Universe: Pre-The Following, 2005
Pairing: Claire Matthews/Ryan Hardy
Rating: PG
Inspiration: "About Today" by The National
Summary: Ryan breaks things off with Claire.
Author's Note: I swear I'm not trying to torture you guys. Only myself. This is just what comes out.
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"So what happened?"
"I told her I needed time. We were never gonna work, you said so yourself."
—Jenny & Ryan Hardy, 2005, from episode 1x04
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Today,
you were far away.
And I
didn't ask you why.
What could I say?
I was far away.
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She couldn't hear anything except a buzzing in her ears. It had started low, quiet; it had been just barely audible to her preoccupied ears when it began, but now it was loud and distracting. Now it had taken her over. It had even taken him over.
She could see his lips moving and she knew the garbled sounds she could almost hear from what seemed like so far away were actual words and sentences coming out of his mouth, but she couldn't make sense of them. She wasn't even sure she could hear him making a sound beneath all that buzzing. Was he actually talking?
Or was she making all this up?
Was she dreaming?
She shut her eyes, squeezing them tight, and counted to five. She hoped when she opened them, she'd wake up in her bed just like she had this morning. Or at least, she'd be returned to some semblance of reality. She never made it to five, nor any of her hoped-for destinations.
"Claire?"
She hadn't meant for her eyes to shoot open, but they did anyway. Like his voice had rocked her so suddenly, the world around her came into strange and sharp clarity almost at once. The buzzing had gone, she realized belatedly, part of her going numb in the vain hope it might dull her other senses and emotions. She could feel the dreaded reality creeping back in on her though she didn't want to believe it.
"Are you…" He trailed off, swallowing the word she'd known he'd wanted to use. Are you okay? He was smart to stop talking before he'd said that word. It took him a few seconds to recover, and this time his voice was quieter when he asked, "Did you hear what I said?" like he was trying to somehow spare her feelings.
Claire opened her mouth to say No, but she before she could get the word out, she realized it was a lie. She had heard what he'd said. She'd heard every word. That buzzing in her ears had only come on after he'd started, after he'd said it, after he'd—
"You're breaking up with me."
He flinched so harshly at the phrase and she couldn't help but wonder that maybe he hadn't thought of it in those exact terms before. For a fleeting second, she thought that she'd be able to convince him—they could talk about this, work through it, figure it out—but then he spoke and it didn't matter how he'd thought about it or what words they used. It all meant the same thing.
"I said I needed some time, Claire." His tired eyes roamed over hers, sharp as ever but clouded with worry and concern and—was it really there?—possibly fear. What did he have to be afraid of? she wondered. "I just… I need some time."
"To do what?" she asked, suddenly feeling very judgmental about his choice of words now that he'd repeated them so many times. What was he trying to do, use a euphemism and pretend like he wasn't breaking up with her while really doing it? Why? What was the point; how did understating the situation make it any better? It was no different than lying. "What do you need time for?" she asked, unable to keep the bite out of her voice. Claire bit hard down on the inside of her lip to hold back the rest. She sounded like a jealous, possessive girlfriend, and she hated herself for it. What can that bitch give you that I can't? What makes her so special, huh? Huh, Ryan?
He opened his mouth to reply, and she awaited his answer eagerly, but he never spoke. She nodded slowly, gradually lowering her eyes to the floor. She didn't need to ask it again to show him what he'd really said. She'd made her point. She'd won this small battle but—it was clear as day—he'd won the war.
She looked up at him, curious as to why he didn't look more triumphant. To her, he looked more defeated than victorious. His shoulders were slumped and his head was bent down to the floor. With his hands shoved in his pockets like they were, and his back bent over, it nearly looked like he was trying to collapse in on himself.
The sight of him made her frown in confusion. Why did he look like that? He'd gotten what he wanted; maybe he shouldn't be happy, okay, but he certainly shouldn't look this bad. He was the one breaking up with her, not the other way around—so why did he look like he was the one being left behind?
"Why now?" The words escaped her mouth quicker than she could have stopped them. Its sisters and brothers tumbled out afterwards, taking advantage of her momentarily failing defenses. "Why are you doing this now? What's happened?"
"Nothing's happened," he replied at once, and she nearly jumped in to ask again, but managed to hold herself back this time. It was more effective to hold her tongue and listen to what he had to say on his own than to try to force it out of him. She'd known him long enough now to know that he only really told the truth when there was no one demanding it, when he felt safe enough to come to terms with it and admit it on his own. "It's just that I've realized that I…" He paused, seeming to search for a word or phrase, but then he ended up right where he'd began. He repeated the words like the broken record he was: "I need some time."
