Starting Phrase: "She was his drug of choice." or "She was his addiction."
Start Date: 2/27/07
End Date: 3/9/07
Satisfaction: Pretty snazzy. I like it.
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Title: Lying in Wait
Pairing: Rikku x Gippal
Summary: She was always the girl next door, which made it so challenging. But he was up for a challenge.
Inspiration: Thnks fr th Mmrs (Infinity on High, Fall Out Boy) and Hum Hallelujah (same)
Disclaimer: Standard stuff applies.
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Author's Note: This kinda popped into my head and I let it sit for a while. So of course I finish it the day my internet goes haywire. ;-; I really wanted to upload this puppy. Luckily my dad got a new router (is that the spell of it?) so I have the internet again.
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She was his drug of choice. His cravings never would leave once he was through seeing her, not completely. He figured this was what it was like for those people who couldn't get enough of crack or coke or whatever they were calling it now. Except for him - well, his drug was ten times better and completely willing (in his dreams, anyway).
She wasn't some bimbo he picked up at a bar near midnight. She was the girl next door for so long; that just made it all the more challenging. He was one for challenges. He'd done them all before, but never that girl next door. She was always so close - a wave in the morning, a smile before dusk - and he knew he couldn't have her.
So when she came flying at him, sobbing, he didn't know what to do. If she'd come flying at him for something different, something good, he would have known exactly what to do. But girls never cried around him. Girls and him weren't friends; they were random things used to quench his thirst. With her... she could never be a one-nighter. He knew it was all or nothing. And he was scared.
When you've never - or rarely - said a word to each other, then comforting each other is never an option. That made it a mystery why his t-shirt was suddenly off, but not for anything dirty (damn it) - to use as an extra layer for her against the cold. He pulled her inside and shut the door, a bit standoffish, uneasy.
She sniffed and sat down uninvited on his couch. The three-room apartment had only a few things: a barely stocked kitchen, a bathroom, and a living room. In the living room? A couch and a bed.
Talk about a one-track mind.
She looked up at him and sniffed again, starting to shake. "Pops... He's dead."
He didn't know how to respond to that. He couldn't remember his own father that much; he'd never been attached enough to feel the hurt when he was gone. So he sat next to her and rubbed her shoulder awkwardly.
She leaned on him and sobbed again, her braids tickling his nose. He scrunched it up and attempted not to sneeze. His t-shirt was baggy around her small frame and he was starting to feel the cold. He needed to find enough money to pay for the heating sometime.
"I knew he'd been sick, I did, I just... I never..."
"Shh, it's okay," he whispered above her sniffling. Despite himself, he could only picture them rolling off the couch and fumbling with the light switch, letting animalism take control.
It was a while before she calmed down enough to use his t-shirt for a tissue, and it didn't faze her at all. Not that he minded. She was so perfect on his couch, even with puffy red eyes.
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It was hard for her to take it all in, what the doctors told her. He was dead. Gone. And it hurt so much to think that he'd never be there to turn red at the sight of her newest, skimpiest, dressphere. He'd never be there to help carry a drunken Brother into the cabin of the airship, or see Shinra's latest invention; he wouldn't see Yuna get married, or Baralai and Paine get together.
He wasn't going to smile at her ever again.
That was the thought that broke her down completely, and she went to the only place she could think to find comfort. Why it was him, not her boyfriend, she didn't know. She was in shock. And seeing him, the boy next door, was all that mattered.
He'd been her addiction for quite a while. He never knew, never hinted any return of feelings. She'd smile or wave and he'd just jerk his chin at her in that cool, arrogant, awesome way that only he could pull off. It was his hello, his goodbye, his "You're looking kinda blue, so I'll cheer you up" movement. And it always did make her feel so much lighter inside.
But not now. He didn't do it now when she needed it so badly. He opened that door and she actually didn't even give him a chance. His arms were just there, so tan, and she flung herself into them and cried.
He seemed to be uneasy about it. But she didn't take much in. The t-shirt pooling around her on the couch seemed to be a part of another world, a world where it was normal to offer extra layers to someone when it was cold.
It was cold. Why wasn't the heat on, she wondered. But it all flooded back to her about Cid and she couldn't stand it.
She stood and spun around, pinning him to the couch by the shoulders. A fire burned in her eyes as she whispered, "Cheer me up."
That was all it took for them to get into action.
His lips were suddenly glued to hers. He tasted so much sweeter than the others did. She bit his bottom lip; he was so much more filling as well, and she felt the fire creeping through her core.
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It wasn't right, what he did to her. What he let himself do, what she did, none of it at all. So he was terrified of what she would do when she woke up, because relationships weren't his thing. Sure, he'd fantasized, but it mostly ended up in being in bed with someone. And this girl, he was positive, was sure as hell not looking for a string of one-night stands.
She wanted someone to hold her when she felt sad, someone to take the big mean spider outside, to be that person she could count on. And he'd never tried that; he'd never had that, he'd never dreamed of having that.
