A/N: Alright, so after my obvious earned notoriety as a Trent/Daria shipper, I feel I must address this impending oddity of a Daria/Tom pairing. I've been watching all the Daria episodes, and well...Tom and Daria did make a good couple. ::ducks the bottles and chairs thrown from DT shippers:: Tom was intelligent, one of the few young people in Lawndale on her intellectual plane, sharp, funny, sweet, extremely patient, and though not in possession of the smoldering and exotic good looks we so adore on our beloved Mystik front man, he's pretty damn cute. So in light of the hamsters oh-so-insistently turning the wheels in my authoress' mind, I'm afraid I just have to pursue this wild hare. I'm hoping for some open minds, and maybe it'll be a fun ride::ducks more thrown bottles, chairs, tables, and a stray rubber chicken::
A/N II: Backpacking has ruined me. After a 1 ½ stint in Peru and 7 months in asia last year, I know it's a passion I'll now pursue until my dying day. Not to press too much of myself on the characters, but I really do think it's a hobby/raison d'etre a curious intellectual like Tom could embrace later in life, as well as Daria, with someone to give her a good shove in the right direction. Now, on to the fic!!
A Daria Sutra:
Chapter 1
"Ouch! Damn it!"
The sound of water striking porcelain muffled most of Daria's cry of pain, but the evidence ran in a crimson rivulet, down her leg and down the drain. Cutting one's leg while shaving is easy enough, but it was particularly exacerbated by the forest of hair that had sprouted on her lower limbs. She'd let it grow as a feminist whim over summer break, and the deal was sweetened three-fold by the discomfort it caused Quinn. Mo-OM! As though Daria wasn't already embarrassingly weird enough, she's going all ca-AVE woman on us!!
The memory made Daria smile, even if several nicks on her legs stung like hell. So why was she putting herself through this time honored albeit self-defeating feminine tradition? She was loathe to admit, but the cause was a guy. And what would said guy have thought about such a thing executed in his honor? Probably a smirk, a snarky comment, but Daria surmised that underneath it all he would probably appreciate the effect.
And why would she care about said guy's opinion of her? Visual or otherwise? Well, said guy's name was Tom...And like it or not, this was a meeting she'd been looking forward to all summer. In fact, it was something of an unexpected rendezvous, for Daria had already left Lawndale again, moved back to the dorms in Boston a week early, preparing for classes to start. She'd assumed many things about not seeing Tom that summer around town, the most forward of which being that he'd moved past her with new friends and relationships and experiences, and no longer felt the compulsion to compare notes. Though she knew it to be perfectly natural, the thought still inspired a pang, far back in a dark corner of her heart she kept even more locked away than the rest.
Imagine her surprise the day before, when the little blue façade of her cellphone flashed TOM insistently, accompanied by Bethoven's ninth. She stared at the contraption, the sudden thrill of nerves coursing through her spinal column tempting her to give in to anti-social urges and just let it ring. But at the last minute she snatched it up, pressing talk and saying, Hello?
Hey Daria. This is Tom.
Hey Tom. What's up?
I'm sorry I didn't call you earlier, but I just got home. Barely. You would not believe how testy Paraguayan immigration officials get when you're missing an entrance stamp in your passport.
There was a pause over the phone, and in a rare moment Daria found herself sarcasm-less. Did you just say Paraguay? she asked, certain she'd misheard.
Yes indeed. Boy do I have some adventures to regale you with, Ms. Morgandorffer. Can I come see you?
Still slightly confused, she'd said hesitantly, You do realize I'm in Boston?
Yeah, your mom told me. I stopped by your house.
Oh...When do you want to get together?
How about tomorrow?
I
Window down, warm summer air whipping past his face, Tom cracked a smile as his fingers drummed on the steering wheel. One of the few things he'd truly missed from the States was his music. Reggaetone is interesting upon the first few exposures, but at least for him, the strange synthesized rhythms and non-synchronous vocals quickly wore out their welcome in his eardrums. He'd preferred to listen to people, real people, chattering in rapid-fire castellano, or the dead silence of a cold night high in the Andes.
