blackbird singing in the dead of night.
Thiiiiiis-- yeah, I don't know. It was written for Kirsten (asmallsmackerel ) for Christmas, because she might be the only other person in existence that appreciates~ the potential in Brooke/Michael, haha. THERE IS NO FIC ANYWHERE, OKAY? NONE. And that just isn't acceptable. So, um, you get this? I have no idea. It's not amazing but, I like it? Kind of? Just because it's about the ship that I never actually thought I'd write, no matter how much I wanted to. Just posted here for archive purposes.
Learn To Fly
Brooke White/Michael Johns, PG, ~1100 words
Elliot once said that the world ends with a whimper, maybe it starts with one too.
It begins as these things often do; boy meets girl, girl meets boy; a chance meeting, nothing more than serendipity, an accident of fate. It is unlike any story you were read as a child; a smoky bar where a castle should be, wooden stools in the place of horses. (But that doesn’t mean it’s not a fairytale, and that doesn’t mean they can’t live happily ever after.)
There’s a different light about her, he thinks, clear blue instead of harsh purples and greens, wonderfully ordinary instead of too-red lipstick and fake breasts. She’s holding a glass of sparkling water, the condensation pooling around her fingers.
And she’s not trying to draw attention, but that just makes Michael notice her all the more. (Her hand is wet when she puts down the glass, wiping the moisture away on her jeans, the light denim turning a darker shade of blue where she wipes it dry.)
“Did it hurt?” He asks as he slides onto the empty stool next to her, cocking his head to one side and smirking just a little.
She doesn’t miss a single beat.
“Yes. Yes it did.” Her laugh is open and natural, real in a way that he hasn’t heard in a long time. The bangles around her wrists clink together as she moves, and he can’t help but smile back as he reaches out.
“The name’s Michael. Michael Johns.”
Her hand is cold in his, still a little damp from the glass. He runs the pad of his thumb over the back of her knuckles before he can stop himself.
“Well, in that case, hello, Michael Johns.” She squeezes his hand, just barely, “Brooke.”
When he makes it home that night, Michael spends ten minutes running his fingers over the edge of the tiny scrap of paper with her number on it, smoothing it out over and over, before he works up the courage to call. (His hands are trembling when he taps in the numbers, double checking each digit with the perfectly sized handwriting lying in his palm.)
She answers on the second ring. He can hear the smile in her voice, and it’s even brighter than he remembers from an hour ago; it relaxes him immediately. (He swears his heart stutters for a moment.)
“So, I met this really cool girl tonight...” When he hears her laugh, he grips the phone a little tighter against his ear, makes a silent promise that he will do whatever it takes to never stop hearing that sound.
She wears glasses on their first date.
Her sweater is too long in the arms, falling over her hands, her fingers poking out from underneath the soft fabric as she lifts her strawberry milkshake to her mouth. (When she pulls it away, there’s a thin line of pink above her top lip.)
He takes a gulp of his black coffee (and god, doesn’t that just sum them up perfectly) and tries to think of anything other than how close their feet are to each other.
Her jeans have holes in the knees.
First dates are always hurried, forced. This date it’s - it’s different; slow in a way that Michael isn’t used to. It’s easy, sitting here in this coffee house with Brooke, talking about anything that comes into their minds. It feels natural, like he’s been doing this his whole life. (It should scare him. It doesn’t.)
She tells him about Sunday mornings in church, sitting on her father’s lap while they sang hymns, about playing the piano until her fingers ached and running through their back yard with her brothers, grass stains on her knees and elbows, mud under her fingernails.
When he shows her the victory dance that he used to do with his sister, she laughs until she snorts.
“You dork.”
She splits her cupcake perfectly in half and pushes one across the table in front of him. (Under the table, his ankle bumps against hers. He doesn’t miss the blush that starts high on her cheeks.)
At the end of their second date, Michael presses her against the streetlight outside the door to her apartment building and kisses her, slow and a little desperate, reaching up with one hand to play with the ends of her hair, pulling gently.
She breaks away first, pressing her smile against his cheek, her fingers sliding easily into his belt loops, tugging him forward just a little. (Something warm and bright bubbles up inside his chest, fizzing under the surface of his skin.)
“Hi, you.” He feels it more than anything, her lips moving against where his ear meets his jaw, and a shiver runs down his spine. Michael slides his hands under the hem of her shirt, traces tiny circle of the skin of her lower-back with his fingertips when she hisses at the cold.
The warm feeling just unfolds, cascading down his ribcage, spreading through the put of his stomach. He doesn’t remember this feeling.
(She makes him calmer, his usual restless, jagged energy smoothed out, giving him stability that he’s never known before. Her eyelashes on the curve of his jaw become his center, his world only reaching out to her knees bumping his through denim, their fingers twisted together.
He thinks love love love love and laughs into her hair.)
They spend their fifth date lying in the front room of Brooke’s apartment, both pairs of shoes and socks kicked into the corner, rubbing the soles of their feet against the soft rug underneath them as The Beatles play over the sound system.
When he rolls over to face her, Lennon or McCartney (he never did learn the difference between their voices) is singing about limitless undying love and how it shines around them like a million suns, the volume turned down so low it feels like a whisper in his ear.
He reaches out to catch her wrist, creates a circle around it with his thumb and forefinger, holding it lightly, resisting the urge to squeeze. (Her pulse matches the music.)
