ACT V

"Hopes have precarious life.
They are oft blighted, withered, snapped sheer off
In vigorous growth and turned to rottenness."
—George Eliot

Chapter 46: Drifting

The morning dawned cold and damp, the sort of cold that catches in your throat, ready to burn as it goes down to the lungs. And the damp, one you'd expect to dance with autumn leaves as they blossomed in the summer garden's stead. But as the hours ticked on, the sun singed away the dreariness well before noon, warming the world like the gift of one last summer day in the midst of autumn. Cully had donned a coat and knit scarf the evening before as its breeze and darkness already heralded the months ahead. But this morning, a jumper was almost enough, though she was still glad to have a scarf knotted around the base of her neck.

The past few days, Cully had sent herself on a short walk around the neighborhood, most often once she returned home from her volunteering rounds, just before dinner. All of her worry—her anger—her grief—still growled in her mind, the only question whether it would be a whisper or a shout. But beneath the (typically) grey cloudy sky, they were all like her: small and quiet, free to vanish. Her mind became her own again, filled with her own thoughts and possibilities for the future.

At least, for a few minutes. Somehow, they never stayed away.

And now, as she thrust her key into the front door lock—as always, she jiggled it as the tumblers stuck for a second—Cully awaited their return. They all crept back onto her shoulders as the walls and the past closed in around her, severing her from the world outside and all its chances. She drew a deep breath as she closed the door, the air warmer and still just scented with the polish of yesterday's afternoon dusting. The house was even quieter than usual: no radio, no television, no conversation. She'd said farewell to her parents before leaving on her walk, as they were also about to leave, out to meet some friends for the day.

Perhaps it was just as well, as she relaxed a few minutes later into one of the settee's tan cushions, lengthening her back against the pillow. Nothing had surfaced to dampen the rumor of Salomé as the Causton Playhouse's next production. If so, it seemed the next director had a mind to take more risks than Pearson ever had.

Her first reading of the play—even allowing for translation from French—had left her with a mess of questions. What to make of the symbolism ("Why the obsession with the moon?"), relationships ("Stop looking at your stepdaughter, Herod!"), death ("Didn't she understand asking for his head, or was she just selfish?")…The already dulling page edges scraped against her fingers as she searched for the dog-eared page almost at the beginning of Salomé's undescribed—indescribable?—dance for her stepfather…

What a thing, really, to demand anything and expect to receive it! She leaned back, the cushion molding to her spine again as she lifted the book up to her face. "'All this I ask, even the half of your kingdom.'"

"That's all?" Cully muttered, flipping to the next page as she crossed one leg over the other knee. "That's a bit rich."

And what would you request? She inhaled a stuttered breath through her nose. That voice fell silent over most of the day, rising through her thoughts as sleep and dreams approached through the fog of exhaustion at the end of each day. Almost like it was just passing through a veil: hidden and silent, awaiting its moment to seize and destroy. Do you even know?...You don't, do you?

Cully's eyes skimmed over the next couple lines, Herodias and Herod: "'My daughter, do not dance.'" "'Even to the half of my kingdom. Thou wilt be passing fair as a queen, Salomé, if it please thee to ask—'"

Her mobile buzzed, and she jumped at the vibration. Without her purse on her walk that morning, she had slipped it into the back pocket of her jeans and, after running upstairs to fetch her copy of Salomé, had promptly forgotten about it as she sat down. Working her arm between the cushion and her back, she just managed to catch the top of it, tugging it out as it continued to ring.

Sitting down again, she flipped the top of her mobile open, not bothering to glance at the electric blue characters on the outer screen as she again leaned against the settee's back cushion. "Hello?"

"Cully?"

Hearing Gavin's voice after so long forced a breath from her lungs, catching in her throat as she struggled to silence it. How long had it been since they had spoken? She couldn't remember. You see? that quiet voice buried in her mind hissed. Why won't you see it?

She pushed herself forward as she let her foot drop to the carpet, the play closing around her index finger. "I wasn't expecting you to call."

"Hadn't had a chance lately, but today I did." She missed his voice, the rounded mid-tone that could envelop her with its warmth...at least until he needed someone to stomp on his foot to get him to shut his mouth and hold back his stupid ideas.

"Sounds like you don't have much to do."

"The league's off for a week, so can't say I do." He stopped for a second, before adding, "And you?"

