For charliechaplin2!
Prompt: Rei, Jadeite, candy canes. I barely tangentially used it? Sort of?
A/N: Not the typical interpretation, I don't think? Big fat thanks to BAMF aka apsaraqueen for helping me with this, by the way!
Christmas Eve dawns cold and cloudy, and the air is a lot cooler and damper than he is used to. Jeremy Davies nonetheless shoulders his knapsack and puts the Nikon D800E around his neck. The village of Ardmore, County Waterford, Ireland, is nothing even close to Los Angeles, California, USA. But it's beautiful, with its old-fashioned pier and the ruins of an ancient Cathedral shrouded by mist. There are no garish neon-lit Christmas decorations, and he's weirdly relieved.
The Bed and Breakfast he'd stayed at overnight has no Wi-Fi and minimal room service, but there is something to be said for enjoying a foamy stout by a peat fire as the moon came up. And today... today he would explore. The innkeeper, a fresh-faced, green-eyed redhead by the name of Mairead, told him the previous evening about the bus that would take him to Waterford City and back again. Jeremy's making his leisurely way across the country on his way to meet up with his old friend Zachary in Dublin, traveling the old-fashioned way with little more than a backpack and a single suitcase, and the novelty of it is enough to make up for any blunders and mishaps along the way.
Right now in Los Angeles, he'd likely be stuck in miserable amounts of traffic, cursing the tourists that poured in over Christmas break to go to the Hollywood sign or the beach or the mansions of Beverly Hills. There would be palm trees strung with Christmas lights and fake snowmen displayed in shop windows, looking patently ridiculous. Everyone was so obsessed with the glossy side of LA that it's as though the other side doesn't exist except for in action movies and documentaries about gangs. Jeremy knows both sides, loves both. But nonetheless, this is a welcome break.
Waterford City boasts a Viking quarter and a visitor centre for the eponymous crystal produced in the region, along with a three-hundred-year-old pub and numerous restaurants and theatres full of old-world charm. Jeremy spends the vast majority of his morning taking photographs-- a cheeky boy skipping stones by the quay, a brace of boats in the marina, a pair of old men playing checkers over pints at the pub, a close-up of the ancient stones that construct St Reginald's Tower, a crystal chandelier that seems to glow with the brilliance of thousands of stars. It's a world that lacks the supercilious materialism of the one he'd left, and it's refreshing as spring rain.
Though speak of the devil...
Without so much as a warning, the skies overhead open up, and he's forced to duck under the closest awning. It's the three-hundred-year-old pub's, and even as he dodges the rain, so does another person, and now he pauses, stares. It's a young woman, perhaps in her early twenties, all raven hair and knife-edged cheekbones and a bright red trench coat. She notices his once-over, then scowls.
"I'll thank you to keep that camera away from me, if you please." The accent is crisp Londoner, as out of place here as his own American one, and he quirks a brow, smiles.
"No problem, sweetheart. I never take pictures of people without their permission." Holding the door of the pub open, he inclines his head. "After you."
She sails in with her chin lifted at a haughty angle and doesn't spare him a glance as she walks over to the bar, orders a Harp's. He sits one stool down from her and chuckles at the pointed way she ignores him.
"I'll take a Guinness, and I think a beef pastie," he tells the Publican with an easy smile. "Say, Merry Christmas."
"And to you, sir," the man replies jovially as he slides a mug under the tap. Jeremy takes his beer, waits for his food, and gives the young woman another amused glance. She stares straight ahead and only the way her manicured fingers fiddle with the ends of her white cashmere scarf give her away.
"I'm Jeremy. Jeremy Davies. Nice to meet you. What's your name?"
"Rebecca Anne Kensington," she replies tersely. "Charmed." Her tone implies that she is anything but, and her handshake is about as brief as civility allows. But the name rings a bell, and Jeremy raises an eyebrow.
"Londoner accent, Kensington. No relation to THAT Mr. Kensington, are you?" He referred to the former Speaker of the Commons.
"Funny. My father has never mentioned you before in any of our conversations." Her tone is just this side of sassy, and he finds himself grinning. It does also explain her instant aversion to his camera, which is a pity. The last time he'd seen quite such a stunning face was three years ago, when he still worked with celebrities on their publicity shoots and magazine articles and covered the lavish society wedding of supermodel Minerva Alden to top criminal profiler Kyle Wesley. The fairy-like bride had certainly smiled a lot more than this dark-haired goddess.
"I doubt my name would come up a lot in anyone's conversations here, Becky," Jeremy says with an admirably sober face. "I'm just here to play tourist a bit before meeting up with a friend in Dublin. Lovely country, though. Very nice people."
