Fiona can sense Imogen pulling away, can feel that her girlfriend is turning her focus elsewhere. Not simply in the physical sense - her gaze is currently steady across the room - but in the emotional sense as well.
It isn't as if anyone would notice just by looking at the two of them, and she's sure that Imogen herself doesn't think Fiona is any the wiser. They're curled up on a couch, Imogen pressed into Fiona's side with Fiona's arm around the smaller girl's shoulders. Imogen has been playing with Fiona's fingers all night long, toying with them distractedly as she nods and hums in all of the appropriate places as her girlfriend tries to talk to her.
Fiona gives up after a while and reaches forward to pick up her red cup - which is full of Sprite, thank you very much - and when she leans back into the couch she finds that Imogen has maneuvered away from her. They're hardly touching any longer; Imogen's tights-clad knee is just brushing Fiona's jeans, and there's something about the sight of it that makes her want to cry. There's a pressure in her chest, a choking in her throat, a heaviness in her heart.
Something is wrong. Something is all wrong and she doesn't know what it is or how to fix it.
"Fi?"
Imogen's careful voice breaks through Fiona's racing thoughts and she blinks, her girlfriend's face swimming into view. "Do you want to head back home now?"
"Oh. Oh, yeah, okay. Yeah. Sure." She puts down the cup and stands, fumbling to find the keys to their car. Imogen moves ahead of her and Fiona automatically reaches for her hand, only to come up with nothing.
—
She manages to push away the feelings and tamp them down for a while. Things go on normally for them: they wake up, get dressed and ready, grab breakfast, kiss each other goodbye, go to work, come home, make dinner, watch TV, go to bed, repeat. They haven't had sex in a while and they don't cuddle very much. Nearly every little movement that Imogen makes towards Fiona causes her heart to jump into her throat and she's not sure if she anticipates or dreads whatever will come next.
She tries to talk to Imogen, see if maybe there's something going on that she hasn't told Fiona about that could be causing her to act this way.
"So, how's work been going?"
"Fine, as usual."
"And your dad?"
"Still his usual weird self."
"That's good. Um...anything else?"
Imogen picks up the remote to mute the TV and turns to Fiona, one eyebrow raised. "Anything in particular you'd like to talk about?"
Fiona shakes her head quickly. "Not at all. Just trying to make conversation."
Imogen looks at her for a long moment and then stands up. "I'm going to bed. Turn the lights off before you go and make sure you lock the front door."
The vice that's suddenly appeared around Fiona's heart squeezes and she nearly gasps out loud.
—
The stress of not knowing what is going on with Imogen is really starting to take its toll on Fiona, and more than once she finds herself craving the comfort of alcohol. Her resolve weakens day by day as Imogen's responses get shorter and shorter and their time together gets more and more tense.
She keeps hoping and praying that one day Imogen will come home and tell her that she's been stressed out at work and that she's sorry for how she's been acting lately, and that she loves Fiona and that the two of them should go on a weekend getaway soon, or that she's been hiding a wonderful surprise from Fiona and that she was nervous about it and that's why she had been acting weirdly. Maybe she's even going to propose, Fiona muses, before pushing the thought away. No use entertaining ideas that are never going to happen.
What she doesn't understand is why Imogen won't break up with her if she clearly doesn't want to stay around any longer. With a little jolt in her stomach, Fiona wonders why she can't just end the relationship for Imogen, since she's clearly so unhappy with it.
—
The next day Fiona takes the day off of work and by eleven, she's sitting on their living room couch, staring at a bottle of champagne.
To drink or not to drink?
Normally if she gets to this point - which has only happened one other time since they graduated high school - Imogen is her first call, but why call Imogen when she's the reason this time? Besides, Imogen would probably let her do it. Probably tell her to drink the whole damn bottle.
Fiona watches as someone else's hand reaches out to pick up the champagne and uncork it, watches as someone else's hand pours out a glass, watches as someone else's hand brings the glass to her lips.
The first sip burns like hell and feels so fucking good.
—
By the time Fiona hears the sound of a key in the lock, she's gotten more than halfway through the bottle and she's sprawled on their couch, lazily watching their ceiling fan spin around. She considered calling Imogen just to yell at her but waiting it out would be so much better.
"Fiona?" Imogen calls out, the sound of her setting down her bags audible from the front hall.
"Living room," Fiona drawls, knowing she sounds terrible.
Imogen appears in the doorway a second later, eyebrows furrowed. "Fiona, why do you sound like - oh, Fiona." An incredible mix of anger, disappointment, sadness, hurt, guilt, and irritation crosses her face when she sees the bottle, and she strides forward, snatching it from Fiona and placing it on the coffee table.
Fiona sits up immediately, wobbling a bit from the head rush. "Hey! Give that back! You can't just - can't just do that!"
"Oh, like hell I can't just do that! Fiona, Jesus Christ, you're an alcoholic! You can't be drinking this!"
"No, really?" Fiona rolls her eyes and then stands, tripping a little. Imogen catches her and steadies her, but Fiona pushes her away. "No, don't help me. You don't even want me. Get away from me."
Imogen looks confused for the briefest of seconds but then an undeniable look of understanding crosses her face. "Fiona, maybe we should talk about this when you're not drunk..."
"I don't want to talk about it at all!" Fiona snaps, pointing at Imogen. "Why did you stick around if you wanted out so badly? Why couldn't you just leave? Why stay around and make me think you loved me and try to make things normal? Who does that? It's sick, Imogen!"
"Because, Fiona, I was worried something like this would happen!"
That makes Fiona stop. It takes her drunken mind a minute longer to process what Imogen said but she still gets the point of it. She didn't want to leave because she thought Fiona would relapse. She has to laugh at the irony. She has to cackle at the irony.
"Well, it happened. So why don't you just get out?"
"Fiona, please, can't we just - "
"Imogen, it's over! You wanted this, it's over, it's done! Just get out!"
The two of them stare at each other, waiting for the other to break the silence and say something, but finally Imogen turns and leaves the room. Fiona sits back down on the couch and cradles her head in her hands, tears streaking down her face and leaving mascara tracks in their wake.
She hears the door close softly about twenty minutes later and then she lets out a scream of frustration, picking up and throwing the champagne bottle. It smashes against the far wall, glass shattering everywhere, and Fiona slumps back against the pillows, breathing heavily.
What did she just do?
—
When she wakes up in the morning, face-down on her couch, she halfheartedly hopes that whatever happened yesterday isn't true. That she'll roll over and Imogen will be there in the kitchen making breakfast and they'll watch Saturday cartoons together and make plans to go grocery shopping and things will be okay and they'll be in love.
What she gets is a pillow stained with make-up, glass covering the floor, a half-empty bedroom, and a note saying that Imogen will be back to get the rest of her things later.
—
As she cleans up the broken glass later, she wonders if this is the rock bottom that people talk about hitting. She knows that she was forced into rehab in high school and people told her that she hit it then, but she feels so much lower now than she ever did before.
—
Fiona leaves the house for a few hours to give Imogen a good period of time to come and get the rest of her things. When she returns, she has more alcohol and less stuff filling her apartment. It looks bare now, like a former shell of itself. It was always Imogen who brought life into it and really decorated it and made it feel like home. Now Imogen's gone and she has this whole place to herself and tears spring to her eyes before she can stop them. She busies herself by trying to rearrange some things to cover the bare spots, but they do a poor job of imitating Imogen.
—
She sits down on the edge of what used to be her and Imogen's bed, pops the cork on a new champagne bottle, and toasts to yet another goddamn tragedy.