She dropped her book on the cushion beside her. "Just reading through Salomé—what might—possibly—could be—maybe is the next thing at the Playhouse." Even listening to it, well, it was a bit silly, studying it already.

He laughed. She had missed that sound, too, especially..."Sounds like a sure thing."

"Well, it's dead quiet, so I might be able to make sense of the obsession with the moon," Cully said, glancing around the front room. Even though the task of reorganizing had ground to a halt that fateful Sunday a fortnight earlier, her mother had carried on a couple days later. Any thought of shifting the settee, the chair, the side tables was forgotten, in lieu of just repositioning the frames on the walls.

"It's not like your parents are ones for noisy music."

"No, but they went out for Sunday lunch with Woodards—she's Mum's friend from...somewhere—before heading out to that school, near Midsomer Parva for some student race."

"Good use of a Sunday off, then."

"Mum said they're thinking about sending their son. I can't imagine." She shuddered. Years ago—she couldn't recall how many—she had seen the place. A school trip, a long drive with her parents…? She couldn't remember why. But it was enormous, the spires rising up so high that they scraped the sky and clouds. And all the while: cold, lifeless.

"Me either," Gavin said softly. He was silent again, then added, "I know it's been a while, but—would you like to come over?"

Her heart pounded faster, just for a second, as her stomach twisted into a knot as it always did when she was near him, now. Don't be a fool, the whisper in her brain continued. You know how it always ends— "I'd like that." Even with the churning in her abdomen, she couldn't hold her smile back, or the slightest blush that followed despite being she was alone.

"I'll be right out to pick you up."

"See you then." Closing her mobile, Cully set it atop the book beside her before glancing down at herself. Green jumper, dark jeans and socks, trainers sitting by the door. Her face was bare, but...well, Gavin had seen her without any before. She brushed her fingers through her hair, flattening the wind tousled strands.

"It's not like you're meeting him for the first time," she muttered as she stood. "At all." She had relived those moments and meetings—all of them, time and time again. His body, his hands...

Maybe. But I won't say "I told you so"...

As Gavin added milk to both their cups—then a little sugar to hers and a several spoonfuls to his own—Cully peered around his front room. Every other time she had been here in his flat, things so quickly turned frantic, chaotic, desperately hungry. She saw him in this space, but nothing of his past. There were no family pictures like were scattered around her parents' home, no memories of the world gone by. Strange, really, as she knew Gavin more and more, she realized she knew less about him. It was something he simply never talked—

"So, that's the next show, at the Playhouse?"

His question cut through her thoughts and Cully peered up, already smiling. "Might be," she said as Gavin handed her her cup of tea. "Thanks." With her first sip of the piping hot brew, her lips burned.

With his own cup of tea, he sat beside her on the settee in his front room, only a couple inches from her. She rather liked him this way: jeans, his dark button-up shirt untucked, that very top button open, his chin hidden behind a gentle layer of dark stubble, evidence of a relaxed day at home...In moments like this, he seemed to have forgotten any distance they had once had. Now, he was a man, not a sergeant. "Getting a little ahead, isn't it?" he asked, sinking into the cushion.

Cully had to roll her eyes even as she allowed herself to grin. "I haven't read it in years, so I might as well. Even if it isn't what they select."

With a mouthful of his own tea, Gavin added, "Well, what's it about, then?"

"The death of John the Baptist."

He shrugged. "I think I skived off, that lesson."

Cully dropped her head on his shoulder for a second, his warmth spreading through her skin. "You're hopeless sometimes, Gavin, you know that?"

"That's what they always told me at school."

Lifting her head, she asked, "I hope you at least know who he is."

He wrinkled his eyebrows, like he was dipping back into his memory, searching for the name. "Some sort of...prophet, right?"

Another sip of tea hid her grin. "You really did skip all of RE."

"Not all of it." Gavin coughed, and it sounded falser than he probably meant. "Just—"

"No worries." Despite her long sleeves and the still burning mug clutched between her hands, Cully shivered. She slid closer to Gavin, just wanting to be closer to his warmth, until her leg knocked his; she didn't look at his face, already knowing the discomfort she would see. "He is a prophet—"

"I told you I didn't cut all of it."

She slapped his shoulder lightly, adding, "More than that, he's Jesus' cousin."

