Lol Tumblr suggesting Torchwood blogs for me to follow because of my recent GDL activity. Silly Tumblr, I am well acquainted with Torchwood. I KNOW ABOUT IANTO AND IM STILL NOT OVER IT OKAY.
I woke up this morning with this scene running through my mind, and decided to go ahead and write and share it, because why not. And so - have a one shot from the perspective of Abby’s father, Michael, about how he met her mother.
Under a cut for length.
Michael slowed on the sidewalk, digging in the worn leather bag he wore across his body. With a sigh he opened it to peek in when he failed to find what he was reaching for, and he realized he must have left his journal in his room. There wasn’t enough time to walk back to get it, and for a moment he looked up and down the street. He’d need it for class, they were taking notes instead of sketching today -
The most beautiful shade of gold caught his eye, and he turned eagerly toward it. Walking slowly toward the window through which it was shining, he realized the gold was cascading waves of hair catching the sunlight. Thin fingers dragged through it and brushed it off a face, and his heart almost skipped a beat as the most angelic face he’d ever seen was revealed.
Soft cheekbones angled high on a heart-shaped face, small pointed chin resting below full pink lips, their corners curling up slightly as if they carried some secret only they knew. The slope and point of her nose made him want to trace it with his fingers, to memorize its angles and curves.
She rested her chin in her hand, staring down at something as she tapped her cheek absently with the eraser of the pencil in her other hand. Michael stood transfixed, unable to tear his eyes away, and suddenly the fact that he was running late to class slipped his mind. He found himself carried to the door as if compelled, knowing only that he had to get closer, to see her and maybe even speak to her if he could.
The old bookstore had a dusty quality to it, swirls of particles almost glittering in the dim yellow light. Sunlight streaming through the slightly grimy windows illuminated them and almost made them look like the tiniest snowflakes, falling over the books piled on tables lining the space between the door and the counter.
She was sitting behind the counter, a textbook and papers open before her. When she heard the bell above the door ring, she glanced up and quickly closed her textbook.
“Good afternoon,” she greeted, and for a moment she simply held his gaze. A soft, almost hesitant smile came across her face, and it felt as if he was staring into the sun. “Can I help you find something?”
“I - um,” he glanced around quickly, trying to think of an excuse before he realized he already had the perfect one. “Do you sell journals here? Or a sketchbook, maybe? I - I only just realized I forgot mine, and I need to get to class.”
She smiled and nodded, hopping off the stool she was sitting on so she could lead the way down one of the rows of bookshelves. She was short, and her wavy hair fell like silk to her waist, swinging as she took brisk steps. He followed behind her, fascinated by the way the it moved and caught the light until he almost felt himself having to resist reaching out to see if it really was pure gold as it appeared.
“We’ve got these, they’re not - the best, but if you just need one for class today,” she leaned over the small display table she had led him to, “this one’s pretty cheap.”
When she turned back to hand him the thin, plain notebook she smiled, her whole face lighting up. This close he could finally tell her eyes were hazel, though they were a golden green at the moment as if the green sweater she was wearing was reflecting back at him from their depths.
“Th-thank you,” he said when he realized she was waiting for him to say something. “It’s just what I needed.”
She continued smiling as she brushed by him, a whiff of something floral like gardenia lingering after her. Michael followed her back to the counter, scanning the shelves as he did, wondering if there was something else he could ask her about. But they reached the counter and she began to ring him up at the register.
As he dug in his wallet for his cash, he looked at the textbook she had sitting on the counter. “What are you studying?” he asked.
She looked down at the textbook and sighed softly. “English,” she answered.
“At NYU? Or -”
“Yeah, NYU,” she told him with a small smile. “How about you?”
“Same,” he said. “Or - I’m in my last year at NYU, but I’m not studying English. I’m an Art major.”
“Art?” she asked, raising her eyebrows as she accepted his cash and opened the register. The touch of her fingers was brief on his, but the feeling remained like a ghost whispering on his skin. “Do you - paint? Or sculpt or something?”
“Sketch and paint, not - not sculpting,” he replied as he accepted his change. He wished he could close his fingers on hers as he did, thinking of how much he wanted to study the lines of her palm. But he pocketed his change and picked up the notebook he had bought, gesturing it as he spoke. “I - well, thank you, this was - a lifesaver.”
She nodded and smiled. “Glad you were walking by when you realized it, that was lucky,” she agreed.
He took in the soft angles of her face, the bright gleam in her eyes, the secret that still remained in the upward curve of her lips, and he returned her smile. “It certainly was.”
