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31_days2005-10-03 06:52 pm
mythicbeast.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2005-10-03 06:52 pm
[October 3] [Original] The Pursuit of Purpose
Title: The Pursuit of Purpose
Day/Theme: October 3: When angels speak of love
Series: Original
Character/Pairing: Gale, Palomir
Rating: PG
Summary: So how do we get our guardian angels, anyway?
A/N: Strangely, this makes me think of Princess Tutu's Fakir and Ahiru for no real reason. Name substitution, perhaps?
I ran out of ideas three-fourths in (you can tell where); in any case, this is me feeding my ghost kink (just a bit).
There is a man in her apartment, but she's too interested in him to worry much about it. No one's come by for a long time, not even for a cuppa, and this one... this one's been here for three weeks.
She doesn't know his name because she has not spoken to him, and he is not in the habit of talking to himself. Sometimes she imagines what it would be like to strike up conversation with him, but runs into a tingle of uncertainty. She doesn't know her own name, she frets, whatever would he call her by?
But he cannot see her and she does not speak, so she never knows how that might have turned out.
The apartment is immaculate in the way only homes without owners can be, and if it weren't for the rumpling of sheets every morning, she could very well think she is alone here. The dust covers haven't even been lifted off the chairs. All in all, this fellow seems to be grimly determined to treat the place strictly as a utilitarian establishment, and for that, she feels a bit sad. There's a beautiful view out the westmost window at five-twenty sharp every morning, come winter or summer, and she would have liked it if he could appreciate it.
A creak of wood and a semi-conscious groan heralds the start of the day. Her soles skim through the floorboards (maple, cherry, oak, she thinks distractedly) as she hears him getting up, distracting her, but she's too busy making her way towards him to concentrate on pulling herself together. She perches on the counter and watches avidly, completely silent, while he stumbles around bleary-eyed before going about making breakfast.
She notes, with the sharpness of the obsessive, how he butters his toast with his left and cracks open an egg with his right, sending the yolk and white into the pan and shortly following up with a dash of salt for flavor. His shirt is too small for him, and his boxers are too big; or maybe they just don't make boxers with hips like that in mind, lines of sleek bone and leaner muscle that would not, in all likelihood, look out of place cast in metal on a motorbike. He eats neatly and efficiently with only a fork wielded in his left hand, using its edge to saw into the egg and the prongs to stab it. Occasionally, he'll take a bit out of the toast, slumping next to her as he eats. His gaze stares dully past her, though, and she's not suprised.
She's a little wistful, though. She wants to tuck the bangs dangling over his face behind his ear, since he's bound to lose an eye if he leaves his hair in his face like that.
When he finishes breakfast, the next order of business is, apparently, a shower. She modestly keeps out of the bathroom, but slips in before him to reach into the heater and turn it on, since she's noticed him cursing at the temperature of the water more than one morning, and apparently hasn't worked out the apartments's malevolent machinery.
He is dressed, he is clean, he is gone.
Before she can stop herself from trailing after him, she makes it halfway through the doorway, and she feels her edges flicker, like static on cling-wrap or cilia on a germ. She hesitates, then cautiously retreats. She has not tried to step past the threshold in sixty years, and she will not start now. She did not die here, and she did not live here, but she's curiously bound to this haunt all the same, and she hasn't the faintest idea why.
It's not until she catches the glimmer of white in a mirror one day that she thinks to stop and look at herself.
There are wings growing out of her back. They are weak and small and nearly naked, but wings nonetheless.
She twists around to look at her back. Nothing there.
The girl looks into the mirror again, and there they are.
Her cherry mouth drops open into a soft 'oh', and for the first time, she understands.
The next day, when he steps out of the apartment, she follows five minutes after him, feeling the weight of matter settling around her as she pushes through the air. She spots him a little way down the street and sprints forwards getting a running start before she plows into his back.
He squawks, but as she expects, he catches hold of a lamp-post before they can crash down on the ice-slick pavement. Her nerves feel like they're on overdrive; the plain cotton of his sweater feels like the clouds of heaven to her grasping fingers, and the warmth of his body is like a fog of gentle, warm spice.
She looks up at him with, armed with a grin and effusive apologies, then adheres herself to his side, prattling mindlessly.
His name is Palomir, she learns, and she likes that sound. It sounds right.
"Well then Palomir," she says with a smile, "My name is Gale. Where do you live? Oh, really! I live just around there too, you know!"
The gaze he gives her is unreadable, and then he snorts softly.
"I know," he tells her gravely, stopping her dead. "I'd been wondering if you were going to do anything but haunt my apartment for the rest of the year. Are you seeking rest?"
Gale may be, apparently, Palomir's guardian angel, but that doesn't mean that he (as it turns out later, he's a professional spiritual medium) can't see her.
The grin she gives him as she rallies is winning.
"Don't be silly," she chirps, "I'm here just for you!"
