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> post a prompt, picture, or blank comment with a character request
> au's are cool
> we thread shit
> post a prompt, picture, or blank comment with a character request
> au's are cool
> we thread shit
> post a prompt, picture, or blank comment with a character request
> au's are cool
> we thread shit
A MILLION YEARS LATER IT'S AU TIME
He was an up-and-coming blitzer, getting to a forward position on the Luca Goers through talent and sheer bullheadedness, and then winning a skeptical crowd over with his bombastic personality. She was...well, she was a world-saving hero/sphere hunter who happened to be in the city during his first game. That was a little more impressive he'd maybe admit and maybe that cool job and heroic status made her a little more attractive to Sannto. Along with all the other obvious reasons to be attracted.
Every time he found out the Gullwings were in Luca, he'd drop everything (even practice to his teammate's dismay) and go out to see her. Flirting in a successful, non-embarrassing way wasn't his strong suit, and it took a couple of failed attempts before they decided to try a relationship. Long-distance mainly, yeah, but every once in a while...
Today was one of those-once-in-a-whiles. Sannto was at their meeting spot, crammed uncomfortably into a chair at the Luca cafe - he sometimes wondered why he was so big compared to everyone else in Spira, but then decided it was because was just that great and awesome - drumming his fingers on a table and keeping an eye on the door.]
I LOVE AU TIME
So yes, it was completely by chance that she had met Santo.
He'd caught her eye his first match, with his loud taunts and flair for the dramatic. She'd had to meet him. And after a few weeks, she couldn't count the number of times she'd drifted off to daydream while she was supposed to be piloting the ship. That had been the very first sign for her that she should at least meet him. One thing had led to another, and now she's waltzing into the cafe only twenty minutes late, a self-assured smile on her lips. She slides into the chair across from him, and props her chin on one hand.]
Hey there, stranger.
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Oh, hey! I was wondering if I was in the right place for a bit. I don't really, y'know. Come here that often. [Wait, that makes him sound dumb.] But, uh, really I totally knew you were just going to be fashionably late, yeah. Because you're fashionable.
[Saved it.]
Uh, how have you been?
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Good. But spherehunting can be lonely work.
[Not really, she has an entire team to work with, but whatever. She's just trying to be coy.]
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Sannto's eyes widen as he realizes that this is also flirting. He clears his throat.]
I mean, I would love to go with you too if I wasn't, y'know. Needed here. And keep you company. As much company as you want. [Yeah that grin is pretty suggestive.]
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I think I could use some company right now.
[This is followed by a suggestively raised eyebrow. She isn't really an exhibitionist okay.]
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And he really, really likes that.]
Well, uh, I'm giving you that right now, unless you mean...private company? [Is that a thing? He hopes that's a thing.]
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Yeah, private company sounds about right.
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We, can, uh. [He's talking quieter, at least.] We can go to my place, if you want.
[And he's more than ready to take her there as soon as she agrees.]
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Lead the way.
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Here it is. Not as nice as what you're used to, probably, but I-
[He stops abruptly and scoots over to a shelf, trying to hide the Cait Sith doll sitting on it behind his body and using a hand behind his back to knock it off into the space behind.
He's so bad at this.]
-Y'know. It's home.
TEN YEARS LATER I'M SO SORRY
With a laugh, she moves forward to throw her arms around his neck.]
It's perfect.
IT'S OKAY I AM ALSO TEN YEARS LATER
So, is this more like the company you were thinking of? [His hands move a little bit lower.]
we age like a fine wine ok
Rikku trails her hands across his neck and then up into his hair, still grinning.]
It's like you read my mind.
OKAY BUT ACTUALLY FOR REAL A MILLION YEARS LATER
[And that's when he moves to kiss her. It's clumsy and eager, lips pressing against her's and almost asking for approval before he goes any further.]
YAY
I think it's a great one.
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Kuut. [He says it clearly before turning that press into a real kiss, his tongue slipping past her lips, body pressing harder against her's. And of course, his hands slipping around and lower, squeezing. It's only surprising he waited this long.]