After a moment standing in front of the counter, wishing he had a reason to stay but unable to think of one in the face of her radiant beauty. Instead he gestured the notebook in farewell and turned to leave. Once out on the sidewalk he stopped and looked back through the window, his heart racing again when he saw her watching him leave.
The next day he left early for class, running a hand through his thick dark hair as he hurried along the sidewalks. He slowed as he approached the bookstore, trying to act casual. One last run of his fingers through his hair, and he opened the door, enjoying the ring of the bell as he did.
“Good afternoon!” her sweet voice called, but it came from amongst the shelves, the counter to the right of the door standing empty.
He stepped into the bookstore, slowly walking along the rows of shelves and craning his neck to search down each. Her head popped out from the row next to him, mouth open as if she was about to offer assistance, but she fell silent at the sight of him. For a moment she held his gaze, a soft, almost shy smile coming to her lips.
“Hello again,” she greeted. “Did you forget your journal again? Or is it pencils this time?”
He chuckled and shook his head. “Actually, I was - hoping you could recommend something for me,” he told her, trying to remember the excuse he had rehearsed when he decided to come back. “We have a project to try to capture a certain style and period, and I was thinking of exploring the Gothic, or Romanticism. I thought maybe you could help me narrow it down, since you’re studying English.”
She considered him for a moment, but then smirked and nodded. Spinning on her heel she crooked a finger over her shoulder, and he followed, watching the way her golden waves swung with each step as they had the day before. She had the front of her hair pulled back with a black ribbon, so that it fell like a cascade down her back and around her face.
As she walked she spoke over her shoulder, “I mean, you could always go classic for Gothic. If you wanted to do Edgar Allan Poe, there’s a lot of scenes you could do that would capture the feeling. Or something like Frankenstein, but that almost seems too obvious, unless you want something insanely easy. Do you have to do a scene, or just the essence of the style with your own piece? I mean Gothic would just be - dark, and morbid, probably wouldn’t be putting yourself out depending on your choice...” She continued talking as she led him to a section in the shelves and began to pull a few worn books down into her arms.
He thought quickly for a moment as he listened to her ramble so eagerly, realizing she had asked him a question he needed to figure out the answer to. There wasn’t actually an assignment, but he had thought pretending he had a project was the easiest excuse to return to speak with her more. “Um, just the - style, it’s - it’s an odd assignment, trying to translate literature styles into an interpretation of art,” he told her when she took a breath. He secretly hoped it didn’t sound too far-fetched or odd, and that she wouldn’t realize he was making it up.
She gave him a fleeting look from the corner of her eye, but then shrugged. “So do you want something easy like Frankenstein? Or do you want a challenge?”
“A challenge,” he answered. “I - I like challenges, they’re the only way you can really grow. Especially with art.”
A smile flitted across her face, a look almost like approval and wonder in her eyes. “If that’s the case, honestly,” she put the books back and took down a different one, “then you should read this. Trying to capture the style of Shelley’s poems and writings would be a challenge, if you want to do Romanticism.”
He took the book of poems from her, running his fingers over the worn cover and opening it to find some of the pages dog-eared. The scent of old books wafted up as he flipped through the pages, and he raised his gaze to hers once more. “Shelley?” he asked.
“Well, I mean - he’s one of the most famous Romantic poets. His second wife, Mary, wrote Frankenstein,” she rested a hand on the shelf, turning to face him, “and they had a whirlwind affair. Quite scandalous, she was only sixteen, he was twenty-one and married. They used to sneak out and meet in a cemetery - the same cemetery where her mother was buried. There’s a lot of speculation that Mary Shelley even lost her virginity on her mother’s grave.”
At this he raised his eyebrows, looking down at the book he held. “That doesn’t sound like too much of a challenge,” he told her.
She shrugged. “Maybe not,” she agreed. “Read his poetry though, see what you think of his style. What’s the medium?”
“Uh - charcoals,” he told her, listing the first thing he could think of. He looked back down at the book, considering. “I’d never heard any of that, before. Is that what you’ve been studying?”
“We did last semester, but I did a lot of reading about it on my own, I - I tend to do that. I love learning,” she answered. “I found it incredibly romantic, too, I mean - as silly as it sounds.” She blushed and looked away. “It was probably foolish, her father disapproved, he was married, but they - went on to be two of the most influential writers of that time, together. For a time, at least, I mean he - died tragically young.”
For a moment Michael stood, admiring the way her cheeks pinkened as she avoided his gaze, as if she hadn’t meant to ramble quite so much about something so romantic. “Parents disapprove of a lot of things,” he mused, trying to keep the topic going, to add anything worthwhile to the beautiful things she had said. “If I had a daughter, I’d want her to be happy and love whoever she chose.”
