daniel webster (occupation: recluse) (ex_published349) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2012-07-09 19:40:00 |
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Entry tags: | christine daae, superman |
Who: Daniel and Sam
What: Noms. Sleeping. Snooping.
Where: Daniel's Apartment in Turnberry
When: After this.
Warnings/Rating: Language. Otherwise safe.
The journal had helped somewhat to distract Daniel from his current state, the way it always did, the way he always hoped it would. While he told Micah C. not to feel sorry for himself, he prodded at the bruise on his face and the bottle next to him by turns, hoping he’d be able to keep down another glass to get a little more drunk, but he was too sick for it this time, and the bottle ended up rocking back and forth on the side table, splashing occasionally and making rings on the fine black-finished wood. He enjoyed the varied conversations he had in his horrible handwriting, prying at new people, writing whatever came to mind. These things did nothing to hurt his head, and several hours after the last song and the last poem, he was still trying to keep down that (admittedly not-half-bad) New Orleans soup confection.
When the conversations stopped he was left again to his own thoughts, bothersome thoughts about dark close sidewalks and concrete still warm from the desert day. He couldn’t even remember which casino he’d been at, saw no face to match the hands that had searched through his pockets or the shoe that had caught him in the stomach after the search turned nothing. He was not bitter, not angry, only scared in a base, instinctual way that he saw no reason for and did not understand. He ate a couple bites of the cobbler, but he noticed his mouth was starting to throb and gave up on fork and tin. Maybe he should drink something... coffee?
Sam already knew where the rich fuck lived, and she was feeling pretty ok, despite the shit that kept complicating her life. Granted, a blotter under her tongue about an hour earlier was entirely to credit for her calm, because her conversation with Loren? Yeah, that so hadn't made her feel any better about the universe. And then hearing Hotel Douche's voice on the phone? Yeah, that hadn't helped with anything either. So, if she was honest with herself, getting out of her room at the Ranch and heading over to Turnberry had more to do with her own need not to be somewhere the hotel guy could find her than anything altruistic. But fuck that, because she didn't buy into that "it's the thought that counts" thing. No, the thing that counted was that she grabbed a bottle of Vicodin, and she stole a shit ton of frozen crap from Tiffani's freezer, and then she caught a cab to where the decent people lived.
The doorman let her pass because Clarissa had dealt to him, once upon a time, and the guy knew there were clients upstairs. Yeah, the rich fuckers never got caught doing anything, and recreational drugs were no exception. She slipped him two Watsons for letting her into the elevator to the penthouse, and she rode up without looking in any of the reflective surfaces. Gone were the yellow skirt and white camisole of Simon's party. In their place was a pair of camouflage cargos, too big and scary loose on her hips. Her belly was soft, curved and bared, and a gray wifebeater was tied at her back. The scar from shoulder to mid-chest was hidden by the wife beater's thick straps, despite the fact that there was obviously nothing on beneath. Cheap flip flops graced her feet, where her toenails were painted black to match her fingernails, and her hair was loose, unexpectedly cornflower and vanilla from her shampoo.
She knocked at the door to his penthouse, and she leaned heavily against the frame as she waited, a backpack with the goods hoisted onto one shoulder and her ipod buds blaring La Bohème in her ears.
There wasn’t any noise inside even if she had been able to hear it, not for a good stretch of time, but finally Daniel made his way from the kitchen to the door. He waited, listening for something outside, and then leaned cautiously forward to look through the peephole. Confirming that it was indeed Sam, Daniel then backed up several feet and shifted listlessly toward one of the striped sofas, the longer one piled with yellowing German newspapers, and sat. “It’s open,” he bellowed at the door, instantly regretting it and sticking the heel of his hand against his pounding temple--another mistake, since that ended up being the bruised side. He yanked his hand off and swayed back and forth, swearing at himself in German since that was what came most readily to mind as he shoved off a stack of Thursday’s edition and put his feet up.
The apartment was shrouded in curtains, low light to keep from offending his hangover, but air conditioned to the point of refrigeration. The clutter had only increased since Jules had been here, with books and old newspapers on every surface. The apartment smelled strongly of Brielle’s New Orleans fare, red pepper, beef broth, and sugary cobbler. Underneath that was whiskey, neglect, books, and Daniel. “I tell you to come?” he asked, not remembering in that moment.
