AN: Thank you all for the reviews! They mean so much, and they're the motivational fuel that helps me write! I'm sorry that this chapter took so long, but I hope what will happen in this chapter helps make up for the delay! :)
Inside and away from him, I'm able to think a little clearer. Only half an hour until midnight. The cop who drove me back to the bar that one day said things get better after May 23rd, and I've chosen to believe that as soon as the calendar day has passed, he'll just go to bed and wake up better. I don't think I'll be able to stay much longer and keep my hands to myself. And honestly that would be the worst thing to do - not only the betrayal of friendship, but if in his emotionally-vulnerable and drunken state, he consents and then regrets it, I doubt he would ever reach out to someone again.
"You start cleaning again?" I hear him call from the porch.
"No," I say with a laugh but am unable to supply a suitable excuse for my extended departure. So I just hope he won't ask and bring him a beer.
"None for you?" Damnit, I was hoping he wouldn't notice that.
"Yeah, I think I've had enough for now. I wouldn't want to get unruly and smash some stuff," I say jokingly. He takes a long draw before responding.
"I wouldn't think unruly is possible for you." Do I really come off as that serious?
"I've had my teenage moments, let's just say that." I try to be light-hearted because a sadness seems to have settled over him.
"It's almost time, isn't it?" he says abruptly.
"Time?" I stammer.
"Midnight." I nod, then realize he hasn't looked at me and is just staring at the stars.
"Yeah." He says nothing for a long time and then turns to go inside, beer and cigarette in hand. After a second of hesitation, I follow. "Are you heading to bed now?"
"No, I was going to watch TV and torture myself for a few more hours." True to his word, he flops on to the couch and turns on the television. "You should go though," he says, finally looking at me. I hesitate.
"Are you sure that's a good idea? I really don't mind staying-"
"I want to be alone," he says, whip like. I feel like he socked me in the gut. Shit, I was trying to help, and I intruded. God, that's so typical of me. I'm so bad at reading people.
"Oh, I totally understand. I'm so sorry to have overstayed. I'll go." He says nothing, and I grab my coat and tug on my shoes.
"Tricia," he calls, somehow getting right behind me without me hearing. I jump slightly, turning. "You're right - I probably shouldn't be alone right now. I'm sorry that I," he trails off. "I just feel so guilty sometimes," he says suddenly, turning away slightly. He wipes a quick hand over his eyes. I take half a step closer and place my hand on his arm.
"Jim," I start, unsure how to vocalize my thoughts. "I guarantee you've done nothing to feel guilty for - you're a good man - you help the residents of this town, you clearly loved your daughter very much and did everything you could to help her-"
"If I had paid more attention, spent more time with her, maybe we would have caught it earlier, and she would have been able to fight it off," he interrupts. Oh.
"You can't know that," I interject. "And there's no benefit from torturing yourself with hypotheticals." He eyes me skeptically. Okay, I'll try a different approach. "Will you tell me why you feel guilty?" He sighs and wanders over to the couch. I sit next to him, about a foot away.
"It's another year where I'm alive. And she's not. She should be here. She has so much more right to be alive than I do, and yet she's...gone, and I'm here."My heart aches for him.
"Oh, Jim. No one deserves to feel guilty for existing." No wonder he drinks so much and is always carrying around a pill bottle. "Sarah - I think - would want you to take care of yourself, not hurt yourself. I bet she loved you very much." He doesn't say anything, so I go back to talking about how I dealt with my grief since that seemed to help him before. "After my grandma passed away, I didn't enjoy anything - food, friends, TV, nothing - everything felt gray. And I felt guilty for what felt like squandering life that I know she would have fought tooth and nail to have, and so I just felt worse about myself, which made me hate everything more. But then I realized that as much as she loved me, and because she loved me, she would be gentle with me. She wouldn't have scolded me or been angry with me for not enjoying life - she would have been sad that I was hurting, but she would have been compassionate with me."
"But I don't feel guilty for squandering life, I feel like I'm not squandering it enough."
"You don't need to torture yourself out of guilt," I finally say plainly. "Sarah loved you - she wouldn't want you to hurt yourself on her account; she wouldn't want you to hurt." His dark blue eyes meet mine, and to my surprise, his hands find their way across my legs and to the back of my neck.
