Original Fic: "The Reunion," (1/1) PG, M/F
The Reunion
Author:
_beetle_/EthanMB365
Fandom: Original Fic
Pairing: M/F
Rating: PG
Word count: 924
Notes/Warnings: None.
Summary: Written for the prompt(s): Seeing someone after a long absence.
“Whaddaya know, Joe?”
Smiling, Joe Randolph finished tearing the slice of white bread into small pieces before reciting the oft-given response: “Not much, Sylvia. Not much.”
Sylvia laughed delightedly-God, how he’d missed her laugh!-and sat next to him on the peeling park bench. At their feet, undisturbed by Sylvia’s sudden appearance, the ducks jockeyed and jostled each other to get the first of the bread Joe threw down.
“It’s been a long time,” he noted mildly, chuckling as one mallard pecked vindictively at another that’d gotten a particularly large chunk of bread. “Thirty-three years.”
“Yes,” Sylvia said softly, softer than the spring breeze that blew around them. Joe could feel her gaze, as warm and gentle as early morning sunlight. “I never meant to leave you, Joey-Bear. But I did. And once I left, I just . . . couldn’t come back. You know how it is.”
Joe nodded. He knew exactly how it was. He didn’t understand why . . . but he knew what.
“It’s okay. I know you didn’t want to, but had to, anyway,” he said, looking away from the ducks and at his Sylvia at last. She hadn’t changed a bit: her wavy, dark hair, shot through with grey, was pulled up in an elegant, dignified chignon, but a quite a few stands had escaped their confinement, giving her a slightly mad-cap appearance. Her face, a very gracefully-aged sixty, was still keenly angled-almost vixen-like in shape, and her large, dark eyes were as clear and direct as ever. She gave off an air of being solemn and playful at the same time . . .equal parts melancholy and mischievousness.
She was wearing her favorite white party dress, the one with the lilacs on it . . . the one he’d last seen her in.
All in all, Sylvia Randolph was even lovelier than Joe remembered, and his heart sighed in a way it hadn’t in over two decades.
“You didn’t have to get all gussied up for me, y’know?” he joked, and as always, Sylvia laughed, bright and girlish.
“Oh, hush,” she murmured, snorting a little, but blushing, too. “It’s not every day my husband turns ninety-three. The least I could do was look pretty when I came to see him.”
“You always did,” Joe whispered, startled when he realized there were tears running down his face. But he was still smiling, and could only wipe them away wonderingly. More quickly took their place. “My best girl finally came back for me. I’ve been waitin’, Syl. Been waitin’ so long. For you. Trying to take deep breaths of my life and enjoy it . . . but it was so hard . . . especially at first. Hard, and hollow-lonely without you.”
“I know, Joe. I know.”
“But I did it. Thirty-three years since you left me, and I lived those days as best I could,” Joe swore earnestly, and Sylvia nodded, tears standing out in her own beautiful eyes, but not yet spilling over. “I did my best, but I’m tired, now.”
“Oh, Joey-Bear,” Sylvia said tenderly. The old nickname was as gentle as a caress. “I know. That’s why I’m here.” She stood up easily, but slowly, never taking her eyes from Joe’s. “It’s time, my love.”
Grinning, now, Joe was the one to nod, this time. He tossed the last scraps of the slice of bread down amongst the noisy, pushy ducks, and sat the bag with the rest on the ground by his feet so they could get to it.
Then he was wiping his wet face again, blinking up at Sylvia, who stood in a bright shaft of golden light despite the grey, overcast day. “So,” he said, not bothering to hide his anticipation. “What happens, next?”
Sylvia grinned her mischievous grin and held out her slim hand. “Next, you take my hand and we go home.”
Laughing, Joe took one final, deep breath and enjoyed it immensely . . . before letting it out with a happy sigh. “Sounds like a plan, Jan.”
Joe reached out and took Sylvia’s hand.
*
The old man on the park bench seemed to have fallen asleep.
At his feet, dozens of ducks squabbled and fought over the dropped bag of Wonder bread next to the old timer’s left foot.
It wasn’t till midmorning came, bearing the threat of showers, that another feeder of greedy ducks-one Stanley Hodgekiss-came strolling up and hailing the sleeping man by name. He received no answer, and it was only as he drew closer quietly, meaning to gently wake the older fellow, that someone finally noticed that Joe Randolph wasn’t breathing. . . .
“Oh, no,” Stanley moaned, wading through ducks and ducks to reach out and take his friend’s wrinkled hand. It was cool and utterly limp. Still. But there was a smile on Joe’s creased face, serene and content in a way Stanley had never seen it in life. “Oh, say it ain’t so, Joe.”
Stanley let go of Joe’s hand and wiped his eyes behind his thick glasses, never minding the smudges he left. And for a few brief moments, Stanley thought he heard the sound of a woman’s bright, lovely laughter coming from some distance behind him. Yet when he looked around, there was no one else within seeing-distance in this stretch of park. Stanley was quite alone.
Sitting heavily on the bench next to Joe, Stanley opened his own bag of bread-Arnold’s whole wheat-and began to feed the ducks.
