(no subject)
Title: New York Rule 0.5. PREQUEL.
Rating: PG13 (Cert15ish.)
Pairing: General, features Chris/Zoe fag-hag-ness. <3
Word count: 1760
Don't know, don't own, no money made.
Summary: The story of how the post-apocalyptic situation in New York Rule came about. Zoe and Chris banter. The world ends. Neeeext!
I just wrote this as a writing exercise for MYSELF to keep me interested in and writing for NYR. School is wild, (Paper on Oedipus due Thursday? Uhhhh... I never read Oedipus...) so, it's going slowly, but, I diiiid write this! :D Nottt vital in conjunction with the story.
If you read, please comment and let me know. :)
“I’d probably marry a woman I met named Candace.”
“What? Like, just some random woman you met who happened to be named Candace?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“No, you wouldn’t, I wouldn’t allow it.”
Zoë laughed, turning her head to the right to look up at Chris, raising a brow. “You can’t tell me what to do, Christopher Whitelaw Pine! I’m a grown woman.”
“I’m a medical professional. Getting married to a random woman you meet, simply because she has the same name as what you call your precious motorcycle is most definitely unhealthy. For your bank account too.”
Zoë considered this for a long moment, before nodding. “Yeah, okay. I get that.” She sat up, lifting her head from Chris’ stomach. “But I’d at least nail her.”
Zoë dropped her helmet down on the café table, sighing. She combed her fingers through her long black hair and settled down into the seat across from her friend, immediately leaning over and picking up his orange juice, taking a long sip. “Oh, this is good. How did you find this little place?”
Chris stared at her, fork halfway to his mouth. He set his fork back down on his plate, and picked up her black and red helmet, setting it on the hardwood floor, as quietly as he could. Zoë seemed not to notice, as she slipped a compact out of her pocket to fix her hair in. She shrugged off the form-concealing black leather jacket, letting it sink down around her waist in the seat. Finally, she looked up, feeling Chris’ eyes fixed on her.
“What? Do I have something on my face? My hair does not look that bad, so don’t you even fuck-“
Chris grabbed her wrist across the table quickly, eyes growing wide as he glanced around. Much of the other activity in the café had ceased. “Zoë, Jesus Christ, everyone is staring at you.” He hissed.
She looked to her right, where much of the brunch crowd sat around their tables. She flashed them a dazzling smile, adjusting her loose, white tank top, hands smoothing over her black corduroy pants. The smile was apparently enough, looked sweet enough, innocent enough, to appease the other diners into returning their attention to each other. “You’re such a goddamn biker-dyke. And it’s so obvious, even in New York.”
The brunette glared at him, raising a brow. “Don’t be such a fucking WASP, Doctor Pine, please.” She scoffed.
“I’m not a doctor yet.” Chris muttered sullenly, picking up a piece of toast.
The waiter appeared then next to their table, a meek, skittish-looking blonde, who Zoë quickly assessed as a med student, or law student, judging by how stick-thin she was, and she fought the urge to demand the girl eat everything the restaurant had to offer. But instead, she just gave the girl another brilliant smile, setting Chris’ orange juice back down in front of him, ordering a glass of water. “I think I need another minute with the menu, love.” The frail young thing- JENNY, her nametag declared in all-caps block print- just nodded quickly and blushed at the pet name. It almost made Zoë coo- she looked like she’d break into a million fucking pieces any second. But she just pocketed her tiny order folio and disappeared into the kitchen.
“Aww, how cute is she?” Chris started in immediately, picking up his orange juice as Zoë scanned her menu. She quickly shook her head, lifting a hand to him, ceasing further comment.
“No, no. I know what you’re going to say.” She raised her voice a few notes higher than usual to imitate him. “‘Zo’, I bet you could get her number! You guys would look so cute together, oh my god!’” Her voice dropped to her normal tone, glaring at him over her menu. “Two weeks later, I’m dealing with some fucking college kid who just kissed a girl for the first time, wants to pack up all her shit, move in, and have me meet her parents. No. I’m not doing it anymore. But you can continue to do it all you want, I know how you love straight men, especially married ones.”
“Oh, that was fucking harsh, you cruel cunt. Paul was a fluke in the system. And he and his wife have since reconciled, thank you very much.” He narrowed his eyes, taking a long drink of his orange juice. “Besides, had I known he was married, I never would’ve fucked him. Scout’s honour.”
“Please, we both know there have been other Pauls, so don’t even try that shit with me.”
A noise like a bass boom, and just as encompassing as one, erupted around them, causing many of the patrons, Zoë included, to scream and slam their hands to their ears. What felt like waves of pressure washed over them, causing things to fall from the table, to clatter to the floor and break, glasses to shatter. Then, it was over, just as suddenly as it started. Zoë didn’t stand from her seat, like some other people had, her hands still pressed over her ears, tears sliding down her cheeks.
