FOLLOWING FRANKENSTEIN
Chapter 6: Unintended Outcomes
"You brought me dinner!" Tony exclaimed happily when he opened the door to his flat. He was still in his work uniform and his hair was an unkempt riot from where it had been hidden under his cap all day. His face sported a short beard and it tickled when he leaned over to kiss her forehead. He took the proffered bag of containers, fragrant with curry and browned onions.
"Of course. It's Thursday, isn't it?" she replied. "Besides, if I didn't feed you once a week, I'm pretty sure you'd starve."
"Living on fish and chips is hardly 'starving,'" he answered with an eye roll.
"No, but it doesn't do much for your girlish figure," she said and poked him in his fleshy side. He squeaked and grabbed her finger before she could tickle him further.
"Well, I'm pretty sure I'm starving now," he said. "I didn't have the chance to grab lunch today at uni and breakfast was before the sun rose."
"Poor baby. Go wash up and change out of those filthy clothes. There's no telling what diseases you have clinging to those clothes."
"Yes, Mum," he answered, but not before embracing her and making an intentional show of wiping whatever germs he carried all over her clean blouse. She grimaced and pushed him off of her. He laughed and vanished down the hall. He returned with his face and hands wet and fresh clothes on and he plopped himself unceremoniously at a table to shovel food into his mouth. He didn't bother with plates or dishes but ate straight out of the containers.
"Too hungry or too lazy to fetch dishes?" she asked him.
"Both?" he answered, his mouth full of rice.
"Ugh, I should have taught you better manners."
"Sorry, Mum. I'm pretty sure you kicked me out right before the 'etiquette course' was about to begin. My manners are all your fault."
"Nah, I blame your lousy flat mates. They set a bad example."
Harris and Chet shouted from their rooms down the hall, protesting Buffy's accusation. She laughed.
"I only speak the truth, boys," she shouted back at their closed doors.
In truth, Buffy had been surprised to find Anthony home at all that night. Each successive year of classes found the subject matter grow harder and harder. Now, five years in and deep into his medicine degree coursework and he barely had time to keep up with work and sleep. When he had failed to attend Thursday dinners for nearly a month, Buffy took it upon herself to deliver his portion to his flat. He had been so grateful that she decided to make it a tradition. Most weeks, she ended up visiting with Chet and Harris for a bit before giving up and heading back to her own flat. However, she had been delighted to see Tony again when it was his familiar, if disheveled, face that answered the door.
He snuck time to see her, when he could, but it was mainly during holidays when he had a reprieve from studies. The rest were stolen moments between shifts and movies where he fell asleep on her couch in an exhausted heap.
His flat inevitably smelled like man and unwashed socks. His flat mates weren't complete slobs but they were busy with their own university courses and didn't have much energy to clean, either. It was an improvement from his first residence where his flat mate kept pet cockroaches in the closet and frozen mice in the freezer and the entire place smelled like the slightly green fish tank.
Anthony's room in his current flat was tiny but invariably organized. The bed stood in one corner with drawers underneath. It was so small, Anthony had to curl up in a ball to fit his long legs on it. Beside it stood bookshelf lined with textbooks and whatever piece of nonfiction currently captured his curiosity. A desk with a laptop on it was the only part of his room that ever seemed to get cluttered. School papers, his job schedule, and a clutter of office supplies constantly shifted around its worn surface. The blue curtains on the windows she figured were placed there by the owner of the flat long before Tony ever moved in. She assumed a similar origin for the painting of a sailboat.
Anthony's only attempt at personalization came in the form of two photographs taped to the wall next to his bed. The first was a print of a selfie of the pair of them one Christmas. Tony's face still had the tell-tale smudge of fudge in the corner of his mouth and Buffy was caught in the middle of a genuine belly laugh. The second photo was one of Buffy taken by the photographer at Mike's wedding. As a bridesmaid, she had been forced to dress up more than she normally did and the photographer had caught the moment when she face-planted on the dance floor, her face frozen in an expression of shock. When Tony saw that photo, he laughed so hard that tears streamed down his face and he had bribed Mike into sending him a copy. No matter how Buffy complained or tried to steal it, the embarrassing photo remained.
"It's just the essence of Buffy," he told her, his green eyes dancing with mirth. "I couldn't sum you up better if I wrote an entire novel about you."
She groaned and protested but his only answer was to kiss her forehead and give her that crooked smile that he knew would grant him anything he wanted.
Chet and Harris dubbed her "Tony's girl" and teased him unmercifully over his "girlfriend without benefits." Tony only rolled his eyes, held up whatever dinner she'd made that week and informed them that there were definite benefits.