The past three months had sped by like a dream, and he could still hardly believe they'd been real. The backpacking bug had bitten him last summer in Europe, but no amount of traveling in developed western countries could have prepared him for the delightful chaos of the third world. He felt that up until three months ago he'd been living his life in shades of gray. Something about the intensity of the developing nations, the novelty, the brilliance of the cultures in the face of daunting poverty opened his soul to a completely new spectrum of colors.
You gringos are all so cold, had said a campesino to him, aboard a cargo barge chugging through the murky waters of the Amazon river. So hunched in on yourself. Suspicious of everything. Afraid of someone taking whatever it is you think you've got. The comment had struck Tom as funny at the time, for just two weeks ago he'd nearly been robbed at knifepoint in broad daylight, in La Paz.
One must be careful Tom had answered in halting Spanish, causing his newest friend to break out in a toothy grin. Several of his teeth were missing, and the remaining survivors seemed to be well on their way.
Si, es verdad agreed the campesino. But that's not what I mean. You gringos, you must find some warmth. Real warmth, in real people. You try to keep out the cold by burning your money, but it's no good. You're still all going to freeze to death, if you don't blow us all up first. Tom had smiled, nodded, signaling he'd understood, even if he couldn't translate his thoughts. His comprehension was far better than his spoken Spanish. With a hearty laugh, the campesino clapped Tom on the back. Find someone, hombre. Build a fire. A real fire. You can't worry about fear, it's a waste of time. With that parting note, he'd ambled down the stairs, probably to retire to his hammock, or flirt with the girls in the kitchen.
Tom had several more conversations with the campesino throughout the course of the journey, who's name he learned was Cesar, but none stuck with him so persistently as that one. It reminded him of that special girl, that queen of sarcasm, who remained never far from his thoughts. Even two years after that time when he might have even dared to call her his own, she still hovered behind the curtain in his mind. At times he would be rewarded with a flashback, of quick brown eyes behind owl-rim glasses, that mona-lisa smile, or the memory of how deceptively soft those lips, which uttered such razor-sharp observations of the world around her, felt against his.
Truthfully, he knew he would have pursued a cross-university relationship, had she given them the chance. But she'd shot it down out of the sky, oh so effectively, with a utilitarian sense of purpose that would have made Machiavelli proud.
Had he really been bored? He didn't think so, though she must have read it as such. He had his own theories. After much speculation, sprawled on his bed, staring at the ceiling, that what had appeared to be boredom was only masked fear. He never knew how far he could step with Daria in those days. Any little push could set her off, freak her out. A less determined, less captivated individual would have abandoned the cause long before, but he'd wanted to see it through. Perhaps part of it was the challenge. To find Daria, the real Daria, of which he only caught glances of in lucky moments. He'd hoped she would trust him enough someday to let down the walls.
Tom had known he would call her upon his return. They already had a tentative date to compare notes, after all. He didn't think he would be prying too deeply. Where he wished he could see her more often than once a year, he'd always been afraid to push for more, afraid he would lose what little privileges he still retained. Why did it have to be like that, with the one woman who didn't seem to be from another planet? It was funny, really, in a sick sad way. Tom couldn't help but speculate what life could be like between them, if they could just stop being afraid of each other, as Cesar had suggested? It wouldn't be like anything he reminded himself sourly. Because unlike you, she's moved on.
But what if? he persisted. He'd learned to be more open in the past few months. What if he could keep himself from running for the old suit of armor in Daria's presence? What if they could share something real again? She'd gone through yet another year of college. What if experience had seasoned her more for human interaction? He realized he would be finding out quite soon, for the skyline of Boston cut through the horizon up ahead.
II
Daria recognized Tom's junky beater a few cars down, as she traversed the parking lot of Kina's Café. A little shot of adrenaline quickened her heartbeat at the thought of being face to face with the man in a mere matter of a minute. Annoyed at herself, she adjusted her messenger bag. And just why are you so antsy, Morgandorffer? Truth was, she didn't exactly know.
Perhaps the prospect of some stimulating conversation interested her. She'd met a few others aside from Jane, but even in Boston she still felt as though she were an alien walking through a sea of ignorant and disinterested humans. Tom will just be a breath of fresh air, is all she assured herself. The prospect would have frightened her less, had she not felt as though she were drowning.
