CHAPTER 3
This takes place a few weeks after the last chapter.
A Grandma babysitting for her son watched absentmindedly the good looking, dark haired Irish man attempting to find his keys whilst simultaneously balancing his shopping, his briefcase, an open bottle of whisky and some modelling clay.
Doyle found the keys and pushed his door open. His apartment wasn't big by anyone's standard, but it contained so many THINGS.
There are some people who when they move in someone they inhabit it completely. Every corner, however small, becomes filled with something that is THEIRS, to prove that this is THEIR place, and not YOURS. Doyle was one of those people and as he collapsed on the couch he crushed a Nirvada tribute tissue box and a small photo frame with a picture of his mother standing proudly in front of their first house.
His shut his eyes and fell into a doze almost immediately.
His world swirled around; the persistent knocking that was getting noticeably louder was disturbing his dream (whatever it was, he'd forgotten now.)
Door. He mind told him groggily, there's someone at the Door.
He stretched and, knocking the shopping of his lap where he'd dropped it, got up to answer.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Harry had always wanted to work with alternative health. Well since she was fifteen and someone had told her it was what hippies do. Because, she'd always been into things that were new, adventurous, and hippies had started a whole generation finding things that were new and adventurous. That was what they represented, and she wanted to represent it too.
But unfortunately, the only alternative health shop any around Breakstone where she lived was the size of a very small garage and only stocked things like herbal tea. It was run by an Indian woman called Amrita and a Texan called Brooklyn who were teaching Harry how to do acupressure and massage. (Unsuccessfully, so far.)
So on a sunny but cold Tuesday in late December Harry was standing at the counter whilst Amrita made tea for a disgruntled customer who had been the victim of one of Harry's early massage attempts.
She had her covered her face in her hands. She hadn't been happy for a long time, but hey that's not new is it? And it was a vague unhappiness that no one can do anything about anyway.
She sighed, because she started thinking about that Irish guy from the soup kitchen.
The street was busy outside, cars rocketing past. It was December but the tiny tree outside was still gripping to the last few of it's leaves, and they huge on mercilessly until a large man in a big, black, pinstripe suit walked past and they plunged to the ground. The shadows were short and the sun was a big, pale oval in the winter sky.
Why hadn't I noticed him before, she thought? He'd hardly spoke to her since the day she came, but he'd when she'd heard him with the rest of them he'd seemed funny; and so chilled out! And when he'd spoke to her that day she'd wanted to believe he was just being nice, but how could he be when it had sounded so scripted?
She formed a picture of him in her head, just a bit taller than her, dark hair, blue eyes, and cute smile. Nice ass, she remembered, grinning.
"Why am I such a fuck up?!" She asked out loud. She heard the customer in the back mutter yell something back, but she ignored it.
Suddenly, it came to Harry in a flash. She would find him! She reached under the desk to find the huge, battered A-Z Brooklyn used to stand on when he was changing the light bulb.
Thumbing through it she got a feeling of change hurtling towards her, unknowingly echoing Doyle's feeling from the night they argued.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The door swung open, and there she was. Her hair loose and forming curls barely two inches long sticking up everywhere. It's cute, Doyle thought.
"Uh, there's a buzzer." He began, on autopilot because he'd just been woken up.
"S'not working." She said, eyes moving nervously across the floor; she was regretting coming here.
Doyle nodded. Most things in his apartment block didn't work.
"I came to talk to you..." She started. Doyle nodded and smiled again and backed against the wall with his arm out gesturing for her to go in.
They went inside and he sat back on the couch, a multi-coloured blanket slung over the back. She stayed standing, painfully uncomfortable.
"I'm sorry-" Doyle started looking up at her.
"I'm sorry-" Harry started simultaneously, looking up from the floor.
They smiled half-heartedly. "Why are you sorry?" Harry whispered, blushing bright red.
"I was gonna say the same thing, princess!" Doyle laughed, "But I still got the hand print on my face to remind me!" He paused and took a deep breath, serious, "I'm sorry, I didn't say that stuff JUST to get you to kiss me, if it helps."
"Doesn't matter." She said, "Listen, I'm just like a load of other people alright? A real fuck-up. I over react, and I do stupid things, and I act like a j-jerk." She shook herself to stop herself stuttering like an idiot.
Doyle stood up. He reached out and touched her the cheek softly. "You're not a jerk."
She laughed and reached up to put her hand over his, "How do you know? How do you know we're not both fuck ups?"
"Course we are, precious. But so what?" he looked away from her with his eyes, "Sorry if I upset you, you didn't need to track me down." He said, now incredibly nervous. Did she like him or not?
"Hey!" she said sharply, still holding his hand. Her voice softened "Let's agree on something OK? No more apologies, either of us."
"No. Never."
And she leaned softly forward and their lips met, drawing the pair into the kiss so they forgot everything around them, all the worries and the apologies, and just thought about the two of them.
"Shut the frickin' door!" Hollered the man who had come to pick up kids from his mother.
And that was 'Doyle and Harry' started.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
TBC Please review.
