now even breathing feels alright
Now Even Breathing Feels Alright
Sun shines through the bleak times and life, you’d never guess, goes on.
HIMYM/CSI: NY Ted Mosby & Jessica Angell.
1358. pg. An 'end of the world' scenario.
[AN: I'm crazy. But I love 'end of the world' scenarios and these two are kind of my crossover OTP. Fact: I would give my right arm for Emmanuelle Vaugier to play the mother, but I digress... Lyrics from Alexi Murdoch's All of my Days. And never fear: this one ends happy. I promise.]
He’s running.
New York is in chaos. He’s not sure as to the cause; bombs, monsters, natural disaster. All of the above. He lost cell reception fifteen minutes ago. Power in ten. Screams and shouts echo around him; preachers on street corners quoting scripture, laced with ‘I told you so’s’.
(He doesn’t know where his friends are. The GNB building lies in ruins. He runs.)
He stumbles over uneven pavement, feeling himself falling and knowing this is it. Before he has time to wonder if being trampled to death is painful, the woman next to him glances his way, eyes wide. She grabs his elbow roughly, hauling him back up.
He nods. She nods. Hands firmly grasped, they run.
There are helicopters waiting. Military men usher people in as fast as they can, guns shining in the spotlights. The roar of the engines drowns out the cities cries.
She’s strong; not crying or panicking like many of the others. He spots the badge and gun at her hip. (She hasn’t let go of his hand.)
“Come on.” She says sharply, pulling him towards a helicopter.
He climbs in after her, minutes later they’re off; flying to God knows where.
“I’m Ted,” he yells over the roar.
“Jess.”
(Out the window, their city burns goodbye.)
They end up in a Canadian refuge camp. She flashes her badge like it still means something, speaks harried French and they leave; paperwork in hand. He gets directions to a hotel and she calls for a cab.
She pulls out her credit card as soon as they get there. One room, not two and he follows awkwardly.
“I’m having a shower,” she mutters, slamming the door behind her before he can answer. He glances at his cell phone, calling his friends but only getting voice mail.
(He made it out. There’s no reason they didn’t.)
The water stopped running ten minutes ago. He moves to knock, but her sobs make him hesitate. He doesn’t know her, save her first name.
Instead he turns off the light and lies on the bed.
The faster he can go to sleep the quicker he can wake up from this nightmare.
(He wouldn’t be surprised if she wasn’t there in the morning.)
She is. He’s surprised.
She’s asleep on the couch, wearing a men’s dress shirt and he decides that she’s beautiful.
(10.30am. No messages.)
She stirs, glancing at him through hooded lashes. Eyes widening in surprise, she sits up quickly.
“Ted,” he reminds her softly, “from the helicopter.”
“Yeah,” she nods, rubbing her eyes, “thanks.”
“No problem.”
There’s a long and uncomfortable silence. He sits awkwardly on the edge of the bed, looking anywhere but at her.
“So this basically sucks.”
“Yeah,” she nods again, “this sucks.”
They have breakfast. A small diner, she has eggs, turkey crisp and a glass of orange juice. He orders pancakes. It almost feels normal.
(Televisions blare with the news; bombs and terrorists and who knows what else. He tunes it all out because right now it’s about his next step. It’s about moving forward.)
“Do you have family anywhere?” she asks, voice clipped.
“My folks live in Ohio,” he answers, “I called them last night. They’re fine.”
“Good. I’m glad.”
“Did you…”
“They were in the city.”
“I’m sorry.”
Her face caves a little, and her eyes fill up with tears. The food arrives and she excuses herself.
(He checks his phone. Hits speed dial one, two, three and four. Voice mail. His heart sinks.)
She sits down, taking a swig of her juice. He follows suit.
“What, um, what are you going to do now?”
A tear hits the table. She doesn’t bother to wipe it away.
(Her only answer is silence.)
“My friends are dead,” he says hollowly. He’s on the couch this time and he can’t sleep.
(She doesn’t answer.)
“Every time I call them, I hear them say hello, but it always turns out to be voice mail and it’s like I lose them all over again.”
(Pause.)
“I feel so guilty for being alive.”
“My boyfriend’s dead,” she whispers, “and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”
(Lost in a maze, they’ve hit a dead end. They can’t turn back. Through it they go.)
She decides France, because she speaks the language and he follows her there because he doesn’t have anything better.
He gets a job as an architect; she gets a gig modelling because she doesn’t want to be in law enforcement anymore and chooses the most unlikely option.
He’s learning the language, she helps; old French comedies in run down cinemas. They laugh sometimes. They smile.
(Sun shines through the bleak times and life, you’d never guess, goes on.)
That’s not to say some nights she doesn’t wake up screaming for a man who doesn’t exist anymore. And his anecdotes featuring those long gone don’t seem as funny.
(This is what acceptance feels like.)
There’s good days. Like the Sunday afternoon where he got into a fight with a street vendor due to simple miscommunication. And it rained during their run and he kissed her under an oak tree and she kissed him back.