"Jim," I gasp out of surprise and from the electricity in his touch that sends sparks across my skin. "What are you doing?"
"Sometimes I indulge in physical comforts. When the pain gets to be too much, and I crave...warmth." God, do I want to be his indulgence. "And you said I shouldn't torture myself. So..."
"I'm touched you shared that with me." I'm stalling for time, my brain is short circuiting. I can't look into his eyes, afraid of what I might see there (hurt, lust, dead-eyed pain?), and I don't know what to do. My body is screaming for me to throw myself at him, but my brain and heart are begging me to play it safe. If I slept with him tonight and never heard from him again (as appears to be his pattern), I don't think my heart would ever recover. He moves his head a fraction of an inch closer, and I throw my hands up so they softly brush against his chest - he stops.
"I think you should get some sleep." I risk a glance into his eyes. Whatever there may have been before, right now it's just hurt. I start rambling. "I'm sorry, but I don't think that would help you right now. It might help get you through the night, but I think it will make tomorrow harder. I'm sorry," I add again.
"I'm a grown man, I can make my own decisions," his deep voice rumbles. I feel the thumb that's on my thigh rub a circle on me. "And it's not like you don't want me." My breath catches, and I blush furiously. I was still holding out hope that he didn't know that. "I don't see what the problem is."
"The problem is that I think if we sleep together, you won't talk to me anymore." He's still drunk enough that I'm assuming he won't remember tonight, and that's makes me bolder than I otherwise would be. "And I think right now you need a friend more than you need another pussy.' His eyebrows shoot up.
"I didn't know you talked like that." There seems to be even more of a hunger in his voice than there was before.
"I'm not as innocent as I come off," I whisper. I check his expression again - goodbye hurt, hello lust. I start talking before I can think my words through. "Look, if tomorrow you feel the same way, I'll be here in a heartbeat, but right now I don't think you have a clear enough head to make a decision you won't regret." Slowly, he starts nodding and takes his hands away. I can think a little clearer as he moves away.
"Alright. I would still like you to stay though, if you would. As a friend," he adds.
"Absolutely," I say with a smile. At least, no matter what else happens, we're friends. I have no idea if his attraction to me is genuine or a byproduct of alcohol and emotional vulnerability. But I guess I'll find out tomorrow if he calls me...but that assumes he remembers my offer. He stands.
"I'll get ready for bed so you can finally leave. But...would you mind...laying next to me? Just as a friend?" he adds.
"I wouldn't mind at all." While he brushes his teeth, I take it upon myself to straighten up in the living room as well, adding the empty cans to the collection and throwing out take-out containers. The place looks better already.
A few minutes later, when he appears in a ragged t-shirt and sweats, my heart starts pounding. The intimacy - although not really sexual - of what is happening is making me sweat. Wordlessly, I follow him as he heads to his bedroom.
"I prefer the left side, if that's alright," he says while climbing in. I swallow hard and nod. This is probably the only chance I'll get to hold him, and I'm going to savor it. And do my absolute best not to blow it.
I climb in next to him, but I stay above the covers. I don't want to fall asleep here and inadvertently kill my mother. Still, I slowly move closer to him, waiting for him to change his mind and order me to leave, but he doesn't, and I gradually relax. I lay on my side, tucked against him while he lays on his back. I lay one arm on his chest while the other I tuck underneath my head. I'm in bed with Hopper, repeats through my head with disbelief. But other than that one hand on him, I keep to myself. I will not try to grab his dick, I remind myself. Or lean over and kiss him. He asked me to stay as a friend, and I will respect that. But god, I get hit with these horrible urges that make my core ache with the need to feel him inside me. And he did say he wanted...no, that's a bad idea. Breathe, I remind myself.
After almost fifteen minutes of silence, I hear Hopper whisper a, "thank you," into the dark. I move the hand that's on him in a gentle, small circle.
"Thank you," I reply even more softly. Fifteen minutes after that, his breathing is steady enough that he must be asleep. As quietly as I am able, I slip out of bed. I swallow hard. No matter what may happen, at least I was able to help him through today. And I think he appreciated that. He's not hung up about me like I am about him, but at least I was able to spend time with him. And I made it into his bed, I think with a smile. As I leave, I know a large part of my heart stays behind.