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Post by FIONA "FANNY" PRICE on Dec 15, 2011 21:25:13 GMT -5
Rain splattered against the windows of the coffee shop. Fiona propped her chin on both hands, elbows on the clean countertops. The shop was empty- no one stopped in for a coffee and a chance to talk when the rain pelted down as fiercely as it did that day. It was cold, too- Fiona half expected the raindrops to turn to snowflakes. On the radio, a girl’s dry voice was saying something about a sudden temperature drop and snow, seven inches expected overnight. It was going to be a miserable walk home to the East Side whether it snowed or not. But her shift didn’t end until four, and it was only just three. Fiona was all by herself, probably for the next, long, hour. She glanced sideways at the calculus textbook under the counter. She hated math- she couldn’t keep numbers straight in her head, but her conscience nagged at her. How will you ever get into university if you don’t know any calculus? Your chances are dim as it is.
Fiona sighed. She knew she should practice. But, for once in a blue moon, she was more in the mood to talk than study or read, her usual favorite pastimes. The would-be authoress didn’t have the inspiration to work on the little book of fairy stories she’d been putting together for her littlest sister, Betsey, who thought she was Tinker Bell. There was really nothing for her to do but study, and as close to Christmas as it was, no student in the whole city was working very hard. Fiona was looking forward to Christmas. She didn’t get many presents from the Bertrams, but that was all right- the fat stack of letters and cards and drawings her siblings sent her every year made up for the lack of bows and wrapping paper. And the Bertrams didn’t let her sit in on any of their holiday parties, either, though with Maria engaged and Julia probably headed that way, she might have more of a chance at meeting new people. No, what the skinny young woman really loved about Christmas was the spirit that filled the city. The decorations around every store and window, the music that filled the radio and was hummed and played on every street corner, the snow, the cookies and hot chocolate and families who went shopping together. The only part she didn’t love about the holidays was being alone. And now that Edmund was off at college, it was happening more and more often. The Bertrams had made it clear when she’d first come to live with them that she was not their equal, even if Mrs. Bertram was her mother’s sister. Fiona was not allowed to dine with them, except on Sundays, and she didn’t come to their parties; she had to sit alone in her room and wait for them to be over, or go out and not come back until everyone was gone. It had been enough of an ordeal trying to get the Bertrams to let her go to the Halloween ball- they’d only agreed because she’d pestered them about it for three weeks. The holidays were always a little lonely for Fiona, and it was getting harder to bear every year.
Being alone in the shop did have its benefits, even if she wanted company more than freedom. Fiona drummed her fingers on the counter for a moment and went into the back of the shop. An old CD player was hooked up to the shop’s stereo system- no one would mind if she put in what she wanted to hear, instead of listening to the same old Christmas songs over and over again- she could have sworn they were playing Santa Baby for the third time in a row. Fiona flipped through the stack of disks, pulling out an old Benny Goodman recording. The swingy jazz music rang out through the shop. Fiona picked up a broom, intending to sweep the already-clean floors out front.
The good intentions didn’t last long. Pretty soon, Fiona was dancing with the broom rather than sweeping with it. She didn’t know it- but she was making quite a spectacle of herself. Her bright red shoes flashed under her dark jeans. Her dark red apron and face were both smeared with flour from baking a batch of cookies for the shop, and dancing with a broom to music no one can hear from the street is usually not the best way to appear sane. But Fiona was enjoying herself, or as much as she could when she had nothing else to do. At least this time she could choose what she was going to do- calculus, or make herself look quite mad. At home, she would never have gotten away with the latter. Or probably the former, either; Aunt Norris was a firm believer in the idea that only girls of fortune should be educated, and all others made to do the work no one else wanted. She was something out of Napoleonic England, the fussy widow aunt involved in everybody’s business and telling other people exactly how to run their lives. Fiona didn’t like Aunt Norris much. Her old-fashioned ideas about how women should behave made Fiona frustrated, and made her feel like more of a rebel than she usually did. If it was up to the niece, the aunt would be sent back in time to the fifties or the Napoleonic times where she belonged, and leave Fiona to her own devices in the twenty-first century.
The music took a while to cheer her up, but Fiona’s foul mood was melting away. It was hard for her to resist Benny Goodman. She was humming- pretty soon she was singing, too, and humming all of the lyrics she didn’t know, to Ain’t Misbehavin’. She wasn’t much of a singer, but she was enjoying herself. ”No one to walk with, I’m all by myself, no one to talk with, but I’m happy on a shelf,” she sang, eyes closed, still swaying with the broom. The words came with only a touch of bitterness- she was not happy being alone, and she was sick of pretending she was. ”Your kisses are worth waiting for.” She had to reach for the high notes, face scrunching up as she did. Fiona, the bored, lonely coffee shop girl, had her back to the door, voice cracking on the word “kisses,” just as the bell above the door jingled. Cold air blew past her into the shop, and the girl gasped and dropped the broom, face an impressive shade of scarlet as she swiveled to face the door, dreading the embarrassment of facing any potential customer. |
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Post by GREGORY LESTRADE on Dec 18, 2011 17:18:51 GMT -5
Lestrade was beginning to hate Christmas. All of the decorations and incessant songs and useless happiness. It was not that he was the type of man to down others' enjoyment - far from it - but it was his first Christmas in New York. Which in turn made it his first Christmas, in his entire life, truly alone. He knew it was a silly, childish though; so many people were alone for Christmas every year, and he was no-one special. And yet even when he had been in California and almost jumped off the Gold Gate Bridge on Christmas eve, he had never truly been as alone as he was this year. Before, there had been his brother, or his daughter, or his sister. Now, it was just him. And though it had been like this for months now, the fact that is was Christmas (the bloody holiday) made the being alone seem so much more...nagging.
