Abstract
by intodust
Disclaimer: Dark Angel is the property of 20th Century Fox and Cameron/Eglee Productions; that is, it's not mine.
Takes place during Season One.
- - -
Steady, hollow pounding on the floor, the smooth pull of muscle under flesh and cloth. It's late and outside the windows, the stars are brilliant in the darkness, though their brightness is lessened by the glare of harsh yellow lights. The unnatural light reflects clearly on the gleaming floor, a cheap imitation of the rich sky. She's standing in the doorway for a long time before he realizes that she's there, and when he does, it's still too early. She wonders how he knew - she knows she didn't make any noise.
He hesitates mid-throw and lowers his arms without releasing the ball. She knows he's going to turn, and then he does, spinning the chair with a familiar easy grace. He doesn't say anything when he sees her and she raises her eyebrows in acknowledgment, concession. He's caught her. If she'd wanted to, she could have fallen back into the shadows and he wouldn't have seen her. He knows that she could have, too, and that she didn't. Both are equally important. "You didn't answer your phone," she says, but that doesn't explain why she's here, why she isn't waiting for him within the smooth confines of his apartment.
He shrugs. "Didn't hear it." His bag lies open on the bleachers; she thinks she sees the silver gleam of the phone. So he didn't want to talk - she doesn't blame him.
"Figured as much." She doesn't say why she called, and he doesn't ask. She steps forward, out from the doorway, and her boots are loud on the polished floor as she comes to stand next to him. His hair is damp and his t-shirt is dark with sweat, and she wonders how long he was here before she arrived, but she won't ask. She wonders if he played before, too, but she won't ask that, either. The gymnasium is warm and she's suddenly conscious of the weight of her hair on her neck, the heaviness of her jacket. It's winter, but she still feels a flush, an intensity. He tilts his head, looks almost like he's going to speak, and then there's a thud and a whir and somewhere off in the distance, the ventilation system comes to life.
"Did you," he begins, and then he stops. She pauses, wondering if he's going to tell her to leave, that he'll meet her later, and then he tosses the basketball to her. She catches it with one hand and the worn rubber's smooth against her palm. He raises an eyebrow in challenge and she nods, taking a step back and measuring her position, though she doesn't need to. The ball arcs through the air, slides through the net, and bounces to the ground, echoing dully as it slows to a stop.
Point.
She watches as he wheels forward, reaches down and grabs the ball. He returns to her side, and then he turns the chair, his back to the net, and his eyes are dark with concentration. He lets go, finally, tosses it back, and she watches as it falls gracefully through the basket. He doesn't turn to judge his aim, but he doesn't need to; he smiles at the look on her face and at the sound of the uneven rhythm as the ball comes to rest. "You got plans for tonight?" he asks.
"Depends. You cooking?" She retrieves the basketball and tosses it to him. He catches it easily and rolls it between graceful hands while he considers his decision.
"I could," he says, and she nods.
"In that case, I'm free." She watches as he stuffs the basketball back into his bag, as he zips the pack closed, and then she follows him to the exit.
- - -
The air is bitter, promising snow, and the stars are even brighter out here. The metal frames of his glasses glint in the cold light and the lights of the city are as distant as the stars themselves.
- - -
The End.
Feedback, as always, is much appreciated.
by intodust
Disclaimer: Dark Angel is the property of 20th Century Fox and Cameron/Eglee Productions; that is, it's not mine.
Takes place during Season One.
- - -
Steady, hollow pounding on the floor, the smooth pull of muscle under flesh and cloth. It's late and outside the windows, the stars are brilliant in the darkness, though their brightness is lessened by the glare of harsh yellow lights. The unnatural light reflects clearly on the gleaming floor, a cheap imitation of the rich sky. She's standing in the doorway for a long time before he realizes that she's there, and when he does, it's still too early. She wonders how he knew - she knows she didn't make any noise.
He hesitates mid-throw and lowers his arms without releasing the ball. She knows he's going to turn, and then he does, spinning the chair with a familiar easy grace. He doesn't say anything when he sees her and she raises her eyebrows in acknowledgment, concession. He's caught her. If she'd wanted to, she could have fallen back into the shadows and he wouldn't have seen her. He knows that she could have, too, and that she didn't. Both are equally important. "You didn't answer your phone," she says, but that doesn't explain why she's here, why she isn't waiting for him within the smooth confines of his apartment.
He shrugs. "Didn't hear it." His bag lies open on the bleachers; she thinks she sees the silver gleam of the phone. So he didn't want to talk - she doesn't blame him.
"Figured as much." She doesn't say why she called, and he doesn't ask. She steps forward, out from the doorway, and her boots are loud on the polished floor as she comes to stand next to him. His hair is damp and his t-shirt is dark with sweat, and she wonders how long he was here before she arrived, but she won't ask. She wonders if he played before, too, but she won't ask that, either. The gymnasium is warm and she's suddenly conscious of the weight of her hair on her neck, the heaviness of her jacket. It's winter, but she still feels a flush, an intensity. He tilts his head, looks almost like he's going to speak, and then there's a thud and a whir and somewhere off in the distance, the ventilation system comes to life.
"Did you," he begins, and then he stops. She pauses, wondering if he's going to tell her to leave, that he'll meet her later, and then he tosses the basketball to her. She catches it with one hand and the worn rubber's smooth against her palm. He raises an eyebrow in challenge and she nods, taking a step back and measuring her position, though she doesn't need to. The ball arcs through the air, slides through the net, and bounces to the ground, echoing dully as it slows to a stop.
Point.
She watches as he wheels forward, reaches down and grabs the ball. He returns to her side, and then he turns the chair, his back to the net, and his eyes are dark with concentration. He lets go, finally, tosses it back, and she watches as it falls gracefully through the basket. He doesn't turn to judge his aim, but he doesn't need to; he smiles at the look on her face and at the sound of the uneven rhythm as the ball comes to rest. "You got plans for tonight?" he asks.
"Depends. You cooking?" She retrieves the basketball and tosses it to him. He catches it easily and rolls it between graceful hands while he considers his decision.
"I could," he says, and she nods.
"In that case, I'm free." She watches as he stuffs the basketball back into his bag, as he zips the pack closed, and then she follows him to the exit.
- - -
The air is bitter, promising snow, and the stars are even brighter out here. The metal frames of his glasses glint in the cold light and the lights of the city are as distant as the stars themselves.
- - -
The End.
Feedback, as always, is much appreciated.
