A/N: I figured that in apology for making you wait so long for the last chap of OMABH, I'd post this fic as well. It's a oneshot that I half-finished in New York, inspired by my visit there! The city definitely made an impression on me, it's a lovely, unique place, and it kinda captured my imagination… so I finished it up, and here it is! My Cophine NYC AU!
-Nightshade
I do not own any rights to Orphan Black (and I'm not a resident or expert on New York, so any inaccuracies weren't intentional!)
New York State of Mind
Merde, merde, shit, putain de merde, goddamn… Of course this would happen to me. Of course Dr. Leekie would schedule an important meeting with the head of DYAD's Faculty of Immunological Sciences, the director of my division within the research facility, early in the morning. The morning right after I'd had to stay late to review the latest results from my research trial. And on my day off, none the less! I'd completely forgotten that I needed to set my alarm clock for the morning… Oversleeping was a pitiful excuse, but it was the truth. It was barely morning time, the sun weakly filtering through the treetops of Central Park, not yet visible higher in the sky. It would almost look pretty if I wasn't practically jogging through the park in my knee-high boots, away from my apartment in upper Manhattan, and towards the DYAD building, which glistened like a sentinel through the greenery at the other end of Central Park. Inconveniently located, of course, a whole twenty-seven minutes away from the apartment I'd had bought for me when Leekie moved me to the New York division of DYAD three weeks ago.
"So you'll be close to your research." He'd told me as he showed me around the modern flat, one of many pricey brownstones in the neighborhood. I wouldn't have been able to afford the rent without the hefty raise he'd given me. When he moved me here. Into an apartment that wasn't nearly as close as I needed at the moment. I was still getting acquainted with the city, it was certainly a jarring move. I still tended to forget that you're gambling with your life every time you choose to cross the road, that it's often a better idea to ignore people as opposed to offering help kindly, that there are certain neighborhoods where you simply don't take the subway after ten at night, if you value your skin, that is.
"Hey, Miss!" someone called behind me. I barely heard it over the clip-clopping of my heels on the uneven cobblestones, and the uncertain teetering of my ankles on top. Why didn't I take a cab? Right, no money for cab fare. Not to mention that traffic here is so bad that it's faster to walk somewhere as opposed to driving. The road rules are crazy here, aussi. Most streets don't have the little lane-lines painted upon their uneven surface, and those that did were sorely ignored. I'd never heard more klaxonner, car horns, going off until I attempted to drive down two streets to the nearest drugstore to buy aspirin and tampons. That was the last time I tried driving anywhere for anything.
"Hey, Miss, slow down a minute please!" the voice called again. Harsh, but decidedly feminine in places. This was another thing I hadn't gotten used to here yet, the tenacity of salespeople. Peut-être my wide-eyed nervousness at the city itself still appeared tourist-like, but I'd been hollered at, even on occasion followed a block or two, by vendors selling everything from faux-designer bags, to bicycle or bus tours. I seriously considered yelling abuses back at the persistent woman, but that would take too much time and it was—dieu—6:47. My meeting started two minutes ago. I picked up the pace, running ungracefully past a dog-walker, until a hand upon my shoulder halted my forward motion and almost threw me backwards into the ground. My hands flew up, both scrabbling to meet the assailing appendage, nails digging in as I whirled around to face my attacker
"Relachez-moi! Casse-toi connard!" I hissed, wrenching on the person's arm with a burst of adrenaline, spewing obscenities in my mother tongue. At a second, more detailed glance, I noted that my assailant's head was below mine, she was short and definitely a she, if the long hair and dress were indeed correct. Although, in this city, I'd seen a few decidedly not-females with long hair or even dresses. But this was a woman, a woman who, despite her shorter stature and the wounding death-grip I held her right arm in, looked at me with curiosity and a hint of amusement.
"Huh, well madame..." she drawled, her voice cocky and smooth. She pronounced 'madame' like 'ma-damn' and based on her mischievous gaze and perky appearance, I doubted it was accidental. It was terrible, really, and coming from any man I would have immediately thought him sleazy and awful. But on this woman, it almost seemed cute… No, no, no time to sit here and question my sexuality, I was late for my meeting! Focus Delphine!
