"I don't get it – how can someone lose their desire for sex? Honestly."
Her interjection, incredulously lilted and more carrying than needed, hooked his attention away from the tangled graffiti on the subway floor.
Having bore witness to the snow plow's impromptu rendition of Moses' parting of the Red Sea and sustaining the firsthand reverberations of its effective performance, Audrey no longer wished to walk out in the cold, so they agreed – or, to be precise, he followed without dispute – on taking the subway. Oh, the subway. If, hypothetically speaking, winged unicorns of pure white and radiating of heaven's light (and, considering the style of this description, apparently designed by Dr. Seuss) delivered righteous souls to heaven, then a subway was in order for those less worthy.
There they were, sitting on those seats of a color and material which failed to charm those already annoyed to be taking the subway in the first place, having only the options of staring at the glazed looks worn by other passengers or out the window into the jarring visual staccato, wherein lies the risk of succumbing to a violent epileptic fit. It smelt, it was decaying, the halogen lights were dying – though its original anemic color should have indicated its impending demise … come to think of it, in some respects, Sam and Dean would have felt right at home.
He decided that taking the subway was more of a grudging necessity to most, rather than an actual preference. By the look on her face, he sensed she regretted this idea the moment she reluctantly claimed a seat that carried a phallic shaped piece of graffiti, while he took the one next to her. It seemed that growing up in Manhattan taught her wisely against being vocally dissatisfied about the subway, since it was the mutual opinion undesirably shared among passengers, so instead, she invested all attention into something else, and that was the New York Post she found under her seat.
And he had the sneaking suspicion, and hope, that it was an article or some form of commentary in that newspaper that inspired such an interjection.
At the time, he had been leaning forward with his chin rested on clasped hands, puzzling over what the near-unintelligible "Who watches the Watchmen?" graffiti on the floor could possibly mean.
When her interjection intervened his regard, he looked at her from over his shoulder – or rather, he more looked at the newspaper hiding her face.
"I beg your pardon?"
Tearing the newspaper away and already looking at him, she said, "This article I just read. It was about how you can regain your desire for sex." She scoffed. "I mean, who loses it in the first place?"
Almost as an unconscious intent for emphasis, he gave her a once-over. "In saying that, I presume you haven't lost yours?"
"I'm only human," she said dryly. "If I'm hungry, I eat. If I'm tired, I sleep. If I wanna have sex –" A rolling motion with her hand, "– it's all relative."
Wanting to continue with this logic, he lifted his chin a fraction. "I see. How often are you –" Unwittingly, his gaze darkened, "– hungry?"
Her lips quirked upwards, her expression otherwise remaining dry. "I'm not promiscuous, Cas, if that's what you're wondering. I don't literally go out and find a guy and sleep with them just because I want to. But that doesn't mean I don't … crave the feeling. And for that, I just don't understand why the average person can suddenly stop desiring it." Reflecting her words, she hastily added, "With another person! The real thing, not the, y'know, "solo performance". If someone can manage that, then I salute them," she finished, actually saluting.
"Victims of rape and domestic abuse," he suggested.
"Disregarding them; that's totally understandable."
"Virgins."
She chewed the inside of her lip for a thoughtful moment. "What kind of virgins? Some are virgins by choice, some aren't. And I'm almost convinced that the not-by-choice-virgins quite possibly desire sex more than the average ex-virgin. That's why teenagers are nothing but a big, billowing crowd of hormones."
"And the virgins by choice?"
"That's easy. They're virgins by choice because they don't desire sex – until marriage, that is, or whatever it is they're abstaining from." Frowning at herself, she shook away further reasoning and folded up the newspaper. "Look, I'm not trying to be completely literal here, I'm just saying," a smile crept onto her face, "y'know, what's not to like?"
All he could respond with was a sort of understanding nod as he turned away, facing forward intently, chin still rested on clasped hands. It was enough to translate to, "Hmm, you've given me a lot to think about", when really, he didn't know what sort of conclusion his mind was working to discover. Then, she gasped.
