What was so spectacular about a kiss anyway? Physical contact should not be arousing - excuse me, that's perhaps not the best word to use - triggering such a confusion of emotions in him: thrill, delight, apprehension, not to mention the libido he didn't know he had, chaotically tangled together like a bird's nest. In fact, an angel should not be responding to physical contact altogether. Such contact was never meant to be attached to anything more than its purpose; punching an adversary for example. Even that didn't require so much of a thought like "I sincerely hope this act of physical contact hurts you!"
Then again, a kiss was never an act he imagined himself doing. Especially not in the context he encountered. Kissing a crossroads demon had been a more likely prospect.
Nevertheless, this thieved kiss plagued him for the entire journey along West 54th, which was taken in complete silence, save for that notional "buzz".
There was this elusive "buzz" between them now and it was curious as to how quickly it evolved; after all, it had only been about two weeks since he met her. He watched her from the corners of his eyes; she was so maddeningly mellow! Impervious to the buzz, that's what she was.
It seemed that she was the only person to provoke his inherent male sensibility in an otherwise asexual spirit. She made him susceptible and rather willing to any potential acts of seduction... he was certain there was a less technical way of phrasing this, but God forbid if he ever asked Dean about it. Maybe he'll ask Sam...
The stars sniggered at his mental strife. Chaos and strife are the roots of all confusion, they recited accommodatingly. This wasn't a Bible passage, and frankly, it didn't help him regardless. The angel was convinced they were just mocking him now.
All such thoughts vanished when they turned into a very familiar street.
"Fifth Avenue," he murmured under his breath, his stride slowing upon remembrance as Audrey walked ahead.
She glanced back to him in surprise. "Eh?"
"I've been here before," he said, following her over the crosswalk, "I walked down this very road." Their eyes met. "The day I met you."
Her nonchalance faded when a smile emerged. "Interesting."
A few blocks ahead was the Fifth Avenue Star, suspended over an intersection. He couldn't recall it being there a couple of weeks ago, or at least not gorgeously illuminated like it was now. Rapt, he tilted his head and gazed admiringly at it; it was no Rockefeller Christmas Tree but it was still spellbinding. There was a sudden urge to reach out and touch it the way a cat would bat a ball of yarn. Then, remembering he had company, he found that Audrey was experiencing the same, except she was staring through the Zara shop window.
Walking along Fifth seemed to rekindle her bubbly attitude, much to his surprising relief. She bounced to and from store windows and ogled whatever was on display, but never succeeding to enter any of the ones still open at this hour, as Castiel had a fairly firm but not damaging grip on her wrist.
"Home, now," he chided gently, tugging her away while her other hand groped the air in vain, yearning to grab the Escada blazer in the display window.
It was in front of the Gucci Store at Trump Tower that they stopped again, but this time, she stared through the window exhibiting men's clothing. He didn't even want to ask.
She looked at him, then back at the window. Then at him. Then the window. Then at his shoes. Then the window. Then his shoes again, and lingering there.
"What kind of shoes are they?"
Puzzled, he followed her gaze downwards. "Uh... black ones?"
His answer, taken as sarcasm, was met with an impatient quirk of her eyebrow, which receded when she saw that he was being serious.
"Hmm." The way she then stared at his shoes with such a profound thoughtfulness had him feeling self-conscious about them. First the trench coat, then his face in general (well, he had asked for that one), then the hair, now this? What was next - his tie?
Her features suddenly grew with alarming enthusiasm. "Let me see!"
In a flash, she was on her knees and trying to pry his foot off of the ground. There was that buzz again, thankfully without its bee to make it obvious.
With wide eyes, he hissed, "What are you – ?"
"Lift up your damn foot!
He yielded immediately and, balancing on one foot, he cast a paranoid gaze around while she examined his shoe. Passing men stared on with envy while women giggled. He smiled awkwardly at one, acting as if this was a standard gesture to do in public.
"Please stand up," he said in a minimal voice, averting his eyes anywhere but down.
"But I'm not the real Slim Shady."
"I don't under--" There was no time for that! "You can look at my shoes later," he made a bewildered face at his own words, "if you must."
