Because of you
.
Occurs some time after Third Man – Season Two
.
.
Because of you, she thinks.
She stands against the window, the glass giving off a chill that radiates through the tips of her fingers. The blood contained within her veins becomes a frozen pool of ice, and with every second that ticks by, the cold seeps further into her body. Icicles form, piercing her internally, shredding the lining of her soul until a frigid avalanche engulfs her heart.
It lacerates; her hand traveling high against her chest to ensure that the anguish isn't bleeding through her clothes, isn't noticeable to those walking by.
Her head slants forward, the panel of glass catching her with a thud as she wonders how a simple evening stroll turned into this. It's like fate has led her here, to him. Even if it is from a distance.
Her eyes seal themselves closed at the sight before her, and she squeezes hard, creating tiny creases, thin lines that spread outward to her hairline. The skin of her lower lip is trapped as her top teeth slide over the plump flesh, drawing it into her mouth, snaring it with the assistance of the bottom row and together they compress, blanching white what is normally a rosy red. It leaves marks that portray her torment for all to see, if anyone was to look. No one does. No one sees her, he certainly doesn't see her.
Because of you, he thinks.
His head leans back, drifts away from the woman before him as she starts again, another story, another tale that he should be attentive to, but he finds himself unable to care, and that in itself is reason to worry.
He enjoys the company of women. He enjoys going out, even if it is a blind date like tonight; the way food comes to life, dances on his tongue; the way his heart flutters faster, an allegro appassionato; the way his blood warms and flushes through his system, bringing him to life.
He smiles, yet the corners of his lips barely lift, lips remaining closed, eyes no doubt lacking a spark, devoid of any joy, and he feels sorry for his dinner date. Almost.
Thankfully, she appears oblivious, laughing loudly, the sound spreading outward, overtaking the conversations of those nearest to them and his gaze settles onto the couple closest to their table. Even amongst the noise, they stay caught up in their own bubble, enthralled with each other, pleasure and delight shining brightly, and he knows that feeling.
Or at least he used to know it. Now, now, he sits across from a beautiful woman who cannot hold his attention. All he sees is her. All he wants to see is her.
Because of you.
Her breath catches. The spectacle is too overwhelming; the happiness that diffuses across the woman's features, the laughter that turns the heads of those bordering the cozy table for two, is forging a vacuum. In a fraction of a second all the oxygen she needs evaporates, and a jagged gasp rips through the night air.
She knows what it is to find euphoria in his words, the little bubble of glee that begins low under her sternum, until it pushes itself up, swells and threatens to burst forth for all to hear. Except she usually fights against it, forces her lips to stay shut, her fingers cover the mirth that wants to escape, and she wonders why. Why doesn't she allow herself to let it be free? Let him know how much his presence lightens her load, eases the burden that she holds.
Would that be her, sitting there, amusement shimmering across her features? A life no longer consisting of dinners for one, late nights in the precinct preferable to the empty expanse of her apartment. The vision of the two of them slices too close to home. It's everything she wants, all the things she hides from, all the things she doesn't allow herself to dream of.
Can a heart break if it was never whole to start with? Does he not know that she is falling for him?
Because of you.
He nods half-heartedly. Every interest that she brings up is compared to her interests. Everything is held to a standard that no-one can reach, because how could anyone ever come close to doing, being, living the life of his muse? His inspiration? There is nothing that can be said or done, no act that will be as interesting to him in comparison to what he sees and does on a daily basis. His life with her.
It's not just the big things that captivate him, the way she brings justice to the victims and closure to the families, it's the hundreds of little things that transpire throughout each day that have him falling for her, little by little. Now, suddenly his heart has been captured, is held prisoner by her, and his greatest fear is that he'll never get it back. That his concealed adoration will forever be one sided, that she will remain indifferent to his feelings, indifferent to him.
He's asked a question, it's clear from her face, the raised immaculate eyebrow, the tilted head, that she's waiting for a response and yet he has nothing, has heard nothing but his own dying spirit as he wonders for the umpteenth time tonight, why he is here at all? 'Go out' his mother had encouraged. 'Be bold, live it up.' Live like he used to.
He doesn't want to, though. He no longer wants to be the man that would have skipped through dessert in a rush to get the woman across from him home. Into his bed. Out the door early the next morning.
He stands abruptly, the table hitting his thighs with a force that seeps deep into his muscles, his legs aching already with the promise of a beautiful bruise, colors that will stain his skin for weeks, and he grits his teeth. His jaw clenching against the curse that deserves to be let loose- against the frustration this whole night has been, against the woman who doesn't sit opposite him.
