A/N: So many props to Debbie for simultaneously being proofreader/encourager/corrector/ideas-bouncer. I tried experimenting with structure in this piece. I was trying for poetical prose, so feedback would be nice on that aspect at least. Semi-happy ending, I swear. spoilers for all of Season 1.
They throw around 'I love you' like it's a game of dodgeball - hard and fast, defensively, meanly, and sometimes not at all. The winter evening settles down in passageways (isn't that how the old story goes?), but California is all warmth and sunlight, creeping into crevices and flaws of character and surrounding them with criticism and falsehood.
She toes into her shoes for the day, shakes her curls out.
He buttons his shirt quickly, looking up into the mirror to stare at a face, unshaven, with drooping eyes bounded by dark circles and an aura of sadness he can't shake.
You are beautiful, he would say if he had the balls. I think you are beautiful. And you are mine. I love you. I'm in love with you.
She looks at her reflection in the mirror and stifles a cry. She scrambles for a coping mechanism in her head (she's a therapist, surely they should be where she last left them, lingering beneath the temporal lobe) and sighs.
(The doors click shut and the doorjambs sigh.)
Allen breaks up with her on her birthday. She has enough dignity, has seen enough films to wait until she creeps through the threshold of her house. (The wine glasses at the restaurant left untouched, bordeaux swirling in artificial constructs like the blood that thuds in her chest, pulses through her veins.) She breaks down, sobs until her chest tightens and she can't breathe. "Help me," she whispers to no one in particular. (She calls Cooper. It doesn't help. She cries too hard to speak coherently.) She lies on her hardwood floors in the fetal position, tracing patterns with her fingertips. The clock clicks out her loneliness.)
Cooper knocks on her door four hours later. He brings her a jumbo cup of her favorite coffee (she told him about a place in San Diego once, once) and a huge slice of Mississippi Mud Pie. A plastic bag dangles from his wrist. She swallows. "Cooper?"
He smiled. "Want to let me in?"
"Oh, sure. Sorry." She steps aside and he walks in. He hands her the hot coffee, the slice of pie. Shutting the door behind him, he prompts her to sit. She takes a sip of coffee and gasps. "Cooper, there's only one place that--"
"San Diego."
"You drove to..."
"It wasn't that bad."
When she wraps her lips around the tines of her fork, engulfing the mud pie (the guilt, she thinks honestly, the wracking insecurity) behind the gates of her teeth, she sighs. He slides The Princess Bride into the DVD player and the movie starts.
"God, Cooper," she whispers as she takes a long draught of the coffee coupled with another forkful of pie, "I love you."
He smiles at her. "I know."
The office is strangely quiet. They tiptoe around each other. She acts startled around him the entire day. Addison watches the exchange with an arched brow. Dell taps out a melody with a pen against the counter. Muzetta's Waltz.
Cooper slams his office door shut.
Violet pinches the bridge of her nose.
Cooper, I'm sorry, she'd say if she had the nerve. I didn't mean to put you in that kind of position. It was a bad idea and it's all my fault. Please forgive me. I miss you. I miss you.
She swallows her doubts in stale coffee. Her 2:00 comes in, a twenty-something with constant panic attacks and overwhelming anxiety. (The girl toys with her pearls the whole session.) "I just--my boyfriend keeps proposing to me and then I get into these panic attacks. It's really annoying. But I can't help but think about the future. What if--I mean, what if he gets sick of me? What if we end up one of those couples who fights all the time? What if one of us dies?" She starts to hyperventilate. "I mean, those are normal concerns, right?"
"Take a deep breath," she advises. "Breathe in slowly. Those are normal concerns, but your anxiety is an irrational response."
"It's just--" The girl shakes her head. "I can't stop thinking about the future. What about the future?"
Exactly, Violet scrawls on the legal pad.
(The floorboards creak. Cooper's door opens and she hears the sounds of an infant crying and then his voice, smooth and comforting, rolling over her like a tidal wave.)