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ms. hooper, svp! here a lazy prompt you may feel absolutely free to ignore:
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question ...
nice. lemme know if this is ok
A friend who had to leave and wake up early in the morning, two too many glasses of wine, and her car keys taken by the bartender are the exact mix for Molly experiencing the London nightlife like she hadn't since her university days. Smiles and loud music, all of it so overwhelming that she has to step outside, fishing her phone from her handbag. In this moment, inhibitions are a thing of the past. A worry for tomorrow-Molly. Tonight, she has no fear. No worries.
And no food in her stomach. The text is simple, but she doesn't think she'd ever be able to send it anywhere but outside some old pub downtown at last call.]
Are you hungry?
[Because she assumes he's up. He's always up.]
it is perfection <3
From where he sits, ensconced on his throne at their humble kitchen table, he frowns down at his mobile, at the deceptively simple string of words displayed on the small screen. Almost elegant, the efficiency: three words, one name, so much information.
He senses that, if nothing else, this is perhaps not the time for perfect honesty, contrary to his wont. Hunger is too simple a metric.]
Where?
[It's easier to sidestep the complexity of the question entirely. His sense of it is too vague; he's been set on the back foot and doesn't entirely know why, nor does he care for the sensation. Perhaps it's that it's Molly, whose affection for him he'd been so ready to exploit when there had seemed some benefit in it for him. There's no benefit here, and yet, another compulsion: something suspiciously like concern. Those are paths he's not thoroughly negotiated yet, much less mapped, and here remains one of the circumstances in which he is not enamored by the unknown.
Still. Still. Oddly, perhaps, the obligation remains. Contrary to popular belief, it seems, and even to his own, he's not utterly incapable of being generous.]
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But she knows, even with the buzz still going strong, that there's nothing convenient about her text. And yet, he's replied. And she finds her fingers automatically typing out a response, as if it's one of her schoolmates, as if this is normal. Were she entirely sober, it might make her laugh at the absurdity of the situation. But right now, it just makes her grin, toothy and wide.]
Balans. Soho Cafe.
[A cab is easy to hail: a woman alone in a going-out dress is an easy fare, one who only wants one of two things--to go home or get food. As the latter, the cabbie takes his time, drives a little slower. Molly doesn't even pay attention, glassed-over eyes staring at the London lights out the window. She can't remember the last time she felt so at ease. The last time she didn't second-guess her decisions regarding him. If he doesn't show up, it'll be easier to act as if it doesn't bother her and, eventually, fall back into the lull of acceptance. If he does--
Well, she doesn't really think about what she'll do if they end up at a table together. Since she read his text, it hasn't crossed her mind that he'll actually show.]
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[Though God knows why. He's hashed out the reasoning as far as he dares but that doesn't help abolish entirely the impression that he ought not have responded at all. Pretended to be asleep.
Played dead.
It isn't, after all, his business. Is it?
At what stage, he wonders vaguely as he loops his scarf about his neck and makes for the door, does it become his business? Not just her safety, which he knows is as much in danger as anyone else's in the city at night (that is to say, terribly and not at all, dependent on the roll of a die), but something much further out of his depth: her well-being.
Not something he's traditionally safeguarded, that. Not something he's adept at safeguarding, even when it occurs to him to do so. She's not alone in that regard, but she is... different. Not in his opinion of her, but rather in her opinion of him. She won't be shaken off. Takes any scrap of kindness hungrily, and begs for more. It's pathetic, oddly repellent.
It reminds him of himself. The realisation is a slap in the face, and he draws himself up straighter in the back seat of the cab, gaze turning from the window to the screen of his mobile. It's sympathy. Pity. Anger. She's got no business reminding him of himself: they couldn't be more different.]
what occasion
[Obviously not a celebration. Sherlock is more suited to playing the specter at the wedding than anything else - thankfully, as it usually exempts him from attending them.]
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She pays the driver, tips generously, and waves her way into the building. It's still bustling, no surprise, but she's whisked to a table and orders just one more glass of wine--what could it hurt? She relaxes into the chair, pulling out her mobile and considering his latest message for a few moments.
It strikes her that Sherlock has probably done very little in his life without an occasion prompting him. Occasions are logical, and logic drives him. But this choice, for him, doesn't seem to be logical. It interests her, and makes her more willing to question it. Her fingers don't hesitate as she types, and her wine arrives just in time for her to take a sip after hitting send.]