Sam looked around, unimpressed. Neil had spoiled her for other people's awesome digs, and this shuttered up place was no exception. Sam only saw money, a take, an easy filch when she walked into places like this, because it's what her parents would think. How much were the books worth? Were they first editions? Was there any cash lying around carelessly? Was he sentimental? Did he he keep jewelry mementos? She was supposed to be thinking those things as she cased the place, especially since he wasn't in any condition to even notice if she helped herself to a thing or three. But that was before Las Vegas, before Neil and his fucking diamond cufflinks, and she just didn't give a shit about lifting anything from Daniel's freezing apartment.
"Yeah. You said please, please, Sam, come right over for some action. You begged. It was kind of pathetic," she said, walking past him and pulling her backpack over her shoulder as she did, tossing a bag of frozen peas onto his lap. "Cheek," she added, in case he didn't remember the conversation. "And don't even think of throwing it at me, baby," she added, walking over to the windows and cracking open the curtains slightly, just letting in a hint of glow. "Place smells good," she added, turning the AC up a little, and wandering into the kitchen to see if there was anything left to eat. "Coffee?" she called out, intentionally keeping her voice pianissimo.
“I didn’t say any of that shit.” Daniel rolled away from his effort to see her come through the door. He wasn’t worked up yet to the point of any real, tangible security. The newly-replaced door had three locks he simply didn’t use. There was several hundred dollars of cash and change in one of the kitchen drawers, crammed in with oversize cooking spoons that hadn’t seen use since Daniel moved in. Many of the books were older, but if they were first editions he certainly wasn’t giving them any care, as there were no shelves or display cabinets, just piles of books on carpet.
Daniel yelped when the peas ended up on his lap and he called her a whore in German just to make himself feel better about it. There wasn’t much effort in it, though, because he tipped over on the couch, cringing against the light, and gingerly put the bag on his face. “Some woman recommended delivery,” Daniel grumbled. “I’ll have coffee.” At least he had good taste there. The coffee was already ground but it was rich and crumbled like fresh soil.
"No? I could swear you did," Sam said, the grin on her lips indicating that she was completely bullshitting him. She was softness and sway as she wandered into the kitchen after his yelp, her smile turning to teasing laughter. "So that's what it takes to make you scream, huh?" she asked over her shoulder, the question playfully intimate. She was in the kitchen a second later, dipping her finger into the soup and licking cobbler off her thumb. "Whoever the chick is," she called out, already setting to work on the coffee, "she's worth keeping. This is fucking awesome. Is she hot?" The question was asked in a way that made it fairly plain that Sam very much approved of hot women, and there wasn't any jealousy or possessiveness in the words.
Clang and clank, and she was back in the living room within minutes, two cups of coffee in one hand, and the remaining cobbler and a spoon in the other. She flopped down on the couch at his hip, barely avoided sloshing them both with the rich coffee, and she held out the mug to him. "If you add cream or sugar then we can't fucking talk anymore," sher said, paying more attention to the bruising just visible beneath the peas than she made it seem like she was. "Did you at least get a punch in at the other guy?" she finally asked, leaning across him to set her coffee on the side table, then digging into the cobbler with the spoon.
“Don’t know her.” Daniel made an ugly grunting sound at all the teasing, though he was always in the mood to be flattered, even if he didn’t show it. He allowed Sam’s presence to mollify him for a moment, the combination of hangover and bruises made him even more irritable than usual, something that shouldn’t have been humanly possible. He refused to pull up his feet and give her more room on the couch, or even sit up for the coffee, until a few moments made the smell too much, and he pushed off the edge of the couch. He kept the melting green bag against the side of his face, but there was reddened purple visible around the edges of the plastic, the full side of his face. He had the use of both eyes, but his mouth was slightly misshapen. “Didn’t even get a look at him,” he replied, without the slightest trace of embarrassment or shame.
"You take food from possibly ugly chicks?" she asked, a quirk of a brow and the hint of a smile at the corners of her mouth. "And here I thought you had standards." Her grin, full on then, was gapped in the front and and almost overwhelmed by the inky blue of her entertained eyes. "What if it's a courtship ritual or something? You know, like in an opera. Maybe you're promised over cobbler," she teased, eating a spoonful of the sweet dessert and closing her eyes as she hummed in pleasure at the taste, the gesture unintentionally sensual. "This is good," she added, and it was obvious she didn't give shit about his legs being in her way. She just pushed at them as she leaned forward and pulled the frozen peas from the side of his face, the cobbler perched precariously in one hand as she moved, her blonde hair fanning across his arm. She hissed, then she whistled, and then she put the peas back. "Yeah, they handed you your ass, baby."
