She hates being babied like this.
She's always been stronger than this, stronger than how she's been lately. She hates having people fluttering around her, trying to protect her. Sookie won't let her work, and Rory is home from finals. She's been sitting in the same position on her old, crappy couch for a week. She's been eating only Caesar salad for that time because she refuses to go to the diner, and refuses to let Rory go.
Monday. She stands and tells Sookie that she's fine, she's going to work. She has to. She can't stay around, swimming in a deep pool of tears and thoughts. She doesn't like crying, or thinking. Both are unhealthy for her. For anybody.
He has called her a few times since she left his apartment. She hasn't answered. Somewhere in the back of her head, the good part, something tells her to answer. That he can only help. That he only wants what's best for her. He had been her best friend for so long, right? Not anymore. He destroyed, unknowingly, her engagement with Max. He destroyed her relationship with Luke the first time.
This time she did the destroying. She bailed…again. She got scared again, she ran again. Running was always what she did the best.
This time he's there to pick up the pieces.
…
She readies herself for something bad to happen as her fist takes on a life of its own, beating on his door for the second time. He answers again and this time takes her hand, pulling her in. This times she ask where the no-longer Devil Child is. She's at school, he answers, and she wonders why she didn't put two and two together. He sits her down on his couch and just looks at her.
It's almost enough to make her cry again.
She bows her head and tells him about the next broken engagement, about the end of what she had thought was finally it. His hand is on her shoulder, massaging gently. Loaning comfort. She needs it.
He listens, his eyes narrow and alert. He wonders who could be an idiot enough as to not marry her as soon as possible, when it was right there in front of him. She's finished talking and tears are coming again, a rainstorm of momentous proportions.
If tears were jewels, she was sure she'd be worth millions.
He hugs her to him, whispering no words of comfort. There's nothing he can say. She's heartbroken and he doesn't know how to fix it. Instead his arms are there, strong and protective. She pulls away, feeling silly, wiping at her eyes, mixed with the blue he knows so well and the red of tears. Very patriotic, he says softly and a small smile breaks through, a laugh overcoming her tears. He likes her when she's laughing. She's beautiful when she's laughing.
Before he knows what he's doing, he's far too close to her. Her lips are there and suddenly his are too, melding together in heat. Salty tears have dripped to her lips and now his too, and it's bliss for the shortest moment in history.
Because she's pulling back and looking at her lap, thinking it's too soon. Saying it's too soon. He sighs, hating to put her in this position. She doesn't leave this time, though.
He puts on a U2 CD, because he knows she loves Bono and he can always make her feel better, and she falls asleep, this time on his couch.
He watches her for a long time.
) More thoughts, anyone?