This takes place a few weeks after the last chapter.
A Grandma babysitting for her son watched absentmindedly the good looking, dark haired Irish man attempting to find his keys whilst simultaneously balancing his shopping, his briefcase, an open bottle of whisky and some modelling clay.
Doyle found the keys and pushed his door open. His apartment wasn't big by anyone's standard, but it contained so many THINGS.
There are some people who when they move in someone they inhabit it completely. Every corner, however small, becomes filled with something that is THEIRS, to prove that this is THEIR place, and not YOURS. Doyle was one of those people and as he collapsed on the couch he crushed a Nirvada tribute tissue box and a small photo frame with a picture of his mother standing proudly in front of their first house.
His shut his eyes and fell into a doze almost immediately.
His world swirled around; the persistent knocking that was getting noticeably louder was disturbing his dream (whatever it was, he'd forgotten now.)
Door. He mind told him groggily, there's someone at the Door.
He stretched and, knocking the shopping of his lap where he'd dropped it, got up to answer.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Harry had always wanted to work with alternative health. Well since she was fifteen and someone had told her it was what hippies do. Because, she'd always been into things that were new, adventurous, and hippies had started a whole generation finding things that were new and adventurous. That was what they represented, and she wanted to represent it too.
But unfortunately, the only alternative health shop any around Breakstone where she lived was the size of a very small garage and only stocked things like herbal tea. It was run by an Indian woman called Amrita and a Texan called Brooklyn who were teaching Harry how to do acupressure and massage. (Unsuccessfully, so far.)
So on a sunny but cold Tuesday in late December Harry was standing at the counter whilst Amrita made tea for a disgruntled customer who had been the victim of one of Harry's early massage attempts.
She had her covered her face in her hands. She hadn't been happy for a long time, but hey that's not new is it? And it was a vague unhappiness that no one can do anything about anyway.
She sighed, because she started thinking about that Irish guy from the soup kitchen.
The street was busy outside, cars rocketing past. It was December but the tiny tree outside was still gripping to the last few of it's leaves, and they huge on mercilessly until a large man in a big, black, pinstripe suit walked past and they plunged to the ground. The shadows were short and the sun was a big, pale oval in the winter sky.
Why hadn't I noticed him before, she thought? He'd hardly spoke to her since the day she came, but he'd when she'd heard him with the rest of them he'd seemed funny; and so chilled out! And when he'd spoke to her that day she'd wanted to believe he was just being nice, but how could he be when it had sounded so scripted?
She formed a picture of him in her head, just a bit taller than her, dark hair, blue eyes, and cute smile. Nice ass, she remembered, grinning.
"Why am I such a fuck up?!" She asked out loud. She heard the customer in the back mutter yell something back, but she ignored it.
Suddenly, it came to Harry in a flash. She would find him! She reached under the desk to find the huge, battered A-Z Brooklyn used to stand on when he was changing the light bulb.
Thumbing through it she got a feeling of change hurtling towards her, unknowingly echoing Doyle's feeling from the night they argued.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The door swung open, and there she was. Her hair loose and forming curls barely two inches long sticking up everywhere. It's cute, Doyle thought.
"Uh, there's a buzzer." He began, on autopilot because he'd just been woken up.
"S'not working." She said, eyes moving nervously across the floor; she was regretting coming here.
Doyle nodded. Most things in his apartment block didn't work.
"I came to talk to you..." She started. Doyle nodded and smiled again and backed against the wall with his arm out gesturing for her to go in.
They went inside and he sat back on the couch, a multi-coloured blanket slung over the back. She stayed standing, painfully uncomfortable.
"I'm sorry-" Doyle started looking up at her.
"I'm sorry-" Harry started simultaneously, looking up from the floor.
They smiled half-heartedly. "Why are you sorry?" Harry whispered, blushing bright red.
"I was gonna say the same thing, princess!" Doyle laughed, "But I still got the hand print on my face to remind me!" He paused and took a deep breath, serious, "I'm sorry, I didn't say that stuff JUST to get you to kiss me, if it helps."
"Doesn't matter." She said, "Listen, I'm just like a load of other people alright? A real fuck-up. I over react, and I do stupid things, and I act like a j-jerk." She shook herself to stop herself stuttering like an idiot.
Doyle stood up. He reached out and touched her the cheek softly. "You're not a jerk."
She laughed and reached up to put her hand over his, "How do you know? How do you know we're not both fuck ups?"
"Course we are, precious. But so what?" he looked away from her with his eyes, "Sorry if I upset you, you didn't need to track me down." He said, now incredibly nervous. Did she like him or not?
"Hey!" she said sharply, still holding his hand. Her voice softened "Let's agree on something OK? No more apologies, either of us."
"No. Never."
And she leaned softly forward and their lips met, drawing the pair into the kiss so they forgot everything around them, all the worries and the apologies, and just thought about the two of them.
"Shut the frickin' door!" Hollered the man who had come to pick up kids from his mother.
And that was 'Doyle and Harry' started.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
TBC Please review.