"Qu'est-que tu veux? I'm not interested in purchasing anything." I muttered dismissively, partially curling at the edges with tension that I was sorely late, partially endeared by the quirky and patient woman who'd interrupted my hurried rush. And as well, partially throbbing with the residual adrenaline that had flooded my veins when the hand clamping down on my shoulder had frightened me. I thought I was being attacked—women don't get attacked in Central Park in the middle of almost-broad daylight do they? I'll need the statistics on that surely, and perhaps a self-defense class or two…
"Geez, if this is the response I get when I help pretty strangers, I'll have to do it less often." Her voice was still cool, and didn't betray that I was probably wrenching her wrist in my still-tight grip, my impeccably-manicured nails digging into the skin there like tiny polished daggers. In her other hand, though, she cheekily dangled an object in front of my face. Black and slim, it took me a few seconds for it to come into focus, a phone, with a large ungainly crack across the back case.
"What is this?" I asked in confusion, removing one of my hands from her wrist, not even aware that the other still rested there, clamped tightly. I picked up the object in my free hand, turning it over in my grasp slowly, as the dissociative panic receded and I started to recognize it. A thumb swiped across a track-pad button sent the screen flickering to life. I took a look over top of the small device, finally taking a detailed inventory on this mystery woman. Her hair was a dark brown, long, but held back in these peculiar locks, like slim ropes of hair. Her eyes, the curious, probing ones, were masterpieces in their own right, framed by sleek black glasses and quirked eyebrows. She had a nose ring, a little silver filament that glimmered in the light. Her dress was maroon, the color of fresh wine, with a dark floral pattern on it, nipping in at the waist to accent her petite figure. She wore about a thousand bracelets on each arm, and as she gestured, I'd imagine, they'd all jingle together like bells.
"Um, your phone. Probably didn't come with the nasty crack though. It fell out of your pocket as you were careening past. It was buzzing when I picked it up…" she offered helpfully as I scrolled down to my messages and opened the one highlighted with a bright yellow speech-bubble icon. New.
Director couldn't make it; meeting cancelled.
Well merde… shit… my legs sagged beneath me in defeat, perhaps I should have eaten something for breakfast. Oh, wait, I didn't, because I thought I had no time this morning. Because I thought I was late for an important meeting. A meeting that wasn't even going to occur. I was still panting from my run through the park, my ankles wobbled and ached in protest, my head was spinning from low blood sugar, I was hungry, and stressed. And, as I noticed when a set of firm fingers tangled against my palm, still holding this strange woman's hand. Add 'embarrassed' to that list aussi. Bienvenue à New York, I guess. Just as warm a welcome as when I'd once been felt up by a stranger on the subway back from the lab late at night. This city. I was still a little in awe of people who walked these streets like they were beasts they'd tamed, tamed and domesticated and then dragged around in Gucci collars like the many yappy little dogs I'd see on the rare occasion when I'd have the time and bravery to take a walk around town.
"Whoa, hey, okay, come with me." The petite woman was gesticulating madly, freeing her one hand from my earlier death-grip, and not giving me the time to feel silly for my outburst and the inappropriate physical contact before she placed a hand gently on my upper back—having to stretch up to reach that high—and ushered me over to a wrought iron bench in a little niche of the park, near an abandoned table-setup with a box overflowing with colorful ribbon-looking-things.
"I'm sorry, I really am, I'm—I'm not usually so…" I trailed off, my hands moving feebly in a poor mirror to her earlier dramatic gesticulations as she spoke. I truly just wanted to lie on this bench alone and curl up into a little ball. Perhaps contemplate my life and wonder what chain of events had led me straight into this city, this maelstrom of chaos and stress that seemed to keep me eternally on-edge and never able to settle.
