2/3/08
Title: Forgotten
Chapter: 3 – Happenstance
Author: Squeezynz
Setting: Post S2Ep7 – about six months on.
Pairing: Stabby
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
The Watermill pub was surprisingly busy for a late afternoon on a Wednesday. Abby sidled her way through the crush to the bar and ordered a plate of wedges and a pint of the local best ale. Careful not to spill her drink, she squeezed past a group of animated farming types and scanned the room for a table.
Every booth and table seemed to have two or more people, so she edged closer to the huge fireplace to look around the corner. It was slightly less crowded there, so she pushed on, eventually ending up near the far corner. The most distant held only on patron, leaving the entire other side free.
Looking back she could see several other groups of people looking, like her, for seating and decided to take a chance.
"Excuse me...do you mind if I sit opposite you?"
The man in the booth only inclined his head fractionally before extending an arm to indicate for her to sit. Thankful to be able to place her endangered drink on a flat surface, Abby slid into the booth and sat down with a welcome sigh.
"Hell of a crush in here. Is this the happy hour?"
The man opposite her didn't reply, but lifted his shoulders in a shrug. Giving him an arch look, Abby ignored his boorish behavior and gratefully sipped her brimming drink. Back here the music from the bar was greatly subdued, almost drowned out by the roar of the patrons punctuated with bursts of laughter. She almost wished she'd opted for the garden bar at the back, but the clouds massing over the Longdale Pike had predicted rain, so she peeled off her scarf and gloves and settled in to enjoy the ambiance
Her companion opposite remained surprisingly quiet, his attention firmly focused on the book in his hand, his head lowered so that all she really got was an impression of someone in dire need of a good haircut and shave. Her plate of wedges arrived and she dived into them with a will, her appetite whetted by the smell of the strong local cheese melted over the golden potatoes. She munched happily, sipping occasionally and watched the people enjoying their drinks and friends.
Her companion could have been carved from a block of wood for all the movement he made, only occasionally reaching out a surprisingly elegant but capable hand to pick up his own drink and take a swig. Trying not to be obvious about it, she glanced at the title of the book holding his attention.
Extinctions in the History of Life was tooled into the spine and glimpsed on the cover, an unusual enough topic, but more surprising given her unique insight into that particular field. Thoroughly intrigued, she looked more closely at her companion, taking in the expensive and obviously new duffel coat folded on the seat beside him, the commodious leather satchel by his feet, the unscuffed leather boots, sensible black cargo pants, navy blue fisherman's jumper and amber colored pendant on a leather thong.
"If you're about to ask what star sign I am, don't bother."
His voice was low and slightly hoarse, as if he had a cold, his attitude unchanged, his absorption in the book still total. Abby ducked her head and smiled to herself.
"I wasn't...I was just interested to see the title of the book. A fossil hunter?"
"It's a hobby."
"I happen to know something about extinctions myself."
"Fossil hunter?"
"Lizard girl."
At last she had his attention. Like someone waking up, he lifted his head and gave her a quick glance, Abby getting the impression of intensely blue eyes behind thick lashes.
"Lizards?"
"I work...worked at Wellington Zoo for a couple of years in the Reptile breeding department."
"And now?"
"I work for a business that specializes in the study of extinct species." She'd reckoned that was a close to the truth as she'd ever likely to get.
His place in the book was carefully marked with a slip of paper before being placed to one side of the table. Abby ate another potato wedge and indicated for him to join her.
"Help yourself, there's more here than I can eat."
"Thanks." He took a wedge, then another, the atmosphere between them lifting over the shared food.
Abby downed the last of her beer and made to get up, but his hand snaked out across the table and held her in place, effortlessly.
"Let me. Least I can do for sharing your meal."
"Oh...alright...um...I can't tell you what it was, it's whatever the landlord has on tap."
"Probably his own, brewed on the premises. I'll be right back."
Gathering the two empty glasses in one hand, the stranger unwound his long body from the booth and strolled through the crowd to the bar. Abby admired the rear view of long legs on an athletic frame topped by broad shoulders. Certainly he was in urgent need of some personal grooming, but he wasn't dirty, only a little unkempt. She figured him for an eccentric.
