terms and conditions
Wherein positions are clarified and stars get uncrossed.
DARTMOOR NATIONAL PARK, 2055
It doesn't matter where he's gone; whether he's holed himself up in his room, or had to tactfully extract himself from some high-stakes social encounter, or just picked up and left—somehow in this situation, John always finds himself back in his big brother's company, being lectured.
Your problem is that you never make friends with anybody, first. That's what you're doing wrong.
It's long been John's thoroughly and carefully considered opinion that he's not, actually, doing anything wrong. It's an opinion he's tried time and time again to harden and cure into an incontrovertible fact. Somehow it never quite seems to work.
I mean, so you're a bit of an introvert. Okay, so that's a bit of an understatement. My point is, you wouldn't get put in this position all the time if you were a little more receptive to getting to know people.
It's funny, how this conversation with Scott always plays back over in his head, in moments like these. Lately he's gotten very good at not having moments like these, but the memory's still sharp as ever. It's like some sort of anti-catalytic agent that's gotten mixed into his own deeply held views, and prevented them from solidifying into a bedrock of personal truth.
So someone stops you in the hallway, asks you out for coffee. So there's another note in your locker, and you pretend like you never got it. So you get propositioned out of nowhere and it always blindsides you—but I mean...you're obviously available. You're passably attractive, even with the redhead thing. We're rich as fuck. So it's gonna happen. That's just how it goes. You'd do yourself a favour if you at least learned how to be gracious about it. People always come away with the impression that you're kind of a bastard, and then it comes back around to bite you in the ass.
Scott probably hadn't meant for the overall takeaway of his generous big brotherly advice to total up to "be a bastard", but even if it had, being a bastard—or being quiet and standoffish and socially unavailable—hasn't ever actually seemed to help. It hasn't ever staved off the interests of anyone who'd bull past his barriers, operating under the assumption that he's just misunderstood, and then proceeding to misunderstand him. And beyond that spectacular failure of tactics, John's never understood is why just being explicit doesn't seem to work. He always ends up being told he doesn't know what he's talking about.
Like, people just don't think there's any other avenue. So, okay, you say you're not interested in relationships—probably what you mean is you don't like being approached by strangers. That's fine. Nobody does. But you're just...you're really bad at giving anybody a chance at the intermediate steps.
According to Scott—and John's peripherally aware of just enough about Scott's modus operandi to be reasonably sure that his brother would know what he's talking about—your basic relationship proceeds along a linear social path.
Strangers.
Acquaintances.
Friends.
(At this stage Scott allows for the possibility of a plateau of friendship that comes with the essentially quoted "benefits". Or, possibly, just better friends.)
But, ideally, from the basic premise of friendship, the next stop is the horrifically ambiguous: more than friends.
And then, inevitably: lovers.
That's just the way people work John.
This is not—hasn't ever been—the way John works.
Of course, the way John works has him alone, in the dark, on the chilly and windward side of a hill in Dartmoor, huddled up and sullen and hoping against hope that Penelope doesn't come after him. So maybe there's some room for optimization there.
Or maybe it's just another night to contend with the possibility of dysfunction, brokenness; of something being fundamentally flawed in the way he'd like to be able move through life.
Johnny, I'm not saying you're wrong to be bothered by people coming on so strong, but you gotta admit, you bring it on yourself.
He still doesn't want to think that's true, but Scott had always seemed so sure of the fact. And, mentally rearranging the context of the evening so far, it's starting to seem stupidly, blindingly obvious that he's gone and set himself up for another fall.
Only, John never seems to be the one who does the falling in these situations. So he's not sure why ending up in this place always feels like rock bottom.
There's a rustling in the grass behind him, and then the sweep of a beam of bright LED light. He freezes, resists the urge to curse.
"John?"
The November grass is coarse, scrubby. He's only noticed now because his hands have clenched two fistfuls of it, his knuckles brushing against the dirt at the roots, frost up from the ground chilling his fingers. He doesn't say anything, keeps perfectly still. Hopes that he radiates the desire for her to go away.
But it does no good, because he can hear her, slightly out of breath, as she comes clambering carefully down the hill, and drops to sit in the grass next to him. John refuses to look at her and Penelope allows a few moments of silence to pass. Then she clears her throat and sighs. "I'm sorry," she says softly. "John? I'm sorry, I didn't think I would upset you."
He doesn't have anything to say that won't sound childish or petulant, nothing that doesn't always make him feel stupid in these situations, or at fault, somehow. Like Scott says, he's probably brought it on himself. Led her on in some way he had neither perceived nor intended and led her to believe that the sort of confession she's just made is one he would welcome.
There's the soft sound of her hand brushing across the grass, and then she finds his hand, closes her fingers around his before he can pull away. She squeezes gently, though her touch makes his skin crawl and he jerks his hand out of her grip. She doesn't try again. And then, "John, please talk to me."