The look she gives him at the name 'Becky' is so affronted that he laughs again. She really looks far too pretty when angry. She's a spot of colour against the rain and fog, tidy and sleek as a Christmas candy cane in her scarlet trench coat and a spotless white scarf, but he's sure that if he were to kiss her, she'd taste nothing like peppermint. Naturally, he has no business at all, thinking about kissing her, but it's difficult not to.
His lunch arrives then, and he tucks away the pastie, he watches as the pretty Londoner stares out the window as though waiting for a break in the rain. It doesn't seem to want to let up, though, and so when he finishes, he leans forward, gives her a disarming smile.
"So, what brings you to Ireland?"
"A friend of mine from Cambridge is getting married," she answers, apparently resigning herself to conversation with an impudent American photojournalist. "Amy and I have known each other since we started university. I couldn't not come." She sighs, and finishes her beer. "I'm happy for her, I really am, even if this means that she'll be moving away from London and I shall only see her a few times a year-- or on Skype. She met Zach two years ago and I've never seen a couple so in love." The faintest of smiles crosses her lips, and he's charmed. "He simply wouldn't take no for an answer. She's shy, and he stayed around until she let him in."
Jeremy raises his eyebrows, but doesn't say anything, doesn't interrupt this moment of charmed silence. He can't help but smile, though, and all of the sudden, it's shaping up to be the best Christmas ever.
"They're lucky to have each other, sounds like," he says, keeping his voice bland. When the publican returns, he beams, at peace with the whole world. "Another drink for the lady, should she want it. But I should get going-- I think I see my bus pulling up."
He lays a few Euro on the table and gives the fascinating Miss Rebecca Kensington a grin and a wink. "It's definitely a pleasure. And I hope we'll see each other again."
"Doubtful," she answers, then thaws just a trifle. "Thank you for the drink, I suppose. It was not necessary for you to do that."
"Sure I did. Merry Christmas!" With a careless wave, he walks out of the pub, disappears onto the bus. And then watches, through rain-slickened windows, until the red and white disappears from view. As the bus lumbers down the road back towards Ardmore, Jeremy leans back in his seat and grins at nothing and everything.
He can only imagine the thinly-veiled outrage that would cross her face when he showed up at her friend's wedding.
A/N: Not the typical interpretation, I don't think? Big fat thanks to BAMF aka apsaraqueen for helping me with this, by the way!
Christmas Eve dawns cold and cloudy, and the air is a lot cooler and damper than he is used to. Jeremy Davies nonetheless shoulders his knapsack and puts the Nikon D800E around his neck. The village of Ardmore, County Waterford, Ireland, is nothing even close to Los Angeles, California, USA. But it's beautiful, with its old-fashioned pier and the ruins of an ancient Cathedral shrouded by mist. There are no garish neon-lit Christmas decorations, and he's weirdly relieved.
The Bed and Breakfast he'd stayed at overnight has no Wi-Fi and minimal room service, but there is something to be said for enjoying a foamy stout by a peat fire as the moon came up. And today... today he would explore. The innkeeper, a fresh-faced, green-eyed redhead by the name of Mairead, told him the previous evening about the bus that would take him to Waterford City and back again. Jeremy's making his leisurely way across the country on his way to meet up with his old friend Zachary in Dublin, traveling the old-fashioned way with little more than a backpack and a single suitcase, and the novelty of it is enough to make up for any blunders and mishaps along the way.
Right now in Los Angeles, he'd likely be stuck in miserable amounts of traffic, cursing the tourists that poured in over Christmas break to go to the Hollywood sign or the beach or the mansions of Beverly Hills. There would be palm trees strung with Christmas lights and fake snowmen displayed in shop windows, looking patently ridiculous. Everyone was so obsessed with the glossy side of LA that it's as though the other side doesn't exist except for in action movies and documentaries about gangs. Jeremy knows both sides, loves both. But nonetheless, this is a welcome break.
Waterford City boasts a Viking quarter and a visitor centre for the eponymous crystal produced in the region, along with a three-hundred-year-old pub and numerous restaurants and theatres full of old-world charm. Jeremy spends the vast majority of his morning taking photographs-- a cheeky boy skipping stones by the quay, a brace of boats in the marina, a pair of old men playing checkers over pints at the pub, a close-up of the ancient stones that construct St Reginald's Tower, a crystal chandelier that seems to glow with the brilliance of thousands of stars. It's a world that lacks the supercilious materialism of the one he'd left, and it's refreshing as spring rain.