Upon first entering the café, the smell of freshly ground coffee greeted her. Taking a deep breath of the heavenly brew, she looked around for Tom. Her eyes made several passes around the cozy room, and she did not see him. Maybe he's in the bathroom she thought, beginning to move to snag a table to wait. But stepping towards the tables, a familiar form caught her eye, of which she'd overlooked before. At that moment he chose to look up, familiar crystal blue eyes meeting her gaze, causing a tingle to stir at the base of her spine. "Hey Daria," he said happily, setting aside his newspaper to stand.
"Hey Tom." A smile curled her lips, and she found she could not tear her eyes away from the new characteristic that had caused her to overlook him. The brown scruff of a beard covered the lower half of his face, trimmed, but still glaringly apparent.
Rolling his eyes, he sighed, "You're looking at it just like my mother. Is it that bad?" Tom hoped he effectively masked the excitement doing cartwheels in his stomach caused by the sight of her with routine sarcasm. The past year seemed to have treated her well. Though there were few visible changes, a new pair of thick black square-frame glasses, and her jacket and pleated skirt replaced by a summer weight black dress, she seemed to hold herself with an air of confidence he'd never noticed before. It was something he'd always hoped she'd grow into, always felt she deserved to find.
"I'm not sure," she answered with a smirk. "Is it real?"
"Want to touch it?" he asked playfully, raising eyebrows.
"I guess it may be the closest I'll ever come to petting a wild badger."
"If it bites you, it was probably only a crime of passion."
The moment the innuendo left his mouth Tom's stomach cramped, hoping to God he hadn't already overstepped the line in his first five minute of seeing her. Once upon a time she would have blanched, but much to his relief, and subsequent surprise, she sidestepped it with ease, quipping, "That was the claim at Pizza Forest too, but I still felt it necessary to have the furry fiend put down."
"Remind me to sleep with one eye open from now on."
"Or just wear a muzzle."
"They tend to chafe, in my experience."
"And most people only have skeletons in their closet..."
"I thought you always liked the skeletons in my closet."
"Only the real ones."
"So are you going to touch it or shall we order coffee?" he teased.
"This is usually where I pull out the pepper spray, but you're not wearing a trench coat commando style." Indeed his ensemble was far from it, and in a way, far from his usual preppy khakis and sweater. He seemed relaxed in khaki shorts, a faded t-shirt, and a pair of what appeared to be well-traveled Birkenstocks.
"It was a close call this morning in front of the closet, but then I realized it wasn't Tuesday. Oh, how I do enjoy my Tuesdays..."
Rolling her eyes, Daria reached up tentatively, to run fingers over the fuzz on his cheek. It was wiry, yet softer than she'd expected. Her nails grazed the dusting of hair lightly, and the contact with Daria's slender fingers caught Tom off guard, lulling his eyes closed for a moment.
"Well, I'm sure you're relieved to know you'll never have to purchase steel wool again." Daria withdrew her hand, as surprised by her bold gesture as Tom. The tips of her fingers burned, ever so slightly. Whoa there, Morgandorffer.
Tom quickly opened his eyes, attempting to pretend he had not succumbed to the gentle comfort of female fingers. Funny, how this woman so easily unraveled him. Did she know? Was she taunting him? One look in those coffee brown eyes told him no, she was not playing games. If Daria was ever aware of how desirable he found her, she'd never shown it. She most likely had no idea of the effect she had on him, even still.
"Don't tell my roommates, they'll put me on dishes duty."
"Your secret's safe with me."
Daria's lips curled in that heartbreakingly beautiful Mona Lisa smile Tom had come to adore. It hit him like a punch in the gut out of the blue, but he took it gladly. "I missed you, Daria," he found himself admitting softly.
Daria got the feeling he didn't just mean the summer, or since the last time he'd seen her. The thought unnerved her in a way. However, where perhaps once she would have cut and run, or even lashed out, picked a fight to distract attention from any real prospect of intimacy or trust, she simply nodded. "I missed you too," she said, barely audible above the din of the crowd. And at that moment, she wasn't exactly sure in what way she meant it, only that she did.