The plate of wedges was seriously depleted by the time he returned with two full glasses, the crush of people in the pub meaning she'd already fended off two groups wanting to share her half empty booth.
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Stephen had passed the last group as he returned to the booth, the males in the party looking back at the lone female figure and passing several off color remarks. He felt a flush of anger which surprised him. He'd only met the girl an hour ago, only seen her once before at the library. It was hardly his place to feel protective or want to make the yob eat his own words, but the feeling was there, none the less.
Reaching their seat he placed the glasses on the ring marked wooden table top. The bowl of wedges was reduced nearly to crumbs, the girl wiping her mouth on a paper napkins before smiling her thanks for the round of drinks.
"Sorry it took so long, there was quite a queue." He remarked.
"Tell me about it, we almost lost our seats to that last group, they were most insistent."
"Yeah...look...if you like...I mean..." He stammered to a halt, a flush of embarrassment burning his neck. "Sorry...forget it." Folding himself back into the bench seat, he lifted his beer and took a long draught. "You were saying you worked at Wellington Zoo. That must have been interesting?"
Abby took her time answering, painting circles on the table top with her finger, in the beer spilt from her glass. "It my my first real job. I was supposed to be doing a degree in animal behavioral science, but the offer came up and I jacked in the degree to follow my dream. What do you do?"
"Ah...not a lot at the moment. Just getting over a nasty accident and taking some time off. Thought I'd visit Cumbria as I couldn't remember ever being here before."
"Couldn't remember?"
"Yeah, side effect of the accident apparently...get to start my life all over again." He buried his face in his glass, mortified that he'd spilled his guts with the first person who offered him an audience. Unable to look at her and see the pity he was sure would be there, he stared down at his hands.
"Can't remember anything?" Abby probed, not sure why she did.
"That's the definition of amnesia I believe. Apart from having an interest in old bones and fossils, and knowing a few basic skills like reading, writing and driving a car, I'm pretty much a blank canvas."
"God, you have no idea how lucky you are."
That pulled him up short. He lifted his head and stared in shock at the girl across from him. She was starring back at him with her huge blue eyes swimming with tears. Their eyes met and locked for a brief moment, before hers slid away and she was scrubbing at the welling tears with the paper napkin, smearing her makeup in the process. Stephen didn't know what to do, having no memory of how he was supposed to deal with a crying girl, certainly not one he'd only met an hour or so ago.
"I'm sorry..." He glanced over the back of the seat to the next table, noticing they had a napkin dispenser on their table. Getting out of the booth, he snagged the cool metal box, apologizing at the same time, then returned to his seat, pulling out a handful of the paper squares and pushing them across to the girl to use. "Here..."
He watched her discard one, then use another to blow her nose – noisily. Unsure what to do for the best, he sat and kept his gaze fixed on his glass, his finger absently rubbing over and over the smooth surface.
Eventually the girl seemed to get herself under control, wadding up the used napkins and stuffing them into her bag.
"I'm sorry for that...don't know what came over me."
"I'm sorry I upset you..."
"Oh you didn't...not really. I've just been under a bit of strain recently...lost someone close to me, and I don't think I've really dealt with it very well."
He almost said sorry again, but caught himself. Did he really want to get involved with someone coping with grief? She looked so tiny and fragile, he thought she might break if someone held her too tightly. The dark hair looked recently colored and in need of a trim, a direct contrast with her milky pale skin and corn flower blue eyes. He veered away from looking at her mouth, preferring to inspect the poster decorating the wall of their booth advertising a music festival that had taken place three years ago.
"Abigail."
He turned back to face her. "Pardon?"
"My name...Abigail Maitland. If I'm going to blub in front of a stranger, the least I can do is let him know who's doing the blubbing." Her lips twisted upwards in a watery smile and she held her hand out for him to take.
"Abigail..." He repeated, reaching his own hand over the table, engulfing her fingers in his warm grip, "that's a pretty name." They separated and he instantly felt the loss of her skin on his.
