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Post by GREGORY LESTRADE on Jan 2, 2012 0:24:00 GMT -5
"Folks." Lestrade woke up with a jolt. The driver of the bus continued over the microphone: "It's 9:45, we're making our final stop now. Make sure you don't leave anything behind and thanks for riding." Shit.Lestrade looked around frantically, trying to remember where he had been going. Home? No, he hadn't been going home… Oh right. He'd had a date. A lovely woman named Samantha Abdallah, whom he'd met at the station a few days ago when she'd reported a bunch of kids spraypainting the side of a building. He'd been taking the bus to the restauraunt they were going to have dinner at in Manhattan and… had fallen asleep. Dammit. He checked his phone; 4 new messages. 7:01 - Can't wait for our date tonight see you in an hour xxx 8:36 - Don't mean to sound pushy, but are you coming? 9:12 - Are you still coming? 9:30 - I'm leaving the restaurant. "Fuck." Lestrade swore under his breath. He glanced around the seats, looking to see if there was anyone else left on the bus. He wasn't really sure why he wanted to know, but a small part of him was relieved when he saw another person sleeping in a seat a few rows behind him. He sat, staring out the window of the bus lazilly. God he was tired. He'd never fallen asleep on a bus for more than 10 minutes before though, so the fact that he'd slept for an entire three hours was a bit more than unsettling and a lot more than embarassing. And yet, he was still tired. Yawning, he rubbed his watery eyes. I'm such a child, he scolded himsslf internally. A repectable man of your stnading should know better than to… fall asleep for hours on a public bus. It's humiliating! "And more than a little funny," he muttered aloud, before standing and walking to the front of the bus, approaching the driver, who was a strong-looking black man who looked for all the world as if driving this bus were the most boring occupation in the world. Which it might have been. "Excuse me sir, but what is the final stop, and how long will it be before we get there?" Lestrade asked. The bus driver turned to glance at him and grimaced. "Fell asleep did you? Our last stop's the West Village, and we'll get there… Well, traffic's not so great tonight, so I'd say in about 15 minutes, maybe a bit less." Lestrade nodded, said "Thanks," and walked back to his seat. Now, being the police man he was, Lestrade was naturally nosey. He helped people for a living. He wanted to know what people did. Which is why he wondered for the wellfare of the other person on the bus; wondered if they, too, had fallen asleep and needed to be woken. And so without thinking about it, he had wandered over to their seat and asked, "Excuse me?" Second character can be awake or asleep!  |
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Post by SEBASTIAN TIMOTHY MARTIN on Jan 5, 2012 6:58:53 GMT -5
Sebastian had been dreaming, something he never did. His sleep was either dreamless or vision filled, and it should have been, by all accounts, a pleasant experience. It was, of course, far from it. He knew he was dreaming, because what he was dreaming was bright, colorful, and completely unrealistic. He had been dreaming of James, of course, and how wonderful it would have been had the man not been a criminal mastermind, and perhaps would have been more open to being in a relationship. It had to be a dream, because that was not what happened. It never would happen. You couldn't seperate the James from the Moriarty.
He didn't know why he'd been sleeping, but as he woke up with a start he realized he'd been incredibly tired. Work, no doubt, that was the culprit. It was all because of his insatiable desire to better himself, and throwing himself into his job was a good start. The only problem had been that everywhere he went in NYU made him remember James and how they'd been. He might as well transfer to another college, or teach high school, for god sakes. Not like he hadn't done it before. May get his mind off of the whole thing.
As it was, Sebastian had been under mountains of stress do to his former lover and the stamp he placed on his life. He had previously thought he could change James, but that clearly hadn't been the case. He was... fine. Okay, he wasn't fine, but he was handling it. Marginally.
The only reason he wasn't broken up more about their relationship ending was the fact that he hadn't expected it to last that long in the first place. He hadn't expected to share blue and yellow towels with James, or sleep in green bedsheets, or celebrate honest to god anniversaries together (no matter how much James had hated them). So perhaps having the memories was the good part, rather than the bad. Not that it didn't still hurt.
The dream had been nice, based off all the memories he'd collected, but when he woke and found himself on the bus, staring up at a silver haired man he'd never seen before, he wondered how long he'd been out. Then he remembered, in the dream, James had said something about "9:45." Oh god, that was real life leaking over again! 9:45?!