Without thinking about it, he had signed up to work overtime on Christmas eve and morning. He figured there was no one who he really needed to be at home for, and though one of the younger sergeants had invited him to his Christmas party, he understood that it was more out of obligation that actual interest that he was invited. So he had politely declined, to the boy's relief. Now, walking back from the same place he would be spending most of December's twenty-fourth and fifth days working in, he rather wished he had ignored the boy's feelings and accepted the invitation.
It was raining, and Lestrade hadn't brought an umbrella with him today. The cabs were backed up with all the other people in the city who, like him, preferred not to walk through freezing cold rain, as a habit. He shivered, and he'd only walked a few blocks when his tolerance for the cold had been spent up, and he decided to retreat into a store.
The warmth that he'd been expecting inside of the cold was a relief, and he barely cared that he probably looked awful: pale and shivering and dripping. What he was not expecting was to come face to face with young woman with green eyes and long, dark brown hair squeaking out the word "kisses!" in tune with whatever was playing in the shop and dropping the broom that she had been holding next to him in surprise.
His first reaction was to think, 'Thank god that broom didn't hit me, because it would have hurt.' His second thought was how utterly ridiculous the situation was. He backed up a step, the girl's face a little too close for his own comfort, and said, "Er, sorry, am I... interrupting something?"
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Post by FIONA "FANNY" PRICE on Dec 21, 2011 19:17:16 GMT -5
Fiona’s hands flew to her mouth instinctively, her face hot with embarrassment. “Oh, geez- I am so sorry… I didn’t see you- are you all right?”
She couldn’t believe her luck. Just as she was in the most embarrassing position she could remember, a man walked in. Granted, he looked almost fifty, and the chances were she’d never see him again once he walked out- but all the same, she was mortified. Oh, Lord, she thought faintly. What have I done this time?
The man stepped back, an uncomfortable, awkward look on his face. He was dripping wet, rather disheveled-looking- but under the rained-on appearance, she could see he was usually very well dressed. He shivered- his jacket, however expensive it looked, couldn’t have kept out the cold very well, let alone the wet. He had black hair, graying in places but well-combed, and his face had faint smile lines- but it was weathered and worn, the sign of a hard life. ”Er, sorry, am I… interrupting something?” he asked quietly.
”Oh no, not at all,” she said, trying to cover up her mortification with a smile (and probably failing). ”I’m so sorry about that- I just… it gets awfully lonely in here this time of year, with the rain and everything… I guess I was getting a little stir-crazy,” she explained. The man was dripping onto the floors, and she sighed. “Look, you’re soaking wet,” she said. ”Why don’t you have a seat? We’ve got a nice little air dryer in the back- I can dry off your coat, and there’s got to be an umbrella back there somewhere…”
She picked up the broom, bustling him into a chair. He looked so startled she couldn’t help but want to take care of him- there was loneliness etched onto his face. Fiona backed up, giving him space and trying not to make him too uncomfortable. “Can I get you something hot to drink?”
Fiona picked up the remote to the stereo that was lying on a nearby table and switched it off. The sound of Benny Goodman stopped short in the middle of a jazzy run. She was glad to hear the music stop. The man probably wouldn’t forget the fact that she’d been dancing with the broom in his hand, but at least the absence of the music would make her feel like less of an idiot. Well, see what you’ve done? she thought dryly. You wanted company, and you go and make a fool out of yourself and scare the heck out of some poor guy who wanders in- who knows why- and now you’re being overly welcoming and probably freaking him out… You’re an idiot, Fiona, you really are.
Fiona stowed the broom behind the counter and reached back to switch on the air dryer. It came to life with a quiet humming noise, reassuring and steady. Puffs of steam shot into the air. Fiona grabbed a cup and turned up the temperature on the water. ”Look,” she said, stepping out from behind the counter and meeting his eyes, ”I am so sorry about that. I… I always get a little lonely this time of year… I guess I’ll do anything to make myself feel less.. you know… But that’s no excuse. I… I just… I’m sorry.”
She leaned against the front of the counter and rubbed the back of her neck. She wished more than anything for a hurricane, an earthquake, a hole in the floor that would open up and swallow her whole. Susan would get a kick out of this, she thought, unbidden. Which is exactly why she’s never going to know about it- I’ll never hear the end of it if she finds out. Fiona was so desperate to escape the awkward embarrassment of the moment she would even have welcomed the appearance of Jack the Ripper. Against her will, her cheeks colored again, less hot and colorful as the first time, but still a remarkable shade of red. She swallowed. How awful… she thought. |
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Post by GREGORY LESTRADE on Dec 21, 2011 22:41:07 GMT -5
(You’re awesome, long AND quick response! :D)
The girl covered her mouth with her hands dramatically and said, “Oh, geez – I am so sorry… I didn’t see you - are you all right?” Lestrade nodded, a little more than confused. It wasn’t that the situation itself was confusing; it was obvious, actually. The straightforwardness of it seemed almost comical. But it was the fact that it was… rather larger than life that was just a bit throwing.
“Erm, yes, I’m fine,” he made out. He nearly flinched when she started to bustle him over to a seat, but he forced himself to be still and allowed himself to be led. She was awfully kind, after all. He sat down at one of the tables in the restaurant and pulled his jacket off, draping it over the back of the seat. She asked him if he’d like something to drink, to which he responded, “Er, tea if you have it, thanks.” Usually he would have coffee, but that was only because he usually had a reason to be awake. At the moment, all he wanted was a nice, warm cup of tea. His jacket – well, he – was dripping all over the floors. “I’m sorry about the mess,” he said quietly as the waitress turned the radio off. He continued to watch her as she put the broom away and turned on the heating.