"Rather in keeping with this place," she rolled her eyes, then leant forward to explain when he looked blankly back. "All this Beatrix Potter stuff...I'm sure one of her characters was called Abigail or something like that."
"Oh...yeah...guess so." He looked down at his drink, then back up at her. "My names Steve...Steve Ha..." But at the moment he revealed his last name, a group of rowdy pub patrons tumbled past them on the way to the back door, their raucous laughter drowning him out. One particularly drunk young man lurched onto their table and sent the two half full glasses and the remaining wedges flying.
"Dammit..." Stephen shoved the idiot back onto his feet and watched him stagger after his companions. "Are you alright?" He asked Abigail, noting her trying to use the last of the paper napkins to mop up the beer dripping onto her jeans.
"Just a bit damp. You?"
"Fine. Look...why don't we get out of this place? Unless you're staying here?"
"No. No I'm at the Craig, down by the lake."
"Then why don't you let me walk you back."
"Okay...damn, that idiot got beer on my books."
He helped her sponge the liquid off the covers, then they put on their respective outer clothes before climbing out of the booth to make their way back to the front door. It was only when they stood side by side that he realized she really was tiny, only barely coming up to his shoulder. Another surge of protectiveness swept over him and he did his best to make sure she wasn't jostled more than necessary as they battled through the crowd to the front entrance.
Standing in the doorway they surveyed the steady drizzle outside with some dismay.
"I just knew it was going to rain, and me without an umbrella." Abby said in some resignation, her coat not having a hood and her shoes hardly designed for skipping through puddles.
Stephen pulled the hood of his thick duffel coat over his head and hoisted his bag on his shoulder.
"Look...I know we've barely met...and I don't want you to think I'm some sort of deviant, but my place is only just up the road. I can offer you a towel and a hot coffee, if you'd care...?"
"Then what are we standing here for!" Abby cut him off, darting out into the rain, her hair instantly flattened and her shoes soaked.
Stephen grinned and set off after her, catching up quickly and taking her arm to steer her around the worst of the puddles and quicken their pace towards his B&B.
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Abby sat wrapped in a thick bathrobe and stared at the fire crackling in the grate. It was fully dark outside, the lights of the town dulled by the constant rain still falling.
The clock on the mantle struck ten and she yawned. Her bed was already turned down and ready for her, and she knew she'd sleep well this night. Maybe she'd even sleep right through for a change.
Thinking of her day inevitably brought her back to Steve.
They'd arrived at his B&B to be greeted by the landlady holding an umbrella out for them. She'd seen them leave the pub and was ready with a pot of tea and hot crumpets by the fire. Steve had explained that Abby was staying at the Craig and that seemed enough for Mrs. Sanders, who tutted over their damp coats and chivvied them into the cozy sitting room to warm up in front of the roaring fire.
The tea and crumpets had been heavenly, filling up the holes left unsatisfied by the wedges. Afterwards she curled up in the huge wing chair and promptly fell asleep. It was dark when Steve shook her gently awake, explaining that a taxi was waiting to take her back to the Craig Hotel and her shoes were dry. Hardly given time to do more than voice her thanks and make a meeting for the next day, Abby was in the car and on her way the short distance to her hotel.
Now, after a hot shower and the prospect of a warm bed, she sat staring into the flames and pondering why fate had thrown her in the path of another Stephen, although this one was a Steve, and looked nothing like the man she'd known before. Sure, he was tall and rangy and wore his clothes like a runway model, but those were the only similarities. Stephen Hart had been a man of action and vitality, bold and in some ways arrogant. The man she'd met today was almost the complete opposite, being shy and withdrawn, hardly an extrovert and not likely to have ever held a gun.
It was just fates way of messing with her head that he had the same name, nothing more.
She did wonder how he'd got the scars though. He was an enigma, some of his fascination being that he was suffering from amnesia. It wasn't every day that you met someone who had no memory of his past life, who had to live with the knowledge that everything would now be for the first time, places, people, even memories themselves. It gave him an allure that drew her like a moth to the flame. She didn't consider it sexual, he was hardly God's gift to women, unlike his namesake, but there was something that made her want to know more.