Finding Tom staring intently into her eyes, as though he were trying to decipher her complex-nigh-impenetrable inner workings, a familiar fidget caused her to twitch. "So," she said, voice loud and clear. "What's this about Paraguay?"
Tom smiled wide, not quite flashing teeth. "Let's get coffee, I'll tell you all about it." He made a gesture of ladies first, and as he watched Daria from behind, he thought I would give a finger to know what she's thinking right now.
And what was she thinking?
In truth, something along those very same lines.
III
"...and so I just slept outside, on a bench, in Buenos Aires."
"Weren't you scared?"
"Sure, a little. But that's part of the fun."
"Is it now? Like going to a haunted house, or the dentist."
The friends sat for several hours, sipping from bottomless mugs, and exchanging stories. They sat side by side in a booth, looking down at a photo album full to bursting with scintillating photos of his journey. Daria tried not to think about the line of warmth his body emanated, inches away to her right. Innocently enough, his arm would brush hers, reaching out to point at something, or turn a page. It woke old feelings long buried within Daria, confusing her even as they guiltily warmed her insides.
Daria couldn't believe that in a mere three months he'd made it through Chile, Argentina, Paraguay, Brazil, Bolivia, Peru, Ecuador, and even Columbia. And by the sounds of it, at times, barely. She tried to fathom the courage it would take, to hare off on a trip like that, all by yourself, with only a little Spanish under your belt. It made her wonder if there was an element of rebellion, or something in particular he'd needed to escape.
"What made you decide to do this?" she asked. "To just pick up and leave for three months?"
Tom paused, considering his answer. "I suppose I was running," he admitted quietly, suddenly very interested in a picture of dark skinned children smiling up at the camera, up to their ears in a murky-watered swimming hole.
"From what?"
The bitter laugh that escaped Tom's mouth took Daria aback; she could count on one hand the times she'd heard such a raw sound from him. "From being Angier's Boy," he confessed. "From my family, from my school, from my friends...from the world that had been created for me from the day I was born. The prep-school ivy league persona. For a while I'd managed to compromise with it. Play the game, but still save some face. But this year I just felt like it was...eating me, from the inside out. Devouring my soul. I felt I had to go somewhere so unlike anywhere I'd ever been before, to actually find out who I really am."
He glanced up from the album, to meet Daria's eyes. Those cocoa orbs studied him intently, and he fought not to squirm beneath the microscope. Sometimes he felt as though those eyes of hers could lay him bare, leave him with nothing left to hide behind. Tom wondered what Daria thought of this rebellion against his birthright. Poor little rich boy, has everything he could possibly ever want, and still isn't satisfied. True, it was the human condition to feel ever-unfulfilled, whether justified or not. But he hoped she found more depth to his discontent than merely being spoiled.
Once upon a time, he'd hoped to find some refuge in Daria. She'd seemed to live in a whole other world, the polar opposite of his own. He'd wanted to visit that world. Curl up in it, around her, and stay for a while. Tom had dared to hope she could see past his family name, his family's wealth and status, and just see him. Maybe even love him. But it seemed that no matter how she tried, or didn't try, as the case may have been, she remained utterly freaked out about those well-to-dos he shared a bloodline with. He knew now he should have known better than to hope Daria could rescue him; she was far too confused with her own life, much less the complications of his.
"So?" she prompted. "Did you find out?"
Had there been any hint of mockery in Daria's voice, Tom would have shrugged it off. Avoided the question, declined to share his deepest fears with someone he looked up to so very much. However, by her tone, and her gaze, he could tell she was one better than sincere: she was interested. The thought frightened him a little, for some reason, causing him to give a shaky laugh. "No, not quite," he admitted. "But I learned a lot. About myself, and perhaps more importantly, the world outside. So I've decided to take a year off after the fall semester, to travel some more. To really take a step back, evaluate things, while exploring some new territory."
Daria's eyebrows raised. "Where? Back to South America?"
Tom shook his head, bangs hanging in his eyes. "No. Asia this time. I'm still planning, obviously, but I'm thinking to start with India and move East. I've heard some amazing stories from other backpackers."
"Like what?"