Why does there need to be one?
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[It's just not always a happy one, nor is it necessarily a formal one. In fact, if he's been invited, it probably isn't -- though with her, of course, that rule may not apply. Thus the necessity of the question: he has, quite frankly, no clue what he's agreeing to. It is an agreement, whether couched in those terms or not, and he's more used to flouting those agreements than entertaining them.
What he means, though, more than anything is: nobody acts out of character without reason. And it is, this: he knows her well enough to know that much. As though it weren't obvious, utterly obvious, dress sense to the styling of her hair to demeanour to career. Anyone who chooses the company of the dead isn't someone who gets on very smoothly with the living. He knows. He knows, settles back into his seat with a sigh, checks the time. The city slips by.
It's all so inane. There's an undercurrent of strangeness, though, and it draws him on, even through the usual late-night, no-case restlessness. God forbid John should ever find out about it, though. He'd never hear the end. And it isn't, it really isn't what it might very well look to someone on the outside, particularly someone inclined to take the piss. It's much more complicated than that.]
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Out of character to be out, maybe, but being alone is par for the course. Even in the morgue, she's always preferred to work solo. Corpses don't judge, and they're good listeners--a mindset that's probably lent itself to her... quiet lifestyle. But it's easy for her to consider this a common ground between her and Sherlock. He doesn't get on with people, even really the ones he chooses to spend his time with. She thinks to herself that if she ever suggested they were similar to his face, he would be incredulous, galled. She laughs to herself at the thought, earning a gentle, knowing look from two tables over.
She ponders her phone for a few moments, taking a couple sips of wine.]
We'll pick one when you get here.
[Bold. Bit it seems right tonight.]
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The rest is easy. More or less his element. Amazing how easy it is to move through the world with good gloves and a nice coat, to render oneself a walking bastion, safe haven for one, a world contained. It would be patently untrue to say that he's never needed other people though he's perfectly happy to say so all the same, but it's astonishing how many people, in spite of it all, seem to need him. At least there's wool and leather to guide his way, shield all sorts of sensitivities from anything that might offend.
Well, nearly anything. Cool to warm, through the door into a whirl of quiet conversation, people people people, and all the abhorrent messiness they carry with them. If he could block every last one of them out, he would, but the problem with setting a tangled mind running more or less straight is that the process requires acceptance, openness to every last bit of it, all the information. Information, of course -- most people don't know this, but Sherlock senses it implicitly -- is chaos. Entropy. The higher the randomness, the more information a message contains. The less predictability, the more it takes to process, the higher the amount, the greater the potential. Cryptographers know it. Any detective worth his salt knows it too. In white noise, the echoes of the birth pangs of the universe.
At least there's Molly Hooper. Startlingly mundane. Relatively predictable. Dull, dull, dull. He appreciates it. Truly he does. In spite of the kit, just her, wallflower drab, relentlessly comforting in a way which of course he can never simply accept. At times he despises her. Mostly, though, he despises himself.]
High and dry, then. Well.
[A conceding gesture. High, anyway. Dry a stretch. All the same, the signs are all there. Not a date, not made up enough, certainly not despondent enough. All the same: she's dressed up for someone, friend, relatively speaking. Friend absent. Him here. Any idiot could connect the dots.]
Clever, networking insomniacs.
[Him, that is. Filling in. God knows why.]
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When she finally sees him, Molly can't help but stare. She didn't... actually plan what she'd do once he arrived. Now that he's here, all angles and wool, she's left gripping her phone, sort of wishing he was still on the other side of it instead of right in front of her. Because now, she doesn't know what to say. So before he gets to her, she downs the rest of her glass of wine and braces herself. Deep breath, Mols. You invited him here, so you can at least make it worth his while. Somehow.
Besides, he's already here. It wouldn't make any sense for him to just turn around and go straight back home.
Molly smiles like she never does at the morgue. It's an easier smile, a more genuine, less nervous one. The alcohol's helped, but so does the belief that he's unlikely to just up and leave. She hopes, at least. Molly leans back in her chair and crosses her arms.]
I'm a clever girl who knows a lot of them.
