fic: Changing Shape
Title: Changing Shape
Author: Vensre
Rating: G
Pairing: Jamie/Geoffrey
Wordcount: 200x5=1000
Notes: For purplejamish's first-lines meme, with love. Beta by puddle_took.
A core idea has been lifted from 耳を澄ませば {Whisper of the Heart}.
...The characters aren't mine, either.
I breathed in. If scent can have a shape (and am I just imagining that?), the natty rebound books smelled pleasantly tall columns, the dust jagged cloudy sparks. My fingerprints marked so many of their pages.
The librarian breathed a trance-pattern and turned pages from the desk. I passed by to avoid the little sounds. I sought armchairs and a low table, green-paned lamps and map-covered walls in a cramped room up narrow stairs.
I did not expect my place would be occupied.
The other tensed as I entered, and closed his book with a hollow thwop. I did not look at him, and debated leaving. Before I could decide, he raised himself out of my favourite chair and approached me.
"Jamie Holmes?"
It seemed that he knew my name.
"I'm Geoffrey Shawcross. I've been looking for you," he said in a voice neither loud nor unpleasant.
The pros of engaging outweighed the cons. "Why?"
He held out the book in his hand. I took it. A familiar volume; I had checked it out before. He handed me a stack of books that stretched long fingers.
"...I've read these."
"I know. You've read everything I pick out."
I had my armchair back. He perched on the table, to my private delight.
"Why won't you look at me?"
"Am I supposed to?" I perceived his shrug.
Books sprawled open on every convenient surface, each card bearing my name. I have long doubted that common interest is enough basis for prolonged interaction. With hardly an argument, Geoffrey had already begun to sway me on this point. He had--
"Good taste. You have good taste," I told him. I did look at him then, studying his face and his short hair. It looked soft, coloured pencil mousefur. His expression flexed and changed, and his eyes seemed large and piercing. His lips moved.
I suppose he was saying something. I blinked at him, wondering if I had missed anything important, then turned my eyes back to illuminated stained glass, which wasn't trying to tell me anything. So I could listen, too - but he had fallen silent.
"Why?" I recalled that my question stood unanswered.
His skin changed colour. I didn't have to be looking to know. "Knew I'd get along wi-- with someone who's read all the books I like, right?" In a lower voice: "'Jamie'. Figured you'd be a girl."
"I'm not a girl," I informed him, and suddenly felt very tired.
"Well, no," he said, louder, "I knew that later. Asked after you with the staff. I'm a detective, you know."
I hadn't known. I told him so. He laughed. I wondered if he knew how pyramidic his own scent was, but I didn't mention it.
"I thought," he said, with much nodding and vocal emphasis, "that you might be stalking me, 'r sommat, at first. Always one step ahead. But all the cases I've been on couldn't made me quite that paranoid."
I was inclined to paranoia myself, so I limited my response to a general tilt. He was looking at me, looking at me, and I felt wrapped in tight cords of nervous energy. I started tapping, and he didn't scold me for it, so I kept on to focus myself. Alright, then; alright.
He leaned close. "Jamie?"
"...What?"
"Are you alright?"
I nodded quickly. He moved again, down to the floor and pushing books aside. Then turned, and leaned against my shins. I froze, thinking of squirming out of the way, letting him fall against the chair instead. I could leave.
But I didn't want to.
The door stood open, attesting to my distraction on finding him here. A draft through the vents, and his breathing, and mine, and buzzing of wires and lights, and the road outside were the only noises.
Geoffrey leaned, offering the back of his head for touching. Whether intentionally or otherwise, his hair was within reach, and my palm panged with want to feel. So I did, reached to pat hair as soft as it appeared. He didn't protest or even seem to notice. I wondered if he was that real all over.
Eventually he said something. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I just wanted to meet you, finish the investigation, as it were."
I had no particular response to that. His accent was local to the U.K., but not Scottish. I couldn't place it precisely. I petted his hair. At the nape of his neck where it was shortest it prickled slightly upwards, smoothing the opposite way.
"Do you mind, then? That I looked you up and ambushed you up here? I'm sorry about that..."
I thought a long moment, and he was speaking again before my answer was ready. I interrupted, "No. I'm a little glad."
"You startled me, though," I scolded him mildly.
He sat up straight, twisting towards me. "You're glad? Would you like to... Er. How about meeting again?"
I wasn't sure what he meant by that, since we were obviously in the same place then. "I have more books that the library doesn't have. D'you want to borrow some of 'em?"
He lurched. "Yes!" His hands made brief energetic fists, and he laughed lightly. He gathered up the books he'd laid open in reach without pulling away. "This is daft. Now?"
I felt a bit cross at that. "What's daft? Yes, now, if you want."
"It's so random, but not." He reached up and touched my hand (which fell, stunned, into my lap) and looked me in the face.
Eyes. Mouth. Burn. My skin did a fair imitation of a hotplate. I opened my mouth, but could summon nothing resembling intelligible speech.
He squinted and smiled and leaned at me.
"Daft," I said. "Random." And, "Geoffrey Shawcross."
"Yes," said he. "I know. It's..." he waved his hands, then set his chin on my knee and looked up through his eyelashes.