She stared at him for a very long time before finally caving, finally letting her endless insecurities get the better of her, and asking: "Was it something I did?"
"No!" The word sprung from his mouth at once, and from the way his head snapped up and his eyes flew to hers, she knew immediately that he was telling the truth. For a half-second when she forgot what they were talking about, she smiled a little. He was always making sure she felt safe and reassured in the validity of in their relationship.
And now he was ending it.
Why? WHY? She wanted to scream the word, to grab him and shake him and demand to know what had happened, but she knew all of that would only have the opposite of the effect she desired. He'd clam up and then none of her pleading would be able to make him speak and tell the truth; none of her pummeling could beat the answer out of him. There was nothing she could say or do that would make him still want her if he was sure he didn't anymore.
"Please don't give me the It's not you, it's me routine." She tried to laugh and make light of it, but the request came out sounding more like a plea than an offhand comment. He didn't laugh either.
It took him a long time to respond.
"It…" He began only to immediately stall, taking a deep breath and shifting his weight from side to side. He reached a hand behind himself to scratch the back of his neck, as if that were an excuse for prolonging the inevitable. He'd have to speak sometime, and she wasn't going to let him off the hook until he did so. "It was nothing you did," he finally answered quietly. He paused then, but it was shorter this time—just a beat—and Claire couldn't help but stare at him in surprise as he spoke softly: "It could never be anything you did." He paused again—maybe embarrassed for saying what he had, or saying it in the way that he had—and in the silence, she was tempted to press him on the matter.
She could tell things weren't completely over between them—she could hear it in his voice, for god's sake: he still cared about her. It begged the question: why was he doing this? Why was he ending things if he still felt something for her? It was obvious she still had feelings for him; if he had the same… She studied him, tempted to ask—was it not something she had done, but something he had done?—but she forced herself to hold her tongue so he could arrive at the truth himself. She hoped that then, he'd finally admit it this time, instead of tip-toeing around it.
"I don't know what to say, Claire." He shrugged, and she turned her head to the side so she wouldn't glare at him. The longer he pretended not to know the reason behind why he was breaking up with her, the closer she came to wanting to hit him. At the rate he was going, she didn't know how much longer she'd be able to hold back.
"Well, why don't you try?" she suggested pointedly, making a concentrated effort to keep her voice even. Try, because you haven't tried at all today. "Why don't you try and explain, Ryan, because right now, I need time doesn't cut it. We all need time. But I need you to tell me why you think that's a reason to break up."
He looked away. She watched him still, counting each breath he took as it entered and exited his body. She tried very hard not to think the last time she'd watched him breathe so closely, but of course once the hint of a memory was there, the entire thing came storming back in. It disregarded her need for privacy, for sanity, for anything—and overwhelmed her.
By the time he finally spoke and gave her what she wanted, she was lying naked in bed next to him, her head resting on his arm as she watched his chest rise and fall, and it took her more than a couple blinks of her eyes to dispel the recollection she so desperately wished could still become more than a memory.
"I can't do this anymore." The words rushed out of his mouth, like water pouring over a waterfall, and he seemed as powerless as anything else to stop it. "You want the truth? That's the truth. I can't—can't keep being with you and pretending that it's all going to work out just because we want it to. It's not enough to erase everything else that's happened. It's not enough to make this look different, or normal, to other people. I can't keep being with you and thinking that it's not—not—"
"Not what?" she interrupted fiercely, her shock and hurt turning to anger. Since when does he care about what's happened? Since when does he give a damn what other people think? "You can't keep thinking it's not what?"
He straightened for a moment—only to slouch his shoulders again a second later—and stared at her for a very long time. After what seemed like an eternity, he spoke. "I can't keep seeing you," he began slowly, "and thinking that what we're doing together isn't just completely…" He paused, his piercing blue eyes flickering to hers. "…wrong," he finally admitted, his voice flat and final.
But—But—But we've talked about this, she wanted to say. We've talked about this; it isn't wrong. What happened doesn't matter. What other people think doesn't matter!
She opened her mouth to protest, but the words died on her lips when she saw the look on his face. She had been going to say that she wasn't married anymore—that therefore there was nothing really wrong with what they were doing together—but clearly this was about more than that. The thin line of his mouth and the sharpness of his eyes staring down at her were all but ordering her to let him leave things like this. It would be easier—neater, cleaner. Her eyes fell to the floor, unable to hold his anymore as she realized what was going on.
