Awake; Trying, Rather [Open]

[lawrence elliot dalgliesh]

Shrapnel hisses and wails; twisting within a turbulent whirlwind of death. It's then that Afghani-turf crumbles under the impact of full-metal-jackets and rocket-propelled-grenades fly overhead to eviscerate the fortified buildings at their backs and heels. It's here that the scent of offal and piss fills his nostrils; assailing him and nearly leaving him reeling as the adrenalin pumps. He could hear the roar of voices but only muffled as they soar over the din, and then that ringing within his ears. It's the cry of his cells dying.

It's a frequency he'd never hear again.

He awakes trembling and cold with a sheen of sweat.

There is a dead spot in the night, that coldest, blackest time when the world has forgotten evening and dawn is not yet a promise. A time when it is far too early to arise, but so late that going to bed makes small sense. It's here Lawrence Elliot Dalgliesh lingers with rough, callused palms kneading the weariness from his features; elbows upon his knees all the while. He could hear the sound of the plumbing rattling within the walls and the distant groan of the floor overhead. It's the sound of that apartment building breathing.

It's alive and the tenants are the lifeblood as they are the blood of the city as a whole. His mind turns over his thoughts briefly before he's coming to his feet. There was nothing here for him. At least not now. He'd take advantage of the city that doesn't sleep and that will soon be churning with life within only a few hours at this early time. So, why not?

He couldn't help but do what he did often at this time upon entering that adjoining bathroom. His eyes flitting over the splitting image of him standing near naked in front of the mirror. It was like the life had run out of him and sunk through the floor to the residents below. Could they hear the cry of his cells dying as he heard them within every dream of his? Oh, no. They wouldn't. This was his burden to carry. His mouth firms into a line and his jaw clenches for the moment before he's tearing himself away to start a heated shower.

Bathing was quick to say the least - more for waking himself than anything - and soon he had stepped out whilst toweling that unruly head of hair that he left tousled. With a grunt he went to work removing articles of clothing from his closet and drawers both; socks, briefs, stone-washed denim pants and a simple shirt of black. It took one glance toward the window to know that the day would be somewhat chilled and he'd have need of his peacoat. That was fine, of course. So, he dressed and when he had finished he toed within his well-worn brown shoes that showed the ravages of time throughout the years. With that, Lawrence left; fetching his coat off of the rack at the door and his keys both.

He had never minded the subway whatsoever. There were those who weren't so fond, but Lawrence was quite fine with such despite the recent fare hikes by the MTA. What he was fond of though were the people one could find here. People of all walks of life. People down on their luck or doing splendidly well for themselves. It's strange how that works; one could never truly know what will happen to them. Now, here within a train-cart full of clashing scents, Lawrence quietly watches all of those around him and he could wonder - of those who look at him - what they thought of the young man with his tousled hair and tired look. With the thin-beaded line of his dog tags well hidden beneath the breast of his peacoat. Then the train passed by 125th and he was within Manhattan and leaving the Bronx proper to the actual city.

Lawrence left the train at his stop with the digitally recorded voice of the announcer at his heels. He paid little mind to that though as he cuts a swath through the pedestrians and pushes through the booth to mount the stairwell and take them two-at-a-time to meet ground level. It's here that Lawrence was taken a back though. Having only returned home a few days ago, Lawrence had yet to truly come to Manhattan. It was almost startling after this long away, and yet, somewhat of a welcome home with the sun breaking over head and dappling the streets full of rumbling vehicles and the smell of gasoline; oh, what a magnificent urban jungle!

Yet, something pulled at him; something to fortify him toward the day further.

He couldn't help but flit his gaze over the store-fronts and merchantiles. Oh, and carefully sidle away from any foot traffic lest he find himself being bowled over. It was when his eyes fell upon that STARBUCKS sign that his heart nearly leapt within his chest. Caffeine would do him proper right about now, truly. So, with his hands stuffed tight within his coat's pockets, he made his way toward the caffeine-chain-store with ease and quickness.


Word Count: 898
Tag: Open

[aaryn delilah courcel]

Weariness is the name of the game here in New York City.

Especially when you’re young, and new to the town. Only Aaryn isn’t so much new, anymore, she’d been here a whole eight years, now, and she wasn’t so much young, being a whole twenty eight. And she felt those twenty-eight years throbbing at the back of her head and aching weary in her bones. Especially at three or so in the morning - she hadn’t bothered to check a clock.

