500 days of Summer
500 Days of Summer
(This is a story of boy meets girl ... )There's a movie (there's always a movie).
rpf. Summer Glau and William 'Bill' Beckett.
1384. pg.
[What can I say? Seeing that boy live inspires me. And I'm on a major Firefly kick at the moment. And that movie was amazing.]
There’s a movie (always a movie). A midnight screening for kids without curfews and he drags her along and she tries to forget she’s not 21 anymore and the world is no longer at her fingertips.
(Her days of passing as 17 are coming to an end.)
The main characters are Summer and Tom and they chuckle over popcorn and Pepsi. He watches the movie with an eyebrow raised; she watches intently with forced scepticism. (She’s not as cynical as she would have liked.)
General chatter as they leave the cinema (he liked the snapshots; she liked the music; overall, they liked the film just fine), he runs into some people he knows and she smiles politely on the sidelines.
(Her floral dress is too short; she decides, tugging on the hem. Her hair is too long and it hangs in her face.)
“I’m Bill,” the guy to her left says, and she accepts his outstretched hand with a smile.
“Summer.”
There’s laughter from the other guys and he merely grins at her thoughtfully, eyes bright.
(Day one.)
---
He leaves with her number in his phone and her name on his lips; Summer, Summer, Summer.
He calls her three days later. He makes a dinner date for four days after that. (Day seven, he mutters to himself, foregoing the jacket. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t keeping count.)
The LA heat is near unbearable; he takes comfort in the cool restaurant. He sees her before she sees him; graceful and elegant (he wonders if she even feels the heat.)
There’s no paparazzi, not a camera in sight. The waiter, a geeky looking kid, asks for an autograph and she complies, chatting happily with the kid, who confesses his love for her and her shows.
“Would it be dorky for me to admit I love Firefly,” he chuckles and the kid leaves with their order, “because, seriously, that kid totally stole my opening.”
She’s sunny smiles and musical laughs and asks intelligent questions about his band and the process. She’s never listened to them; he welcomes the honesty. He gives her a list of recommended listening longer than his arm and she types them diligently into her iPhone, chuckling at his descriptions.
“Can I see you again?” he asks, as he walks her to her car. She nods and he kisses her on the cheek.
“Goodnight,” she whispers.
(His phone chimes midnight and day eight begins with a smile.)
---
Joss calls her with an offer she can’t refuse; a multi-episode arc on Dollhouse and commiserations; she accepts both with smile. She learnt long ago that if Whedon knocks, you answer.
She tells him excitedly; he’s excited in turn. There’s a glint of something in his eyes that she doubts.
“Should I have, um, asked?” she questions uncertainly. There not at that stage; no where near going public and she wonders momentarily if that bothers him. (If that bothers her.)
“No, not at all,” he reassures her and she kisses him enthusiastically.
She doesn’t doubt him. Not in the slightest.
---
It’s day 71. He’s still counting; waiting for something to go wrong. It doesn’t. He’s surprised.
Last gig in LA before his tour; another day, another sound check and he’s exhausted. His world is in a constant state of Summer; it revolves around her and the sound of her laughter becomes his favourite song.
“When are you going to dance for me?” he croons into his microphone, the sound guys tweaking this and that. She sips lemonade at the bar and shakes her head, giggling. He pouts. She shakes her head again. He sticks his bottom lip out. She stands with a sigh, kicking off her shoes.
“Don’t laugh,” she warns the guys. She focuses in on him. “play something slow.”
He launches into Everything We Had and she listens to the song for a few seconds, before moving into some complicated looking point work; then into a series of pirouettes and leaps and other moves that he doesn’t know the names of. A serene expression on her face; she moves in time with the music; eyes glazed over in concentration and he almost forgets his place.
(There’s applause afterwards; she blushes and sits back down at the bar. Later, in his hotel room, she tells him about her childhood dreams; the injury that destroyed them and how when she dances, the whole world seems to stop. He feels like that when he sings; bright lights and dull roars. He feels like that with her.)
“Day 72,” he whispers in the dark; arm around her waist, her head on his chest. She chuckles, lifting her head and looking him in the eye.
“This isn’t a movie, Bill,” she says seriously, “no scripts, no second takes. I’m real, you’re real-”, (kiss) “this is real.”
Day 72. He stops counting.
---
She’s on a film set; he’s halfway across the country. Her voice is soft on the phone; he sings cheesy love ballads and she laughs. The silence is comfortable and her friends tell her to hold onto that.
It’s the silences that speak the loudest, Tom tells her wisely (hippie parents with their hippie advice) you always know where you stand when everything is quiet.
Bill is optimistic; from his songs to his smile. Almost here, he croons; on bright stages and in darkened rooms. They’re a year or two away from making it big. Both of them, he promises, but she’s not quite sure if she wants all that that life entails.
