Not My Will, But Thine
Here's the mulled-over and edited version of one of the stories from the userpic drabble meme. The original version was pretty much off-the-cuff. I've been tweaking away at it for a month or so, went through a couple of provisional titles before I settled on this one, which now actually feels "right". There's a couple of details in the story that I'm less sure of, but here it is anyway. Let me know what you think.
Not My Will, But Thine
There's only one person makes that kind of racket when he knocks on a 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, looks over his shoulder and laughs and reaches back with one of his freckled mitts. “Come! On!”
He catches hold, and there's nothing for it but to be dragged out the door, hear the latch clunk behind and wonder where the key is.
He barrels down the corridor past a dozen rooms, points and laughs at the Do Not Disturb sign outside one of them. He reaches the lift and pokes at the Up button, tap-tap tap-tap TAP tap-tap and starts humming. Springsteen has a lot to answer for.
With a squeak and a ping, the lift arrives and the door scrapes open. Danny steps forward, springs back again as one, two, three, four tourists trundle out, impossibly broad and loud as ten of him. They're wearing baseball caps. A fashion died here today. Behind them, a porter hauls a trolley and a dozen cases. Danny nods at him and murmurs, “All right, mate?”
The lift smells of airline passenger and cigar breath. Danny measures it with his eyes, then leans back and takes another look at the tourists and their mountain of luggage. The doors start to close, and he hauls his head back in, chuckles and pokes a number. The floor bumps and presses underfoot. He's not bouncing now: he's stalled so many lifts that even he's learned to stand still.
“Danny, where-”
His finger reaches across 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 smile grows wider, and some things are just too annoying for words.
Another ping, another scrape, and it's down the corridor again. Through a set of fire doors and he stops.
“Are you going to tell me what-”
But now one of his monster hands is a blindfold, smells of guitar strings and leather jacket and hotel soap, and again there's that nok-nok nok-nok NOK nok-nok on a door.
“Bloody hell, Danny.”
“Trust me,” he whispers. His accent is stronger close up. The door clicks, he says thank you and laughs and gives a gentle shove forward. “And keep your eyes shut.” The blindfold hand slips away. “Shutyoureyes shutyoureyes shutyoureyes…”
The hands rein back, then hold steady. “OK… Open!”
“Whoa! Holy-”
The city stretches from far below to far away, a million dots of light winking every colour of the rainbow and nothing below but… but...
The floor heaves and falls away; the lights blur and twist and dip. But two strong hands hold firm, and the reflection of a big-toothed grin hovers in the floor-to-ceiling window, and it's OK.
It's OK.
“Good, innit?”
“You might have warned me, you fu-”
A finger darts in and snuffs out the word. “Got company,” he says.
The finger turns and points along the window to a table dressed with a white cloth and candles. It's set for two. Beside it, a waiter holds the back of a chair, and the hands urge towards it.
Three taps at the door, and the waiter crosses the room and returns with a trolley. It smells like… oh, 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 table is loaded with food, and two forks explore the plates and he's watching every move. “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 watches, and the smile grows ever wider, and he raises his glass, because some things are just too good for words.
Dessert half-eaten, coffee poured and brandy ready in the glasses, and the waiter has gone. But the grin is still there, only… more relaxed, somehow
He nods. “You want to know why.”
How could a piece of cake possibly taste this good?
“I were in church,” and his head turns 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.”
In the window, the reflections of his eyes cloud for an instant, and his hand moves to the greenstone cross that hangs from the chain around his neck. “The week before, he were saying how man has free will, so God can't make us do owt, only give us the choice.”
There's a crumb or two of cake left on his plate, and for a moment he chases them with his fork. “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 office buildings are empty, the shops are closed, and the red and white lights of the traffic are a steady flow, not the frantic pulse they were an hour or two ago.
“Friends, though.” He shakes his head, puts down his fork and reaches back to scratch behind one ear. “Can't thank God, cause He can't make you like someone, can't make them like you. Free will.” He glances towards the ceiling, then back at the distant spire. “Priest didn't like it, but he couldn't explain it either, so…”
He sips his coffee, pulls a face and stirs in two small mountains of sugar, sips again and nods. “So I sat for a while. Thought. And…” He waves a hand over the table. “Yesterday, tomorrow. Your turn tonight.”
He stares into his cup, and his breath ripples the surface. At last he sets it down. His voice is quiet as it's ever been. “Cause even though I mess up all the time, and say stupid things, and fart, and dead arm you, you're still my friend, and I just wanted…”
He raises his eyes, and they're little-boy wide and glistening. “Thank you.”
And then his grin outshines all those million lights, the table slides out of the way and his arms wrap around and squeeze oh-Danny-not-so tight.
It's somewhere just short of a lifetime before his arms slacken and he moves his head back far enough to focus. His smile hesitates, peeks out from the corner of his mouth, nervous without the face-wide grin to hide behind. And then it's his turn to gasp, because some things are just too precious for words.