Title: Non-Existent You
Author: gophish
Rating: PG-13
Classification: drama, angst, Will POV
Summary: Will watches, remembers, fantasizes, and thinks.
Spoilers: "Parity"/ "Masquerade"
Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters
Distribution: just ask
Feedback: bring it on!
*sorry about taking this down yesterday. there were a few things that still needed to be changed, okay?*
Irresistible. Sydney. The way her hips sway with every stride; the way her hair lingers on her shoulder. Breathtaking. A woman, for a man. A man full of energy, questionable self-confidence, and valor. A man just shy of a boy; one that strives to uphold any integrity still flowing through his veins.
Watch her come through the room vivaciously vocalizing her thoughts on Deepak Chopra and the Center for Well Being.
You sit on her couch watching with scrutinizing detail, analyzing the flow of her light-colored sarong in relation to her movements; every action holding promise of another.
Take a sip of coffee and see her go into the bedroom.
The couch allowed the perfect angle to stare. She's somehow still completely comfortable in the relationship you share, trusts you; even after that slip-up-of-a-kiss. She takes off her blouse, doesn't bother closing the door; she stands at the edge of the bed in view, her back turned.
Mind the way her bra strap winds itself around her fragile torso, hugging the frail frame supporting her bosom.
White would be too plain, she prefers nude - although sometimes you've seen black. As she reaches down on the bed to grab her new garment, a lilac sweater that cuts off above the waist; she continues on about the Center for Well Being. You reply with an adequate response, and return to your silent reverie.
You follow the sweater as it curves around each of her arms lifted in the air, slinking it's way over her head, around the edge of her shoulder, and finally fidgeting down her frame, covering what unsuspecting eyes might catch a glimpse of.
She turns around, gives you an unassuming smile and wanders back toward your way on the couch. The conversation has changed; she walks back into the kitchen, your head orbits her movements. She carries on, "Will, you remember that….?" her words were faded into her motions.
You watch the sun reflecting off her forearms, glimmering as they navigate through her deep purse, overshadowing her words, with their short pivots and turns.
"Found it!" She pulled out the key she had been looking for and made her way to the couch.
…you think back to when you were fifteen and you saw a woman as a woman for the first time, how you blushed as you flipped through the pages of that magazine that lived under your mattress.
She sat down beside you, commenting on your jacket. She was a master at cutting the ice; she always knew what to say to make small conversation work, while you just sit inside yourself, drooling at all of her little idiosyncrasies. Realizing you were out of coffee, she pushes herself up to refill your mug, but you insist you've had your fix.
She stares at the television - you stare at the wall imagining what she must be thinking. What it is she probably isn't thinking. Why do you think?
Note her glace in your direction but remain focused on the wall, enjoying the personal game you are playing with yourself, anticipating her next move in your peripheral vision.
She goes back to the television. You sense the temperature of the room, the staleness in the air, the boredom between you both.
Irresistible. You torment yourself on end with these little fantasies and distractions; the graphic detail of Sydney's form, her scent, the melodic sound of her voice.
Her lips, the lobes of her ears, the vein in her neck throbbing gently with the pulse of her heart, accented by the angle she is sitting.
QUIT-IT! You're driving yourself mad, Will Tippin. She's not interested; never has been, even when she thought she was - she wasn't. You could count the number of women that were interested on one hand. Precisely why she's meeting someone else for dinner. Not you.
What more did you expect, today?
Afternoon coffee, movie, an embrace, removing the purple sweater, the nude-colored bra, the sarong…
How you envy that man she meets tonight. The man from the bank, Noah. Plutonic distractions that you've had to struggle with for so long equate to nothing more than a friendly house-visit. He gets dinner.
She breaks the silence, describing the man that has what you never will. What an appropriate phrase, "Never Will." Her words are filtered by that thought; those lyrics…
Doesn't seem like much to ask. To live a life that isn't caught up in the past. But there's really no place else on earth for me right now. I wish you'd come around. I wish you'd come around. Why don't you come around?
Un-relinquished jealousy. It's already 8:14; she should have left minutes ago, but she lingers.
"It's a quarter after, Syd." It kills you to announce those words. She turns her attention to the clock by the stereo, gets up and walks back into the bedroom.
Notice her swiftness walking away from you. The slinky twists of her feminine scarf she wraps around her neck complementing everything about her; your eyes follow, your smile hides well your thoughts.
She comes back into the living room, walks behind you on the couch, and moves toward the door.
She says something along the lines of "Thank you." You reply. The door closes behind her and you turn back around and face the television once again. Sit there for another half-an-hour agonizing. Your mind continuing to describe the event that has plagued you for months on end; that angst-filled, rushed, uncontrollable, bombshell of a kiss.
Sit back and relax. Close your eyes. Drift off. Think of Sydney, Noah, the ghost of Will; non-existent you.
END
a/n : "those lyrics" are from Kim Richey's "Come Around" from the album "Glimmer". Just a shout-out to the Hil-meister for giving me the Noah dinner concept…poor, poor Will.