miracle (miracle) wrote in luke_noah, @ 2008-10-07 18:56:00 |
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Current mood: | curious |
Entry tags: | -[luke/noah]-, fanfic, fanfic: [atwt], fanfic: rating: mature, ยป by: aletheo |
Affinity : Elemental : Chapter 1 : Rain
Original poster: aletheo
Title: Affinity : Elemental : Chapter 1 : Rain
Author: aletheo
Part: 1/10
Rating: PG
Disclaimers: I own neither Luke, Noah, nor anything else related to ATWT.
Summary: An AU story. things fell apart, the centre did not hold.
Notes: This is my first LJ community post. If I did it wrong, lemme know so I can fix it. I posted this on vh.net and the nuke wiki, but just recently discovered LJ. Elemental is the first of three arcs in a greater story called Affinity. As always, much love and thanks to my friends, muses, and betas: Jammi and Ali. Feedback pwns.
The world never felt better to him than when it rained. The indescribable and unmistakable smell wiped away all traces of trouble. Of fear. Of pain. The deep cornflower blue of the troubled skies overhead calmed his soul, chasing away the demons. A blinding strobe of lightening lit the sky; his heart raced. Adrenaline, pure and unstained, pumped through his veins. Like every storm he ever experienced, the smell and the feel of it, in its embrace, he was clean and free.
Rain was baptism and benediction.
He was his best self in the rain.
In too short a time, the storm without calmed and the storm within raged. He stood there, unmoving. Drops trickled from his soaking hair into his eyes, taking their silent pilgrimage down his face. He knew these were the tears he could not shed. The gusting wind halted the droplets’ course. A half-smile touched his lips but never reached his eyes.
“Too late,” he told the wind, himself, someone not even there.
A final bright flash of white light, and two pristine drops sparkled, suspended in air, caught between the face from where they fell and the saturated grass below. The light vanished as suddenly as it came, and the tears disappeared, like so much forgotten rain.
The pseudo twilight of the thunderstorm cast the room in an ethereal purgatory. Lost between night and day. From the doorway, he glanced around the contents of his house, every last item carefully and lovingly gathered and placed to reverberate with beauty, warmth, home. The cold, gleaming, black surfaces of technology in her varied raiment mocked him. They perched on wood and marble. Long ago, he thought the juxtaposition to be clever and eclectic. He glared at them, the countless ways to stay in touch with the world, and all of them mute. The marvels of the information age, the ability to reach out to people in a thousand different forms, but tonight, all emitted oppressive silence. He seethed at his vanity.
No words. No messages. No communication. And there never would be again. Not to him. Not from the person he most desperately wanted to see, hear, touch.
He hated this room, his tomb.
Even the sound of water drops falling from his clothes, his hair, and his face were absorbed into the carpet.
No sound. No life. No hope.
Home now meant mutual scorn, from him and for him. He made his way to the breaker box and violently broke all the circuits. He paused, slightly startled that the only sound in response was unbroken silence. He had almost expected to hear the shrill flat line of a cardiogram. Death should always have that sound: painful, final and haunting.
No sound. No life. No hope.
Should he cremate this place? Let fire forever end the mockery of “home?” Or should he bury it all? Maybe abandon it? Walk out and never look back.
He would not mourn this place, or the dreams that ended here. Whatever aspirations he had for his life when he moved into these rooms, died with two words: Good bye.
He was a fool.
-------
Angela ran as fast as her high heels would let her. She would be lucky to get her order in and delivered before she had to make it back up to the office. The hen house would cluck at the cruelty of her boss, never letting her have a moment off, like normal people. Not even for lunch. Sometimes she agreed, but most of the time, she didn’t.
Her long brunette hair gently lifted away from her face by the light breeze and her brisk pace. It never occurred to her that after seven years, she had learned to move with amazing speed in stilettos, the precise fit of her taupe suit never impeding her progress.
Pulling open the door to the delicatessen, she spotted the hens, gathered around their table in the corner, undoubtedly gossiping about all the goings on in their respective places of work. They called out a greeting to her, and she waved and smiled as she made her way to the counter. She caught the look in Caroline’s warm eyes, a look of concern aimed directly at her. She marveled at her friend. Determining Caroline’s actual age would probably require carbon dating. With her flawless chocolate skin and her long braided hair always swept up in a neat bun, she possessed that quality of agelessness that only black women seemed to have.
Her order placed, she walked over to the table to join her friends while she waited.
“Girl, did you sprint over here or what?” Caroline asked her as Angela basically collapsed into an empty chair.
“I don’t have a lot of time before I have to get back,” she explained.
“Oh, the ice man calleth, huh?” The pixyish redhead smirked as she took a drink of her water, her unusual enamel bracelets clinking softly together.
“Vikki, he’s not an ice man, he’s just a man, and things are very busy right now, that’s all,” Angela testily rebuffed her friend.
