Warnings/Dislaimers/Spoilers: I don't know much about the character 'Julie', and in the light of the second season, I'll stick a semi-AU label on this.
Note: Written from Julie's POV, inspired by the great Julie-fic written by aheartfulofyou. I tried to not write her as a Mary Sue... but it'll all depend on the readers, I suppose. So please tell me? I have a bad feeling that this isn't going to go down well with most readers, but hey... I'll bite. So... any comments and criticisms are greatly appreciated.
---
Part 1.
He sleeps next to her. She watches, memorizes, and ponders. There's a small smile on his lips and movements under his eyelids. The morning sun loves his curls. Soft, warm rays beckon him to a slow wakefulness. His fingers curl gently on the comforter and he sighs. She reaches across the bed and links her fingers with his, and smiles when he tightens his grip around her fingers. She watches as his eyelids flutter open, and finds herself amused by the way he surveys the world from beneath those sleep-laden eyelids.
He greets her with a scratchy Hey, you. It is a deep rumble from the back of his throat and she feels it reverberate in her ears; a half-whisper she barely heard. She likes to think that it is her he is greeting. She likes to think that at least in this bed, they carve a world of their own; and she is comforted by it. She likes to think that in this bed at least, he is hers -- before he slides out of bed and surrenders himself to the world outside and to everybody else. The world of her husband, she thinks, is a world she doesn't know.
She lies on her back, running her fingers over the empty side of the bed and memorizes the fading heat. She sighs and grabs her dressing gown from where it has fallen by the side of the bed and stalks out in search of coffee. Or tea. Maybe tea today. And she remembers that new box of camomile tea she bought. She turns on the radio and listens to traffic reports and the news. She listens to the radio DJ introducing a new single by some pop group and listen to the DJ rattling off trivias. Preparing breakfast is a mind-numbing affair, and she wishes there's a kid running around the house or a dog wagging its tail against her thigh.
The toaster pings and the slices of bread do a slight jump. The coffeemaker clicks, steam and scent floats across the ceiling of her kitchen. She peels an orange and places it in a bowl, next to the cherries, and pours yoghurt on top of it. She hears her husband prowling around the house and sees him stalk into the kitchen from the corner of her eye. He reaches around her for the toast and brushes against her arms and they stand there, staring at each other.
"Good morning," he says with a smile and she returns it with a peck on his cheek.
"Strawberry or peach preserve?" she asks, as she roots around the fridge.There's a rustle of newspaper pages, and a small huh, what?. "Strawberry or peach preserves?" she asks again, taking both jars out of the fridge.
"Uh... do we..." James looks up at her and places the newspaper down on his side of the table. "We still have that marmalade House gave us?" He joins her in front of the fridge and rummages around; sliding a cabbage this way, and the box of chocolate that way. Oh, how she remembers that particular marmalade, Seville marmalade, and she remembers why she hates it. She hates the bitter taste of it, and the hint of sweetness makes for little compensation.
"I don't know. If there's still some left, it should still be in the fridge." And she walks away, settles on the breakfast table with her bowl of fruits and yoghurts. She reads the newspaper upside down, and listens to James rummaging through the fridge. There's a sigh in frustration. The fridge door closes and she continues deciphering the words on the paper in front of her. A peach preserve slides into view. "No?" she asks, and he shakes his head.
"Must ask House for more," he tells her off-handedly, and she can't find an appropriate answer to that.
"So, I'm thinking... roast dinner," she says, studying his face for reactions, watching his finger tapping at the paper, watching his eyes tracing words. "For tonight. What do you think?" she asks.
"I don't know." He chews on a bit of toast.
"Overtime again?"
"I don't know," he says, turning another page.
"You'll call?" She looks down to scoop a spoonful of cherries and misses her husband's nod.
They spend the remaining time in silence. Her spoon clinks lightly against the bowl, the paper rustles, and the occasional clack as he chews his toast.
Soon, she'll have to get up to rinse her bowl. Soon, he'll fold his newspaper and go in search of his tie. She'll pick his plate and watch fine brown crumbs tumble into the bin. And she'll walk him to the front door and wave goodbye.
