bed upstairs bangs
rhythmically against the wall, mortar dust falls on the
floor by the wall in the opposite end of the room from *my*
bed. Which I have moved to its current position for that
exact reason.
At least now I can *stay* in bed when they do the
horizontal tango upstairs in the middle of the night. I
learned to keep a fresh stack of charts and a pen ready by
my bed.
The banging seems to go on forever, and I look through my
paper yet again, trying to find the section about change in
partners and the subsequent changes in execution of the
reproductive act. Or whatever I called it when I was
nineteen and trying to sound noncommittal.
This stuff is different with rabbits, y'know, but,
surprisingly, you can detect a slight change.
Not that there's anything 'slight' about what I'm
witnessing now. It's pretty obvious. Both on paper and on
my floor. I think I just might complain to the janitor.
The banging becomes faster and less rhythmic and she
verbalizes her pleasure, which is all par for the course,
except the timeframe is completely screwed. Pardon the pun-
-occupational hazard.
And there he goes again, too. Nope, that most certainly
didn't sound like the Aussie.
He's really very polite, letting her come first, and all.
No Olympic condoms joke for him.
I decide to give them half an hour to recover upstairs and
if nothing happens I'll just go to bed. I *do* have to
leave for work at five tomorrow morning.
~^~^~^~
Next morning
1100 ZULU
I step into the elevator; a man I've never seen before,
wearing a crumpled white uniform, is already there.
He smiles warmly at me and I smile back; somehow he isn't
at all creepy. Smiling men in elevators *do* tend to freak
me out for unknown reasons. Must be some movie I saw as a
kid that I wasn't allowed to.
"You live on this floor?" he asks and I find myself
answering. Maybe because he's wearing a uniform and my
upstairs neighbor does, too, and I have a theory I need
confirmed.
"Yes. Apartment 22."
His eyes widen slightly as he does the math. "I--I'm a
friend of your upstairs neighbor, then. Sarah MacKenzie,"
he tells me. Well, that explains a lot.
I grin, probably looking pretty smug if the blush on his
face is any indication.
The elevator dings as the door opens on the bottom floor
and he hurries out ahead of me.
As he holds the front door open for me (My, my; this one
has manners!) I smile. "Nice performance last night," I
tell him and he looks torn between pride and embarrassment.
"Thank you," he nods, looking like he's decided to play
suave about it.
I go to my beat-up Chevy just a few cars down the road and
see him heading for the shining dark SUV in the next space.
I try to fight it, but the words leave my mouth anyway,
much as I know it isn't any of my business. "Where's the
Aussie gone to, by the way?"
He looks up and meets my eyes for the first time since
finding out who I am. "Call Qantas Airways, they'll tell
you how close to home he is now."
Just then a window opens on the third floor. "Harm!"
We both look up and who do we see but Sarah MacKenzie.
"Yeah?" he shouts back.
"I love you, too!" She smiles brightly.
"I know!" he assures her and blows her a kiss before waving
at me. "See you around," he says and gets into his car,
taking off down the road.
Oh, I'm sure I will.
THE END
AUTHOR: Copycat
E-MAIL: [email protected]
RATING: I'm not sure. Implied sex, but no graphics. PG-15?
CLASSIFICATION: V Other-POV R of sorts (Mic/Mac Harm/Mac)
fleeting attempts at H
SPOILERS: Just my appetite.
SUMMARY: Mac's downstairs neighbor gets an earful-- or two.
DISCLAIMER: If they were mine I'd be off somewhere sunny,
sipping Pina Coladas.
I would like to thank my upstairs neighbors for unwittingly
providing the inspiration for this. And no, I *don't* keep
track. For everyone's peace of mind.
Thank you to Sagadog (A million minus something-I'm-sure)
for the use of her floor when they go at it upstairs *just*
when I'm trying to fall asleep. Next time I *will* bring my
sleeping bag.
~^~^~^~
Any random night
0115 ZULU
Jenna McCarthy's Apartment
Georgetown
Oh boy, there they go again.
It scares me, really, sometimes. The first time I heard it
I damn near called the police, thinking he was beating her
or something.