A vent which was on the ceiling just a few feet from where Lestrade was sitting buzzed on, humming and blowing a rush of warm air onto him, which he found very comfortable indeed. He smiled slightly; the girl was probably very bored, to be paying this much attention to a single customer. Then again, he was her only costumer at the moment, so it was somewhat logical. From behind the counter where she was readying hot water, the girl started to speak again: “Look, I am so sorry about that. I… I always get a little lonely this time of year… I guess I’ll do anything to make myself feel less… you know… But that’s no excuse. I.. I just… I’m so sorry.” Lestrade felt a rush of sympathy towards her. He knew exactly what she meant, and really, she hadn’t done anything wrong, so there was no need for her multiple apologies. And even if she had hit him accidentally with the broom – which she hadn’t – he would’ve forgiven her by now anyway. ‘Though,’ he thought to himself with slight amusement, ‘If I were in the same situation, I’d be the one apologizing profusely to her. I suppose we’re a bit similar.’
“It’s fine, really,” he said kindly, and when he looked up he saw that she was blushing again. “No, honestly, it’s absolutely fine. There’s no need for you to be sorry.” He gave her a small smile before looked back down at his hands, which were clenching and unclenching around each other on the table top. Besides the fact that this whole scenario felt slightly surreal, and rushed, he felt a little bit like he was speaking through another vessel that was not his own. That is not to say that he was having anything resembling an out-of-body experience, but he was so tired, and he just had that feeling where nothing is processing quite quickly enough, even though everything is going at lightning speed around you.
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Post by FIONA "FANNY" PRICE on Dec 30, 2011 11:08:41 GMT -5
The man nodded when she asked if he was all right. ”Erm, yes, I’m fine,” he said nervously, and asked for a cup of tea. Fiona was glad for the excuse to duck behind the counter and hide her scarlet face. Come to think of it, she thought, a cup of tea does sound awfully good right about now. She pulled out two cups and put bags in both- peppermint in her cup. It was the smell of the holidays, and it made Fiona miss her mother. She could remember sitting in the kitchen in the middle of the afternoon around the holidays, drinking tea with her mother and talking. They’d talked for hours in the cramped space, going through three or four cups each. Her mother loved teas- she would drink anything. Green tea, black tea, oolong, Darjeeling, none was safe from Mrs. Price. Fiona had inherited her love of the stuff. She disliked coffee as a rule, but in the past few months she’d been drinking more of it and less tea. Fiona had enough on her plate without feeling homesick.
Still, sometimes it made her feel better to smell the sharp, fresh odor of peppermint and imagine her mother, sitting on one of the chairs near the counter and smiling at her. Her eyes were bright green, the same shade as Fiona’s, and in her daughter’s mind, Mrs. Price was never as weary or downtrodden as she was in real life. The bags under her eyes from raising her children and trying to pay bills by doing laundry and mending were gone- her clothes were in better shape. She laughed more. Fiona missed her laugh. Even though life had always been tough for the Prices, Mrs. Price had always managed to find some way to lighten the load. Her house had been threadbare and nearly decrepit, but there was so much love packed into it that Fiona couldn’t think of anything else as home, even after eight years away.
”I’m sorry about the mess,” said the man quietly. She smiled. ”Don’t worry about it- I think after I scared you like that, you’ve earned the right to make a bit of a mess,” she said. That was understating it a little- but she wasn’t going to say that. He had made a mess- more than a bit. Not a lot, but more than a bit. Water dripped all over the floor, grimy as only New York rainwater could be. Fiona almost wished she could take some of it home and drizzle it all over her aunt’s fancy rug- it would leave stains no one could get out. Fiona didn’t usually play pranks; it wasn’t her style. But every so often she got a devilish urge, a mischievous impulse to do something less-than-nice for her mother’s family.
She made her apologies, stumbling over what to say and tripping over each word. The man was good about it, gracious to the last. ”It’s fine, really. No, it’s absolutely fine. There’s no need for you to be sorry.”
He smiled wearily, clasping and unclasping his hands and looking downright miserable. Fiona poured the hot water into both cups and set one down in front of him. She hesitated before retreating back behind the counter, though. She thought she recognized something in his face, a hopelessness that made her remember when she’d first found out that she would never return to her mother’s house in Boston. A kind word from her cousin’s best friend had been enough then to give her hope again- she wondered if a kind word might not have the same effect on her customer. Fiona steeled herself and sat down opposite the man, looking at him with concern. His gaze didn’t shift much from his hands. Fiona waited for a moment, then opened her mouth hesitantly. ”I know it’s not really my place- but are you all right? I don’t mean to pry, but you… well, you seem a little… lost. Is there anything… do you want to talk?”
She blushed again. She sounded every inch as nosy as her Aunt Norris- but she couldn’t do anything about that now. The words were out; she couldn’t snatch them back again, however much she might have wanted to.
OOC: I am so sorry about the wait! The holidays are always a little nuts for me, but usually I'm a lot faster than this! |
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Post by GREGORY LESTRADE on Dec 30, 2011 15:38:35 GMT -5
(Gosh, no, it's fine! Didn't mean to pressure you or anything; This was still plenty fast and obviously quite long^^'. I wouldn't have replied until now either, if it were my turn to respond; I hope your holidays were nice!)
The girl assured Lestrade that the fact that he was dripping gallons onto the floor was of no consequence, which was obviously a blatant lie – she would be the one having to clean it, after all – but she said, “I think after I scared you like that, you’ve earned the right to make a bit of a mess,” and so he left it at that. Besides, there was not much he could do to help besides leave, and having just entered warmth once again, he was not making haste to return to the cold outside.