He did dream about having her in bed next to him, like now, but he never thought of how he'd feel. Confident? Accomplished? Wanting more?
The last one had definitely been thought of. But he didn't feel confident or accomplished. He felt like they'd done something dirty, and her dead dad was looking down and shaking his head in shame. What had he done to the poor girl?
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She was terrified. What sort of a person sleeps with her former neighbor when her dad dies? It was wrong. It was dirty. It was shameful.
It felt too good to be true.
So she faked sleep, occasionally hearing him sigh. Apparently he was thinking, too, except she could feel him shifting uneasily. She was lying still and praying that an answer would come to her.
It took another ten or twenty minutes before she decided to just move. Maybe it'd come to her if she did something besides lay quietly and listen to his anxious breathing.
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He felt the weight on her side of the bed lighten as the mattress slowly rose, her imprint disappearing. He rolled over and stared at her fading form, listening to the soft rustle of her clothes as she gathered it. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing it to be last night again. He'd known exactly what to do when they stumbled over to his bed. But now, with emotions in play again… he wasn't good with emotions.
"I'm leaving," she whispered. Maybe she believed he was asleep. But he couldn't let her leave without a goodbye – she wasn't like the others, who could come and go as they pleased. She was still special, still golden, even after… what he'd done.
He still felt like he'd done something bad to her, but he knew it wasn't true. And from her small smile he guessed she'd enjoyed it.
She took a step forward but hesitated, her smile turning to a slight frown. So he stepped forward too until he stood in front of her.
Her braids had come undone, and he gently brushed a strand of loose blonde hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. She closed her eyes, biting her lip to hold in anything she'd say in reaction to that. She never realized how badly she'd wanted him to do something so simple.
Then his hand was gone and she stood still, eyes screwed shut, listening to him move around. When her eyes finally opened he was in a pair of jeans, his fists shoved deep in the pockets.
She stepped forward and tilted her head to the side. "Why do you wear the eye patch?" she asked quietly.
His eyebrows rose slowly at the sudden question. "I got hurt in the Den of Woe, remember?"
She shook her head, her long hair bouncing. "I don't think so." And before he could move she picked the patch up and peeked at his eye.
Closing his other one, he peered at her through the formerly hidden eye. She was blurry, since he wasn't used to using this eye to see.
"Honestly. Why do you wear it?" she asked again, quieter this time. It was barely a whisper. She placed the patch back over his eye and looked at him, waiting for a response.
He sighed. "You used to say guys who'd gotten hurt were… better. Guys with scars were cool. Like that kid who lived down the street who'd been mauled by a fiend, remember? He turned his scar into the base of a tattoo."
She smiled, thinking back. "Yeah."
"Well, that's why."
"You wore an eye patch because I liked guys who'd been hurt and sucked it up?"
"Mhm."
"…What sort of a retarded answer is that?"
He narrowed his visible eye. "What?"
"You wear it because I think it makes people look hot?" She giggled.
Now he was trapped. But before he could respond, she suddenly sobered. "Thank you. For telling me, I mean."
He smiled awkwardly. "Y-yeah. Sure." He leaned forward and pecked her on the cheek.
She closed her eyes and exhaled slowly after his kiss. "Mm," she mumbled. Her eyes opened. "You always smelled good."
"Yeah, you too, Cid's girl."
She started to swat at him but stopped herself, instead placing her hand on his shoulder. She looked up at him and leaned up on her tiptoes, kissing him on the lips gently.
His tongue poked at her lips but she pulled away, shaking her head. She mumbled an apology and turned away.
"What is it?"
"You've always been the boy next door. I never… never thought you'd be more."
Ouch. He felt a physical blow to his stomach.
"But now…"
His head lifted and he stared at her back, hopeful.
"I guess we're not just neighbors anymore." She looked over her shoulder and smiled sadly. "I'll see you at the… the funeral."
He watched her walk out his door. He paused a moment before he turned around again, walking back over to the bed. He breathed in her scent off the pillow to memorize it.
Lifting the phone from its cradle, he dialed slowly.
"Operator? Could you connect me to Summer Fields?… No, this isn't a collect call… Just get me the damn flower shop already."
He smirked when he heard her grumble and connect him. Cid's girl couldn't plan anything for her life, let alone her father's funeral. She'd need serious help.
Once that order was made, he called the Faction and told them he'd be taking a few days off. "Yeah, death in the… the family. I'll call again when I'm coming in. Put Nhadala in the head seat." Click.
Last phone call. He dialed the new number, praying he got it right.
She picked up, sniffling softly. "Hmm?"
"Hey. Where are you?"
"That little café down the street… why?"
Click.
He was there in five minutes flat, and then she was cradled in his arms. He was going to try to be there for her. He'd squish bugs, he'd hold her, and he'd be there every time. He was going to try.
She was his drug of choice. And now he was hers.