A soft smile curled Tom's lips, as he looked off wistfully. "I can't really explain, because they couldn't really explain. It was just this...look, this feeling I could sense while they tried to convey the wonder that is India...I just know it must be an amazing place. I want to go."
"That must be nice."
"What?"
"To just pick and leave for whatever country you want."
Tom shrugged. It was a subtle change, but Daria noticed him pull inside himself, just a bit, perhaps feeling that no matter what he did, he couldn't escape the stereotype of a spoiled heir. It was a subject he even still felt a particular sensitivity to, around her. "It's not all that expensive, Daria. You can live in India for ten dollars a day. That barely bought us these two coffees."
"What about school?"
Tom grimaced. "It'll be here when I get back," he grumbled.
This reaction of seeming disdain surprised, and even concerned Daria. "Are you regretting Bromwell now?"
"Yes and no," he openly admitted. "The profs are great. The education is top notch. But as I kind of said before, the elitism is driving me insane. What really kills me is that it won't stop even after college. These people will go on for the rest of their lives not giving a damn about anything but the color of their next golf club bag, and think they're so much the better for it, while elsewhere children starve and..." Tom sighed, cutting himself off. "Sorry. I get worked up. After seeing so much poverty...we lead charmed lives, Daria. We really do. Even as "poor" students."
"It's good to be capitalist imperialists?" she deadpanned, looking over the top of her mug at Tom.
"I'm not sure good is the right word, but I agree with the latter half," he said with a smile. He turned his attention back to the photo-album, flipping the page. She took the opportunity to look at him, really look at him, not a shy glance stolen here and there that only satisfied fragments of her curiosity.
Aside from an intellectual attraction, Daria had always found Tom's features an easy sight to gaze upon. He'd usually seemed mostly disinterested in his outward appearance, but still managed to cultivate a (dare she admit cute?) boyishly intelligent image. Daria had never before found features that were particularly associated with the popular notion of masculinity interesting. Quinn gravitated towards the macho hunks, and she the skinny brooding types. And so it was with a twinge of surprise she found herself appraising Tom's latest appearance with an approving eye.
He'd never had much, but what was left of his babyfat had dropped off, leaving his features chiseled, more angled. The hard line of his jaw was only softened by the dusting of the beard. Skin bronzed from the sun, his brown hair was full of coppery sun streaks people would pay far too much money to emulate in the salon. Muscles toned from carrying his life in a rucksack, he was leaner than ever before, shoulders broader, hands once soft now callused by God-only-knows what. It was an adjective she never thought she would find herself using to describe Tom, but his latest adventure left him looking almost...rugged, in a way.
Tom turned to catch her gaze, and she jumped slightly as his blue eyes met hers. They too had gained something of an edge, though she couldn't quite describe it. A weight, for lack of a better word. Knowledge, of the world, of himself, and maybe even, she thought unnervedly, of her. In a gesture of what she felt at that moment to be self-defense, she averted her gave, turning attention back down to the photo album. "Some of these are really excellent, Tom," she complimented. "You should enter them in a photo contest or something."
"Oh yeah?" He sounded surprised to receive the compliment.
"Yeah. Or you could sell them. Maybe some of the less-inspired art students could use a good idea or two."
Tom laughed at the prospect. "Yeah, the art at Bromwell can be gut-wrenchingly traditional at times. An interpretation of one of these might be an improvement over a pleasant Gondola, cutting through the sunset-lit waters of a Venetian canal."
The painful visual caused Daria's stomach to turn (Jane had taught her something about art, after all), but the very mention of Italy inspired a nauseous churning in her gut. Tom tilted his head with curiosity, sensing a bit more behind the emphatic groan that escaped from between her lips. "Did your Dad create yet another pot of hazardous waste trying his hand at Italian cuisine?"
A cynical laugh accompanied Daria's mona lisa smile. "I'm afraid it's worse than a lethal pot of penne a la Jakey," she mourned, but declined to elaborate. Changing the subject, she pointed down at a photo of a decorated cemetery, somewhere high in the desert clime of the Andes mountains. "What's this?"