END
Author:
_beetle_/EthanMB365
Fandom: Original Fic
Pairing: M/F
Rating: PG
Word count: 924
Notes/Warnings: None.
Summary: Written for the prompt(s): Seeing someone after a long absence.
“Whaddaya know, Joe?”
Smiling, Joe Randolph finished tearing the slice of white bread into small pieces before reciting the oft-given response: “Not much, Sylvia. Not much.”
Sylvia laughed delightedly-God, how he’d missed her laugh!-and sat next to him on the peeling park bench. At their feet, undisturbed by Sylvia’s sudden appearance, the ducks jockeyed and jostled each other to get the first of the bread Joe threw down.
“It’s been a long time,” he noted mildly, chuckling as one mallard pecked vindictively at another that’d gotten a particularly large chunk of bread. “Thirty-three years.”
“Yes,” Sylvia said softly, softer than the spring breeze that blew around them. Joe could feel her gaze, as warm and gentle as early morning sunlight. “I never meant to leave you, Joey-Bear. But I did. And once I left, I just . . . couldn’t come back. You know how it is.”
Joe nodded. He knew exactly how it was. He didn’t understand why . . . but he knew what.
“It’s okay. I know you didn’t want to, but had to, anyway,” he said, looking away from the ducks and at his Sylvia at last. She hadn’t changed a bit: her wavy, dark hair, shot through with grey, was pulled up in an elegant, dignified chignon, but a quite a few stands had escaped their confinement, giving her a slightly mad-cap appearance. Her face, a very gracefully-aged sixty, was still keenly angled-almost vixen-like in shape, and her large, dark eyes were as clear and direct as ever. She gave off an air of being solemn and playful at the same time . . .equal parts melancholy and mischievousness.
She was wearing her favorite white party dress, the one with the lilacs on it . . . the one he’d last seen her in.
All in all, Sylvia Randolph was even lovelier than Joe remembered, and his heart sighed in a way it hadn’t in over two decades.
“You didn’t have to get all gussied up for me, y’know?” he joked, and as always, Sylvia laughed, bright and girlish.
“Oh, hush,” she murmured, snorting a little, but blushing, too. “It’s not every day my husband turns ninety-three. The least I could do was look pretty when I came to see him.”
“You always did,” Joe whispered, startled when he realized there were tears running down his face. But he was still smiling, and could only wipe them away wonderingly. More quickly took their place. “My best girl finally came back for me. I’ve been waitin’, Syl. Been waitin’ so long. For you. Trying to take deep breaths of my life and enjoy it . . . but it was so hard . . . especially at first. Hard, and hollow-lonely without you.”
“I know, Joe. I know.”
“But I did it. Thirty-three years since you left me, and I lived those days as best I could,” Joe swore earnestly, and Sylvia nodded, tears standing out in her own beautiful eyes, but not yet spilling over. “I did my best, but I’m tired, now.”
“Oh, Joey-Bear,” Sylvia said tenderly. The old nickname was as gentle as a caress. “I know. That’s why I’m here.” She stood up easily, but slowly, never taking her eyes from Joe’s. “It’s time, my love.”
Grinning, now, Joe was the one to nod, this time. He tossed the last scraps of the slice of bread down amongst the noisy, pushy ducks, and sat the bag with the rest on the ground by his feet so they could get to it.
Then he was wiping his wet face again, blinking up at Sylvia, who stood in a bright shaft of golden light despite the grey, overcast day. “So,” he said, not bothering to hide his anticipation. “What happens, next?”
Sylvia grinned her mischievous grin and held out her slim hand. “Next, you take my hand and we go home.”
Laughing, Joe took one final, deep breath and enjoyed it immensely . . . before letting it out with a happy sigh. “Sounds like a plan, Jan.”
Joe reached out and took Sylvia’s hand.
*
The old man on the park bench seemed to have fallen asleep.
At his feet, dozens of ducks squabbled and fought over the dropped bag of Wonder bread next to the old timer’s left foot.
It wasn’t till midmorning came, bearing the threat of showers, that another feeder of greedy ducks-one Stanley Hodgekiss-came strolling up and hailing the sleeping man by name. He received no answer, and it was only as he drew closer quietly, meaning to gently wake the older fellow, that someone finally noticed that Joe Randolph wasn’t breathing. . . .
“Oh, no,” Stanley moaned, wading through ducks and ducks to reach out and take his friend’s wrinkled hand. It was cool and utterly limp. Still. But there was a smile on Joe’s creased face, serene and content in a way Stanley had never seen it in life. “Oh, say it ain’t so, Joe.”
Stanley let go of Joe’s hand and wiped his eyes behind his thick glasses, never minding the smudges he left. And for a few brief moments, Stanley thought he heard the sound of a woman’s bright, lovely laughter coming from some distance behind him. Yet when he looked around, there was no one else within seeing-distance in this stretch of park. Stanley was quite alone.
Sitting heavily on the bench next to Joe, Stanley opened his own bag of bread-Arnold’s whole wheat-and began to feed the ducks.
END