He stared back at her, a quasimodo of hooded lids and colorfully puffed face that gleamed with condensation from the bag. She looked different than she had at the party, something to do with her clothing, though he had no doubt she went to as much trouble as possible to communicate how little she cared about her appearance, and that was not different at all. It was something... else. When she attempted to return it to him he pushed it back at her with one hand, resistant. “It’s too cold.” Like a stubborn child, he fended her off and pulled his feet under him as if trying to gain more distance. He couldn’t even look at her eating the cobbler, his stomach just couldn’t take the idea of it, much less the reality. Taking his coffee, he hunched over it without drinking.
She quirked a brow at the very child-like shove at the peas. "Really?" she asked, but her demeanor said she was used to impossible sons of bitches, and she just set the peas aside and returned to her cobbler. "It feels better with it on, and you know it, but if you want to be a baby about it-" She didn't finish the sentence, because she didn't think she needed to. She reached past him for her coffee, and she watched him hunch over the cup. "How much did you have, and have you had any water?" she asked. She got a feeling this wasn't particularly new for him, but morning afters still sucked, and she didn't envy him that hangover. "Any pill problems?" she asked casually. She'd give him something if he wanted, but only if he wasn't a junkie. She didn't like feeding candy to junkies.
Daniel didn’t care about her tone or what she thought of his movement against the stupid peas. He felt sick and his face hurt and the stupid peas were cold, when he had it on. Condensation was dripping down his neck and made a cold patch in the thin white shirt across his chest, and with the battered jeans on, he looked more like an invalid than a grown man anyway. “I had some water. I’m not a fucking frat boy.” He lifted his head when she asked him about pills, and turning it so he set his chin on his shoulder, he gifted her with a dark look from under his lashes. A pill habit would kill him, and quickly, too. He wasn’t interested in dying that fast, or this all would have been over months ago.
That dark look answered that, and Sam didn't push. She wasn't a dealer, and she didn't have anything to gain from giving him a pill, and she just shrugged her shoulders, because it was no skin off her back. As for being a frat boy? "You're not?" she asked, her brow arching higher. "No, I guess not. You're acting like my brothers, and none of them made it to college." She set the empty cobbler container aside, and she took her coffee in both hands. The man was obviously perfectly capable of getting his own takeaway, too, and she wondered what his deal was. Sam wasn't concerned with impressing, and she wasn't sitting there looking for a love match, so she just sipped her coffee and regarded him over the edge. "So, why do you do it?"
“Not every man is one of your brothers,” Daniel said, with no real purpose to the statement except to be irritable, and make sure she knew he was irritable. He closed his eyes and gently tipped his forehead forward so that the cup was against the bridge of one eye. The bruising was starting to color up like fireworks. “Are we going to have an emotional talk right now? Because I can’t deal with it. Wait until I’m drunk again.” Uncurling, Daniel kicked several newspapers and a heavy leatherbound volume off the table to make room for his heels.
"No, but not every man acts like my brothers either," she said, shoving at his feet when he kicked at the newspapers. She grabbed the leatherbound volume, and then she crawled over his legs until she could wedge herself between the back of the couch and his knees, her legs draped over his as she opened the book. "God. Fuck, no. I don't do emotional conversations," she admitted, "but I'm in the minority. Most people want to talk about themselves all the fucking time. You don't. You want to shove people away, but you actually still want to talk to them. It's the weirdest fucking thing," she admitted honestly, paging through the pages of the book.
The Victrola Book of the Opera was bound in sienna leather, embossed in gold and the paper was of some old binding. Heavier than a brick, it was old enough that it smelled like library basements. Each chapter had a summary of the old operas, but the book’s publication was not as interesting as the papers folded into the pages. Letters, by the look of it, all hand-written, but not in the same hand. Daniel’s eyes were closed and now that his skin had returned to normal temperature, his face was starting to pound. “Thanks for that. Give me the fucking peas.”
She threw over the peas, and she laughed. "You're welcome," she said, grin on her lips. She knew he felt like shit, so she kept the teasing quiet, but it was teasing all the same. She relented slightly and rubbed the thigh beneath her knees for a second, before turning her attention to the book on her lap. She paged through the book itself, humming the arias from the Operas she recognized as she leafed. She stopped leafing once she noticed the first letter, and she pulled out each one in turn, until they were all piled on the pages that were open in her lap. For all that her fingers were rough and calloused, and her touch inelegant, she was still careful with the old paper as she unfolded each one and began to read.