She looked up at him, that same soft smile playing at the corners of her mouth, the secret he wished dearly to discover for himself. But then it was gone and she looked at where her fingers were fidgeting with the edge of the shelf. “Um, was there anything else I can help with? Pencils you need to buy?”
Michael smiled and shook his head, glancing at his watch. “No, I should - probably get to class,” he said with a sigh. He wanted to linger, to continue speaking with her, to hear more of her interests or things she found fascinating. Instead he let her lead him to the counter and he paid for the book of poems before he put it in his leather bag. “Thanks, again.”
“Of course,” she told him. She smiled and then bit her lower lip. “You’ll have to tell me how it turns out, if I see you again.”
He felt himself flush, but he laughed and nodded. “Yeah, maybe I will.”
The next day he went after class, when he would have more time to spend in the bookstore. He had spent the evening reading the book of poetry in his room, and was better prepared to ask her questions about Shelley and Romanticism.
When he arrived, an older man with wire-rimmed glasses was sitting behind the counter, and he greeted him with a muttered ‘good afternoon.’ Michael paused, looking around the bookstore, but it seemed to be otherwise unoccupied. Deciding he’d rather ask he stepped up to the counter and waited for the man to look up from what he was reading. “Excuse me, there’s a - a young woman who works here, is she - is she working today?”
“Not today,” the man answered. “She’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Oh,” Michael said, trying to hide the disappointment from his face. “Th-thank you.”
“Need me to pass on a message?” the man asked.
“No, no, that’s - fine,” Michael said. He turned to exit the shop again but then paused. “Oh, actually - tell her thank you for the suggestion. It was just the challenge I needed.”
The man gave a noncommittal grunt and Michael showed himself out of the bookstore, burying his hands in his pockets as he began the walk back home.
After his morning class the day after, he hurried down the streets until he reached the bookstore. He could see glints of gold through the window, and he smiled brightly at the sight of it. Taking a deep breath he walked inside, the now familiar ring of the bell above the door greeting his first step into the musty store.
“Good - oh, hello,” she greeted him, and she sat up straight at the sight of him. “Back again? What is it this time?”
“Just - just a thank you,” he told her, slowly crossing to the counter. He rummaged in his leather bag and pulled out the book of poems, carefully opening it and withdrawing the thick paper he had tucked into it. “You were right, this was -”
“The challenge you needed?” she finished for him. “Mr. Nicholson told me someone stopped by to say thank you, I figured it was you.”
He smiled and nodded. “It was,” he admitted, and he put the piece of paper in front of her. He watched as her eyes lit up, as she carefully picked it up and let her eyes wander over it. “What do you think? Did I - did I capture the style well enough?”
“I - I’d say you did,” she murmured. “I never thought - did you paint this?”
“Watercolors,” he told her. He leaned his elbows on the counter as she laid the piece back down between them.
Her fingers traced the lines, delicately moving over the scene. “It’s - it’s beautiful,” she said after several moments of silence, raising her gaze to his. “I thought you said charcoals, though -”
“This is for you,” he interrupted. “I - I wanted to see what you thought of it, if I - if I captured the romance well enough.”
Her lips parted slightly, her cheeks flushing again as she looked between Michael and the painting. She seemed unable to speak, and she moved her fingers to the small initials at the bottom corner of the painting. “M - F - H?” she read out, looking up at him.
“Michael Frederick Henderson,” he told her with a smile.
“Well, Michael Frederick Henderson,” she replied with a smirk, seeming to regain her composure from the shock of receiving the painting. “I’ll have to make sure I hang onto this so I can say I had an original Henderson from before you were famous.”
He chuckled and shook his head. “Then it’s only fair I know your name, so I know whose essays to look out for on the romance of young love and poets,” he replied.
She held his gaze for a moment and then smiled. “Jackie,” she answered.
“Just Jackie?” he teased, quirking an eyebrow.
“All right - Jacqueline Moreau,” she told him with a smirk.
“It’s nice to meet you, Jacqueline Moreau,” he said. For a moment they held one another’s gaze, both leaning on the counter, the small painting between them. But then he cleared his throat and straightened once more. He glanced around the small shop, taking note of a corner with a worn wingback armchair and table, a standing lamp beside it for reading. “Do you work tomorrow, Jackie?”
She smiled and nodded. “In the afternoon,” she answered. “Will you - need more help then? It’s Saturday, so no rushing to class…”
There was the slightest hint of hope in her voice, and he felt his heart race. “I may need some more research,” he mused, and he glanced back at her. “I’ll - I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She chewed her bottom lip and lowered her gaze to the painting still resting on the counter. “Sure, see you tomorrow, Michael,” she agreed.
