Synopsis: Ashley has been waiting for this day in what feels like forever. Her wedding. With Chris. All she has to do is walk through those doors, letting her feet lead her down the aisle. And she'll be there. In front of him. But is it that easy? A story in which Ashley deals with the aftermath of all that she's done and the events of the mountain - all with the help of Chris. A companion story to 'After'.
Genre: Romance, Angst, Friendship
Ending: All but Emily survive + Josh
Rating: T/M - warnings: mental illness
A/N: Frog The Kermit: It was a paraphrase ;)
Heidipoo: As usual, you'll just have to wait and see ;) Thanks for being such an enthusiastic reader (and waiter)
Mogitz: Don't worry! I shall quench all the Joshley shippers with the waters (or jam?) of JAM!
Chapter 10
It does not dishonour others
The sun feels like freedom. Like fresh air, sizzling on my skin, glowing and warm. I breathe it in, closing my eyes and soaking in the gentle rustle of the breeze and the chirping voices and even the roar of car engines hurtling past. It's like I haven't experienced this in days. Like they've kept me locked up for too long. Away from the sun for too long.
I grip onto Chris' hand, my heart beat dancing to the rhythm of his pulse.
"Ashley!"
My eyes snap open, met with the gleaming smile of Sam who's hurrying up the car park, her car bleeping closed as she locks it behind her.
Instantly, my eyes flicker to Chris. He's wearing one of his classic, sheepish smiles. "I figured I'd call the others," he offered with a shrug. Despite his grin, a flutter of doubt passes over his eyes. Like he's not sure he should have done it.
I cock my head. My eyes tease him, my lips smiling. You don't need to worry. Any friendly face is better than those within the hospital.
Especially that doctor. I've never really been a fan of doctors. Not since Dr. Hill.
The plastic cylinder had rattled against the doctor's desk as he'd pushed it towards me.
"Two doses a day," he'd informed with meaningful, raised eyebrows, his gaze flicking between both me and Chris, a way to make sure we both understood.
I had felt the order stiffen the air, sharp and stabbing, a throbbing pain in my chest. But I'd nodded. And swallowed.
"And a weekly check up," he had added, as I carefully reached forward and plucked the cylinder up from the desk, thumbing the label. Antipsychotics was printed across it in bold, black letters. It felt threatening. Something I couldn't hide from.
Something I still can't hide from.
My free hand slips into my pocket, wrapping around the plastic cylinder. Feeling it's weight.
I refuse to let it pull me down.
Chris had been tense. His jaw was set, his muscles tight. I'd caught a glimpse of his eyes sharpening behind his glasses – like the sharp points of pencils. Poked, prodded. Pierced.
He wasn't looking at me at all. I'd needed him to look at me.
I couldn't be in that room, not with that doctor. Not alone. Not feel so alone.
On instinct, my hand had slipped from my lap, searching for its home in Chris'. My fingertips grazed his cold palm. Chris flinched, blinking out of his trance. He had glanced to me, surprised. And I'd held his gaze; careful.
Then, there it was. That smile of his, curved and comfortable. And he'd clasped his fingers around mine, fitting into place. I can still feel that lingering of relief that had soaked my body. Breath out, remember the familiar touch. Like it's a part of me. A part of my design. Made to touch him.
That breath, that sense of relief, is almost knocked out of me as Sam's body tumbles into me in a hug. I stumble back, eyes widening, hand disconnecting from Chris'.
"It's so good to see you," she murmurs, squeezing me.
I find myself stiffening, glancing over her shoulder at Chris with surprised eyes. He only chuckles and with that single smile, and the warmth and familiarity of Sam's hold, I find myself hugging her back.
"Thanks," I smile as she pulls away, her eyes glinting. But they're unfocused. Flicking to behind me.
Chris moves, reaching to pat her on the shoulder. "He's in there," he confirms and the realisation flicks in my mind. Josh. She's wondering about Josh.
I'm wondering about him too.
It all sound of mingled into a blur. Like my mind. First, Josh coming into the hospital room. Then, me getting angry at him. Him teasing me, prodding me, trying to get a reaction. Me biting back.
And then all our head butting had equalled each other out. For a moment, there was a cease fire. An unspoken agreement to let ourselves breathe.
And then, as if we'd just stumbled upon it, we discovered the one thing we had in common. Chris.
