Fic: hell of a long way home
Title: hell of a long way home
Author: ester_inc
Team: ANGST
Prompt: Highway
Word count: ~470
Rating: PG
Warnings: None; 2nd person POV of an outsider
Beta: eternalsojourn
*
With his weary face and rumpled clothes, he looks like any other patron in this disreputable, spit and sawdust, side of the road watering hole. You give him a refill without him having to ask, and he quirks a smile at you in thanks. It's quick, there and gone, but infectious and honest nonetheless; you give him a smile of your own, almost without meaning to.
It's a quiet enough night, and you find yourself observing him when you're not busy with other customers. He has an aura of do-not-disturb pulled around him like a cloak, but when a guy, drunk and unbalanced, accidentally stumbles against his shoulder he barely reacts. A good sign, that; he has the size and strength to do real damage should he get angry enough to do something about it, and you're not looking forward to that kind of entertainment.
He's slumped over the counter, not like he's drunk -- he's only had two drinks so far -- but like he's tired, defeated, maybe. His glass sits at his elbow, and he's playing with something you think might be a poker chip, or maybe a sobriety medallion; you hope it's the former.
When his glass is empty, you offer him another refill, but he turns it down and levers himself off the bar stool, digging into his pocket for his wallet. When he opens it to pay you see there's a photograph of him and some other guy who doesn't look remotely related to him. You're not sure why it surprises you so much, and anyway, it's not like you wanted to take him home after your shift.
"He's handsome," you comment without thinking, and then wince at yourself. You focus on getting his payment in order even as he raises an eyebrow at you; at least he doesn't seem mad or anything, which is good. Still -- "Sorry, I didn't mean --"
"You needn't worry," he says, his accent soft and rounded. "I'm not going to berate you for having excellent taste."
"All the same," you say, flustered. "I didn't mean to pry."
"Is that not part of your job description?" He asks, tapping a poker chip -- not a sobriety medallion after all -- against the countertop.
"No, not prying," you say, handing him his change. "Now listening, that's another story."
"Ah, yes, my mistake. Well, I hope you won't be too heartbroken if I skip the talking part. It's late, and a hell of a long way home."
You have the strangest feeling that he's not talking about any stretch of a highway, and that home might not be a place but a person. You don't say anything, though, just nod and smile, and watch as he walks out of the door and into the night.
Whatever his destination, you silently wish him good luck and a safe journey.
Author: ester_inc
Team: ANGST
Prompt: Highway
Word count: ~470
Rating: PG
Warnings: None; 2nd person POV of an outsider
Beta: eternalsojourn
*
With his weary face and rumpled clothes, he looks like any other patron in this disreputable, spit and sawdust, side of the road watering hole. You give him a refill without him having to ask, and he quirks a smile at you in thanks. It's quick, there and gone, but infectious and honest nonetheless; you give him a smile of your own, almost without meaning to.
It's a quiet enough night, and you find yourself observing him when you're not busy with other customers. He has an aura of do-not-disturb pulled around him like a cloak, but when a guy, drunk and unbalanced, accidentally stumbles against his shoulder he barely reacts. A good sign, that; he has the size and strength to do real damage should he get angry enough to do something about it, and you're not looking forward to that kind of entertainment.
He's slumped over the counter, not like he's drunk -- he's only had two drinks so far -- but like he's tired, defeated, maybe. His glass sits at his elbow, and he's playing with something you think might be a poker chip, or maybe a sobriety medallion; you hope it's the former.
When his glass is empty, you offer him another refill, but he turns it down and levers himself off the bar stool, digging into his pocket for his wallet. When he opens it to pay you see there's a photograph of him and some other guy who doesn't look remotely related to him. You're not sure why it surprises you so much, and anyway, it's not like you wanted to take him home after your shift.
"He's handsome," you comment without thinking, and then wince at yourself. You focus on getting his payment in order even as he raises an eyebrow at you; at least he doesn't seem mad or anything, which is good. Still -- "Sorry, I didn't mean --"
"You needn't worry," he says, his accent soft and rounded. "I'm not going to berate you for having excellent taste."
"All the same," you say, flustered. "I didn't mean to pry."
"Is that not part of your job description?" He asks, tapping a poker chip -- not a sobriety medallion after all -- against the countertop.
"No, not prying," you say, handing him his change. "Now listening, that's another story."
"Ah, yes, my mistake. Well, I hope you won't be too heartbroken if I skip the talking part. It's late, and a hell of a long way home."
You have the strangest feeling that he's not talking about any stretch of a highway, and that home might not be a place but a person. You don't say anything, though, just nod and smile, and watch as he walks out of the door and into the night.
Whatever his destination, you silently wish him good luck and a safe journey.