A/N: I owe you all an apology. I promised an update nearly a month ago, and it never came. Thing is, my laptop contracted a disease, the Trojan kind, and she's terminal. *sob* I'm not ready to say goodbye quite yet.
Anyway, this is marginally longer than the others, so I hope it's enough to tide you over until I can get my sweetheart fixed. Cheers! Hope you enjoy this one. Also, leave me a review, yeah? You know I love you.
I haven't seen her in a week.
Katie's doing groceries for two, now; I've stayed with her ever since. All my things are still at the old flat, though. She notices this soon enough, "D'you plan on taking your things back, Ems ? That's my fucking top you're wearing again, and I was looking for it earlier." She tips a basket of dirty laundry onto the open latch of the washing machine.
"I'll go with you," she offers briskly. "Keep her from fucking you up." I glance at her, bemused. "Thanks, Katie. But, no. I think I can hold her on my own." She snorts derisively, "Hold her on your own? If by your own you mean fuck-her-senseless-on-the-kitchen-floor, then yes, Emily, I'm pretty sure you could."
I shiver involuntarily, "Fuck off, Katie. We're not like that anymore." Her eyes soften, just a bit. "Emsy, its okay; I'll take you." I slump down beside the countertop, "Actually, I was thinking of going today."
She sits down beside me and nudges my thigh with her knee, "You're moving out for good, then?" My eyes water involuntarily and I take a deep, steadying breath to force the tears back into their ducts, "Yeah. For good."
She reaches up and swipes a car key on a filigree chain from the edge of the counter. She presses it into my palm and smiles, gently, carefully.
"Take it out, then. But take it back before ten, because fuck you, Emily, I need it for work tomorrow."
The house is deathly quiet—I've taken the liberty of letting myself in through the spare key she keeps under an old pair of Wellington boots propped up by the windowsill. Inside, the fading daylight has thrown shadows in great relief along the walls; it is both ominous and miserable.
She isn't home yet, that much is clear. I make my way up the stairs and push open the bedroom door, slowly. My stomach twists uncomfortably—the bed is made up.
On one side.
The left, however, the side I always slept on, is unmade: the sheets are still twisted, the pillow still holds a faint impression of my head—she left it the way I left it. As if any moment, I might come back.
The drawers and the wardrobe still contain my clothes; there is a brief moment of hesitation on my part, then I start folding them into my duffel bag. My fingers pause over a green sweater underneath my blouse; it isn't mine, though I'd borrowed it enough times to claim some semblance of possession over it. I bring it to my nose and inhale softly: my breath catches in my throat—it still smells of her. I bring the cloth to chafe gently across the skin of my cheek, savoring the feel of soft fabric. It is easy to pretend that it is her—her fingers tracing figures on my skin; her soft whisper brushing my ear—and so, I do.
The front door downstairs slams open brusquely, effectively shaking me out of my stupor.
I'd fallen asleep on her bed, the clock on the bedside table flashes the time in blinding red: 12:58 am. I sit up quickly and strain my ears to listen. There are footsteps shuffling, heavy feet climbing the staircase. "Shit," I hiss, panicked. I flail for a second, trying to find my slip-ons, wondering if I can fit into the closet to hide in temporarily. Something thuds heavily against the thin plaster of the wall beside me and I jump, frightened.
I fling open the closet doors and shove my duffel bag into its recesses; it amuses for a moment, the misogynistic humor of Fate, the pathetic cliché of it all—hiding back in the closet, Emily?—but right then, the bedroom door creaks open and I dive, headfirst into her clothes.
"Fuck," a rough voice growls, and through the blinds of her closet door I see her—with someone. She's unconscious, that much is clear. There's a man with her, supporting her as he stumbles into her bedroom. Her arms are around his neck, he's got a hand about her waist, and another along the back of her thigh. "Damn it!" he yelps quietly: his foot tangles with the green sweater I left on the surges forward to regain his balance, but his knee collides with the bed and Naomi rolls away from him, landing heavily on her bed. I have never seen her look so pissed, so completely wasted—there are black smears underneath her eyes, and her cheeks are flushed a blotchy red.
