nonfictional | Spring, 1998.

A writer, that's cool.

[ But he keeps going — probably finely tuned to the many usual questions people ask someone who says they're a writer (what do you write? have you sold anything? fiction or nonfiction?) — which is fine; understandable, even. It's what he says that has her eyebrows flickering upward and slightly in toward each other. Alice tips her head, inclining it slightly to the side like a curious dog as her lips twitch towards something that's either a smile or a bemused frown without landing on either. ]

Are you keeping track of what I wear?

[ Is that creepy, or is it flattering? She thinks it over for a moment before tentatively settling on the latter. The guy sits here all alone all night long, maybe it's not so surprising he keeps an eye on the few people he sees regularly.

She glances down at the jacket she'd picked for today, then back up at him. That tug at the corner of her lips quirks a little more strongly in the direction of a smile. ]

Not new. Just haven't had a chance to wear it since last year.

[ She lifts her eyebrows at him again, this time lightly teasing. ]

You like it?

[ His heart sinks for a fraction of a second--there's a line, he's crossed it--but her face eventually slides into a smile and Alan's knees get weak all over again despite sitting on a small and vaguely uncomfortable chair. ]

It looks good on you. [ Anything looks good on her. Alan's smart enough to keep that thought to himself, though, and leans over just a little too far on his elbows from his desk, closer to her. ]

Hey, I know this is sudden, but I was wondering if you were--

[ The lights flicker. Alan looks up and at the bulbs just in time for the whole building to be plunged in darkness. ]

[ She has just enough time for her stomach to clench with dread as the light flickers before it's suddenly gone. Darkness falls with the finality of an axe.

Her harsh, indrawn gasp of fear sounds too loud; so does her pulse, hammering frantically in her ears. She can't move, she can't— the darkness has her by the throat with velvet fingers, and terrifying in its blankness. She can almost feel it gathering itself behind her, around her, a maw like a black hole yawning open to swallow her whole. Her breathing picks up, shallow and rapid and easily audible in the dark.

A frantic thought beats at the back of her head, at the place where her brain has frozen in fright: she's not alone. No matter how it feels, she's not alone.

Her voice is higher than before, breathless. She's petrified; even this one word wavers as she gasps it out into the gathering shadows. ]

Alan?

Edited 2024-10-07 20:02 (UTC)

[ Something's happening. Alan has no clue--no real, solid idea--but he knows that she's calling out for him and that it's dark and that's all he needs to spring into action. ]

Hey. I'm here-- [ because he is, grabbing a flashlight from his desk, switching it on with a practiced click, opening the little booth to step out and round the corner towards her. ]

It's a power outage, I think.

[ The light illuminates her, and Alan unconsciously moves forward, stepping into her personal space to reach out. He touches her lightly, fingers brushing against her wrist. ]

You okay?

[ It takes everything she has not to panic. Her feet feel nailed to the floor, her hands and arms and legs all frozen—

— and then there's a rustling sound and a click and light floods out of the little booth. A flashlight. He has a flashlight. ]

Yeah.

[ It's certainly a power outage; one quick glance at the windows is all she needs to know that. It's liquid black out there, not a hint of light. She shivers and moves a little closer to Alan as he comes around the corner of the booth. His fingers slide against her wrist, and it's nice, it's good, it grounds her in herself, and she takes a deep, shaky breath. ]

I'm better, now. The flashlight helps.

[ She tries for a smile, but it comes out unsteady and nowhere near her eyes. ]

I know it probably seems silly, but... I've always been afraid of the dark.

It's not silly.

[ Alice's smile is there, sure, but even with the long shadows across her face it's clear to Alan that it doesn't reach her face. It's a pity - she has one of the nicest smiles Alan's ever seen. What she needs, he thinks, is comfort. It's a good front, a brave front, and one he wants to respect so Alan keeps his smile soft and eyes warm. ]

Um---here. [ He slides his hand down to grab at her hand, opening it, pressing the flashlight in it for her. ] There's another one in the booth. Lets get you sitting and away from the big shadows, yeah?

[ Alice isn't an invalid, but Alan leads her if she needs it, hand protectively curling between her shoulders as he ushers her into the little booth. There's a camping light, too, because power outages have been plaguing them for a while. ]

You're okay.

[ His hand is warm and steady at her back, and maybe her girlfriends would tell her this should be creepy, but all she can feel is gratitude. He has a flashlight, heavy and cool now in her smaller fingers, and she grips onto it like it's the edge of a cliff and she's about to slide over into an all-too welcoming gulp of air and a free fall.

She's aware, with a sense of perfect clarity, of how pathetic this could look. She isn't a child; she should play it cool. ]

Wow, you take this whole 'guard' role very seriously, huh?

[ But her the way her hand shakes, sending the light that beams from the flashlight scattering over the wall and floor in an erratic glow, like someone sped the moon up by about a thousand, makes her attempt at lighthearted teasing a lie. He guides her around and into the little booth and she sits without argument, her pulse still rattling in her veins; too fast, too fast. She looks up at him, the light casting his features into a harsh mask of themselves, like they're telling scary stories around a campfire.

But he doesn't look scary. He looks like a hero. ]

This is really nice of you.

[ He certainly hadn't had to do any of this, hadn't had to give her the flashlight she's still holding onto too tightly. ]

Sorry to take your seat.

Spring, 1998.

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