Disclaimer: Oh my. This is fictional. Yes. Also? It's second-person. God forgive me.
Notes: Chrystal, I, unfortunately, rather suck for getting this in late. I'll try to make you icons once I get Photoshop on here so all will be right. But for now...
You're sitting on a stool in the middle of a bar, like most Saturday nights. That guy who's been yelling at you for the past half hour has finally left, or perhaps he passed out - you weren't really paying attention. Someone is paying for your drinks but things are a little hazy, and what does it matter who it is? Free alcohol is free, and that's the point of the thing.
You're not really sure how it happens: when your eyes begin to focus and your brain finally registers your surroundings. You're not certain at all why he's looking at you that way or if the whiskey you're smelling is coming from your own glass or someone else's. But he's looking at you, at those tights you wear and the way your skirt fits around your middle. You realise how short your hair is and how long his lashes are and then he's placing his hand over yours and asking you to go on. Meanwhile, you're not sure what you're saying because it's him and maybe you're having a hallucination and goodness, was that his knee or is he just that happy to see you? Is it a look-alike or is it really him?
He flicks his hair and you think of that one icon you have, the one that looks exactly the way he does now, with his slight smile and dark eyes. His fingers are pressing harder and he looks at you, but says nothing this time as you cough and reach for another cigarette with your free hand. Nobody else is around, your friends have ditched you to go who knows where, but he is sitting here, this apparation that makes you think you're crazy and you begin talking.
Later, you can't recall what the hell it is you've said or if he drank at all or why you're in some fancy hotel with fucking waterfalls and who needs those, they only remind you that your bladder is working and maybe you should find a restroom. His hands guide you and he waits patiently while you rush and talk to yourself, ignoring the others.
"He's going to leave, he's so about to leave..."
When you come out, he isn't there and you realise you're wearing high heels and how the hell are you going to get home now? You swear and a woman with a small child that reminds you of one of your own comes out and glares, and you feel the urge to kick her, or to throw something at the child and wipe that self-satisfied smirk off his face.
Someone drags you along and then there's a plastic cup in your hand: it's more alcohol, and there are the dark eyes again, smiling over a different cup. He asks to link arms, to toast, and then you drink. He says something funny, offers you a doodle that he drew while waiting for you, and you take it. It's signed to you, though you don't remember telling him your name. It's even got your name spelled right and you feel a compulsion to thank him, except you slur and he laughs and suddenly you can smell him and wow, it's better than you thought it'd because you hadn't really thought about it before.
When he leans in and asks for the joy of your company, your knees are shaking. Never have you felt so tired; never have you felt so drawn in. It is like his stories embodied, each character written, each bit falling into place and it's all there, in one eye or in the other, twinkling like some cliche character until he leans in and there's only blackness as you realise that those are his lips and his tongue and his hands guiding you upwards, towards rest and company and a night more special than anything you can remember. No thoughts of children, of family, of work seep into your mind as he kisses you, his hands firm and sure, his smile evident in his whole body. There is only him in the darkness, and you laugh and fall onto the bed, smiling and alive.
And when he joins you, you know - you know right then, that Neil Gaiman loves you.