Cities
Authors Note: I’m not really sure what to say…it’s really weird. Haha. I posted this on ffn.net as well as on the livejournal community; meade/slater. So if you’re a Danimena fan (I hope I’m spelling that right) you should come check it out!
Cities
Vegas smells like smoke.
It always does. The hot, suffocating, dry summer desert wind blowing in his face through the fully opened window. Despite the fact that it was nearing 3 a.m in the morning, the air was seriously beginning to smell like burnt marshmallows. “Oh…fuck it.” Daniel complains, his fist pounding hard onto the broken air conditioner. He fanned himself with his hand, but got tired of it after about twenty-two seconds. He threw his head back, and turned to face the window, thirty-five stories, towering about the city. He turns away from the window and walks towards the door; “the hallway,” he thinks, “is bound to have air conditioning. He had called the hotel manager multiple times, but the man had simply growled in annoyance and given Daniel a set of instructions to fix it that he could barely follow…
He opened the door slowly, savoring the feeling of the cool metal doorknob against his flaming skin. He walked out into the hallway stomping maturely on the red carpet that seemingly extended out to the ends of Nevada. He put clenched fists onto the white walls in anger, trying to cool himself off, and kicked the wall as hard as he could. “Stop trying to fucking break the walls!” A voice shouted from the other side. “Well, you try to sleep in 102 fucking degrees!” He kicked the wall one more time for emphasis. He wandered up and down the hallways, trying different techniques of walking, skipping jogging or running. He got bored and tired, so he sat along the wall and sang loudly to himself. He checked his phone several times for the time, but eventually the screensaver got boring. He sat against the wall, his feet drawn up in sit up position, staring at the low ceiling, trying to make shapes of the uneven shades of pain; unsuccessfully of course. A key card slid under a door. A note written on hotel paper a long with it, ‘you owe me,’ he read to himself and smirked…
At 3 a.m in Vegas it’s hot as hell, it smells like smoke, and everybody of the 35th floor has basically bathed in alcohol.
It’s 3 a.m in Vegas; the directions on the air conditioning said; ‘turn the knob to desired temperature,’ maybe Daniel had other intentions. Or he actually couldn’t find the damn knob.
London is foggy.
No wonder why they named the Starbucks Tazo Tea ‘London Fog.’ It smelled like smog, like burnt rubber. As if all the tires in the world were tossed into a pit here, and lit on fire by a million little fireflies; or something or other. They weren’t supposed to be in London, but there was no way to get to Nice in this weather. They were stuck for three days her; and all Wilhelmina had was summer clothes. They were headed to Nice, in the South of France, after all. She shifted uncomfortably as she sat on top of the satin red sheets of the massive hotel bed. All their luggage, except for their carry-ons had somehow, made it successfully to Nice. She had no work to do, so she sat back and reached around for the remote. She hit the button several times, but the television refused to turn on.
“Fuck it…” She threw the remote against the wall and stood up out of the bed. She fixed her hair in the mirror before quickly opening the door into the hallway, and letting it slam shut behind her. She already had a premonitation that this would be a bad idea, but nevertheless she pounded fiercely for the person next-door to open up. He appeared at the doorway, his hands clutched around the remote. “You owe me,” she said, and snatched the remote out of his hand. He didn’t question her, and let her in. “Oh…fuck, I left my key in the other room.” He shrugged and patted a spot on the orange bed sheets were she could sit. She stands up first and adjusts the heat, before sitting down on the spot he indicated. “Can I…” he began, “No.” She interrupted, resting comfortably on the headboard and turning on the television. He rolled his eyes and pouted, seating himself next to her.
London is foggy. She only has clothes for Nice, it smells like burnt rubber, and they were trapped here for three whole days. Three fucking days.
London is foggy, the batteries for the remote were under the sheets, and the keycard stuffed neatly between her cleavage; maybe TV wasn’t her only plan for tonight. Or she seriously thought she lost her key.
San Francisco is spectacular. It smells like everything all at once. The sight of street vendors by the Market Street shopping district somehow blends in with the smell of Prada on the top story of Sak’s Fifth Avenue. It’s sunny, but it’s raining. The deep scent of watery streets filling up the city. Something like watery streets…or marijuana. He stands on top of the bed in his hotel room; the view of the Golden Gate Bridge shimmering like a gem lightly through the fog. He bounces up and down like a child, and waits for room service to come. Next door, she stands silently trying to decide between black or red heels to wear tonight. She holds each one up to the Cavalli fabric that arrived by bellhop this afternoon, and frowns in frustration. “Oh…fuck it,” she cries out loud, plopping down on the bed loudly.
