Title: Found
Chapter 9
Author's Notes: I'm working on the next chapter of this fic, and I need some details about the episode, "Crime Wave" (the one where Eric and H are in the shootout at the bank, and later, H drives the Hummer into a building that's about to blow up). If anyone out there can answer some questions about nit-picky details in that episode, e-mail me! Thanks!
Moonlight seeps into Eric's bedroom, bathing Eric's face in a gentle glow. It's almost…romantic.
What's even more romantic is that we're lying here pressed together, and we have been for a couple of hours. My arm is lightly draped over Eric's ribcage, and my head is half-resting on his pillow.
With the index finger of my left hand, I slowly trace the skin along the waistband of Eric's jeans. His skin feels like I thought it would—kind of velvety. As my finger travels along his abdomen, Eric stirs a little, and then snuggles back against me. I wonder what it feels like when I touch someone…what it feels like for them.
Licking my bottom lip, I dip my finger just inside the waistband of Eric's jeans, tracing the same pattern as before. After a while, my finger comes to a stop.
Whoa, Speed, I think to myself. Don't get too frisky here.
What am I even doing? Letting out a breath, I sit slowly up, trying not to shake the bed. Lying in this bed with Eric not knowing I'm here is a harsh torture. I can't do this to myself anymore.
With a quick look back at the sleeping form, I plod through the bedroom door and into Eric's living room.
I might as well spend some time doing a little investigative work while Eric's sacked out.
I've been to Eric's apartment before, sure. But before, I was never able rifle through his things without being noticed. I'm hoping to figure out what's been going on inside Eric's head the past few months. He lets his guard down at work so infrequently that it's nearly impossible to tell what he's thinking.
By the bathroom door, I notice a basket filled with neatly-folded laundry. Well, he's one up on me. My stuff was clean, but I usually just pitched it into the basket. I figured, why fold it? I'm going to wear it.
Grinning like an idiot, I lean down and snatch a pair of Eric's boxer shorts out of the basket. Pretty standard paisley-print, cotton. Still, they're Eric's. I'm touching Eric's underwear.
Folding the boxer shorts into a relatively neat blob, I place them back into the basket. I really need to grow up. They're just underwear. I'm wearing a pair myself. At least, I assume I am. Lifting my shirt, I hook my left index finger into a belt loop and tug at my jeans. Yep. Boxer shorts. Huh. My nice black silk ones. Not the kind of thing I normally wear to work.
Of course, I'm pretty sure I was wearing a blue shirt when I was shot, but I've been wearing my dark brown one and my favorite pair of jeans since I can remember. I can't imagine my mother would allow me to be buried in this outfit. Maybe you automatically get put into your favorite clothes when you become a ghost…That's kind of nice.
Shrugging, I meander into Eric's spare room. It's full of boxes, stacked on top of one another. Apparently, Eric's using it as a storage area. Well, it's his condo. Me, I'd turn it into a library.
Dropping onto my knees, I start to poke around in the containers.
"Hang on," I mutter, pulling a handful of CDs out of the box. "Since when does he like Skynyrd? Huh. Add that to the list of things I didn't know."
Depositing the CDs back into their box, I lean forward to peek into another container. More CDs, a few DVDs. And then I notice something oddly familiar peeking out of another box—my motorcycle helmet. I walk over to the box on my knees and peer inside. My shirts. My high school yearbook. My motorcycle clock.
This is my stuff.
Some of it, anyway. Must be stuff my mom and dad didn't want. I don't know if I should be offended they gave it away, or pleased that Eric wound up with it. Does this mean he asked for it? Or did H tell him to pick up my stuff and box it up for charity?
I wander around the room, peeking into each box. In the middle of the room, I find several boxes of books stacked into a teetering tower. My books! Like a little kid at Christmas, I start digging through the containers, pulling out old Biology texts and novels. Digging deeper, I start pulling out of random books. An Anthropology text. A volume of Keats. A history of Criminology. Hmm… I feel my cheeks begin to flush. A book I bought a couple years ago about diving.
Just then, I hear movement out in the living room. Apparently, Eric heard me gleefully tearing through the boxes. As the doorknob turns, I glance down at the book I have in my hand. Uh oh. As the door clicks opens, I drop the book onto the floor with a thud.
Eric pushes open the door and hastily flips on the light. He stalks into the room and peeks behind a stack of boxes.
"Oh, come on, Eric," I say. "No one would be able to hide back there."
"Get a grip, Eric," he mutters to himself.
Shaking his head, Eric turns to leave the room, but something stops him short. Walking over to the diving book I dropped, Eric kneels down and scoops it up, a baffled look on his face. After a few seconds, he sighs and pitches it into a box.
The next morning, I putter around the condo while Eric gets ready for work. Part of me wanted to sneak into the bathroom while he was showering, but I decided to be a respectable ghost.
In a few minutes, Eric waltzes into the living room, his cell phone in one hand. Snatching a blueberry muffin from a box on the counter, he says into the phone, "Marisol? Hey. No, I'm headed that way now."
Marisol is one of Eric's sisters. I've never actually met her, but she seems to call and bug Eric a lot, so I feel like I know her.
"Listen," Eric says. "Did you come over yesterday? Oh. Well thanks. But you didn't have to wash my underwear."
I bite down hard on my bottom lip.
Running his fingers through his hair, Eric says, "I mean, I could've done that." Eric is silent for a several seconds, and then he says, "Well, I haven't felt like it. I know." Grimacing at the phone, he says, "Listen, were you messing around in my spare room?" Eric pulls the refrigerator open and grabs a bottle of cola. Twisting off the cap, he says, "Well, stay out of that stuff. That's my business. Just stay out of it." Eric lets out a breath. "No," he snaps. "No. Just don't touch it at all. I'm not. No, I'm not." Literally falling onto the couch, he says, "What? Oh, whatever. I've been meaning to. I will. No, I will. I have to get ready for work. Okay. I love you. Stay out of that stuff."
Snapping the cell phone closed, Eric picks up his bag and keys, and heads out the door.
Following close behind, I say, "So, I guess you're ready to head to work then. Me too. I've been waiting on you, you know."