"Are you a virgin?"
Her words, though low and hushed, a tactful effort to emerge discreetly, still somehow drew the attention of all the women (and a few men) within a fifteen foot radius of their carriage. Becoming acutely aware of the sudden proverbial spotlight being shone on him, he sat up straight in his seat, a belated display of formality. Such a probing question would generally have him staring elsewhere for refuge, but it was presently difficult to do so when elsewhere held even more pairs of eyes subtly beckoning him for an answer.
"Audrey –" The sheer curiosity in her eyes made it wholly difficult to look at her, "– this is a very inappropriate discussion that we cannot by any means continue as we are about to reach our stop."
And within a beat, the subway began to screech to a steadying stop as the disembodied voice on the PA announced the station. Everyone else resumed their own preoccupations at once, but Audrey's determined gaze did not relent to reality as quickly. She acknowledged his luck, and his evasion, with a knowing smile. Something told him that this wasn't the end of that conversation.
"The streets are active, tonight," was the first thing he said once they exited the station and emerged out onto the streets. Despite the late hour, the streets were abuzz. Only in Manhattan.
"That's 'cause it's the eve of Christmas Eve." Her voice seemed unusually distracted, and tracing said voice to the face it transpired from, he found that her eyes were attached to an approaching couple. Couple, as in, a zealous young man whom he recognized and his tiny dog, who wore a Christmassy tutu. The poor, unfortunate soul.
"Why, if it isn't the little mermaid, Ariel herself!" Nicky addressed amiably, effeminate lisp still in effect, fluttering his fingers at them both while still holding onto the dog leash swaggered with diamantes. He inflicted his vibrant grin onto Castiel. "And Mr. Familiar Face!" The grin floundered into a grimace as he took in the angel's attire. "Mr… Familiar Trench Coat and Suit Ensemble … hurm."
While Audrey acknowledged him simply with a wry smile – they were beyond the stage in their friendship where affection had to be verbal – Castiel greeted him with a modest hello.
"Evident lack of imagination in the wardrobe department aside, how have you been?" There was no opportunity to answer; it was as if Nicky had the ability to glean answers out of nothing. "Have you been working out? Tsk. Been doin' a few laps at the YMCA, have you? I'm not allowed there anymore. Something about public indiscretion."
Smiling sweetly, she cooed with mock sympathy. "Sometimes I feel verbal communication should fall under public indiscretion when it comes to you, honey."
In response, he took a rascally bite out of the air in her direction before resuming, "I don't need 'em anyway. Who would want airborne sweat sidling into their lungs? Yech. It couldn't have been good for my soprano pipes, tailored specifically for the the-a-ter. Oh! This is my bitch!" Beaming proudly, he pointed a thumb at the dog at his feet, "Monica Lewinsky. MONICA!" he raged, noticing the apparent friskiness of the canine. "What did I just say about doing that in public? Keep at it and you can expect a visit from the smack fairy! And do we want any drama llamas? No siree, we do not!"
He muttered something resembling "You're a frisky little thing tonight, arencha?" before thrusting the handle of the dog leash to Audrey as though it were a dead bird.
"Be a doll and hold this for a sec, wouldja?"
The instant she accepted the handle, he gave two brisk claps, prompting the dog to charge forward like a bat out of hell, forcibly towing an unsuspecting Audrey with her. As they watched her struggle to keep pace with the skittish canine, all the while squealing some particularly unladylike things, Nicky turned to the angel with a devious smile, striking a hint of dread in him right away.
"That should keep her occupied for the ninety seconds us boys so sorely need." Castiel did his best not to manifest a pained expression of "Do we really?", and instead, blinked expectantly at him.
"Sooo, you and Audrey… is this a date?" he asked, his tone strangely wilted, as though he was not happy about this at all, despite the smile he wore.
"Not exactly."