V
As several hours passed in the coffee house and the conversation did not exhaust, Daria invited Tom back to campus for dinner, courtesy of her meal-plan account at the RAFT café. Her roomate had not yet moved in, leaving the entire dinky dorm room to themselves. Seated at Daria's desk, Tom wolfed down a turkey sandwich, whilst Daria worked through a slice of Pizza on her bed. Finishing his meal, he glanced down at the papers strewn across Daria's desk. School had not yet begun, but it seemed she already was keeping herself busy.
One particular publication caught his eye. A glossy booklet featuring several smiling youths before the leaning tower of Pisa on the cover read: Travel, Study, Explore Italy. Quirking an eyebrow, he suspected he'd stumbled upon the cause of her previous discomfort at the mention of said country.
"What's this?" he asked, holding up the packet, and winning that same disdainful groan.
"That is my mother's latest scheme to get me more involved with the school. The cultural exchange department called my house inquiring if Helen thought her daughter might be interested (AKA could she afford it?), and now Mom thinks Florence would just be a lovely idea. Something about chances she never had as a student at Middleton..."
Tom tilted his head inquiringly, sensing this wasn't the half of it. "Most kids would jump at the chance to study abroad. I can't help but sense you're less than enthused."
Daria shrugged her narrow shoulders. "It's not the abroad part I object to. It's...I don't know. Something about it doesn't sit right. Paying entirely too much money to be coddled in a foreign country...I'm afraid it would be superficial or something. Not quite as real as it should be."
Leaning his head on his hand, Tom studied Daria with that newly acquired gaze of his. She fought the urge to squirm, though whether because of his evaluative stare or the warmth in his eyes as he looked at her, she couldn't quite tell. "So you do want to travel? And it's not the thought of being gone for the semester that bothers you?"
"Time lost? No, not particularly. I'm already ahead on my credits as it is."
"Over achiever."
"That's inquisitive student to you, buster."
"A rare creature, these days." A deep breath filled his lungs, and released shakily. Thoughts quickly darted through Tom's mind, bouncing back and forth like a flurry of quarter-machine superballs. At just the very beginning of this day, he had mused on his reluctance to push Daria to see her more often, afraid of revoking what friendship they'd managed to retain. So could he really be considering what was running through his mind at that moment? Was he crazy? Possibly. Probably. Still, he decided, that it perhaps couldn't hurt to try the waters. He'd been lucky with her thus far today... "I'm having a thought," he confessed, downplaying the veritable storm of possibilities raging rampant behind his eyes.
"Clear the runway. Dare I ask?"
"First, forgive me if this sounds hasty."
The disclaimer caused Daria to quirk an eyebrow. Where once she would have immediately been suspicious, that particular emotion was overshadowed, at least at the moment, by curiosity. "How can I forgive that which has not yet been perpetrated?"
"I'm opting for asking forgiveness over asking permission."
"Always the best policy. Come now, I can hardly stand the suspense," she deadpanned in that typical Daria fashion. Had he not known her so well, he probably would have chosen that moment to back away. Change his mind, lose his nerve, and run for the hills. Little did he know, her seeming lack of enthusiasm was actually an effort to conceal the tingle of curiosity tickling her brain.
"Do you want to have a real adventure, Daria?"
She blinked, stomach lurching with fear or excitement, seeming one and the same at that moment. "Is that a come on?" she inquired snarkily, that curious tingle shifting to a full on itch in a matter of seconds.
Undeterred, Tom answered, "No, it's an invitation. What would you say, if I proposed you come with me to Asia?"
Daria swallowed, hard. "I would say: are you serious?"
"Totally serious. You wouldn't have to stay on as long as me. We could fly you home anytime you wanted, to be back in time for the Fall semester."
"Backpacking?"
"Backpacking. The best way to get down in a new culture, and see something real. If it's genuine you want, that is."
Daria chewed on the thought, glancing down at her pizza, and back up to Tom. Backpacking. Real independent travel. No study abroad to hold one's hand. No tour guide to keep track of you. Truthfully the idea inspired as much excitement as it did caution, a rare medley of emotion for her. And then, there was the prospect of traveling with an ex. In particular, this ex. She'd had a few boyfriends and dates since their separation, but none had quite left the impression upon her that Tom did.
Would it be strange? Taxing? Infuriating? They seemed to get along well enough, but it was impossible to tell how they would react to each other's company day in and day out. Questions, possibilities, fears, and wild ideas swirled about her head.