---
There is a deathly silence in the house when she closes the door behind her. She stands in the middle of the hallways staring at the floor underneath her feet, and everything swims into one single vision. The noises from the street squeeze their way in from between the gaps of the door. She can pick out Sandy piling her children into the car for school and ten-year old Troy asking for the second time of the day: Why do I have to go to school?. And she thinks that he sounds most endearing, his high-pitched whines dance merrily in her brain as she heads back into the kitchen.
Between wiping down surfaces, sweeping the floors, and watching birds from her kitchen window, she thinks how she can probably do chores with her eyes closed and one arm tied behind her back. Not that she's ever going to try it, but it's a nice thought. She makes her bed and thinks of the day ahead of her, and she ignores the shaft of light that greets her as he walks past her bedroom window.
---
She works three days a week, four hours a day, selling candies to children. She sometimes help herself to a mint ball or a licorice cube while waiting for the after-school rush. She revels in the happy laughters and the whiny bargains the children makes. She surrounds herself with the scent of chocolate, and the vision of pink, fluffy cotton candies, the array of mints, and fruity sweets.
The little bell attached to the top of the door tinkles, and her first customer walks in: a little boy with his mother running after him a few paces back. He has a silvery giggle as he zooms straight to the jellies. He is soon followed by more children who walk, or skip, or sprint, or jump through the doors. There are also crying children who smile when they behold the colorful displays and taste the sweet sensation in their mouth. She keeps a wicker basket next to her till and fill it with assorted sweets -- not too sweet, yet not too sour -- for the parents who deign to park themselves by her till and tell her stories of their children's day.
"My boy got suspended for a week," a mother would lament. "For punching a classmate."
"My daughter won the School Award," a proud father would tell her, pointing at a little girl who'd be shoveling marshmallows into a brown paper bag. "It's the third time in four years!"
"My son is having a puppy-love phase," another mother would say to her, a silly smile on her face. "Neighbor's girl. Seems rather nice, but I think he's too young for this kind of thing."
And time flies when you're having fun, they say: standing by the till greeting the children and memorizing their happy faces, gossiping aimlessly with the mothers and the fathers as they watch their kids run around the sweet shop, and waving them 'good bye, good day'. Four hours are up and she knocks on the manager's door to sign out.
Barry looks up to greet her as she pushes his door open. "Done for the day?" he asks her, standing up from his chair and taking her hand in his. He guides her the guest chair and she sits down gingerly. He checks his desk calendar and smiles, "Paycheck, right? How many hours do I owe you?"
"Thirteen. I did an extra hour yesterday," she supplies, brushing an imaginary lint off her skirt.
"That's right," he tells her, as he scribbles his signature on the check. "Here you go." And she folds the check in half before placing it in her purse.
Barry tempts her, with his boyish charm and a hint of southern accent flowing from an attractive, smiling lips. Today is no different. "How is Mrs Langley?" Barry asks her.
She can't stop herself from letting out a sigh of relief and a rather long chuckle. "Can you believe it? She's finally moving out!" She laughs and he laughs with her. Old Mrs Langley, the oldest busy-body alive, quite possibly put on earth to annoy the hell out of everybody around her. Almost everybody in the neighborhood believe that she'll outlive anyone and continue on harassing neighbors 'til kingdom come. It's a really great relief that the lure of Spanish coasts has finally got the better of her.
"Peace finally, eh?" he asks, sputtering in a full-belly laugh.
"Oh yes! You can't believe how noisy she can be! And how rude too! She's moving to Barcelona, I think."
"Heh, them Spanish boys'd do good to relocate elsewhere, then!" There's something in his stare that makes her feel uncomfortable, she looks down and fiddles with the hem of her skirt. "So..." he ventures, "what's the plan for the rest of the week?"
"I... I don't know, really. Why?"
"Uh," he scratches the back of his head, and she feels even more uncomfortable. "I know that you've already done your three days this week. But... I need somebody to cover for the weekend. Saturday morning." He sighs. "Sally's supposed to work that shift, but she said she has this exam study group thing."
"Sally?"
"You've never met her. She's a sophomore, works weekends here."
"Oh..."
"So?" He leans forward, tapping his thumb against the blotter on the desk.