The waitress placed a cut of hot tea in front of him, and the scent drifted upwards towards his face. The light steamy warmth felt nice. “Thank you,” he acknowledged gratefully, and held the teacup aloft. Blowing on the liquid to cool it slightly, the steam was forced another direction other than up; had he been wearing his glasses, they’d have been foggy, now. Taking a sip, he smiled slightly around the porcelain. It was good. Warm. Comforting.
The waitress had retreated back behind the counter, but suddenly she came back to the table and sat across from him. Lestrade looked up from the cup of tea, confused. Her eyes shone with the need to say something, and while he wasn’t exactly in the mood for talking, he waited patiently for her to say something. For a brief moment, he wondered what she must think of him. A haggard old man, dripping dirty water all over the floors she likely scrubbed clean daily, alone and probably more like a criminal than a police man at the moment. Or perhaps, a crazy.
“I know it’s not really my place,” the girl started, and Lestrade took another small sip of his tea. “But are you all right? I don’t mean to pry, but you… Well, you seem a little… Lost. Is there anything… Do you want to talk?” She started to blush furiously. He set his tea cup down, making a small *clink* and a faint *thud* against the wooden table.
This was certainly not what he had been expecting when he had come into here, by any means. The idea that this young woman was attempting to – what was the word – council him, was obviously awkward and more than a little amusing. Lestrade was not an easily offended man, and so he knew that she was not trying to look down upon him, she was simply trying to be friendly.
He smiled slightly, “No,” he chuckled, “I’m fine. Tired, is all.” Yes that was best. Tired… Fine… The automatic reactions when one was asked for their wellbeing. And he was tired, and fine, he supposed. He missed his daughter, and his brother, and everything in the past, but the fact that when he had been living that past, all he had wanted was to get out of it. This was better; he always had to tell himself now, that this was better than before.
“Though, in past experiences,” he began to speak to the girl once more, “When somebody asks somebody else to talk, it usually means that that is what they, in fact, want for themselves.” He raised a questioning eyebrow. “So what would you like to talk about, Miss, ah –“ He waited for her to fill in her name.
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Post by FIONA "FANNY" PRICE on Dec 30, 2011 21:51:13 GMT -5
The moment the words left her mouth, she knew she’d screwed up. She wanted to slap her hand over her mouth and take them back, suck them right back in. Fiona knew well what her reaction would have been if a stranger walked up and asked her to talk about her feelings. In her mind she’d laugh and say something cheeky, and in real life she’d blush and turn away and say something- anything- to make the questioner go away. It had happened before- school counselors who noticed her pale face and the dark circles under her eyes. Her coworkers. Old women in secondhand bookstores, young mothers in department stores, stablehands who noticed her depression when she went to ride Shakespeare. She could never work up the nerve to tell them to go away or to mind their own business. All she could ever say was…
”No. I’m fine. Tired, is all.”
Ah, yes. Her favorite excuse. Fiona, why did you shout at your cousin? I’m just tired. Fiona, why did you slam your door? I’m just tired. Fiona, you insolent chit, why do you insist on being so sullen and rebellious?
I’m.
Just.
Tired.
Even if it was true, it was never everything. She said it mostly because she knew there was a torrent waiting to come out, a whirlwind of emotion and anger ready to attack whoever got in her way next, whoever dared to ask why. It was the short answer, the excuse she always gave- because she knew when she gave it, there would be a nod. A smile. Well, get some more rest- you look dreadful. And then, no one would ever ask again. Even if she wished they would. Even if she needed them to ask again, needed to say to someone how she was feeling, they never asked again. She’d explained that she was tired- why should anyone care beyond that? That was the easy way out of talking to family and friends, and the habit she’d picked up whenever strangers asked. It was easier talking to strangers, easier to unload on people she’d never see again. But it was dangerous, too- if Fiona got into the habit of telling the truth to strangers, shed just keep going until she could no longer ignore the tangled mess of emotions buried deep in her chest. And she had to ignore it.
Fiona recognized the brush-off when she heard it. She swallowed and started to get up. This man, this man with the tired eyes and wet hair, this man who had sorrow etched onto his face like a tattoo, a scar that would never go away, this man didn’t want to talk to her. What business is it of yours anyway, Fi? she asked herself. It wasn’t. She shouldn’t care. Fiona knew well enough that most New York waitresses didn’t. They were hired to serve the coffee, the tea, the cookies and the bagels. Take the money, put it in the register. Smile- but never ask questions. Say hello- but never ask for names. And above all- never, ever come out from behind the counter.
So why had she done it? Why had she, who was shy and didn’t like talking to people as a rule, why should Fiona have taken such an interest in this man? She had no idea, but she didn’t think it was worth it to find out. As soon as he was done with his tea, he would leave. He would go away, and she’d never see him again, so it wouldn’t matter.
”Though, in past experiences, when somebody asks somebody else to talk, it usually means that that is what they, in fact, want for themselves. So what would you like to talk about, Miss, ah…”
Fiona blinked, too surprised even to blush. ”Price,” she said to the raised eyebrow. ”Fiona Price. I don’t think I caught your name, Mr….?”
She waited for him to fill in his name, thinking rapidly in the meantime. Did she want to talk? Could she even consider it? No, that wasn’t why she’d asked. She got up and pulled back slightly, but didn’t retreat behind the counter. ”That… wasn’t what I meant,” she said softly. ”I wasn’t looking for that. I’m not going to hand off my problems to a complete stranger- no. That didn’t come out right. I… look, I don’t want to bother you with my problems. You… you look like you’ve got enough on your plate as it is.” She was pushing out the words now, pushing them out before she could think better of it. ”A few years ago… well, I was in a bad place, and a few kind words from someone who had no reason to be kind to me made all the difference. I feel like I ought to return the favor to somebody, that’s all.”
