These days, she could wake one of two ways: to kisses, or to the distant clacking of the typewriter. And though she infinitely preferred the first option, the second was only a problem in winter, when her bed was warm and the trek down the hall to her husband's study was chilly and made her toes curl.
This night (or this morning, to be more accurate) the old floorboards were icy. She did a little cold-floor dance over to the slice of light spilling from the cracked door and nudged it open a bit farther to peer in.
The room was a study in orderly chaos. Stacks of paper sat on any available surface not taken up by stacks of books. The wastebasket overflowed with rejected ideas. At least three cold cups of coffee sat on the desk. One had a pencil stuck in it. In the midst of it all he sat in yesterday's rumpled clothes, furiously typing. Typing, typing. Then stopping. And squinting. And scowling. And running his hands through hair already standing on end. And. Then. Typing. One. Word. Just. So.
And that seemed to be it for awhile.
Silently she padded across the floor and dropped her arms around his shoulders and her chin on his head. "Stuck?"
"Mmmph…yeah…" He scrubbed a hand across his face like a frustrated child and blinked around for the clock, which was hidden under a random page of newspaper. "What time is it?" Silence. "Ann? Love?" His only answer was a faint snore. He grinned crookedly and nudged her carefully with one elbow.
"W-what?"
"Why don't you go back to bed? I'll be there in a bit."
"Ah. That's what you said last time."
"I did?"
"MmmHmm."
"Well, this time I mean it."
"Nope. Sorry. Not leaving without you." She yawned a jaw-cracking yawn and marched over to The Chair.
She reveled in the fact that she now had special access to the battered, overstuffed chair where so many of the plays that she had poured over so zealously in the past were conceived. Of course, at the moment her chair privileges were thwarted by the huge stack of leather bound volumes, all dog-eared and marked with ragged slips of paper, that were heaped on the seat. She had begun moving them onto the floor with a grumbled protest when a title caught her eye.
In the months after the ordeal that changed her life, she'd seen any number of books and articles and lectures, professors and theorists and i experts /i , who tried to explain what they'd seen on that island. There'd been no question, after Carl's disastrous fifteen minutes of fame were over, that they were telling the truth. It was a mixed blessing. To be ridiculed and disbelieved after all they'd gone through might have driven her mad. But there were also days when she thought the questions, the endless questions, surely would. As though she had any answers. As though you could know Death's hometown and friends and childhood memories by looking it in the eye.
She smoothed her hand over the gilt-edged cover, and flipped open the book. There, marked with an old receipt from the tailors was one of the creatures that had plagued her nightmares for months going on years. The artist had certainly made a good guess of it.
She glanced over her shoulder. Jack sat before a half-written page, staring into space. She wondered what moment he was reliving. Or if it was some one else's moment he was trying to see. He jumped a bit when she set the book down on the desk beside him.
"This one is particularly good," she murmured, tapping the page. The monster there snarled up at her, baring huge fangs she knew for a fact to be longer than her arm. He cocked his head at it.
"Ah. Our friend with the tiny little arms. They detract from the overall effect a bit, don't they?"
"Not when it's attempting to bite you in two."
He looked up at her sheepishly. "I see your point."
She grinned at him. This was another small victory—to laugh again. She had survived, and she had grieved. But every day she knew upon waking that she was the only woman in New York, and maybe the world, that had looked down the throat of a…what did they call it? Something-Rex. Among other things. And lived. Not only lived, but loved and laughed, as well.
Jack said, "Tell me about it."
She sighed and rolled her eyes. "Again?"
"Yes, again." He stood up abruptly and before she had the chance to dart away he had swung her up in his arms like a child. She gave an indignant squeak and thumped him on the head, but he paid her no mind. Just walked over to the Chair and plopped down, settling her in his lap. "I'm in need of some inspiration."
"Aren't you sick of hearing this by now?"
"If I was, would I be practically pulling my hair out trying to write it?" He flipped an old quilt over he legs to warm them and settled back comfortably. "Besides, you never stop asking for my side of the story, do you?"
"No. Never." She felt her face heat up and was suddenly glad he couldn't see. "How could a girl ever get tired of hearing howher man braved everything to rescue her in the face of certain death?"
"Almost certain death."
"All right, almost certain death."
He nuzzled into her hair and murmured, "I like your side better."
"Ah." Another blush. It was a habit she couldn't break. "Well. Where should I begin?" She leaned back into him. Though he looked at first glance as though he should be bony, she knew for a fact he was the most comfortable seat in the house. "How about the scene where Our Heroine makes a damn fool of herself in front of her idol, and then falls madly in love with him?"
He snickered. "How about with 'Once upon a time…"
"You can't be serious."
"You going to argue or you going to tell a story, lady?"
"Oh, fine." She scowled at the ceiling. "Once upon a ti— "
"And don't leave out the giant man-eating lizards."
"You think I could possibly forget the giant man-eating lizards?"
"Well, you never know."
"Am I telling this story or are you?"
"You're right. Forgive me. Carry on."
-Owari-