He was late. He had thought that by dozing up on the bus, he might be well rested for this date. Oh yes, it was too soon, but Sebastian didn't care. It didn't hurt to try, and when one of his former students that had graduated had come into town expressing interest in him, the Professor had forgotten all weirdness and set up a date.
Looks like that wasn't happening now.
Pissed and exhausted from the lack of sleep the previous night, Sebastian rubbed his eyes and sat up. "Excuse me?" the man had said.
"Y-yeah?" he mumbled, yawning and glancing at the digital clock at the front of the bus.
"Ah, fuck..." he groaned, slapping his head in his hands. "Fuck fuck fuck, he won't ever call again." Was Sebastian desperate, or just alone? Whatever the case, he'd be alone some more for awhile, which shouldn't have bothered him, but it did. Goddamn feelings.
"What do you want?" he groaned through his hands at the man. He didn't realize that his words were enveloped by tears. He had gotten so used to ignoring tears that he ignored them now, not even realizing they'd existed, along with his screwed up existence.
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Post by GREGORY LESTRADE on Jan 13, 2012 9:22:35 GMT -5
The man in the other seat was indeed sleeping. He looked in his early thirties, and had dark brown hair. He was dressed nicely, and had thick black glasses on. He woke with a start, then stared at Lestrade for a second before mumbling, "Y-yeah…?" and yawning. Lestrade wasn't quite sure what to say - why was he up here again? oh right, because he was the epitome of nosey, that's why - and so just watched as the other man glanced at the clock that hung in the front of the bus before swearing profusely. "Ah, fuck. Fuck fuck fuck, he won't ever call me again." It didn't take much work for Lestrade to figure out what that all meant. Obviously the man had been going out on a date and had, like Lestrade, fallen asleep and missed it. Well, it could be a business meeting, but the time and way the man was acting pointed more towards date than work. "What do you want?"
Right, not so sleepy anymore. "Er, hi." Lestrade said lamely. "I just… I don't know. I just wondered if you were asleep." Very smooth. Lestrade internally groaned; 'I wondered if you were asleep?' How creepy did he have to sound? It was either that or sound like he was trying to pick someone up, and he rather preferred the second option. "No, I mean," he tried to correct himself, "I feel asleep and missed my stop, and so I wondered if you might have too. Sorry, I don't meant to bother you." Okay, that sounded convincing enough, didn't it? Apologetic. And he was sorry, he just… Well, like the creepy-or-flirty tone he accidentally took with strangers, when he was saying sorry he either sounded completely pathetic or fake, usually.
Lestrade looked down at his hands, more than a little embarrassed, and moved his fingers between each other. His mind went back to his date for a moment, and - shit. More guilt. First he ditches the poor woman, and now he's resorted to creeping on young men on public busses? Lestrade forced himself to stop thinking, Just Stop, because internally berating himself was rather useless, at least right now.
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Post by SEBASTIAN TIMOTHY MARTIN on Jan 23, 2012 20:02:18 GMT -5
Sebastian sighed, suddenly very grateful for the man waking him up. He wiped the tears from his eyes as if they were just the remnants of sleep. He nodded and adjusted his glasses on his face, rubbing where they'd been pressed too hard against his temple by the window he'd leaned on while dozing. He was usually so good about not sleeping at inappropriate times, especially in his lines of work, but this time he'd forced himself to the point of a temporary coma, figuratively speaking. All in the name of a broken heart.
He rubbed the back of his neck. "No, you... you didn't bother me. I think I need to be bothered for once. Thanks for waking me up," Sebastian said. He reached down below his seat to grab his briefcase. He'd gotten straight on the buss after work, afraid he'd be late for his date because of staying so long after class. Grading papers, sorting files, tutoring, endlessly working night and day. He felt it now, he was dealing with the consequences now. A large wight pressed itself against his body, a tiredness that was more hunger and hopelessness than actual sleep depravity (though that was there too). He rubbed his forehead and groaned as the case clattered to the floor only moments after he'd picked it up.
Sebastian's head lay in his hands, and he couldn't escape the dry sobs that issued forth from his misery. Clinical depression, they'd said two weeks prior. he had guessed as much, after living his life vision after vision of sorry. The doctors just confirmed it. Take it easy, they said. You'll work yourself to death, they said. Well, maybe now he was. Maybe he'd see it again, the vision of his death, and maybe then he could do nothing to stop it.
