I was reading Daughters of Darkness and I found out that Quinn is self conscious about his height. I will have a field trip with this.
Name: My Boy Builds Coffins.
Summary: A coffin builder's son and a girl about to be put in one run into each other on the street one day, literally. So begins a romance that neither of them could quite comprehend and an outcome that no one expected.
Notes: James/Poppy needs more love! Also, have some AU Headcanon: If there's a cafe or a diner in my work, Jez will always work there, and Morgead will always own it.
Listening to: Florence and The Machine, obviously.
This story actually has little Ash, which is incredibly surprising for me, being an Ash fangirl and all; it's also going to be kinda long.
The coffee shop was his home away from home, a small cafe in the bowels of London occupied by regulars and locals solely. Which is why the stranger that walked through the door with the chime and the "One hot chocolate, please," was such a surprise to everyone. James sunk lower into his booth seat and ran his ink pen along the paper of his notebook, leaving thin black streaks that the paper quickly absorbed.
The best stories begin with red wine and James' story started seventeen years ago with a shared bottle of wine and drunken kisses, so it had to be great and his life had to mean something.
James first ran into her outside the cafe James now resided within, literally, and he'd helped her pick up her scattered notes and papers before they both went their separate ways silently, two shy teenagers too scared to say anything.
That night, upon returning to the flat his parents never seemed to enter, he realized that he had a folder containing her evaluation and opinions on some incomprehensible Italian artist: Domenico Ghirlandaio, apparently. Alongside this were her own sketches and watercolour paintings. It was around the same time that James' realized his favourite notebook, a leather cover beauty his father had given him stocked full of schematics and, of all things, poetry, was gone.
So what did he do? Luckily, her name was written at the top of the first page neatly: Poppy North. He dragged out his laptop and loaded up facebook, finding her in no time and feeling vaguely lecherous and stalker-like.
It turns out she was a student at the local college, liked shortbread and was facebook married to James' second cousin Jez.
Funny, isn't it? How small the world is when you have a laptop and connections.
It also turns out that she desperately needed that folder, having put it on her status – people need to privatize, seriously.
James, being the gentlemen he is, hunted down message – Timeline was goddamn confusing – and sent her a polite message saying that he was the man she crashed into, and he had her folder, thank you.
So there he was, cramped into the corner with a cup of coffee cradled in his hands, his second favourite notepad, and her folder against his hip. It was purple and had flowers on it.
There she was, in the seat opposite him with hot chocolate and his leather, elastic band bound overflowing notebook. There was a thin blush on her cheeks and her eyes were downturned, James' reckoned she was 15, 16?
"James," he blurted out at the same time she said quietly, "Poppy."
He smirked, and she went bright red. James was attractive, sure, but in an aloof, monochrome way, his smile still managed to start stopped hearts and warm cold fingertips, though.
"Your notebook," she slid it across the table, "Coffins?"
"This boy builds coffins," he said not-so-jokingly as he handed her the folder. James wondered if it'd be appropriate to ask her about her sketches, how she managed to breathe such life into them. It turns out he didn't get the chance because almost a second after he gave her the folder, she grabbed her back and stood up, apologizing and saying goodbye.
She was almost at the door when James leapt up and said, "wait!"
She paused, hand on the handle, and turned around, her back pressed to the door. The coffee shop lapsed into momentary silence, before people began to talk again, slower and more wary.
James walked over.
"Can I get your number or something?" he asked hesitantly. WhatamIdoingwhatamIdoing?
"S-sure."
She produced a pen and scribbled a number on his arm, leaning in.
"Your poetry is beautiful, by the way, James Rasmussen."
Then she was gone in a haze of pixie dust and cheap Charlie perfume body spray. A flicker of a smile appeared on James' face, gone in a second, then he looked down at his arm.
O7123456 and then a little x and a winky face.
James.
Felt.
So.
Rejected.
This room is my new prison.
A harmless shade of blue,
This room was once her prison,
And now it's mine too.
This room has forever been my prison,
With the typingclickingcreaking and the guttural groans,
Night contaminates day,
I am always alone.
I am not allowed to typewritebreath,
The degenerates will seize,
my fingers and type,
Words of venom and malice,
As they very well please.
This room is my prison.
(This room is my prison – James Rasmussen. Notes: I decided to get into the mind of a young girl trapped within her own mind, I think it worked out well, non?)
They met a few times after that, James' work path – a part time job at the cafe purely for pleasure reasons – took him directly by the community college and every lunch without fail she sat at the gates and slowly ate her sandwich whilst sketching whatever caught her eye. But in reality, James and herself never talked much at all.
She looked down at her lap one day to find the outline of a man walking away had been dreamily sketched, it was just an outline, but she knew who it was. She crumpled it up and shoved it in her pocket. When she opened her folder next lesson to hunt down the test sketches to show the children she was teaching – she took certain professors lessons as extra credit when she wasn't at the uni – she found a post-it note.
"Beautiful."
She crumpled that up, too.
A little over a month after James found himself in awe of the life Poppy North breathed into her artwork, they met again, properly this time although it wasn't planned in the slightest.