Her attraction to Stephen Hart she could easily quantify as pure animal lust. The man was gorgeous and any female with breath in her body would have found something to growl about him. That the sexual attraction had died a death with Helen Cutter's revelations had been a knee jerk reaction on her part, based on her feelings of disappointment that Stephen was no better than any other man, no shining knight but a man with feet of clay. Despite her hurt and dismay at his duplicity, it hadn't entirely killed all her attraction to him, it had only quashed her silly romantic daydreams, as effectively as a dash of ice water.
Stephen had remained as dashing and drop-dead gorgeous as ever, just not the romantic ideal she'd built up so many air castles about.
Since his death she'd tried to analyze and deal with her feelings for him, but failed completely. Her attraction to tall, lanky mysterious men as firmly in place as ever, evidenced by her interest in Steve whatever-his-surname-was, a mystery man if ever there was one.
She'd managed to get him to agree to a meeting at the library the following morning. Maybe she'd learn more about him then.
Yawning again, she hauled herself out of the chair and loped across the thick carpet to the insanely comfortable bed. Sleep overtook her as she pondered how she could get him to trim that horrible mustache so she could see his mouth when he talked.
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Stephen ran his hand over his beard and wondered how he'd managed to ignore it for so long, letting it get into the state it was. It was a miracle Abigail hadn't run screaming away from him, looking as he did like some wild man of the woods.
Thinking of her brought the picture of her curled up in the chair, her feet tucked under her bottom, and her head resting against the wing. Mrs. Sanders had advised him to let her rest as she looked all done in, and he agreed. Happy to watch her sleep, he'd stretched out his legs and opened his book to the marked page, but for some reason the text didn't have the magnetic pull of the small figure in the chair opposite.
When the taxi arrived, he'd leant over her and jostled her gently awake, his hand curled around her shoulder. She'd woken up like a kitten, all eyes and pink tongue when she yawned, blinking up at him sleepily. Mrs. Sanders had bustled in and broken the moment, Abigail finding herself bundled into her scarf and dry shoes, but not before she extorted a promise of a meeting at the library in the morning. He'd agreed, but couldn't really rationalize why. He hadn't embarked of his tour of the British Isles with a view to making friends or finding a companion, but fate seemed to have other ideas.
Now he stood, staring back at himself in the bathroom mirror, and wondering what a vibrant girl like Abigail would see in a scarred and grizzled eccentric like himself.
Maybe he should think about getting a hair cut. In the meantime, he could trim some of the excess around his mouth and chin, and maybe tame some of the length off his rogue beard.
For the next few minutes the bathroom echoed to the clip of scissors, the sink quickly filling up with trimmings. The end result was still enough to hide the worst of the scarring, but less likely to frighten small children the next time he went out.
Satisfied, he swept the waste into the bin, and pulled on a t-shirt to cover his torso. He hated mirrors for the most part, because they were merciless in showing how ugly his body looked under his expensive clothes. He'd have to make sure he was as covered up as possible, including gloves, before he met Abigail the next day. He didn't think she'd noticed his hands, or at least he hoped she hadn't. He couldn't hide all the scars on his face, but maybe enough for the worst to pass unnoticed.
Why he was worrying about it, he couldn't explain. He just didn't want to see the inevitable look of disgust on her face that always appeared when anyone saw the extent of his scarring. For the most part it remained hidden away, and he preferred it that way.
Before he climbed into bed, he stood at the upper window and stared out over the town towards the Lake and the distant lights where the Craig Hotel stood on a rise. He wondered briefly if she was thinking about him, then just as briefly chided himself for a romantic fool.
Pulling the curtains closed he flopped down on his bed and snagged the book he'd started at the pub. Despite his best efforts, he simply couldn't drum up much enthusiasm for the ultimate fate of all biological species. He much preferred to consider what Abigail looked like when she laughed, and if she tasted as sweet as her lips promised.
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
to be continued...