"Cute?" The brunette offered, looking a little surprised that the word had come out of her mouth. But she was too smooth to make it look unintentional. Good at covering it up, easy to recover. I rethought my earlier mental statement. Perhaps I didn't have to lie here alone, this woman was fairly decent company. She was sweet, though maybe slightly forward, and she didn't comment on my reddened cheeks nor stare judgmentally when I ran my fingers through my hair, probably messing it up awfully. And her smile, along with all the tingly feelings it elicited, was certainly a bonus. I shoved her shoulder gently, trying to look casual and joking, but probably coming off more morose and antisocial. She sat there anyways.
"Bad breakup?" she asked softly, keeping her hand safely on my upper back. Not so low as to seem presumptuous and disrespectful, but present and firm and grounding, weirdly. I shook my head, staring down at the seed pods that had fallen from the nearby trees, shoving them into the cracks between the cobblestones and trying to avoid eye contact with those arresting eyes. Eventually, with the head-shaking, my hair fell into my eyes and blocked my view, inadvertently forcing me to respond.
"Non, no, just work stuff, issues with my boss." I murmured, pushing my hair up and out of my face, and forcing myself to meet her kind eyes, her head nodding emphatically. The ropy-hair-strands were bouncing about her face, and made her look even more animated than usual. Or what had been usual for her for the past twenty minutes that I'd known her. Because I didn't, know her, I mean. I still didn't even know her name.
"Oh man, yeah, asshole bosses, I get it, it sucks." She replied, nodding her head and staring at me in a way that, unlike her colloquialism-rife speech which somehow always managed to sound cool and noncommittal, made me think that she actually did get it. It was reassuring to think. There was a flurry of action, a click-click of little shoes on cobblestone as a boy, about the age of five, galloped up to the abandoned little table, waving his pudgy hand at the girl sitting next to me.
"C'sima!" he crowed, jumping up and down excitedly, tottering unsteadily on his tiny feet. The brunette smiled, soft and easygoing, her cheeks pinking ever so slightly with the littlest touch of embarrassment as she leapt to her feet, waving her hands in a frantic motion to tell me to stay put.
"Sorry, this will be like, two secs, I promise." I shook my head dumbly, not quite comprehending as she strode calmly over to the little table, tossing a cloth off from where it was folded over the tabletop, revealing a small air pump and more of the long ribbon-looking things. She leaned over, murmuring to the little boy who, first, pursed his lips and scrunched his eyebrows in pantomimed thought, before exaggeratedly whispering something into the brunette's ear. She, to her credit, played along easily, a natural with kids, as she began to assemble items on her table, talking and gesturing emphatically as she spoke, managing to keep the boy's attention as she put a ribbon-y thing onto the end of the air pump and began inflating it—a balloon. I watched her hands, moving without her even needing to look, as she inflated a blue balloon, before tying it off deftly. She continued chattering away, hands manipulating the plastic, eliciting squeaky sounds that I would have found irritating if her entire pose wasn't so comical, twisting and doubling-over until she had made a perfectly-formed balloon sword. She curtsied with a cheeky smile on her face, gently tapping the 'sword' on both the 'knight's' shoulders, before offering it to him. With excited fingers he dropped some change into a little box, before scampering off to show his parents, swishing his sword and yelling a thank you in his wake. She strode over coolly, hips swaying like she was in a club, not a park.
