Fic: Corner of Astor and 3rd
Jul. 5th, 2007 04:34 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
aeroport_artTitle: Corner of Astor and 3rd
Characters: Sam/Dean (though debatable), Jess
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
aeroport_art
Rating: PG
Warnings: AU
Word Count: 971
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money being made, go 'way.
Notes: So it's been absolutely pouring buckets today, and this fic just came out in a word/mood-barf. Still, I've always wanted to set up a scenario where three people in a crowd are watching each other with some enigmatic backstory, so I wanted it to be Jess, Sam, and Dean. Make of it what you will, but in my head it's Sam/Dean all the way :3 Setting in NYC.
Summary: Outside in the pouring rain, a girl is watching a guy watch a guy. You? You're just having coffee.
Cooper Square, Astor Place and 3rd. The things you see when you sit with a cup of coffee and a good vantage point.
Corner café, large glass windows facing intersections of chrome and cars, bodies under bright umbrellas. It’s fucking pouring outside, a waterfall cascade over your view screen, distorting faces and places of movement. It’s moving, in murmurs of dull colors with a rhythm like breathing, and you blow over the skin of your latte and sip.
A flash of lightning. The electric blue white casts shadows over your table like stark chiaroscuro; you see your hand blend into the dark and back. When you look up, you see her. There’s a girl, a woman… a young woman, just beyond the thick slab of glass. Face turned away, but you see beautiful lips, tendrils of damp blonde hair tucked behind her small ear. Her shining waist-length locks blind you as the second wave of lightning flickers into the cotton-drenched sky.
She’s looking at something. Hand tight over the wooden handle of her umbrella, waiting at the crosswalk. But then the walk signal blinks on, crowd flooding around her, while rivers of rainwater slush at her feet as she stares, stares. The thunder; it rumbles, recedes, and you follow the line of her stare, her gaze.
Over soggy heads, past glinting car-metal and reflected reds, there’s a man. Some guy, he looks all wrong here. Too-long jeans and beaten sneaks on a day like this? Water soaked up to his knees, he’s slapping his hood up over rattails of hair, hair that’s too long over his ears. He’s fruitlessly shielding the water with too-thin arms, too-long legs dancing a two-step between haggard men and women. You can’t tell if he notices that he’s being watched (longed for, lusted after, loved by?). The water is black in the night but against the window, pressed against fluorescent interior lighting, the rain is absolute. You squint as you sip, eyes peering over white plastic lid, and you try to solve this and you want to know. Did he know her? Was she with him?
No acknowledgement on his part. No, he’s too fixated on something, he’s on a warpath. Crowds jostled apart at the seams as he threads through like a silver needle.
Then suddenly, wind so thick, so fierce that even the café doors shiver on their heavy hinges, knocks through the air. Umbrellas flip, you see the undersides of metal spines and tantalizing hints of colored overcoat linings; lavender, satin, hot pink against greens. The man you’re following surges through effortlessly, riding the gust like a long-due exhale.
Though you can’t see his face, his path leads only one way, to one figure. A dark figure shrouded in black leather blue denims, is leaning against the brick wall of a restaurant; the restaurant at the corner of Astor and 3rd, the opposite corner from where you are. It’s much emptier there, emptier than the trafficked sidewalk out front. Across the roads, above the dark figure, a wan light hangs from low scaffolding and it sways, spinning a shadow in dizzying patterns.
…is he waiting? Does he know, has he an inkling, of his being stalked? His posture’s slung back, legs so casually bowed—crossed at the ankles— you think there’s a tumbleweed scooting across the wide sidewalk but you can’t be sure. You can’t be sure, you lean forward, eyes snagged on the cut of his jaw while steam from your drink fogs up the cold window when… huh. Funny, you think he’s maybe, yeah. Yeah.
Funny, he’s watching the girl who was watching the guy. You’re sure of it now because when you look back at her, she slumps against the near wall and sinks to the ground, absorbed from view but for pale, smooth knees and her orange bag. And the corner man, the smooth cowboy, that’s when he starts. He jerks forward, pushes off his brick wall like he wants to, like he might do something say something, but he doesn’t. Hands dug deep into denim pockets and his shoulder blades touch the wall once again.
Your eyes flicker back and search through the wet tableau. The third piece of the puzzle, the other boy, where is he? There isn’t far to go, isn’t far to look because he’s there, the tall skinny one’s suddenly there and he hurtles into the pale light and slaps back his drenched hoodie, dragging brown hair back in wet disarray.
They pause, eyeing each other. The air’s thick outside— hell, the air’s humid and thick in here, but between them it’s heavier, laden with something more than just water, more than just water.
The taller one slowly raises his hand. It may be clenched in a fist, you can’t tell. The other one backs off slow and strange, like he’s submerged underwater, as he twists his body to point out the girl.
The girl you can’t see but for knees and feet, that shiver. She must be cold. Corner man cowboy gesturing girl, tall skinny boy lunging fist between bones, it’s blood between them now.
It’s blood and water, but nobody cares about Astor and 3rd or the thick heat, the communal humidity breathed by all. The girl’s sobbing outside, two boys splitting their skins while it’s pouring outside, the clouds spilling their souls.
You’re at the end of your cup. It didn’t last as long as you wanted it to but it’s good, you think. It was good for those minutes, the hot liquid, scalding your throat.
You pack up your stuff. Your umbrella’s in hand. You push out the doors and look for those boys across the street but they’re gone, only puddles and wet footprints ever said they were here. Just dark hints, vague imprints ever said we were here.
Characters: Sam/Dean (though debatable), Jess
Author:
aeroport_artRating: PG
Warnings: AU
Word Count: 971
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money being made, go 'way.
