bridge_carson: (serious (b/w))
[personal profile] bridge_carson
Working late wasn't exactly an unusual occurrence for Bridge- he often got so engrossed in a project that he didn't notice the passage of time. Today, however, the decision to stay late at the garage had been a deliberate one, because as long as he had something to occupy his hands and his mind, he didn't have to stop and think about what day it is.

And so it is that it's not till well into the evening that he makes his way back to the hotel, even more grease-and-oil covered than usual.

He's barely inside the lobby when the doorman hands him a thick envelope. He frowns a little, confused, because he almost never gets mail, and even when he does, it's never anything quite like this. He tears open the envelope and begins to read...

    The letter is slightly faded, deeply creased, as if the pages have been folded and unfolded countless times. It's made up of stationery from three or four different hotels, several pages that looks like they were torn out of the back of a book, and even a sheet of grocer's paper, crinkly and thin. The first page, though, says West Superior Street Boarding House at the top, and begins

    June 1933

    Dear Bridge:

    This would be the part where I don't have to actually explain how I'm a dumbass, because you'll guess it from the date on the letter. If you're reading it. I don't know how you're reading it, since getting mail in Fandom's one thing, and addressing a letter to Bridge Carson, London, 1936 and dropping it into a postbox is... not that thing and there's no point in doing it. And even if I could, I couldn't mail it yet because you hadn't gotten any kind of letter from me when you wrote the one I got from you and this really ought to make my head hurt more than it does. So I'm just kind of carrying it around in my pocket for now. See above re: dumbass, but it's not all that different from sending five bajillion bouncy e-mails. Hopefully I can just hand it to you when we end up back in Fandom again.

    Which is totally happening. Soon. Right? It's only been three months. Been putting off writing because it's kind of like admitting it's not happening soon, but I miss you. I've still got your letter, the second one you sent. That's the one thing I still had hold of when the angel got me.

    And it is not your fault you missed our anniversary so don't you be a dumbass. Which I will tell you in person. Soon. Dumbass.

    Love you, Xander

    September 1933

    Make that six months. I know Willow and Mel were in Cairo somewhere ten years ago, but frak if I know how to track them down or if they're even still there. I've been doing odd jobs, repairs, got day-work on a building crew, trying to save up enough money to head that way and find out, but it'll take a while. Sure a nickel goes a lot further now than it will in 2008, but I had a hell of a lot more nickels then. I'll have. Whatever.

    But if they don't come for us, all we've got is each other, so I have to look for them. Anyway, I've got three years to kill, so I might as well see the world, right?

    And then I'm coming for you.


    The pages go on, sometimes stained, sometimes in pencil, sometimes badly blotted like the person writing was just learning how to use a fountain pen. Some labeled Chicago, some Cleveland, some New York. Two from Cairo, and the most recent -- is marked London, 1936 and says only Turn around.


He turns around, and his eyes go very, very wide. His mouth opens and closes a few times, but no actual sounds come out.


Xander, his eyepatch absent, hair tousled from travel, grins. A little shakily because he hasn't seen Bridge straight on for three years and it was all he could do not to rush over to him five minutes ago when Bridge walked into the lobby and screw the surprise, so he's been staring at the carpet, only sneaking tiny glances. Waiting for Bridge to turn.

"Happy Anniversary," he says quietly.


"I- you- how?" There's words, now, but they're all the one-syllable kind as Bridge moves closer, not even sure this is real. Except it is, he can tell it is, he'd know Xander anywhere, but there's still that sense of "oh my god is this really happening?" buzzing in the back of his brain.


Xander points to the letter in Bridge's hand. "Took a while to get here."


Bridge glances down at the letter again quickly, almost as if he's afraid that if he looks away for too long, Xander will disappear. "Three years," he says, moving closer. There's nothing more he wants to do right now than grab on to Xander and not let go, but awareness of the other people occupying the hotel lobby stops him short before he gets too close.


Xander's in the same boat, restraining himself from reaching out because yeah, it has been three years, and he's seen enough of the 1930's to know there are things two men don't do in public. Not this kind of public, anyway.

"Wasn't nearly as bad as the last time, though," Xander says, inclining his head towards the stairs leading up to the guest rooms. "This time I knew I'd find you again."


"Yeah," Bridge can't stop grinning now. "Uh, we should- come on, I'll show you where I'm staying, you can tell me all about your trip," he says, walking over towards the stairs.


Xander follows, and if his steps are a little quick for somebody on his way to take a tour of a hotel room, too damn bad.


"Right, okay, it's just, it's here-" Bridge says, stopping in front of a door on the second floor. He fumbles a moment for the key, and then swings the door open wide.


Xander waits for Bridge to follow him in before pushing the door closed behind them.


"Three years," Bridge says again. "How did you find me? When did you get here?" he babbles.


"Shut up," Xander says, and pulls him close.


And Bridge does, because there will be time enough later for questions and answers. Right now, Xander is kissing him and it's right, it's perfect, like a piece of him had been missing and now he was whole again.

[Pre-played with [ profile] needsparrot, stasis what stasis timeline, OOC A-OK.]
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