“You got no business defending that man,” Caroline chimed in. “But at least your office stays nice and cold. Bet you have to turn the heat up in July.”
“Why do you all have to do that? Why do you feel the need to turn him into some kind of inhuman super villain that freezes everything with a look?"
“Because, honey, he’s pretty and all…” Caroline began, her words interrupted by murmured, if not somewhat enthusiastic agreement from around the table, “but I doubt he’s felt a genuine emotion since the Clinton administration.”
A chorus of chuckles sprang up.
Angela gave up. There was no point in arguing, because frankly, whatever argument she could pose was flimsy at best. She glanced at her watch, maybe to mark the time, maybe to remind her friends that her employer took very good care of her.
“I just don’t think he was always like this,” she said quietly. “Sometimes I think he just shut himself away.”
“Away from what? He can’t walk through the building without damn near every man and woman in the joint gawking at him,” Caroline added. “Hell, there’s a list of people who would gladly hop into bed with him, severe frostbite and all.”
More giggles ensued and Angela looked at her friend. “Sharing your bed and sharing your heart are two very different things, Caroline.”
“If you have a heart to share, sweetheart. Ice don’t count. I think you just like the mystery, but you gotta know by now, that puzzle won’t be solved.”
“Maybe it will, maybe it won’t,” she smiled back enigmatically.
Angela’s order arrived in its neat white bag before anyone could press her further, and she snatched it up as she turned to head out. “Later, ladies. It’s been real.”
“Girls’ night out is tomorrow,” Lindsay reminded her. “Be there.”
“I’ll try,” Angela called out from the door.
“Mmmhmmm,” murmured Caroline. “If she ain’t frozen to her desk chair.” The friends laughed again at Caroline’s wit as Angela trotted out of sight.
------
“Alright, To Kill a Mockingbird,” he said with a smirk across his face.
“Oh, I don’t know if that one counts,” the warm voice on the other end of the line chided. He could tell a smile shaped those words.
“How can it not count?!?” he demanded, incredulously. “It won awards and stuff!!”
“Oh, it’s a great book, don’t get me wrong, but it was also made into a movie,” the voice laughed at him. “And I’m not sure I can count books that became really good movies.”
“So not fair!” he exclaimed, as he meandered his way around the boxes filling his new house. It wasn’t much, but it was his. His first home. The light switch he flipped to light the dim living room was his. And soon, very soon, it would be theirs. Yes, this house would be a home when he could share it with his lover.
“How do I know you even read the book?” the voice cried in mock agitation. “For all I know you just watched the movie 100 times.”
“It was a great movie!” he pleaded.
And so their conversation wandered on, with no purpose other than the warmth and love of talking to each other. He decided to ignore all the unpacking he had to do, and sprawled out on the sofa, letting the voice wash over him. He had great hopes for this place. Soon his love would join him, share this space with him, filling it with their love. For the first time in his life, he truly believed he could have a home and happiness.
In their place. Together.
He sighed. “I miss you. I want you here, helping me unpack our home.”v “I know, babe.” He didn’t fail to notice the change in the voice from warmth to sadness. “I have to be here right now. They need me.”
“I understand. Just, not for too long, please?”
“I’ll try. We’ll be together soon.”
“And forever. . .” his voice trailed off, somewhere between a plea and a prayer.
“Yeah,” the voice lowered to almost a whisper. “Forever.”
------
Her hand barely made it between the closing doors of the elevator. As she shouldered her way into the car, she smiled apologetically at the waiting crowd inside. The Colombia Center’s elevators, though state of the art, never moved quite fast enough to appease the uneasy feeling in her stomach. She needed to get there faster.
As the numbers ticked upward on the immensely fascinating display from which no one seemed to be able to pry their eyes, her cell phone headset chirped in her ear. She didn’t need to look at the readout to know who it was.
“This is Angela,” she said in her most cheerful executive assistant voice.
“You are not at your desk,” the even, deep voice replied.
“No, sir, I am in the elevator. I will be there very shortly.” She tried to disguise the nervousness in her voice. She glanced around her and saw sympathetic smiles and nods from virtually everyone in the car. Her boss’ reputation preceded him throughout the building. If she were completely honest, he was known, feared and respected throughout city, and probably others.
“Yes, sir, I will be right there.” She tapped the button on the headset and exhaled a breath she didn’t know she had been holding.
By the time the elevator reached the seventieth floor, she was ready to pry the doors open with her bare hands. They opened automatically, revealing the austere and beautiful offices of Lucidity Advertising and Marketing. The main foyer sprawled before her in shades of slate blue granite, rich blonde zebrano woods, and glass, etched in repeating squares. The tall ceilings did nothing to detract from the imposing sense that washed over her when she entered this room. The lush slate carpets, in-laid with zebrano hardwood and granite in a geometric pattern emanated purpose and wealth. The sparse contemporary furniture, wrapped in the finest saddle-colored Italian leathers, lined the room, the picture of elegance and function. The entire space spoke of taste and power. The effect was never lost on anyone who entered the office.
