Fic: Something Borrowed (1/1)
Title: Something Borrowed
Rating: R
Characters: Boone Carlyle, Castiel
Word Count: 2,405
Summary: Boone was just minding his own business; he didn’t sign up for the side-order of crazy. For janie_tangerine, who requested “Boone meets Cas” at my Winter Gift-Fic Extravaganza. General Series Spoilers for Lost and Supernatural.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: This was an absolute blast to write for you, doll; I hope you like it!
Something Borrowed
He’s really just minding his own fucking business, covering for the new chick while Sabrina freaks the fuck out on her for not offering the clients their damn tea while they wait; he’s just trying to be nice, propped on his elbows as he leans over the front counter, smudges the glass as he stares out the storefront, between the mannequins, squinting against the glare of the sequins on the gowns displayed as he eyes the sidewalk for their one-oh-five appointment.
He blinks -- literally, he blinks, like, for half-a-fucking-second -- and there’s a man in front of him. He briefly entertains the thought that they’re getting audited as he gives the guy a once-over, before deciding that no, that doesn’t make any sense, and neither does the fact that the security chime never rang when the man came in, or the fact that Boone highly doubts that this is a woman named Celeste Evanovich who’s got the notes ‘wide hips, narrow waist, cap sleeves, no cleavage’ next to her name on the screen in front of him, slated for five minutes after the hour, and it’s 1:01 PM now, on the dot.
He takes in the coat, and the shirt, and the tie, one more time.
Yeah, no.
“I require a cellular device,” the man says, kind of growls, really; deep and rough and direct, his expression cold and unwavering -- not like he means it to be, but almost like he can’t even change it, if he’d wanted to. Maybe even if he tried.
Boone blinks again, wondering if maybe the dude will disappear. He doesn’t. “Excuse me?”
“I require the use of a cellular device,” the man reiterates, same flat monotone, but there’s this edge to it, like urgency except not -- like it wants to be, would be on anyone else, but not on this one. “Do you possess such technology?”
He blinks two more times, thinking it might be a little like ruby slippers or some shit -- says to himself in his head: there’s no place like sane, there’s no place like sane -- but yeah, no dice. “Buddy, how bad of a bender are you on right now?”
The guy cocks his head to the side, like he’s really thinking about it, and Boone can’t help but concede that, if the dude’s not wincing at the lights and the way he bends his neck and tilts his equilibrium out of whack, not to mention if his head’s not pounding with the sheer level of consideration he seems to be giving the simple question, he’s probably not wasted.
“I do not believe that I am ‘on’ anything at the present time, barring the pseudo-reality of the metaphysical constructs upon which this body and yours are existing within the present moment, of which I cannot specifically identify anything as the ‘bender’ of which you speak.”
But if the fucker’s not wasted, Boone’s not entirely sure he wants to know what the guy’s deal is, after an answer like that.
“Ooooh-kay.”
The other man blinks, and Boone wonders for a hot second whether he’s hoping that Boone disappears when he does it; probably not. “I require the use of a-”
“Cellular device, I gotcha,” Boone cuts him off, reaching into his back pocket for his phone and handing it over without really thinking, without really wondering what a whack job like this might actually want the cell for. “Here.”
The man takes it, and starts poking at the numbers on the keypad with surgical precision; Boone watches him until a loud shriek from the fitting rooms cuts through the still.
His eyes dart back to the screen with their appointments -- professional remarks and client notes across from dates and times and names and venues -- and he cringes when he hears I need to borrow something, for God’s sake! just as soon as he picks out the customer in the back: Lana Monroe, who he’s heard is a particularly entitled little bitch to begin with, and who just so happens to be dressing for the fucking ceremony that starts in two hours. The limo’s set to pick her up at the boutique, in fact.
“Goddamnit,” Boone swears under his breath as he looks behind his shoulder, wonders if he needs to find one of the sapphire broaches his mother likes to buy at Goodwill to satisfy the last minute old, borrowed, and blue necessities of absent-minded brides, but really -- he just got this phone, and he doesn’t want to leave it with a crazy person on the flimsy hope that the guy will put it back behind the counter unharmed.