"Why?" John's aware that he sounds sullen, but it's better than sounding hurt. On the balance of it, he'd far rather be angry than hurt, and that shouldn't be too hard. He reaches for anger, finds justifiable irritation, belligerence, betrayal. "Why, why should I? Clearly you don't listen." Not, of course, that anyone's ever listened, but he'd at least been hopeful about Penelope. For so long she'd seemed as though she'd just understood, without him ever having to say anything.
"I've always tried rather hard to listen to you, actually," Penelope says quietly, and she's drawn her knees up, wrapped her arms around them. "I did hope you might care enough to return the favour."
This seems horrifically unjust, considering that the breadth and depth of their friendship has mostly consisted of Penelope, prattling on about this or that, and expecting to be listened to. It had even been something she'd helpfully listed at the outset of everything, when she'd told him what she expected out of their friendship.
But then, that's the crux of the problem. Because there'd also been an agreement struck at the outset of their relationship. His only condition, and one that had been laid out in clear, simple terms. That this was never supposed to go anywhere. Penelope's only supposed to pretend to be stupid, and the part of him that knows she isn't, actually, is offended at the deception and doubly offended at the betrayal. Hurt, too, though he's hardly going to give her that satisfaction.
Of course, the way to hurt Penelope right back is by ignoring her, refusing to engage. He's learned that, in their nine months, that it's attention she feeds on. That had been her first big victory, getting his attention, and then parlaying that into this farce of a friendship. John's well aware of his own capacity for bias, and in the back of his brain he's already running through the whole of their history and editing his feelings in retroactively. Assigning suspicion and revulsion and betrayal to every time she'd stood too close or casually touched him, every instance of thoughtless affection. The constant demands on his time and his company, the insistence on parting hugs and kisses. All the pet names, every instance of "pet" and "dearest" and "darling" and "love". All the times he'd paid her too much attention, and had extended her too much credit in the arena of sticking to his terms.
Minutes tick by, and he lets them. Relishes them, even, takes a certain vindictive pleasure in her continued silence. Depriving Penelope of words is like depriving her of oxygen, gives her nothing to spark off of, nothing to work with.
Except—
Well, she's not saying anything either. And immediately he's annoyed by that, too, because the silent treatment isn't really as effective if she's depriving him of anything to deliberately not respond to. So he sneaks a glance sideways, eyes long adjusted to the dark, to see if that provokes a reaction.
He's not ready to see the starlight glistening on her cheeks, not expecting the soft sniffle and the way she wipes her nose on the back of her hand. He's especially not ready for the way she turns and meets his gaze, stares right back, defiant and unashamed about the fact that this is the first time John's ever seen her cry.
Hardly the first time he's made anyone cry, in situation like this. But there's an unexpectedly sharp pang of regret, the sort of empathy reserved for the people he hurts without meaning to—the sort he's mostly managed to cut off at the source. This is just a spark he needs to step on, to stamp out immediately, before it can catch into something that takes him up in a blaze of self-recrimination and doubt.
Against his better judgement, despite the fact that John's almost certain this is a trap, something about the fact that she's got tears streaking her cheeks makes him pause. And then, damningly, without even meaning to— "...Penny?"
She sniffles again and waves a hand, gives a watery little chuckle and shakes her head. "Oh, are you interested now? In how I might feel? I suppose it was fairly stupid of me to think you were listening. You've always been a self-absorbed bastard, John Tracy, and I suppose it's my own fault for liking you anyway."
That's better. Brings a hot flush of embarrassment, anger, rushing back. "Look, I never...I thought you understood. You were supposed to understand, you said you understood. Just friends. It's not my fault that you—"
Penelope flares suddenly and fires right back, cuts him off, "Would you stop? Please, would you stop and...and...if we were ever friends at all, if I wasn't wrong about that, would you listen? Please, please would you just let me talk and promise you'll listen?"
He shouldn't do that. John knows he shouldn't do that, because this is a trick and a trap and she's preying on him, playing to a softer side that no one's supposed to know he has, when he works so hard at being such a standoffish, unapproachable bastard. What he should do is get up and leave. Just go, just leave, it's hardly the worst situation he's walked out of. So he's in the middle of a national park and it's November and he has a terrible sense of direction, it's not that cold. And it can't be that long til dawn.
Fuck.
So instead he huffs irritably, breath puffing in the November air, and says, "...Fine."
"Thank you," she answers, and then there's another long pause. When she finally does seem to decide what to say, her voice remains small, almost tentative, as she starts, "I was only trying to be genuine, saying...what I said. But I don't think you were listening to me, because I don't think I said what you must've heard." She pauses and then, "But, you know, I can honestly say that, too. I've been in love with you, John."
She can't possibly understand the way that makes his entire body—his entire self—cringe, flinching away. Penelope continues regardless, either indifferent or oblivious. She's pulled her legs up closer against her chest, huddled up and hunched over, staring out into the darkness. Something about her tone makes her sound almost as though she's talking to herself and he's just being permitted to listen in. Something about that makes him listen a little closer.