Chris slowly lowered his palms from his own ears, opening his eyes. The lights in the café were dead, the only illumination from the front windows. But that wasn’t Chris’ concern. He pushed back from the table as fast as possible, moving around to Zoë. He grabbed her wrists, and she finally looked up at him. The pain he saw in her face almost made him reel back. “Zoë… talk to me, please, what’s wrong? Zoë. Zoë, talk to me.” He tried to pull her arms down from her head so she could hear him. She whimpered, but lowered her hands.
Blood trickled from her ears, down the side of her face. “Oh, my god… Zoë…” He breathed, eyes growing wide.
“Chris. I can’t hear you. I can’t hear you at all.” She yelled, grabbing for his hands. He held hers in his, squeezing them tightly, to try to soothe her.
His attention turned to the other people in the restaurant as the lighting grew less and less. The café was cast in blue and gray, and Chris could see people on the streets standing, rising from where they’d fallen when the initial impact hit. He watched as they all looked skywards, at the dark clouds creeping in to shut out the May sun. Diners moved to the front windows, some of them with their palms pressed against the glass, all with eyes wide and locked above.
Chris made an impulsive decision, a spur-of-the-moment decision.
Something controlled him, drove him, told him where they were wasn’t safe. But he was the only one who got that feeling. He crouched down, scooping Zoë’s helmet off the floor, pulling her to her feet from the chair. She was dizzy, barely able to focus on him, as he lead her by the wrist to the door. He draped her black coat over her shoulders, ignoring the cries of protest from the people by the windows as he rushed forward.
“You can’t go out there!”
“What if there’s been a terrorist attack?!”
“You could be killed!”
“You’re walking into death, son!”
“It’s the apocalypse!”
Chris ignored them all and pushed open the door to the street, dragging Zoë behind him. Immediately, heat hit him, and he turned and pushed the coat off her shoulders, leaving it on the ground where it fell. He dug through her pants pockets, using an arm around her waist to stabilize the dazed girl. People around them on the streets stood still and silent, watching the chaos above. It was like they were hypnotized, like they were vacant shells, mannequins. He finally held up the keys to her apple-red Suzuki motorcycle, but allowed himself no time for a victory celebration, half-carrying her over to the bright red motorcycle parked on the curb.
Zoë’s fingers locked around his shoulders as she trailed behind him, clinging to him. She was still in so much pain, Chris knew, but she was trying so hard. “Hold on, Zoë. Hold on, baby. Put your helmet on, please, can you do that for me?” He turned, cupping a hand against her cheek. She nodded- just the slightest bit, but it was good enough for Chris, and he lifted the patterned helmet up, sliding it down over her forehead. Her hands resumed the work, tugging it down over her ears gingerly, down to hide her chin. “Okay, baby… let’s go. Let’s get out of here.” He murmured, climbing onto the bike. He’d driven it before, under her guidance, and hurting the bike was the least of his worries. She climbed on behind him, locking her slender arms around his waist, and he started the bike up.
And they took off.
He didn’t slow down. He swerved around pedestrians, weaved between the grid-locked, frozen traffic in the streets. Sped through intersections, past cops whose eyes never left the skyline. He drove until he saw a line of trees, and then he sped into Central Park. Once he reached a heavily-shaded alcove of trees, he stopped, parking the bike. He got off, and hauled Zoë off, laying her in the grass. He did all he could for her, very little, before laying down beside her, tucked against her side. He clung to her like a security blanket, and pulled out his cell phone.
“BATTERY LOW. BATTERY LOW. PLEASE CHARGE IMMEDIATELY,” His cell phone warned. He’d been betrayed by a gadget. Chris slid his hand into Zoë’s pocket again, and found her mobile.
“BATTERY LOW. PHONE POWERING OFF.” Oh, god. Oh, god.
He jumped up, looking down at Zoë. She was passed out on the grass. The light trickling in from the holes in the canopy changed before his eyes, a sickly gray to a vibrant red-orange. Oh… god. He rushed over to the bike, narrowly avoiding tripping on a twig, turning the key to accessory and flipping on the radio.
“All citizens are advised to stay indoors, and avoid the Upper East Side. There has been a large-scale explosive occurrence on 86th Street in the East End. Emergency, code red. All citizens are advised to stay indoors and avoid the Upper East Side. There has been a large scale explosive occurrence on 86th Street in the East End. Emergency, code red. All citizens are advised to stay indoors and avoid the Upper East Side. There has been a large scale explosive occurrence on 86th Street in the East End. Emergency, code red….”