“God damned what?” Boone turns back to find the man holding the phone away from his ear and staring at him with the kind of single-minded scrutiny one expects when they testify in court, and not really anywhere else.
“What?”
“You said that God was damning things. What was God damning? When?” And the man reaches into his pocket and extracts a pendant, strangely shaped and colored on a dark cord, hanging and swinging like a pendulum as he lifts it and pinches it between his fingers, frowning as he stuffs it away again and turns his attention back to Boone. “Have you seen Him recently?”
“No,” Boone says, knowing that this conversation cannot mean what he actually thinks it might mean -- mainly, that this psycho is actually looking trying to track down God, and fuck, but what are the charges on his bill going to look like if that’s who he’s been trying to call? “I-”
“Nevermind,” the man says quickly, sharp as he changes subjects with all the force of a freight train and the subtlety of a shotgun, eyes flickering to the whining that’s still coming from behind them in the fitting area. “Why must she temporarily acquire an object that is not her own?”
Boone takes a moment to switch directions, roll with the momentum of the conversation without getting whiplash or something. “You know, the old rhyme. Most brides go with it, you know. Tradition and all.”
The man blinks, and Boone’s beginning to think that when he blinks, it’s like the Butterfly Effect or something, like some city floods in Taiwan every time, or a baby is born, or, something. “I do not understand.”
“You know,” Boone continues, keeps it light, because there’s a part of his brain screaming crazy man might kill you if you piss him off, and then he’ll blink and you’ll burst into flames and you’ll singe a fucking dress and Mom will destroy your remains in a vengeful rage. “Something old...”
There’s the blink again. “I am old.”
Boone swallows. “Something new?”
“This is new,” the man gestures to his body, like it’s somehow different from him, being new where he’s old. He extends his arms and nods down to the bulk of his frame, his overcoat swaying with the motion. “In relative terms.”
“She needs something borrowed,” Boone finishes lamely, giving it up as a lost cause, and figuring that leaving out the whole ‘something blue’ bit really isn’t going to make any difference.
The man’s eyes widen, just a little, and it’s almost hilarious, almost fucking terrifying, and Boone wishes he had a mental hospital on speed dial between his favorite take out and Shannon’s ballet studio. “I have something borrowed.”
And Boone’s wary -- fuck yeah, he’s wary, because the guy’s a nutjob, kinda -- but the screeching in back’s getting out of hand, devolving into I can’t wear that, you moron and It’s not borrowed if you don’t want me to give it back, so he’ll take what he can get. “Great, thanks man,” he says, meaning it, mostly, as he holds out his palm for whatever thing he’s going to get handed to him. “Here.”
The man glances at his outstretched hand, up to meet his eyes, and back again. About five times. “I cannot give it to you, I am currently borrowing it.”
“But that’s the point,” Boone says slowly, like talking to a child. “I just asked if I could borrow it.”
“So did I,” the man insists, straightening his coat indicatively, like it’s supposed to mean something impressive to Boone; it really doesn’t. “It’s required that we ask and obtain permission.”
“That’s right,” Boone nods slowly, still with the kiddy voice; “else it would be stealing,”
“No, it would be Possession.”
Boone narrows his eyes, tries to figure what planet this guy’s from, exactly. “Same difference,” he shrugs. “Nine-tenths of the law or whatever.”
“No,” the man counters sternly, brow furrowed. “It is not the same difference.”
Definitely not from Earth, Boone thinks; his money’s on Saturn. Maybe Uranus.
“Right. That’s,” Boone shakes his head and turns around, tries to figure out if they’ve resolved things in the back, anything to shift his attention to the bucketload of weird that the universe decided to dump on him today. “Right.”
His question about bridezilla is answered when she comes storming through with an entourage of about ten employees and twenty other people who looked harried and exhausted as they trail after her, first, and then cut in front of her to make sure the limousine is acceptable before she slides inside.