"No, I want to know if you're wearing the ones in the window!"
His fluster was put on pause and temporarily replaced with curiosity, and he peered over at the window. The headless mannequins wore shoes just like his - at least that's what he gathered from one glance.
"You could have just asked."
Immediately, she looked up at him inquisitively. "Are you?"
What did he know about shoes?
"... I don't know."
Curiosity fell from her face. "This is why I don't ask." And just when she was about to continue with her examination, she did a double take. "Does this make you uncomfortable?"
Her innocent gaze was almost convincing. He shot her a dark look that warned her that he saw through her facade, to which she broke by smirking impishly up at him. He sighed impatiently, his fluster rapidly creeping up on him once more.
"I'm trying to get you home safely and you're..." He made a vague gesture at her. "– going down on your knees."
"So? Isn't that what you people do when you want to talk to the Almighty?"
His scowl that followed screamed "Don't even go there", to which she grinned at.
"I'm sorry, that was below the belt." She paused. Then she laughed.
Much to his dismay, the double entendre did not fly over his head. He groaned, "Please stop talking."
"You shut up and lift those calves!"
Punching a specific joint in his knee, his leg jerked forward that required measure more.
He watched her, his impatience melting into a sort of bleak sense of amusement, sooner than he'd like to admit. Earlier that day, he assisted the Winchesters in exorcising (or "ganked" as Dean colloquially puts it) an extremely dangerous demon in Fremont County, Wyoming. Now, this.
"Calvin Klein," she finally determined, "Elton Oxfords. Not the ones in the window."
"How can you tell?"
"Castiel –" He helped pull her to her feet, and they continued their walk. "– you don't live near Fifth Avenue and not learn a thing or two about designer shoes."
Something about her then clicked in his mind.
It must have been noticeable, as she then asked, "What are you thinking?"
He stared at her, his eyes calculating, wondering if his observation would be found discourteous. "You are one of those women who enjoy shopping."
"So?" There was an undertone of offense in her voice, despite her smile. "Do you think I'm superficial?"
He paused, but was wise enough to know that too-long a pause would be taken as a "yes".
"I don't know enough about you to make judgment," he replied vaguely. "However, considering your profession, I'd assume you'd have to be concerned about outward appearances."
All traces of annoyance vanished and was replaced with genuine consideration. "Hm. I wouldn't say I'm superficial, 'cause that denotes negativity. I'm ... image-conscious?" she tried with a shrug. "And yeah, like you said, I could never be an artist if I wasn't. I can't take shots of inner beauty."
He nodded in comprehension.
"Besides, most people have the gift of sight, so why not give them something to look at? You don't use your sense of taste for something disgusting, so why should our eyes have to suffer?"
The nodding stopped, and he frowned. "Now you sound superficial."
At this, she looked at him; she didn't so much look at him as much as she skimmed through her previous words in her mind while staring in his general direction. Eventually, her brows puckered in realization.
"I know," she muttered ruefully. "I don't know if that's because I'm a photographer, or because I'm inherently a shallow New Yorker. You don't think differently of me, do you?"
"No." He knew her warm smile would disappear the moment he added, "I've always thought that about you."
"What? You've always thought I was superficial?"
"Not superficial, image-conscious," he said, pulling out her earlier used term. While she no longer appeared insulted, she still seemed unconvinced of this supposed fact. "You put effort into your appearance. You colored your hair an unnatural shade of red, you overindulge yourself with eyeliner –" Just as his observations had her automatically touching her hair and her eyes without conscious thought, his gaze flitted downwards. "– and since your clothing style is just as unconventional as the furniture back in the record store, I'd assume they fell into the same high price range."
Her chest swelled proudly. "Oh, they did!"
He continued, "Your hair is unusually healthy for chemically pigmented hair so I presume you go to great lengths to take care of it –"
"It's just lather, rinse and repeat –"
"– your nails are painted with glitter –"
"How did you know that? I'm wearing gloves!"
"– and your eyelashes are fake."
From what he assumed was an involuntary reaction, she blinked furiously. "Are not!"
"Yes they are," he nodded, his eyes insistent. He allowed a hint of knowing smile to cross his face. "I was close enough to notice them earlier."