His birthday and she grins at the thought of his reaction to her gift. They sit in the bar and his eyes twinkle with delight, dubiousness lingering near the surface at the idea of a surprise. She hands him a wrapped gift (the corners ever so delicately creased). He unwraps it carefully (running his thumbs along the folds, tracing worn lines and leaving epithelials, memorizing and forgetting simultaneously). "A first edition copy of Peter Pan?" he exclaims.
A laugh is her response.
He hugs her; her hair tickles his nose. "I left a message on the inside cover."
"God," he whispers against her hair. "I love you."
She brushes her lips against his cheek. "Happy birthday."
His thumb traces the path her lips left along his cheek those years ago; it stings with the pain of an open wound (he forgot that tears were salinated, he holds them in). A knock at the door. He bellows a greeting and Charlotte pops her head in with a smile. "You ready?"
"Day's over already?"
"Don't know about you guys but we were pretty busy."
"Come on. I'll buy tonight."
"Yeah, you better." They breeze past Violet on the way out. Her heart clenches painfully in her chest and she briefly wonders if she's having a heart attack (she's heard of accompanying numbness in the extremities, but it's not her arms that are numb, it's her voice and her heart and and and). She swallows hard, closes her eyes. You can't change the past. She conveniently forgets the way she pushed him away.
The building feels empty when she finally gets around to leaving. Naomi and Sam are out on a date, Addison is doing who-knows-what, Pete left to visit someone, and Dell had a family emergency. She flicks the lights off with a finger, exhaling as she presses, listening to the resounding click echo in the emptiness. The keys jangle like the tears she can't bring herself to shed; she inserts the key, locks up.
(The key rumbles, the lock clicks, and it all sounds like her world's crumbling, her personalized apocalypse.)
She closes her eyes against the darkness.
On his date, he squints against the harsh light of LA nightlife.
In the shower, grief surrounds her and she collapses, her knees sagging under the weight of her emotions as her chest heaves. She flings her hand up against the ceramic tiled wall, shaking with the ramifications of actions she hasn't committed (thoughtcrime is always thoughtcrime). She questions if her faithfulness to Allen extended to the mental, the psychological (or was it Cooper? She confuses it sometimes - thinks of the slurry she's gotten herself into and sags further under the stress of her added thoughts; she is an arcing constant, thank god for momentum).
He downs the wine quickly until his skin feels warm. She smiles at him from across the table. "You know, I--I know this started as a physical thing, but I...I like you, Cooper. Honestly." He drains the rest of his glass, lets the acid linger on the tip of his tongue. His lips curl into a smile.
"I like you too."
"Do you want to go?" He lifts his fingers and calls for the check.
She waltzes into the break room the next day and he gulps down the hot coffee quickly, letting it scald his throat, bring him back down to earth. "Vi?"
"Cooper," she exclaims, wrapping her arms around him. "It worked! I talked to Allen last night and...it's just--god, it's just fantastic."
He blinks, breathes in and out of his nostrils slowly, tries to regulate his heart rate. "You got...back together?" Naomi shoots him a sympathetic look.
"Yeah," she nods, her attempts to stifle her grin proving unsuccessful. "And it's all thanks to you."
"No problem," he says, his emotions swirling up through his trachea to bubble in his brain. "What are friends for?"
"You're a great friend," she says. "Honestly."
He tries for the wisecrack. "What would you do without me?"
She mouths a sentiment of love to him as she squeezes out the door, going to meet Allen for lunch. He chugs the rest of his coffee. Naomi squeezes his bicep comfortingly. He jerks away.
They lie in his bed afterward, covered with a light film of sweat and happiness. "Cooper," Charlotte begins, rolling onto her side. "Can you be honest with me?"
"Sure."
"This isn't just...sex, is it? Not anymore?"
He tosses an arm around her casually and smiles. (The happiness buzzes through him and he honestly feels, he honestly, he--he doesn't even know what honesty feels like anymore.) He leans in, kisses her lips tenderly, gingerly. Adrenaline pulses through him and he's surprised at the lack of guilt (maybe this is what moving on feels like, maybe, just maybe).