"I don't know. I have to ask James. See if he has any... uh... you know, see if he has plans for the weekend or something." She shrugs, and slides the chair backwards. "I better go. Groceries, you know."
"Well, call me if you can do Saturday morning okay?" He reaches to open the door for her. She can see his unvoiced offer, beneath his gestures. It flows out of every pore of his body and seems to embrace her. It is evident from his body language, from the twinkle in his eyes, and the curl of his lips. She entertains the thoughts of men besotted by her, and she revels in the certain edge it provides her. And she tells herself that she can't care less about Barry -- the man; that she is merely interested in the illusion he provides.
She and Barry. They can spend time giggling at jokes. They talk about that doe-eyed kid that tried to wiggle an extra peppermint stick for free, or that adorable little girl who tries to talk herself out of homework by offering a piece of her blueberry gum to her mother. Sometimes, they'll sit down with an icecream cone from the dispenser by the window and laugh at the ice-cream moustache above her lip, and talk about his elderly aunt and the neighbor's dog who buries a bone in her garden. Everytime without fail though, she'll feel a little bit guilty. Because everytime she looks at Barry -- his smiles and his untold promises -- she falters a little bit more. Because she knows James loves her, in his own way.
Everytime though, she'll walk out of the door of the shop, eyes open and head held high. She'll walk out and trace her way back to her car. Am I a bad person? she'll ask herself, but her car will always be silent, as silent as it has always been since the day she first bought it.
---
She walks into the house, arms full of groceries. She finds James in the living room, watching some news on television. "You're home early," she says, placing the paper bags by the couch.
"To pack, yeah," he answers distractedly. He turns around, links his arm around her shoulders, and kisses her on lightly on her cheek.
"Pack?" She doesn't understand, not really. Not even when she sees an overnight suitcase propped beside the door.
"A conference. New York. I... I'm sorry I didn't tell you before. Completely slipped out of my mind."
"You forgot," she says, almost like an afterthought. But she can feel venom and jealousy seep through with each word, and knows that James heard it too. Looking at his face, at the wince, and at the unvoiced apology, she wants to take it back. But she can't. Won't. Because she won't lie about jealousy and desperation. She wants to dress in her negligee and tempt him into not going. She wants to know why the hospital couldn't send anybody else instead of him. She wants to ask why he agreed to go. I mean... he's been really busy, right? All the overtimes he's had to do... He doesn't really need more in his plate, right? She wants to ask a million things but settles with a whispered "How long?"
"Only until Sunday. I'll be home by dinnertime, I think," he kisses her cheek once again.
"Have you had lunch? Dinner? I can whip up a quick meal. When are you leaving?" She leaps onto her feet and gathers her groceries in her hand. "I bought fresh bagels and salmon. They're selling salmon at bargain price, you know," she babbles, rustling through the bags, and ticking off her purchases. "Or you can have some... salad? You have to try the tomatoes. They're sweet and juicy. Or so said Mrs Tindall," she says. "Or..." His hand is heavy on hers, stopping her mid-babble and she realizes how upset she is. "You don't want to eat, do you?"
"No," he tells her and takes the bags from her.
With the weight lifted from her hands and transferred into the arms of her husband, she realizes another thing: she hates empty hands. She doesn't know what to do with empty hands. She tries to slide her hands into pockets, but realizes that her skirt has not pockets. She tries to cross her arms across her chest, but finds it uncomfortable. She follows her husband into the kitchen, hands slack by the side of her body and finds it extremely uncomfortable also. She is nervous. In fact, 'nervous' is quite an inadequate word. Her nerves are doing starjumps, higher and quicker with every pulse. "You're not hungry?" she asks, needing to expel the nervous energy by doing something. Like talking, or walking, or rearranging the furniture.
"House'll be here any minute," James tell her. "We'll grab a bite on the way there." He's already taking stuff out of the bags and lining them on the worktop.
"Oh." House, the man introduced himself when they first met, Gregory House, he said, but call me House. He is a friend of James's, or so she was told. Bestfriends. And she thinks it peculiar that James calls him House, and he calls him Wilson. And she feels awkward when House is there under her roof, drinking out of her china, and commenting on James's particular choice of wallpaper.