Finally, she had to ask, "Why would you want to travel with me? I have no experience...you would be annoyed."
Tom rolled his eyes at what was in his opinion, a modest protest. "You're the most capable woman I know, Daria, I know you would quickly catch on. Why wouldn't I want to travel with you?"
"I'm not physically strong," she pointed out.
"You don't have to be. Travel light. I bet you'd be fine with a 40 liter bag, or less."
Traveling with Daria. The more the thought swam around in his head, the more enthused Tom became. She was intelligent, capable, curious...and company he usually enjoyed. How would being together 24/7 strain things between them? He found it was an uncertainty he was suddenly quite willing to take a chance on. She seemed to be truly considering his offer, which greatly excited him. Anytime Daria didn't immediately shoot down an idea with a cuttingly creative and sarcastic no, it seemed to mean it piqued her curiosity, at least a little.
Even so, Daria seemed to be searching for more excuses. This was a game she had to play, he now knew. She had to question, evaluate all the possibilities, and make for certain that the invitation was sincere. Though she would never admit it, Tom knew she needed assurance that the invitation was real, not just a courtesy. Stuck in the antisocial armor she'd forged for herself, she needed to feel as though she was truly wanted, before she would take the leap to try something or someone new.
And so cautiously, Tom pushed the envelope a bit more, hoping he did not trespass too far, sound too eager, and spook her. "Aren't you curious how most of the world lives, Daria? The world that doesn't have the basic comforts of western wealth? Don't you want to know? Not know in the sense of picking up a National Geographic, but I mean really truly know?"
"I'll admit to a fair amount of curiosity."
"You might even be able to arrange earning some credit. Keep a journal or something, send back articles. I guarantee you'll learn more about the lifestyles of people, and about yourself, than you ever would by using an overpriced through school endorsed excuse for a multicultural program. You always hate superficial things. Why settle, when you can see something real?"
"You can't always guarantee that," she countered.
Tom bobbed his head in agreement. "No, I can't," he agreed. "The only thing I can really guarantee is that you'll never be the same again."
"Last time I heard that I woke up with a hangover and a missing liver..."
"I promise not to steal any of your internal organs."
"You would say that, wouldn't you?"
Glancing briefly down, Tom pointed out with a hopeful raise of eyebrows, "And just think, Daria. You wouldn't have to shave your legs."
This particular remark took her aback, causing her to cross her legs. "Is it that obvious I'm inept at wielding a sharp blade so close to my bare skin?"
"The band-aids are a clue, Sweeney, though I happen to find adhesive strips of vinyl attractive on a woman."
"We'll just see how you fare, shaving off that thing you call beard."
"All the more reason to keep it...indefinitely."
IV
Tom and Daria stood in the parking lot of Daria's residence hall, streetlight bathing them in a circle of yellow light. "It was good to see you, Daria," said Tom. He did not push the subject of travel any further, convinced that Daria had chosen to purposefully change the subject a while back. He felt a bit of the bite of disappointment, but not too much. Had he really expected her to jump up and agree on such short notice? Daria, of all people? Well...maybe he'd hoped, a little.
"It was good to see you too," she agreed, shuffling her feet. She seemed quite interested in the toes of her boots at that moment. It was much to his surprise when she turned her attention back to him, wise brown eyes bravely meeting his gaze. "Um...about the backpacking thing. I'm not setting down a resounding no yet...if that's ok."
Tom's mouth hung open for a moment, the man left speechless. Had he heard correctly? Quickly, he recovered. "Yeah, that's ok. That's great, actually. Take some time to think about it."
Daria nodded. "When do you want to know by?"
"We can play it by ear, though maybe sometime soon. If you decide to go, it would probably be nice to have tickets on the same flight, though not entirely essential...but we would have to apply for an Indian visa before we go, and having a Chinese visa in advance could make life easier. Embassies abroad can be such a pain...We could sit down with a Lonely Planet, and figure out where we want to go, though a lot of that will probably be played by ear..." Travel complications darted through his mind. Already, to do lists, packing lists, plans and technicalities to attend to. The thought excited him, greatly.
"Lonely Planet?"