His cheeks flushed, the barest pink rising under his skin, and his free hand rose to his throat, ready to loosen the knot in a tie that wasn't there. "I didn't remember he had one."*

"Anyway, according to the play, Herod—the king—is so enamored by his stepdaughter—"

"They would perform that here," Gavin said, setting his cup of tea on the table before them, then leaning back as he clasped his hands behind his neck. Even bent at the elbow, his arms were long enough that Cully could rest her shoulders against his bicep.

"—with his stepdaughter that he asks her to dance for him." She spoke louder, the barest heat rushing down her back. The past weeks had been months, really, each day beginning well before its dawn and stretching out past the twilight, almost endless. And here, and now, the minutes ticked by like seconds, when all she wanted was for time to pause, for the evening to wait its turn.

He cocked his head toward her, a few short locks of dark hair falling across his forehead. "Sounds like more than just a dance."

"I think that's fair." She sank further into the settee, rolling her fingers along the teacup she held, trying to ignore her rising heartbeat.

"But if it's a just dance—how does he die?"

"Because she made him—Herod—promise her whatever she wanted—before—without telling him what."

Troy snorted in disbelief as he unfolded his arm around her, settling his hand just below her shoulder. "What a prat."

"That's one way to think about it." Did he hear it, she wondered, the blood pulsing in her throat and ears, or feel how hot her skin had suddenly become? And her heart: every beat was as loud as a drum, throbbing against—within!—her bones.

"I guess?"

"But—" Her mouth was dry and Cully swallowed, starting again. "But after she's done, she asks for his head—John's—on a silver plate."

He sat straight. "What!"

"I think she says 'silver charger'."

"Bit of savage ask, isn't it?"

She nodded, struggling against the specter of a thin, ravaged head displayed on a grand silver platter by a slave, presented to a young, selfish girl bathed in blood red moonlight, a few drops of another's blood spattered across her bare feet. All for her sudden, overwhelming desire. "Yes. But..."

"What is it?"

"Maybe it's a lesson," Cully said, gently setting her half-drunk cup of tea on the table beside his as his arm slipped from hers, falling to her hip. The heat on her back had spread to her chest and now crept along her skin—so hot, he must see it.

"How?"

Cully pulled her feet up from the floor, tucking them under body as she twisted around to look at him, really look at him. Somehow, her lips were dried, almost cracking—and why was her hand shaking as she raised it to his face, pressing it to his mouth. She trailed a finger along his collar, then dancing along his jaw line with its coarse stubble, the tiny dark hairs camouflaging his milky skin. He wrapped his hand around hers—that heat was almost snuffed out—stroking her wrist, her thumb…

"Be careful what you wish for." She pressed her mouth against his, drinking in the taste, almost ready to bite his lips and tongue. God, it was like the smallest morsel handed to a starving child—and as his hand slid to the back of her neck, pinching the skin at its base— She drew away, gasping for breath as the tightness below her belly ratcheted even higher.

"Cully," he whispered, and she felt him say her name before she heard it. From the nape of her neck, Gavin's fingers wandered forward, tracing her jumper's neckline, curling around to the burning skin beneath her collarbone. Each breath he took was shorter, raspier, and his pale eyes were glassy. As he dragged his fingers through her hair, behind her ear, along her cheek, she shivered. And then the force of his kiss surprised Cully: unexpected and unprepared for. Before she knew it, she collapsed onto her back, his weight crushing her into the cushions. "Sorry."

Her leg was already stinging, still bent beneath her, and she pushed herself up just enough to stretch her right out and— His hand rose along her other leg, and she stopped, just feeling him clench her thigh for a moment, sending that well remembered shock up her spine. "No," she said softly, pulling forth whatever breath she had nearly been knocked from her lungs. Her right hand trembled as she brought it up, dragging it over his back; she was rewarded with a gasp and clenched eyes. "It's—it's fine. I—"

Another kiss silenced her, unless the moan that escaped the side of her mouth counted. Wherever skin brushed skin stung, heightened nerves sprang up, spreading through arms and legs and fingers. He gnawed on her lower lip, surrendering only to gasp for air. "Gavin—" She choked on her words as he pressed his mouth to the delicate skin that curved from her neck to her shoulder. Don't stop.

