I Only Dream of Thunder
Title: Offering
Word Count: 883
Notes: Amazingly, no warnings about this piece. Another pre-canon scene that should have been quick and dirty but took forever to write because Crux is very selective with his words. *eyeroll*
It’s easy to lose him in the patchwork of light and shadows under the enormous willows that guard the long driveway, his white shirt as crisp and shimmering as the sunlight and his dark hair as cool as the tendrils of shade that grip and claw at the manicured lawn. He’s leaning against the wall, the battered hiking backpack beside him, arms crossed over his chest as he stares down the road toward the highway, the distant whirr of cars as they pass, the sound of civilization racing down the arterial routes toward the crowded heart of gleaming buildings in the distance.
Christian slouches against the stone beside him without a word, lighting a cigarette and taking a long drag, using the smoke to scour his lungs of the sickly-sweet ward air and relishing the first caress of nicotine through his veins. From the corner of his eye he sees the sideways glance, the instinctive tightening of Adrian’s fists against the craving, and he extends one arm to offer the pack of smokes and the lighter, not making eye contact. His skin stings when Adrian’s fingers brush his.
“Waiting for someone?” Christian asks. Adrian shakes his head, turning the lighter over in his fingers, tracing the angular ridges of the metal case.
“Nobody to wait for,” he says casually.
“No parents?”
“Nah. They moved on.”
"You have somewhere to go?" The question feels strange even as it falls from his lips, phrased in a manner that bypasses normal curiosity and falls into the realm of vague invitations and hidden agendas. He sees that Adrian hears it, too, the words causing the young man's expression to pinch slightly, his eyes darkening and his gaze lifting momentarily from the lighter to study Christian suspiciously.
"What difference is it to you?" he asks in the warning tone of an animal feeling the corner at its back. Christian makes it a point to keep his expression neutral and hide how the stare rattles him. When he shrugs, it's little more than a twitch of nervous muscle.
"Seems irresponsible of me to just let you walk away when you have nowhere to go."
"So what, you're gonna put me back in there?" Adrian jerks his thumb over his shoulder, in the direction of the drab brick building. "Because newsflash, Godboy, that's not much better."
"I never said it was."
"And not that it's any of your fucking business, but I do -"
"Let's not kid ourselves." He takes a deep breath, wondering where the comfort of the nicotine has gone. "I know about your uncle. You'll be back here in what, a week? Two, at the most?" He taps his cigarette, watches the ashes float to the ground. "Your record is five days or something, isn't it?"
He isn't intending to wound Adrian, but his words have exactly that effect. The mask of petulance and indifference and angry defiance falls away in pieces like ice shattered by a stone crashing through the surface of a frozen pond, and the ripples reveal a younger, vulnerable man that isn't able to hold eye contact, who stares at his feet as if wishing the ground could swallow him.
It's an awkward and pathetic moment, and Christian finds himself savoring it, the careful dismantling of the frenzied creature who has made his professional life a carefully-planned whirlwind of madness. It's a relief, in many ways, to know there is still a human being underneath the chaos.
"Look, I'm not trying to be an asshole," he assures, trying to salvage the conversation.
"Doing a fine fucking job," Adrian sniped back, his anger a desperate distraction as his armor pieces itself back together.
"I just think it would be better for you to not go back there. Not yet, at least."
"Suppose you're suggesting I go home with you, hmm?"
"And if I am?"
"I'd wonder if your sister's crazy is catching."
"Sometimes it is."
It makes Adrian smile, the offhand comment, and he flicks the remains of his cigarette to the grass where he stomps it out with his worn boot. There is such an ease about the way he moves, even when he is being cautious, even when his eyes dart to Christian's face every few seconds. Trying to decide if he's telling the truth, maybe, if the vague invitation isn't quite so vague, if it's not just a joke. His thought process is so evident on his face, suspicion and confusion and a faint hope.
"You have a few minutes to think about it," Christian said, fishing his keys from his pocket as he pushes himself away from the wall. "I'll need to bring my car around."
"Isn't this a conflict of interest or something?" Adrian calls from behind him, trying to sound amused even when his voice is trembling with hesitation and a layer of discomfort. In the ward, in the safety of those long halls and carbon-copy rooms, he has a strength and conviction bred of familiarity and reputation, but in the real world he is just as much a victim of others as anybody else.
Christian pauses and glances over his shoulder, and smiles what he hopes is an honest smile. Perhaps too honest.