"Ah, not exactly, I see, I see," he echoed breathlessly. From the way his eyes narrowed, Castiel suspected he was attempting to read between the lines. "Well well well, just so you know," he resumed stiffly, pulling out his Banana Republic wallet and ferreted for something inside, "my girl rarely goes out into the rain without a raincoat if you catch my drift, so –" Nicky took the angel's hand and placed something there, closing his fingers over it for him, "– use it in case things get a bit wet," he winked devilishly, a proud smirk manifesting at his own mischief.
Castiel opened his hand, peering at the object. He had seen these in her bedside drawer. He had even seen a few of these in Dean's bags.
He glanced back up at Nicky quizzically. "What does this have to do with rain?"
Nicky only managed to look at him for a split second with that all too familiar look of incredulity following his recurring demonstrations of naivety, but that was when Audrey, who had finally gathered control of the frisky Monica Lewinsky, came rushing back, panting.
"Hey, what's that?"
A panicked gape was immediately thrown the angel's way by Nicky, and any other man would promptly close their hand, but having little concept of shame, especially when it came to matters he only understood on a surface level, said gape virtually bounced right off of him. So, she saw it, right there in his hand, in its prophylactic glory. Wondering what he did wrong, he frowned between the two; she had reddened and begun to look mildly affronted, while Nicky grimaced so hard it appeared to pain him. In a frantic haste, he seized the leash from her hands, and scuttled off in another direction.
"Uh, uhh, 'til we meet again, sweet prince - goodnight, goodnight! Parting is such a sweet sorrow, seize the day; reduce, reuse, recycle; vote democrat, wear a condom, remember, remember the fifth of November; Scaramouche, Scaramouche, will you do the fandango? After all, tomorrow is another dayyy—" Random phrases continued to gush in abundance until he was beyond earshot.
Audrey was still helplessly floundering between amusement and indignance. "Cas, um… what do you… what do you expect to happen when you … when we arrive at my … place of residence?"
"Nothing."
A decidedly approving nod. "That's right. Now –" She closed his fingers over the plastic and guided his hand accordingly, "let's put that away and just, um…" It intrigued him how effortlessly he was able to fluster her lately, when his hand closed around hers as they both dipped into the pocket of his coat to deposit the object. Her "um"'s progressed breathlessly as he drew his venturesome fingers languidly up her wrist. The entire time, he watched her with unmoved curiosity as her eyes lowered reluctantly to his touch at her inner wrist; watched as she stopped breathing entirely to prevent a bout of panting that threatened to betray; watched as her face began to burn, possibly at the emergence of the indecent theory that his slow onslaught was perhaps an implicit display of … technique.
He watched as she struggled to conceive an exit strategy from his pleasantly distracting touch, then finally, she managed to latch onto a sliver of composure as she wrenched her hand away.
"Anywaythankyouforthat, I'mjustgonna —"
Reeling away from him too frenziedly, she collided with a very small lady who looked to be in the ideal mood to kick some cute farm animals. While Audrey apologized, the lady muttered something into her generous bosom in another language that she wouldn't have understood. But Castiel did.
"Perdóname –" Both the strength of his tone and unexpected language use barred her from trudging off in a Spanish huff; at her attention, his gaze sharpened authoritatively, "– pero ella no es una puta estadounidense mensa." The Latina's eyes flew open in alarm. Audrey, to whom he nodded a head towards, witnessed the exchange in amazement. "Pienso que debes disculpas a esta señorita."
Ignorant to what was being said, Audrey had been staring at him in astonishment when she was suddenly bombarded with profuse apologies from the lady, switching to and from English and Spanish. Then, the Latina scampered away like the frightened little lamb she would have been fully prepared in kicking earlier as she turned to him, an inquisitive look unsurprisingly etched across her face.
"Um, care to clarify?"
"She called you a stupid American whore."
"WHAT?"
"But then apologized incessantly."