"You make balloon animals for a living?" I asked, having forgotten momentarily about my earlier stress from the meeting and Leekie upon seeing this woman in such a peculiar setting. She shrugged her shoulders noncommittally. At least her demeanor makes sense now, there aren't many people perkier than balloon animal salespeople, I guess. Her head shook, cheeks blushing red as the fabric of her dress, deep like the gentle, bobbing, complimentary skirt that swished and swayed with her sashaying step. The woman swaggered back over, feet only slightly unstable against the cobblestone from their perches within black suede heeled ankle-boots. Dieu, I wonder how she managed to chase me down in those…
"Nah, this'snt my business, merely pleasure—erm, volunteer work technically. I'm raising money for the local children's hospital. Science—I mean—I study. Science, at NYU, Evo-devo, I'm working on my doctorate." She stuttered without making it seem awkward at all, I mused, as she slid back beside me on the bench. It felt more like an overflowing, like she had so many passions, so many excited words, too impatient to stand in line and wait their turn to be spoken, so they all jump in front of each other and push and shove and break through trains of thought which they don't belong to. As if to cement her point, she fluidly reached under the bench, tugging a book bag out into sight, and hoisting a textbook—so large it dwarfed her tiny ringed hands—into sight. I didn't catch the title, but there was a complex-looking chemical diagram on the firm-bound cover. I nodded, feeling slightly like I'd had the floor pulled out from underneath me. I mean, who was this woman anyways? She seemed to pick up on the same thing, perhaps she was as good at reading eyes and faces as she was at reading those science textbooks. Textbooks much like the one she had in her hand, which she'd promptly dropped on her own foot as her flailing hands flew up, one slamming comically into her forehead, the other flapping about.
"Shit, sorry, awks, I'm Cosima. Cosima Niehaus, student at NYU, lover of science, and part-time balloon-animal-salesperson…" She blushed vibrantly, cheeks coloring red like balloons and flyers shoved in faces and taillights swerving desperately through midday traffic. Red like the heels that clacked on the Fifth Avenue sidewalks, like lazy, large tour buses, like fire hydrants standing sentry on corners, like sunrise reflected off blue-glass skyscrapers. Red like the blood that pulsed frantically somewhere beneath the concrete skin of this untamed beast. Red like the city itself. She fit here, was a part of this melee as much as the fences and buildings that rose up from the earth. I didn't fit here. Yet, perhaps? Unlike everything else which I'd encountered in this sleep deprived, manic place, this woman, Cosima, was the first part of New York which endeared me.
"Je suis—sorry, I'm Delphine Cormier. Immunologist at the DYAD Institute, hateful of my misogynist, fils de pute boss, and new-New-Yorker." I offered my hand to her, which was quickly scooped up in an enthusiastic, firm grasp. Her smaller hand was soft against mine, if it wasn't for the jarring movement of her restless frame, I would have perhaps zoned out once more simply thinking about it. If I had been wondering why I hadn't just thanked this woman and took off with my phone, which I had been wondering about, then my questioning was answered then and there. There was something, merde, it sounds cliché to say it, alluring about her?
"Ahh, new to the city? Lemme guess, Upper East Side, swanky loft apartment? I'm in the Village, I've got a sweet little walk-up there! It's an amazing place, isn't it?" Her natural boisterous energy, the calm and tentative arrogance she held so finely controlled, the way her hips swayed with the rhythm of a city-street-tango beat with her every move. Her irises, rings hued with tiger's eye, flickered in the sunlight and I suddenly felt myself become lightheaded. And no, not from her addictive gaze. A gentle hand leaned me over against my knees, and I forced the black to recede from the peripheries of my vision. I was not, was not fainting in the middle of Central Park. This was not happening.
"Whoa, whoa, lean over, 'kay? Deep breaths, head between your knees. Low blood sugar?" She queried in a low, soothing tone, somehow blocking out the roaring of the city prowling around us. I managed a nod before she forced my head back down. My hair fell into my face and I allowed it, at least with the light-headedness I was certain that I was incapable of blushing from chagrin? I could feel a cold sweat break in the middle of my spine, and I exhale a gusty, uncomfortable breath as the bench shifts ever so slightly.
