Disclaimer: I own nothing. I'll leave that to Marlowe & Co., since they've been doing just fine without me.
He had really thought she would call him. Sure, they'd had that horrible fight in her apartment, but he was certain that it had been left behind in the wake of Montgomery's death. The way she had looked at him during the eulogy was only eclipsed by the way she had looked at him as she lay bleeding in the grass. And when he had visited her in the hospital, there had been some distance, but she hadn't been angry or upset.
She said she'd call.
Now he sat in his dark office, only the light of his laptop to shine on the glass of bourbon he brought to his lips. It had been weeks and he'd heard nothing at all beyond the whispered hope that taunted him in his dreams; he realized that torture was still better than the nightmares, but the comparison was closer than it should have been. His love for her was all that kept him away, but he couldn't be sure he'd be unbroken when she returned. If she returned.
He sighed at his own melancholic musings. Of course, he supposed they were less destructive than the nights he'd let the anger control him. The nights when the alcohol burned instead of soothed, when the glass ended up shattered on the floor. The nights when he forgot the feel of her mouth open against his, or the look on her face on a hotel suite couch. The nights when he remembered that she already had someone to hold her hand or kiss away the pain, and that he wasn't actually anything at all.
Another sip and the bourbon was gone, his eyes falling shut against reality.
She might not come back.
It might not matter if she did.
She had really thought she would call him. Sure, she was still recovering, from the emotional pain as much as the physical, but he deserved better from her. She knew how she had looked at him when she had spoken at the funeral; she was pretty certain it was even more obvious when she lay dying beneath him. When he had visited her in the hospital, she had tried to keep some distance, reassuring him the only way she could in that moment.
She said she'd call.
Being away from the city while she regained her strength was probably the best thing for her. She'd broken up with Josh before she'd even been discharged from the hospital and her dad had stepped in to offer her a quiet place to stay. The cabin gave her an escape, an easy way to avoid the interaction that would have overwhelmed her. She loved her friends, but knew she wouldn't be able to fake strength long enough to spend time with them; letting herself be fragile in their presence wasn't an option.
The situation with him was so much more complicated. He would see through her immediately; he would hear the quiver in her voice. Her heart, so long shadowed by the walls of rabbit holes, had only become darker, and she wanted to protect him from that. While her wounds had mostly healed, she still felt the damage weep from her pores, and she was afraid to infect him. It didn't stop her from needing his warmth in her life.
The longing was magnified by the knowledge that they had been growing so much closer over the past several months. They'd developed a genuine friendship, a foundation for what could be an incredibly intimate relationship someday, once they were brave enough to pursue it. Now, it all looked impossible, the chance to love him falling further away with each week that passed.
Most of her days seemed to be spent the same way, drowning in her own weakness and desperately wanting him, but never able to call. Early on, she'd picked up the phone several times, only to feel the painful constriction of her chest, somehow much worse than a sniper's bullet. Forever a coward, she stopped trying. Instead, she sat curled on the couch, one of his novels in her hand, the most tangible comfort she could accept from him. Her tears fell freely. Hour after hour. Day after day.
As expected, he had gotten very little work done on the latest Nikki Heat novel, finding it difficult to write a solid plot when he was immersed in a fog of anger and grief. Pacing back and forth across the loft, by its very nature, got him nowhere. His mother and daughter had been as patient as possible, but even they had gotten tired of the incessant storm cloud he wore like a robe, encouraging him to take a deep breath and move on.
Move on? From the woman who was so deeply a part of him that he couldn't imagine leaving her behind without pieces of him being torn in the process?
Of course, he realized that the situation was largely out of his control. If she was gone, he wouldn't be able to chase her. He'd have no choice but to find his own way forward, alone. Shaking his head at the thought, he decided to get out of the city for a while, an attempt to distance himself physically from everything about her, even if it was an emotional impossibility. He had meetings late in the week, but could drive to the Hamptons on the weekend, stay there for the rest of the summer.
For someone who had always loved the city, he had an equal appreciation for the quiet of the beach. The water was powerful, yet calm; the sand rough, yet soothing. There was no guarantee the Hamptons would solve all his problems, but staying in a city so infused with memories of her would destroy him. So, he made the necessary arrangements and promised himself that he'd only be in the loft for a few more days.
In a summer seemingly full of them, it was time for her to face a new challenge. Her dad had stayed with her for the first few weeks, helping to clean and bandage her wounds, keeping her fed, reminding her to go for the excruciating walks that would help rebuild her physical endurance. By the time he left, the scars were forming, she could cook for herself, and she appreciated the fresh air. Now she was almost out of groceries and had to drive herself to the local market. The idea was daunting, so she forced herself out the door before the panic set in, before she acknowledged that starving alone might be preferable.