Suggested song:
Rating: PG13 (Cert15ish.)
Pairing: General, features Chris/Zoe fag-hag-ness. <3
Word count: 1760
Don't know, don't own, no money made.
Summary: The story of how the post-apocalyptic situation in New York Rule came about. Zoe and Chris banter. The world ends. Neeeext!
I just wrote this as a writing exercise for MYSELF to keep me interested in and writing for NYR. School is wild, (Paper on Oedipus due Thursday? Uhhhh... I never read Oedipus...) so, it's going slowly, but, I diiiid write this! :D Nottt vital in conjunction with the story.
If you read, please comment and let me know. :)
“I’d probably marry a woman I met named Candace.”
“What? Like, just some random woman you met who happened to be named Candace?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“No, you wouldn’t, I wouldn’t allow it.”
Zoë laughed, turning her head to the right to look up at Chris, raising a brow. “You can’t tell me what to do, Christopher Whitelaw Pine! I’m a grown woman.”
“I’m a medical professional. Getting married to a random woman you meet, simply because she has the same name as what you call your precious motorcycle is most definitely unhealthy. For your bank account too.”
Zoë considered this for a long moment, before nodding. “Yeah, okay. I get that.” She sat up, lifting her head from Chris’ stomach. “But I’d at least nail her.”
Zoë dropped her helmet down on the café table, sighing. She combed her fingers through her long black hair and settled down into the seat across from her friend, immediately leaning over and picking up his orange juice, taking a long sip. “Oh, this is good. How did you find this little place?”
Chris stared at her, fork halfway to his mouth. He set his fork back down on his plate, and picked up her black and red helmet, setting it on the hardwood floor, as quietly as he could. Zoë seemed not to notice, as she slipped a compact out of her pocket to fix her hair in. She shrugged off the form-concealing black leather jacket, letting it sink down around her waist in the seat. Finally, she looked up, feeling Chris’ eyes fixed on her.
“What? Do I have something on my face? My hair does not look that bad, so don’t you even fuck-“
Chris grabbed her wrist across the table quickly, eyes growing wide as he glanced around. Much of the other activity in the café had ceased. “Zoë, Jesus Christ, everyone is staring at you.” He hissed.
She looked to her right, where much of the brunch crowd sat around their tables. She flashed them a dazzling smile, adjusting her loose, white tank top, hands smoothing over her black corduroy pants. The smile was apparently enough, looked sweet enough, innocent enough, to appease the other diners into returning their attention to each other. “You’re such a goddamn biker-dyke. And it’s so obvious, even in New York.”
The brunette glared at him, raising a brow. “Don’t be such a fucking WASP, Doctor Pine, please.” She scoffed.
“I’m not a doctor yet.” Chris muttered sullenly, picking up a piece of toast.
The waiter appeared then next to their table, a meek, skittish-looking blonde, who Zoë quickly assessed as a med student, or law student, judging by how stick-thin she was, and she fought the urge to demand the girl eat everything the restaurant had to offer. But instead, she just gave the girl another brilliant smile, setting Chris’ orange juice back down in front of him, ordering a glass of water. “I think I need another minute with the menu, love.” The frail young thing- JENNY, her nametag declared in all-caps block print- just nodded quickly and blushed at the pet name. It almost made Zoë coo- she looked like she’d break into a million fucking pieces any second. But she just pocketed her tiny order folio and disappeared into the kitchen.
“Aww, how cute is she?” Chris started in immediately, picking up his orange juice as Zoë scanned her menu. She quickly shook her head, lifting a hand to him, ceasing further comment.
“No, no. I know what you’re going to say.” She raised her voice a few notes higher than usual to imitate him. “‘Zo’, I bet you could get her number! You guys would look so cute together, oh my god!’” Her voice dropped to her normal tone, glaring at him over her menu. “Two weeks later, I’m dealing with some fucking college kid who just kissed a girl for the first time, wants to pack up all her shit, move in, and have me meet her parents. No. I’m not doing it anymore. But you can continue to do it all you want, I know how you love straight men, especially married ones.”
“Oh, that was fucking harsh, you cruel cunt. Paul was a fluke in the system. And he and his wife have since reconciled, thank you very much.” He narrowed his eyes, taking a long drink of his orange juice. “Besides, had I known he was married, I never would’ve fucked him. Scout’s honour.”
“Please, we both know there have been other Pauls, so don’t even try that shit with me.”
A noise like a bass boom, and just as encompassing as one, erupted around them, causing many of the patrons, Zoë included, to scream and slam their hands to their ears. What felt like waves of pressure washed over them, causing things to fall from the table, to clatter to the floor and break, glasses to shatter. Then, it was over, just as suddenly as it started. Zoë didn’t stand from her seat, like some other people had, her hands still pressed over her ears, tears sliding down her cheeks.
