I Know You'd Really Like Me, But I Never Stick Around

I spent the entire afternoon playing phonetag, trying to get any one of a half-dozen people to talk to me to distract me from terminal boredom while waiting for the bus/bus-sickness once the bus finally came. How dare everyone I know have lives that include plans on a Saturday afternoon that aren't talking to me! *huffs*

The evening was devoted to watching the White House Correspondents' Dinner on C-SPAN, because I am a gigantic dork. But, but, you guys, my president! He is so awesome! And adorable! And funny! And he made jokes about Michael Steele, and Rush Limbaugh, and people pissing on poor Timmy! And a joke about gay-marrying Axelrod OMG HOW IS THIS MAN THE PRESIDENT I LOVE HIM SO FUCKING MUCH.

(Also Wanda Sykes was brilliantly fabulous and I want to marry her in Iowa. I could not stop cracking up all through her bit about Michelle's sleeves, and Faux News' blow-up tomorrow about her calling Limbaugh treasonous and how Keith should waterboard Hannity is going to be beautiful to behold)

I've been writing a little. On occasion. When I'm not distracted by shiny things like the President. Aside from all my non-finished yet fanfics, I'm (theoretically) working on a bunch of Five Things stories for The Big Damn Superhero Novel - it's a good way of getting a grip on my characters and their backstories, and adding to my lists of Things What Happen In The Novel.

From the Jake/Shane list (Five Times Jake and Shane Held Hands): the first time Jake meets Shane, he's a stranger in a mask, asking him to join a team.

“So you’ll do it?” Shield asks, and Jake likes to believe there’s a trace of a hopeful waver under that infernally calm and even tone.

“I’ll think about it,” he growls. It’s a lie. He’ll give it a few days maybe, but his mind was made up before Shield spoke. If the man had asked him to jump out a twentieth-story window, his boots would be scraping the windowsill before he had second thoughts. But he can’t say that.

Shield holds out a gold-gloved hand for him to shake, and Jake ignores the momentary impulse to refuse it, just to see that steady smile fade. Even through two layers of thick, stubbly leather, he can feel the heat of Shield’s skin, all the energy pulsing through his veins. His grip is measured tight, his handshake is firm, and Jake can’t resist holding it a beat too long.

“I will see you again,” Shield says, and steps backward off the rooftop.

Jake stands still as a shadow, studying the scrap of paper left in his hand. It refuses to give him any answers – just a date, an address across town, and the scrawled words ‘meet me here.’ He does not think about the lingering warmth clinging to the black leather where his hand touched Shield’s.

Three blocks away a siren wails to life, and the Watchman hears it.