It was just like before, his hands sliding up the skin of her waist as she convulsed with a few giggles—and dry gasps when his fingers shifted, drawing languid circles on her stomach. She jerked when they dropped lower, hooked around the waistband of her jeans. It was an ache, now, searing deep in her abdomen, ready for—demanding!—appeasement. Her own fingers fumbled at the highest button of his shirt, the plastic slipping before she could work it through the buttonhole. Starting again, she managed that first one, then the one beneath it, his pale skin beginning to appear, smooth and warm. "I like you like this," she breathed into his ear. "Just—like this."

His hand rose again, taking the hem of her jumper with it. The cooler air in the room drew goosebumps from her scalding skin, and quicker gasps for air. As his right hand traced the curve of her breast—the air boiled against her skin—he captured her lips again, clutched her jaw with his left—

Bzzt...Bzzt...Bzzt.

The burning just beneath her skin ceased—the heightened nerves faded—and Cully stiffened at the buzzing of Gavin's mobile as it rattled on his kitchen table. He raised his face, his gaze following the interruptive noise and his hand fell from her chin. A few seconds passed before it lay quiet again and as the electronic hissing's echo lingered in the flat, the warmth began to ripen on her face again. With a light finger, Gavin grazed her forehead, following her hair along the edge of her face, to her neck. And now, he tugged on the neckline of her jumper, exposing the top of her cleavage—

Bzzt...Bzzt. Cully released a low groan. Ignoring one phone call was possible, but two? They both knew who waited at the other end of the line, patience wearing thin. "Sorry," he whispered, kissing her cheek as he shoved a hand into the settee's cushion to either side of her, pushing himself upright. He sat still, like he was waiting to regain his balance and the blood to return to his head before he achieved his feet, striding to his small kitchen and seizing his mobile. Flipping it open, he pressed it to his face, offering his typical greeting. "Troy."

Did you expect something different? that tiny voice asked, so vibrant it was like a little imp on her shoulder, its hands round its mouth as it hissed into her ear. She pushed herself forward onto her elbows, peering at Gavin though he had his back turned to her.

"Where, sir?" Well, now there was no uncertainty. She only knew of one person whom he spoke to like that. "Can't say I'm familiar with it—" As she finally pulled herself upright, planting her feet firmly on the floor again, he continued. "Yes, I'll be there as soon as I can." Another pause. "Yes, then—sir."

Cully stood, desperate to stretch...well, everything as she righted her clothes, pulling her jumper down to her waist and up to her shoulders, smoothing away the worst of the wrinkles. There were no knots in her arms or legs, no pains, just a deep and unsatisfied ache. She drew a deep breath as her limbs shuddered Where's my bag? Even across the flat, she heard the snap as Gavin closed his mobile. And there it was, sitting on the table.

He didn't look at her as he spoke. "Ah, look—"

"I know, you have to go. Don't bother," she said as she stepped away from the settee where...What were you hoping for? Cully shook her head as she reached for her purse.

"All I was going to say..." Another couple of footsteps brought her a few inches from his face.

It was everything she wanted—now. His pale face with his straight nose, strong jaw, the little bit of softness that buffered what could be harsh. Even knowing what he sometimes said, the lessons she hoped he would learn someday...that new distance seared.

"Cully?"

"You're never going to try and forget it, are you?" she asked. Her feet were only a few inches from his, her face so close his breath tickled her cheeks. A different day, another moment...

"What—"

"You aren't," she managed around the lump deep in her throat.

Gavin shook his head, tucking his mobile into his pocket. "I can't just do that because you—"

"I didn't ask if you will, I asked if you'll try. Those are two different things."

"It's not..." He swallowed his words, reaching for her wrist instead; his grasp was warm and strong, like all those moments buried in her memory. "I have."

"Not too hard from what I've seen." What she was saying, it wasn't fair—at all! And was it right to be that upset? Without...their paths might never have crossed. Don't be silly! that doubting voice murmured, silky and quiet. Knowing. What else should you think?

"You don't know what you're asking me—"

"All I want is for you to grow up and stop forcing me to play the adult all the time!" Cully snapped, snatching her arm away from his hand. His fingers still marked her wrist: white and quickly disappearing as the pressure vanished. "That's all! I don't need you..." She couldn't finish. You don't need him to be perfect? The next breath she had was raspy, harsh and guttural. "I don't need you to be..." God, why had her voice given out?