It wasn't for lack of trying. For years, Tony had tried to formalize whatever "it" was that they were doing. Years' worth of Friday night dinners, walks across London, shared holidays, and dance lessons together made them all the more entwined in each other's lives, but Buffy refused to make anything official. She did not give him the chance to finish a sentence whenever he tried to bring up the minefield of "us." Anthony gave up trying to change the status quo and let them remain as they were. Buffy stopped holding back and relaxed into their arrangement and determined to enjoy her pet clone turned friend. As long as he didn't ask for anything else from her and as long as she didn't think about Edward, she could let things be.
She liked her life. Her job at the movie theatre kept forcing her out of the house. She had taken more and more advanced cooking classes until she could whip up anything from sushi to sour dough bread without a flaw. Miracle upon miracles, she had even mastered the delicate art of crème brûlée. She was so impressed with herself that she drove the first batch straight to Anthony's work and fed the entire cleaning crew in celebration. Then, she crossed off number 119 from her notebook.
She pretended not to notice how long it had been since she had added a new number or how few lines had been crossed off in recent years.
Her faithful gathering of foodie friends came each Thursday. It had been nearly perfect, until Anthony got too busy to join in. Without his laughter and his sarcastic retorts at the table, Buffy felt as if their dinners weren't complete. She told herself she really didn't care as much as she did and it was only to dispose of leftovers that she brought him dinner each Thursday night, but her Thursdays never felt complete until she had knocked on his door.
There was that one night that she found him at home, sick with the stomach flu. Chet had answered the door and been a bit too overjoyed to accept Buffy's offering on Tony's behalf.
"The poor bloke's been chundering all night," he had said. "He won't be needing this anytime soon. I'll just have to help him out until he can hold down his own meal."
Buffy had forced her way in and found Tony buried in his blankets, his face flushed, and a bowl of vomit by his bed. She'd chided Chet and Harris for their deplorable skills at nursing and spent the next three days tending to Tony herself.
"If I pretend to chunder again, will you stay all week?" Tony had said, once he was feeling himself again.
"You'd have to prove it," she answered. "And I will force you to live on crackers and soda water."
"It'd be worth it. You're a brilliant nurse, Mum."
"You know, I think I'd rather you call me 'darling' than 'mum,'" she answered with a scowl. "You make me feel old."
"You are getting up there in years, Mum. How old are you? Have you reached fifteen yet?"
"Not quite. I think I just turned twelve."
He chuckled and peeked at her through one eye. "Positively ancient. I suppose you haven't informed your job that you haven't yet reached your age of majority?"
"Have you?" she retorted.
He didn't answer but instead grinned and leaned back against his pillow with his eyes closed. He appeared so insufferably smug that she smothered him with his blanket and he gave a startled choking sound in answer.
"What's this? Can't let a chap sleep?"
"You aren't sleeping."
"How do you know? I might have been, if you hadn't tried to kill me in my sleep."
"I know the difference between when you are faking sleep and when you are actually sleeping. The snoring gives you away."
"Creeper. You do stalk me. I knew it all along," he said, though by the tone of his voice, she thought he was rather well-pleased with the idea of her stalking him.
"As if you are any better. If I hadn't put an end to it, you would have snuck into my room every night to watch me sleep," she threw back.
"I would not."
"Would too. You did. That first week."
She was surprised to see his smile turn serious and two slits of green eyes staring back at her. He brought his blanket down over his scruffy chin and gave her a somber expression.
"Buffy, I didn't sneak into your room to watch you sleep. Not that first time and not ever."
"Then why the hell were you there when I woke up?"
"You woke me up. Scared the daylights out of me with your screams. I thought someone was trying to cut off your head for sure. It was rather valiant of me, I think. I could barely walk and still I pulled my weak ass out of bed to check on you and to defend you against all foes. When I found you were not actually dying, I tried to wake you up. It seemed like the best thing to do, but then you grabbed my hand and wouldn't let go. Your screaming stopped and you settled back to sleep, but when I tried to leave, you refused to let go of my hand. Eventually, I gave up trying to escape and sat down in that chair.. I think I dozed off a few times and you must have released me at some point because the next thing I knew, you were shouting and yelling again, but this time you were angry at me. I had no idea why and then you unceremoniously cast me out of your room."
"But you were watching me sleep."
"Well, yeah."
"That's creepy!"
"Buffy, I had never seen another person sleep before, except on the airplane, and I was so drugged up for that flight, it hardly counted. Excuse me if I found the whole idea of sleep rather fascinating. Besides, you were holding my hand. What was I supposed to do? Close my eyes to keep from watching you sleep? I thought I was helping and you raged at me like a scared alley cat."
