Claim the Day
Jan. 7th, 2012 05:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
seleniasIf there was one thing she could change, it would be the hands on the clock.
She'd wind them back three hours, twenty-seven minutes and a handful of seconds, so that way, when Raven came through the door, hair in his eyes and his Imperial Officer attire peeling off in layers like a second skin and a weary expression on his face, she could look him in the eye, scratch at the back of her neck in feigned surprise and honestly say, voice hoarse from the silence she'd kept all day, “Hey, you're on time for once.”
It was a fleeting thought, however, because she was never there to greet him at the door. She saw no point in waiting when she never knew whether that someone would be coming or not.
So instead, she splayed out upon the balcony or on the rooftops, where she had the greatest view and was high above the pollutants of the cars and the stench of people thirty something stories far below, she would sometimes watch, blue eyes searching through the specks of hazy dark masses. She would read. And she would wait. And she would pace when her legs tingled from that unwelcome feeling of sleep. And when the sun went down low behind the mountains in the deep cavity that was the sky and the ugly bank across the street became illuminated by the lights out front (small bulbs that the kids down the street took great joy in breaking bi-monthly), only then would she ask herself what the hell she was doing. A shake of her head and a few precise words as she saw the first star that evening infiltrate the sky above, dimmer only because the clouds were creeping softly now, and the smog choked her.
“Stupid old man,” she'd say, arms frozen and crossed as she glared at nothing but the brightness below as the city glowed, and that seemingly made everything better as the clock ticked by, the dinner in the microwave cooled, she turned out the lights, and he was late yet again.
-
If there was one thing he could change, it would be the hands on the clock.
He'd wind them back three hours, twenty-seven minutes and a handful of seconds, so that way, when his lunch shift rolled about in the form of a Lieutenant Leblanc who was busy arguing about which Tweedle was more bold than the other and which criminal that day sucked more – Alexei, obviously, because apparently Flynn didn't actually have a boyfriend and Yuri was dating some girl –, he would be able to slip away through the front door like a ghost, undetected and unseen and like ink in the night.
Across the streets he would hit the ground running, through the allies and over several chain link fences and pass the playgrounds with kids he never could convince Rita he hoped to have someday. He'd say, “We're getting older now... hasn't the thought ever crossed your mind?” and she would look so taken aback he said it often more out of mirth than seriousness nowadays, because who was he kidding, one was beyond enough.
He liked to think of it it as an exercise in the art of irritation, and at that, his skills were refined.
-
If there was one thing he wouldn't change, it'd be the evenings when silence was golden.
When he found the door locked and the light outside out, he knew he had succeeded in his scheme this time around. He fumbled for the key in his pocket and jammed it into the clock, cursing when his head bumped the heavy wood and his hands shook from exhaustion of working his body. The hinges croaked obtrusively like a dying man, and he recognized it for what it was with a heavy heart. When he pushed it open all the way, and the yellow lights from the long winding hallway of the apartment building filtered through room seven-o-one, the sight that greeted him was a pitiful one.
Across the floor, in the dark with only a single pillow behind her head and legs stretched out in the clothes he recalled she'd been wearing that morning, she was asleep on the couch, back to the door and hair damp from the shower, and he had to wonder just how long he'd kept her waiting.
There was a note on the floor, held down by a plate of food and words he was given only when she was most furious in front of the 'welcome' mat.
I don't care what happened, but you're sleeping alone tonight.
Jackass.
He may have found her scrawling handwriting cute at one time, but now, in this dim shade of light, it wasn't very adorable. Bending down and snatching up the note between two fingers, he folded it as quietly as he could and stuck it in his back pocket, and turned into the room with all the grace of a puppet at his left.
The night was cold without her and the bedroom lonely, though he supposed he'd brought it on himself.
-o-
If there was one thing she wouldn't change, it'd be the mornings when she woke.
Because when she stretched and her back cracked and her neck ached and her arms dangled off the side of the couch much in the manner of a carelessly tossed rag doll, an encompassing warmth would always make her hand tingle, send static jolts up her arm and down her spine like an electric feel.
She wouldn't look, because she knew all, and there was no point investigating a fundamental truth when she could feel that breath breezing past her ear, and that one leg stretched up in an unruly position to be resting strangely and heavily upon her own; her senses told her everything she needed to know, like, the fact that he wasn't in the bedroom...
Because whenever she woke in the morning, the dawn breaking softly and the streets outside calm and quiet, there were no words that ever needed to be spoken. A soft squeeze of the palm around hers, the ticking of the clock behind her head, and the tomorrow that had stolen the night away amidst the cushions...
There was no place for yesterday's when the past was past... no need for words or lips when she had hands and feet and eyes and he looked as apologetic and tired as a man ran rugged would after being told off by his darling and running through playgrounds.
“I'm still mad at you,” she'd mutter, and his hand would squeeze softly, a trace of warmth here and a tingle there as apathy would made itself known in the form of an extra body upon the couch.