This both silenced her and evoked a blush to spread across her face. Her smile tightened, thwarting off the laugh that had threatened earlier. Why she found the whole incident to be so funny, he didn't know, but nonetheless, he continued.
"And if you weren't so image-conscious, you'd be wearing shoes that didn't have you slipping all over the place."
"But they're Louis Vuitton!"
And with perfect timing, she indicated the window they were currently passing, and there they were: her boots, in two different colors, black and white, in the display window of the Louis Vuitton store. His first reaction was surprise; surprise that she could afford such a luxury. His second reaction, a bleak "That's not good enough" face, was responded with her making a face at him.
They continued onwards and around another corner in silence, and it wasn't until he noticed that she was no longer pressing her face against display windows, not even so much of a glance, that he spoke.
"Have I offended you?"
"No." Her defensive tone made it very clear that she was lying.
"I wasn't criticizing you," he added, his gaze mystified. "Your efforts are very representative of you and I don't want to be responsible for it changing."
A flattered smile slowly grew across her face. "Really? And what does all this," she gestured herself entirely, "represent?"
The opportunity to look at her up and down was presented to him, and he took it.
"Eccentricity," came his answer.
She hummed approvingly.
"And sexuality."
His words surprised him as much as they surprised her.
"What?"
There was no way of getting out of this one. He decided to take comfort in the fact that he was the one startling the other in this conversation.
"You're wearing a skirt in Winter."
"So - wha - bu--" she spluttered, struggling with words; he nearly grinned. Now she would see what it's like when the shoe was on the other foot!
Her nose wrinkled with indignation. "With-with-with stockings! It's fashion!"
"It's unwise."
She waved him off dismissively. "You just don't understand fashion!"
As if on the cue, a bus passed before them where they stood on a street corner, waiting to cross. On the face of the bus, it had a monochromatic advertisement for a pretentious designer brand, with a man wearing something extremely similar to Castiel, except with an undone tie. The model, of course, looked nothing like him, and more like Zac Efron with an obscene amount of airbrushing, with that typical model expression of looking directly into the sun, but nonetheless, it was a close enough resemblance to have them swapping glances. Castiel began to smirk when she glowered at him playfully.
"Don't even!" she sassed, holding a silencing finger up to his face as they began to cross. "And look, I'm not wearing a skirt because I think it's sexy! Okay? It's because it went with my outfit!"
"I'm confident that you have dozens of other clothes."
"Oh, you are such a typical male!" she laughed. "Having dozens of clothes is different from having something to wear!"
"How so?"
"It's like... cooking! You might have a lot of ingredients in the cupboard but you can't just put a random selection together and call it a good meal. And everyday," she gestured her attire extravagantly, "I'm aiming for gourmet."
He nodded, silently appreciating her metaphors. "That makes sense."
"I know it does!" she said triumphantly.
"You are a very –" he looked at her up and down, to ensure his metaphor was understood, "– unorthodox chef."
That could have been taken either way, and thankfully, she took it as a compliment, as intended. "Thanks!"
His sweeping glance had stopped indicatively on her skirt. "Couldn't you substitute one of the ingredients with another that is healthier but provides a taste just a decent?"
She narrowed her eyes. "I understand your metaphor, but what are you implying by saying "healthier"?" She tugged at the hem of her skirt, knowing his gaze lingered there. "Do you consider this unhealthy?"
"It's Winter," he pointed out.
"It's fashion!"
"That's hardly an argument," he countered as they approached another crosswalk.
"It's probably too extensive a field for you to understand," she scorned, sashaying across the road without him, but not without sending him a teasing look over her shoulder.
For a long moment, he just stood there, indulging in the rather pleasant effects of their verbal game of cat and mouse. With a charmed smile, he briskly followed her.
"See!" She grabbed him once he was within arm's reach and pointed surreptitiously at a woman across the street. "She's wearing a skirt!"
He followed her regard and indeed, there was a woman wearing a business suit, a pencil skirt that hugged her form to match, briefcase under the grip of her manicured claws, strutting with sheer confidence and with a face of vainglory - she probably fired someone today - as her pumps clicked and clacked loudly against the pavement.