"Sorry, sorry," he said quickly, but the tears were coming again, and he was sure the man could hear it in his voice. His voice moaned like a dying man, which he was, in reality. They were all dying men, and he wanted to save them all, including the one man who never wanted to be saved, wouldn't let himself be saved. "Don't ask me what's wrong. It doesn't matter what's wrong, only that it is."
Why had he even agreed to go on this date in the first place? He'd been desperate for some company lately. So lonely, so very very lonely... without a criminal mastermind to come home to.
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Post by GREGORY LESTRADE on Jan 27, 2012 18:18:49 GMT -5
The man rubbed his eyes, clearing sleep – no, not tears, of course not – from his eyes and adjusting his glasses. They were thick, and black; they reminded Lestrade of the ones in, what was it? Oh right, Doctor Who. A slightly blemish, pink, mildly stood out against his relatively pale skin, from where the window had pressed against the man’s face. Lestrade briefly wondered if he’d had one when he’d woken up too, but it didn’t matter, because even if he had, it’d be gone now… wouldn’t it?
“No, you… you didn’t bother me,” the man said, rubbing his nape. “I think I need to be bothered for once. Thanks for waking me up.” Lestrade nodded, and would have gone back to his seat without a second thought, when the man stood with his briefcase in hand – business man; lawyer; teacher; occupations flashed through the back of Lestrade’s mind without his really noticing – and promptly dropped it back down. Dear God, the poor man looked exhausted. Shatteringly, miserably exhausted.
The man rubbed his forehead, groaning. Lestrade felt a rush of terrible sympathy for the guy and leaned over to pick up the case which had fallen at his feet. The other lay his head in his hands and a few brief but terrible sobs emitted from his self. “Sorry, sorry,” Lestrade heard him make out, trying to compose himself, but it was obvious that it was a losing battle; the poor sod’s voice moaned and croaked with dry tears. “Don’t ask me what’s wrong. It doesn’t matter what’s wrong, only that it is.”
And what truth that was. It was – though not the time to notice it, Lestrade realized – the bitter truth. Nobody really wanted others to know what was wrong with them, but they didn’t want people to ignore them just as much; the acknowledgment without the prying interest was what everyone wanted, and practically none received. Lestrade knew he’d been on the giving and most definitely the receiving end of this sort of reaction more than once, and decided to spare the poor guy anger aside from what was, most likely, depression.
“Alright,” Lestrade said softly in response. He supposed that, despite being complete strangers, they were rather past the stage of strangers-should-respect-personal-space and leaned forward to place the man’s bag on the seat next to the one that Lestrade pushed the other man back into. It was so easy to lead him; he seemed incredibly frail at the moment. Lestrade held onto the other’s shoulders lightly, not hard enough as to actually be overstepping too many boundaries, but firmly enough so that he could get the other to sit back down.
He gave the man a small, soft smile. Was this odd? This, taking care of a stranger. Heh, strangers on a bus, what a title. Lestrade didn’t care. He remained standing and gave the other a tender smile; it wasn’t one that ignored the situation, per say, but what he hopefully conveyed in his eyes as ‘We don’t have to talk about anything.’ “We’ve still about fifteen minutes before the last stop,” Lestrade said, his tone quiet. “No need to get up just yet,” he paused, then, “Lestrade. Gregory Lestrade.”
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Post by SEBASTIAN TIMOTHY MARTIN on Jan 29, 2012 18:12:50 GMT -5
Sebastian collapsed when pushed into his seat, the comfort neither welcoming or unwelcoming. Just there. He looked up to the man still standing, and was suddenly glad he wasn't alone, not at a time like this.
“No need to get up just yet,” the man said. "Lestrade. Gregory Lestrade."
Sebastian returned the smile as best he could, but he felt it was quivering and pathetic compared to Lestrade's. He looked away and took off his glasses, sitting back in his seat and rubbing the lenses absent-mindedly with his shirt, nodding to the seat next to him as he pulled his briefcase into his lap. "Sebastian Martin," he said with a rather large, but unintentional sigh. "You might as well sit then. I'm sorry for being so pathetic... But thank you."
