You Don't Have To
This started out in the userpic drabble meme. The idea: write a little story inspired by a userpic or user-icon on any of the comments there. This particular story came from this one, which belongs to goldatamera.
This is the original version, more or less as it came off the fingertips, just tidied up and put into HTML. If you're wondering where the version called Free Will went... well, I found a better title (I think), and you'll find it a little later in this journal.
You Don't Have To
There's only one person makes that kind of racket when he knocks on your door, and he's not going to go away. Twist the handle, pull, and-
"Danny. Look mate, I'm kind of-"
"Come on!" Big eyes, bigger grin, and he's bloody bouncing. He turns to leave, turns his head and laughs and reaches back with one of his freckled mitts. "Come! On!"
And there's nothing for it but to be dragged out the door, hear the latch clunk behind as he barrels down the hotel corridor towards the lift, reaches it and pokes at the Up button. tap-tap tap-tap TAP tap-tap. Springsteen has a lot to answer for.
Lift arrives, and he steps forward, springs back as one, two, three, four impossibly large Americans, a porter and a dozen cases trundle out. They're wearing baseball caps. The Americans, not the cases. A fashion died here today.
We enter, he pokes another button, the doors close and the floor bumps against our feet. He's not bouncing now: he's stalled the lift so many times that even he's learned to stand still.
"Danny, what are you-" And the finger reaches up to shush the question before it's asked. It's a wonder nobody's killed him when he gets like this. But they haven't, and his grin gets wider, and he's got other things he wants to do right now than talk.
A ping, the scrape of doors, and down the corridor again, through a set of fire doors and he stops.
"Are you going to tell me what-"
But now one of the monster hands is a blindfold, smells of guitar strings and leather jacket and hotel soap, and again there's that infuriating nok-nok nok-nok NOK nok-nok on the door.
"Trust me," rasps the Bolton accent, and then the laugh, and a push forward into the room. "Shut your eyes."
"Shut your eyes." The blinding hand slips away. "Shutyoureyes shutyoureyes shutyoureyes… OK… Open!"
"Whoa! Holy…"
The lights stretch from far below to far away, a million dots of light winking every colour of the rainbow and nothing below but… But there's two broad hands holding shoulders, and a big-toothed grin reflected in the floor-to-ceiling window, and it's OK.
"Good, innit?"
"You might have warned me, you sh-"
The finger moves in to shush the swear word. "Got company," he says, and it points while the other hand pushes to steer.
Where he points, to the right beside the window, is a table, white table-cloth, candles. It's set for two, a waiter holding the back of a chair and the hands steer towards it. A quiet tap on the door, the waiter crosses the room and returns with a trolley. It smells… it smells like…
"Is that...?"
"Yup." That grin of his, you'd think it would have to stop at his ears, but somehow it manages to go further round his head.
And then the plates are loaded with food, and he's watching every mouthful, trying each dish himself. "Is it all right?"
It's better than all right. It's the best since… well, maybe nana's was better, but how did he know about that anyway? And he grins wider, and raises his glass, and there are better things to do right now than talk.
Dessert half-eaten, coffee poured and brandy ready in the glasses, the waiter has gone, but the grin is still there, only… less anxious, more relaxed. He nods. "You want to know why, don't you?"
I didn't know a cake could possibly taste this good.
"I were in church," and his head turns for a moment towards the floodlit spire of the cathedral, "and priest were sayin as how we should thank God for gifts like health and family and friends. Got me thinkin."
"Careful."
His eyes, reflected in the window, cloud for an instant at the jibe. "Because the week before, he were saying how man has free will, so God can't make us do owt, only give us the choice. Can't make you like someone."
There's a crumb or two of cake left on his plate, and he chases them with his fork for a moment. "So health," - he stabs at a crumb - "and family" - and another - "and being able to play and sing, makes sense to thank Him. You know?" He lifts his fork to his mouth and sucks at it.
The coffee is rich, strong but not bitter; no less amazing than the rest of the meal. Outside, down there, the lights are different to an hour ago. The office buildings are empty, the shops are closing, and the red and white lights of the traffic are a river, not the slow pulse they were.
"Friends, though." He shakes his head, puts down his fork and reaches back to scratch behind one ear. "Can't thank Him. Weren't His choice." He lifts his eyes toward the ceiling. "Priest didn't like it, but couldn't explain it either, so…"
He sips his coffee, grimaces, and stirs in a couple of heaping spoons of sugar. Sips again, and nods. "So. One yesterday, one tomorrow." He waves a hand over the table, stares into his cup. "One tonight. Cos even though I mess up, and say stupid things, and fart, and dead arm you, you're my friend, and I love you, and I want you to know that…"
He raises his eyes, and looks somehow like a little boy whose about to give away his best toy. "Thank you."
And then his grin outshines all those million lights, the table moves out of the way, and his arms wrap around and squeeze unbelievably tight, because there are more important things to do right now than talk.