She deflated with gratitude, though her brow remained furrowed, as if disgruntled she hadn't the chance to speak to the woman herself. "Thank you, I guess, my, uh, bilingual hero," she smiled weakly.
The immediate urge to inform her that he actually knew of all languages ever existed appeared, but he eased it aside. "You're welcome."
The steam of their previous scene shared began to seep back into the foreground, fogging all formality, very nearly masking the sound of her phone ringing. They held eye contact as she answered.
"Hello?" She broke eye contact, her expression lurching like a meerkat. "Oh! Hi, hiya Daddy."
Well if that didn't serve as a metaphorical bucket of cold water! Their walk resumed as she became immersed in conversation for a full five minutes. He had the courtesy to turn a deaf ear to it, until this part of the conversation came along:
"You're visiting soon? That's brilliant!" This was oddly off-putting.
"I kept your room just the way you like it." And he'd be staying at her apartment? How … bothersome.
"And you can meet my new friend, Castiel!" He paled.
"He's really nice. Although, Daddy, I don't know why, but he really insists on touching me." He gave her a look that could have knocked that phone right out of her hands.
"You sure? 'Cause he seems like a good guy. He hasn't told me his surname yet though. Or his job. Or where he lives. Hm. That is suspicious, actually. Well. I'll have you decide when you meet him."
Apparently angels were not immune to the dread that was "meeting the parents", which was ironic, considering who his Father was. Much to his comfort, the conversation fell into something unrelated to him, but the dismal note of its eventual close did not elude him.
"Is something wrong?" he asked, watching as she somberly toyed with the phone in her hands.
Her gaze shot to him, as though she'd forgotten his presence, before smiling wanly. "I'm fine. My dad just mentioned my mom. She passed away ten years ago."
His brow furrowed sympathetically. "I'm sorry." Internally, he had blanched at her mention of death. Death was probably the closest detail of her life that related to why he was presently among mankind. It brought him to the obvious yet easily forgotten reality that she was human and he was an angel. He rather enjoyed the quiet bliss of not having this fact overtly rooted in his mind.
"She died before I turned nineteen," she went on, hardly acknowledging his remorse as she fixated on the memory, "Daddy moved to London and married the Camilla to my mom's Diana." Her tone was detached, and even by studying her, he couldn't quite fathom where her sentiments resided for these statements. Eyes widened with a childlike inquisitiveness were suddenly on him. "Do you have any siblings, Cas? I have a sister. Sigourney. The favorite daughter."
He frowned. "What do you mean?"
A nostalgic smile arose, almost reluctantly. "Our parents loved us very much but… I couldn't help but get the feeling that she was favored. Which is odd. Usually the younger one – which is me – is more often favored. I was always a Marlon, never a Michael. Or even a LaToya."
There was silence as he supposedly absorbed this in a respectful quiet, when really, he was working fruitlessly to make sense of her usage of people's names as countable nouns.
"What about you? What's your family's story?"
Unprepared for when she threw him this delicate question, it nearly rendered him motionless. His face clouded as he mentally groped for a story stretched beyond recognition but still airing of the truth.
"I would say it's not too different from yours." He hoped that would appease, but evidently, her interest only furthered. Frowning harder, he searched for more ambiguously truthful words. "My Father spawned many sons and daughters. We each had our moments of … prominence with him…" His closing tone suggested that there was more to be said, but nothing emerged. Fortunately, she already seemed appeased with what little she had derived from him.
"Are you close to your … many siblings?" she smiled demurely, as though shyly amused by this.
"My family is alike to a garrison," he said, his tone stern but wandering slightly as he became lost in this grim reality. "We are as close as those of a garrison could possibly become."
"So you don't talk to them?"
"We hope to never have to. Almost always, when those moments come by, the reasons are unsurprisingly very dire." Then, somewhat of a startling afterthought: Gabriel was an exception.
"Wow. No offense, but your family sounds all shades of screwed up."
