fingerpaint the sky

till everything shines

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[misc] dreamers
Why, yes, it is more Dark Is Rising fic! This one is entirely the fault of silveraspen, who tossed vague plotbunnies at me until I gave in and wrote it instead of going to sleep like a sensible person. I'm not entirely sure of how well I like a couple bits of it, but enh.


Covertly, she eyes the man slouched in the airport chair next to hers. He is of medium height and medium build, round-faced below a mop of straight brown hair, almost aggressively normal-looking. He could be any age between 35 and 60. Because she is bored and imaginative, she wonders idly if he is a spy -- not that she has any reason to think so, but he has the sort of neutral blandness to his features that she has always pictured undercover agents having.

He shifts a bit, trying futilely to get comfortable in these plastic torture devices, and makes a tiny face; it makes him suddenly more accessible, another human in this mind-numbing airport instead of a bland face. Curiosity and boredom triumph over reticence, and she turns to him with a smile. "I've never understood why they can't just use normal chairs."

He grins at her, a sudden flash that briefly and completely wipes away the impression of a neutral everyman. "That would, I suspect, be far too logical for their tastes."

She wrinkles her nose. "Yes, but they like logic and order. Too much, really. I think it's a subtle experiment of some sort. See how much they'll put up with, and all that. Oh, sorry. I'm Jane Davies."

"Will Stanton. That's an old-fashioned name," he comments cheerfully, shaking the hand she offers.

"Named for my grandmother," she says. "I've always kind of liked it, though."

"So have I," he says, and the blandness is back.

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Ohhhhhh. And she'll never know, will she. . .

(I like it.)


*weeps like a river*

You just had to put the knife in and twist, didn't you? *wibbles* Very, very nice.

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