She sighed. "I suppose I over reacted." At Anthony's answering snort, she continued, feeling she owed him a greater explanation. "Before… Edward would come and watch us sleep. Sometimes he would do more than watch. I'd just open my eyes and he would be there, inches away from my face. I would never hear him come in and he'd vanish again faster than I could see. Sometimes, he'd… well… he wouldn't just look and I, well, I never knew if each time I slept would be the last."
Anthony sat up in his bed, reaching out to take her hand in his. "I suppose I didn't help matters. I turn up, wearing his face and appearing in your room without your knowledge."
"Yeah. As I said. I might have over reacted."
"Well, maybe I did, too. Now I know that when you scream bloody murder, that I should leave you be and go back to sleep."
"What happened to being valiant and defending me against all foes?" she asked, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.
A shadow passed over his face, one which did not belong there, and he let go of her hand. "There's not much I can do when your greatest fear is me," he answered. Then he turned away and pulled his quilt back over his shoulders.
"It's not like that," she said.
"Buffy, it's exactly like that. I never thought it would be possible to hate someone I had never met, but I hate him more than anyone I have ever met. The worst part is I am stuck paying for his sins because I remind you of him."
For months after, Buffy wished she had been able to deny it. She wished she had been able to tell him something, anything but that he was right.
She couldn't.
He recovered him his illness, but he never quite recovered from their conversation that last day. That shadow settled into the crevices of his previously cheery face and gathered onto his brows on the days he brooded too long. It was another piece of Edward, but one which was all her fault.
Oooooo
The final credits rolled across the screen and hardly cast enough light for her to see the passing patrons shuffling out of the aisles. She deftly moved her broom between chairs in the back row, gathering up bits of popcorn and discarded wrappers from sweets. She wanted to finish quickly. Anthony had made it to the theatre that night and was waiting for her in the lobby. As soon as she finished sweeping, they would go out for the night. She knelt to retrieve a forgotten purse, adding it to her pile for the Lost-and-Found. She came to the next row and stopped when she realized someone still occupied one of the seats.
She apologized and stepped back, meaning to move to the next row, when she froze in place. She was not sure if it was the sweet scent she caught or the unnatural pallor of his face which first sent panic through her bones. She didn't have to turn up the lights to know his eyes were red. She would recognize those shadowed eyes, those elegant movements, the inhuman stillness of his chest anywhere.
He was like Edward… but he was not Edward. His hair was shoulder length and brown and he had a slight beard. He was older than Edward ever was, but still, he was like Edward.
Hardly knowing where she was or what she was doing, Buffy took a step back and then screamed.
The man… the vampire… looked up and then glanced around the theatre, ensuring there were no witnesses for her reaction. Buffy took another step just as he rose to his feet and took a slow, methodical step in her direction.
"What has frightened you, young woman? You act as though you have seen a ghost!" he asked, his face breaking into a venomous grin. His accent was not quite American and not quite British but something else and his clothes didn't help place him any further.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, desperately searching for her phone. She clicked her emergency contacts and sent through a call, praying he'd get the message without her having to say anything.
"Attending a movie, obviously," he said. "I have quite the affinity for film. Why else do patrons visit this establishment?"
She clung to the handle of her broom as if it were a weapon and she thought through all possible ways she could get away from him. She knew it was useless, but she plotted anyway.
"What is it that you fear, young woman? Is something the matter?" he asked, too smugly, too confidently, to be comforting.
"Did he send you?" she asked, suddenly afraid for another reason.
He grew curious then. "Did who send me?"
"He promised he would leave me alone. Why are you here?"
"I don't understand. I assure you. No one sent me here. I simply came to watch a movie."
"I don't believe you."
He gave a dark chuckle. "You are a clever one. I will not ask you the source of your skepticism. I mean you no harm, young one. I am simply passing through."
At that moment, Anthony stumbled into the room, out of breath from his sprint from the lobby. He grabbed hold of the seat near Buffy and gave the man beside her a scathing, accusatory glare.
"Buffy, are you ok?" he asked. "Is there a problem here?"
She shook her head and clung to his outstretched hand much too eagerly. She only realized how foolish she was to involve Anthony in this after the fact. As if Anthony could do anything to stop such superhuman strength. She had only thrust him into the same danger as herself.
"I'm fine. He was just leaving," she said and nodded toward the man with a false politeness. She outstretched her hand holding the broom towards the exit and willed him to agree without a fight.
The man returned her smile with one just as forced before he glanced over at Anthony. There it remained.
"Edward? Edward Cullen? Is that you?" he asked.
"Excuse me?" Anthony answered. "I think you have me confused for someone else."