"—but I fall in love at least half a dozen times a day, you realize. I was in love with you the first time I saw you, because you were handsome and quiet and sat all alone, and I liked your glasses and I thought you looked sad. And then ten minutes later there was a new assistant professor in my maths class, and I was in love with him, instead. Then...oh, probably anyone who smiled at me on the way back to my flat. Or the barista who put a heart on the top of my latte. And then probably you again, at least a few more times, before I got to know you."
Penelope's told him a great deal about herself, in the course of their relationship. But this is the first time John thinks he's heard anything that's diminished his respect for her—that she'd be so frivolous, so cavalier about such an invasion. That she'd act like it doesn't matter, that she can't help it—
"...how?" He manages not to sound completely repulsed, but it's a near thing. And he knows her well enough to know she can tell.
Penelope shrugs. "I don't know. It's just...moments, really. Fleeting little bright spots of light, when one sees a person and just—some glimpse of what they might be like, if you were able to be close to them. Spinning some little gesture or quirk or quality into a daydream about having a whole life together. It doesn't do any harm. I rarely do anything about it. I just like to have those little moments, just for myself."
Before he can tell her that he doesn't understand, she presses on, and steals the words before he can say them himself, "But I know you don't understand that, and I'm not asking you to. It's just—I suppose I want you to understand that I know the difference. Between loving someone and being in love with them. And I'm not in love with you now, John. I promise. I do understand that you don't want that. You told me you didn't and I've always understood."
The worst part is that it's tempting to believe her. She sounds so sincere, and she's teasing something he's always wanted, but long given up on hoping for. John's still hurting, still wary, and a part of him still believes that the promise of understanding is just the bait in the trap. So he's still cautious, still a little bit hostile as he says, "I don't know why I should believe you."
"No, I suppose you've no reason to." Penelope sighs and the sound gets lost in the rising wind, the chill that makes her shiver and makes him regret that they both have to be here, having this stupid conversation, in the middle of the night, in the middle of November. "I was trying to be careful, you know. I just wanted to talk about it. I didn't realize you'd be so upset. I certainly didn't think you'd just leave."
It's dark enough that she probably can't see his face flush slightly, embarrassed. It had, after all, been a fairly pathetic escape plan. "...yeah. Well." But he doesn't really have anything to follow that, it had been a childish action, and fairly indefensible. "I don't know. Just...being a bastard."
Penelope unlocks her arms from where she'd locked them around her knees, and shifts ever so slightly closer. "I didn't think you were being a bastard. I just didn't understand, right at first, what it might have sounded like. I thought I'd been clear. Obviously I wasn't."
John shrugs in his turn, more embarrassed by the minute. "Look, I...it's just...it felt like a trap. This just...this happens to me and I always feel so fucking stupid whenever it does. Because I should know better. Because people've been doing this to me since I was twelve and no one gets it and I...Christ. God, I just...I thought you were different."
"...mightn't I be?" Another hesitant pause and then she scoots a little closer, and nudges his arm with her elbow. "Mightn't we be? Because I meant it, John, I've never had a friend like you. And I don't think you've ever had a friend like me, either. I don't know how or why it's happened, but you mean the world to me. I care about you, and it seemed...it just seemed like the time to say so. And I did mean it. But I know better than to jeopardize our friendship by being in love with you, John." This time he glances down to catch her slight, wry smile, as she says, "Whatever you might think, I know you too well, and I love you too much for that."
There's another pearl of wisdom from Scott, waiting in the wings.
What's so wrong with someone loving you, anyway? Most people hope their whole lives for someone to love, and someone who loves them back. You never even try. Don't be such a bastard, John.
Maybe he's accidentally stumbled across a loophole, in The Way People Work, according to Scott Tracy. Maybe that plateau with the wink-and-a-nudge "benefits" has another dimension to it, maybe there's room for interpretation of the word "benefits". Maybe friends are better than brothers, for this sort of thing, and maybe he'd benefit from finding out. He's never been able to talk about this with Scott. But he's starting to wonder if maybe he can talk about it with Penelope.
John hasn't got the first idea of how to talk about this with Penelope. But she's also far better at this than he's ever been.
So.
This time, he's the one who reaches down, careful and still uncertain, to take her hand. Her fingers are cold, and he hopes his are warmer. John shifts to his knees and then stands up, gives her hand a slight tug to help her to her feet. "We should talk," he concludes, still a little spooked, but resolved to try. He looks a little sheepishly around the windward side of the hill. "Maybe not here."
"The tea's still hot and the stars are still falling," Penelope offers, and her hand squeezes his fingers again, an eager little gesture of hope. "And I do adore talking to you, John. I want so badly for us to stay friends." She pauses, and adds hastily, "Just friends."
Well.
John's still new at this, but he had been listening. He's always actually kind of liked listening to Penelope, if sometimes only to catch her out when she's wrong about something. It represents a new sort of moment between them, that he pulls his hand away from hers, and carefully puts an arm around her shoulders, instead. "Mm. Maybe more than 'just friends'. Maybe you were right about that."