She huffs when the crazy man refuses to move to accommodate her entrance, glares in his direction as she waits impatiently just inside the door, but doesn’t bother saying anything to go along with the scowl.
Crazy-man is not that kind.
“After you exchange your vows,” he says, out of fucking nowhere, “you should not continue to engage in sexual intercourse with the groomsmen.” The woman makes a indignant squeak, but the whacko just plunges on.
“Premarital relations are generally overlooked in such times as these, however infidelity constitutes a breach of contract. Much more egregious in the grander scheme.” He nods, and goes back to staring off in a direction that the bride doesn’t occupy until she’s ushered, beet-red and speechless, into her car.
Boone, on the other hand, doesn’t have the luxury of such a convenient escape. “Dude, you’re...” he starts, splutters, doesn’t quite know where to go with it. “You’re on fucking crack, aren’t you?”
The guy frowns again, and Boone kind of thinks that’s probably his default setting. “In having analyzed my current state of being in light of your prior inquiry regarding the so-termed “bender,” I did not alternatively identify this “crack” of which you speak.”
Boone closes his eyes, rolls them behind the lids. “That’s terrific.”
The frown deepens once his eyes pop back open. “Your cellular device does not seem to be working properly.”
“Can I have it back, then?”
The man hands it over, and Boone sighs appreciatively, though he considers just buying a new phone in case this particularly whacked-out brand of insanity is catching, contagious. “Great,” he says, flipping it shut and tucking it back into his pocket before looking up and trying to figure out what to do with the nutjob.
Not that it even matters, because of course, the guy’s gone.
________________________
His phone rings as he’s locking up; he doesn’t really think before he answers it.
“Cas?” The voice on the other end is tinny, far away -- bad connection. Which is weird, because most of the people he talks to are nearby, where the reception’s fine, but then again, his weird-o-meter’s off today. He doesn’t think anything of it, aside from the fact that he’s not named Cas.
“Boone,” he corrects, sets the motion alarm on the doors and lets himself out.
“Boone?”
“Yeah, that’s me.”
There are a few muffled curses across the line, and Boone grins, because the guy sounds genuinely pissed, and for some reason, that’s kinda funny.
“Look, sorry man,” he finally says into the phone proper; “but someone I really need to get ahold of left me a message, and it said it came from this number. Fuckin’ technology, right?” he chuckles mirthlessly, voice deep but warm, and Boone, well, he can’t leave well enough a-fucking-lone.
“Does this someone you’re looking for wear a trench coat in the middle of Malibu?”
“Malibu?”
“And is he maybe a couple fries short of a Happy Meal?”
There’s a half-cough, a clearing-of-the-throat before the hesitant reply. “He can, give that impression sometimes, yeah.”
Boone grins, thinks that dude didn’t look like no ‘Cas.’ “He left a couple hours ago,”
“Left?” The guy sounds kinda heartbroken, no fucking lie. It could be the static, though.
“Yeah, left,” Boone repeats, twirls his keys around his fingers and figures, what the hell, if this guy knows Crazy Cas, he probably knows the sort of shit the dude pulls. “Popped out of thin air when he got here, to be honest, and then popped right back. No sign of him one way or the other. Like fucking Harry Potter or something.”
The man on the other end of the line sighs heavily. “Right,” he says, voice thin and weighed down with frustration, Boone thinks, if he’s reading it right. “Well, if he comes back, tell him Dean’s looking for him, and we’re in Transfer, yeah?”
“Transfer, Dean, got it.” Boone can’t help but think of what kind of Dean matches the voice on the phone, ‘cause he won’t lie, s’kinda hot.
“Thanks, man,” and there’s the click, and Boone doesn’t feel crazy, so he thinks he’s safe on the whacko-cooties front, figures he can keep his phone.
Plus, while he’s looking on the bright side: Boone basically figures his life cannot feasibly get any fucking weirder than this, ever.