His mouth opens to apologize, yet his words fail him, for the first time since she had flashed her badge at him; the explanation that should roll smoothly from his tongue, is caught, tangled and snagged by the phantom that is her. She owns them now, whether she knows it or not. Whether she wants them or not. His words are hers and hers alone, and his eyes dart uselessly around the room in attempt to find a way to clarify his bizarre behavior. His sudden retreat.
And it's as if his mind has conjured her by sheer determination. He sees her, pressed against the glass at the front of the restaurant. A sight that shatters a part of him that he didn't even realize existed, a locked box of hope and 'one days', a future that is evaporating as he stands transfixed. Pain is etched in every detail of her face; the furrow of her eyebrows, vertical grooves of distress; an insipid dullness leeching through what should be clear, brilliant eyes; the tortured lip that bears the imprint of her heart breaking.
Why is her heart breaking? Could it be because of him?
Because of you.
She is stuck, unable to move despite every fiber of her being telling, screaming at her to move, run, flee before he sees her there, watching him, watching them. Unexpectedly he is upright, eyes searching the room, as if he can sense her, as if he knows that she is rupturing internally at the scene playing out before her.
And their eyes met, connect, and the desire to escape becomes exponential. Yet the ability to do anything but linger is taken away from her, somehow, and she has no choice for the moment but to stand there frozen in place, staring at him, as he stares at her.
Does he see? Does he see everything that normally remains hidden? The feelings for him that she hides behind rolling eyes and mocking scorn? Does he see her?
The space between them is diminishing, the long powerful muscles of his legs striding purposefully toward the exit and as each foot of distance is eradicated, anxiety flares inside her, awakens her for the first time since she'd accidentally discovered them through the cold glass paneling, and for every step he takes, she takes one simultaneously. She bolts.
Her shoulder bumps harshly into a random stranger and she swings with the momentum, is turned on her axis as a mumbled apology is breathed to whomever she had clipped, and it brings her around- she faces him.
Because of you.
His hand wraps tightly around the edging of the doorway as he catapults himself through it, turning sharply onto the sidewalk as he attempts to catch up with her. The gap between them is expanding as she marches swiftly in the opposite direction, away from him, away from any hope he has of catching up with her.
Yet out of blue she is facing him, her startled glance illustrating a picture of betrayal and treachery, of destroyed hope and longing, and he wants to justify his actions, as if he had done something wrong, as if they were exclusive and he has stepped outside the boundaries of that relationship. Except they aren't. He hasn't. They have a silent, unsaid, maybe, maybe not, whole lot of possibilities and he doesn't owe her anything. But he wants to. He wants to owe her everything.
As she stills, he moves, placing his body before her, and he releases the shutters wide, throws himself open and lets her see it all.
The days when he wants nothing more than to whisk her away from the drudge of it all, her work, her past, take her somewhere new where she can start again, unrestrained from all that weighs her down.
He grants her access to the feelings that have sneaked their way past his defenses, slipped through the cracks of his playboy façade, ensnaring his heart, and pushing it all to the surface- he faces her, love shining brightly.
There are no more than two inches between them as they position themselves opposite one another, a formation that remains strong in spite of the continuous push and shove around them, the people that are going about their night unaware of the event that is occurring, the watershed moment that could go either way.
His right hand rises, fingertips tracing the hard edge of her cheekbone, the slightest of touches until he reaches the curve of her ear. Drifting down, he slides into the arch of her neck, his thumb staying behind to grace the corner of her mouth while his fingers thread themselves, entwining around the short strands that start at her hairline. His palm finds its place, a home that was always going to be for him, and her head slants into the warmth.
The noise, the crowd, everything around them fades into the background, becomes obsolete as the area that separates them diminishes slowly. Being brave, taking a step closer, doubts and uncertainties are thrust aside as their lips brush, tentatively at first. Hesitant, not quite a kiss, not nearly enough, until her hand finds the material of his shirt, fingers gripping tight, as she holds onto him, and they create a them.
It's her movement that inspires his, and with his left hand he firmly encloses her hip, dragging their lower halves together as he descends further, captures her mouth with his own, and she drives herself up into the heat that is consuming them whole. A current is triggered and it races on a loop between them, electrifies and consumes, takes them to places they'd only secretly dreamed of. Everything they'd covertly wished for comes alive. They come alive.
Because of you.
.
This is for all those on twitter who help when my insomnia flairs, especially B. who wrote 'Please don't hurt my babies'
Hopefully I didn't hurt them too badly.
.
Thank you to Jo and Jamie for their everlasting patience.
.
Thoughts?