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Archive: If you want to--just let me know.
Summary: Thoughts the night before a wedding.
Rating: PG
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Disclaimer: The characters of Lee Stetson, Amanda King, Billy Melrose, Francine Desmond and anybody else belong to Shoot the Moon Productions, Warner Brothers, and any other Powers-That-Be. There is no copyright infringement intended.
Author's note: This story is a companion piece to "What's
in a Kiss?" It is not a prequel and you don't have to read one to understand
the other. This story is dedicated to
Feedback is welcomed; flames will be used to roast the marshmallows for my s'mores.
By Any Other Name
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
I'm getting married tomorrow. I, Lee Stetson, am getting married tomorrow.
The wave of nausea that hits me at that thought is strong and I quickly roll out of bed and make my way to the bathroom. My stomach is desperately trying to rebel and it takes all of my willpower to prevent that from happening. I stay close to the toilet, though, just in case my control wanes.
Studying my reflection in the mirror, I shake my head in disbelief at the sight of the perfectly composed—albeit green-tinged—face that is staring back at me. The lack of panic in my expression worries me. I mean, I'm getting married tomorrow—to Amanda King, of all people—and I, the man who can't have a long-term relationship with a goldfish, am calm. Well, barring this weird feeling in the pit of my stomach.
A year ago, the very mention of the word 'marriage' was enough to make me break out in a cold sweat. Not, mind you, that the word sits well with me now. It's just . . . I don't know what it is, although if I had to guess, I'd say Amanda has something to do with it.
What is wrong with me? Why am I not scared out of my mind at the thought of binding myself to another person? Granted, the marriage will be annulled as soon as we get back, and it's not like we'll consummate it, but still . . .
Without meaning to do it, I find myself wondering what it would be like to make love to Amanda. What would she taste like? Peaches and cream? Or maybe strawberries? Would she be a temptress, slowly undressing herself as I devour her with my eyes? Or would she be a wildcat, ripping at my clothes and running her hands over—WHAT IN THE HELL AM I THINKING?!?!?!?
Have I lost all semblance of reason? Why I am thinking thoughts like that about Amanda?!? What on earth is wrong with me? She's Amanda King, a housewife who tags along on some of my cases and that is all she is. She isn't seductive, she isn't sexy, she isn't anything resembling my type, and—I cut that train of thought off instantly and desperately scramble to get my thoughts back to the original problem: how to prevent this marriage from being legal. Unfortunately, my body has other ideas.
With a growl of frustration, I stalk to my bathroom and turn the shower on cold. I quickly undress and step into the spray, gasping a little as the icy chill of the water needles my skin. It does the trick, though, and in a few minutes, I am back under control. I stay under the water for a few extra seconds, just to make sure, and then shut the shower off and get out, grabbing one of those tiny towels that are about the size and consistency of a tissue and quickly drying off.
When I am dry and dressed, I absently throw my towel over the wall of the shower, feeling thoughtful. The enigma of Amanda King has finally become something that I can't ignore and I give in with a sigh, determined to figure out why she is such a distraction to me.
Ever since I met her, a little over a year ago, the woman has complicated my life more than the KGB and frustrates me to no end. I mean, she insists on accompanying me on cases that she shouldn't be involved in. What if she gets hurt? I try and protect her the best that I can, but sometimes the situation gets out of my control. If she would only wait in the car when I tell her to, this really wouldn't be a problem.
On the other hand, she's saved my
butt more than once with her unique interpretation of 'Wait in the car,
Amanda.' Those very words leave my mouth and travel to her ear, but somewhere
between here and there, they change to, 'Go inside the building and attract as
much trouble as you can.' I swear, if Webster's had a picture of frustration,
it would be one of Amanda King.
The unwelcome reminder brings me jarringly back to the present situation, displacing my current thoughts, and I scowl, wondering how I'm going to get out of this. There's no way to avoid the ceremony tomorrow, but I could do without the whole 'legal marriage' thing. I absently chew on my lower lip as I consider the possibilities.
Let's see . . . I could put down my name as
Orlando Gravas and—no. No, that won't work; I've got to use Lee Stetson. And
Amanda King, for that matter. I can just imagine her correcting the minister: "Oh,
no, sir. My name is Amanda King. K-I-N-G."
