(no subject)
the map of days outworn, (TenII/Rose), G
She asks twice where they are going, but he doesn’t answer, instead points out the window as they pass an old black and white road sign., 861
A/N: Happy New Year to everyone! I love this comm, I love the amazing fics you create and I wish you nothing but the best for 2010.
They leave Chicago on a Tuesday, in an old Chevrolet, the glass and metal of the city fading behind them as they turn southwest. She doesn’t care to know where he found it, just cranks the window down, letting the fingers of the wind comb through her hair as they fly down the road.
She asks twice where they are going, but he doesn’t answer, instead points out the window as they pass an old black and white road sign.
He stares down at the river six hundred and thirty feet below, and thinks about hyperbolic cosine functions and covered wagons laden with the hopes of a burgeoning nation. The sheer audacity of packing up everything to the chase the dream of the unknown is something he knows well.
They are here together, after all.
She leans forward beside him, peering out the long, narrow window. The fingers of her right hand clutch the railing as if she doesn’t quite believe in the physics and geometry of a catenary. In her other hand is one of those disposable cameras from a truck stop in Springfield. He watches as she runs her thumb idly over the wheel until it tightens, ready for the next snap of the shutter.
The next morning he’s still teasing her about ‘getting her kicks’ as they pull out of a small roadside motel. She just rolls her eyes and turns up the radio. Her head tilts back, her heels rest over the glove box, as the sweet, silvery sounds of Lady Ella drift through the static.
In Tulsa, he wipes her toe prints off the window with a halfhearted frown.
She laughs, and chews idly on the end of her straw.
It’s a dry heat he says as she twists her hair up in a messy bun, just over the New Mexico border. The look she gives him is doubtful as she snaps the elastic band in place, the look she gives the faded sign of the local canteen even more so.
Her left hand curls slightly, tongue moving firmly over the skin, from the joint of her thumb to index finger. The flavor of the salt is sharp and she holds it there a moment, mouth open, as her fingers lift the glass. She smells the alcohol a second before its burn slides over her tongue, followed by a quick jerk of her head and a swallow.
He watches the line of her throat rise and fall, amused. She pulls a face and shoves the lime between her teeth. The juice drips down her chin as she pulls the citrus away, and he notices a bit of the salt still clinging to the corner of her soft, pink lips. He leans over the table and kisses her, ignoring the whistles and chuckles from the few other patrons and the lone bartender.
There are 1.2 x 1018 atoms in a grain of salt and he can taste every one of them, mixed with lime and a hint of cherry chapstick. Her tongue is warm and wicked, trading him the heat from her throat for his cooler breath. He pulls back first, taking in the sultry picture of her heavy lashes and swollen lips.
She grins and wipes off her sticky fingers. There are small dots of the fiery liquor on the front of her sundress. She dabs at them with a napkin, leaving little bits of white lint behind, and curses. Looking up, she sees the mirthful creases by his eyes as he pours one for himself into the same glass.
The leftover ice from her extra large cherry slushie rattles in its plastic cup as they stumble in the tug of the ocean. It rolls towards them, lapping at their bare feet as they walk hand in hand. Her large, round sunglasses are perched on top of her head, doing more to hold back her hair than block the sun.
Very Hollywood, he’d said when she bought them.
The sand sinks a little with each step, soft and warm and not at all like the beach where they began this new chapter. They find a comfortable spot between the beachfront houses and the public boardwalk to watch the sunset. She spreads the blanket while he brushes the layer of salt from his ankles and unrolls the denim bunched at his knees.
He builds her a sand castle as the sky ambles through shades of orange and pink. His slender fingers shape the crenellations along each battlement, and she doesn’t care that the towers on the ends look more like an overturned slushie cup than proper turrets.
Later, they sit on the hood of the car, in the waning purple light, listening to the rhythmic crash of the water. He pouts at the injustice of tides and she kisses it away, tugging at his bottom lip the way the waves pull at the last ruins of their little seaside kingdom.
It’s not anywhere he would have ever thought to be, but this is the way of their adventures now, following lines traced in red marker, across maps made of paper, unfurled like star charts across the dashboard.