(Paparazzi and gossip rags; stalkers and groupies. She likes the relative anonymity of the science fiction bubble; conventions and fan made gifts galore.)
I wish you were here, his words are sincere and she finds herself listening to his songs as she falls asleep.
It’s corny and it’s lame; she’s 27 not 17 and too old to be swooning over shaggy haired musicians.
(She thinks she might love him. Scepticism be damned.)
---
Her last name means Glow and he finds it all quite poetic; one of her subtle and unconscious quirks turned into something beautiful. She loves the book Wuthering Heights and apple pie and ponies and she sings shakily, but sweetly; country songs that make him both cringe and smile.
(She’s shy; speaks softly and moves carefully. She smiles at him beneath dark lashes and holds his hand under tables.
He’s growing braver with every day; crooked smiles and honest eyes, as the lyrics go, and he types his love for the world to see - declarations of I love Summer! - real meanings hidden from those unsuspecting.)
“You’re so obvious,” she giggles, separated by oceans this time, “honestly Bill, sometimes I wonder why I love you.”
(There’s a hitch of breath on her end; he’s just as surprised at her unguarded confession. Day 101; there’s a cool chill in the air and he knows he can’t hide behind the seasons for much longer…)
“I love you Summer.”
(They hate regrets; always have, always will. This will not be one.)
There a laugh on her end, and he chuckles; before they know it they’re laughing hysterically and she’s gasping for air.
“Wow.”
(He could write a whole album of songs about her, but it will never be enough. This is real, her voice echoes in his mind and he thinks she’s right.
Wow doesn’t even begin to describe it.)
---
Seasons change; film sets come and go and his touring schedule starts to slow down. It’s getting cold; holidays approach and he speaks of Chicago snow and her of Texas winter. Instead they spend Christmas Eve in their respective childhood bedrooms; cell phones joining them while the miles separate.
Identical movies and identical grins; he imagines their hands entwined, she imagines her head on his shoulder. They watch, phones to their ear, in comfortable silence.
“What day is it?” she whispers sleepily. Somewhere a clock strikes midnight.
“Christmas,” he smiles, “silly.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Oh.
A giggle on her end, a chuckle on his. Masters of the double meanings, they are.
“I’ve lost count.”
It’s true.
(He dreams of infinite days of Summer; her smile, her laugh, her grace. He makes her forget things, she does. Makes him start at the beginning.)
“Me too.”
(It’s true.)
(This is a story of boy meets girl ... )There's a movie (there's always a movie).
rpf. Summer Glau and William 'Bill' Beckett.
1384. pg.
[What can I say? Seeing that boy live inspires me. And I'm on a major Firefly kick at the moment. And that movie was amazing.]
There’s a movie (always a movie). A midnight screening for kids without curfews and he drags her along and she tries to forget she’s not 21 anymore and the world is no longer at her fingertips.
(Her days of passing as 17 are coming to an end.)
The main characters are Summer and Tom and they chuckle over popcorn and Pepsi. He watches the movie with an eyebrow raised; she watches intently with forced scepticism. (She’s not as cynical as she would have liked.)
General chatter as they leave the cinema (he liked the snapshots; she liked the music; overall, they liked the film just fine), he runs into some people he knows and she smiles politely on the sidelines.
(Her floral dress is too short; she decides, tugging on the hem. Her hair is too long and it hangs in her face.)
“I’m Bill,” the guy to her left says, and she accepts his outstretched hand with a smile.
“Summer.”
There’s laughter from the other guys and he merely grins at her thoughtfully, eyes bright.
(Day one.)
---
He leaves with her number in his phone and her name on his lips; Summer, Summer, Summer.
He calls her three days later. He makes a dinner date for four days after that. (Day seven, he mutters to himself, foregoing the jacket. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t keeping count.)
The LA heat is near unbearable; he takes comfort in the cool restaurant. He sees her before she sees him; graceful and elegant (he wonders if she even feels the heat.)
There’s no paparazzi, not a camera in sight. The waiter, a geeky looking kid, asks for an autograph and she complies, chatting happily with the kid, who confesses his love for her and her shows.
“Would it be dorky for me to admit I love Firefly,” he chuckles and the kid leaves with their order, “because, seriously, that kid totally stole my opening.”
She’s sunny smiles and musical laughs and asks intelligent questions about his band and the process. She’s never listened to them; he welcomes the honesty. He gives her a list of recommended listening longer than his arm and she types them diligently into her iPhone, chuckling at his descriptions.
“Can I see you again?” he asks, as he walks her to her car. She nods and he kisses her on the cheek.
“Goodnight,” she whispers.
(His phone chimes midnight and day eight begins with a smile.)
---
Joss calls her with an offer she can’t refuse; a multi-episode arc on Dollhouse and commiserations; she accepts both with smile. She learnt long ago that if Whedon knocks, you answer.