Well, there are two options shot down. Out of a field of about four, that's not a good thing. I guess I could always say that I lived in Tahiti and—waaaiiit a minute. Now, this could work. If my memory is correct, for a marriage to be considered legal and binding, things like the address, birthplace, social-security number, and stuff like that have to be completely accurate. So, if I take my address and change one number, do the same with my social security, and do a little adjusting on the other stuff, I should be okay.
"Stetson, man, you are good," I tell my reflection with a grin. I just love simple solutions.
I tense suddenly, as something teases the edge of my mind. Taking a deep breath, I force myself to ignore this new thought and concentrate on making sure I can falsify everything I'll need to.
The idea I've been ignoring finally decides to land and comes to a delicate resting-place in the forefront of my mind. It isn't quite clear, so I hesitantly begin to sound it out, trying to see where my mind is going.
"Stetson, man, you . . .Stetson,
man, yo--
Aha! I have the solution. I'll still falsify my records, just to be sure, but the solution is at hand—or rather, at tongue.
Damn, I'm good. 'Stetsman' is close enough to 'Stetson' that neither Amanda or the bad guys will notice the difference, which not only allows me keep my cover, but it also prevents a hassle when we get back.
"Scarecrow, you are a genius," I tell myself with a grin.
A yawn suddenly escapes my lips and I turn to leave the bathroom, flipping off the light and heading for bed. As I pass the connecting door between my room and Amanda's, the urge to check on her comes to me. After her earlier brush with death, I'm still a little on edge.
I hesitate for a minute, attempting to talk myself out of it, but in the end my desire to make sure she's okay is stronger than my wish to stay detached and unemotional. Moving with the stealth of a—well, of a spy, I carefully try the handle and am surprised to find it unlocked.
Since this is an atypical action for Amanda, I grab my gun off the dresser and quickly ready it, snapping off the safety and making sure it's chambered. Satisfied with my readiness, I slowly ease the door open, trying to be as quiet as I can. Luck is with me and the door makes no noise. I push it open enough to be able to slip through to Amanda's room. Once inside, I absently grab the door with my left hand, preventing the gentle rocking of the ship from closing it.
My gaze immediately lands on the bed and a sigh of relief escapes my lips as I see that Amanda is safe and apparently lost in dreamland. Since she doesn't know I'm here, I allow a smile to cross my lips before going back to my own cabin. I pause at the door for one last look at her. I'm just about to step through the door when I hear her mumble something. My senses are instantly on alert and I tense, thinking that she might be having a nightmare. Cautiously, I take a step closer to the bed so I can listen better.
"Lee," she breathes, rolling over onto her back and stretching sensually as she smiles in a way that I've never seen; at least, I've never seen it on her. My eyes widen as I stare at her, wondering what in the hell she's dreaming about.
"Lee," she moans again, this time with a throaty quality to her voice that makes me swallow and involuntarily brings back the very images I washed away with a cold shower not fifteen minutes ago. Oh, no. Swallowing heavily, I feel my heart lurch. I cannot believe that I'm standing in Amanda King's room and watching her dream about me. I really need to leave, but my feet feel as though they are set in concrete and I find that I can't go anywhere. She shifts on the bed and my eyes are drawn back to her like a moth to a flame.
"Oh, yes, Lee," she whimpers. I stagger back a step and stare at her like she's the eighth wonder of the world, my shocked eyes taking in the black satin nightgown clinging to her smooth, white skin. I can't believe what I just heard what I've just seen rattles me even more. The rational part of my brain tells me to get in my room before something else happens. For once in my life, I listen to myself and beat a hasty retreat.
As I lay my gun back on the table, I contemplate what to do. The sane answer is to just forget that I heard any of it. She was dreaming, so if I just put it out of my mind and pretend it didn't happen, things should be okay. Luckily for me, I've had a great deal of practice in the art of pretending that things don't exist and by the time I cross the five feet from the dresser to the bunk and yawn twice, I've almost completely forgotten whatever it was that I just heard. Almost. Somewhere in the deepest recesses of my mind, though, the memory still lingers.
It's of no concern to me now, though, and I push it completely aside as I stifle another yawn. Stripping off my shirt, I fall into bed, hoping that sleep will come quickly. After all, I'm getting married tomorrow.
* * * * * * *
I'm getting married tomorrow.