She'd wind them back three hours, twenty-seven minutes and a handful of seconds, so that way, when Raven came through the door, hair in his eyes and his Imperial Officer attire peeling off in layers like a second skin and a weary expression on his face, she could look him in the eye, scratch at the back of her neck in feigned surprise and honestly say, voice hoarse from the silence she'd kept all day, “Hey, you're on time for once.”
It was a fleeting thought, however, because she was never there to greet him at the door. She saw no point in waiting when she never knew whether that someone would be coming or not.
So instead, she splayed out upon the balcony or on the rooftops, where she had the greatest view and was high above the pollutants of the cars and the stench of people thirty something stories far below, she would sometimes watch, blue eyes searching through the specks of hazy dark masses. She would read. And she would wait. And she would pace when her legs tingled from that unwelcome feeling of sleep. And when the sun went down low behind the mountains in the deep cavity that was the sky and the ugly bank across the street became illuminated by the lights out front (small bulbs that the kids down the street took great joy in breaking bi-monthly), only then would she ask herself what the hell she was doing. A shake of her head and a few precise words as she saw the first star that evening infiltrate the sky above, dimmer only because the clouds were creeping softly now, and the smog choked her.
“Stupid old man,” she'd say, arms frozen and crossed as she glared at nothing but the brightness below as the city glowed, and that seemingly made everything better as the clock ticked by, the dinner in the microwave cooled, she turned out the lights, and he was late yet again.
-
If there was one thing he could change, it would be the hands on the clock.
He'd wind them back three hours, twenty-seven minutes and a handful of seconds, so that way, when his lunch shift rolled about in the form of a Lieutenant Leblanc who was busy arguing about which Tweedle was more bold than the other and which criminal that day sucked more – Alexei, obviously, because apparently Flynn didn't actually have a boyfriend and Yuri was dating some girl –, he would be able to slip away through the front door like a ghost, undetected and unseen and like ink in the night.
Across the streets he would hit the ground running, through the allies and over several chain link fences and pass the playgrounds with kids he never could convince Rita he hoped to have someday. He'd say, “We're getting older now... hasn't the thought ever crossed your mind?” and she would look so taken aback he said it often more out of mirth than seriousness nowadays, because who was he kidding, one was beyond enough.
He liked to think of it it as an exercise in the art of irritation, and at that, his skills were refined.
-
If there was one thing he wouldn't change, it'd be the evenings when silence was golden.
When he found the door locked and the light outside out, he knew he had succeeded in his scheme this time around. He fumbled for the key in his pocket and jammed it into the clock, cursing when his head bumped the heavy wood and his hands shook from exhaustion of working his body. The hinges croaked obtrusively like a dying man, and he recognized it for what it was with a heavy heart. When he pushed it open all the way, and the yellow lights from the long winding hallway of the apartment building filtered through room seven-o-one, the sight that greeted him was a pitiful one.
Across the floor, in the dark with only a single pillow behind her head and legs stretched out in the clothes he recalled she'd been wearing that morning, she was asleep on the couch, back to the door and hair damp from the shower, and he had to wonder just how long he'd kept her waiting.
There was a note on the floor, held down by a plate of food and words he was given only when she was most furious in front of the 'welcome' mat.
I don't care what happened, but you're sleeping alone tonight.
Jackass.
He may have found her scrawling handwriting cute at one time, but now, in this dim shade of light, it wasn't very adorable. Bending down and snatching up the note between two fingers, he folded it as quietly as he could and stuck it in his back pocket, and turned into the room with all the grace of a puppet at his left.
The night was cold without her and the bedroom lonely, though he supposed he'd brought it on himself.
-o-
If there was one thing she wouldn't change, it'd be the mornings when she woke.
Because when she stretched and her back cracked and her neck ached and her arms dangled off the side of the couch much in the manner of a carelessly tossed rag doll, an encompassing warmth would always make her hand tingle, send static jolts up her arm and down her spine like an electric feel.
She wouldn't look, because she knew all, and there was no point investigating a fundamental truth when she could feel that breath breezing past her ear, and that one leg stretched up in an unruly position to be resting strangely and heavily upon her own; her senses told her everything she needed to know, like, the fact that he wasn't in the bedroom...
Because whenever she woke in the morning, the dawn breaking softly and the streets outside calm and quiet, there were no words that ever needed to be spoken. A soft squeeze of the palm around hers, the ticking of the clock behind her head, and the tomorrow that had stolen the night away amidst the cushions...
There was no place for yesterday's when the past was past... no need for words or lips when she had hands and feet and eyes and he looked as apologetic and tired as a man ran rugged would after being told off by his darling and running through playgrounds.
“I'm still mad at you,” she'd mutter, and his hand would squeeze softly, a trace of warmth here and a tingle there as apathy would made itself known in the form of an extra body upon the couch.
“I know,” he'd always say, and she'd listen in silence to the soft chime of the clock as it counted down three hours, twenty-seven minutes, and a handful of seconds and soft breaths until the days was theirs to claim.