She tells him excitedly; he’s excited in turn. There’s a glint of something in his eyes that she doubts.
“Should I have, um, asked?” she questions uncertainly. There not at that stage; no where near going public and she wonders momentarily if that bothers him. (If that bothers her.)
“No, not at all,” he reassures her and she kisses him enthusiastically.
She doesn’t doubt him. Not in the slightest.
---
It’s day 71. He’s still counting; waiting for something to go wrong. It doesn’t. He’s surprised.
Last gig in LA before his tour; another day, another sound check and he’s exhausted. His world is in a constant state of Summer; it revolves around her and the sound of her laughter becomes his favourite song.
“When are you going to dance for me?” he croons into his microphone, the sound guys tweaking this and that. She sips lemonade at the bar and shakes her head, giggling. He pouts. She shakes her head again. He sticks his bottom lip out. She stands with a sigh, kicking off her shoes.
“Don’t laugh,” she warns the guys. She focuses in on him. “play something slow.”
He launches into Everything We Had and she listens to the song for a few seconds, before moving into some complicated looking point work; then into a series of pirouettes and leaps and other moves that he doesn’t know the names of. A serene expression on her face; she moves in time with the music; eyes glazed over in concentration and he almost forgets his place.
(There’s applause afterwards; she blushes and sits back down at the bar. Later, in his hotel room, she tells him about her childhood dreams; the injury that destroyed them and how when she dances, the whole world seems to stop. He feels like that when he sings; bright lights and dull roars. He feels like that with her.)
“Day 72,” he whispers in the dark; arm around her waist, her head on his chest. She chuckles, lifting her head and looking him in the eye.
“This isn’t a movie, Bill,” she says seriously, “no scripts, no second takes. I’m real, you’re real-”, (kiss) “this is real.”
Day 72. He stops counting.
---
She’s on a film set; he’s halfway across the country. Her voice is soft on the phone; he sings cheesy love ballads and she laughs. The silence is comfortable and her friends tell her to hold onto that.
It’s the silences that speak the loudest, Tom tells her wisely (hippie parents with their hippie advice) you always know where you stand when everything is quiet.
Bill is optimistic; from his songs to his smile. Almost here, he croons; on bright stages and in darkened rooms. They’re a year or two away from making it big. Both of them, he promises, but she’s not quite sure if she wants all that that life entails.
(Paparazzi and gossip rags; stalkers and groupies. She likes the relative anonymity of the science fiction bubble; conventions and fan made gifts galore.)
I wish you were here, his words are sincere and she finds herself listening to his songs as she falls asleep.
It’s corny and it’s lame; she’s 27 not 17 and too old to be swooning over shaggy haired musicians.
(She thinks she might love him. Scepticism be damned.)
---
Her last name means Glow and he finds it all quite poetic; one of her subtle and unconscious quirks turned into something beautiful. She loves the book Wuthering Heights and apple pie and ponies and she sings shakily, but sweetly; country songs that make him both cringe and smile.
(She’s shy; speaks softly and moves carefully. She smiles at him beneath dark lashes and holds his hand under tables.
He’s growing braver with every day; crooked smiles and honest eyes, as the lyrics go, and he types his love for the world to see - declarations of I love Summer! - real meanings hidden from those unsuspecting.)
“You’re so obvious,” she giggles, separated by oceans this time, “honestly Bill, sometimes I wonder why I love you.”
(There’s a hitch of breath on her end; he’s just as surprised at her unguarded confession. Day 101; there’s a cool chill in the air and he knows he can’t hide behind the seasons for much longer…)
“I love you Summer.”
(They hate regrets; always have, always will. This will not be one.)
There a laugh on her end, and he chuckles; before they know it they’re laughing hysterically and she’s gasping for air.
“Wow.”
(He could write a whole album of songs about her, but it will never be enough. This is real, her voice echoes in his mind and he thinks she’s right.
Wow doesn’t even begin to describe it.)
---
Seasons change; film sets come and go and his touring schedule starts to slow down. It’s getting cold; holidays approach and he speaks of Chicago snow and her of Texas winter. Instead they spend Christmas Eve in their respective childhood bedrooms; cell phones joining them while the miles separate.
Identical movies and identical grins; he imagines their hands entwined, she imagines her head on his shoulder. They watch, phones to their ear, in comfortable silence.
“What day is it?” she whispers sleepily. Somewhere a clock strikes midnight.
“Christmas,” he smiles, “silly.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Oh.
A giggle on her end, a chuckle on his. Masters of the double meanings, they are.
“I’ve lost count.”
It’s true.
(He dreams of infinite days of Summer; her smile, her laugh, her grace. He makes her forget things, she does. Makes him start at the beginning.)
“Me too.”
(It’s true.)