She tastes like sunshine, he thinks a little deliriously, scraping the edge of his teeth over her collarbone, one hand curling around the back of her knee, the other buried deep against her scalp.
It all starts with a whimper.
Learn To Fly
Brooke White/Michael Johns, PG, ~1100 words
Elliot once said that the world ends with a whimper, maybe it starts with one too.
It begins as these things often do; boy meets girl, girl meets boy; a chance meeting, nothing more than serendipity, an accident of fate. It is unlike any story you were read as a child; a smoky bar where a castle should be, wooden stools in the place of horses. (But that doesn’t mean it’s not a fairytale, and that doesn’t mean they can’t live happily ever after.)
There’s a different light about her, he thinks, clear blue instead of harsh purples and greens, wonderfully ordinary instead of too-red lipstick and fake breasts. She’s holding a glass of sparkling water, the condensation pooling around her fingers.
And she’s not trying to draw attention, but that just makes Michael notice her all the more. (Her hand is wet when she puts down the glass, wiping the moisture away on her jeans, the light denim turning a darker shade of blue where she wipes it dry.)
“Did it hurt?” He asks as he slides onto the empty stool next to her, cocking his head to one side and smirking just a little.
She doesn’t miss a single beat.
“Yes. Yes it did.” Her laugh is open and natural, real in a way that he hasn’t heard in a long time. The bangles around her wrists clink together as she moves, and he can’t help but smile back as he reaches out.
“The name’s Michael. Michael Johns.”
Her hand is cold in his, still a little damp from the glass. He runs the pad of his thumb over the back of her knuckles before he can stop himself.
“Well, in that case, hello, Michael Johns.” She squeezes his hand, just barely, “Brooke.”
When he makes it home that night, Michael spends ten minutes running his fingers over the edge of the tiny scrap of paper with her number on it, smoothing it out over and over, before he works up the courage to call. (His hands are trembling when he taps in the numbers, double checking each digit with the perfectly sized handwriting lying in his palm.)
She answers on the second ring. He can hear the smile in her voice, and it’s even brighter than he remembers from an hour ago; it relaxes him immediately. (He swears his heart stutters for a moment.)
“So, I met this really cool girl tonight...” When he hears her laugh, he grips the phone a little tighter against his ear, makes a silent promise that he will do whatever it takes to never stop hearing that sound.
She wears glasses on their first date.
Her sweater is too long in the arms, falling over her hands, her fingers poking out from underneath the soft fabric as she lifts her strawberry milkshake to her mouth. (When she pulls it away, there’s a thin line of pink above her top lip.)
He takes a gulp of his black coffee (and god, doesn’t that just sum them up perfectly) and tries to think of anything other than how close their feet are to each other.
Her jeans have holes in the knees.
First dates are always hurried, forced. This date it’s - it’s different; slow in a way that Michael isn’t used to. It’s easy, sitting here in this coffee house with Brooke, talking about anything that comes into their minds. It feels natural, like he’s been doing this his whole life. (It should scare him. It doesn’t.)
She tells him about Sunday mornings in church, sitting on her father’s lap while they sang hymns, about playing the piano until her fingers ached and running through their back yard with her brothers, grass stains on her knees and elbows, mud under her fingernails.
When he shows her the victory dance that he used to do with his sister, she laughs until she snorts.
“You dork.”
She splits her cupcake perfectly in half and pushes one across the table in front of him. (Under the table, his ankle bumps against hers. He doesn’t miss the blush that starts high on her cheeks.)
At the end of their second date, Michael presses her against the streetlight outside the door to her apartment building and kisses her, slow and a little desperate, reaching up with one hand to play with the ends of her hair, pulling gently.
She breaks away first, pressing her smile against his cheek, her fingers sliding easily into his belt loops, tugging him forward just a little. (Something warm and bright bubbles up inside his chest, fizzing under the surface of his skin.)
“Hi, you.” He feels it more than anything, her lips moving against where his ear meets his jaw, and a shiver runs down his spine. Michael slides his hands under the hem of her shirt, traces tiny circle of the skin of her lower-back with his fingertips when she hisses at the cold.
The warm feeling just unfolds, cascading down his ribcage, spreading through the put of his stomach. He doesn’t remember this feeling.
(She makes him calmer, his usual restless, jagged energy smoothed out, giving him stability that he’s never known before. Her eyelashes on the curve of his jaw become his center, his world only reaching out to her knees bumping his through denim, their fingers twisted together.
He thinks love love love love and laughs into her hair.)
They spend their fifth date lying in the front room of Brooke’s apartment, both pairs of shoes and socks kicked into the corner, rubbing the soles of their feet against the soft rug underneath them as The Beatles play over the sound system.
When he rolls over to face her, Lennon or McCartney (he never did learn the difference between their voices) is singing about limitless undying love and how it shines around them like a million suns, the volume turned down so low it feels like a whisper in his ear.
He reaches out to catch her wrist, creates a circle around it with his thumb and forefinger, holding it lightly, resisting the urge to squeeze. (Her pulse matches the music.)
She tastes like sunshine, he thinks a little deliriously, scraping the edge of his teeth over her collarbone, one hand curling around the back of her knee, the other buried deep against her scalp.
It all starts with a whimper.