Now, years later, he still does that. And it works every time.
Author: Vensre
Rating: G
Pairing: Jamie/Geoffrey
Wordcount: 200x5=1000
Notes: For purplejamish's first-lines meme, with love. Beta by puddle_took.
A core idea has been lifted from 耳を澄ませば {Whisper of the Heart}.
...The characters aren't mine, either.
I breathed in. If scent can have a shape (and am I just imagining that?), the natty rebound books smelled pleasantly tall columns, the dust jagged cloudy sparks. My fingerprints marked so many of their pages.
The librarian breathed a trance-pattern and turned pages from the desk. I passed by to avoid the little sounds. I sought armchairs and a low table, green-paned lamps and map-covered walls in a cramped room up narrow stairs.
I did not expect my place would be occupied.
The other tensed as I entered, and closed his book with a hollow thwop. I did not look at him, and debated leaving. Before I could decide, he raised himself out of my favourite chair and approached me.
"Jamie Holmes?"
It seemed that he knew my name.
"I'm Geoffrey Shawcross. I've been looking for you," he said in a voice neither loud nor unpleasant.
The pros of engaging outweighed the cons. "Why?"
He held out the book in his hand. I took it. A familiar volume; I had checked it out before. He handed me a stack of books that stretched long fingers.
"...I've read these."
"I know. You've read everything I pick out."
I had my armchair back. He perched on the table, to my private delight.
"Why won't you look at me?"
"Am I supposed to?" I perceived his shrug.
Books sprawled open on every convenient surface, each card bearing my name. I have long doubted that common interest is enough basis for prolonged interaction. With hardly an argument, Geoffrey had already begun to sway me on this point. He had--
"Good taste. You have good taste," I told him. I did look at him then, studying his face and his short hair. It looked soft, coloured pencil mousefur. His expression flexed and changed, and his eyes seemed large and piercing. His lips moved.
I suppose he was saying something. I blinked at him, wondering if I had missed anything important, then turned my eyes back to illuminated stained glass, which wasn't trying to tell me anything. So I could listen, too - but he had fallen silent.
"Why?" I recalled that my question stood unanswered.
His skin changed colour. I didn't have to be looking to know. "Knew I'd get along wi-- with someone who's read all the books I like, right?" In a lower voice: "'Jamie'. Figured you'd be a girl."
"I'm not a girl," I informed him, and suddenly felt very tired.
"Well, no," he said, louder, "I knew that later. Asked after you with the staff. I'm a detective, you know."
I hadn't known. I told him so. He laughed. I wondered if he knew how pyramidic his own scent was, but I didn't mention it.
"I thought," he said, with much nodding and vocal emphasis, "that you might be stalking me, 'r sommat, at first. Always one step ahead. But all the cases I've been on couldn't made me quite that paranoid."
I was inclined to paranoia myself, so I limited my response to a general tilt. He was looking at me, looking at me, and I felt wrapped in tight cords of nervous energy. I started tapping, and he didn't scold me for it, so I kept on to focus myself. Alright, then; alright.
He leaned close. "Jamie?"
"...What?"
"Are you alright?"
I nodded quickly. He moved again, down to the floor and pushing books aside. Then turned, and leaned against my shins. I froze, thinking of squirming out of the way, letting him fall against the chair instead. I could leave.
But I didn't want to.
The door stood open, attesting to my distraction on finding him here. A draft through the vents, and his breathing, and mine, and buzzing of wires and lights, and the road outside were the only noises.
Geoffrey leaned, offering the back of his head for touching. Whether intentionally or otherwise, his hair was within reach, and my palm panged with want to feel. So I did, reached to pat hair as soft as it appeared. He didn't protest or even seem to notice. I wondered if he was that real all over.
Eventually he said something. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I just wanted to meet you, finish the investigation, as it were."
I had no particular response to that. His accent was local to the U.K., but not Scottish. I couldn't place it precisely. I petted his hair. At the nape of his neck where it was shortest it prickled slightly upwards, smoothing the opposite way.
"Do you mind, then? That I looked you up and ambushed you up here? I'm sorry about that..."
I thought a long moment, and he was speaking again before my answer was ready. I interrupted, "No. I'm a little glad."
"You startled me, though," I scolded him mildly.
He sat up straight, twisting towards me. "You're glad? Would you like to... Er. How about meeting again?"
I wasn't sure what he meant by that, since we were obviously in the same place then. "I have more books that the library doesn't have. D'you want to borrow some of 'em?"
He lurched. "Yes!" His hands made brief energetic fists, and he laughed lightly. He gathered up the books he'd laid open in reach without pulling away. "This is daft. Now?"
I felt a bit cross at that. "What's daft? Yes, now, if you want."
"It's so random, but not." He reached up and touched my hand (which fell, stunned, into my lap) and looked me in the face.
Eyes. Mouth. Burn. My skin did a fair imitation of a hotplate. I opened my mouth, but could summon nothing resembling intelligible speech.
He squinted and smiled and leaned at me.
"Daft," I said. "Random." And, "Geoffrey Shawcross."
"Yes," said he. "I know. It's..." he waved his hands, then set his chin on my knee and looked up through his eyelashes.
Now, years later, he still does that. And it works every time.