Rating: R
Characters: Boone Carlyle, Castiel
Word Count: 2,405
Summary: Boone was just minding his own business; he didn’t sign up for the side-order of crazy. For janie_tangerine, who requested “Boone meets Cas” at my Winter Gift-Fic Extravaganza. General Series Spoilers for Lost and Supernatural.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: This was an absolute blast to write for you, doll; I hope you like it!
Something Borrowed
He’s really just minding his own fucking business, covering for the new chick while Sabrina freaks the fuck out on her for not offering the clients their damn tea while they wait; he’s just trying to be nice, propped on his elbows as he leans over the front counter, smudges the glass as he stares out the storefront, between the mannequins, squinting against the glare of the sequins on the gowns displayed as he eyes the sidewalk for their one-oh-five appointment.
He blinks -- literally, he blinks, like, for half-a-fucking-second -- and there’s a man in front of him. He briefly entertains the thought that they’re getting audited as he gives the guy a once-over, before deciding that no, that doesn’t make any sense, and neither does the fact that the security chime never rang when the man came in, or the fact that Boone highly doubts that this is a woman named Celeste Evanovich who’s got the notes ‘wide hips, narrow waist, cap sleeves, no cleavage’ next to her name on the screen in front of him, slated for five minutes after the hour, and it’s 1:01 PM now, on the dot.
He takes in the coat, and the shirt, and the tie, one more time.
Yeah, no.
“I require a cellular device,” the man says, kind of growls, really; deep and rough and direct, his expression cold and unwavering -- not like he means it to be, but almost like he can’t even change it, if he’d wanted to. Maybe even if he tried.
Boone blinks again, wondering if maybe the dude will disappear. He doesn’t. “Excuse me?”
“I require the use of a cellular device,” the man reiterates, same flat monotone, but there’s this edge to it, like urgency except not -- like it wants to be, would be on anyone else, but not on this one. “Do you possess such technology?”
He blinks two more times, thinking it might be a little like ruby slippers or some shit -- says to himself in his head: there’s no place like sane, there’s no place like sane -- but yeah, no dice. “Buddy, how bad of a bender are you on right now?”
The guy cocks his head to the side, like he’s really thinking about it, and Boone can’t help but concede that, if the dude’s not wincing at the lights and the way he bends his neck and tilts his equilibrium out of whack, not to mention if his head’s not pounding with the sheer level of consideration he seems to be giving the simple question, he’s probably not wasted.
“I do not believe that I am ‘on’ anything at the present time, barring the pseudo-reality of the metaphysical constructs upon which this body and yours are existing within the present moment, of which I cannot specifically identify anything as the ‘bender’ of which you speak.”
But if the fucker’s not wasted, Boone’s not entirely sure he wants to know what the guy’s deal is, after an answer like that.
“Ooooh-kay.”
The other man blinks, and Boone wonders for a hot second whether he’s hoping that Boone disappears when he does it; probably not. “I require the use of a-”
“Cellular device, I gotcha,” Boone cuts him off, reaching into his back pocket for his phone and handing it over without really thinking, without really wondering what a whack job like this might actually want the cell for. “Here.”
The man takes it, and starts poking at the numbers on the keypad with surgical precision; Boone watches him until a loud shriek from the fitting rooms cuts through the still.
His eyes dart back to the screen with their appointments -- professional remarks and client notes across from dates and times and names and venues -- and he cringes when he hears I need to borrow something, for God’s sake! just as soon as he picks out the customer in the back: Lana Monroe, who he’s heard is a particularly entitled little bitch to begin with, and who just so happens to be dressing for the fucking ceremony that starts in two hours. The limo’s set to pick her up at the boutique, in fact.
“Goddamnit,” Boone swears under his breath as he looks behind his shoulder, wonders if he needs to find one of the sapphire broaches his mother likes to buy at Goodwill to satisfy the last minute old, borrowed, and blue necessities of absent-minded brides, but really -- he just got this phone, and he doesn’t want to leave it with a crazy person on the flimsy hope that the guy will put it back behind the counter unharmed.