This diversion had him colliding into a fellow pedestrian, who was walking the opposite way.
"Yo c'mon man, watch y'self!" cried the man before Castiel could apologize. This black man merely shook his head and scoffed something about "white muthas" as he wandered off with a rhythm in his step, and resumed browsing through his iPod.
He turned back to Audrey, who was laughing. "And that is why you don't leer!"
"I wasn't leering."
"Uh huh."
"I was... trying to see if she was wearing stockings like you."
"Was she?" she probed challengingly.
Much to his dismay, she had caught him there.
"I don't know."
A laugh escaped her. "You can tell if I'm wearing fake eyelashes, but you can't tell if some random girl is wearing stockings?"
"As I said earlier," he regarded her eloquently from the corners of his eyes, "I was close enough to notice them."
"Ah yes," she grinned in that brilliant way she did before their little incident that never happened, her eyes gleaming with recognition. "About that –" She then stopped him from walking any further by standing in front of him. "– are we gonna address that?"
The buzz returned. He hadn't expected her to raise that topic so explicitly. He immediately decided to allow their moment to fall into another silent stretch (which, who knows, could lead to another thing or two), but when she began to giggle, he just had to ask.
"Why is this humorous to you?"
"I have no idea!" she exclaimed, throwing her hands in the air. "I don't get embarrassed, so I guess that sort of thing manifests differently for me."
"I believe I can relate to that," he said thoughtfully.
She furrowed her brow skeptically and asked, "You don't get embarrassed?"
"No, I don't believe so."
She eyed him in a way that plainly conveyed her doubt. "I find that very hard to believe. You always look uncomfortable."
"Uncomfortable is different from mortification."
"Oh yeah? What about when you bumped into George earlier tonight and insulted him by speaking in broken English?"
"I'd say I was more regretful than humiliated."
"I see..."
Something wicked sparkled in her eye, to which he immediately matched with suspicion.
Suddenly, just as a portly, bald man waddled past, Audrey slapped this man on the backside like lightening. The man whipped around in alarm, and just when Castiel was about to question her about it, she yelled:
"Castiel! What the hell are you doing?"
His eyes flashed over at her, scandalized, and then darted to the stranger, his eyes wide with paranoia. His mouth opened and nothing emerged; he only watched as this man sized him up, shook his head, and grumbled "Goddamn queer..." as he trudged off.
Words still failed him as he watched the man toddle away, and his horrified gape fell into a mortified grimace, directed back at Audrey, who was smiling kittenishly.
"I'm sorry!" she laughed. "Here..." As a gesture of remorse, she pressed her lips against her two fingers, and then reached out and touched them against his own. Like magic, his scowl faded into a rather dazed stare.
Then, with a jolt, she chimed, "Well, goodnight!" and began to stroll away.
Figurative kiss forgotten, he frowned. "Where are you going?"
"You walked me home," she said, gesturing the building behind her.
"This is a shopping complex."
"No, it's a plaza, up until the 30th floor," she clarified, "and the rest are condos."
These words drew his gaze upwards. Bloomberg Tower loomed over them and apparently she lived up there. Designer shoes was one thing, but to live here? His gaze returned to hers, his expression unchanging, which she took as doubt.
"What, you don't believe me?" she asked. "Did you assume I lived in some dingy old flat somewhere?"
"Yes" ran through his mind, but he responded only with a vague shrug. With a smile, she offered her hand. "Come on then, I'll show you, it's a great view." He eyed her gloved hand warily, and then peered up at her with an equal amount of wariness, to which she chuckled at. "Don't worry, I'm not gonna try to seduce you, but I warn you, the view of the New York City might."
Looking back at this chapter, I'm glad I warned that this story has no plot; this is going absolutely nowhere, lol.
Also, if you haven't already noticed, I changed the title of the story to a more modern allusion to New York City. "These Vagabond Shoes" was a line from Frank Sinatra's "New York, New York", but I decided to change it to Jay-Z's anthemic ode to the city, "Empire State of Mind". Hope this didn't cause any confusion!
Read and review :D