Looking back, that short trip changed everything.
She walked the tiny aisles and grabbed the essentials, efficient and far from picky. Being in an unfamiliar place made it difficult to breathe, the swollen mark on her chest serving as a throbbing reminder of her vulnerability. By the time she reached the cashier, she was trembling, seeking anything that could keep her mind occupied while she waited for her total. In her desperation, she latched onto the music playing through the store's crackling speakers.
Someone was singing about not being able to escape, needing to be shown how. About looking inside to where his demons hide, warning another about getting too close to see them.
It ended abruptly. Her mouth dropped open, wanting to hear more, needing to know how the singer knew. It was her, summed up so simply: hidden darkness. And it was him: her light.
She had no idea how long the cashier tried to get her attention before she finally shook free of the lyrics still echoing in her head. Handing her money over and collecting the groceries as quickly as possible, she made her way back to the car, gasping at the exertion. It didn't matter; she needed to hear that song. She tossed the bags into the backseat and slid behind the wheel, fumbling with the phone she had dug out of her purse. Searching the words she could remember, it only took a moment to find it.
She played it immediately and was crying by the end. After another three times through it, she was sobbing, slumped forward and trying to refill her aching lungs. She let the phone fall from her hand and took several deep breaths, knowing that she had to get back to the cabin, back to a safer place for her undeniable breakdown. She just needed to get the words out of her head long enough to drive.
By the time she was back at the cabin, her eyes were red and swollen, but at least she had managed to calm down. She put the groceries away and tucked herself into the corner of the couch, each deep breath suggesting that she was walking a fine line between stability and collapse. She couldn't remember a time that a song had so quickly affected her, held up a mirror when she had been fighting that reflection for so long. All of her haunting thoughts had been put to music, making them harder to deny.
There was no question that she was broken. And, sure, he knew some of it, had seen enough glimpses of her troubled past when they crept into her present. But this was the lowest she'd been since her mother's death and she still couldn't pick up the phone to call him. She needed him, but was clinging to a façade of self-preservation, as if there were hope of that on any path she chose.
When the idea hit her, she scrambled off the couch and hurried into her dad's makeshift office; he'd done enough work from the cabin over the years that there was definitely a chance that he'd have what she needed. She rifled through drawers until she found it, clutching the small device in her hand. Yes, she was weak, but it was all she could do. Once she sent it, the decision would be his and she wouldn't be shouldering the responsibility of making the first call. He'd understand. He always did.
By Friday night, he was exhausted, the strain of talking about Nikki Heat while his muse was lost to him was almost too much to handle. His final meeting concluded with cocktails and frivolity, normally something he could coast through on his charm alone, but all he wanted to do was get home so that he could finish packing and be ready for his drive to the Hamptons in the morning. He was done with the city.
When he returned to the loft, he didn't even pause in his office, uninterested in staring at a blank document on his laptop. He'd pack the computer in the morning and hope for motivation from the refreshing beach air. Instead, he grabbed some clothes and any of the basics he'd need for the summer and tossed them into a couple of bags. It didn't take long, and he gratefully fell into a restless sleep, dreaming about her and looking forward to the chance that those nightmares might stop.
He woke earlier than usual, eager to get on the road. As soon as he was showered and dressed, he added his toiletries to the bags and took everything out to the living room, where he could set them near the front door as a promise of his upcoming escape. Then he returned to the office to get the laptop, finally noticing the pile of mail that his mother must have left there the day before.
It was mostly junk, as usual, but one envelope caught his eye. His heart pounded as his hand slid along the manila surface, feeling the small lump contained within it. He had no idea what it might be, but he was too distracted by the handwritten address to think about it. That quick, neat penmanship had covered more murder boards than he could count, filled more case files than should be stacked in any precinct. It was from her.
Taking a deep breath, he finally tore it open and reached for the object inside. There was no note, no explanation, nothing but a nondescript flash drive. He sat down at his desk and plugged it into his computer, nervous about what she could possibly be sending to him after weeks of silence. Confused to see nothing saved to it but one MP3 file, he played it immediately, then repeated it as soon as it had finished. Their history of subtext made her musical plea clear enough and he knew what he needed to do. He shook his head and picked up the envelope again, looking for the return address.
There was no way he was still driving to the Hamptons.
A/N: Thank you for taking the time to read this. More is on the way. An extra special thank you to Allison, who trusted me with her Tumblr prompt.
Also, yes, I know that "Demons" wasn't released in the summer of 2011. I'm bending time for the sake of the fic, so I hope you can forgive me.