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[A quirk of the eyebrow, a concession: in her line of work, no doubt she does. No doubt she succumbs occasionally herself, out of necessity, habit. He pulls the chair opposite her away from the table and sinks into it, not bothering to remove his coat but all the same not looking for the moment as though he's apt to abruptly vacate his seat again.]
Who's the last resort, then?
[As though a colleague out for a bit of late-night gossip, which he very nearly is in fact, though it's her he's attempting to sort out and not who's drawn the shortest of straws in her regard -- not that he isn't genuinely curious, or that he's ever far from being up for a bit of fun at someone else's expense. Generosity, kindness; they are in his repertoire but he saves them for special occasions. For people who deserve them. Sometimes not even them. Case in point.
He rests his elbows on the table and folds his hands, resting his chin atop them. Etiquette has never held much stock with him either. He favours a sort of warped transparency: here he is, and listening. Unlikely, perhaps, to be hurt if it turns out that he is that last resort, though given their history he rather doubts that. It really ought to be the case, were she as clever as she's proclaiming. It's funny, though -- a small handful of startlingly clever people do seem to... well. Like him perhaps isn't the word. Tolerate him. Use him towards an end. Most people wouldn't be willing to do even that much, and so the being used doesn't particularly bother him. It would be hypocritical, in any case. He uses them right back.]
i am so, so sorry for the delay
Someone already home in bed.
[Maybe she'd called them, maybe she hadn't. But the answer might be too obvious by the slight twinge of hurt on her face--she'd been ditched. Dumped like old scrubs that no longer fit or maybe had seen too much wear and tear to be considered acceptable work attire. And she knows that it makes exactly no sense that in such a state, she had thought to text him. Not clever in the least.
So she diverts, reaching for the menu and sliding it across the table towards him. She looks down at her empty glass before forcing herself to look into his eyes again. Molly smiles, insisting.]
You came because you were hungry, didn't you?
[An out for him, but also a slightly heavier question than intended.]
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None of that is, of course, important, but he makes an effort to look as though he might at least be considering eating. It doesn't last. He's a terribly good liar, but only when he wants to be. Heart has to be in it -- and so away it slides again, finding some middle ground between them, setting a dividing line on the table. Separate courts, but nothing in play.]
No.
[There's not much in that. Flat tone. It could have been offended, could have been sympathetic, but isn't. Matter-of-fact. There it is. No.
A better man -- a kinder man, perhaps a cleverer man -- would give a better answer, a gentler answer. A reason, a real reason, but in truth he doesn't have one, not one that's easily untangled and woven into words and even less one to which he'd really care to admit.
Though maybe one part of it is obvious in his sudden, matching discomfiture: it would have been easier to have been the last resort. Maybe on some level he had really anticipated being it. Nowhere else to turn -- that would make his role obvious. Make him useful, reasonably. Spare them both the difficulty of trying to navigate the far rockier straits of genuine companionship.
Friendship has never really been, that is to say, his strongest point.]
Bit late for a meal.
[He steeples his fingers under his chin, eyeing her levelly. Neither his tone nor his expression imply judgment, but instead curiosity. Bit late. What's the occasion?
Sherlock Holmes doesn't ask how are you, not unless he wants something. They both know it -- she, in fact, has more experience in the matter than most -- and so he isn't. Not directly. Not outright.]
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And yet, here they are. Up late, not eating, and together. She still can't entirely make sense of it, so she decides to stop trying to. It's the only conclusion she can draw, the only thing that comes to mind when she tries to process this situation. She'll enjoy it while it lasts, and try not to question it until the morning. It only takes moments for Molly to convince herself that this is a good course of action, one that will in no way backfire or harm her in any way.
The conviction is only skin deep, but it'll do for now. Skin deep is all she needs to catch the waiter's eye and hold up her wine glass with one hand, and two fingers with the other. There is no room for protests, no room for second guessing. The order is placed, the waiter disappears, and she turns her gaze back to him, a small smile at her lips.]
You're right. [Of course. He's almost always right, and even when he isn't, there's still a grain of truth. She thinks of Christmas, of her dress and the cute little silver bow she'd put in her hair. Her present for him, his ranting. A grain of truth that dug its way into her brain and hasn't quite made its way out yet.] But the perfect time for drinks.