"Guidebook. Backpacker's Bible."
"I see." Hardly believing what was coming out of her mouth, Daria had to ask, "Are you sure this would be a good idea? Traveling in a third world country with your ex?"
Tom smiled warmly, giving no hint of the little pointy worries playing havoc in the pit of his stomach. "If you recall, our breakup was of a more practical nature, rather than the need to separate on basis of hating each others guts..."
"It was?"
Tom's face fell, and Daria poked him in the arm playfully. "I'm kidding. I enjoy...being around you," she admitted. Still. Apparently, enough to consider embarking on a multi-month adventure of a lifetime with him. This meeting of the minds had gone swimmingly, far better than she really ever could have hoped. However they both had changed, matured, grown, it seemed to aid in their interaction. Could it last? Remain amicable? Or would they be at each other's throats in no time?
"Well," teased Tom. "If you're afraid of falling hopelessly in love with me again, I promise to let you down gently." If you promise to do the same for me he thought uneasily. Truly, as well as they seemed to get along this visit, it was something he feared in a way. Being vulnerable again, more so than he already was...it came with the territory. What ever came his way, he felt sure he could handle it. Keep telling yourself that, Sloane.
When Daria did not laugh as easily this time, a pinprick of fear poked at his brain. Nice, Sloane. This time you went too far.
Finally, a sage smile tugged at the corners of her lips. "I can see at least your ego hasn't changed."
Fighting not to release a sigh of relief, he quipped, "I thought it was one of my more endearing traits?"
"I actually only dated you for your collection of first-edition books. If only you knew how many times that Sylvia Plath nearly ended up in my bag..."
"You couldn't be like normal girls, and just date me for my money."
"I like to be original. Are you going to be alright driving?" It occurred to Daria it would be quite late when Tom finally arrived back in Newtown. There was an extra bed she could offer him if he needed it, though she found herself craving to be by herself that evening. She needed to reflect, think about some things, and quite frankly Tom's presence would be the kind of distraction she didn't exactly want.
"I'll be fine. Um...you'll call me?"
Something about the look in his eyes intrigued Daria. At that moment there was an element of vulnerability to his gaze, coupled with the hopeful notes present in his tone. She realized that Tom still looked up to her in a way, even after all his travels, all his exposure to the ways of the world. She surmised that he hoped she wouldn't reject him, as he truly seemed to be interested in initiating her into this pastime of his called backpacking.
"Yeah, I'll call you. Give me some time to think."
"Sure. Of course."
Tom found himself hovering in an uncertain limbo. Anyone else he would offer a farewell embrace, but with Daria...a sudden image of Cesar hovered in his mind, that broken-toothed grin mocking his cowardly pale rear end. Daria paused when his hands raised in the universal gesture of offering a hug, but after a few heartbeats of indecision he found her in his arms, much to his surprise and delight. Her hair was soft against his neck and smelled of vanilla; when after a brief squeeze she soon slipped away, he felt it was an embrace too brief.
"Drive safe," she said, and with a tragic smile retreated back across the parking lot to disappear inside the brick compound that was her residence hall. He watched her go, the warm summer breeze lifting her hair behind her, with something that felt like heartache deep in his chest. Shaking his head, Tom got into his rust bucket, firing up the engine. He let it idle a bit, listening to a song wafting through the speakers. What had just happened? He decided that he couldn't quite be sure yet. Things would clear up later, when Daria called. Tom had a feeling it was going to be something of an agonizing wait by the phone.
Daria commended herself for her valiance, as she crossed the whole distance from parking lot to dorm without looking back. As she entered her cell and closed the door, she found herself leaning against it, as though she were exhausted. What just happened? She wasn't entirely certain. Now in the safety of her own abode, she peered out the window in time to see Tom put the car in gear, and the rusty machine rolled out into the night. Something significant just happened, she realized. She now stood with two options, one familiar, the other not so much. She could run away, as usual, plead some excuse, and uphold the time honored tradition of disappointing Tom. Or, maybe, just maybe, she could steel her nerves, go out on a limb, and have an adventure. A real adventure.
What's it going to be, Morgandorffer?
That depends, she answered herself. How well does your digestive system get along with curry?