(He didn’t taste any salt.)
Those are the days when he forgets his whole world literally exploded and all he can think of is her.
He smiles without guilt.
When he finds out his friends are still alive, he collapses in shock.
His boss calls her; she rushes across town, still done up from her shoot. She’s worried and he’s grinning like a mad man.
They’re alive!
He’s all smiles and preparation. He talks to his friend Marshall, voice laced with laughter and tears and she packs his things silently.
“I’ve got two tickets,” he waves them about. She doesn’t smile. At all.
“I’m not going.”
(He doesn’t beg, he doesn’t plead. He nods solemnly, because deep down, he’s not surprised. She was never going to be there forever. She was never going to follow.
That was his role.)
Leaving her is hard; her eyes are sad as he bids her farewell. He wants to say something comforting, something funny, something loving. But they’ve never been about addressing their emotions when the time calls for them.
“What’s your surname?” he blurts, because it’s the first thing he can think of and he still has no idea.
“Angell.”
(It’s fitting, really.)
Paris glitters goodbye as he flies away and he knows that this will not be the end.
(It’s a city for beginnings and endings. Middles be damned.)
It’s a reunion to rival all other reunions. The city’s changed enormously; the rebuilding process is swift; a country’s personal declaration of strength.
Time passes like he never left; one week, one month, one year. They find a new bar and everyday is a celebration. We are alive.
(He misses her. He slips in and out of French; the language like an old sweater; familiar and warm. He sees dark hair on white linen; her sad gaze and bright smile. Her hand in his and she’s a poem he can’t shake. A love letter he reads over and over in his mind. A song he can’t forget.)
“How’d you survive?” Robin asks him, forever inquisitive.
“Angels.” He answers honestly.
(Somewhere, she’d be laughing at him.
Truth be told, he misses her.
Truth be told, he didn’t think he would.
Here’s to getting everything you want and then some.)
He’s always been the kind of guy to believe in fairytales. So when she arrives on his doorstep, he shouldn’t be surprised.
(He is. But that’s beside the point.)
“I missed you,” she shrugs, eyes twinkling. She’s wearing a leather jacket and boots and her hair flows down her back and he thinks that this is what she must have been like ‘before’.
Straightforward and certain. These are my demands…
“Me too.”
(Never been able to find the words, these two. He draws her into his embrace and she doesn’t let go.)
The sun sets on their broken city. Through the glare they can see the hope.
(Tomorrow looks bright.)
Sun shines through the bleak times and life, you’d never guess, goes on.
HIMYM/CSI: NY Ted Mosby & Jessica Angell.
1358. pg. An 'end of the world' scenario.
[AN: I'm crazy. But I love 'end of the world' scenarios and these two are kind of my crossover OTP. Fact: I would give my right arm for Emmanuelle Vaugier to play the mother, but I digress... Lyrics from Alexi Murdoch's All of my Days. And never fear: this one ends happy. I promise.]
He’s running.
New York is in chaos. He’s not sure as to the cause; bombs, monsters, natural disaster. All of the above. He lost cell reception fifteen minutes ago. Power in ten. Screams and shouts echo around him; preachers on street corners quoting scripture, laced with ‘I told you so’s’.
(He doesn’t know where his friends are. The GNB building lies in ruins. He runs.)
He stumbles over uneven pavement, feeling himself falling and knowing this is it. Before he has time to wonder if being trampled to death is painful, the woman next to him glances his way, eyes wide. She grabs his elbow roughly, hauling him back up.
He nods. She nods. Hands firmly grasped, they run.
There are helicopters waiting. Military men usher people in as fast as they can, guns shining in the spotlights. The roar of the engines drowns out the cities cries.
She’s strong; not crying or panicking like many of the others. He spots the badge and gun at her hip. (She hasn’t let go of his hand.)
“Come on.” She says sharply, pulling him towards a helicopter.
He climbs in after her, minutes later they’re off; flying to God knows where.
“I’m Ted,” he yells over the roar.
“Jess.”
(Out the window, their city burns goodbye.)
They end up in a Canadian refuge camp. She flashes her badge like it still means something, speaks harried French and they leave; paperwork in hand. He gets directions to a hotel and she calls for a cab.
She pulls out her credit card as soon as they get there. One room, not two and he follows awkwardly.
“I’m having a shower,” she mutters, slamming the door behind her before he can answer. He glances at his cell phone, calling his friends but only getting voice mail.
(He made it out. There’s no reason they didn’t.)
The water stopped running ten minutes ago. He moves to knock, but her sobs make him hesitate. He doesn’t know her, save her first name.
Instead he turns off the light and lies on the bed.
The faster he can go to sleep the quicker he can wake up from this nightmare.
(He wouldn’t be surprised if she wasn’t there in the morning.)
She is. He’s surprised.
She’s asleep on the couch, wearing a men’s dress shirt and he decides that she’s beautiful.