The man's face is obscured by a hood. I do not know who is, what his business carrying Naomi into her bedroom is. But there is something, something, in the way he looks at her from beside the bed that unsettles me, and tension begins to coil tight, little knots at the bottom of my gut. He stoops forward and rearranges her limbs onto the bed, pushing and nudging her until her arms and feet are well away from the edge. A shiver travels down my spine as I watch him take a step back and give her a cursory once-over. He ducks down again, towards her, and grunts as he tugs on the hem of her top.
My heart stills for a beat, and resumes its pace—hot, heavy, and frantic. My pulse thunders sycophantically at the back of my neck and my vision blurs in shock. He's going to hurt her, I think desperately. No. No. No.
He begins lifting her top off, the fabric riding upward until it exposes her pale stomach. I come to with a jolt, then, my temper flaring dangerously. In that moment, I wanted nothing more in the world than to hurt him, maim him, kill him. My hands begin fumbling about in the dark of the closet, searching for anything—anything—to bludgeon him with. He takes her by the arm and pulls her forward, her top slipping off her shoulders easily. My fingers find purchase then, and I wrap my fingers around the steel casing of the cabinet rod she'd broken off accidentally three months prior. He reaches down and snaps the button of her skirt open—
The closet door flies open and with a scream, I launch myself at his back, swinging the rod like a crowbar in a fight club. I catch him underneath the jaw and he cries out, flinging out an arm and throwing me to the ground. The impact winds me, my breath hitching in my throat, but I scramble to my feet and swing it again. This time, it clips him hard on the curve of his shoulder—he sinks to his knees and screams in agony. I raise the rod again, ready to bring it crashing down on his skull and hear the sickening crunch of his crown caving in, when he cries out in pain again.
"EMILY! FUCKING STOP—EMILY!"
My arms freeze and my entire body seizes up in shock. He leaps forward, taking advantage of my brief moment of hesitation and grabs my wrist. "Let me go!" I scream, "Fight me like a fucking man, you bastard!"
"Plenty of fire in there, little red. Can see why she loves you. You're just as passionate as she is. From the look of things though, a bit more, if you get me."
The words are garbled, and I realize he's speaking through a mouthful of blood. I calm down then, because Iknow that voice. And yet—
He nudges the tin wastebasket towards him with a foot and spits into it. He releases his grip on my wrist to pull back the hood of his jacket. I am not amused.
"Cook."
"'Ello, princess. Stalking Naomikins, then? Wait 'till she hears you've been hiding in closets again," he snickers heartily. "Can't tell her nuffink now, tho.' Wasted as fuck, the little blighter." He glances down at her prone form on the bed and scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. "She was sweating," he ventures hesitantly. "Profusely. And, she's tossed more than a couple times in the past hour alone. She's got some down her front. I was—changing her top, see? Wasn't going to hurt her. Promise."
"Cook, I—I know," I sigh, exhaustedly. "Sorry 'bout jumping you. Thought you were a rapist-con-burglar."
"'S'fine," he sniffs. "Would've done the same. Probably worse. Got me good, though." He smiles and swipes his hand along the corner of his mouth. Blood smears the skin there and he wipes it on his shirt front, leaving long, horrible, rust-colored stains.
"I'll, um, help myself to some ice, then, yeah? You go and—" he gestures toward Naomi awkwardly. I nod and he grins back, pushing past me to go back down to the kitchen. I nudge the door with a foot until it catches and clicks softly shut.
She's been crying: her mascara's left black smudges along her cheeks and her eyes are red-rimmed. She looks beautiful.
I watch as she shifts quietly in her sleep, frowning for a bit as she scratches an itch beneath her ear. I sit on the bed then, and take her hand. She's wearing nothing but her bra and her half-opened skirt and the image of her before me is not entirely conducive to conscious, innocent thought. Reaching down, I swipe the green sweater off the floor and help her put it on, slipping my hand underneath her top to unsnap the bra clasp.