She looks to the blank white wall as if she has x-ray vision. She picks up the red shoes, and calls room service, and leaves the room quietly. He opens the door without her even knocking. “Homesick yet?” he asks for some reason. “Not a chance.” She smirks, and pushes him aside to enter the room. One red shoe still in her hands. The black ones strapped onto her feet. “Oh?” he questioned her, grabbing her waist and guiding her into the room. She pushed him away, and strut over to the bed, and stood on top of it uneasily like he had just minutes ago. “The window’s broken in my room, and the view sucked.” She shrugged. “…really…” He trailed off, his lips meeting her skin. “Really…” She breathed. “What really happened to the window for real, Mina?” he asked her, giving her a new nickname. “Ew, never use that name again, and like I said, it’s broken.” She shrugged again. She goes and adjusts the heater, and sits down on the bed next to him. His arms find their way around her shoulders and she doesn’t protest like the first time. She leans onto him, and searches for the remote. He rolls his eyes; it was going to be a long night.
San Francisco is spectacular. It smells like street vendors and Prada. Like watery streets and marijuana. Then there’s the Golden Gate Bridge.
San Francisco is spectacular, unless you’re the repairman in Wilhelmina’s room. He looks through the broken glass, confused as hell as to how something could break it. He takes a step forward and trips ever so slightly on a red stiletto still lying on the ground. He mumbles something under his breath, and begins to put tape around the window. She could have broken something else, but she didn’t. The window would take the longest. Or she was honestly mad.
Tokyo is bright. The lights could make you go blind. The blur of language on the streets lose Wilhelmina and Daniel as they walk through the streets hand in hand. They walk into a small Japanese restaurant, where the guy at the front ushers them to a private table they had trouble reserving earlier. “You excited to go back home?” he asks her, just as the food is arriving. “Not particularly,” She says, taking her chopsticks into her the palm of her hand. She tries to get some of the gyoza on her plate with her chopsticks…sadly, failing. He wanted to laugh, but he knew better. She tried several times, and finally gave up. She tossed the wooden sticks onto the ground, without it being noticed because of the buzz of voices, and whispered, “fuck it.” He suppressed a small smile, and continued to eat his food quietly.
After several bites with a fork she requested, she asked for the waiter again. He approached with a smile, and Wilhelmina notified him that it was rather hot in here. The man nodded and said “yes, yes,” multiple times before hurrying off to go fix the air conditioning to suit their needs. Daniel smiled, and requested to get several more pairs of chopsticks. The man standing at his side again nodded and said, “yes, yes,” multiple times before walking to the back to fetch Daniel his own big plastic bag of chopsticks. The man bowed politely and hurried back to standing where he could keep an eye on the couple.
Tokyo is bright. There’s a blur of languages floating through the air, and Wilhelmina thinks she’s already blind from the lights.
Tokyo is bright, and chopsticks are fucking impossible to use. “What are those for?” She asks on their way back, “uh…for you practice, duh…” he grins, and she pouts. “Gyoza with a fork isn’t too bad…” She mutters, and walks a little ahead of him and chuckles and follows after.
New York is home. It’s lively, it’s busy. It smells like yesterday’s gossip and this morning’s news still wafting through the air. New York means work. They both professionally enter the offices, ignoring all the gossip amongst the employees. “I think it’s true.” Someone says, “Oh-my-gosh,” is all Amanda can say. “Daniel…” Betty trails off; she’s got lots of pep to give her boss. They go their separate ways, into their offices and order their assistants to work.
Secretly, he figures out how to adjust the temperature for the air conditioning.
Secretly, she figures out that remote controls need batteries to work.
Secretly, she remembers where the key card is.
Secretly, she practices using chopsticks.
Secretly, she forwards the bills to pay for the broken window to Daniel.
Secretly, he pays for them.
They both try to hide their secret glances at each other.
They both fail.
“Fuck it,” they both say.
Secretly, their together.
But that’s a secret.
He doesn’t complain, though, when she marches into his office this afternoon, a fake display of shadowing over her smirk, “Oh Daniel that reminds me…I forgot the book…in Tokyo. Or was it Vegas…or London…or San Francisco.” She shrugs her shoulders as if she doesn’t care. He returns her hidden smirk and says, “I guess we’ll have to look for it ourselves. It is our responsibility; we are, after all, the editors-in-chief.” She nods in agreement, and they stand up and walk out of his office.
The next day, as their plane sets off to Vegas, Betty stands by Daniel’s desk. Marc and Amanda, arms linked, somewhere close to her, but not too close.
“Is…that the book?” She asks, looking under a pile of random papers underneath Daniel’s desk.
“Oh-my-god, it is!” Marc jumps up in excitement.
“No Marc…this is bad!” Betty counters.
“…so I’m not the only one who sees it?” Amanda says, transfixed by the book that Wilhelmina had supposively left in Tokyo.
Or Vegas. Or London. Or San Francisco.
Secretly…another vacation from home is what they need.