Memes are delicious (but not del.icio.us).

[daygloparker]

Make up a title for a story I didn't write, and I will respond with details of aforementioned non-written story. You may, if you like include details such as pairings or fandom or whatnot.

I swear, it's all about writing!

Also, there's that anonymous constructive criticism writers snap cup thing. Um. Yes.

I haven't used this icon in a while. *

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yay post-"In the Wee Small Hours of the Night" Goren/Eames

[daygloparker]

Eames takes him to this bar (in Soho, where no one really at home or comfortable, and they drink more than they normally would) because she still thinks, maybe, maybe this will evaporate the weight of her words. That transfer request.

No, she takes him out because this case has been hard and they need this.

Time blurs, stands still, ceases to exist -- or something. They talk about nothing, about things that don't matter or never did or never will. At the bar, she sits and he stands next to her and they are just at eye level. When a stranger motions to the bartender for is attention and Bobby has to squeeze to the side so the man can retrieve his two gin and tonics, Eames can feel his hand on the small of her back. She tries to catch his eye but Bobby is looking at the stranger instead.

Her phone rings; by the bathroom is the only place she can find privacy. It's the Captain: they have a new body, a new case; back to grindstone, no rest of the weary. When she hangs up, she can feel her body swaying to the low, pulsing music and the air of expensive beer clouding her brain. She closes her eyes, hoping to hold onto this light, free feeling for just a second longer, before it's gone, and they're forced to walk back into the damp night .

It almost works. Except when her eyes open again, Bobby is towering over her. Looking concerned. Looking expectantly reluctant. Eames hates the reality that that transfer order unconvered - of the time before he could know things about her without asking.

"Central Park," she says, the question unasked. He nods solemnly. In the corner of her eye, she sees the stranger from the bar slipping that second gin and tonic to a very impressed brunette. Eames is jealous, if only for a split second.

They navigate the happy hour crowd deftly. Bobby lets her lead. She says nothing about the hand that's still in the small of her back.