“God damned what?” Boone turns back to find the man holding the phone away from his ear and staring at him with the kind of single-minded scrutiny one expects when they testify in court, and not really anywhere else.
“What?”
“You said that God was damning things. What was God damning? When?” And the man reaches into his pocket and extracts a pendant, strangely shaped and colored on a dark cord, hanging and swinging like a pendulum as he lifts it and pinches it between his fingers, frowning as he stuffs it away again and turns his attention back to Boone. “Have you seen Him recently?”
“No,” Boone says, knowing that this conversation cannot mean what he actually thinks it might mean -- mainly, that this psycho is actually looking trying to track down God, and fuck, but what are the charges on his bill going to look like if that’s who he’s been trying to call? “I-”
“Nevermind,” the man says quickly, sharp as he changes subjects with all the force of a freight train and the subtlety of a shotgun, eyes flickering to the whining that’s still coming from behind them in the fitting area. “Why must she temporarily acquire an object that is not her own?”
Boone takes a moment to switch directions, roll with the momentum of the conversation without getting whiplash or something. “You know, the old rhyme. Most brides go with it, you know. Tradition and all.”
The man blinks, and Boone’s beginning to think that when he blinks, it’s like the Butterfly Effect or something, like some city floods in Taiwan every time, or a baby is born, or, something. “I do not understand.”
“You know,” Boone continues, keeps it light, because there’s a part of his brain screaming crazy man might kill you if you piss him off, and then he’ll blink and you’ll burst into flames and you’ll singe a fucking dress and Mom will destroy your remains in a vengeful rage. “Something old...”
There’s the blink again. “I am old.”
Boone swallows. “Something new?”
“This is new,” the man gestures to his body, like it’s somehow different from him, being new where he’s old. He extends his arms and nods down to the bulk of his frame, his overcoat swaying with the motion. “In relative terms.”
“She needs something borrowed,” Boone finishes lamely, giving it up as a lost cause, and figuring that leaving out the whole ‘something blue’ bit really isn’t going to make any difference.
The man’s eyes widen, just a little, and it’s almost hilarious, almost fucking terrifying, and Boone wishes he had a mental hospital on speed dial between his favorite take out and Shannon’s ballet studio. “I have something borrowed.”
And Boone’s wary -- fuck yeah, he’s wary, because the guy’s a nutjob, kinda -- but the screeching in back’s getting out of hand, devolving into I can’t wear that, you moron and It’s not borrowed if you don’t want me to give it back, so he’ll take what he can get. “Great, thanks man,” he says, meaning it, mostly, as he holds out his palm for whatever thing he’s going to get handed to him. “Here.”
The man glances at his outstretched hand, up to meet his eyes, and back again. About five times. “I cannot give it to you, I am currently borrowing it.”
“But that’s the point,” Boone says slowly, like talking to a child. “I just asked if I could borrow it.”
“So did I,” the man insists, straightening his coat indicatively, like it’s supposed to mean something impressive to Boone; it really doesn’t. “It’s required that we ask and obtain permission.”
“That’s right,” Boone nods slowly, still with the kiddy voice; “else it would be stealing,”
“No, it would be Possession.”
Boone narrows his eyes, tries to figure what planet this guy’s from, exactly. “Same difference,” he shrugs. “Nine-tenths of the law or whatever.”
“No,” the man counters sternly, brow furrowed. “It is not the same difference.”
Definitely not from Earth, Boone thinks; his money’s on Saturn. Maybe Uranus.
“Right. That’s,” Boone shakes his head and turns around, tries to figure out if they’ve resolved things in the back, anything to shift his attention to the bucketload of weird that the universe decided to dump on him today. “Right.”
His question about bridezilla is answered when she comes storming through with an entourage of about ten employees and twenty other people who looked harried and exhausted as they trail after her, first, and then cut in front of her to make sure the limousine is acceptable before she slides inside.