She asks twice where they are going, but he doesn’t answer, instead points out the window as they pass an old black and white road sign., 861
A/N: Happy New Year to everyone! I love this comm, I love the amazing fics you create and I wish you nothing but the best for 2010.
They leave Chicago on a Tuesday, in an old Chevrolet, the glass and metal of the city fading behind them as they turn southwest. She doesn’t care to know where he found it, just cranks the window down, letting the fingers of the wind comb through her hair as they fly down the road.
She asks twice where they are going, but he doesn’t answer, instead points out the window as they pass an old black and white road sign.
He stares down at the river six hundred and thirty feet below, and thinks about hyperbolic cosine functions and covered wagons laden with the hopes of a burgeoning nation. The sheer audacity of packing up everything to the chase the dream of the unknown is something he knows well.
They are here together, after all.
She leans forward beside him, peering out the long, narrow window. The fingers of her right hand clutch the railing as if she doesn’t quite believe in the physics and geometry of a catenary. In her other hand is one of those disposable cameras from a truck stop in Springfield. He watches as she runs her thumb idly over the wheel until it tightens, ready for the next snap of the shutter.
The next morning he’s still teasing her about ‘getting her kicks’ as they pull out of a small roadside motel. She just rolls her eyes and turns up the radio. Her head tilts back, her heels rest over the glove box, as the sweet, silvery sounds of Lady Ella drift through the static.
In Tulsa, he wipes her toe prints off the window with a halfhearted frown.
She laughs, and chews idly on the end of her straw.
It’s a dry heat he says as she twists her hair up in a messy bun, just over the New Mexico border. The look she gives him is doubtful as she snaps the elastic band in place, the look she gives the faded sign of the local canteen even more so.
Her left hand curls slightly, tongue moving firmly over the skin, from the joint of her thumb to index finger. The flavor of the salt is sharp and she holds it there a moment, mouth open, as her fingers lift the glass. She smells the alcohol a second before its burn slides over her tongue, followed by a quick jerk of her head and a swallow.
He watches the line of her throat rise and fall, amused. She pulls a face and shoves the lime between her teeth. The juice drips down her chin as she pulls the citrus away, and he notices a bit of the salt still clinging to the corner of her soft, pink lips. He leans over the table and kisses her, ignoring the whistles and chuckles from the few other patrons and the lone bartender.
There are 1.2 x 1018 atoms in a grain of salt and he can taste every one of them, mixed with lime and a hint of cherry chapstick. Her tongue is warm and wicked, trading him the heat from her throat for his cooler breath. He pulls back first, taking in the sultry picture of her heavy lashes and swollen lips.
She grins and wipes off her sticky fingers. There are small dots of the fiery liquor on the front of her sundress. She dabs at them with a napkin, leaving little bits of white lint behind, and curses. Looking up, she sees the mirthful creases by his eyes as he pours one for himself into the same glass.
The leftover ice from her extra large cherry slushie rattles in its plastic cup as they stumble in the tug of the ocean. It rolls towards them, lapping at their bare feet as they walk hand in hand. Her large, round sunglasses are perched on top of her head, doing more to hold back her hair than block the sun.
Very Hollywood, he’d said when she bought them.
The sand sinks a little with each step, soft and warm and not at all like the beach where they began this new chapter. They find a comfortable spot between the beachfront houses and the public boardwalk to watch the sunset. She spreads the blanket while he brushes the layer of salt from his ankles and unrolls the denim bunched at his knees.
He builds her a sand castle as the sky ambles through shades of orange and pink. His slender fingers shape the crenellations along each battlement, and she doesn’t care that the towers on the ends look more like an overturned slushie cup than proper turrets.
Later, they sit on the hood of the car, in the waning purple light, listening to the rhythmic crash of the water. He pouts at the injustice of tides and she kisses it away, tugging at his bottom lip the way the waves pull at the last ruins of their little seaside kingdom.
It’s not anywhere he would have ever thought to be, but this is the way of their adventures now, following lines traced in red marker, across maps made of paper, unfurled like star charts across the dashboard.