She sighed and ran a hand through her hair. ”Look… just, forget it. Just forget it.” |
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Post by GREGORY LESTRADE on Jan 1, 2012 21:41:30 GMT -5
Lestrade watched as the girl’s face jumped from absolutely mortified to surprise within the time frame of about 5 seconds, when alone in a café with an old man you don’t know was probably a bit more tense than it would have been in most situations. “Price,” she said, still looking rather startled, “Fiona Price. I don’t think I caught your name, Mr…?”
Lestrade smiled; she’d asked for his own in the same way he’d asked her. Small detail, but it told a lot about the personality. The kind to repeat themselves, or to pick up habits easily then. Either that or they were just rather similar. He cleared his throat before answering, “Gregory Lestrade, nice to meet you,” he smiled and started to hold out his hand for her to shake, but before it was properly in front of him, she – Miss Price – was retreating back to position in the café, behind the counter. He could practically hear her berating herself internally. He didn’t like the feeling that he’d caused her self-doubt.
“That… wasn’t what I meant. I wasn’t looking for that.” ‘Not aware of it, at least.’ “I’m not going ot hand my problems off to complete stranger – no.” It’s all right, take your time. Besides, you seemed not to have such a hard time doing it in short a few seconds ago. “That didn’t come out right. You…you look like…” Hell? A creepy old man who talks to young woman in cafes? Soaking wet a pain to clean up for later? Probably. “…like you’ve got enough on your plate as it is.” Oh.Miss Price's voice got louder and her words increasing in speed as she continued on. “A few years ago…Well, I was in a bad place.” Another thing we share in common, then. “And a few kind words from someone who had no reason to be kind to me made all the difference.” Not so similar in that respect, then. She doesn’t want to burden others with her problems, but if one were to fully commit to her – were to reassure her that they wanted to help her – she’d have readily accepted the help, though not in such eager physicality. “I feel I out to return the favour to somebody, that’s all.”
She seemed to be finished with her short monologue, and so Lestrade opened his mouth to say – well, something comforting, he supposed, but she sighed and ran her hand through her dark hair. “Look…just, forget it,” she said. “Just forget it.” Lestrade’s wandering mind was sent back to comparing himself with this girl, which he seemed to be doing rapidly today, though he wasn’t really sure why. Giving up before she gave me a chance. That’s something significant too.
“If you don’t mind my saying, Miss, ah, Price,” Lestrade said, trying not to sound too much like when he spoke to his daughter. His tone was not patronizing, but it always held a bit of a fatherly tone that some people found insulting, at times. “I’m quite good at listening. I’m a police man, after all.” He smiled up at her, before realizing that might have sounded a bit threatening. “Which means, I help people for a living. I find it flattering that you would want to help me… Er, talk to me, but I’m quite fine, currently. I am just missing my daughter, is all. No, no, she isn’t dead, I’m just not going to be able to see her on Christmas. But – “ And now Lestrade started to beam, because this next idea – this single thought – was one of the ones he would revisit often, when he was so tired like today, or wanted to drink himself to death again. “But I get to see her during the New Year, and so, I am simply waiting until that time.” And it has been hell.
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Post by FIONA "FANNY" PRICE on Jan 2, 2012 14:04:48 GMT -5
”Gregory Lestrade, nice to meet you.”
He held out his hand to shake, but she was already on her way back behind the counter. She flushed again- how embarrassing. Now she looked like she was snubbing the poor man. Fiona wished she could start the whole thing over. She couldn’t just shrug the man off, act like she was supposed to. Not this time. There was something about the man that almost reminded her of her father- something about the way he sat, or the way his voice sounded.
”If you don’t mind my saying, Miss, ah, Price, I’m quite good at listening. I’m a policeman, after all. Which means I help people for a living.”
His tone had something warm to it, some paternal overtone that she hadn’t heard in a long time. He smiled at her, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Fiona looked at him again, and frowned a little. ”You don’t look like a policeman,” she said. The minute the words left her mouth, she cringed inwardly. Always, Fi, you have to be just that blunt, don’t you? she asked herself.
Mr. Gregory Lestrade kept talking. ”I find it flattering that you would want to help me… Er, talk to me, but I’m quite fine, currently.” Yeah, right, thought Fiona dryly. You’ve got depression etched all over your face. ”I am just missing my daughter, is all.” [/i] A father missing his daughter over the holidays. Fiona was struck dumb. She had a father- hadn’t seen him or spoken to him in years, but she missed him. Was he missing her as much as this policeman missed his daughter? But Fiona wondered where she was. College? Sent away like Fiona had been? Or worst of all- could she be dead? Pity welled up in Fiona’s heart for the man. It must have shown on her face. ”No, no, she isn’t dead, I’m just not going to be able to see her on Christmas. But… but I get to see her during the New Year, and so, I am simply waiting until that time.”[/i] So maybe we’re not so different, thought Fiona. I’m waiting for luck or money to find my family. He’s waiting for New Year’s. The father sitting at the table was smiling for real, now. It made his whole face light up. Fiona’s author’s mind took over. If this were a story, she thought wistfully, we’d bond and become friends. He’s missing his daughter, I’m missing my father. If this were a book, we’d be substitutes for each other until we found our real families again, and even then we’d be friends. We’d keep one another from being lonely.It wasn’t a story. In all likelihood, when the man was done with his tea he’d walk out and continue on with his life, and Fiona would stay behind the counter and continue on with hers. But whether he knew it or not, whether or not the story ending came true, they still had a connection- they both missed their families. ”You’re lucky to see her soon,” said Fiona, smiling but feeling more envy than good wishes. ”I’m sure she misses you just as much as you miss her.”Yes, she was sure. She hadn’t seen her own father in eight years and she still missed him and her mother more than anything in the world. Nothing could change that. And she knew it was the same for most other girls. Daughters loved their fathers. This Lestrade girl, wherever she was, had to be looking forward to New Year’s just as much as her father was. ”What… what’s her name?” asked Fiona quietly. She swallowed afterwards. Thinking about her parents was making her feel emotional- more than usual because of this policeman. She pushed away the cup of peppermint tea in front of her. Any more reminders of her family and she was liable to start crying. And after all the embarrassments so far, that was the last thing she needed.[/blockquote] |
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Post by GREGORY LESTRADE on Jan 2, 2012 19:40:48 GMT -5
I’m assuming we’re pretending this is taking place on 15 December, since that’s the day the thread was started; Lestrade’s birthday is the 22nd.[/i]
“You don’t look like a policeman,” Miss Price said. For a moment, Lestrade was a bit surprised. He’d always thought he’d looked like a police man. Everyone always said he looked authoritative growing up, surely he must become a lawyer or a police man. Apparently, he was either losing his looks, or… something like that. He did turn forty-one in – Well, in exactly a week.