He rubbed his eyes and put the glasses back on, realizing he couldn't escape the tears, even then. "Thank you," he said again. "If... If you wouldn't mind keeping me company until the last stop." Hell, he didn't even know where the last stop was. "What part of town are we in anyway?"
((sorry for being so short and lame, but I just wanted Lestrade to slip up and kiss him already! How about in your next post?))
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Post by GREGORY LESTRADE on Jan 29, 2012 21:04:16 GMT -5
“Sebastian Martin,” the man – Sebastian – sighed out, cleaning his glasses off with his shirt. He gathered his briefcase into his lap and said, “You might as well sit then. I’m sorry for being so pathetic… But that you.” Lestrade nodded, and stepped over Sebastian’s legs to sit at the window-seat next to him. Sebastian rubbed his eyes and put his glasses back on, and Lestrade pretended not to see the tears that still threatened to fall. “Thank you,” Sebastian repeated, “If… if you wouldn’t mind keeping me company until the last stop… What part of town are we in anyway?”
“Of course,” Lestrade said gently, and nonchalantly and inconspicuously patted Sebastian’s knee as some small comfort. “Er, Greenwhich, I think. The West Village.” He shrugged, then remembered that his own things were still sitting on the seat upfront of the bus. “Er, sorry,” he muttered, “But I left my things up front. I’ll be back in a moment.”
Standing, he lifted himself from the seat and awkwardly stepped over Sebastian’s legs again. As he did so, there was a harsh jolt as the bus hit a curb. “Sorry!” He heard the driver say as he nearly fell over onto Sebastian. And then he did fall over. Right onto Sebastian. Lestrade barely had time to finish making a noise that sounded something like “Puffuwah!” before, quite suddenly, he is a lot less close to the man’s face.
((Of course yeah, sorry. I wasn’t sure when you wanted that to happen, so I decided to keep going until you told me to <laughs>. I’m, uh, leaving the writing-in-the-kissing bit to you, because… I don’t know. I’m not exactly good at that XD.))
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Post by SEBASTIAN TIMOTHY MARTIN on Feb 6, 2012 7:27:40 GMT -5
“Er, Greenwhich, I think. The West Village.”
Sebastian sighed in relief. "Oh thank god, that's where I live," he said while rubbing his forehead. He waved Lestrade off, nodding while the man got up to retrieve his stuff.
The jolt of the bus was disastrous. Not only for the tripped man, but for Sebastian's fragile state of mind. Jesus, would it never end? He plunged headfirst into a vision. He was... A prostitute? Well that wasn't the first time this kind of vision had happened. She was kissing someone... But wait... Prostitutes weren't supposed to kiss their customers. Not a customer then? Someone else... But definitely a prostitute. Was there to be no murder today? Thank God. No... wait... Ugh, her throat was slit. Blood blubbered down her neck, and Sebastian felt every bit of it, including the lips still pressed to the assailants mouth.
And it stopped. Stopped when the girl's heart stopped beating. If he could feel the heartbeat still, then it was past. There wasn't any chance of saving her. Not that he'd have the strength to.
Another vision gone. Then why... Why were his lips still kissing someone else's?
Sebastian sucked in a large breath from his nose as he opened his eyes. It had been only a second, it felt like it, the vision. But the reprocussions weren't pretty.
OhgodohgodohgodohgodohgodOHGOD!!!!
Sebastian was kissing Lestrade!
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Post by GREGORY LESTRADE on Feb 8, 2012 20:45:50 GMT -5
Lestrade struggled to get up, but between the motion of the bus, small space and Sebastian’s strange... unresponsiveness, it took a few more moment than was comfortable. He felt Sebastian gasp in a huge breath as he managed to pull away about four seconds after their lips had first connected. Perhaps, in retrospect, that’s not so long, but when you’re on a bus, pressed hard against a stranger, urged by momentum… Well, four seconds is pretty freaking long.
“Oh, Jesus!” Lestrade gasped, surprised. “I – I’m so sorry! Just, the bus, I-“ Lestrade cut himself off with a bit of waving towards the general direction of the driver.
“Are you alright? That was rather hard. The kiss I mean. Not... .The kiss I mean.” Oh dear god, now he was losing all of the composure he’d gathered up and sounding like a complete pervert. “I’m so sorry,” Lestrade said miserably. He stopped himself from saying, ‘not that you’re a bad kisser or anything.’
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