Though speak of the devil...
Without so much as a warning, the skies overhead open up, and he's forced to duck under the closest awning. It's the three-hundred-year-old pub's, and even as he dodges the rain, so does another person, and now he pauses, stares. It's a young woman, perhaps in her early twenties, all raven hair and knife-edged cheekbones and a bright red trench coat. She notices his once-over, then scowls.
"I'll thank you to keep that camera away from me, if you please." The accent is crisp Londoner, as out of place here as his own American one, and he quirks a brow, smiles.
"No problem, sweetheart. I never take pictures of people without their permission." Holding the door of the pub open, he inclines his head. "After you."
She sails in with her chin lifted at a haughty angle and doesn't spare him a glance as she walks over to the bar, orders a Harp's. He sits one stool down from her and chuckles at the pointed way she ignores him.
"I'll take a Guinness, and I think a beef pastie," he tells the Publican with an easy smile. "Say, Merry Christmas."
"And to you, sir," the man replies jovially as he slides a mug under the tap. Jeremy takes his beer, waits for his food, and gives the young woman another amused glance. She stares straight ahead and only the way her manicured fingers fiddle with the ends of her white cashmere scarf give her away.
"I'm Jeremy. Jeremy Davies. Nice to meet you. What's your name?"
"Rebecca Anne Kensington," she replies tersely. "Charmed." Her tone implies that she is anything but, and her handshake is about as brief as civility allows. But the name rings a bell, and Jeremy raises an eyebrow.
"Londoner accent, Kensington. No relation to THAT Mr. Kensington, are you?" He referred to the former Speaker of the Commons.
"Funny. My father has never mentioned you before in any of our conversations." Her tone is just this side of sassy, and he finds himself grinning. It does also explain her instant aversion to his camera, which is a pity. The last time he'd seen quite such a stunning face was three years ago, when he still worked with celebrities on their publicity shoots and magazine articles and covered the lavish society wedding of supermodel Minerva Alden to top criminal profiler Kyle Wesley. The fairy-like bride had certainly smiled a lot more than this dark-haired goddess.
"I doubt my name would come up a lot in anyone's conversations here, Becky," Jeremy says with an admirably sober face. "I'm just here to play tourist a bit before meeting up with a friend in Dublin. Lovely country, though. Very nice people."
The look she gives him at the name 'Becky' is so affronted that he laughs again. She really looks far too pretty when angry. She's a spot of colour against the rain and fog, tidy and sleek as a Christmas candy cane in her scarlet trench coat and a spotless white scarf, but he's sure that if he were to kiss her, she'd taste nothing like peppermint. Naturally, he has no business at all, thinking about kissing her, but it's difficult not to.
His lunch arrives then, and he tucks away the pastie, he watches as the pretty Londoner stares out the window as though waiting for a break in the rain. It doesn't seem to want to let up, though, and so when he finishes, he leans forward, gives her a disarming smile.
"So, what brings you to Ireland?"
"A friend of mine from Cambridge is getting married," she answers, apparently resigning herself to conversation with an impudent American photojournalist. "Amy and I have known each other since we started university. I couldn't not come." She sighs, and finishes her beer. "I'm happy for her, I really am, even if this means that she'll be moving away from London and I shall only see her a few times a year-- or on Skype. She met Zach two years ago and I've never seen a couple so in love." The faintest of smiles crosses her lips, and he's charmed. "He simply wouldn't take no for an answer. She's shy, and he stayed around until she let him in."
Jeremy raises his eyebrows, but doesn't say anything, doesn't interrupt this moment of charmed silence. He can't help but smile, though, and all of the sudden, it's shaping up to be the best Christmas ever.
"They're lucky to have each other, sounds like," he says, keeping his voice bland. When the publican returns, he beams, at peace with the whole world. "Another drink for the lady, should she want it. But I should get going-- I think I see my bus pulling up."
He lays a few Euro on the table and gives the fascinating Miss Rebecca Kensington a grin and a wink. "It's definitely a pleasure. And I hope we'll see each other again."
"Doubtful," she answers, then thaws just a trifle. "Thank you for the drink, I suppose. It was not necessary for you to do that."
"Sure I did. Merry Christmas!" With a careless wave, he walks out of the pub, disappears onto the bus. And then watches, through rain-slickened windows, until the red and white disappears from view. As the bus lumbers down the road back towards Ardmore, Jeremy leans back in his seat and grins at nothing and everything.
He can only imagine the thinly-veiled outrage that would cross her face when he showed up at her friend's wedding.