[Fic] gw500 prompt - Crank, Driven Man
Title: Driven Man
Author: lil_1337
Pairing/Characters: Trowa
Rating: G
Word count: 781
Warnings/Kinks: Angst
Summary: For the gw500 prompt crank.
Disclaimer: Trowa belongs to himself and I don't have enough of a death wish to claim otherwise.
The car was a classic. Beyond that actually, as it had moved well into the realm of antique. The windshield was the type that folded down and it still had the original crank used to start the engine. The metal was polished to a mirror like sheen which made it stood out from the darker material of front grill. On the floor next to it lay a pile of cement and wooden timbers that had once been a part of the ceiling and wall, but other than a layer of dust the car remained untouched; a symbol of an earlier and possibly better time.
Without thinking, Trowa ducked under the velvet rope that had protected the vehicle from the unclean hands of the public when the museum was still open to the public. He circled the vehicle wiping his hands on the mostly clean legs of his jeans in lieu of running them over the priceless automobile. Here and there small rocks and chunks of cement were strewn across his path, but he stepped over and around them without even consciously registering their existence. There was something about the sleek machine, an innovative wonder when it was built, that spoke to a part of himself that was locked deep in soul.
Like most cars from that time this one was painted a glossy black and had been lovingly restored back to the original condition. It was a sporty coup with a front and back bench seat covered with hand stitched leather. The running board which was almost the length of the car was wide enough to actually stand on. Everything about it screamed luxury and indulgence a disconcerting contrast to the utilitarian vehicles Trowa was used to seeing. Somehow, the knowledge that it was meant for pleasure not work gave it a higher value through he could not have said why.
Next to the driver's side was a display that explained the history of the automobile and how the museum had come to own this specific specimen. To one side hung two long coats, a woman's hat and a man's aviator cap which was topped by a set of worn goggles. Protective clothing the placard read, was necessary in the early days of automotive ownership. The roads were all dirt and even slow speeds kicked up gravel and dust as well as resulting in unfortunate collisions with insects and the occasional bird.
It was the goggles that made him pause and take a second look. As he stared at them willing himself to understand the reasons he could not pull his eyes away his stomach contracted painfully sending waves of nausea through him. For a minute Trowa was sure he would vomit the little breakfast he had eaten all over the damaged tile. The temperature of the room seemed to shoot up then drop like a proverbial lead balloon. Trowa wrapped his arms around himself hunching over and making himself as small as possible while still remaining on his feet. The shock wave of emotional backlash from something he could not remember hit him sending him reeling in the direction of the car. He worked the handle on the door until it took pity on him and opened; allowing him refuge on the spotless back seat.
Curled into a ball on the cold leather Trowa tried to calm himself. Instinctively he reached for a sense of equilibrium that had eluded him since he had regained consciousness to find his memory missing. There was something just out of his reach that he needed. Something that sat at the core of his very being that he needed to recover if he was ever going to know who he was. Whatever it was remained lost in the cloud of mist obscured rock walls that blocked his access to the things his mind was trying to protect him from. Unfortunately those same walls let through just enough information to cause him to react to things, places, and people without knowing why.
No longer shaking, but still cold Trowa lay on the seat and listened to the sound of his own breathing mixing with that of rain beginning to fall. It splashed through the bombed out roof making puddles of mud on broken floor. Hunger slowly replaced fear and it drove him from his temporary berth reminding him why he had risked entering the mostly demolished building in the first place. Hopefully there would be food or money, possibly both, left behind in the museum's cafe. If not he would be back out in the rain searching, always searching, for something to fill his belly and whatever if was that lingered just out of his reach.
Author: lil_1337
Pairing/Characters: Trowa
Rating: G
Word count: 781
Warnings/Kinks: Angst
Summary: For the gw500 prompt crank.
Disclaimer: Trowa belongs to himself and I don't have enough of a death wish to claim otherwise.
The car was a classic. Beyond that actually, as it had moved well into the realm of antique. The windshield was the type that folded down and it still had the original crank used to start the engine. The metal was polished to a mirror like sheen which made it stood out from the darker material of front grill. On the floor next to it lay a pile of cement and wooden timbers that had once been a part of the ceiling and wall, but other than a layer of dust the car remained untouched; a symbol of an earlier and possibly better time.
Without thinking, Trowa ducked under the velvet rope that had protected the vehicle from the unclean hands of the public when the museum was still open to the public. He circled the vehicle wiping his hands on the mostly clean legs of his jeans in lieu of running them over the priceless automobile. Here and there small rocks and chunks of cement were strewn across his path, but he stepped over and around them without even consciously registering their existence. There was something about the sleek machine, an innovative wonder when it was built, that spoke to a part of himself that was locked deep in soul.
Like most cars from that time this one was painted a glossy black and had been lovingly restored back to the original condition. It was a sporty coup with a front and back bench seat covered with hand stitched leather. The running board which was almost the length of the car was wide enough to actually stand on. Everything about it screamed luxury and indulgence a disconcerting contrast to the utilitarian vehicles Trowa was used to seeing. Somehow, the knowledge that it was meant for pleasure not work gave it a higher value through he could not have said why.
Next to the driver's side was a display that explained the history of the automobile and how the museum had come to own this specific specimen. To one side hung two long coats, a woman's hat and a man's aviator cap which was topped by a set of worn goggles. Protective clothing the placard read, was necessary in the early days of automotive ownership. The roads were all dirt and even slow speeds kicked up gravel and dust as well as resulting in unfortunate collisions with insects and the occasional bird.
It was the goggles that made him pause and take a second look. As he stared at them willing himself to understand the reasons he could not pull his eyes away his stomach contracted painfully sending waves of nausea through him. For a minute Trowa was sure he would vomit the little breakfast he had eaten all over the damaged tile. The temperature of the room seemed to shoot up then drop like a proverbial lead balloon. Trowa wrapped his arms around himself hunching over and making himself as small as possible while still remaining on his feet. The shock wave of emotional backlash from something he could not remember hit him sending him reeling in the direction of the car. He worked the handle on the door until it took pity on him and opened; allowing him refuge on the spotless back seat.
Curled into a ball on the cold leather Trowa tried to calm himself. Instinctively he reached for a sense of equilibrium that had eluded him since he had regained consciousness to find his memory missing. There was something just out of his reach that he needed. Something that sat at the core of his very being that he needed to recover if he was ever going to know who he was. Whatever it was remained lost in the cloud of mist obscured rock walls that blocked his access to the things his mind was trying to protect him from. Unfortunately those same walls let through just enough information to cause him to react to things, places, and people without knowing why.
No longer shaking, but still cold Trowa lay on the seat and listened to the sound of his own breathing mixing with that of rain beginning to fall. It splashed through the bombed out roof making puddles of mud on broken floor. Hunger slowly replaced fear and it drove him from his temporary berth reminding him why he had risked entering the mostly demolished building in the first place. Hopefully there would be food or money, possibly both, left behind in the museum's cafe. If not he would be back out in the rain searching, always searching, for something to fill his belly and whatever if was that lingered just out of his reach.