Emptiness and dark and she lies in bed, flexing and relaxing her hands as they shake with trepidation for something she can't place. She focuses on the rise and fall of her chest as she breathes. Colors swirl behind her eyes when she closes them - it dizzies her, makes her feel like a Sylvia Plath poem. She wakes at 6 after a sleepless night and makes a conscious decision.
Rakes a brush through her hair, applies concealer and powder and blush and eyeliner and mascara and -- she puts on the face she displays to the world, hoping it conveys calm. She wears a skirt. When she goes into the office, LA is hardly awake yet (the runners have yet to trickle through the sand) so she sits in her office and waits.
Cooper comes in around eight-thirty. Charlotte follows him and they linger in his office talking for a while. She paces outside his office (it's the break room, she's contrived as an excuse, she's obviously plotting out whether blueberry or cranberry apple muffins are better) and waits. Her hands twitch.
She catches a giggle, like a strand of errant DNA floating through the cracks in the door. And then--(in the appropriately dramatic play, the housewife drops the dishes; ceramic shards all over the floor and she stoops in her apron, no, no, that isn't right--drops to her hands and knees and picks up the shards though they cut her palm, especially 'cause they cut her palm, and and something comes next, but she can't recall)
A kiss.
Another.
Stolen, forbidden--
Lips curling around fruit never meant to be touched.
She watches through the slits in the blinds, feeling more than a little dirty as he covers Charlotte's mouth with his own, as she laughs and plunges her fingers into her hair. She feels--She feels--She can't quantify this kind of emotion, it's beyond her, and she can't, she can't, she can't--Charlotte's laughter runs through her head.
She walks into the wall and the coffee splashes all over her white shirt. (It'd be funny if it wasn't so...not.)
It burns her skin and numbs her soul.
"Cooper."
"No, Violet. You need to face up to it. Allen's no good for you."
She sniffles. "No, Cooper -- he, he is."
"No, Violet. He's not! He's an asshole who takes advantage of you every chance he gets and you run back to him every single time. If you're not getting tired of this, I am. I don't want to see you go back to him every time just to get hurt again. Doesn't it--don't you--"
He sighs.
"He loves me."
"No, Violet. I fucking love you. Not that douchebag who treats you like shit."
She pales. "What?"
"He treats you like--"
"You love me?"
He pales. "I--yeah. I love you."
It never happens. She ties his necktie and he leans into her space and tries to feign awkwardness but it just feels so right to have her so close, know her so intimately. He runs the scenario in his head one too many times a day.
She figures out that she likes him more than can be considered a good limit for healthy friendship two pints of Ben and Jerry's later. Kleenex has made a fortune off of her and she's pretty sure she's wasted so much of her time and energy on a guy she didn't even really love. It's only fitting.
He twines his fingers around hers as they walk through the park. Her blonde hair ruffles in the breeze and he feels calm for the first time in a long time. "I--I used to like Violet," he blurts.
They keep walking. Charlotte stays silent.
Violet watches When Harry Met Sally continually, cries at the appropriate places, and marvels at the possibilities. All the time, the signals he had been sending, she had been characteristically ignoring and now it was too late. Her clock chimes midnight. She hits play on the DVD player one last time. Her eyes burn.
They lie in bed together, him and Charlotte, and she turns to him; he skims the bare skin of her arm with his hand, her skin cooler than his. He presses a kiss against her bare shoulder. She jerks away. "Charlotte?"
"You--"
"What's the matter?"
"You and Violet."
"But we're--we're not..."
The sheets crinkle harshly against each other as she turns violently away to stare sullenly at his dresser. "But you are." Her voice cracks on the last word and tears track pathways down her cheeks to seep into his mattress.
He tries to ignore the sound of her crying. (She doesn't let him touch her the rest of the night.)
They are all bastions of tragedy.
The next morning, she treks sullenly to her office. He's sitting on the recliner couch in there, waiting for her. "Cooper."
"You're avoiding me."
"I--I'm not."
"I've been avoiding you too." He walks around her to shut the door. "But it's time to talk."