Lestrade grimaced, ”Yes, well, I suppose I’m getting older,” he said, not realizing that his sentence hadn’t made much sense. After mentioning his daughter – and watching her heart skip a beat before he reassured her that Dolores was not dead – Lestrade’s smile grew. He began to smile, largely. It hadn’t been that his smiles up until now hadn’t been genuine; most of them had been real smiles, but they’d had no heart. No depth. But thinking about his daughter made him unexplainably happier.
“You’re lucky to see her soon,” Fiona said from where she was standing, and for a moment, Lestrade saw something not short from… Envy? Envy, cross through her eyes. Such a young girl shouldn’t be having to imagine Christmas without her family so early in her life, Lestrade thought, before, God, I really am getting old. But…I am lucky – I wish I saw her more often, but being able to see her all is a light in this controversial existence. I’m sure she misses you just as much as you miss her.” Now that was something to think on. Lestrade had no doubt in his mind that Dolores loved him, of course she did. But for the first five years of her life, Lestrade had seen her only one weekend a month. For the sixth through tenth years, it became increasingly less. In a way, that had been a good thing, that Lena had cut him off from them; he would have a been a danger to his daughter, with his drink and depression and guns. He’d shaped up, but then he had moved away. The last time he had sense her, she had been ten. Now she was eleven. Had she changed? One year isn’t a lot, in retrospect, but a lot can happen in a year. They were worries that he couldn’t help worrying, and yet there wasn’t much that could help him from stopping. Perhaps they were just natural to have, living so far away from the one person he still fully lived for.
”I am,” Lestrade agreed vocally, the rush of nostalgia both comforting and disconcerting.
”What’s… What’s her name?” Miss Price asked. Lestrade looked at her, hard. He could see, despite the short distance, the way her throat moved slightly, a swallow. The way her eyes became strained, not as if she were holding back tears, but preventing tears to come in the first place. He wasn’t sure if she actually wanted to know, but either way, the sentiments were making her… emotionally uncomfortable.
”Dolores,” Lestrade said finally. ”Her name’s Dolores. She’s eleven, now.” Again, he was smiling. Had he been looking at himself through the eyes of another, he would’ve described it as fatherly, warm… But him being him, as everyone was to themselves, he could only think, What’s this?
Hm… I’m thinking about making Lestrade get a text that says he can’t come home for New Years for some reason. Oh the dramatic angst. But I want to post in the New Years thread… <laughs> Is it okay with you if I put it here (it’s completely fine if you have other plans for the thread, it is yours after all)? I may or may not do it anyway…
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Post by FIONA "FANNY" PRICE on Feb 8, 2012 20:57:37 GMT -5
The man made a face at her comment. ”Yes, well, I suppose I’m getting older,” he said. She shook her head quickly. “That’s not what I meant,” she said. ”It’s just… well, most of the police officers around here don’t stop to chat often. Or order tea. It’s always black coffee.” She shrugged. ”You’re different.”
She was beginning to wonder what this policeman did- she doubted he was still the rough-and-tumble kind of officer who chased criminals on foot often. By the way his brown eyes fixed on hers, she could tell he read more in her looks than she might have wanted to give away. A detective, maybe, she thought. He seems to almost understand- even if it is a little awkward to be talking to him. She supposed detectives would have to have that stare, that x-ray glance that made you feel like you were under a microscope. And she knew he couldn’t even be trying his hardest to find out what she was thinking and feeling- she was no criminal. It was sobering to think how much she was giving away, though, and Fiona knew something would have to be done. She busied her hands, straightening the counters, focusing all she could on maintaining control of herself.
There was a tiny part of Fiona, sometimes larger than tiny, that could almost enjoy feeling miserable. It was the writer in her coming out- to know that she had the power to make others sad with her writing was… intoxicating. She had to be careful with it. It was always more powerful, more lasting, to make someone happy or hopeful with what she wrote or said. But it was harder, too. Fiona often found a savage pleasure in killing off innocent, likeable characters. Just to torque her audience around, just to add a little more darkness to her stories. If he were one of mine, she thought, glancing up at Lestrade, what would I do to him? A broken heart he’s already got from losing his daughter. A tough job, brushes with death. He’d have to have that last one, if he’s a policeman.