This one had no date, and was practically a note. The paper was expensive hotel stationary, heavy cotton threading, the address somewhere on the Côte d'Azur. The writing was feminine, at a slant, and the writing in Italian. If you had a phone, darling, this would not be necessary, it began. The rest of the note, however, was affectionate, and implied a familiarity of longstanding. She expected to see him again same time next year and he was to get rid of that hideous pink shirt his mother sent him. The signature was illegible, but started with a C. Next to her, Daniel had replaced the peas and tipped sideways to the point where his coffee was in some danger.
She glanced over at him, and she reached for the coffee and set it on the table behind the couch without looking away from him, making sure he didn't tip right the fuck over. A second later, she was flipping to the next note greedily, already invested in the story after only a few lines of writing. Whatever; he was mostly asleep, and it's not like she had to keep up the I don't give a shit facade if he wasn't looking. Her expression, as she flipped through the pages, was very young and slightly hopeful, nothing like the perpetual smirk that graced her features day in, day out. She tucked a strand of long, blonde hair behind her ear, and she tucked one earbud into her ear, Norma filtering through quietly.
There were other notes. One of them was from someone at a publishing company complaining about his lack of email or civilized communication, which he probably kept out of pure spite. A very dense, close hand “From the Desk of Derek Webster” had been folded three times and contained instructions in English on the correct care of a houseplant in his absence. Finally a repeat of the same feminine writing in Italian in the first page of the chapter on Fidelio, a quarter of the way through the book. Only one line, but the signature was clearer: I am in Ravello. We should not be seen. Villa Rufolo, 14:00. - Carlita
Sam was young and curious, and she glanced at the reclining man for a few seconds before digging more fully into her guilty pleasure. There was a reason, after all, why she liked Phantom, why she preferred the Opera Ghost to Raoul. Maybe, somewhere way the fuck out of sight, she was a romantic. Whatever the reason, she drew calloused fingers over the name Derek Webster, and she assumed that was Daniel's father. The houseplant thing was just fucking strange, because she didn't imagine that Daniel gave a shit about plants, not with the state of this fucking place. She made a thoughtful sound, even as she looked around the dusty living room, and then she looked over at Daniel quickly to make sure he hadn't stirred. The letter from Carlita, now that was like hitting fucking paydirt. A forbidden love? Why? Was she married, poor, unacceptable in some other way? She paged quickly, looking for more notes. Had he met her?
There was no return letters from Daniel if there had ever been such a thing, but considering his preoccupation with literature of all kinds and the most overdramatic music to ever exist, it was safe to say Daniel could be a romantic too. If he wanted to be, and it was clear that Daniel didn’t want anything, not badly enough to be anywhere but curled up on the end of his couch with the frozen peas melting on one shoulder. A light doze, from all the shifting.
There were more notes, so it was safe to say that the meeting had taken place, as more followed after. Carlita was not especially wordy on paper but in successive messages she referred to villas, beaches, parties, and concerts. She mentioned summer months, always summer and sunshine. There were fewer than ten notes, and three locations. The Côte d'Azur, the Amalfi Coast, and then Santorini. Only one of the notes had any trace of anything but flirtation: the last in Italy. This note was longer than the others, and talked about pasta and red wine for an entire paragraph. The postscript read: I am sorry my brother ruined dinner. It won’t happen again. - C.
Sam didn't expect to find any letters from him, assuming Carlita had them, wherever she was, if he had sent them. She wasn't surprised to find a bunch of cities she didn't know mentioned, because she'd already figured out he was loaded, even before figuring out where he lived. But she wondered if he loved the woman, and she wondered where the woman was now, and she wondered if they'd ever met up again after her brother had ruined dinner. That led to wondering how her brother had ruined dinner, which led right the fuck back to that first note, the one that said they shouldn't be seen.
She leaned over and reached into the bag she'd pulled the peas out of, and she set her iPad on her lap and began searching for shit, because Sam was very much a child of her generation, money or no money. Everything could be found on the internet, and if it couldn't? That generally meant the shit didn't exist. She looked for the Villa Rufolo first, expecting a private residence and wanting photos. Then she moved on to other things from the letters, locations, and lastly, combinations of Carlita and Daniel Webster, to see if she could find any pictures of the woman she was already picturing as some exotic and dark-haired beauty, or if there were any hints of why the relationship was forbidden.