"He's got an appointment," Chris explains clearly to Sam.
For a moment, I spot a glance of disappointment cross her features. She was hoping to see him. It's like she's been hoping that same thing since he was released from prison. Then she rests that usual, comfortable smile on her face. And then she shrugs nonchalantly – I have a feeling, inside, it was far from that – and says, "I'll catch him later then."
"Hey!" A friendly, recognisable voice calls from the car park, accompanied by the shutting of two car doors. "Ash!"
I flick my eyes to the car park, Chris' and Sam's following, squinting my eyes at the sharp, bright sunlight piercing over the tops of buildings. I catch the sight of a dark skinned man sauntering towards us, one arm waving in the air while the other hooks around the waist of a petite blonde.
Matt.
The smile on my face is contagious.
"Hey, guys," Jessica hums as they reach us, her smile polite – still treading water.
A bud of relief blooms in my chest. Seeing Matt – his smiling face, his forgiving face – releases tension inside my ribs; untying a knot. He's forgiven you, Ashley. Have I told myself that before? My mind squints, too foggy, too mangled.
"Glad to see you're feeling better," Matt offers, his eyes kind, stark in comparison with the E tattoo still twisting on his neck.
Emily.
The name punches me; a dagger sliced right through my skin, burying in right to the handle. Emily. The one I killed. The one I let die. I choke, feeling blood rush to my head, to my throat. Blood dribbles out of my mouth like saliva, dying my skin red. Shiny, blood red.
Chris' arm captures around my waist, the sudden contact ushering the blood away. Snapping them away, like the blink of an eyelid. Gone. He squeezes me reassuringly; protectively.
I look up at him, my skin clammy, my breath rapid. Did anyone else see that? The blood? Can anyone else see the guilt?
"Do you guys wanna grab a coffee?" Matt suggests, jabbing his thumb behind him in a general direction.
Feeling the rhythm of Chris' heart beat in his chest, I slow my breathing. Focus on it. One. Two. Three.
"Jess has got an afternoon off before she's going back to class," Matt explains, passing a glance to Jess at his side. I can feel Sam's teasing glance flicker between them and us. Knowing.
Without even any labels, it's clear they're connected.
Like Chris and I.
Jess smiles back up at Matt, a picture captured in sunlight, a moment of bliss. Something she allows herself.
At least she's been giving herself permission to pursue a new passion of hers. Law.
There had been something that had sparked and sizzled in her eyes at the Dr. Hill trial; like she could imagine herself in the same position as one of those lawyers – the prosecution to convict those who deserved the punishment of justice, or the defence, to defend those who needed it most. It was promising, hopeful, to see Jessica's motivation and ambition flickering – just for a little while.
I was so pleased when I heard the news that she'd got into law school.
"Our favourite cafe is just around the corner?" Matt shrugs, offering.
Before anyone else can accept, Chris rolls one shoulder apologetically. "Nah," he breathes, a quirk in his smile. "I gotta get Ashley home."
Home.
My eyes travel up the apartment building, the familiarity setting into my skin.
I've missed it.
Like Dorothy missed Kansas.
Like Elizabeth Bennett longed for Longbourne.
Like I haven't set foot in it in years.
"It's good to be back, huh?" Chris smiles and I can see he's trying. He's trying to relax, he's trying to be cheerful. But I can still see the worry underlying his skin, the grip of his hand, the flick of his eyes. He can't hide it from me. I don't want him to hide it from me.
"Chris," I plead, capturing his other hand and facing him fully. The breeze is cold here, not helped by the rushing traffic behind us. But I cling onto his warmth, letting myself soak in it. Forgetting everything else. "I'm fine. You don't have to worry."
With a smile – not one of forced happiness this time, but of concern – he sighs, "I can't help it."
I look into his eyes. Just look, feeling him look back. It's been so long since I've really searched them. They slosh and splash like waters, rippling with emotion. I squeeze his hands. He squeezes mine back, the cold bones of mine lost in his warmth.
And then, as if it's the most natural thing in the world, I push myself onto my tiptoes and press a kiss – gentle and intimate, the slightest hint of orange – onto his lips. Like the kiss I would have given him on our wedding. After we'd both uttered 'I do'.
And I can't help but feel that maybe this kiss was always going to be better.