She looked at him again, imagination filling in the blanks in her knowledge about him. There was a slump to his shoulders, slight- like he was tired. It went past physical weariness, though, and into the realm of emotional defeat. But the way he moved, the slightly stiff way he held himself… He was trying to cover up that pain, that defeat. Maybe even from himself. When he mentioned his daughter, some of the weariness fell away, replaced by a kind of quiet strength no amount of training or physical exertion could produce. If he were one of mine, she thought, a character I’d created, I’d give him a happy ending. He’s got enough pain already.
And that happy ending’s name was… ”Dolores. Her name’s Dolores. She’s eleven, now.”
”Eleven?” asked Fiona, smiling. ”A big girl.” Old enough to know that she’s loved- but young enough to need her father still. Fiona remembered her own eleventh birthday. It had not been a happy day- a year away from home, and very little to show for it. For a short while after her eleventh birthday, Fiona had turned rebel- at least in her head. A guiding hand, a friend to keep her from going crazy, she’d needed one desperately. One had only just arrived in the nick of time, in the form of Edmund. ”When I was eleven,” she said quietly, writer’s instinct telling her what to say, ”I remember I got a letter from my father telling me he couldn’t see me over the holidays.” That was when things had gotten really desperate for Fiona Price. They were dark, turmoil-filled days, until the peace and serenity of Edmund’s company had worked wonders on him. ”I loved him so much I was furious at him,” Fiona said, smiling a little. ”It didn’t last long. Eleven-year-old girls would die for their fathers.”
OOC: Sorry for the wait! Go ahead with the text thing- I really didn’t have any plans at all for this thread, so you can do whatever you like! |
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Post by GREGORY LESTRADE on Feb 11, 2012 12:26:42 GMT -5
“Eleven? A big girl,” Fiona smiled. Lestrade smiled back, chuckling. It was true, she was a big girl. Slight and pale, not tall, but she was big; so much bigger than she had been when she was a small child. How Lestrade remembered her. Sometimes Elliot sent him pictures of her, but they were never enough.
“A big girl,” Lestrade repeated, agreeing. The look on Fiona’s face – that one that was judging him – made him uncomfortable. It wasn’t a bad sort of judging, he didn’t think, but he wasn’t exactly used to being on the receiving end of evaluation. Maybe it didn’t bother his that much, anyway; there was something about Fiona that made Lestrade want to trust her. He didn’t want to seem pedophilic, but he quite liked her.
“When I was eleven, I remember I got a letter from my father telling me he couldn’t see me over the holidays. I loved him so much I was furious at him. It didn’t last long. Eleven-year-old girls would die for their fathers.” Fiona dictated. Lestrade could see her reminiscing, sadness and yet something akin to fondness laced in her face.
“Would they now?” Lestrade asked, smiling. “Me brother Elliot always tells me I better start coming around more, lest she be forgetting me. But plane tickets are expensive.” Lestrade sighed. “She lives in California, by the way,” he added, as an after note. He wondered if he was babbling; sounding like the doting father. Perhaps he was. Perhaps that was alright.
Fiona looked like a child still. Was she? Most people are, at heart, until they have their own children to take care of. Circle of life and all, he supposed. “Not to be rude, Miss Price,” Lestrade said, “But how old are you?”
OC: I decided not to have Lestrade miss his New Years after all^^.
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Post by FIONA "FANNY" PRICE on Feb 12, 2012 20:08:16 GMT -5
Lestrade chuckled and nodded. ”A big girl.”
She realized she’d been babbling about her father and blushed. To be honest, she didn’t know what to make of her father. Her heart told her one thing- and her head told her another. She knew he’d been a sergeant in the Marines, knew he’d been born in Boston and had trouble finding work because he’d lost his leg in Desert Storm- but she could remember very little of his personality, besides a warm smile and a large hand ruffling her hair from time to time. What she didn’t know, her mind filled in the blanks. Fiona knew as little of him as it was possible to know when she’d been gone for nearly eight years. She liked to imagine there was still the special father-daughter bond there, but if she was honest with herself, there was only a hole where the bond should be, a vague impression dulled by eight long years.
”Would they now? My brother Elliot always tells me I better start coming around more, lest she be forgetting me. But plane tickets are expensive. She lives in California, by the way,” said Lestrade, sighing. She nodded. “I know how that is- my family’s in Boston, and even that would be a stretch.” She rubbed the back of her neck thoughtfully. ”But you should write her. Emails, letters… even if she doesn’t read them until she’s older. She should know who you are, even if she doesn’t know your face.”
Fiona herself didn’t remember what her father looked like. She knew he’d once worn cologne- but she couldn’t remember how it smelled. She didn’t remember whether he wore his glasses all day or whether he only wore them for reading, she didn’t know if he still wore waistcoats. She could only remember a vague impression of a dark beard and a smile.
”Not to be rude, Miss Price, but how old are you?”
”Almost eighteen,” she said quietly. ”I’ve been living here in the city since I was ten. My family… my family couldn’t afford to keep seven children on a military pension,” she told him, by way of an explanation. ”So I live with my aunts and uncle.”
It wasn’t much of a comfort to be living with family- Fiona sometimes wished her family had shipped her out to an orphanage and had done with. Even foster care would have been better- there would be some chance of escaping being the “poor Price girl”. But instead she’d been shunted off on two aunts who didn’t care, and an uncle who might have- if he wasn’t constantly gone on business. With an adopted family, or a foster one, she might have had love, might have had happy birthdays and holidays, might have been able to go to college. Fiona wished very much sometimes that her family had just let her go when she was born, so she wouldn’t have to carry the weight of having no one.
