White Collar, June/Neal - "Intertwined."
I just missed the day, again, but this is the Monday prompt I picked, from lovefanfiction: White Collar, June/Neal, thanks for taking me in. I really couldn't resist. five hundred words that made me smile.
tip of my hat to Paul Simon, here. I really need an icon for these two.
Intertwined
He pulls out her chair and pours her coffee in the morning, and they sit on the terrace amongst scattered sections of the paper and talk while the sun lifts up slowly in the sky. He's always a little regretful when the phone rings and it's Peter, calling him away to work, but she always just smiles and waves him off.
He takes her to lunch at the same places he used to dream about when he was a poor kid on the streets, sweeping up marble stairs with her on his arm, eating off plates and with cutlery and on linens made for another age, another class, another reality. Sometimes, on special occasions, or when he can distract her attention, she even allows him to pay.
They go for walks in the park, watching her granddaughter play soccer and softball and field hockey and nobody would ever know anything was wrong, except for the soft look in her eyes when she watches that amazing little girl fly across the endless green grass. He buys them small cups of gelato on the way home, lemon and tangerine and pomegranate and blood orange, and they both laugh at him when it drips down his chin.
He brings her flowers from passing stands on his way home in the late afternoon, nothing boring like roses, but dahlias and hydrangeas and iris and calla lilies, bright orange with slashes of red and white and purple, bouquets half as tall as Mozzie. He has the girl wrap the ends with wide ribbon, tied in a bow, and writes a card signed only with his initials.
He scrambles eggs late at night, one of Byron's jackets slung over a chair, tie loose, sleeves rolled up, telling her about the latest case, sipping fresh orange juice with just a splash of something to liven it up, music on low in the background. He never tells her that he loves the way she laughs at his stories, but he thinks that she knows, from the way that she smiles at him, anyway.
She shakes her head and laughs when he stands expectantly, offering his hand, but he just waits until she takes it, and they dance with the lights off, with the moonlight streaming in through the french doors, to the Moonglows, the Orioles, the Five Satins. She tells him stories about her life, with Byron and before, and he thinks they're probably true the same way his are, the way they both want them to be. He knows that she understands when he talks about Kate in a way that nobody else does, because she's been there, she's pretended the paper cups full of cheap wine were champagne, she's known what that dream was and why it was so important. She _knows_ him, and she loved him years ago when he had another name and a different face, and she loves him now.
They sway in the moonlight. "Thank you," he says, and she just smiles.
tip of my hat to Paul Simon, here. I really need an icon for these two.
Intertwined
He pulls out her chair and pours her coffee in the morning, and they sit on the terrace amongst scattered sections of the paper and talk while the sun lifts up slowly in the sky. He's always a little regretful when the phone rings and it's Peter, calling him away to work, but she always just smiles and waves him off.
He takes her to lunch at the same places he used to dream about when he was a poor kid on the streets, sweeping up marble stairs with her on his arm, eating off plates and with cutlery and on linens made for another age, another class, another reality. Sometimes, on special occasions, or when he can distract her attention, she even allows him to pay.
They go for walks in the park, watching her granddaughter play soccer and softball and field hockey and nobody would ever know anything was wrong, except for the soft look in her eyes when she watches that amazing little girl fly across the endless green grass. He buys them small cups of gelato on the way home, lemon and tangerine and pomegranate and blood orange, and they both laugh at him when it drips down his chin.
He brings her flowers from passing stands on his way home in the late afternoon, nothing boring like roses, but dahlias and hydrangeas and iris and calla lilies, bright orange with slashes of red and white and purple, bouquets half as tall as Mozzie. He has the girl wrap the ends with wide ribbon, tied in a bow, and writes a card signed only with his initials.
He scrambles eggs late at night, one of Byron's jackets slung over a chair, tie loose, sleeves rolled up, telling her about the latest case, sipping fresh orange juice with just a splash of something to liven it up, music on low in the background. He never tells her that he loves the way she laughs at his stories, but he thinks that she knows, from the way that she smiles at him, anyway.
She shakes her head and laughs when he stands expectantly, offering his hand, but he just waits until she takes it, and they dance with the lights off, with the moonlight streaming in through the french doors, to the Moonglows, the Orioles, the Five Satins. She tells him stories about her life, with Byron and before, and he thinks they're probably true the same way his are, the way they both want them to be. He knows that she understands when he talks about Kate in a way that nobody else does, because she's been there, she's pretended the paper cups full of cheap wine were champagne, she's known what that dream was and why it was so important. She _knows_ him, and she loved him years ago when he had another name and a different face, and she loves him now.
They sway in the moonlight. "Thank you," he says, and she just smiles.