Then realization dawned on me and I thought it was funny.
That *once*.
I'd lived here for three months already by then, and I'd
never heard anything like it. And in the kitchen, no less.
I thought it was just a one time only show, and it was a
fun story to tell the others at work the next day.
Stories that start, "Yeah, I'm real tired today, I couldn't
sleep 'cos my upstairs neighbors were too loud when they
had sex..." are always amusing.
At least they are the first time. And preferably you're not
the one telling them the next time around.
I learned my lesson, though, when two nights later they
were at it again. In the living room, this time.
Right above where I was supposed to be reading up on the
results of that weeks tests. It's a bit difficult keeping
your mind on "male versus female cats' response to changing
diets" when they have their own little biology session
going on upstairs.
While I was in college I did a project on the mating habits
of rabbits.
For six months all my spare time was spent staring into a
cage of rabbits making out like, well... rabbits.
Some strange sense of gloom--or maybe I really DID inherit
my grandmother's psychic abilities--made me worry I might
get a change to make a comparison with the human race
sometime in the near future.
Well, it's been six months by now and I have an impressive
amount of data. Too impressive, almost. Just think how much
I'll miss when I have to go home for my sister's wedding
next month. Again.
They knock something over upstairs, a chair I think, and I
shake my head at them. They're disgustingly eager and, by
now, amusingly predictable.
She's out of town quite a lot, because of work, I guess,
though I'm not sure what she actually *does* for a living
other than wear a uniform. But when she's at home they go
like clockwork.
I look down at my charts in front of me and make little
marks based on the sounds they're making, and they all fit
perfectly into the pattern I established several months
ago.
I look at my watch, pause dramatically, jot down a few more
marks, and wait with, in my opinion, admirable patience for
her release.
She comes with the shriek of a banshee and I once again
consider myself lucky I'm the afterthought kid in my family
and wasn't born till dad had gotten his promotion and we
moved to a bigger house.
I pick up my as-old-as-I-am copy of Jane Eyre and decide to
read a bit before the rematch in, oh, thirty-six minutes.
Give or take a few seconds.
~^~^~^~
One month later
0130 ZULU
Jenna McCarthy's Apartment
Georgetown
I look at my charts, and then at my living room ceiling in
confusion. They're not supposed to be there. And it's not
supposed to *sound* like that.
I leaf trough my charts and notes in a vain attempt to find
something to pattern this with. Maybe the guy purchased a
copy of the Kama Sutra? Or maybe she read Cosmo this month?
No, then it'd be *slower*, not faster. Maybe he's late for
a meeting and they're in a hurry? Nah, he's never late for
a meeting when they start. But he very often is when they
finish.
I've met him in the elevator a few times, monkey in a suit
and all, telling me in his too heavy Australian accent that
he's been to see his fiancee and now he's running late.
As if *I* care?!
Well, okay so I do, but what are the odds?
I've never had the guts to tell him I heard that, alright,
and is all that Viagra tax deductible?
Oh. My. God. What does it take to get a woman to make that
sound? If I didn't find that guy utterly unattractive I'd
be jealous.
I yank out a new diagram and start making notes according
to the sounds of their activities. This is really quite
fascinating. Maybe *this* is what separates us from
animals? The ability to infinitely renew ourselves,
sexually.
And here I was thinking it had to do with opposable
thumbs, language skills, and intelligence.
It doesn't take a lot of linguistic skills to make *those*
noises, though, and I don't think you need to be too
clever, either. Thumbs, I don't know.
Hearing her start up again I find a new chart, continuing
my little dots and lines. Two-in-one? That's new, isn't it?
So, I go away for a week and they re-invent sex? What's
that all about? I miss the greatest ever leap in the
history of sexual evolution to go see two people get
hatched, whom I just *know* will hate each other in a month
or two. My sister has that effect on the men she marries.
Not that it wasn't a lovely ceremony and the food was good,
too.
And there, that's him. Well, either that or now they're
*really* scaring me. I've never been able to hear him
before.
Also, I know that monosyllabic shouts like that are pretty
non-accent, but it honestly didn't *sound* like him. But,
hell. How am I supposed to know what he sounds like when
he's having sex? Maybe he closes his eyes and pretends he's
John Wayne.