(10.30am. No messages.)
She stirs, glancing at him through hooded lashes. Eyes widening in surprise, she sits up quickly.
“Ted,” he reminds her softly, “from the helicopter.”
“Yeah,” she nods, rubbing her eyes, “thanks.”
“No problem.”
There’s a long and uncomfortable silence. He sits awkwardly on the edge of the bed, looking anywhere but at her.
“So this basically sucks.”
“Yeah,” she nods again, “this sucks.”
They have breakfast. A small diner, she has eggs, turkey crisp and a glass of orange juice. He orders pancakes. It almost feels normal.
(Televisions blare with the news; bombs and terrorists and who knows what else. He tunes it all out because right now it’s about his next step. It’s about moving forward.)
“Do you have family anywhere?” she asks, voice clipped.
“My folks live in Ohio,” he answers, “I called them last night. They’re fine.”
“Good. I’m glad.”
“Did you…”
“They were in the city.”
“I’m sorry.”
Her face caves a little, and her eyes fill up with tears. The food arrives and she excuses herself.
(He checks his phone. Hits speed dial one, two, three and four. Voice mail. His heart sinks.)
She sits down, taking a swig of her juice. He follows suit.
“What, um, what are you going to do now?”
A tear hits the table. She doesn’t bother to wipe it away.
(Her only answer is silence.)
“My friends are dead,” he says hollowly. He’s on the couch this time and he can’t sleep.
(She doesn’t answer.)
“Every time I call them, I hear them say hello, but it always turns out to be voice mail and it’s like I lose them all over again.”
(Pause.)
“I feel so guilty for being alive.”
“My boyfriend’s dead,” she whispers, “and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”
(Lost in a maze, they’ve hit a dead end. They can’t turn back. Through it they go.)
She decides France, because she speaks the language and he follows her there because he doesn’t have anything better.
He gets a job as an architect; she gets a gig modelling because she doesn’t want to be in law enforcement anymore and chooses the most unlikely option.
He’s learning the language, she helps; old French comedies in run down cinemas. They laugh sometimes. They smile.
(Sun shines through the bleak times and life, you’d never guess, goes on.)
That’s not to say some nights she doesn’t wake up screaming for a man who doesn’t exist anymore. And his anecdotes featuring those long gone don’t seem as funny.
(This is what acceptance feels like.)
There’s good days. Like the Sunday afternoon where he got into a fight with a street vendor due to simple miscommunication. And it rained during their run and he kissed her under an oak tree and she kissed him back.
(He didn’t taste any salt.)
Those are the days when he forgets his whole world literally exploded and all he can think of is her.
He smiles without guilt.
When he finds out his friends are still alive, he collapses in shock.
His boss calls her; she rushes across town, still done up from her shoot. She’s worried and he’s grinning like a mad man.
They’re alive!
He’s all smiles and preparation. He talks to his friend Marshall, voice laced with laughter and tears and she packs his things silently.
“I’ve got two tickets,” he waves them about. She doesn’t smile. At all.
“I’m not going.”
(He doesn’t beg, he doesn’t plead. He nods solemnly, because deep down, he’s not surprised. She was never going to be there forever. She was never going to follow.
That was his role.)
Leaving her is hard; her eyes are sad as he bids her farewell. He wants to say something comforting, something funny, something loving. But they’ve never been about addressing their emotions when the time calls for them.
“What’s your surname?” he blurts, because it’s the first thing he can think of and he still has no idea.
“Angell.”
(It’s fitting, really.)
Paris glitters goodbye as he flies away and he knows that this will not be the end.
(It’s a city for beginnings and endings. Middles be damned.)
It’s a reunion to rival all other reunions. The city’s changed enormously; the rebuilding process is swift; a country’s personal declaration of strength.
Time passes like he never left; one week, one month, one year. They find a new bar and everyday is a celebration. We are alive.
(He misses her. He slips in and out of French; the language like an old sweater; familiar and warm. He sees dark hair on white linen; her sad gaze and bright smile. Her hand in his and she’s a poem he can’t shake. A love letter he reads over and over in his mind. A song he can’t forget.)
“How’d you survive?” Robin asks him, forever inquisitive.
“Angels.” He answers honestly.
(Somewhere, she’d be laughing at him.
Truth be told, he misses her.
Truth be told, he didn’t think he would.
Here’s to getting everything you want and then some.)
He’s always been the kind of guy to believe in fairytales. So when she arrives on his doorstep, he shouldn’t be surprised.
(He is. But that’s beside the point.)
“I missed you,” she shrugs, eyes twinkling. She’s wearing a leather jacket and boots and her hair flows down her back and he thinks that this is what she must have been like ‘before’.
Straightforward and certain. These are my demands…
“Me too.”
(Never been able to find the words, these two. He draws her into his embrace and she doesn’t let go.)
The sun sets on their broken city. Through the glare they can see the hope.
(Tomorrow looks bright.)