He was embarrassed by her. He didn't want to be seen with her. And then—one thought led to another and she almost jolted as the understanding hit her as suddenly as a lightning strike: He couldn't be seen with her.
Though the FBI had relieved him of his agent status years ago, the fact remained that they were still paying him and therefore, he was still a part of the Bureau. She'd never thought about it before—for he seemed so divorced from his previous career once he'd been put on disability—but now she wondered just how many rules he'd been breaking since things had started up between them. She wondered how long ago the FBI had found out, and what they'd said to him to convince him that ending things between them was the only option.
With that insight, all of the pieces then fit into place. His residual feelings made sense. His vague explanations—I just need time, I just need time—made sense. His forcefulness made sense. This wasn't a decision he wanted to make, but he had to carry it out.
Because he was who he was, she knew he could've fought it, if he'd really wanted to.
But hadn't fought it—he hadn't wanted to—and that sent the message loud and clear.
Wasn't it enough that he had Joe's crimes shackled around him for the rest of his life; did he really need her, too—very literally adding insult to injury? She couldn't imagine what they'd said to him at the Bureau; if the gawking looks people gave them in public in broad daylight were any indication, the higher-ups within the FBI would've made things unnecessarily tough for him.
She bit down hard on the edges of her tongue so she could keep her trembling chin steady. She could feel tears threatening, could feel them pooling in her eyes. She didn't want to know what they'd said; she didn't want to know how they'd reduced her and Ryan's relationship to nothing more than mixing business with pleasure or screwing a witness.
Suddenly I need time was enough of an explanation. She didn't need to hear the rest; she didn't need to have him explain it. It had lead to this, anyway, and none of it mattered when she already knew the outcome.
"Fine," she muttered finally, crossing her arms and applying pressure to her body to hold herself together. "Fine, that's…" She forced herself to nod, but couldn't make herself meet his eyes. Her arms squeezed together so tight she could feel her bones pressing hard against one another. "That's understandable," she heard herself reply, though she could barely feel the words as they passed off of her lips and out into the air. It seemed like they were coming from another person's mouth and not her own.
Somehow, and she wasn't sure how, her head lifted and her eyes met his. She figured it was probably some sick hidden desire surfacing within her—a want to see him one last time before he left—and she couldn't squash it.
Because she knew—just by looking at his downturned eyes now—that this was the last time. This was for good. He didn't have to say anything else to make it fact, for it already was.
After today, they were over.
Slowly, his eyes lifted to hers, and she could tell from the tentative way that his blue ones flitted over to meet hers that he was worried about how she'd react. Drawing from some deep reserve of composure she hadn't even known she still possessed, she lifted her head to meet his eyes calmly.
He looked so troubled—so strangely torn between two things—that for a moment, she considered trying to convince him that this didn't need to happen. They could both forget what they'd each said, and they could go back to being together. They could go back to the before.
But then he said her name, and that dashed that hope and all the others she hadn't even realized she'd been fostering—dashed them and clobbered them and made them no more.
"Claire, I—"
Hearing him use her name broke her composure, and wrecked her concentration. The next words spilled out of her, hurried and hurt and angry, but she couldn't get a handle on anything anymore: "You know, you should go now," she interrupted at once, not wanting to hear another word come out of his mouth. Where it had always been comforting and sweet before, to hear her name on his lips, now it was nothing short of torture. "You should really go, Ryan."
She flinched internally at her own use of his name; that, somehow, was just as bad as hearing him use hers. She could still remember the way she'd said his name after they'd first kissed; she could remember the way she'd smiled and pulled him close again; how he hadn't bothered protesting, but had laughed and kissed her again…
She shut her eyes as one memory gave way to the next. His name mixed with hers, and soon their bodies were mixing together just the same. She could see it all in her head. She could taste his name on her lips the same way she used to be able to taste him, and she could hear his voice, calling out to her softly, filling her mind with the sound of her name on his lips and reminding her of the way it had felt when he'd whispered it against her shoulder and her neck as they'd made love…
Her name had been then—and was now, she realized—full of all the empty promises he'd pledged but never even sought to fulfill. She intended to keep them nonetheless; to keep every one of them as a reminder of all her mistakes.
First Joe and now Ryan.
She would know better next time. If there ever was a next time after this.