"I don't want you to do that, Cully—"

"Then why am I the one doing it every day?" Even before her the sentence was done, Cully hated what she had said. Sometimes, her tongue refused to stop before her mind saw reason—and this was one of those times. She saw him shrink away, his hand fall to his side, his frown vanish into something...well, it was nothing. "I—" No. She refused. There was no need to apologize if she wouldn't feel sorry.

He lifted his hand, his fingers and palm ghosting over her cheek, still warm, still inciting the burning deep in her core. His lips parted, then closed, then again: "Cully, I'm..."

Even against his hot skin, she shivered, turning her face away from his touch as the memory clung. "Can you drop me at home?" she asked quietly, tugging on her jumper again and pulling the neckline higher. She took a small step back, and with the new distance, her breathing came easier. "I think...I should go."

Gavin blinked as his arm fell to his side. And suddenly, all Cully wanted to do was to forget the last few minutes and return to that earlier time...to do what? Hold him, clasp him to her as his mobile's ringing broke into their own private world until it was exhausted, then make love to him until The Outside fell quiet as well. "Of course," he said quietly.

But...well, things never quite worked out like that, did they? And as she slung her bag over her shoulder—rifling through ensure her own mobile and keys hadn't fallen somewhere in the flat—Cully sucked in another deep breath. I won't remind you I told you so.

In his car, as the storefronts and sidewalks rolled by under the afternoon sunshine, neither Cully nor Gavin spoke much. The a-boards blurred, a mess of red and black and white, smeared together like paint on a palette: incomprehensible and illegible. Buildings reappeared whenever the car slowed, only to vanish again when Gavin bore down on the accelerator anew. "So," he began as the sprawl of suburban Causton overtook the more compact town proper, "if that—is the next production, who will you audition for?"

"I don't know." She didn't turn to him as she answered; her elbow resting on the door panel, she twirled a lock of blond hair around her finger, releasing it only when it wound so tight it tugged on her scalp. "Whoever the director decides."

"Don't you have a say?"

The gearshift bumped her right hand as Gavin downshifted and she snatched it back. The larger front gardens and semi-detached houses were the only things to be seen, not... "It's a small theater, there's not much choice." He didn't ask anything else.

By the time he turned sharply into the drive with a squeal of the tires, Cully already had her purse over her arm, her hand on the door's handle, ready to open it: to escape the stuffiness and silence. The car hardly still, she unfastened her seat belt and flung the door open, had one foot on the beige pavement—

Gavin clasped her hand before she made it out. "Cully—" As she tugged her arm away, he didn't try to hold her. "I'm sorry—"

She didn't bother reminding him of their agreement not to say those words. "I'll talk to you later, Gavin."

As she slammed the door, reaching the walkway to the front door in a few hurried paces, Cully drew a deep breath of air as she glanced up, something clean and...almost safe in that gasp. The blue and white dappled sky stretched on past the edge of the horizons, as it had that morning, the evening before, and the evening before that. It was as if nothing had changed: the world was endless again and filled with possibilities, a dozen—a hundred!—futures, all set out before her, and she only need take a first step…

Another screech of tires shattered her thoughts, and she watched Gavin reverse from the drive, the back bumper of his car twisting a little further than needed. She almost waved a farewell...but she clenched her fingers instead, muscles up to her elbow tightening and her fingernails crushing her palms again.

Just like that morning, she shoved her key into the lock, turning it over harshly before returning to an empty, silent house. And like that morning, she slipped her shoes off just before collapsing onto the settee, though now her purse fell onto the cushion at her side. The barest throbbing was rising behind her eyes, a headache raring to overwhelm the rest of her mind. She clasped a hand to her forehead, the pressure holding the pain at bay.

Why are you doing this to yourself?

"That's not what—"

Of course it is. And you know it is.

"No—it's not like that! He..."

He what?

"Stop," Cully whispered, sitting up straight. Her elbows cutting into her thighs, she let her face fall into her hands.

Why, if you're being a fool?

She gulped down air as her fingers curled, cutting into her face. "It's not..."

But what if it is?

* I'm not trying to have Troy look like an idiot, but I think that's a detail that could get easily forgotten if you aren't the sort of person who spent a lot of time in church, which I see no indication he does. (Lucky him...)

A/N: I know part of this went a little further than the rest of this story has, but I'm trying to push myself out of my writing comfort zone.