"Yeah." James voice beckons her from her musing and she fixes her gaze on James's fingers as he folds all the empty bags neatly and places it in the cupboard. "He's supposed to present a paper at the seminar, but I don't think he's got anything prepared yet. He's such a slob..." There's a small twinkle in his eyes as he chuckles. She tells herself that it must be the light, reflecting off his eyes. The light loves him, she thinks, and it dances around him like a halo. "He'll come up with something, no doubt. Or be his snarky self and get kicked out of the seminar, which is probably the more plausible scenario, actually, knowing him."
"Right."
"I'm sorry."
"It's okay. You have a lot in your mind. You've been busy. I just wish you'd stop exerting yourself. You're working too hard." She collects the juice carton, the vegetables and fruits in her arms, and stalks toward the fridge.
He lunges to open the fridge door for her. "So... are you doing anything good this weekend?" he asks, as he plucks the juice carton out of her hands and places it in the side compartment.
"I'll probably go to Mabel's for lunch. You know, see her new baby and such. I'll probably end up staying overnight there, or something. I'll try to be home before dinner on Sunday. What do you want for dinner?" Maybe she should make that steak he likes so much, or maybe the casserole. "Oh, and Barry wants me to do the morning shift on Saturday."
There's a short silence, as they stock the fridge and freezer. "How 'bout you not cooking? How 'bout a dinner date instead?" he asks at last.
"On Sunday?" she places the last apple in the fruit compartment and closes the fridge door.
He nods. "I'll try to be home before five, then we'll decide where to. How's that sound?"
"Won't you be tired?"
"I don't know. We'll see."
---
If the thought of embracing each other ever crossed their mind as they stand in the hallway, they'll never know. James has his suitcase in one hand and a folder in another. She looks down and clenches her empty hands. She hates empty hands. They stand there, face to face, ignoring the impatient honks coming from outside. And above the din, she can almost hear House screaming, "Louder! He probably can't hear you!"
And James smiles and shakes his head. "Guess I better get going then," he tells her, opening the front door. "Are you trying to wake the dead?!" James half-hollered and half-jogged towards his friend.
"Just trying to heal the deaf," House answers. House is leaning against the side of the cab, aimlessly hitting the tyre nearest to him with his cane. This seems to annoy the cab driver who grumbles about paintworks and cripples or some such. "Hey," House greets her with a wave of his cane.
"Hey."
"That looks heavy," House observes James loading the suitcase into the trunk. "What's in there, you think?" House asks her, making casual chat. "Is it a body? Is anybody missing?"
"Nah. We don't carry them around. We bury them in the backyard," she replies. She grins and hopes that it is enough to hide the nervousness in her voice. "You'll keep an eye on him, won't you?" She asks. There's something of an amazement written all over House's face, but she doesn't know what.
"You see this?" House lifts his cane up in the air. "Gonna beat people off with it, don't you worry. I'll keep grubby hands off him."
"Thank you," she tells him, because it's the appropriate thing to say. She can also hear a snort of derision coming from her husband as he closes the trunk and makes his way towards them.
House nods and turns to speak to James. "So," he says, "ready to ride off into the sunset?" And she can't help but notice how decidedly uncomfortable her husband looks.
"Mm, yeah." And James places a small peck on her cheek and a chaste kiss on her lips. "See you on Saturday," he tells her. They remain close to each other for a second longer, sharing space and air, before she lets him go with a certain degree of reluctance.
"Call me," she implores; a whisper of hope as he releases her. He nods ever-so-slightly that it could've been the late afternoon sun playing 'True or False' with her brain.
"Aw, isn't that sweet?" House says. "The meter is still running, you know." He taps the ground with his cane and James steps away from her.
"James..." she calls out and her husband stops in mid-stride. She wants to tell him to stay, wants to beg him to not leave, wants to ask anything and nothing and prolong his leaving. But she settles for a half-whispered "take care" and hopes the wind will carry it to his ears. He nods again and piles into the backseat of the cab after House.
---
She stands by the window in her living room with the telephone in her hand, next to her ear. She can feel her heart pounding wildly, competing with the dialtone for the attention of her eardrums. She sighs loudly as she hears the phone being picked up from the other end.