"Cooper," she says, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Do we have to do this now?"
"We won't ever do it if I don't get us to do it."
"Coop--"
"I loved you, Vi. I--Charlotte and I--I just--I love you." Her eyes widen. He inches over, blocks the only door. He looks into her eyes. "Don't run away from me."
"What? You can't--You--"
"Tell me you didn't see it."
"Oh, god. I didn't--I didn't see it."
"Say something."
"What do you want me to say?"
"Say you love me and I'll move. Say you don't think of me in that way and I'll move. But don't keep me here, waiting for you." He rubs his eyes, irritated. "I don't want to keep doing what we were doing before. I don't want to pick up the pieces after Allen only to see you running back to him. I need you to tell me where I stand."
"You can't just spring this on me, Cooper. I need time. I need--"
"I drove to San Diego to get you coffee."
"That was years ago!"
"And you weren't sure then?"
"I'm supposed to assume you love me because you brought me coffee?" She shakes her head, irrationality consuming her. "Dell must fucking want me too! And Addison and all the baristas in New York City and that one kid at Starbucks in Redondo Beach."
"I drove to get you your favorite coffee. You didn't think that was..."
"I need time."
"You've had too much of it. You overanalyze, Vi. I need an answer."
"Cooper, move."
"If you don't give me an answer, I'll take one."
"And what does that mean?"
"Surprise is just part of my charm."
"Cooper."
"Violet."
"Please move."
"You get 10 seconds, Vi." He counts down.
"Cooper, please. I just need to think about this--" He moves in two smooth movements to her, kisses her. When he pulls away, he moves out of her office, slams the door behind him.
She gawps for a few minutes, mouth opening and closing before she hears his office door slam shut. She closes her eyes. What the fuck are they doing?
Charlotte makes an appointment through Dell - it's a little weird. She sits archly on the recliner sofa and stares at her. "Violet, he likes you, you know."
"Charlotte, it's not really the time or place to--"
"I made an appointment."
"For a session."
"Well, I'm sharing. Isn't that what you do in sessions?"
"I--"
"He likes you. Has for a very long time. And maybe some part of me thought that when he said that he liked me, he was being honest." She flicks her eyes up to look at her; Violet feels a wave of vulnerability all of a sudden, blinks uncomfortably. "And maybe he was. But that was only because he was lying to himself. You both are."
"Lying to Cooper?"
"Lying to yourselves."
"Charlotte."
"No. I just wanted to tell you." Her tone is dull, eyes glazed over - Violet recognizes the undercurrent of emotion simmering beneath the surface. Charlotte's voice almost cracks at the end of one of her sentences, but she's too strong for this. They all are. They've become so good at repressing their own emotions, hiding behind walls crafted by master masons that they can barely deal with anything anymore.
Hermits. All of them.
She bursts into his office the minute his last patients filter out, and when she sees him, she explodes. "Cooper, you can't just...do that! You can't walk into my office and demand a decision. I need time to think! And you--you just think you can kiss me and that tells you everything you need?"
"Violet, you didn't--I know what I need to know now."
"Bullshit," she says, walking up to him. "You think you know."
"But?"
"You can't draw conclusions from faulty data, Coop."
"That's a--heh, that's a confusing metaphor."
"Kiss me again."
"What?"
"That thing you did four hours ago? Do it again."
"Why?"
"Because--because I want you to." He walks up to her then, purses his lips, leans in ever so slightly. She leans forward to brush her lips with his for a few seconds, neither of them responding, until she half-pitches forward into his arms, deepening the kiss. When she pulls away, she blinks at him a few times. "There."
"There?"
"There are your answers."
He chuckles. "You're crazy."
She takes his hand, plays with the various callouses and ridges. "Cooper, I--" She casts her gaze down to the floor. "I know I haven't said it...before...in so many words, but I--I need you."
He exhales. "I--Vi, I just--"
"I know."
They walk out together that night, fingers twined in hope for the future. And maybe they are doomed to disaster, but maybe, just maybe--maybe the maybes are good enough this time around. The elevator dings.