With a sigh, I put down my hairbrush and leave the small bathroom. Like a broken record, those four words echo in my mind until they are all I can hear. Tomorrow, I, Amanda King, will marry Lee Stetson.
I laugh softly. Lee Stetson, getting married. That's got to be one of the biggest oxymorons on this side of the Iron Curtain. If he could, Lee would have the word 'marriage' completely removed from the English language. I laugh again as I realize that the man who has a hard time keeping a goldfish for longer than two weeks is getting married tomorrow—and to me, of all people. Amanda King. Stetson.
My amusement fades away and concern replaces it. Even though I know it's necessary, I still don't like the idea that I have to marry Lee. Okay, so he's gorgeous. He can even be charming when he puts his mind to it. But he doesn't love me; he doesn't even really care about me, except maybe as a friend, and I just don't feel comfortable taking vows with someone who doesn't mean them. I know it isn't real, but I can't help but feel uncomfortable about the situation.
Oh, well. There isn't much I can do about the situation now. I shake off my musings as I change into a nightgown and climb into bed. Despite my earlier mishap and the dull ache in my arms caused by hanging from a lifeboat, my mind is just too active to sleep. I sigh in frustration and roll over onto my stomach, hoping that the different position will help. It doesn't, and with another irritated sigh, I recall what I have Phillip and Jamie do when they can't sleep. To my surprise, the deep breathing exercises work and I start to drift off. I am almost asleep when I hear the door to my cabin softly slide across the floor as it opens.
Instantly, I tense, fearing that our covers have been blown and we're being taken to be killed or maybe locked in the ship's hold. The way my head is turned, I can open my eyes a crack and see the door adjoining my cabin to Lee's. What I see stuns me.
Lee is moving out of the doorframe and into my room. A concerned expression is on his face and his gun is drawn. As I surreptitiously watch him, he studies me for a few seconds before smiling . . .tenderly? Did Lee just show some emotion toward me besides long-suffering tolerance and deep-seated irritation? Wow. That was something com—what is he doing? Why is he leaving? For that matter, why was he in here in the first place?
As I watch him back away, a sudden impulse to rattle him takes over me and I mumble indistinctly into my pillow. I'm still watching him and I see him freeze, staring at me. I begin to feel guilty about doing this to him. I decide to end the game, but then a memory confronts me. We were on a stakeout during all the trouble with that poor kid who filmed the Agency parking lot.
I had told Lee that my mother thought I was having some kind of clandestine affair. He had laughed at that and said that my mother should know me better. The memory of the way I had felt when I heard that is enough to override my guilt and a quick peek at Lee shows me that he's moved closer to the bed. Perfect.
Closing my eyes, I roll over onto my back and stretch languorously, sighing "Lee," as a coy smile crosses my lips. I know he hasn't left yet, because I can hear him breathing. Unfortunately, I can't look at him to gauge his reaction, so with a quick breath to calm my nerves, I keep going.
"Lee," I moan, concentrating on making my voice sound sultry and dreamy. He still doesn't leave, but his breathing gets faster and I fight to keep a smile off my lips. So, he's not going to leave, hmm? This could be fun.
"Oh, yes, Lee," I whimper, feeling both guilty for doing this to him and strangely excited that I'm able to rattle him. I hear him move back away from the bed and force myself to keep from smiling. The soft sound of the door closing and the sudden lack of any other sound lets me know that I am again alone in my room. Slowly, I open my eyes, preparing to claim a dream if he's still there.
He isn't, and I stare thoughtfully at the door, wondering if I've gone too far. I know he won't say anything about it, but still, the memory will always be there. I bite my lip as what I've done fully registers with me and I wonder if I shouldn't go and apologize to him. Almost immediately, I realize that doing that would only make matters worse and I shake my head. If I apologize to him, things between us will always be awkward and I don't want that. No, the smart thing to do is just forget that I did it and pretend that it never happened. Luckily, I've gained a lot of experience in ignoring things and pretending they didn't happen.
A feeling of fatigue suddenly sweeps through me and I fight a yawn. Turning onto my side, I snuggle under the covers and close my eyes, hoping that my sleep will be undisturbed. I'll need all of my wits about me tomorrow—it's going to be a big day. Another yawn tries to escape and this time, it succeeds. I burrow my head into my pillow and smile.
I'm getting married tomorrow.
Finis