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[ for peter ]
Dec. 1st, 2012 11:53 amThe island was different.
But this wasn't the old west, like the last time Neal woke up to everything being changed.
This was New York. Home. He never thought that he'd see home again -- when he left, he had no expectation of ever seeing New York again. He'd run, and he'd left behind everything he knew, because the alternative -- staying, Kramer, DC -- was worse.
For just a moment, he thought that he was back in the real New York, but that illusion was shattered the instant he stepped outside and began seeing familiar faces -- familiar island faces.
He did his best to ignore it, and pretend instead that he was home. It was a fantasy he would keep up for as long as it was feasible. He didn't realize exactly how much he yearned for home until it came back to him, in the island's slightly altered form. Neal had went out and outfitted himself in what felt most natural to him -- suit, tie, shoes, wool coat, cashmere scarf. It was almost like stealing, except for the fact that everyone was doing it and no one was going to get in trouble for it. The clerks at the stores just waved him off when he tried to pay for anything, anyway.
Neal found himself roaming the city, feet taking him down familiar paths, until he found himself standing outside of the Guggenheim. There was a familiar tug, deep down, pulling him towards it, for reasons less sedate than just browsing, but he ignored it, hands clenched into tight fists in his pockets.
All because he could take something didn't mean he was going to.
Probably.
But this wasn't the old west, like the last time Neal woke up to everything being changed.
This was New York. Home. He never thought that he'd see home again -- when he left, he had no expectation of ever seeing New York again. He'd run, and he'd left behind everything he knew, because the alternative -- staying, Kramer, DC -- was worse.
For just a moment, he thought that he was back in the real New York, but that illusion was shattered the instant he stepped outside and began seeing familiar faces -- familiar island faces.
He did his best to ignore it, and pretend instead that he was home. It was a fantasy he would keep up for as long as it was feasible. He didn't realize exactly how much he yearned for home until it came back to him, in the island's slightly altered form. Neal had went out and outfitted himself in what felt most natural to him -- suit, tie, shoes, wool coat, cashmere scarf. It was almost like stealing, except for the fact that everyone was doing it and no one was going to get in trouble for it. The clerks at the stores just waved him off when he tried to pay for anything, anyway.
Neal found himself roaming the city, feet taking him down familiar paths, until he found himself standing outside of the Guggenheim. There was a familiar tug, deep down, pulling him towards it, for reasons less sedate than just browsing, but he ignored it, hands clenched into tight fists in his pockets.
All because he could take something didn't mean he was going to.
Probably.