"'Kay, sit tight then, I know just the thing for this…" she chirped, rubbing my shoulder in a reassuring manner, like she was someone I'd known for years. It felt something like that. Without her presence, Cosima, this mystery woman who seemed to embody all the beauty in this rough-diamond, it was hard to focus. My head was fuzzy, damn… this'll be the last time I skip breakfast, and on that topic… did I even have dinner last night? Does half-stale Pad Thai and some weak coffee count as dinner? I've been a little overwhelmed recently, re-stocking my new fridge hasn't been a priority… The city's sounds were bleeding into each other in my solitude. There was a restlessness in the pit of my stomach that I'd come to associate with its omnipresent bustle, and the thick stench of stagnant water and exhaust fumes clouded my mind. Somewhere behind me, off near the overfilled street, a street musician began wailing on what sounded like an electric guitar. Blowing in from that direction, I smelled the cloying burnt-salt-and-sugar smell of baking pretzels. Cosima'd returned, her heels playing a snare drum opposite the melody flowing in from the street, the harmony played by the city itself. Her fingertips were cold against the back of my neck, and she held out some sort of ice-cream treat, which she'd kindly unwrapped as soon as she noticed my shaky hands. The sugar felt divine, the cold vanilla in a thin chocolate coating, that broke crisp against my teeth and restored a sense of life. My head slowly stopped spinning, at the least. I looked back up, into a soft grin and soft brown eyes.
"I've seen enough stressed and starving students running on fumes and coffee to recognize someone who needs some sweets. It's an Eskimo Pie. They're my favorite thing ever, I've practically struck up a friendship with Tiago, the guy who sells them, because I buy them so often." She elaborated, spinning her little yarn. It was fascinating, every thing this woman did, every item she interacted with, every person, had a story and importance behind it. She was tied to this place, in some manner that I couldn't help but envy. I could feel a knot forming in my stomach as a result of her nervous brand of encouraging and her warm presence, and I wondered if this was what it felt like to make a connection. I nodded, signifying I'd heard her, my tongue slipping across my bottom lip to snag at a stray piece of chocolate there. I could tell by the endeared look in her eyes and the little reflection in her glasses, that I'd accidentally smeared the vanilla cream there in my efforts. I let out a chuckle, self-deprecatingly, before digging for my wallet in my purse. Firm, eager hands shot out to cover mine the second I pulled it out, shaking her head in a whirlwind of dreads.
"But, I must repay you, non?" I insisted. She was a kind woman, yes, but it felt peculiar to take handouts from her. I felt I at least needed to make the effort. The look on her face brooked no parley on the issue, however. She pointedly pushed the wallet back into my purse, neglecting to release my hand though. I didn't mind. Her fingers played against mine in an absentmindedness, it was comforting.
"No man, my treat. I swear." She smirked, placing her free hand over her heart comically. Despite my attempts to remained buttoned-up and composed, a laugh burst free from my chest in a fluttering of wings not unlike those of the slate-grey-pigeons, except with a delicacy and life and thousands of colors.
I noted the other woman's gaze as she took that as the opportunity to skim over my body, alighting upon my face and shoulders heavily, before swooping down and back up. Her cheeks were a flattered rouge and she batted her eyelashes in a blithe, unassuming manner that I knew to be anything but. She was anything but, I knew I was being played with, enticed and teased by this sprite of a woman. I enjoyed it immensely. Not merely the attention, no, this was more than basic flattery. I wanted her to pursue me, I wanted to see that smile in response to something I say, I wanted her fingers to keep stroking lazy, whirling patterns across my palm. I wanted her. Perhaps the old me, the one that started her sheltered life in a sleepy corner of a Parisian arrondissement , would have shied away from the thought of ever enjoying the romantic advances of a woman. But this new me, the one with limbs too long and a mind too quiet for this cacophony of color and sound, was definitely enjoying them. This new me wanted to reciprocate her advances. She was bold and coy, and I knew what she would suggest before the words even passed those perfect lips.
"Well… you could always pay me back? Dinner perhaps?" she offered, her eyebrows doing a devilish dance behind those thick-rimmed glasses that were currently giving me heart palpitations. Two could play at this game, teasing. My lips were already quirked in a coquettish smirk. I mimed thinking harder than I actually was, wrinkling my eyebrows as I 'thought' over my possible return.
"A whole dinner? I don't know… you drive a hard bargain. And this deal seems slightly uneven, a whole meal for an ice cream? Hardly fair…" I smirked. She was just as satisfied, leaning forward so her cheek barely touched mine, her voice ghosting out in a whisper of subway trains over well-worn rails.