He was staring at her again now, his distressed expression having morphed into something much more resigned. If she hadn't been sure of their end already, she was now. She could see it etched into every corner and crevice and plane of his face.
It's over.
It was amazing, almost impressive, how easily he could communicate a message without ever having to speak. She remembered his earlier fumbling of words and she wondered how they'd ever actually talked about anything real at all.
But maybe that was what had been so great about it—they hadn't needed any words. Silent looks and reassuring touches were enough; at times, they were all that was required.
Her mind was still lost in the past when he stepped towards her. She was so far gone that she didn't even notice what he was doing until he was nearly close enough to do it—and she jerked away at once.
Initially, she'd jumped in surprise, but when she'd seen the way he'd been bending down towards her, she couldn't stop the way her mouth widened into a 'O' shape in outrage; she couldn't stop the way her eyebrows pulled together, pinching her forehead as if to ask, And what the hell do you think you're doing?
As always, he got this message just as clear as she'd received his. She watched him lean back, fall back on his heels, and finally take a step away. Her face didn't relax until he spoke, and then the strain of his surprise advance dropped completely off of her face.
He only whispered two words, but it might as well have been a monologue for all the unspoken feelings that lingered in the air afterwards: "Goodbye, Claire."
It was one of the more painful farewells she'd ever heard, and she'd had her fair share of them over the years. She knew without a doubt that this one would stick with her—just like everything else about him—whether she wanted it to or not.
He turned then, having nothing more to say and nothing more to do, and she watched him walk away. She watched him go, wanting to say something, but not being able to think of a single word. He glanced over his shoulder once before turning the corner to her front door, but she could tell from the way he quickly looked away that he hadn't expected to catch her eye.
Did he just think I was going to turn away and go back to my day? she couldn't help but think, holding his blue gaze coolly in hers for as long as she could. Did he really think all this would mean so little to me?
He kept eye contact with her for just the briefest of seconds before looking away and heading to the door. Even though she knew she should've been angry and annoyed, she had no room in her for anything else except a sudden, crushing sorrow.
She shouldn't have let him go.
She shouldn't have squandered that last opportunity—then maybe she would still have a kiss to remember him by. Then maybe she could've convinced him to stay. Then maybe everything would be different.
But it wasn't different—nothing was different—and no amount of rewriting the past in her mind would or could change that. He'd left and she hadn't stopped him and while it was his fault, for starting all this, it was her fault for letting it end like that.
If she'd really wanted to, she could've found a way to make him stay. But she hadn't.
She'd let him go, and she stood there for a long time afterwards wondering why she hadn't even attempted to stop him. Maybe it was because she had been too shocked. Too scared. Too embarrassed.
All of those were true, they were, but the second she stopped to think—really think—she knew why she hadn't stopped him. It was because she knew, in the course of convincing him not to leave her, a few choice words would've spilled out of her mouth, and if they'd been strung together leaving her lip like they'd been strung together in her mind for weeks, then it really would have been all over.
There was no taking back an I love you once it was out there, and as she listened to him start his car and drive away, she couldn't help but be glad of her self-control. What if she'd ended up saying it and he still left? Then she would have to carry that around with her for the rest of her life; the embarrassment, the horrid timing, the resulting heartbreak…
Yes, it was good she hadn't said it. She was glad she hadn't said it. This was the way things were supposed to be, there was no arguing that.
…Or at least that's what she told herself, over and over again later, when she was lying in bed alone that night and wishing for nothing else except to have him beside her once again.
I was glad I didn't say it. No matter how many times she thought it, it was still never completely the truth.
She knew in her head that it had been the right decision—not to fight him, not to say it—but at night, in the dark, she had a hard time convincing her heart of the same thing. It wanted her to scream the words at him, as if saying them loudly and passionately would make him want to come back to her.
Who was she kidding? If he didn't want her, there was nothing she could do to change his mind. All that offended him was nothing she could ever hope to alter about herself, and though she wished she could cut off her past with Joe as easily as she could her hair or her nails, of course it wasn't that simple. Nothing was ever that simple these days.
.
.
You just walked away.
And I just watched you.
What could I say?
How close am I
to losing you
tonight?
You just close your eyes.
And I just watch you
slip away.
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Author's Note: Thank you for reading. Sorry to be depressing, but this idea just hit me when I heard the song and I couldn't help but write it down. I hope it came out all right. Thank you so much for reading; reviews would be greatly appreciated. :)