Scene At Dawn
Mar. 28th, 2009 09:34 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rhia_starsongThis is old news to just about anyone who on my flist who's known me since I started this journal, but strangely, I don't think it's ever been posted here. To avoid spamming you all,
Scene At Dawn: Prologue
swish-thunk. swish-thunk. The sleet driving in makes driving out nearly impossible, but sometimes impossible’s a necessity. Sitting in the driver’s seat of his ‘93 Dodge Dart heading toward the hotel to meet the others, he doesn’t need to glance over at the man in the passenger seat. He knows from experience the other man’s tie will be loose, his dark hair slightly mussed, and he will have his rimless glasses on as he makes notes on his laptop. This is not the first late-night car-write they’ve done, though admittedly the Virginia winter is a little harsh this year. Third straight day of nasty frigidity, and the campaign trail makes it even more miserable. Polish the silver, polish the gilt words; and now he does look over at his driving companion. Returning his eyes to the road, he is unprepared for the solid pavement which had been reliably whooshing beneath his tires to be replaced with nothingness—no traction, wild spinning, oh god, there’s a pole up there—
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Scene At Dawn
And before he can stop it, his right hand reaches out to brush the dark hair off the younger man's forehead. Despite being slightly damp from the sheen of sweat on his brow—it couldn't still be blood from the accident, could it? Oh, God, he's not still bleeding, please; but then his own fingers, paused mid-motion, would be red and sticky, and they're not—despite the sweat-damp, the other man's hair is very soft; surprisingly so. Or it would have been surprising if he'd ever consciously thought about it before now, which he hadn't. Oh, no, not him; he wasn't going there, absolutely not— So he stood there with his hand halfway through the gesture; realising this, he finished running his hand but not his thoughts. When had he let this man get close to him, become important to him? This thought had been worrying him for the past six hours like a horse looking for sugar lumps; and he still has no answer for it. Just, here, at dawn, the scene plays itself out to its silent not-end as the sun finds him caring, again.
ETA: Should probably add that these are WIP fic for The West Wing. I really do need to write the third one, once I figure out what it is.
x-posted to slash_n_stuff
Scene At Dawn: Prologue
swish-thunk. swish-thunk. The sleet driving in makes driving out nearly impossible, but sometimes impossible’s a necessity. Sitting in the driver’s seat of his ‘93 Dodge Dart heading toward the hotel to meet the others, he doesn’t need to glance over at the man in the passenger seat. He knows from experience the other man’s tie will be loose, his dark hair slightly mussed, and he will have his rimless glasses on as he makes notes on his laptop. This is not the first late-night car-write they’ve done, though admittedly the Virginia winter is a little harsh this year. Third straight day of nasty frigidity, and the campaign trail makes it even more miserable. Polish the silver, polish the gilt words; and now he does look over at his driving companion. Returning his eyes to the road, he is unprepared for the solid pavement which had been reliably whooshing beneath his tires to be replaced with nothingness—no traction, wild spinning, oh god, there’s a pole up there—
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Scene At Dawn
And before he can stop it, his right hand reaches out to brush the dark hair off the younger man's forehead. Despite being slightly damp from the sheen of sweat on his brow—it couldn't still be blood from the accident, could it? Oh, God, he's not still bleeding, please; but then his own fingers, paused mid-motion, would be red and sticky, and they're not—despite the sweat-damp, the other man's hair is very soft; surprisingly so. Or it would have been surprising if he'd ever consciously thought about it before now, which he hadn't. Oh, no, not him; he wasn't going there, absolutely not— So he stood there with his hand halfway through the gesture; realising this, he finished running his hand but not his thoughts. When had he let this man get close to him, become important to him? This thought had been worrying him for the past six hours like a horse looking for sugar lumps; and he still has no answer for it. Just, here, at dawn, the scene plays itself out to its silent not-end as the sun finds him caring, again.
ETA: Should probably add that these are WIP fic for The West Wing. I really do need to write the third one, once I figure out what it is.
x-posted to slash_n_stuff