"Barry? It's me... I can do Saturday morning... if... if you still want me to... No. Uh... he has this conference in New York, won't be back until late on Sunday... Okay, then. I'll see you Saturday morning... Okay... What? Nine thirty... Huh? No. Not a problem... Yes. Nine thirty, then. I'll see you Saturday... Okay... Bye..."
She watches the neighbor's son whizzing past on a tricycle, a golden retriever running alongside him, the father watching them with a proud smile on his face.
There's a surge of irrational jealousy and she throws the curtains close with enough force to yank a hook of the railing. Huh. Old hook, she tells herself. Must tell James to get a new set when he gets home. But something tells her that things aren't quite so right anymore. She throws herself onto James's recliner, his favorite piece of furniture. She really wants to throw it out, and has made her intentions known several times. Each time, he shoots her down -- going into a tirade, which is surprising as James is one of the mildest mannered man she has ever met. House likes to sit in that recliner too, she recalls. Every time House invites himself into their home, he'd sit in the recliner, all proud and straight-backed. Well, as straightbacked as he possibly can.
She decides that she'll make a sandwich for herself and watch one of those drama series that Mabel recommended to her. She leans back into the chair, admits to the nervous charge, and promptly fall asleep.
---
Morning light pries its way through the tiny slits between the curtains, knocks on her eyelids, and tells her that it is time for her to wake up. One by one her muscles make themselves known, every knot and every ache, punishing her for falling asleep in a recliner. Her stomach tells her how unhappy it is, deprived of its dinner the night before. Her neck refuses to bear the weight of her head, and makes itself perfectly clear by presenting a crick to surpass all cricks. She waits until she can sufficiently compose herself before rising up onto her feet.
She struggles to stand on her feet, rising with a difficulty reminiscent of House's own brief struggle whenever he picks himself out of this chair. Of course, he's had more practice in that front. But she has two good legs opposed to his one. She hobbles into the kitchen, riding the surreal tingling sensation of the last of the pins-and-needles. Paresthesias something or other, James calls it. Fancy medical terms, she thinks.
There's food in the fridge, there's cereal and milk, there's sandwich stuff to make sandwiches with, or she can always whip up an omelette or a pancake. She settles with an apple and decides that she'd climb into bed after. Properly, this time. And probably spend the whole day in bed, channel-surfing. The bedside clock tells her that it is ten in the morning. She digs through her bedside drawer and finds her address book. Maybe she can call a few friends and go out for a girly shopping trip. When was the last time they have a proper girly day out? She flips through her address book and sighs heavily. Most of them are either working or with toddlers, most probably too busy to care about one very lonely friend. She sighs again. And once more for good measure.
She taps the receiver against her chin before dialing Mabel's number.
---
Mabel is a friend she's known for years on end, happily married with twice as many children. Mabel opens the front door for her and promptly hugs her.
"I'm not hassling you, am I? Thanks for putting me up, Mabel," she says, hugging her overnight bag close to her chest.
"No problem at all, darling. I have a guestroom with your name on it," Mabel tells her, ushering her in.
"Andy doesn't mind?"
"If he does, he won't say it. Unless he wants to sleep in the couch and change diapers into the next week." Mabel winks at her.
"How's the little angel?" she asks as Mabel leads her into the guestroom.
"Toby? He's fine. Cranky. But he's the quietest baby ever. So you don't have to worry about him waking you up at ass o'clock in the morning."
"I don't mind, really." She places her bag by the guestroom door and follows Mabel back out and across the hallway into the nursery. Toby is fast asleep, looking every inch the adorable little baby. "He takes after you," she whispers. Mabel has her head tilted to one side, a small smile on her proud face. "You must be really proud."
"I am," Mabel whispers back. "Really. Probably the most fortunate mother in the face of the earth. But I'm biased," Mabel tells her.
"You have every right to be proud..." The baby is so serene in repose -- those rosy cheeks and the tiny body. Small, but perfectly formed.
"When are you going to have yours?" Mabel asks, as they tiptoe out of the nursery.
"I don't know. Soon maybe."
"What? Your husband doesn't want a child?"
"He does. At least I think he does. It's just... we never seem to... I don't know."