The stratospheric rise of the agency and its controversial owner attained something akin to legendary status in the industry. Appearing from nowhere, the young man displayed an ambition, an endless drive, and a relentlessly strategic mind, shocking his colleagues. The most weathered veterans of the field could not recall anyone remotely like him in all their years.
Lucidity gathered important clients to it like an avalanche gathered snowflakes. The unyielding determination behind the company delivered results. No one could dispute that. Its leader, vilified by some as a Stalinesque dictator, lauded by others as a DaVincian visionary, never looked back, marshaling his considerable will to drive his creation forward.
In the ten years since it’s founding, Lucidity became the premiere “go to” agency in the country. If a company wanted results, they called Lucidity. Every client they had signed in the company’s history saw a double digit increase in market share during the first year of their contract. No other agency could make the claim. Lucidity delivered, on deadline, and for exorbitant fees. The result being that the company, and thereby its owner, became incredibly wealthy. The waiting list of companies clamoring to be represented by the firm read like a who’s who for Fortune 500.
Angela walked rapidly to the massive wooden double doors at the end of the foyer. She elbowed them open and set her lunch on her desk, wondering if she would even get a chance to eat it. On the other side of her desk lay the entrance to the “ice man’s” office. Behind those doors waited a man like no other she had ever met.
The girls were right. He was certainly attractive. Actually, he was beautiful, but the beauty of marble statuary: cold and perfect. She had never known him to have a hair, a thread, anything out of place. His perfectly tailored suits and perfectly tailored shirts, matched with perfectly tied extravagantly expensive neckties, and his impeccably handmade Italian shoes all created an impression of cold wealth.
Angela now knew that perfection, while beautiful, would always be cold.
She had never known him to raise his voice. In fact, she had never known him to express an emotion at all. “This is satisfactory,” in a perfectly even, measured tone, equated to backslaps and high-fives. “This is sub-par,” in the same baritone, sent the staff scurrying for cover. All employees of Lucidity knew well the nature of their employer. No one liked him, as far as people went. What was there to like? Few hated him, but all respected him. To play at the top of the field, you worked at Lucidity. He was cold, but he was good. The best. And he had done it all before the age of thirty-five.
Yet Angela could look into his eyes, and far back, like a faint echo from a distant past, she swore she could see a flicker of warmth, almost like love. She wanted to tell the girls what she knew, what she had seen. However, to reveal anything more than “the eyes” to the hens would force her to talk about the picture she had accidentally found. No one could know about that.
Just when she thought she understood him, he threw her for a loop. On the anniversary of her fifth year as his assistant, she walked out of a meeting to find a stunning box, wrapped in fine leather on her desk. Inside was the rose gold Patek Philippe bracelet watch she since then always wore. She found out later, when she insured it, it had cost over thirty-thousand dollars. Only one man could give her such an extravagant gift. She had never thought for a moment that he would even remember her anniversary, but to mark the date with such a gift? He baffled her.
Grabbing her PDA, because pen and pad were very last century and unacceptable within these walls, she took a deep breath, and walked into his office.
He stood with his back to her, looking out over the cityscape, the beautiful sky scrapers, the Space Needle, and finally out over the Sound. She had to admit that the view from these windows was truly breathtaking. She paused to wonder if he saw it all as beautiful, or as something to be conquered. She knew better than to say anything, to interrupt his musing. She waited patiently to be acknowledged.
His office was as superbly and precisely decorated as the rest. The vast corner space with its towering windows rarely had the view interrupted by furniture. To the right of the entry was a sumptuous custom wood conference table with leather chairs. To the left, a minimalist sectional in saddle-colored leather wrapped its U-shaped embrace around a glass and wood table, nothing cluttering its surface. His vast glass and wood desk had not one item out of place, and the glass reflected his broad back, tapering to a narrow waist, wrapped up in black wool and pinstripes. His hands in his pockets, the suit coat rode up to reveal a very shapely backside. She wondered how he could fit a workout into his schedule. Frankly, the thought of her boss sweating in gym clothes unnerved her. It was too far removed from the man standing in front of her.
He never turned from his gaze out across the city.
“Angela,” his metronome-steady voice broke the silence, “postpone the staff meeting this afternoon until four. I want reports from the CitiBank and Travelers team leaders on my desk in an hour. Express to Michael and Kent that I am uncomfortable with their progress on those campaigns. I will meet with them thirty minutes after the reports are delivered. Have my driver meet in front of the building, contact Barry Glaston and inform him I will be at the restaurant in fifteen minutes.”
“Yes, sir,” Angela hastily replied. “Will that be all?”
“For now. Thank you.” She had been dismissed.
“Yes, Mr. Mayer.” She turned on her heels and headed to her desk to get started. She paused at the door for a moment, glancing back at the tall figure. She then took her leave of him.