Thinking they must be done by now, I go to the cabinet to
retrieve my old college paper about the rabbits. Maybe I
can see something there about change in pattern in later
stages.
Whoa, hey! *That* was fast. Either he upped his Viagra dose
or it really isn't him.
Well, let's see how they compare this time around.
The sounds are coming from the bedroom, which is usually
preserved for disturbingly early mornings and very late
nights. Probably when she's already there, and it's easier
to just stay put. But, ever the eager biologist, I follow
my specimens, bringing my notes and the old paper. Just in
case I need it.
No, there we go. Way off the charts. Nearly seven months of
non-development and then all of a sudden. This. No, I
*just* don't buy it.
Not even an illustrated handbook of female anatomy or a
very thorough lesson indeed can explain this. I'm not
saying it sounded like he was *bad* before, but how did he
suddenly turn into Mr. SexGod?
I've always been glad they don't use the bedroom too much,
and now I'm reminded why. As the bed upstairs bangs
rhythmically against the wall, mortar dust falls on the
floor by the wall in the opposite end of the room from *my*
bed. Which I have moved to its current position for that
exact reason.
At least now I can *stay* in bed when they do the
horizontal tango upstairs in the middle of the night. I
learned to keep a fresh stack of charts and a pen ready by
my bed.
The banging seems to go on forever, and I look through my
paper yet again, trying to find the section about change in
partners and the subsequent changes in execution of the
reproductive act. Or whatever I called it when I was
nineteen and trying to sound noncommittal.
This stuff is different with rabbits, y'know, but,
surprisingly, you can detect a slight change.
Not that there's anything 'slight' about what I'm
witnessing now. It's pretty obvious. Both on paper and on
my floor. I think I just might complain to the janitor.
The banging becomes faster and less rhythmic and she
verbalizes her pleasure, which is all par for the course,
except the timeframe is completely screwed. Pardon the pun-
-occupational hazard.
And there he goes again, too. Nope, that most certainly
didn't sound like the Aussie.
He's really very polite, letting her come first, and all.
No Olympic condoms joke for him.
I decide to give them half an hour to recover upstairs and
if nothing happens I'll just go to bed. I *do* have to
leave for work at five tomorrow morning.
~^~^~^~
Next morning
1100 ZULU
I step into the elevator; a man I've never seen before,
wearing a crumpled white uniform, is already there.
He smiles warmly at me and I smile back; somehow he isn't
at all creepy. Smiling men in elevators *do* tend to freak
me out for unknown reasons. Must be some movie I saw as a
kid that I wasn't allowed to.
"You live on this floor?" he asks and I find myself
answering. Maybe because he's wearing a uniform and my
upstairs neighbor does, too, and I have a theory I need
confirmed.
"Yes. Apartment 22."
His eyes widen slightly as he does the math. "I--I'm a
friend of your upstairs neighbor, then. Sarah MacKenzie,"
he tells me. Well, that explains a lot.
I grin, probably looking pretty smug if the blush on his
face is any indication.
The elevator dings as the door opens on the bottom floor
and he hurries out ahead of me.
As he holds the front door open for me (My, my; this one
has manners!) I smile. "Nice performance last night," I
tell him and he looks torn between pride and embarrassment.
"Thank you," he nods, looking like he's decided to play
suave about it.
I go to my beat-up Chevy just a few cars down the road and
see him heading for the shining dark SUV in the next space.
I try to fight it, but the words leave my mouth anyway,
much as I know it isn't any of my business. "Where's the
Aussie gone to, by the way?"
He looks up and meets my eyes for the first time since
finding out who I am. "Call Qantas Airways, they'll tell
you how close to home he is now."
Just then a window opens on the third floor. "Harm!"
We both look up and who do we see but Sarah MacKenzie.
"Yeah?" he shouts back.
"I love you, too!" She smiles brightly.
"I know!" he assures her and blows her a kiss before waving
at me. "See you around," he says and gets into his car,
taking off down the road.
Oh, I'm sure I will.
THE END