A/N: This story came from a prompt by my friend Rachel on Tumblr. She chose from a list of prompts: "Amanda/Nolan: things you said that I wish you hadn't and things you said that I wasn't meant to hear". The first part of the story is actually the second; the second is the first. They are chronologically out of order because I felt it fit the mood better having it be so jagged like that. It's angst. Also, I published this earlier and took it down because of major formatting issues, so I apologize for that.
-o-o-o-
Things You Said That I Wish You Hadn't
"I'm glad you're okay," he says, later, when he's got her in his arms, setting her onto the table in the impromptu medical tent outside the mines. Her breath hitches, but he doesn't seem to notice, probably blaming it on the lack of oxygen.
He's putting the mask onto her face now, cradling the back of her skull in his free hand. When he's slowly settled her back down he starts running the fingers of that hand through her hair, too gentle, too soft. Too caring. She's not even sure he knows what he's doing, but she feels like she's suffocating, worse than she had been in the mines.
She reaches a hand to the mask, struggling to try to take it off. To get away so she can breathe again, so the vice around her chest will dissipate. She doesn't want this; it's too much, more than she deserves after pushing him away. More than he deserves after he'd moved on after two weeks (it had stung, despite the fact that she knew she'd made her bed by pushing him away, that she had no claim over him anymore-and perhaps she never did).
But he's not letting her, he's fighting her back and his rough hands are too gentle on her face, pressing the bands of the mask into her skin. His eyes bore holes into hers as he insists, "Amanda, you need to stop. You need the oxygen. As soon as it's safe, I'll take it off, okay? I promise. But not right now."
She can't breathe; she's drowning, and she briefly wonders if it's a pang of withdrawal, even two months after she'd quit cold turkey, if the lack of oxygen and claustrophobic situation brought on this anxiety, or intensified it. She wants it to be withdrawal; wants to be able to easily explain away the ache in her chest and the feeling of suffocation.
"That's it," his voice is coaxing, gentle as she stops gasping and begins to take in deep, gulping breaths of the oxygen, "You're okay, Amanda. You're okay. That's it."
She feels sick now, no longer like she can't breathe but like she wants to drown. But she forces herself to breathe as best she can; the sooner she can get this mask off, the sooner she can leave. The sooner she can get away from Nolan and the fear and the desire his presence stirs in her.
The mask is off in fifteen minutes; Nolan insists she wait another five just to be sure she's okay. Then she's leaving, and he follows her until she reaches her roller. She forces herself to turn, to smile reassuringly. To not show how little she'd wanted to hear what he'd said-I'm glad you're okay, you're okay. How it had made her want to drown as much as she feared it. How he makes her feel so confused and conflicted, falling without a safety net.
"Thank you," she nods, forcing her smile to stay put even as his expression becomes confused, resigned.
His smile reflects his resignation still when he replies, "Of course. I wouldn't leave you alone down there."
She nods, swallows, turns away because it's too much. She thinks about saying something, but Amanda doesn't have the words to convey the confusing burst of emotions in her chest, so she says nothing. Amanda gets into the roller that she'd come in with Pottinger; he's in the passenger seat (he'd had it worse than she did), his eyes scrutinizing the scene that had unfolded before him, following Amanda with concern as she gets into the car.
"I don't want to talk about it," she warns. He says nothing and nods; she starts the vehicle, and they head back into town.
She's sure Nolan might turn up later, regardless of what she wants or hopes to happen.
-o-o-o-
Things You Said That I Wasn't Meant to Hear
There is a certain beauty in the early morning, Amanda muses. Pink-gold light filters into the room through her window, bathing her bed in the light of the sunrise. She lolls her head to look to her right, to Nolan's sleeping form beside her. She can't quite help the small smile on her face at the sight. It's in these moments, in the light of the dawn when he's asleep but she's awake, that she feels the most affection for him. Not to say that she doesn't care about him all the time; but a surge of affection she can't quite help rushes through her at the sight of him asleep in her bed, vulnerable and trusting.
She could break him, she knows. Just as easily as he could break her. But they don't; they work, somehow. And they never talk about what they do, the moments stolen, the kisses shared, the times they've had sex. Amanda wouldn't know what to do if they did; she can tamp down her insecurities in the moment, but afterwards they linger, taunting her. She's not willing to talk, to open herself up to the very real possibility of rejection.
She wouldn't know what to say, anyways. Amanda cares about Nolan, she knows she does. She doesn't know if he does as well, or if this is just sex, purely a release. She doesn't want to know. But she does, at times, need to know; to know if this is just another casual fling for him. The idea of it being just sex sickens her, but the idea of it being more fills her with so much anxiety she feels like she can't breathe. Like she's drowning and gasping for air.
She's tried, before, to think of words she might say. Amanda doesn't necessarily want a romantic relationship; that's not the point of her insecurities, of the stupid need to know what this is to him. On some level it's merely morbid curiosity; but on another level, a more primal level, she needs to know that he cares. She's never claimed not to be selfish.
"I wish I could understand what this means to you," she murmurs, and she doesn't realize she's said it aloud until his eyes are opening, sleepy but confused.
"Amanda?" his voice is still slightly slurred from sleep, and she flushes, skin prickling with anxiety at the fact that she's been caught.
"It's nothing," she manages to get out, daring him to press the issue.
"You sure?" he asks, moving closer to her.
"I'm sure," she says, firmly.
"Okay then," he smiles reassuringly, and then he's lying next to her, faces so close that she can see every minute detail of his microexpressions.
His lips press to her forehead, her eyes closing and a shaky sigh escaping her as he does so; he punctuates the gesture with, "Go back to sleep, Amanda. It's too early to be awake."
She nods slightly, and can feel herself relaxing, tension leaving her body when his hand squeezes the curve of her hip. His breathing evens out, and she feels her own do the same.
For now, this is enough.