See the AN in the first chapter for the whole explanation.
For: Angell
Prompt: Panic
Rating: T
Music: 'Paint It Black' by The Rolling Stones, off the album 'Aftermath'
Notes: You can count this as a one-shot, or a prequel to 'In Rainbows'. It works either way (hopefully).
"Panic"
He sits in the seat, eyes closed, hands clenched around the armrests in a death grip that turns his knuckles white.
"Hey, man, you ok?" the passenger next to him asks, sounding unsure, "you look a little green."
"I'm fine," he manages to get out, fighting down the rising nausea as the plane hits turbulence.
What is he doing here? He shouldn't have come. But then her words ring in his head, and he knows he has to try.
'I got a job offer. It's in Paris. I think… I think I'm going to stay in France.'
He looks around at the street signs, none of which he can read, because he doesn't know any French.
How did it come to this? He hadn't seen her in almost nine months; their emails and phone calls had slowly dwindled, real life and the distance getting in the way. They'd barely had a real conversation in two months – instead settling for the basic 'how was your day?' – and then she'd told him. She was staying in Paris. He'd told her he thought it was great, what an amazing opportunity.
Then he'd hung up the phone, taken a shower, went to the Cohen's for dinner and in the middle of desert, panic had hit him like a truck. He'd choked on his lemon meringue pie, coughing and sputtering as Kirsten tried to hit his back to dislodge whatever was in his throat. Except he hadn't been choking on the food, it had been the knowledge that he'd never see her again.
All through college, they'd never put a name on their relationship. Every time she came back from France during vacation, they just let things run its course, so when she decided to stay in Paris, it had nothing to do with him, because they weren't a couple. She'd made her decision as a single woman, graduating from college and finding her way in the world.
Now, looking around helplessly at the foreign signs, he wishes he could go back four years ago and hit himself over the head; tell himself to get a clue and get over his fear of commitment. Because if he had, maybe she wouldn't be staying in Paris.
"Excusez-moi," he asks a street vendor in broken French. The man looks at him disdainfully, but he ignores that, his panic driving him on relentlessly. He holds up a piece of paper with her address written on it. The man begins to ramble and he doesn't know any of the words coming out of the man's mouth, but he sees where the man points and mumbles what he thinks is 'thank you' before heading in that direction.
He knows he must look calm on the outside. He's very good at hiding all of his emotions, but inside, his heart, his head, his blood are all pounding wildly. He doesn't know why he needs to rush, but he has to get to her before it's too late. Too late for what, he's not sure and for all he knows, it's already too late, but he can't not try. So when he sees a sign that looks exactly like what's written on the scrap of paper, his heart leaps into his throat.
He goes in the revolving door, making his way for the elevator on the other end of the lobby, the shining metal doors calling out to him.
"Bonjour," a voice calls to him, and a man steps in his way. "Ce qui peut je faire pour vous?"
What? He gets 'bonjour' and 'vous', but that's about it - and 'Hello, you' probably isn't what the guy's saying.
"Um," he tries to think back to the times she had tried to teach him French, grasping at any phrase his mind can remember. "Parlez vous anglais?" The man shakes his head and he can see his chances slipping away, because the man seems to think he's going to make trouble. He gestures towards the elevator behind the man, desperation breaking through his cool exterior, "s'il vous plait?"
The man shakes his head, folding his arms over his chest, "l'hôtel est pour des invités seulement."
He has no idea what that means, but the look in the man's eyes is quite clear. "S'il vous plait," he tries again, knowing his accent is horrible, but he doesn't care. "Taylor Townsend?"
"Vous voulez voir Mlle Townsend?" the man quirks an eyebrow and his hopes rise painfully, heart clutching in his chest. "Sans son invitation, vous ne pouvez pas entrer." That doesn't sound good, he thinks, as the man looks behind him at the exit.
"Look," he slips back into English in his desperation. "I need to talk to her, please, you have to let me in."
"Je vais apporter la securite," the man says and the word 'securite' is close enough to English for him to get the gist.
"Please," he begins lamely, his heart still choking him, making his blood pulse forcefully in his head. "Just let…"
"Ryan?" Her voice cuts through his sentence, through his rising panic, and he turns to see her standing in front of the elevators. "What are you doing here?" She looks around in confusion, as if his reason for being in France would be standing next to him. He tries to tell her that he misses her, that he wants her to leave France, that he loves her, but his heart is still lodged in his throat and he can't get the words out.
"Cet homme est…" the man in front of him begins, but he doesn't care anymore. Pushing his way past the Frenchman, he strides over to her, grabbing her shoulders and crashing his lips to hers.
"So why are you here?" she murmurs, rolling onto her side and tracing a finger over the lines of his stomach. He knows nothing he says is going to sound any less pathetic than the truth, so he settles for that.
"I panicked," he whispers, watching her face. She looks up at him with those eyes and he can't help but start talking again – he forgot about that little effect she has on him. "I don't want you to stay in Paris," he continues on, voice weak because he's not used to putting himself out there like this. "I had to tell you…" He can't say the rest – that he still loves her, that he still needs her – but he knows she knows.
She always knows.
She sighs wearily, sitting up and getting out of the bed. He props himself up on his elbows, trying to keep down the rising horror. She pulls on a sweatshirt, yanking open the closet door.
"You couldn't have just called?" she asks finally, standing on the tips of her toes and searching around for something.
"Um." He could've, if the thought had occurred to him. It hadn't, though. Calling would have saved him the horrific flight out. It would have saved him from a face-to-face rejection.
"Of course you couldn't call," she keeps talking, pulling a suitcase down from the closet shelf. It lands on the end of the bed and he moves his feet away from it. He knows the hotel is a transitional stay for her – from her college dorm to her permanent flat. Permanent. "Calling would be easy," she continues, shaking her head and walking back to the closet.
He watches her gather her clothes and fold them, placing them neatly in the suitcase, according to type and color and he wonders why she has to do this now – in front of him. He doesn't want to watch her pack up, watch her move on.
"When do you move to your new place?" he asks sullenly, staring at the crumpled white sheets.
"I was supposed to move in Tuesday," she tells him, rolling a pair of socks into a tight ball and placing it in.
"Oh," he manages to get out, before his brain kicks in. "Wait, 'supposed to'? You're…"
"Coming home?" she finishes for him, looking up from her suitcase. She doesn't smile, she doesn't look angry. She just looks… accepting. "Yeah."
"Your job," he argues, somehow getting the words out of his throat. Blood starts to pound in his ears again, his hands grip the sheets.
"Why did you come here, Ryan?" she asks, blowing the bangs out of her face in frustration. "Don't you want me to come home?"
"Yeah, but…" he knows he's being an idiot. He knows he should just shut the hell up and thank whatever god that she's lowering herself to be with him. But he always did have those pesky morals…
"But nothing," she shrugs. "I don't care about the job."
"Then why'd you take it?" He really should just learn to shut the hell up.
"Because I didn't want to go back home if I wasn't with you," she meets his eyes, letting him know that he's an idiot.
"I love you." It's the first time he's said it in four years – it's the fifth time overall. He must be the biggest idiot in the entire world.
"Good," she nods. "Cause you're stuck with me now."
He moves to the end of the bed and grabs her wrist, pulling her back on the mattress with him.
"Thank God," he murmurs before pressing his lips to hers.
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