He actually breathed out a small chuckle. "Yes."
"Doesn't that disappoint you though? Don't you long for some sort of … togetherness?"
He stared at her, contemplating the word as though it was written on her face. "I suppose it's no concern of mine as I've never experienced it."
Pity burst theatrically onto her face. "Tsk, awww, Cas! No wonder you're so frigid! C'mere." Hiking herself up onto her toes and wrapping her arms around his neck, she embraced him in a hug.
His immediate reaction was to wrap his arms around her likewise, with a hesitance born of surprise and confusion. Both were induced by the unexpected gesture itself, obviously, and also the fact that she was doing it after so vehemently rebuffing his own. Cursed mixed signals! His second reaction was that of realization, upon seeing that they stood before the elevator doors that led to her home.
Her home. Enclosed, roughly four hundred feet above ground level and agreeably private. Click! went the vanishing light of his halo.
It was curious how the most basic physical touch – with her, at least – worked as such a powder keg of the human instinct that was desire, despite his divine discipline. It was an internal development that had made itself at home in his subconscious, each time emerging from its confines more enthusiastic than ever. Such was his present condition. A combination of her closeness, the threshold to the conveyance that would lead to her personal dwellings, and the vanilla smell of her hair he encountered when he turned his head towards hers, struck that experimental chord in him that had possessed him so notoriously often that night. Slowly, the hands he had splayed across her shoulder blades began to descend.
Almost immediately, he felt a slight turn of her head. "Castiel… what are you doing?"
When he felt her unwrap her arms from around him and make a tentative effort to withdraw from the embrace, his hold loaded a pressure that locked her against him. The hug very predictably failed to retain an ounce of platonic…ness, as was occurring with alarming regularity with everything. At their proximity, she was unable to hide from him her short intake of breath as his hands came to rest at the small of her back. This allowed her the liberty to arch back her upper half in order to look at him face to face, which is what he was expecting. When she did, he went for the lips. But she was quick.
"Stop it!" she laughed, lightly shoving him away at the chest but then keeping her hand there. "Friends don't kiss!"
"I don't feel very friendly at present," he said, pursuing her again, but being denied once more by a finger on his lips. Of all things, the sound of the elevator's ding! succeeded to pry them apart, and emerging from it was Marilyn and her two friends who sported enough fake tan to earn them a role on Jersey Shore. She appraised Audrey, upright in her weather-beaten splendor, before grinning.
"Hot damn, Audrey, what happened to you? You look filthy!" She didn't even bother to affect a notion of concern.
"He made us take a detour through Central Park," she replied, pointing a thumb at him. "Can't keep his hands off me, if you know what I mean."
He made no move to acknowledge that, as it happened to be somewhat accurate. Marilyn's grin froze into place as her eyes went cold, making what was contrived to be a whir of amusement but instead came out a strangled sound of frustration before marching away with her Oompa-Loompa-like friends. He sensed their collective attraction leaning towards him like the towers of Pisa.
And then, there were two again. There was a stillness between them, tinglingly repressive as it was procured by their joint efforts of restraint, serving as a barrier between them, almost literally, considering how thick with inclination said stillness was. Then, with an almost joking stride and that practiced grin that often appeared in the presence of such suspense, she ambled backwards into the elevator carriage, exuding a sort of inviting quality that had him following her for a few steps.
"Do you need me to accompany y—"
"No no! I'm perfectly capable of getting off on my own." Her eyes jolted wide open. "I–I mean, getting there on my own!"
There was a faint satisfaction embedded into his smile that nearly made it a smirk. "Audrey, that elevator is descending to the basement."
Her gaze flew up to the floor indicator before her jaw dropped in righteous umbrage. "Oh, son of a—!"
The doors slid shut before she could get the final word out, and Castiel simply turned to leave, unable to restrain that smirk any longer.
I GOT INTO MY FILM SCHOOL. I'd edit this chapter more but I cannot function right now.
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