"James, James!"
James lifted his head from the table a fraction to see a set of ever shifting eyes, they were violet at that moment.
"What?"
"Wanna come to an art show with us?"
Us, of course, being Morgead and Jez – the owners of the table he was planted on – plus Ash, his girlfriend Mary-Lynnette and whatever other straggler was dragging their self along.
"Art?"
"You know, paintin's, sculptures, the likes." Ash waved his hand, "you're dressed decently, right?"
Ash was wearing a wood stain stained pair of skinnies, a plain white button up shirt, and a zip up hoodie. Jez slammed looped a tie around his neck, coaxing him from the table so she could tie it as Morgead closed all the blinds and Mary-Lynnette set up the alarm system. Then, before he knew it, James was being lead down the street in mid august, attempting to retie the tie that Jez messed up so thoroughly and attempting to swallow his qualms over what a mess they all looked.
He didn't even stop to wonder why they were going to an art screening – they really weren't the types, spur of the moment, James supposed – or how he was going to get back into his apartment tonight in the dark – he climbed the fire escape so as to avoid a few grabby neighbours and a stalker or two – or any of those over things that were worrying him.
Partially because he was cold, but mainly because Poppy was an artist and it's a small estate what if she's there and what will I say and I didn't condition my hair before I went out today oh god.
"James~" Jez sung, flicking his ear, "we're here."
They were offering wine at the door, which the five teenagers gladly accepted, nodding and saying thanks man in turn to the disturbed looking door man.
Mary-Lynnette immediately started talking to an artist, whilst Ash nodded and made bullshit remarks that no one really believed. Jez, Morgead and James stood looking quite awkwardly around. James could hear Jez and Morgead whispering to each other.
Oh, figures, they were here to steal free food, no wonder Jez has her bag.
So James set off wandering around on his own, removing his hoodie and putting it on a coat rack and fixing his hair so he looked half decent. Nothing particularly caught his eye, he nodded to a few people, accepted another glass of wine, and stopped.
"It's beautiful," he whispered, wine momentarily forgotten in favour of staring, gobsmacked at the art piece in front of him. It was clear what it was, a short elven girl lounging on a picnic blanket in a small clearing, her arms were stretched out above her, revealing a splattering of freckles on her chest, a slender neck, protruding collar bones.
"It's pretty, isn't it," someone said quietly next to him, and he nearly leapt out of his skin when he sighted her, "You never called me, James Rasmussen."
"You didn't give me a real number, Poppy North. Is this yours?"
"No, actually, I'm not egotistical enough to paint myself. It was inspired by me, though, apparently."
"Who painted it?" The painting was unlabeled.
"He couldn't be here tonight."
They lapsed into silence, a comfortable, un awkward one, funnily enough as they both admired the piece in front of them.
"If I were to ask for your number again, would you give me your real one this time?"
"I don't know, it depends."
Silence once more.
"It's a shame I'm not naked, isn't it, James Rasmussen?"
James spat out his wine, luckily into his hand, he began to choke as Poppy laughed at his reaction. When he composed himself, he turned to her, bright red, "what ever do you mean?"
"In the painting," there was a slight smile, "Calm down, Jamie, I was kiddin'."
James wasn't sure he wanted her number anymore, even if she was adorable to the extent where he could ignore her use of his much hated nickname.
"You know, we should get coffee some time. Every time I open my books I find pages from your notebook." She smiled.
Was she seriously?
There was a loud crash and James turned around to see that Ash and Mary-Lynnette's efforts in distracting the guards and patrons had stopped working, and they were all being forced to run for it.
"James!" Jez shrieked, "We've got to go!"
"But..."
"I'm your ride home!"
That was true. James turned to Poppy.
"Want to come?" He asked, "I could take you up on your offer of coffee."
"I live on the other side of town."
"I can give you a lift, and, hey, free coffee."
Jez was grabbing his hoodie and him, trying to tug him over to the door whilst guards chased Morgead to the car that Ash was desperately trying to start. James was too caught up in how smooth he was being to really care.
"JAMES." She shrieked.
"Yeah, sure," Poppy said, slipping her hand into his, "I'd love to talk to you about the post it notes you left me."
"Later, now's the time to run."
And they sprinted.
That's how James and Poppy first formally met, not quite sure if it was the wine that led them into such confidence, and not quite caring. They didn't know where it would lead them, crashing into each other on the street, literally falling into the other's arms.
My boy builds coffins, with hammers and nails,
He doesn't build ships; he has no use for sails,
He doesn't make table, dressers, or chairs,
He can't carve whistles, 'cause he just doesn't care.
I can't believe I let James take credit for my terrible poetry. It's through the eyes of a girl called Adelaide trapped in her mind, represented as a room. I hope all the chapters will be this long, Fanfiction is such good practice, man.
Obviously inspired by Florence and The Machines 'My Boy Builds Coffins.'
I love her too much. **hearts**
Review, please? Regardless, I plan on finishing this.
Also, next chapter, it might actually, you know, have coffins being built.