"You have no idea," he says casually, "what my interests are."
Word Count: 883
Notes: Amazingly, no warnings about this piece. Another pre-canon scene that should have been quick and dirty but took forever to write because Crux is very selective with his words. *eyeroll*
It’s easy to lose him in the patchwork of light and shadows under the enormous willows that guard the long driveway, his white shirt as crisp and shimmering as the sunlight and his dark hair as cool as the tendrils of shade that grip and claw at the manicured lawn. He’s leaning against the wall, the battered hiking backpack beside him, arms crossed over his chest as he stares down the road toward the highway, the distant whirr of cars as they pass, the sound of civilization racing down the arterial routes toward the crowded heart of gleaming buildings in the distance.
Christian slouches against the stone beside him without a word, lighting a cigarette and taking a long drag, using the smoke to scour his lungs of the sickly-sweet ward air and relishing the first caress of nicotine through his veins. From the corner of his eye he sees the sideways glance, the instinctive tightening of Adrian’s fists against the craving, and he extends one arm to offer the pack of smokes and the lighter, not making eye contact. His skin stings when Adrian’s fingers brush his.
“Waiting for someone?” Christian asks. Adrian shakes his head, turning the lighter over in his fingers, tracing the angular ridges of the metal case.
“Nobody to wait for,” he says casually.
“No parents?”
“Nah. They moved on.”
"You have somewhere to go?" The question feels strange even as it falls from his lips, phrased in a manner that bypasses normal curiosity and falls into the realm of vague invitations and hidden agendas. He sees that Adrian hears it, too, the words causing the young man's expression to pinch slightly, his eyes darkening and his gaze lifting momentarily from the lighter to study Christian suspiciously.
"What difference is it to you?" he asks in the warning tone of an animal feeling the corner at its back. Christian makes it a point to keep his expression neutral and hide how the stare rattles him. When he shrugs, it's little more than a twitch of nervous muscle.
"Seems irresponsible of me to just let you walk away when you have nowhere to go."
"So what, you're gonna put me back in there?" Adrian jerks his thumb over his shoulder, in the direction of the drab brick building. "Because newsflash, Godboy, that's not much better."
"I never said it was."
"And not that it's any of your fucking business, but I do -"
"Let's not kid ourselves." He takes a deep breath, wondering where the comfort of the nicotine has gone. "I know about your uncle. You'll be back here in what, a week? Two, at the most?" He taps his cigarette, watches the ashes float to the ground. "Your record is five days or something, isn't it?"
He isn't intending to wound Adrian, but his words have exactly that effect. The mask of petulance and indifference and angry defiance falls away in pieces like ice shattered by a stone crashing through the surface of a frozen pond, and the ripples reveal a younger, vulnerable man that isn't able to hold eye contact, who stares at his feet as if wishing the ground could swallow him.
It's an awkward and pathetic moment, and Christian finds himself savoring it, the careful dismantling of the frenzied creature who has made his professional life a carefully-planned whirlwind of madness. It's a relief, in many ways, to know there is still a human being underneath the chaos.
"Look, I'm not trying to be an asshole," he assures, trying to salvage the conversation.
"Doing a fine fucking job," Adrian sniped back, his anger a desperate distraction as his armor pieces itself back together.
"I just think it would be better for you to not go back there. Not yet, at least."
"Suppose you're suggesting I go home with you, hmm?"
"And if I am?"
"I'd wonder if your sister's crazy is catching."
"Sometimes it is."
It makes Adrian smile, the offhand comment, and he flicks the remains of his cigarette to the grass where he stomps it out with his worn boot. There is such an ease about the way he moves, even when he is being cautious, even when his eyes dart to Christian's face every few seconds. Trying to decide if he's telling the truth, maybe, if the vague invitation isn't quite so vague, if it's not just a joke. His thought process is so evident on his face, suspicion and confusion and a faint hope.
"You have a few minutes to think about it," Christian said, fishing his keys from his pocket as he pushes himself away from the wall. "I'll need to bring my car around."
"Isn't this a conflict of interest or something?" Adrian calls from behind him, trying to sound amused even when his voice is trembling with hesitation and a layer of discomfort. In the ward, in the safety of those long halls and carbon-copy rooms, he has a strength and conviction bred of familiarity and reputation, but in the real world he is just as much a victim of others as anybody else.
Christian pauses and glances over his shoulder, and smiles what he hopes is an honest smile. Perhaps too honest.
"You have no idea," he says casually, "what my interests are."