The next day he went in the afternoon, leisurely making his way down the street. Once inside the bookstore, he nodded at the man who must be Mr. Nicholson and then walked through the rows of bookshelves. He settled into the armchair, pulling out the book of poetry and his sketch paper, working on the piece he had begun planning when he decided to come that day.
His work was meticulous, and time passed quickly as he sat perfecting his sketch. By the time the bell above the door rang and he heard Jackie’s voice greeting Mr. Nicholson, he was almost done with the background. He smiled to himself when he heard her footsteps approaching, and he hurried to hide his work.
“Hello,” she greeted, stopping near him to pretend to straighten a few of the books. “How’s your research going?”
“Very well,” he answered with a smile.
“Maybe you can tell me about it later,” she said, and she lingered for a moment before she went back to take her seat at the counter.
Mr. Nicholson left, and a peaceful silence settled over the bookstore. Jackie sat at the counter reading from a textbook, but more than once Michael caught her glancing his way when he happened to be looking at her for reference. He continued work on his sketch, trying to be discreet, hoping he could manage to surprise her with it.
When he was finally done, he wrote the quote he had the book open to on it and signed his first name beneath it. He studied the piece for a moment, looking between it and his angelic model sitting behind the counter. With a satisfied smile he closed his book and slipped it into his bag before he stood.
One deep breath, trying to steady his nerves, and he crossed the bookstore to the counter. He set the sketch on top of her textbook, and watched as she gasped and gently reached for it.
“I - it’s - beautiful,” she stuttered out, staring open-mouthed at it. Her eyes wandered over the lines, one finger delicately tracing the slope of her nose, the bow of her lips sketched in pencil before it moved to the words.
Soul meets soul on lovers’ lips.
She looked up at him, eyes wide, and for a moment they simply stared at one another. Michael finally smiled and gestured to the sketch. “I - I don’t think I’ve ever had such a beautiful muse,” he told her. “Maybe - sometime, we could go to Central Park and I could bring my watercolors -”
“Yes,” she interjected, a tender look in her eyes. “I’d - I’d love to. I’m - I work in the morning tomorrow, we could go after?”
“Perfect,” he agreed. “I’ll - I’ll see you around noon?”
She nodded, chewing her bottom lip as she looked back down at the sketch. “Yes, noon - noon works. I - thank you, it’s - beautiful.”
“As I said, it was - the muse, more than anything,” he told her. He stood for a moment, considering, but then he cleared his throat. “I should - go. I’ll see you - see you tomorrow.”
“Yes,” she said softly, looking up at him.
He returned her smile, drinking in the way she was looking at him, and he felt as if he had to drag himself away from the sight. Once outside the bookstore he stopped on the sidewalk, his feet unwilling to carry him home.
He had always been impulsive, and the urge overtook him, the desire he didn’t want to fight. Without another second’s pause he turned and walked back into the bookstore. She wasn’t at the counter, and he hurried along the rows of shelves until he found her, almost dreamily putting a few books away.
Jackie glanced up at his approach, something like eager surprise in her eyes when she saw him back once more. “Michael -”
He slipped his hand into her hair, his other at her waist, and he pulled her to him. Pressing his lips to hers he held her to him, backing her into the shelf behind him as he did. Her lips were soft, and when she parted them his tongue delved into her mouth to search hers out. She tasted sweet, and her fingers gripped the front of his jacket as she held him to her in turn.
The kiss tore through him, until his every nerve felt keenly aware of her, his every sense full of her until he felt as if he hadn’t truly experienced life until this moment. He was dizzy in response to how she was returning his overeager passion, looping her arms around his neck, fingers running through his hair as she kissed him desperately.
When he finally pulled away, he stared down into hazel-green eyes wide with surprise and desire. Neither of them spoke for a moment, simply holding one another’s faces as they tried to catch their breaths.
But then he smiled, a feeling like perfection overcoming him until he knew that whatever fate had led him to leave his journal that day was something he would always be grateful for. He blinked to clear his vision, trying to resist the powerful emotion swelling inside of him, the overwhelming joy crashing over him.
“Jackie,” he murmured, and she smiled when he said her name. “I’m going to marry you,” he told her softly, and he watched the way her lips curled up in the way he had watched them since the first time he saw her. Only now, he knew what the secret they held was, the secret meant only for him. “I just know it - without a doubt. I’m going to marry you, Jackie Moreau.”
Working on chapters 5 and 6 of A Light In The Darkness...I hope I can actually get this the way I want to lol. Probably not though since I am now getting sleepy and may have to go to bed before finishing even chapter 5.