Chris slowly lowered his palms from his own ears, opening his eyes. The lights in the café were dead, the only illumination from the front windows. But that wasn’t Chris’ concern. He pushed back from the table as fast as possible, moving around to Zoë. He grabbed her wrists, and she finally looked up at him. The pain he saw in her face almost made him reel back. “Zoë… talk to me, please, what’s wrong? Zoë. Zoë, talk to me.” He tried to pull her arms down from her head so she could hear him. She whimpered, but lowered her hands.
Blood trickled from her ears, down the side of her face. “Oh, my god… Zoë…” He breathed, eyes growing wide.
“Chris. I can’t hear you. I can’t hear you at all.” She yelled, grabbing for his hands. He held hers in his, squeezing them tightly, to try to soothe her.
His attention turned to the other people in the restaurant as the lighting grew less and less. The café was cast in blue and gray, and Chris could see people on the streets standing, rising from where they’d fallen when the initial impact hit. He watched as they all looked skywards, at the dark clouds creeping in to shut out the May sun. Diners moved to the front windows, some of them with their palms pressed against the glass, all with eyes wide and locked above.
Chris made an impulsive decision, a spur-of-the-moment decision.
Something controlled him, drove him, told him where they were wasn’t safe. But he was the only one who got that feeling. He crouched down, scooping Zoë’s helmet off the floor, pulling her to her feet from the chair. She was dizzy, barely able to focus on him, as he lead her by the wrist to the door. He draped her black coat over her shoulders, ignoring the cries of protest from the people by the windows as he rushed forward.
“You can’t go out there!”
“What if there’s been a terrorist attack?!”
“You could be killed!”
“You’re walking into death, son!”
“It’s the apocalypse!”
Chris ignored them all and pushed open the door to the street, dragging Zoë behind him. Immediately, heat hit him, and he turned and pushed the coat off her shoulders, leaving it on the ground where it fell. He dug through her pants pockets, using an arm around her waist to stabilize the dazed girl. People around them on the streets stood still and silent, watching the chaos above. It was like they were hypnotized, like they were vacant shells, mannequins. He finally held up the keys to her apple-red Suzuki motorcycle, but allowed himself no time for a victory celebration, half-carrying her over to the bright red motorcycle parked on the curb.
Zoë’s fingers locked around his shoulders as she trailed behind him, clinging to him. She was still in so much pain, Chris knew, but she was trying so hard. “Hold on, Zoë. Hold on, baby. Put your helmet on, please, can you do that for me?” He turned, cupping a hand against her cheek. She nodded- just the slightest bit, but it was good enough for Chris, and he lifted the patterned helmet up, sliding it down over her forehead. Her hands resumed the work, tugging it down over her ears gingerly, down to hide her chin. “Okay, baby… let’s go. Let’s get out of here.” He murmured, climbing onto the bike. He’d driven it before, under her guidance, and hurting the bike was the least of his worries. She climbed on behind him, locking her slender arms around his waist, and he started the bike up.
And they took off.
He didn’t slow down. He swerved around pedestrians, weaved between the grid-locked, frozen traffic in the streets. Sped through intersections, past cops whose eyes never left the skyline. He drove until he saw a line of trees, and then he sped into Central Park. Once he reached a heavily-shaded alcove of trees, he stopped, parking the bike. He got off, and hauled Zoë off, laying her in the grass. He did all he could for her, very little, before laying down beside her, tucked against her side. He clung to her like a security blanket, and pulled out his cell phone.
“BATTERY LOW. BATTERY LOW. PLEASE CHARGE IMMEDIATELY,” His cell phone warned. He’d been betrayed by a gadget. Chris slid his hand into Zoë’s pocket again, and found her mobile.
“BATTERY LOW. PHONE POWERING OFF.” Oh, god. Oh, god.
He jumped up, looking down at Zoë. She was passed out on the grass. The light trickling in from the holes in the canopy changed before his eyes, a sickly gray to a vibrant red-orange. Oh… god. He rushed over to the bike, narrowly avoiding tripping on a twig, turning the key to accessory and flipping on the radio.
“All citizens are advised to stay indoors, and avoid the Upper East Side. There has been a large-scale explosive occurrence on 86th Street in the East End. Emergency, code red. All citizens are advised to stay indoors and avoid the Upper East Side. There has been a large scale explosive occurrence on 86th Street in the East End. Emergency, code red. All citizens are advised to stay indoors and avoid the Upper East Side. There has been a large scale explosive occurrence on 86th Street in the East End. Emergency, code red….”
Suggested song:
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