Intro. and slight pimpage
Ok, I've been lurking for a while now, and totally admiring y'all's fic. So now I gather my courage and introduce myself.
I'm rhia, or Stephanie in the unfortunate reality that exists outside of lj. Sam is definitely my favourite character, but the two things that make me happier than Samfic are Sam/Toby and now Sam/Will. There's just something magical and significant about Sam and Toby when they interact, and the evolution of their relationship fascinates me. I probably think about this way too much, but then, don't we all on here?
Anyway, I read more than I write, but I do have two (related) offerings for this post. They're much more subtext than text, as far as the slash is concerned, but they're also pre-admin.
::waves to all the people::
Scene At Dawn
And before he can stop it, his right hand reaches out to brush the dark hair off the younger man's forehead. Despite being slightly damp from the sheen of sweat on his brow—it couldn't still be blood from the accident, could it? Oh, God, he's not still bleeding, please; but then his own fingers, paused mid-motion, would be red and sticky, and they're not—despite the sweat-damp, the other man's hair is very soft; surprisingly so. Or it would have been surprising if he'd ever consciously thought about it before now, which he hadn't. Oh, no, not him; he wasn't going there, absolutely not— So he stood there with his hand halfway through the gesture; realising this, he finished running his hand but not his thoughts. When had he let this man get close to him, become important to him? This thought had been worrying him for the past six hours like a horse looking for sugar lumps; and he still has no answer for it. Just, here, at dawn, the scene plays itself out to its silent not-end as the sun finds him caring, again.
Scene At Dawn: Prologue
swish-thunk. swish-thunk. The sleet driving in makes driving out nearly impossible, but sometimes impossible’s a necessity. Sitting in the driver’s seat of his ‘93 Dodge Dart heading toward the hotel to meet the others, he doesn’t need to glance over at the man in the passenger seat. He knows from experience the other man’s tie will be loose, his dark hair slightly mussed, and he will have his rimless glasses on as he makes notes on his laptop. This is not the first late-night car-write they’ve done, though admittedly the Virginia winter is a little harsh this year. Third straight day of nasty frigidity, and the campaign trail makes it even more miserable. Polish the silver, polish the gilt words; and now he does look over at his driving companion. Returning his eyes to the road, he is unprepared for the solid pavement which had been reliably whooshing beneath his tires to be replaced with nothingness—no traction, wild spinning, oh god, there’s a pole up there—