"Don't mind the mess," Mabel tells her as they enter the kitchen. "Viv's been trying to 'help' me bake cookies. Viv's school is having this bake sale tomorrow." The scent is unbelievable, drowning the senses with chocolate and warmth. "So what's stopping you?" Mabel asks, pouring a glass of water and sliding it across the kitchen worktop.
"Nothing, really." She sighs in defeat. This is always a very difficult subject for her to talk about, always something she tries to avoid, always something that makes her feel inadequate and uncomfortable. And she is entirely grateful when she sees that Mabel realizes how difficult it is for her. She looks around Mabel's kitchen, and feels seeds of envy hurling itself into her heart and taking root. It's warm and bright, with pictures that Viv -- Mabel's first child -- drew. Brightly colored toys strewn in one corner, and in Mabel's knitting basket. Papers covered in Viv's doodles, mixing with bills and papers. Flour on every surface, and utensils all over the floor, little hand prints... Adults and children, living in a coordinated chaos in a home.
"Anyway. 'd you like some cookie?" Mabel walks towards the oven and pulls out a tray of cookies.
"Are you sure you have enough?" she asks and Mabel laughs heartily.
"Don't worry. I have enough dough to feed the State!" And enough debris to warrant a hearty scrub of the kitchen.
---
They sit in the kitchen and talk about everything and nothing. Well, mostly Mabel gushing about Toby, about the little baby clothes and about little baby toys. Mabel gushes about Viv, too. About Viv's drama club and that Viv is going to play a sheep in this year's nativity play. They talk about neighbors. Mabel tells her that Viv is having this little 'tryst' with the neighbor's son; how they run around and 'flirt' the way only six-year olds can.
They talk and eat cookies and wait until Andy arrives with Viv hot on his heels.
"Mommy! Mommy!" Viv runs at Mabel, brandishing a picture she drew. "Look! I drew you and daddy and Toby!"Andy stands by the side, watching his wife and child admiring the picture.
He notices her, sitting on the kitchen stool and approaches her. "Hey," he calls out.
"Hey. How are you?"
"Good. I'm getting promoted! Anyway, where's James?" Andy snags a cookie from the plate. "You're staying with us for the weekend, right?"
"James is... away. A conference," she replies. "You don't mind me staying over, right?"
"Nah. As long as you can put up with little Toby's occasional screaming." Andy has a 'proud dad' look, and she wonders when she can see it on James's face.
"I don't mind, really."
"Yeah, it can get really lonely at home, I suppose," Andy observes. And she can't disagree with him. Her husband is away, there's no children or pets to keep her busy. Looking at Mabel, Viv, and Andy, and the baby in the nursery, she feels out of place. This is what she wants, this is what she yearns for -- a family life. But it seems like a pipe dream. Is it really this hard?
---
She retreats into the guestroom after helping Mabel wash the dishes and clean the kitchen. She can hear Mabel and Andy in the living room, watching a spot of television and playing with Viv and Toby.
Lying awake in silence, she can hear them talk, hear them laugh and bicker. The children's squealing and giggling sounds like music, painful to her ears and to her heart. She stares at the ceiling and watch shadows chase one another, creating a fantastically macabre dance. Her hand hovers above the cellphone she placed on her stomach, on top of the comforter. The bedside clock tells her it's just gone past nine at night and she contemplates calling James.
And she ends up listening to measured dialtones, ringing restlessly and monotoneously. She listens almost impatiently until the answering machine kicks in. She hears his voice, apologizing for not being able to come to the phone. But if she is to leave a message, he'll try and call her back. She feels tears prickling, and thinks it odd. Why would she cry? It doesn't make any sense. So she takes a deep breath, waits for the beep and talks into the receiver. "Hi, darling. It's me. Just wondering how you are..." And she presses the red 'off' button viciously and slams her palm onto her mouth as a strangled sob wrestles past her throat. This is a feeling she can't explain. It's not the first time her husband has gone to a conference, she tells herself. Nor would it be the last time, she concedes sorrowfully. Is she selfish this way? Husbands go to conferences every time, don't they? Or important meetings? Maybe she's not fit to be a wife.
She places her phone carefully on the bedside table and returns to counting shadows on the ceiling.
--tbc