But she did. |
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Post by GREGORY LESTRADE on Feb 12, 2012 21:36:17 GMT -5
“I know how that is – my family’s in Boston, and even that would be a stretch. But you should write her. Emails, letters… even if she doesn’t read them until she’s older. She should know who you are, even if she doesn’t know your face.” Lestrade couldn’t really find it in himself to respond to this, so he ended up just humming in response. He wrote letters, often, but she didn’t often respond. He had the sneaking suspicion that his wife was intercepting most of them, but he really couldn’t blame her; the last time he’d seen her, he’d be distraught, driven half mad by his own regrets. Elliot had told her he’d shaped up, but he knew she didn’t exactly have faith in his word. She probably still thought he was a terrible influence on their daughter, anyways. Emails… Well, she didn’t have one. “Almost eighteen,” Fiona answered when he asked after her age. “I’ve been living here in the city since I was ten. My family… my family couldn’t afford to keep seven children on a military pension. So I live with my aunts and uncles.” “Seven siblings?” Lestrade mused. “Impressive. Though, that does sound rather horrible, having to leave.” He gave her a sympathetic look. It was pity, but it wasn’t… pity. Rather, he felt bad for her, but it wasn’t in the ‘oh you poor dear child’ sense, more a ‘that sort of sucks’ way. He wondered if Fiona had wanted to leave. Well, no, of course she hadn’t, but… Had she hated going? Put up a fight? She seemed a bit regretful about this whole subject matter, after all. Lestrade’s thoughts were interrupted by the buzzing of his cell in his pocket. It startled him a bit more than it would most people, but... Well, he hadn’t exactly wanted to get one. It was really only for work, after all. He preferred the land line. “Sorry, I’ve got to get this,” he said to Fiona apologetically, and took the phone out of his pocket. Flipping it open, he held the device up to his ear. “Detective Inspector Lestrade speaking,” he said seriously, his voice reverting to a work tone. His face grew seriously, then exasperated. “Oh for heaven’s sake, can’t you get some kid to do this one? What? God, you lazy ba – no. No. The what? No. Fine, I’ll be there soon.” Sighing, he pocketed the phone. “Sorry about that,” he said to Fiona. “But I’ve, uh, got to go. Find some place called The Corner, some idiot kid’s gotten himself into some trouble I have to take care of.” Lestrade ran a hand through his still damp hair and stood. You can make The Corner whatever you want… I was thinking of some obscure little book store or something, since I feel like Fiona might know a few of those… But really, anything works, wherever you want these two to treck off to!^^ |
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Post by FIONA "FANNY" PRICE on Feb 13, 2012 17:22:59 GMT -5
”Seven siblings? Impressive,” said Lestrade, and Fiona had to bite her tongue to keep from chuckling. Now that I think about it, I guess it is, she thought. Even more impressive that I know all their names and birthdays still. Of course, William and Susan were her favorites, if only because she knew them best. William wanted to join the Navy, and he was doing well- but without the connections the Bertrams could offer, he didn’t stand much of a chance of being an officer. Susan was a musician, or wanted to be. She’d posted a few of her songs on YouTube, and Fiona had sent her as much flute sheet music as she could afford.
”Though, that does sound rather horrible, having to leave.”
Fiona sighed. ”At least I know why they did it. Still, though- sometimes I wish they’d tried to keep me, even if it meant beggaring the family. Selfish of me, I guess- but it gets lonely without family.” The look on the police officer’s face was odd- he was looking at her with mixed pity and respect, and to Fiona’s shock, she found that she didn’t mind either one.
His cell phone vibrated and he jumped slightly. ”Sorry, I’ve got to get this,” he said regretfully. She nodded and waved off the apology, wondering who it was. It probably wasn’t any of her business, but that didn’t keep her from being curious. ”Detective Inspector Lestrade speaking,” he said as he answered the cell. Fiona blinked. There was a new edge to his voice, a sharp, businesslike tone. It was that, more than the look on his face or his title, that made her believe he was a police officer- that hard, strong edge to his voice. His face was grim, and then he looked slightly frustrated. ”Oh, for heaven’s sake, can’t you get some kid to do this one? What? God, you lazy ba- no. No. The what? No. Fine, I’ll be there soon.”
He turned back to Fiona, who had been following the one-sided conversation with curiosity. ”Sorry about that,” he apologized. ”But I’ve, uh, got to go. Find some place called the Corner, some idiot kid’s gotten himself into some trouble I have to take care of.”
Fiona paled. ”The Corner?” she asked. ”What’s happened? I know the owner- the place isn’t nine blocks from here.”
Her imagination was running wild. Meg Kelly, the woman who owned the little bookstore, was a nice lady. Her shop was a little out of the way, true- but her mother had bought it, back when the area was still respectable. Now the Corner was on the fringes of a dark part of the city, and Meg had been scared more than once by some of the kids who she saw on the street. Fiona had found the bookstore years ago- she’d been running from the bullies at school, the ones who taunted her for being the rich kid- even if she was poorer than they were. Meg had been standing outside her shop, watering the flowerpots outside- she’d gestured for Fiona to come in. Fiona knew all of the warnings about stranger danger- she knew about not going into places she didn’t know, and she knew she was in a bad part of the city. But she was also lost, cold, afraid, and running out of energy- and Meg had a nice face.
They’d been friends ever since.
Now Fiona’s blood was running cold at the thought of the older woman being hurt- or worse. She reached into the back room for the keys her employer left next to the door and snatched her coat from the rack. ”I can show you where it is,” she told the inspector. Her heart was racing. Oh, Meg, what’s happened? Oh, God… please, God, keep her safe… Fiona pulled on her coat in a hurry and rifled through the ring of keys. ”It’s about nine blocks from here- the owner’s name is Meg Kelly. She’s sixty-three- the Corner is her bookstore. It’s a kid’s place, though she does sell some teenage fiction as well. She said there’s been trouble in the neighborhood lately, some kind of motorcycle gang problem. Oh, God, I hope she’s okay.” |
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