Buffy gaped. In the dim light, with his face freshly shaven and his hair neatly gelled, he really did resemble his predecessor. The flush of his cheeks and the green of his eyes was masked by the shadows and not even the marks of his maturing form could differentiate him from Edward. The knowledge that there were Others out there, Others not only like Edward but acquainted with Edward shook her to her core. All her precious illlusions of safety broke and she suddenly felt like there was nowhere, no place she could hide to truly escape him.
The vampire looked over him again, this time inhaling deeply and smelling the air. His expression turned pensive. "Yes, yes. I can see that I have. Strange… yet even your scent is like his, yet not. Well, it is no matter." He turned to Buffy, then, and quirked his head to one side. Without blinking once, he watched her, as if she were a trained elephant in a circus rather than a woman sweeping a movie theatre. "Be careful displaying your knowledge so openly, young one. I will not betray you, but there are others out there who would not be so merciful to those who know their secret. Now, I bid you both a goodnight."
The man slowly walked towards the exit and vanished out the door without a second glance. As soon as he was gone, Buffy collapsed into Anthony's arms. Her breaths came short and ragged.
"I can't… I just… I need to go. I need to get out of here. Can we go?"
"Yes. Let's tell your supervisor you are unwell. I can go…" he began, but at her look of abject terror, he halted. "Or we can go together."
He supported her weight as he found one of her coworkers and informed them she was unwell. Then, he carried her out and called for a taxi to take her home. He helped her up the stairs and into her flat and then he sat beside her, waiting for her to tell him what she needed, what else he could do to help.
For a time, she did nothing but stare at a wall. She hardly acknowledged he was there – until he asked if he should leave, and then her panicked expression was enough to make sure he stayed. Then she began to blabber on incessantly for hours. It was as if a dam had broken and she began to talk about Those Days like she had never done before. He listened without a single word other than to refill her cup of tea or to bring her a fresh box of tissue for each successive round of tears. The emotions she had kept bottled up inside her bubbled over and filled the space between them.
She didn't remember falling asleep, but she woke up the next morning in her own bed. She was overwhelmed at the thought of being alone in her flat, but to her relief, she found Anthony fast asleep on the couch. She let him sleep and she quietly took up a book and attempted to read. She failed.
Oooooo
She could not leave her flat but she could not bear to be alone in it. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw those red eyes, felt them fall over her, heard that smooth voice whisper threats to her, and she could hardly breathe, could hardly think. Each time, she found someone calling her back to the present, filling her hands with a glass of water or some other distraction, reminding her she was safe.
Anthony didn't leave. For days, he stayed in her flat with her. She would have felt bad about the state of her guest room, if she had the margin to think about anything except those red eyes. She didn't. It only vaguely registered when Chet dropped off Anthony's suitcase full of clothes or when Anthony rummaged through her guest room, trying to find if a bed still dwelt beneath all the rubbish.
Sometimes he tried to talk to her, sometimes he simply sat quietly beside her, letting her remain in the silence. He didn't even offer a single word of protest when she made him watch every season of Buffy, all over again, with her. She pretended Anthony didn't have a job and classes he was missing all week while she melted onto the floor of her flat in a puddle of cowardice.
"Your cooking sucks," she complained, after finishing his attempt at pasta.
"It's not my fault my mum never taught me to cook," he answered. He picked up their plates and crashed them unceremoniously into the sink. "Are we watching the next or are you ready for bed?"
"Another," she answered. It was five days after The Incident and she had slept little. The nightmares were back, even worse than before and she was putting off sleep as long as she could. She knew she couldn't put it off much longer, but for at least the next forty-five minutes, she would block everything else out.
As the movie played, they migrated closer and closer together until she was leaning against his shoulder with his arm around her shoulders. It was nearly midnight by the time it finished. When the last credit cleared the screen, she looked over at him to find him watching her with that same, earnest, adoring gaze he only gave her when he thought she wasn't looking. Without thinking, she turned towards him. Their faces were only millimeters apart and she could feel the brush of his whiskers against her chin. In an impulsive rush, she closed the distance and kissed him. Well, she did more than kiss him. She fully snogged the bloke until he could hardly breathe and he came up gasping for air. Still, she didn't relent.
It was only the next morning that she cursed herself for her idiocy. All her noise on seeing him as "nothing but a brother" and "familial affection" was suspect the moment she kissed him. It was blown to hell when she let him take off her shirt. He would never let up on her now. It would be like trying to call back a racehorse after releasing it from the gate.
Would it be so bad to admit she was attracted to him or that she wanted to be more than his 'sister'? Could she finally stop fighting it and just let them be?
Well, it was a little late for that. Obviously, she'd done more than wade in the shallows. She'd jumped in the deep end completely and she didn't think there was a way this could end well, for either of them.