She turns in my arms and presses her face to my neck—and moans.
"Emily?" she slurs; she inhales, breathing in the scent on the skin of my throat. She skims the tip of her nose along my jaw languidly, her hands reaching underneath my top to run across my stomach, up my ribs. I gasp when her fingers reach my breasts, slipping underneath the under-wire of my bra to pinch a nipple. My hands stay where they are, around her waist, at the back of her neck.
It does not occur to me to stop her.
So, I do not.
"Emily," she breathes softly, tracing a finger across my breast, down to my stomach. She shifts closer and kisses me softly, carefully. She starts crying again as soon as she pulls back, and I find I do not want her tears. I swallow past the growing lump in my throat and kiss her back, a little more forcefully than I intended. She topples back onto the bed and more by instinct than anything else, really, I move on top of her. She moans softly into my mouth, her fingers slipping and sliding against my stomach, across my ribs, down my back. Her tongue curls around my own and flicks against my teeth.
The familiarity of it all—of the feel of her skin beneath me, her breath on my mouth—breaks me, and it hurts. She must feel it too, because soon enough, she pulls back and tucks her head into the crook of my neck. Her tears are hot and wet and uncomfortable against my skin, but I do not pull away.
"Emily," she whispers, pressing closer against me. Her arms wrap around my waist and tighten almost painfully. "I love you," she sighs.
I stiffen against her then, and move to pull away but she tenses and holds me tighter. "Don't go," she whimpers softly. I smell the alcohol on her breath and I know, know, that she wouldn't say anything at all if she'd been sober. But she isn't, and the fact remains that she is, and I remember Freddie that one summer evening in his shed, the night so humid my top had stuck to my back, sticky as fuck.
"See, Ems ," Freddie had laughed; his eyes bright, his voice slurred. "The world is full of wankers, and the only people in the world worth listening to are children—" He had nodded towards JJ who was gazing amazedly at Cook's poorly constructed beer-can-cannon, "—And the drunk." He'd nodded towards Cook then, and we shared a smile. It was the last thing he'd ever say to me, though I hadn't known it then.
Naomi tugs on my front and curls a little closer, burrowing her head against my shoulder. I couldn't move if I'd tried. "Stay," she says softly.
And so, I do.
It is the feel of the bed sheets' fabric chafing warmly against my cheek, and the tight grip of her arm about my waist that wakes me. I turn in her arms and I see her clearly for the first time: she's begun to stir, her eyes fluttering open dazedly. She smiles when she sees me and I find I do, too, and somehow, we meet at the middle—she leans forward when I do, I think; either way, our lips brush together. And it feels familiar and sad at the same time, and it's only when she kisses me a little harder that I realize why it feels wrong at all. I pull back, startled, and she has the grace to look properly ashamed.
"Hi," she murmurs shyly. Her eyes are hopeful and miserable all at once, and it hurts to look at her. I heave a sigh and turn to lie on my back, staring up at the ceiling of a bedroom that was once ours.
"We didn't do anything last night," I find myself frowning.
"I know."
"Just so you don't get the wrong idea."
"Okay."
She sits up and swings her legs off the bed, stumbling once or twice on the articles of shoes and clothing strewn across the floor. I watch as she goes about the room, picking up her belongings. She's halfway through pulling on a pair of socks when I venture to speak, my voice quietly subdued.
"Naomi."
She makes no move to indicate she's heard me, so I try again. It must give her a strange sense of nearly sadistic satisfaction to hear the helplessness in my voice again.
"Naomi," I say softly, hurt. "Please."
She pauses, her fingers twisting into the bed sheets and I have to wonder whether or not she's in pain again. She glances back at me from behind her shoulder, and holds out a hand wordlessly. I take it gratefully, eagerly, twining our fingers together; sighing softly when she tugs on my hand to pull me closer. I wrap her in an embrace, my arms about her shoulders, about her waist. I press my cheek against the small of her back and exhale through my. This particular morning feels like a regular one; one wherein I love her and rest confident in that sole fact.
