Huh. Sorkin fic.
Jun. 2nd, 2004 03:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
out_thereDo you ever have a fic that you're just not sure who it's about? I'm stuck with that at the moment. I started writing, but... it just couldn't decide if it Sam/Josh or Dan/Casey. (Does it help that at least I'm sure it's Sorkin?)
***
He's sitting and he's thinking. Most of all, he's staring out the window, watching clouds flicker by. They seem… flawed isn't the right word, but it almost is. They seem flawed. From far away, they almost seem magical. Above him and below him, the clouds look white and fluffy; like snow, like cotton candy, like a hundred other clichés that spring to mind.
But when the plane flies through one, they're just damp, cold fog.
Sighing, he shifts in his chair, picking his cell phone out of his pocket. He's tempted to turn it on, to ignore the stewardesses' warnings. Not to make a call, but maybe to send a text message.
Am coming home.
Need, no… Want, no… Miss you.
Be there soon.
Of course, it's not as if he couldn't have said those things already. It's not as if he hasn't had the chance.
Within the last twenty-four hours, he's ignored the phone constantly. He ignored the high pitched ring so often that he ended up silencing it, just to get some sleep. He could have picked it up, could have said the words, but a day ago, half a day ago, a couple of hours ago, he wasn't sure of what he wanted to say.
Now he knows. He knows the words, he knows the sentences. He knows the clichés and the trite metaphors he'll use. Better than that, he knows why. He's still a little confused, he'd be lying through his teeth if he said he wasn't, but generally, he knows what he wants. It's been years since he's been able to nail that down with any clarity, it's been even longer since what he really wanted was just one person.
He shies away from thinking about it too much. He's *sure*, he's absolutely certain, but he's a little frightened of talking himself out of it. If he thinks about it too much, if he turns his words into a well-practiced speech, he might lose his nerve. That's why he hasn't called. This is the type of thing that has to be said in person, so it's clear that he means every word, every overused cliché.
Hopefully, sincerity will be enough to forgive his lack of originality, his lack of eloquence.
***
He's sitting and he's thinking. Most of all, he's staring out the window, watching clouds flicker by. They seem… flawed isn't the right word, but it almost is. They seem flawed. From far away, they almost seem magical. Above him and below him, the clouds look white and fluffy; like snow, like cotton candy, like a hundred other clichés that spring to mind.
But when the plane flies through one, they're just damp, cold fog.
Sighing, he shifts in his chair, picking his cell phone out of his pocket. He's tempted to turn it on, to ignore the stewardesses' warnings. Not to make a call, but maybe to send a text message.
Am coming home.
Need, no… Want, no… Miss you.
Be there soon.
Of course, it's not as if he couldn't have said those things already. It's not as if he hasn't had the chance.
Within the last twenty-four hours, he's ignored the phone constantly. He ignored the high pitched ring so often that he ended up silencing it, just to get some sleep. He could have picked it up, could have said the words, but a day ago, half a day ago, a couple of hours ago, he wasn't sure of what he wanted to say.
Now he knows. He knows the words, he knows the sentences. He knows the clichés and the trite metaphors he'll use. Better than that, he knows why. He's still a little confused, he'd be lying through his teeth if he said he wasn't, but generally, he knows what he wants. It's been years since he's been able to nail that down with any clarity, it's been even longer since what he really wanted was just one person.
He shies away from thinking about it too much. He's *sure*, he's absolutely certain, but he's a little frightened of talking himself out of it. If he thinks about it too much, if he turns his words into a well-practiced speech, he might lose his nerve. That's why he hasn't called. This is the type of thing that has to be said in person, so it's clear that he means every word, every overused cliché.
Hopefully, sincerity will be enough to forgive his lack of originality, his lack of eloquence.
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no subject
Date: 2004-06-01 10:43 pm (UTC)Now he knows. He knows the words, he knows the sentences. He knows the clichés and the trite metaphors he'll use. Better than that, he knows why.
I adore this line.
no subject
Date: 2004-06-01 10:48 pm (UTC)Damn Sorkin writers. It started off as Sam in my head, and then suddenly it was Danny, and then they just blurred.
"Now he knows. He knows the words, he knows the sentences. He knows the clichés and the trite metaphors he'll use. Better than that, he knows why."
I adore this line.
Thank you. It's always a fine line with any of my introspective fic between working on a theme, and beating the reader over the head with constant repitition. *g*
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Date: 2004-06-02 02:02 am (UTC)I hope you continue it, no matter who you choose... and you're right, it's definately Sorkin.
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Date: 2004-06-02 02:29 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-06-02 08:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-06-03 09:11 pm (UTC)Which, yeah, is good to know.
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Date: 2004-06-02 11:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-06-03 09:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-06-02 05:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-06-03 09:06 pm (UTC)(Thanks. *g*)
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Date: 2004-06-06 08:28 pm (UTC)The bit about cellphones and stewardesses made me smile and think of crabby Toby in the Pilot. Of course Sam would be too nice to do it!
Lovely, really, either/any way.
no subject
Date: 2004-12-14 01:20 pm (UTC)Thank you for the kind comments, and I'm so sorry I didn't reply earlier.