New York City wears on you like none other will, at least Miss Courcel thinks so. She’d come from a sleepy little town, where life was slow, and simple. There was no hustle upon those small city blocks, and there truly was no worry of being run over simply for daring to cross the crosswalk, even when that little lit man told you that you could. She’d come from a life of little more than living. And been tossed into one of frantic worries, and blaring horns that never seemed to cease.

And, oh, she doesn’t regret the move. This had been her dream - to live, work and make a life of her own, without any sort of safety net. New York had been that singular beacon of hope within her otherwise dull life. It was a promise of a profession which her home town simply wouldn’t have. It was that lie that everyone needed to believe.

It had been another long, and full night full of nothing too important. She’s unemployed, and has little else to do aside loiter about the city itself.

And it was cold out. Her knuckles red and aching, threatening to break beneath the chill pre-morning, post-midnight air. Her breath mists upon the swell of her pout. Despite Manhattan being chock full of places which to hide in Aaryn simply can’t settle upon a one. This is the city that never sleeps for Christ sake! And a far as Aaryn is concerned, anywhere she may be vaguely interested in stopping is more than open.

It’s a Starbucks that draws her attention, however, and despite having stopped into what truly must have been thousands of star bucks, and other coffee shops, Miss Courcel is still uncertain as to what the difference between a venti coffee, and a large is. And why exactly did the register workers get so offended over such? Perhaps a star bucks barista would be her next occupation, simply to find out why. But that wasn’t why she was here today. She was here to give her chapped mouth and frozen fingertips some sort of break before they simply fell off.

Aaryn nudges inwards with a sound to those bells hanging limp upon the door jamb. They sound off - far too cheerful for this time in the morning. Miss Courcel even goes as far as to simply grunt out in protest of that cheerful noise, and stuff her hands deep within the pockets of her overcoat. Her hands curl into themselves and knuckles bury upon the pilled up fuzzie within the deepest recess of those long-neglected pockets.

Her hips press to that countertop, pretty turquoise eyes intent upon that ridiculously long menu hanging overhead. Did she even want coffee? Did she ever truly want coffee? No, no she didn’t. so, she’d need to simply settle with one of those baked goods that often accompany coffee and the like. Muffins; blueberry, chocolate chip, chocolate-chocolate chip. Oh, yes, that would definitely hit the spot. Her stomach’s empty, and churning over upon itself, eating away at its own lining. The more she thought about it, the more getting something to eat sounded like a good idea.

“I just need one of those,” she coos, leaning close to that warm case so she may prod her fingertip upon mostly-clean glass - someone needed to be the first to dirty it! Why not Aaryn? It’s not long before she’s hefting her purse to the countertop and forking over what felt like an almost ridiculous amount of money for a single simple muffin. Aaryn then wads up an almost ridiculous amount of napkins before settling herself down in one of those tables for two, purse settled across from her being, and occupying that extra space, as though she were simply reserving it for someone instead of being obviously, and pathetically alone.

Even these stiff chairs are suddenly comfortable after such a full night, and if Aaryn’s not careful she’d simply slip into sleep. Luckily she has that muffin to preoccupy her, and it’s not long before her face is tipping to draw in the scent of such before she’s separating the top from the base, lying each upon their own designated napkins.

Its not long before that bell at the door is jingling once more, and setting Aaryn to the edge of her seat. Those pretty turquoise eyes of hers go wide despite her best efforts, plucking herself from the brink of sleep once more, “Fuck,” the young woman breathes, palm pressing upon her eyes to knock any remaining weariness from those pretty blue orbs.

He’s a beautiful man, though, with a firm jaw, and dark hair, straight nose, and cheekbones that would make almost any woman jealous. Oh, and those pretty blue eyes of his. He’s truly bliss, and easy on her weary eyes. Aaryn would be lying if she said she didn’t find him attractive. This is Like at first sight. A slight smile comes to those soft lips of hers, and she averts her gaze almost bashfully, as some teenager would. Aaryn sidles that small stack of napkins closer to her being before managing open her purse.

It’s a quick series of scribbles that hosts those cheekbones, and strong jaw and straight nose of his. Oh! And those pretty blue eyes of his. It’s a simplistic sort of rough sketch, and there’s no doubt that Aaryn still has some of that talent locked away somewhere. That predisposition to art that had brought her to New York City in the first place. It’s obviously this attractive man, but oh, now what?

Her teeth bear down upon the lower tier of her pout as she shifts her gaze to and from this man’s features. Without another moment’s hesitation Aaryn scribbles down her phone number before folding that napkin in half, and simply approaching him, with that piece of paper folded in two.

It was truly too late to change her mind, now.