Disclaimer: Higher Ground is not mine, etc.
Author's Note: This is a futuristic fic, and AU, implying that Scott did not return for Shelby at the MORP. THIS IS IMPORTANT. It might be a one-shot, or I might continue it if I have the time. Once again, it is random and weird and maybe a bit pointless. Oh well ;)
Sixteen
"You never came back."
The words are breathy and tumble out like an accusation, and Scott isn't quite sure what she means but he is positive that she is drunk. "What are you doing here?"
She shakes her head and sways on the barstool. He fears for a moment that she'll fall off, but he wants to catch her either way. "No, I was here first. What are you doing here?"
Her words are childish and indignant, but he can't say he doesn't like it. They can pretend for a moment that they are both sixteen again, and maybe that it was ten days rather than ten years that have passed since the last time he saw her. Because he can't imagine being with her any other way, and he doesn't want imagine all of the things they could have had; it hurts too much. Plus, she's drunk.
"I'm on my way to Seattle. Got thirsty, saw the sign, came in for a drink." He wraps his hands around his glass, just for good measure. The condensation seeps into the cracks between his fingers and he reaches down to wipe them off on his pants, but stops when he remembers that it's not his suit. "Now, what are you doing here?"
Shelby Merrick lolls her head onto her shoulder, shrugging. "You shouldn't drink and drive, you know. Remember what Peter always used to say. Something like that." Her hair shifts as she cocks her head from one side to the other, imploring. Her glassy eyes flick lazily from his face to the space directly to the left of his head, as if she can't decide which is more interesting. Her mouth is twisted in a grin, half sarcastic and half mindless, but she doesn't answer his question.
"It's just Ginger Ale," he asserts, not understanding why he feels like he has to prove anything to her. He has to prove that he's not a drunk like her and that he's fine, normal—that he fared perfectly well outside of Horizon. That he'd been able to make something out of his life, despite everything: despite Elaine, the drugs, Horizon . . . and despite losing her. But right now he's stuck pretending he was sixteen again, and as if that never happened.
"I need another drink."—her voice is hoarse.
She makes an exaggerated motion to summon the barkeep, before Scott can stop her. Too late, he lays a hand on her arm and when their skin meets, he feels a flush heat his face and make the nape of his neck moisten with sweat. The smoke in the bar thickens and he finds it harder to breathe, and his haze only seems to clear when the barkeep asks her what she wants.
Scott answers for her. "She'll just have a Coke, on me. Thanks."
She doesn't protest, but shakes off his arm and pouts. "What was that for?" she asks when the barkeep is gone.
"You've had enough alcohol for today."
"I'm a grown adult, y'know. I am allowed to have a drink whenever I want."
He opens his mouth to answer, but is suddenly disappointed. She is an adult, he remembers, and they're not sixteen anymore. It has been ten years and not ten days since he last saw her. When he refocuses himself, he says, "Did you drive here by yourself?"
"Yes—but it's only a few blocks to my—"
"Don't drink and drive, isn't that what Peter always used to say?"
She glares at him—daggers dulled by alcohol. He smiles at his own incredible wit. The barkeep returns, setting a can of Coke and a glass of ice onto the countertop. She drags the can toward her, neglecting the ice, popping the tab and lifting the can to her lips. She has perfect enamel-coated fingernails. With her tongue against the slick aluminum, she says, "Peter can bite my ass."
He laughs, even if he thinks the statement was cruel. Even though he left ten years ago, Peter's words still live through every aspect of his life. "Whatever happened to Peter, anyway? Him and Sophie got married. I heard they adopted, like, a whole orphanage, just about."
She arches her neck as she drinks, tilting her chin toward the ceiling. He watches her throat muscles move as she swallows, and feels uncomfortable and as if he's gawking.
"I wouldn't know," she says when she puts her drink down. "I haven't talked to them in eight years."
Eight years, he silently echoes. And they all seemed so close. He wonders, wistful and tragic, what happened to you, Shel?
He doesn't realize he'd said it out loud until she answers.
"You never came back."