A Hundred Days | Dan Howell x Reader

Chapter 29.

You were on another train. Another plane. Only this time, you had the job, but not the dreams.
You leaned against the cold glass of the aeroplane window, watching the sun setting behind the clouds that had for the time being become your horizon. The glaring sun challenged your eyes and the frost-coated glass stung your face, the biting nails of a thousand minuscule icicles raking your cheek, a threat that, once the chill had begun to burrow, there would be no stopping it. But still, you stared out the window.

You had sat looking so solemn and been so far from the world that the kind elderly woman who had been so intent on engaging you in conversation had stopped trying. The stewards and stewardesses of the flight had also begun selecting your meals for you when it became clear to them that there would be no getting anything out of you. One of the first times they had passed by yours and the old lady's seats, you had turned to answer them with tears in your eyes. You had obtained a sympathetic look on the steward's face, one that had made you mildly disgusted with yourself, which then resulted in the ignoring of the flight attendant who was offering you, "Pasta or chicken?"
Who cared what was eaten? You sure didn't; you wouldn't feel like eating anytime soon, anyway, though the trip across land and sea amounted to a good eight or nine hours.

You pulled your phone from your pocket to check the time, but the minutes dragged on. You slipped off into the darkness of sleep.

• • •

You hadn't yet seen much of the Big Apple, but now, the traffic rang in your ears as cabbies shouted from their yellow metal boxes lined with checkerboards; you apologised repeatedly to no one in particular as you sprinted across Times Square, map in one hand, suitcase handle in the other, looking like one hell of a confused tourist. You had to keep reminding yourself that, that you weren't a tourist. No, you were here, in New York City, to stay. It was indeed a weird thought to wrap your head around, that old London was no longer your home, merely a place you'd lingered too long. You were the kind of person who wanted to leave everywhere they came, yet, for eighty-eight brilliant days of laughter and ecstasy, dreams being planned though they would never come true, you had believed that the city of glass towers, stone castles, and a river that shone red in the late afternoon, would be your forever home. But it seemed you had been wrong.

As instructed by the trusty Google Maps, you hurried southeast along Broadway, veered right for 7th Avenue, went left on 7th Avenue, and took this lane onto West 41st Street. Making it to your destination after only six little minutes since stepping off the "subway" at Times Square, the hour and seven minutes since JFK Airport, and the eight hour flight from the Big Smoke, you clambered up the stairs of the New York Times Building as the lift ("elevator", apparently) appeared to have a giant, highlighter-yellow OUT OF ORDER sign plastered across its two doors. But the exercise was fine by you; your jet-lag was making you feel particularly sleepy, though you knew you had to keep yourself awake for as long as you could.

Passing a tall redhead at the top of the stairs, you nodded in greeting before continuing onward through the building.

However, the tall-ish redhead dressed in business-casual caught your arm.

"Babe, you lost?"

You frowned. He wasn't coming onto you, he was just looking genuinely as if he wanted to help you.

So you faced him, wrinkling your nose.

You're cute when you do that, a posh but boyish voice echoed through your mind. You shook your head. The redhead furrowed his brow, confused.

"I mean, yeah, lost. Jet-lag", you motioned at your head, indicating that the shaking of the head hadn't been a gesture for him to interpret.

He suddenly clasped his hands together, "Oh, darling, I should've guessed". It was your turn to assume a puzzled expression upon your features.

He grinned, "Tell-tale accent tells me you've been in London for quite a bit of time, the sheer look of abandonment tells me you're having an absolutely awful day, you didn't sleep on the plane here— little baggies beneath your eyes—" he swirled his finger at a distance scarily close to your eye, "and you're in dire need of a, how do they say it over in England... hm, cuppa, 'tis, you're in dire need of a cuppa, so come along, we Americans aren't all hostile, though mind you, don't try to get into our politics, and especially not our amendments". He winked and linked arms with you, tugging you along.

You laughed a little at the absurdity of the way he had taken you under his wing, but it was nice not to feel completely out of place.

"What are you then, the red-haired, American version of Sherlock Holmes?" you conversed as he led you down a hall, then another, and yet two more.

"Strawberry-blonde, thank you", he huffed, but he was only kidding.He chuckled. "Nah. Not quite that smart. The middle name's English, though, funnily enough".

"Johnny?" you joked.

He smiled again, and it illuminated your little world. "Haha, you're good, Bambi".

You scoffed, "Bambi?"

"You were just as clumsy as the dear thing on ice when I found you. I could see it on your face".

"Yep", you clucked your tongue, "definitely American Sherlock".

"Or American psycho".

You looked at him.

"Psychologist, duh. It's my degree and the column I write here for the Times".

"Wait, you're Eskild Tove?"

"Sure thing, Bambi. And you're Y/N L/N".

"Nope", you shook your head for the second time that day, "you're bloody blooming Shermerican Holmes".

"But hey, darlin', I know who you are, which means, fame is only a step away!"

You rolled your eyes, spirits lifted a little by Eskild's presence.

"But now, Bambi, I believe one of our publishing partner's successes would like to meet you. He says he knows you,  though you don't know him, personally, at least".

"Oh?" you raised you eyebrows, wondering who on earth knew you that you didn't know, and wanted to meet you, on top of everything. This fame thing was going to take a lot of getting used-to.

"Yeah", Eskild went on, "funny guy, funny hair. Nice glasses, attractive... No, no", Eskild waved a hand dismissively, "attractive doesn't quite cover it".

"Ooh", you said, "fancy him, do you?"

Eskild straightened his collar, "I don't speak Brit", he grinned.

"Oh, you do, you definitely do!" you cried, and Eskild cast his eyes downward, a smile still etched into every part of his face. Eskild was an easy person to talk to, to banter with. He immediately had come across as light-hearted and candid, the sort of person to straight-up lie for a stranger if he saw good in them and they found themselves in a spot of trouble.

"But I doubt someone like that would be single", Eskild gave a not-so-discreet nod to the office where a blonde-haired man likely in his late-twenties sat, eyes wandering around the glass-walled office; he looked slightly bored. You couldn't see his face quite completely, but he was familiar, in his black-framed glasses, slightly blue-tinted hair, and the smile-wrinkles by his eyes and mouth.

You approached the office, Eskild holding the door for you.

The chap in the office turned his head, stood up, and held out his hand.

"Tyler Oakley", he beamed, "though you may already know that".