I close my eyes when I feel her shudder: I know, know she's begun to cry again. I hold her tighter when she swipes a hand under her eyes, sniffling into the cuffs of her button-down.
"You hate me," she doesn't pose it as a question, she's stating what she knows to be true; but this time, this time I say otherwise. This time, I mean otherwise.
"No," I say hastily. "I don't—I just—" I can't make any promises to her. Not right now. Not when I can't make any to myself. "I don't, I did—But, I don't. Naomi."
She's quiet for a good long while, then: "But you can't stand me. Not right now." I don't want to cry, but she's making it extremely difficult not to. She turns and touches her forehead to mine and I see the glistening paths her tears traced down her cheeks. I reach up and swipe a thumb over them gently; she tenses up then, and her gaze flickers upward to meet mine. More by impulse than anything really, our lips touch, once. Twice. Her mouth lingers on mine long after I've pulled back and I realize I'm crying too.
"I love you," she whispers. I know, I want to say. I know. But she speaks again. "But we can't stay like this, Ems. We can't be at each other's throats all the time, dancing around each other, afraid of each other." I look up at her, and my heart sinks, twists my insides inside out. There is no hope in eyes that won't meet mine. It angers me.
"What're you going on about, Naoms?" In spite of myself, I feel my features contort into a frown, desperately trying to stem the fears and the subsequent tears welling up inside me.
"We need time to be ourselves, Emily," she murmurs quietly, and I think briefly, this is harder for her. "I don't want you to hate me," she looks up, frightened, jaded.
"I don't," I protest, my temper flaring, but she shakes her head gently. She slips her hand from my back and takes my fingers, twines ours together in her lap.
"You do," she says it matter-of-factly. "You can't stand me, Ems. If we stay the way we are," she bites her lip and looks away from me. "You'll regret it. Regret me. And I don't want that, I want you—" her voice catches in her throat. "I want you to be happy."
"So you're fucking throwing me away, is that it? Giving me up? Am I not worth fucking fighting for, Naomi? Did you just fucking stop loving me, is that it?" I am breaking, seamless, undone. I wrench myself from her grasp and stumble to my feet. She reaches for me, but I lash out, and the back of my hand connects with the line of her jaw. She gets up anyway and pulls me against her, "Why are you trying to say goodbye?" I sob, falling limp in her arms. "I don't want to let go yet. I don't want you to go. Fix this. Make us fucking okay."
"I'm not saying goodbye," she cries and holds me tighter. "But I want you to be happy. I don't want us to fall apart over and over again. We need time, Emily. Maybe all we need is room to breathe. It doesn't mean I'll love you any less. It doesn't mean we can't be." She kisses me on the cheek and burrows her face into my neck. "We'll be okay. We'll be okay," It feels like she's convincing herself more than me.
When she pulls back, we see each other clearly: her eye make-up tracing dark streaks beneath her eyes, her eyes red-rimmed and raw, her lip quivering. "I love you," she presses her forehead against mine and closes her eyes. When she opens them again, they're solid. Substantial. A flickering flame.
"Can you understand that?"
I nod then, because I do. She embraces me again and my fingers scrabble against her back, seeking purchase, drawing her infinitely closer because she promised it wouldn't be our last—but her promises have come for nothing as of late.
When I reach the driveway, I turn back to look at her bedroom window. She's there, she sees me. She offers a watery smile and a tentative half-wave. I feel my lips curl into something resembling a smile; it should be enough for now. I get into the car and make it until the highway before I pull over onto the shoulder-Emergency Lane. I remember the look on her face right before I left and wondered why she looked so—and it comes, like a blow: she doesn't know I love her back. I never said so. And I want to turn around, past the opposing traffic to tell her so, but I can't. I can't. She should know. She should know.
I grip the steering wheel and cry.
I feel better afterward.
A/N: Oh, and about my final footnote A/N in the last chapter, and the fluff I promised you? Yeah, about that. I lied. But then, you knew that already, so.