She huffs when the crazy man refuses to move to accommodate her entrance, glares in his direction as she waits impatiently just inside the door, but doesn’t bother saying anything to go along with the scowl.
Crazy-man is not that kind.
“After you exchange your vows,” he says, out of fucking nowhere, “you should not continue to engage in sexual intercourse with the groomsmen.” The woman makes a indignant squeak, but the whacko just plunges on.
“Premarital relations are generally overlooked in such times as these, however infidelity constitutes a breach of contract. Much more egregious in the grander scheme.” He nods, and goes back to staring off in a direction that the bride doesn’t occupy until she’s ushered, beet-red and speechless, into her car.
Boone, on the other hand, doesn’t have the luxury of such a convenient escape. “Dude, you’re...” he starts, splutters, doesn’t quite know where to go with it. “You’re on fucking crack, aren’t you?”
The guy frowns again, and Boone kind of thinks that’s probably his default setting. “In having analyzed my current state of being in light of your prior inquiry regarding the so-termed “bender,” I did not alternatively identify this “crack” of which you speak.”
Boone closes his eyes, rolls them behind the lids. “That’s terrific.”
The frown deepens once his eyes pop back open. “Your cellular device does not seem to be working properly.”
“Can I have it back, then?”
The man hands it over, and Boone sighs appreciatively, though he considers just buying a new phone in case this particularly whacked-out brand of insanity is catching, contagious. “Great,” he says, flipping it shut and tucking it back into his pocket before looking up and trying to figure out what to do with the nutjob.
Not that it even matters, because of course, the guy’s gone.
________________________
His phone rings as he’s locking up; he doesn’t really think before he answers it.
“Cas?” The voice on the other end is tinny, far away -- bad connection. Which is weird, because most of the people he talks to are nearby, where the reception’s fine, but then again, his weird-o-meter’s off today. He doesn’t think anything of it, aside from the fact that he’s not named Cas.
“Boone,” he corrects, sets the motion alarm on the doors and lets himself out.
“Boone?”
“Yeah, that’s me.”
There are a few muffled curses across the line, and Boone grins, because the guy sounds genuinely pissed, and for some reason, that’s kinda funny.
“Look, sorry man,” he finally says into the phone proper; “but someone I really need to get ahold of left me a message, and it said it came from this number. Fuckin’ technology, right?” he chuckles mirthlessly, voice deep but warm, and Boone, well, he can’t leave well enough a-fucking-lone.
“Does this someone you’re looking for wear a trench coat in the middle of Malibu?”
“Malibu?”
“And is he maybe a couple fries short of a Happy Meal?”
There’s a half-cough, a clearing-of-the-throat before the hesitant reply. “He can, give that impression sometimes, yeah.”
Boone grins, thinks that dude didn’t look like no ‘Cas.’ “He left a couple hours ago,”
“Left?” The guy sounds kinda heartbroken, no fucking lie. It could be the static, though.
“Yeah, left,” Boone repeats, twirls his keys around his fingers and figures, what the hell, if this guy knows Crazy Cas, he probably knows the sort of shit the dude pulls. “Popped out of thin air when he got here, to be honest, and then popped right back. No sign of him one way or the other. Like fucking Harry Potter or something.”
The man on the other end of the line sighs heavily. “Right,” he says, voice thin and weighed down with frustration, Boone thinks, if he’s reading it right. “Well, if he comes back, tell him Dean’s looking for him, and we’re in Transfer, yeah?”
“Transfer, Dean, got it.” Boone can’t help but think of what kind of Dean matches the voice on the phone, ‘cause he won’t lie, s’kinda hot.
“Thanks, man,” and there’s the click, and Boone doesn’t feel crazy, so he thinks he’s safe on the whacko-cooties front, figures he can keep his phone.
Plus, while he’s looking on the bright side: Boone basically figures his life cannot feasibly get any fucking weirder than this, ever.