"Perhaps I don't want to play fair." Her tone dropped to a husky purr, and I felt my knees buckle beneath me. While sitting on a bench. This woman could knock me off my feet, when I'm not even on them. She continued in a lighter, teasing tone, pulling back so we could make eye contact across the foot-and-a-half long gap between our faces. I found myself feverishly missing the closeness. "Besides, I have plenty more to offer on my side of the deal. You're new to the city, and I'm practically a seasoned New Yorker. I'll tell you all the trade secrets, which subways to take, what hole-in-the-wall shops are the best, even the highly-secretive establishment that sells the—no joke, genuine article—best New York style cheesecake. Not to mention that I'd love to pick your beautiful brain about all-things-scientific. It's really a great offer." She finished with a cheeky wink. My stomach dropped at the act, and I felt myself falling just as fast for her. This spritely imp of a woman, unbelievably cocky and perhaps a bit too smart for her own good, had me under her spell. I'd take her on a hundred dinners, and I wouldn't even expect any of this fabled cheesecake in return. Although the idea of sharing something sinfully decadent with this equally tempting individual was something I'd now surely fantasize about.
"You make a good point, but I'm not quite sure. Perhaps you could better convince me over coffee?" I shot back, giving her my own flirty glance. I'm normally not so outward, flirting is a delicate thing, secret glances a second too long and waiting to be pursued. There's something about Cosima herself, or maybe it's this place. I felt hollow for my first weeks here, an empty vessel awaiting filling. The city itself is much the same, except it's filled to the brim with cultures and people, excitement and heartbreak, people in all walks of life fighting for more, a labyrinth of streets and subways and gutters. Right now I'm brimming too, a neon boldness threatening to spill over. I want to glow with it, to shine with Cosima at my side, sharing coffee and banter with her fingers tangled with mine. Her lips purse in thought before responding.
"I'll see if you can sell the idea... Let's go Delphine. This'll be another one of those NYC secrets I'll share with you, there's this amazing little place…" I'm swept up on to my feet in a whirlwind of excitement, this smooth, cool woman's also a complete nerd. Her heels are unsteady on the cobblestones, as are mine, but I find myself not caring about it. I'm lost in the green heart of Manhattan, free beneath the canopy of green leaves and glass towers. I'm getting coffee with Cosima, Cosima. This woman who managed to sweep me out of control upon first meeting. This woman dwarfed by a distinctive red coat, the collar of which smells like mint and sage and cannabis smoke. This woman with eyes like precious stones, cheeks brighter than any celestial body recorded by science, and hair in ever-bouncing locks. This woman who inhales with each exhale of this massive, hulking urban organism, who thrums with its very life. I look forward to the coffees we'll share, to walking hand-in-hand down the world-famous streets. A restless excitement tingles in my viscera at the thought of taking her to dinner, unpacking my favorite black-and-white cocktail dress and badgering her for recommendations hours before, because I'm still clueless as to what's what. I can imagine her bringing life to my empty, open, high-ceilinged loft, I wish to visit her in her quaint walk-up. I'd imagine it'd be just as unique and quirky as she's proven to be.
I look forward to so much alongside this once-perfect-stranger. My hope rises like skyscrapers, and it'll still stand as such later this evening, when I'm back in the solitude of my apartment. When I sit in the one chair not covered with boxes and books that have yet to be shelved, and stare out at the city that rolls over restlessly and shrugs away sleep. When I'm staring at the dress I plan on wearing four days from then on a date to this unassuming but intimate Italian restaurant in Alphabet city that Cosima'd unsubtly hinted at. When I'm toying with the beverage sleeve from a quirky espresso bar, that'd buzzed lazily like a smoked hive and had books of every possible title and subject lining its walls. When I'm staring at the ten-digit number inked into the paper sleeve with smooth black penmanship, and signed simply with a line of text, name and a doodled heart.
I'm definitely sold. See you soon Eskimo Pie,
–Cosima
A/N: Reviews are lovely, feel free to leave one!