The locations from the letters were easy to track, beautiful, picturesque beaches and foreign locales, with the hot nights and sweet wine easy to imagine. The internet offered tours, plane tickets, and imported goods. Villa Rufolo was a popular tourist destination on the coast, relatively small but quaintly centered with astonishing gardens. A search of Daniel’s full name and the locations brought up very little, it was a few years ago and extremely wealthy novelists weren’t always worth archiving, but there were three pictures of a younger and handsome Daniel in sleek suits, attending benefits with the royal and famous that were still being searched. It appeared that he and Carlita had done a good job of hiding their affair, as there were no captions for the women on his arm in any of the pictures available, and nothing to indicate he cared for them at all.
Daniel shifted and moaned as the ice cold wet dripped down his chest and back. He pushed the peas off his shoulder and shivered. Another moan, he touched his face. “My head fucking hurts.” He tried to unstick his eyelashes.
Sam tried to reconcile the man on the couch with the man in the photos, and she decided some shit must have happened between then and now., because the change was too pointed to just be the passage of time. Sure, he looked like he didn't give a shit in the photos, but that was different than the unhealthy, sallow skin of someone who drank too much and who spent too much fucking times with the blinds drawn shut.
When he shifted and said his head hurt, she carefully set aside the book and the iPad, the screen still brightly illuminating a picture of him in Italy, the letters piled neatly atop the open pages, and she padded into the kitchen and came back with some water, which she dumped some alka-seltzer from her bag into. "Drink," she said, grabbing the bag of peas and tossing them aside, then holding out the glass.
She settled back into her spot on the couch, crawling over his legs, and she watched him for a minute before reaching back and grabbing her coffee from the table. "So, did you love her?" she asked, not actually mentioning the letters yet. And maybe she should have pretended she didn't know about Carlita, but Sam wasn't one for pretending. So, yeah, question asked.
Daniel rubbed sand out of his eyelashes through the howling in his head and the pulse of pain over the tightening surface of his face. The glow of the iPad was bright in the dimness of his apartment, highlighting the awful stripes of the couch and the gleam of moisture from the melting peas on his hand as he reached for it. Daniel would recognize that handwriting from half a mile away, and he was gentle with the letters as he slid them into his lap. He hated looking at his reflection, but he stared into the faces surrounding him in the photo, trying to remember who they were and where he’d been. Nothing came immediately to mind, and he flipped the iPad away so it was face down on the sofa. He pulled his feet away from her as she got closer, snatching the Book of Opera back by its spine and snapping it shut over the bulk of the letters. “None of your fucking business. Go away. I’m going to bed.”
"That's a yes," Sam said, not moving yet. "Drink the fucking seltzer water so I know you aren't going to die of dehydration or an aneurysm, and I'll go." She started tucked her iPad away, and she grabbed the peas to shove them in the freezer for him before she left. "What did she look like? Dark hair, dark eyes?" There was obvious interest there, even if she tried to hide it with her best don't give a fuck demeanor. She reached out, randomly and without warning, and she pushed a black curl off his forehead. It was a shame he'd let himself go to hell; he'd been fucking hot, once upon a time.
Daniel refused on principle. He struggled up to his feet, pushing her hand off his purpling face, the scowling turning him even more unrecognizable than before. “I can take care of myself.” He shook the book at her, a few inches from her face. “Stay out of my stuff. Did I go looking up your asshole husband and dig up your shit? No. Get out.” The request for a physical description only pushed his temper farther, and he looked ready to throw her out, iPad first. Fortunately, it was not within reach. “Out!”
Yeah, just like her fucking brothers. "You're too old for tantrums like that, baby," she said, with utter, annoying calm, because it was hard to get someone who'd grown up with seven brother riled up with a bunch of screaming. She did stand, though, and she pulled the bag over her shoulder and looked at him, bruised and hungover and thoroughly fucking miserable. "Not drinking it to spite me? Is really fucking stupid." With those words of maturity, she turned for the door. She didn't storm, and she didn't stomp, and she didn't even make his head ache by slamming the heavy wood behind herself. That fucker had more problems than she did, and that was saying something. But it was a theme lately, fucked up people, and she idly wondered if Loren had gone after the guy from the hotel. No point thinking about that, though. Yeah, whatever, and she glanced back at the closed door once before heading for the elevator.