Notes: So it's been absolutely pouring buckets today, and this fic just came out in a word/mood-barf. Still, I've always wanted to set up a scenario where three people in a crowd are watching each other with some enigmatic backstory, so I wanted it to be Jess, Sam, and Dean. Make of it what you will, but in my head it's Sam/Dean all the way :3 Setting in NYC.
Summary: Outside in the pouring rain, a girl is watching a guy watch a guy. You? You're just having coffee.
Cooper Square, Astor Place and 3rd. The things you see when you sit with a cup of coffee and a good vantage point.
Corner café, large glass windows facing intersections of chrome and cars, bodies under bright umbrellas. It’s fucking pouring outside, a waterfall cascade over your view screen, distorting faces and places of movement. It’s moving, in murmurs of dull colors with a rhythm like breathing, and you blow over the skin of your latte and sip.
A flash of lightning. The electric blue white casts shadows over your table like stark chiaroscuro; you see your hand blend into the dark and back. When you look up, you see her. There’s a girl, a woman… a young woman, just beyond the thick slab of glass. Face turned away, but you see beautiful lips, tendrils of damp blonde hair tucked behind her small ear. Her shining waist-length locks blind you as the second wave of lightning flickers into the cotton-drenched sky.
She’s looking at something. Hand tight over the wooden handle of her umbrella, waiting at the crosswalk. But then the walk signal blinks on, crowd flooding around her, while rivers of rainwater slush at her feet as she stares, stares. The thunder; it rumbles, recedes, and you follow the line of her stare, her gaze.
Over soggy heads, past glinting car-metal and reflected reds, there’s a man. Some guy, he looks all wrong here. Too-long jeans and beaten sneaks on a day like this? Water soaked up to his knees, he’s slapping his hood up over rattails of hair, hair that’s too long over his ears. He’s fruitlessly shielding the water with too-thin arms, too-long legs dancing a two-step between haggard men and women. You can’t tell if he notices that he’s being watched (longed for, lusted after, loved by?). The water is black in the night but against the window, pressed against fluorescent interior lighting, the rain is absolute. You squint as you sip, eyes peering over white plastic lid, and you try to solve this and you want to know. Did he know her? Was she with him?
No acknowledgement on his part. No, he’s too fixated on something, he’s on a warpath. Crowds jostled apart at the seams as he threads through like a silver needle.
Then suddenly, wind so thick, so fierce that even the café doors shiver on their heavy hinges, knocks through the air. Umbrellas flip, you see the undersides of metal spines and tantalizing hints of colored overcoat linings; lavender, satin, hot pink against greens. The man you’re following surges through effortlessly, riding the gust like a long-due exhale.
Though you can’t see his face, his path leads only one way, to one figure. A dark figure shrouded in black leather blue denims, is leaning against the brick wall of a restaurant; the restaurant at the corner of Astor and 3rd, the opposite corner from where you are. It’s much emptier there, emptier than the trafficked sidewalk out front. Across the roads, above the dark figure, a wan light hangs from low scaffolding and it sways, spinning a shadow in dizzying patterns.
…is he waiting? Does he know, has he an inkling, of his being stalked? His posture’s slung back, legs so casually bowed—crossed at the ankles— you think there’s a tumbleweed scooting across the wide sidewalk but you can’t be sure. You can’t be sure, you lean forward, eyes snagged on the cut of his jaw while steam from your drink fogs up the cold window when… huh. Funny, you think he’s maybe, yeah. Yeah.
Funny, he’s watching the girl who was watching the guy. You’re sure of it now because when you look back at her, she slumps against the near wall and sinks to the ground, absorbed from view but for pale, smooth knees and her orange bag. And the corner man, the smooth cowboy, that’s when he starts. He jerks forward, pushes off his brick wall like he wants to, like he might do something say something, but he doesn’t. Hands dug deep into denim pockets and his shoulder blades touch the wall once again.
Your eyes flicker back and search through the wet tableau. The third piece of the puzzle, the other boy, where is he? There isn’t far to go, isn’t far to look because he’s there, the tall skinny one’s suddenly there and he hurtles into the pale light and slaps back his drenched hoodie, dragging brown hair back in wet disarray.
They pause, eyeing each other. The air’s thick outside— hell, the air’s humid and thick in here, but between them it’s heavier, laden with something more than just water, more than just water.
The taller one slowly raises his hand. It may be clenched in a fist, you can’t tell. The other one backs off slow and strange, like he’s submerged underwater, as he twists his body to point out the girl.
The girl you can’t see but for knees and feet, that shiver. She must be cold. Corner man cowboy gesturing girl, tall skinny boy lunging fist between bones, it’s blood between them now.
It’s blood and water, but nobody cares about Astor and 3rd or the thick heat, the communal humidity breathed by all. The girl’s sobbing outside, two boys splitting their skins while it’s pouring outside, the clouds spilling their souls.
You’re at the end of your cup. It didn’t last as long as you wanted it to but it’s good, you think. It was good for those minutes, the hot liquid, scalding your throat.
You pack up your stuff. Your umbrella’s in hand. You push out the doors and look for those boys across the street but they’re gone, only puddles and wet footprints ever said they were here. Just dark hints, vague imprints ever said we were here.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2007-07-05 07:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-05 04:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-05 07:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-05 08:13 pm (UTC)Well done.
no subject
Date: 2007-07-06 06:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-06 07:08 pm (UTC)*giggles*
Your welcome. :D
no subject
Date: 2007-07-05 10:48 pm (UTC)I liked this:)
no subject
Date: 2007-07-06 06:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-07 03:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-07 04:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-09 01:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-09 02:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-09 08:20 pm (UTC)JESS: Wtf, you're a sibling fucker? *cries*
SAM: Thanks for ruining my relationship! *punches Dean*
DEAN: Pretty much kidnaps Sam . . .
. . . Idk, I'm just being weird. :P