And so she is.
((Biologically incorrect, I think. Germs don't have cilia.))
Day/Theme: October 3: When angels speak of love
Series: Original
Character/Pairing: Gale, Palomir
Rating: PG
Summary: So how do we get our guardian angels, anyway?
A/N: Strangely, this makes me think of Princess Tutu's Fakir and Ahiru for no real reason. Name substitution, perhaps?
I ran out of ideas three-fourths in (you can tell where); in any case, this is me feeding my ghost kink (just a bit).
There is a man in her apartment, but she's too interested in him to worry much about it. No one's come by for a long time, not even for a cuppa, and this one... this one's been here for three weeks.
She doesn't know his name because she has not spoken to him, and he is not in the habit of talking to himself. Sometimes she imagines what it would be like to strike up conversation with him, but runs into a tingle of uncertainty. She doesn't know her own name, she frets, whatever would he call her by?
But he cannot see her and she does not speak, so she never knows how that might have turned out.
The apartment is immaculate in the way only homes without owners can be, and if it weren't for the rumpling of sheets every morning, she could very well think she is alone here. The dust covers haven't even been lifted off the chairs. All in all, this fellow seems to be grimly determined to treat the place strictly as a utilitarian establishment, and for that, she feels a bit sad. There's a beautiful view out the westmost window at five-twenty sharp every morning, come winter or summer, and she would have liked it if he could appreciate it.
A creak of wood and a semi-conscious groan heralds the start of the day. Her soles skim through the floorboards (maple, cherry, oak, she thinks distractedly) as she hears him getting up, distracting her, but she's too busy making her way towards him to concentrate on pulling herself together. She perches on the counter and watches avidly, completely silent, while he stumbles around bleary-eyed before going about making breakfast.
She notes, with the sharpness of the obsessive, how he butters his toast with his left and cracks open an egg with his right, sending the yolk and white into the pan and shortly following up with a dash of salt for flavor. His shirt is too small for him, and his boxers are too big; or maybe they just don't make boxers with hips like that in mind, lines of sleek bone and leaner muscle that would not, in all likelihood, look out of place cast in metal on a motorbike. He eats neatly and efficiently with only a fork wielded in his left hand, using its edge to saw into the egg and the prongs to stab it. Occasionally, he'll take a bit out of the toast, slumping next to her as he eats. His gaze stares dully past her, though, and she's not suprised.
She's a little wistful, though. She wants to tuck the bangs dangling over his face behind his ear, since he's bound to lose an eye if he leaves his hair in his face like that.
When he finishes breakfast, the next order of business is, apparently, a shower. She modestly keeps out of the bathroom, but slips in before him to reach into the heater and turn it on, since she's noticed him cursing at the temperature of the water more than one morning, and apparently hasn't worked out the apartments's malevolent machinery.
He is dressed, he is clean, he is gone.
Before she can stop herself from trailing after him, she makes it halfway through the doorway, and she feels her edges flicker, like static on cling-wrap or cilia on a germ. She hesitates, then cautiously retreats. She has not tried to step past the threshold in sixty years, and she will not start now. She did not die here, and she did not live here, but she's curiously bound to this haunt all the same, and she hasn't the faintest idea why.
It's not until she catches the glimmer of white in a mirror one day that she thinks to stop and look at herself.
There are wings growing out of her back. They are weak and small and nearly naked, but wings nonetheless.
She twists around to look at her back. Nothing there.
The girl looks into the mirror again, and there they are.
Her cherry mouth drops open into a soft 'oh', and for the first time, she understands.
The next day, when he steps out of the apartment, she follows five minutes after him, feeling the weight of matter settling around her as she pushes through the air. She spots him a little way down the street and sprints forwards getting a running start before she plows into his back.
He squawks, but as she expects, he catches hold of a lamp-post before they can crash down on the ice-slick pavement. Her nerves feel like they're on overdrive; the plain cotton of his sweater feels like the clouds of heaven to her grasping fingers, and the warmth of his body is like a fog of gentle, warm spice.
She looks up at him with, armed with a grin and effusive apologies, then adheres herself to his side, prattling mindlessly.
His name is Palomir, she learns, and she likes that sound. It sounds right.
"Well then Palomir," she says with a smile, "My name is Gale. Where do you live? Oh, really! I live just around there too, you know!"
The gaze he gives her is unreadable, and then he snorts softly.
"I know," he tells her gravely, stopping her dead. "I'd been wondering if you were going to do anything but haunt my apartment for the rest of the year. Are you seeking rest?"
Gale may be, apparently, Palomir's guardian angel, but that doesn't mean that he (as it turns out later, he's a professional spiritual medium) can't see her.
The grin she gives him as she rallies is winning.
"Don't be silly," she chirps, "I'm here just for you!"
And so she is.
((Biologically incorrect, I think. Germs don't have cilia.))